CUBA PERIODO ESPECIAL

                                                                                                                                           
CUBA JUNE 1991- EL PERIODO ESPECIAL

"Police  authorities  frequently  employ  undercover  agents  . .Cuban  authorities  restrict  photography.  .  .(you)  should not photograph  military  or  police  installations  or personnel, or harbor,  rail  and airport facilities. . .(you) should be careful about what you say and do in Cuba. . . (your) comments are likely to be reported to authorities. . . this is punishable by law."*

As  if  this  were  not enough to have you running screaming from the  place,  a  gusana  in  Miami attached herself to our line of United  Teacher's Los Angeles and spoke to them, uninvited, about the horrors of Castro's Cuba. "People are afraid to talk openly,"she  said,  "Of  course,  as tourists, you will have a good time, but  the  people  are  suffering.  They  are tortured if they are caught  talking  to  strangers."  She  admitted  that she had not been  in  Cuba  since she was five years old. Her family  was persona non grata.

By this time, some of the teachers in our UTLA (Union) delegation had become thoroughly paranoid. Since they did not speak Spanish, they  had  no  way  of proving the truth of the assertions. Every airline  hostess, every cab driver, was a sinister figure waiting to  turn  them  in  at  the  slightest provocation. They were not enjoying themselves.

We  were  hustled  through José Martí airport ahead of individual Cubans  who  were  visiting  relatives.   Our  bags were not even opened, and we thankfully sank into the cushions of a Cuban built air conditioned  tour  bus.  Delegates  were snapping pictures of the  forbidden  airport  right  and  left,  but strangely, nobody tried  to  stop them. As we sped along to the hotel, I recognized it.  LATIN  AMERICA!  Here was Cozumel, Veracruz, Maracaibo. Also Dakar and Conarky. Hot. Underdeveloped. Colonial. Fabulous.  My Place.

"Socialismo  o  Muerte"  screamed a sign as we sped along. Nobody fainted.

We  arrived  at  the hotel, which was air conditioned, had plenty of  hot  water  (water  can  be  drunk from the tap), color cable TV  and  marvelous  buffets.  Then for a tour of La Habana Vieja, El  Castillo  de  la  Fuerza  Real, La Rampa, and back. Delegates were busy snapping pictures of the ships in the forbidden harbor, 1987.about  a  block  from  a  police  station, but the bored officers standing around seemed more interested in getting a cold drink than  chasing  after  yet  another  bunch of tourists. (La Habana is  full  of  Europeans  and Latin Americans). Teresa, our guide, mentioned  that  there  was  little  paint in Cuba because of the blockade,  and  indeed,  the buildings were badly in need of some paint,  giving  what  were  lovely  stone structures a distinctly shabby  air.  She  also  explained that the U.S. blockade made it impossible  for  Cuba  to  trade  with  many  countries, and also difficult  to  get  hard  currency (convertible outside of Cuba), so  that  the  government  had  to choose between paint and, say, food for the schoolchildren. So they did without paint.

The  colleagues,  bless  them,  did  not  adjust  quickly  to the changes. One vegetarian felt that Cuba's problems could be solved if  everybody  grew  alfalfa  sprouts for food. Later in the week some  feminists  engaged  a  representative  of the Federación de Mujeres  Cubanas  in  a  discussion on condom etiquette (who puts it  on  and who takes it off), one teacher wanted to know if that was  the  Bay  of  Mexico,  and almost all were interested on how Cuban  teachers  could  make  more money, that is, how they could appropriate the surplus value of the workers better. The Ministry of  Education  rep  tried  to  explain  that a teacher could make more  money  by  going  to  the countryside, or working odd hours in  order  to adapt to the needs of the students, but many failed to make the connection between working harder and making more.

The  talks  were  illuminating,  but  were  only  one side of the picture.  I  had  been  told  that it was illegal for a foreigner to  take  a  private  car  (as  opposed  to  an  INTUR  car) on a sightseeing  tour.  I  decided  to  test  the system and see if I could  get  arrested.  I  ran  into  a retired driver and went to Varadero  with him.  As the trip lasted two hours each way, there was plenty opportunity to dish the dirt.

