We are not exactly sure what this might entail. We have brought work pants, old T-shirts and sturdy shoes. In the Havana airport, we stand in line and slide our passports into fluorescent-lit cubicles to serious men in drab uniforms. The airport is new and quite beautiful. Light shines off the polished floors.
Customs here is impassive and efficient.
We are paying our hosts in American dollars to cover expenses, and though it is not unusual for Cuban churches to host foreign visitors, like most non-government forms of commerce, this seems to be kept covert. The customs official gives several of my documents an emphatic stamping. I believe I recognize him from last time. We step out of the air conditioning into a thick and balmy night. A man bikes past, holding a shirt on a hanger aloft in one hand.