There are three main problems  that  Cubans have to  solve before further  progress can be made. (1) Mistakes made by the Communist Party  (PCC),  which may include favoritism for members over non members.  (2)  The  dismantling  of the system in Eastern Europe. Cuba  has  relied heavily on help from other socialist countries. Contracts  have  been  signed  and  reneged  upon.  For  example, Czechoslovakia  had  agreed  to supply Cuba with goods while Cuba paid  back  in  kind (e.g., sugar) but now the Czechs want dollars, which Cuba doesn't have. Thus the surge in tourism. Every tourist is  to  bring  dollars  into Cuba so that the Government can meet its  trade  obligations.  Thus the illegality of changing dollars on   the   street.   Dollars  are  to  be  spent  only  at  INTUR establishments, so they can go directly to the government without being  devalued first on the black market. Makes sense, actually. (3)  The  U.S.  blockade  Never  mentioned  by Miami Cubans, this is  at  the root of much of Cuba's poverty. It is not simply that the  U.S.  will  not  trade  with Cuba, it forces other countries  to  not  trade or limit trade with Cuba. There was even talk that Bush  told  Gorvachev  he  would  help Moscow if the USSR stopped all  trade  with  Cuba..  A  nasty  business, and one which caused great  bitterness  among  ordinary  Cubans. The blockade makes it difficult  or  impossible  for  Cuba  to  import goods. Cuba is a no frills  society.  If  it  is  not  produced  on the island, it doesn't exist. Thus there is no shampoo, no band aids, no chewing gum.  Ball  point  pens  fall  apart. Cuba, after all, is a Third World   country,   and   cannot   be   compared  to  a  high tech industrialized one.

So,  what  have  we  got?  (1)   The  best  medical care in Latin America, absolutely free for everyone. My driver had an operation in  the same hospital attended by Fidel, where open heart surgery and  organ transplants are made. In his sixties, he was certainly healthy.   In  1974 the rate of doctors graduated was 1 for every thousand  in  population,  and  as  the  rate increased and there was  less  need for doctors, they were simply given opportunities to  practice  abroad.  (2) The highest educational level in Latin  America,  absolutely  free  through  University,  with  two meals a  day  and a stipend guaranteed to those on scholarship. No mean feat,  this, in a country with a literacy rate of over 97%. There is  one  teacher  for  every 25 citizens (not every 25 students). (3)  Guaranteed  jobs,  with  one month paid vacation. Just about everybody  over  a  certain  age  has  been  in Eastern Europe. A  student  who  goes  through  the system and gets good grades will have  an  adequate  standard  of  living,  with about 400 pesos a month.  The  highest  salary is 600 pesos, the lowest 200. A high school  drop  out  will  have a lousy sweeping up job and will be likely to go to Miami where he feels everything must be heavenly. He  will  also  be  likely  to approach tourists, give them a bad impression  of  Cuba,  try  to  change  money  illegally,  in  an undertone,  while  peering  around  suspiciously,  and  get  into trouble  with  the  police.  Thus the myth that Cubans are afraid to  talk  to strangers. In fact they complain bitterly and loudly to  anyone  who  will  listen  about the shortages. Two years ago there  was  no  rationing, now, because of the shifting political situation,  rationing  is  in  place.  (4)  Housing. Some housing is  definitely  substandard,  but  no  one is homeless. After the Revolution,  many  houses  of the rich remained empty, and people simply moved in. They are still there. New housing is everywhere, some  of  it  right  on  the beach and totally inviting. In fact, some  of  the  poorest  people  seem  to  have the choicest beach fronts.  Another  form  of  construction  are  the  sites  of the Pan American  games, hosted by Cuba, and a new 5 star Meliá hotel going up  to  accommodate  tourism.  The  builders  of the Pan American housing get to keep the apartments after the games are over.

How  are  "free"  services  provided in a land where there are no taxes?  The  Junta  Central de Planificación appropriates surplus value,  that  is,  pays a worker a portion of his labor value and uses  the  rest  to  lower  prices,  raise salaries, administrate social services, including culture. As long as people are working the  system  can  sustain  itself. High school drop outs hurt the economy, and every effort is made to rehabilitate them.

Still,  the  problems  remain.  The government's refusal to allow a  parallel  economy  (small  business)  makes  it impossible for Cubans  to  get,  except  at  limited  locations  on  the street, cold drinks or food or tennis shoes or other things that tourists take  for  granted.  They  are  not  allowed in the INTUR stores, again,  because  they  are  not allowed to have dollars. Thus the few  restaurants  and  stores  that deal in Cuban pesos have long lines  attending  (Coppelia,  the ice cream parlor, has two hundred outlets,  but a hundred people waiting at each outlet). People can travel wherever they please in Cuba, but cannot be guaranteed a  hotel  or restaurant and may have to take everything with them and  sleep  on  the  beach.  The  only solution, for Cubans, is a greater  development  of  socialism,  without trade restrictions, and  greater  prosperity  so  that  everyone's standard of living is  raised.  The  path  is  difficult.  The  Communist  Party has defiantly  thrown  down  the  gauntlet,  and has declared Cuba to be "un eterno Baraguá ," that is, it will never surrender.

My  driver  put  it  this  way;  "I know there are problems. I am not  blind.  But  I would give my life for the Revolution. Before 1959,  I  had  nothing.  The  Revolution  sent me to Moscow for 5 years  to  study.  I  was  in  Angola. The Revolution educated my children,  one  is  an  engineer, the other a teacher. It gave me my  house  and  my  car.  Cuba  has the respect and admiration of the  world.   If  it  were not for the blockade, things would get better.  Before  the  crisis,  we  had   no   rationing.   Things will  get better. Nothing stays the same."

After  Varadero,  I  started  out from the hotel around 10 pm for a  walk  around  La  Habana. I wasn't sure where I was going, and still  under State Department paranoia, I eyed a policeman warily on  the  street.  On impulse, I asked him how I could walk to the Plaza  de  Armas  from "G" street. Young, athletic, he could only be  described  as charming. He took the map, squinted at it under the  street  lamp,  couldn't  believe  that  I would want to walk several  miles  without  taking  the guagua, and tried to show me the  shortest  route.  I  told him I had forgotten my passport (I had  been  instructed  by  the U.S. tour guide to have it with me at  all  times), and asked him if I should walk back to the hotel to  get  it.  He  seemed  puzzled by the question. He kept trying to  show  me  how  to  get to Neptuno (closer) and I kept telling him  "No,  I  want  Salvador Allende" (farther away). He whistled at  two passing girls, obviously from the neighborhood, and asked them  how  to  get  to Salvador Allende. "Oh," they said,"that is too  far."  "I'm  not in a wheelchair," I grumbled, "Nobody wants to  walk  around  here."  Finally,  they  showed  me the way. The policeman shook hands, smiling broadly, and we parted.

La  Habana  at  night is crowded with people. There is no danger. I  met  Teresa, one of the tour guides,   on  Salvador Allende. (It wasn't far at all.) She lives  there.  She  cautioned  me not to go into the "recobecos." I  said,  as  long  as  I  wasn't  killed, I didn't care. I liked adventure.   She  laughed  and  said  it had been 5 years since any violent  crime  had  been  committed  in La Habana. The most that could happen is that I could get robbed.

Because  of  the heat, people were lying in open doorways looking at  television  inside.  I finally reached Plaza de Armas, on the water,  and  started  walking  down the Malecón.  The Malecón has been  taken  over  by  every teen ager in town. The police patrol it, but there is an unwritten rule that they are not to interfere unless  needed.  Kids  hang  out  far  into  the night, drinking, talking,  even  making   love  in  the  "recobecos". There are no drugs.  It  is  impossible  to walk more than a few yards without someone  asking  for  a  cigarette,  a subterfuge to find out who the  stranger  is,  where  he  is  from, etc. By this time it was 2  am.  David,  my  new found friend, offered to get some pizzas, one  for me, one for him, and one for his girlfriend, thus saving me  from  standing  in  line.  The  girlfriend, Concha, impudently stuck her pizza  in  my  mouth  and  gave me a kiss. Another friend, Elías, offered  to take me to a Santería mass. I walked along, enveloped by  Cuban  ghosts,  the  whispers  of Martí and Maceo and Guillén, lapping  on  the  shore  .  The  socialist moon bathed the people in  a  glow  punctuated by street lamps, turning their dark skins into  shadows.  In  Cuba,  el  que no lo tiene de Congo, lo tiene de  Carabalí,  that  is,  everyone  is  African  to one degree or another.

The  talking,  the  laughter,  the  dancing in the tropical night were  enough  to  send  me  back,  and  Cuba settled on my heart, irrevocably,  like an arrow. Gone were the meanness and pettiness of  life  in  Los  Angeles.  Here was life to be lived openly and naturally.  Quisiera  ser pajarito para volar a dondequiera, said a  girl  wistfully. Yeah, I thought, but you won't find it better than  here.  That  night,  on  the Malecón, for a few hours, life was good.

Too  soon  it was time to return to Miami. Forty minutes and half a  world  away.  Back  to  the  antiseptic, cancerous world where people  were  only  concerned  with  number 1, went home to watch television, took pills to deaden the unease. Back to the memories of  a  country  and  a generous, loving people who struggle every day,  but   do  it  with a purpose and a sense of humor that makes the  greatest  sacrifice  as inevitable and natural as breathing. Memories  of  the  daughters  of  the Varadero maids, beauties by any  standard,  giggling their adolescence at the beach. Memories of  the  mulattos at the beach dancing just for me a bit of their Tropicana  routine.  Memories  of  Lariosi,  an  Arab from Western Sahara studying at the  Isle  of  Youth,  grateful  for  what  Cuba had done for his education.

Struggle  is  not  new  to  Cuba.  The  Cuban  people have banded together  time  and again and overcome difficulties, from slavery to  invasions.  It  is  that  spirit,  of making do with whatever is  at  hand,  of  dancing  at  the beach, of hugging and kissing strangers,  that  will  carry them through "el período especial." Cuba is and will be an eternal Baraguá.

CUBA UPDATE 1992

Some  of  the  frustration  felt by Cubans, aside from the  double  blockade,  has  to  do  with  geography.  The sea, open and free, can  also  be a wall that surrounds the population  at  a time when  money  for  travel  is  scarce.  Someone   on  the street quoted to me  "Los  Muros  de  Agua,"  by  José  Revueltas. Professionals, however,  have no problem  attending  functions  in  other countries.  My   friend  at  Empresa  Cubana  de Radio y Televisión (ECRT)  has just gotten back  from a film festival in Toronto.

Time  and  again,  I  was  told by street people that no one goes to  bed hungry. Few Cubans  would  think  of  leaving  if  the  blockade  were   over  and  things  could proceed  normally, with  an  end  to  rationing.  The blockade creates some bizarre situations. Another friend  is  a  merchant  marine, but there is little merchandise, so  he  is  not  working.  He  does, however, get his full salary and benefits, and is on call whenever there is work.  

The  movies.  A flock of screaming queens flew down La Rampa like flamingos,  to  the  Cine  Yara, where the men are, ready to snap them  up  like  fish  in  a  shallow lake. Six or seven policemen standing  around  were  totally  indifferent  to the proceedings. When  the  tickets  were  all sold, there were still large crowds outside  the  theater. The theater then projected the movie, with sound,  on  an  opposite  wall  across  the street (Cinema Paradiso style) so that people who did not get a ticket could still watch. It's rather startling to watch intimate sex scenes thrown 75 feet across La Rampa.

Fidel,  the  ultimate  tango  dancer.  An  interview with Edmundo Daubar  at  the  Casa  del Tango yielded the following picture of Fidel;  Gardel's  photographer rescued the last picture of Carlos Gardel  from  the  fire  in  which he died, and at age 94 brought it  to  Cuba  as  a present for Fidel. Fidel said, this should be part  of  the  collection  of  the Casa del Tango, and personally presented  it  to Edmundo Daubar as a gift. This prompted Edmundo to  give  Fidel  the  highest  compliment he could think of: "the greatest tanguero in the world."

The bus lines. After a day at the beach, as the sun was beginning to  set,  I  decided  to  walk  to the guagua, rather than try to find  a  taxi. Every young person from the beach was concentrated at  the  stop.  They came in seemingly endless waves. Now was the time  to  find  out  what  a  Cuban line meant. The young people, inexhaustibly  energetic,  danced and sang and gossiped with each other,  so  when the bus actually came, they were loathe to part. The  wait was anything but tedious. First, a flatbed truck driver stopped,  going  home  after  working  all  day, and gave several dozen   kids  a  ride.  (Taxis  will  also  customarily  pick  up passengers  for  free  if  they  are  going in the same direction as  the  paying  customer). Then two buses sped by, full. A third came  by almost empty and I got on and went into La Habana. Total waiting  time,  45  minutes,  less than a comparable situation in Mexico City. Fare: 20 Cuban cents.

Attitudes.  Almost without exception everyone over 40 is in favor of  the  Revolution,  passionately  so.  Some  young  people (not members  of  the  UJC  or  FEU, which together represent the vast majority  of  young people) feel left out of the capitalist world economy.  They  would  like  fancy,  glittery  things, they would like  to  travel.  They  can have fancy things and travel if they work  for  the  government,  but they don't want to do that. They want things without working for them.

Some  people  like the good things about socialism in the período especial  and  don't like the bad things occasioned by the double blockade.  They  like  having  free  and  universal medical care, housing,  schools,  no  unemployment, a steady income. They don't like  the  discipline.  They  don't  like to be watched when they are  doing  something  illegal.  They don't like to share equally in  the  scarcity  of  goods. They are not particularly rational, nor ready to sacrifice.

Hustlers.  Much  of  the  police  action in the tourist areas has to  do  with  officials trying to keep the hustlers away from the tourists. Tourists often get a skewed impression of Cuban society because  all  they  talk  to  are the lumpens on the street. It's as  if  a  visitor to Los Angeles went to 5th and Main and talked only  to  the  homeless.  Even  then, that would be more accurate, because  there  is  structural unemployment in Los Angeles. These are  high  school  drop  outs  who  don't want to follow a career path,  and  would  rather  hustle  and cadge money from tourists. They  have  learned  to  manipulate  tourists  by  feeding  their prejudices.  They  lie  through  their  teeth  in  order  to make tourists  feel  sorry for them; "I have no shoes, I am constantly being  watched,  would  you  like  to  change dollars for pesos?" is  a  constant  refrain.  "Some  (adulterated)  rum, some (fake) cigars,  some  (bogus)  pesos?" These potential capitalists dream of  going  to  Miami  and  getting  rich, little thinking that if they  were  to  make  it  there, they would be washing dishes and feel  lucky  to  have  a  job.  In Miami, because of their color, they would know what persecution by the police really meant.

Food.  When a tourist buys a meal, he says;" I feel guilty eating all  this  food  when people outside are starving." First of all, the  people  outside  are  not  starving  (one  need only look at gorgeous  bodies  on the beaches). Second, that $10 meal actually costs  the  government much less. By buying that meal the tourist is  actually  subsidizing  the  Cuban  vacationer,  possibly that same couple at the next table.

The  hotels  are  full of Cubans on vacation, lolling by the pool and  scarfing  up  the  buffet.  Cubans are indeed allowed in the hotels,  restaurants,  and night clubs, if they are guests there. It  is  part  of  their  paid vacation benefits, and are at least in part subsidized by the tourist dollar.

The  policy  of  the  U.S.  is  to  starve  Cuba to death, foment discontent  among the people until they rise up in revolt against the  scarcity.  Whenever  mention  is  made of the lines in front of restaurants and grocery stores, lines for the guagua, scarcity resulting  from  the blockade, the U.S. must feel very satisfied. The  fact  is  that  the  blockade  is  a  failure. Every day new arrangements  are  signed  with  countries  unwilling  to knuckle under  to  the  U.S.  diktat.  The  lines  here are no worse than anywhere  else.  Everyone  in Cuba eats, everyone sees the movie, everyone gets to where he or she is going.

At  17  hours  the  most amazing smells permeate La Habana. Every housewife  or  househusband  plops  a  bunch of garlic and butter or  fat  into  a frying pan in preparation for dinner. While meat is  not  eaten  every  day,  a  meal  might  include  any  of the following;  pork  or  ham  with  rice  and  black beans and fried plantains,  chicken  ( a lot of people raise chickens on the back porch,   even  in  apartments),  sea  food,  bacalao,  picadillo, estofado,  bread, milk, beer, tomatoes, lettuce cabagge, oranges, grapefruit, flan or cake. The starches , fruits  and   vegetables are  plentiful.  Soya products help balance out the protein needs of the population.

Tourism.  One  price  that  Cuba  has to pay for its independence is  to  be  accused  of  pampering tourists at the expense of its own  people,  an  accusation  that  completely ignores the point: tourist  dollars  are distributed to the Cuban people in the form of  goods  and  services  and  keep the economy afloat (hence the U.S.  ban  on  its  citizens  traveling to Cuba). As a comparison, no one has ever said  that  tourist dollars have helped the Mexican people, other than  possibly  in  tips.  On the contrary, they are inflationary because  they  create  a  demand  for  expensive technology. If a simple whole chicken  in  a  Mexican  market  costs 2 or 3 dollars, at Kentucky  Fried Chicken on Reforma it costs tourists and Mexicans alike  $12.  In  Cuba,  the  tourist dollar is controlled so that it  is  neither  devaluated  on  the  black  market  (as  much as possible)   nor   inflationary   through   the   importation   of non essentials.

The  socialist  system  has  done  something not found elsewhere. In  the  world  crisis  of  capitalism  no cutbacks of essentials have  been  made.  Not  one  school  has  closed  down,  not  one scholarship  has  gone unawarded, not one patient has been denied medical  care.  The Cuban economy is sound. Demanding discipline, it  makes  allowances  for human frailty and desire for privilege as  long  as  these  don't interfere with the overall progress of socialism.  That  the  Revolution  has been able to withstand the double  kick  in  the  cojones  by  the U.S. and the U.S.S.R. and remain on its feet is proof enough of its staying power.

Rather  than  envy  foreign  products  and expertise, Cuba offers pride  in  the  rich  and  varied achievements (past and present) of  its  own  people.  It  offers  human  contact.  The  kind  of camaraderie  inherent in a socialist society simply doesn't exist in  competitive  capitalism.  In  Cuba  strangers  become friends in  a  matter of minutes. This convivencia is within native Latin American  tradition. The alienation and racism reflected in North America's  cities,  for  Cubans,  is  a  high  price  to  pay for electronic gadgetry and consumerism.

Washington   says  that  Latin  America  must  have "freedom",  but  socialism  isn't  about  freedom  it's  about  equality,  a  very  different thing. Freedom has done little for the homeless in the U.S. In Cuba, socialism  means  not  only  equality  of  opportunity, though it is  surely  that,  but  equality  of  living  standard. The great contribution  that  Cuba makes to world history is that everyone  young  or  old,  smart,  stupid,  industrious,  lazy, kind, mean, thin  or  fat  has  a fundamental right to live like anyone else. A  house,  free  medical  care,  a  good school. This is real democracy. This affirmation on   the   basic   unity   and  goodness  of  humankind  is  what differentiates socialism from every political and economic system that has gone before

No  hay  mal  que  por  bien no venga. When the blockade is over, as  it  surely  will  be,  and the ex USSR has definitely retired from  the scene, Cuba will be truly independent, strong and free, and  the  Revolution  will  take  its  destined giant step in the fulfillment of its promise.

THE REVOLUTION CONTINUES 1993


People  think  that  socialism  is  some  magic wand that changes everything  overnight.  It  does change some things quickly, some things  take  more  time, some things never change. The idea that Cuba  is  a  country  with  a small ruling elite and an oppressed mass   population   is   a   simplistic  as  it  is  vicious  and mean spirited.  Cuban  society,  like  any other, is complex. The lumpens  have  not  disappeared.  Marx  said they would disappear as  a  class  but  they are numerous enough in Cuba to cause real concern.  The  blockade  has  strengthened  and  intensified this element.

During  the  halcyon  days  of Socialism, the lumpens had all but disappeared,  but with the poverty caused by the double blockade, they  have  come  out  of the woodwork. Prostitutes, hustlers and thieves proliferate. This is what the U.S. wants for Cuba; people who  put  themselves  first, who indulge in petty jealousies, who are  hysterical  because  they  think  somebody  else is going to get  more  than  they,  who traffic on the black market, who will do anything for a profit, who think the world owes them a living, who resent the Party because it demands sacrifice (in the special period)  and selflessness always. The U.S., the true evil empire, forces  the  Cuban  government  to  choose  between becoming more repressive  of  the  lumpens,  which  creates more repression and discontent  for  everybody,  or  becoming more liberal and paving the  way  for  a  glasnost like  anarchy.  Socialism will survive in  Cuba  in  spite  of  the  blockade, but it must find a way to neutralize  the  darlings  of  Empire,  the  alcoholics, the male prostitute  with  the  U.S.  flag tatooed on his shoulder, the man who  married  a  tourist thinking he could go to New York to live with her, those who are ready to deal in drugs if given a chance, and  to commit murder. These are the people standing in the wings hoping   to   create   another  perestroika.  Rather  than  being repressive,  as  it  is  supposed  abroad,  the Party stands as a bulwark  against  these  criminal elements. If it weren't for the civilizing  forces  of  the  Poder  Popular, the FAR militia, the CDR, Cuba would revert to the jungle that is now Eastern Europe and the Russian Mafia.

There   are   external   and  internal  enemies  in  a  simbiotic relationship  and  the  Party  must  find a way to deal with both while  protecting  the  Revolution. The fact that it has rejected the  siren  call  of  Perestroika  means that the Revolution will survive.

The  lumpens  are  victims  who  do  the dirty work of Washington without  even  realizing  it. They feel like victims, but instead of  being  victims  of  socialism, they are victims of the Empire which manipulates them and which they so admire.

How  the  blockade  hurts  ordinary  people. I spoke with Raúl, a taxi  driver  in  his sixties. Before the Revolution, his parents were rich and he had  uniformed nannies. He always noticed that the kids he played with  did  not  know  when or if they were going to eat. He would sneak food out from his home to them. He eventually became became a  lieutenant  coronel  in the Rebel Army, and during the 60s and 70s  everything  went  well.  The  double blockade has forced him to  take  a  job  as  a taxi driver in his old age. His friend, a University  graduate,  has  to  take  a job as a taxi driver also as  jobs  dried  up  for  lack  of  resources (there are too many university graduates to be easily accomodated by the economy).

Cuba   needs  primarily  petroleum  to  make  the  machines  that transport  people,  that harvest the crops, that feed the cattle, that  produce  the  milk,  that  provide  shoes, that provide the meat,  that  provide  the soap. The U.S. killed more than 1,000,000 people  in  Irak  to  make sure that it and the Saudis controlled the  world's  distribution  of petroleum. Other countries are not allowed  to sell petroleum to Cuba..  Cuba is looking for petroleum on  the  island. There is one country, however, that doesn't give a  fig  what  the  U.S. thinks. Iran is selling some petroleum in exchange for sugar

Punishment.  Cubans  are  not  allowed in the hotel rooms because only  prostitutes  and  their  pimps  would  go. They would steal money,  passports,  jewelry.  Is  this a violation of their human rights?  The  incident  with  José‚  showed  me how Cubans violate  human rights.

He  was  dying  to  come  up  to  my room, strictly forbidden. He apparently had had a couple of drinks and came and knocked loudly on  my  door.  Naturally,  I  let him in. He asked me to give him ten  dollars,  strictly  forbidden,  so  he could buy a bottle of rum.  I  gave  him five and the bottle appeared miraculously none the  worse  for  wear  at  the  lower  price. By this time he had brought  his  23  year  old  nephew who immediately turned on the radio  full  blast.  Together they proceeded to finish the entire bottle  and  started  asking for my things   a cigarette lighter, dark  glasses, a bottle of shampoo. The nephew eyed my camcorder.

The  party  was  getting  loud when the acting manager knocked on my  door  and  asked to see José‚. After a while he and the nephew left.

The  next  day  the  manager  came  up came up and wanted to know what  happened.  I  apologized for the incident, but he explained that  "the  tourist  is  always right", that José  knew the rules and  he had been warned before. When I went down José‚ was nowhere to be seen. He had disappeared.

A  couple  of  days  later, I ran into José and his nephew on the beach.  He  was  working  at  another  hotel and happy as a clam. He  was  still  drinking.  He  said  a few choice words about the manager  and  invited me to come and see him at his new location, about five blocks away.

The  hotel.  Since I did not go on a tour, that is, I took a taxi from the airport and went straight to a hotel of my own choosing, I  was  able  to  see  how  ordinary Cubans live. Tours take you to  see  the  sights,  no matter what country it is. The hotel is tiny,  with  only  nine  rooms,  considered  third class. After a few  hours  I  felt  right at home and went into the kitchen, the bar,  the  office* ,  as if I were in my own house. The rates were 20  dollars  a  day,  not  including  meals.  The  tables  in the restaurant  had  tablecloths  and flowers on each. A typical menu was  cream  soup,  rice  and  beans   (the inevitable congri) stew or  chicken  or steak with potatoes, salad, coffee bread, butter, beer  optional  for  6.50  USD.  The people working there did not fare  so  well.  Their  diet  was  a vegetarian's dream   heaping plates  of  green  vegetables, beans, rice and potatoes Plentiful but boring.

I  was  there  during International Women's Day (the airplane was full  of  female  delegates).  At  the  hotel  the manager made a special  meal  for  all  the  ladies,  while the men served them. They  closed  the restaurant and I was invited to film the event. The  tables  were  pushed  together  to  form one long table with tablecloth and flowers.  All  the  cooks  and  maids and female managers  sat  while  they  were  given small presents, and ate a meal  that  included  chicken,  beer  and cake made especially by one  of  the  (male) cooks. The manager made a speech emphasizing togetherness  and  cooperation,  referring  to  all as members of a  family  who  should  consider  their workplace their home. The atmosphere  was one of good fellowship and graciousness. I  looked at  the  people  around the table, black, white, maids, managers, all  with  an easy familiarity and equality of purpose. One maid, "la  gordita",  refused  to  come.  She  hated  everything  about socialism  and  wished  she  were  in  Miami. I wondered what her life  would  be  like  as  a maid there. In Cuba most people work four days and have three days off.

Workers come from all over, work in the fields, live in worker's houses  supplied  by  the  government,  and go back at the end of the  season.  One  said  to me, "nosotros alimentamos al pueblo," we feed the people.

The  town.  Guanabo used to be a fishing village with neighboring Playas  del  Este,  the place where the rich had their beachfront Summer  houses.  Now  Playas del Este has been turned over to the international  tourist  trade  while Guanabo has become a working class  community,  still very much like a fishing village;   very, very peaceful.

At  night I saw the stars for the first time in ten years. People who  live  in Los Angeles have no such privileges. I walked along a  deserted beach after a spectacular sunset. I suddenly realized they  were  still  there     that  they had not gone forever. Was it  the waves breaking on the shore, or was it my father's voice? I  was  ten  years  old  again,  and he was whispering in my ear; "See,  there  is  Orion   the little dipper points toward the big dipper. Look, there are the Pleiades." My father loved the Greeks and  the  Mayas.  He  is up there somewhere exploring Ursa Mayor and Kukulcan. I am glad the stars are still there.

Later  that  night  I  realized  the  reason for the sunset. Like a  great  angry  Yoruba  Goddess,  the  wind  came screaming down the oceanside,  tearing  everything  in  its  path.  A 150 km an hour wind  and  torrential rain hit La Habana, the worst in 100 years. By  7  am  Oyá  had  died  down  somewhat.  By 8 am the volunteer brigades  were  out  in  force,  clearing  the  debris  from  the highways,  so  that  by 9 am it was hard to tell, except for some electric  posts that had fallen and been pulled over to the side, that  anything  had happened. Morning traffic proceeded normally. No  money  was  exchanged, no orders were given. This is probably the best example of socialism in action.

Somewhere  in  all  this is the reason why the U.S. is determined to  make  Cuba  fail.  People  are  civilized. They are basically happy  and  friendly, in spite of the shortages. They are willing to  go  out  and  work  for  free, because they can see how their lives  are  better  if  they do so. Even the malcontents are part of  the  system,  the  dark  without which the light could not be seen.  Thousands  of  young  people     students  from the city   volunteer  to  work  in  the  fields  and bring the crops in. The storm  caused  a  billion  dollars  worth of damage (there was no mention  of  it  in the U.S. press), much of it to crops, but the Cubans  didn't  bat  an  eye.  They picked themselves up and went out  and  started  to  repair  the damage. In a society where you don't  have  to  worry  where your next meal is coming from (even though  it  may  be    vegetarian), where your job is guaranteed, where,   as  Zoila  mentioned,  you  are  taken  to the emergency hospital  and  operated  on  before  anyone  even asks your name, let  alone  if  you  are  "eligible", where 96% voted in favor of Communist  Party  candidates  in  secret  elections (voters could invalidate  their  ballots if they so wished, and    international observers are always  on  the  scene),  where  everyone  has  relatives who were in the 13  de  marzo,  in  Girón,  in 26 de julio, where people remember what  it  was  like  before  and know it is better now, this Cuba is  an  example to a collapsed Latin America where, as in Brazil, death  squads shoot orphans on the street because "there are too many of them".

This  example  is  what  terrifies  Washington.  There is no Free Trade  Agreement  in  Cuba.  Cubans  may not have much, but it is theirs.

Not  have  much?  You can't walk down the street without somebody inviting you into their house for coffee or a shot of rum. Cubans love  to  talk, and they insist you sit down and share with them. Moreover  every  neighbor  within  earshot  will  come  and  sit, uninvited,  and  join  in.  What  Cubans  do have is an unlimited alegría de vivir, an optimism, a dignity, a willingness to share. Not  for  them  the  stressful  nine to five, six days a week. In capitalist  countries  one person does the work of three. In Cuba three  people  do  the work of one. In spite of the blockade they have  something  more  precious    time to enjoy life for its own sake.  The  volunteers  who  go  to  the  fields finish their day singing  and  dancing.  Everywhere  people  are  sitting in parks and   playgrounds,  beaches  and  porches,  chatting,  gossiping, bullshitting. I doubt if there is a single ulcer on the island.


THE FORBIDDEN ISLAND 1994                       

The  big  news  this  year  is  the dollarization of the economy. First,  everyone  who  had  been  arrested for illegal possession has  been  released.   I  immediately  asked the taxi driver from the  airport  if  things  were (1) better (2) worse (3) the same.

He  felt  they  were  better  because  now  if you needed, say, a blender,  you  could  buy  it  at  the INTUR store. Of course, as a  taxi driver he was likely to have saved up a bunch of dollars.Later  I  asked  an  ordinary housewife with no access to dollars and  got  a  long  lament  on how things were getting worse. Cada quien  habla  según le va en la feria. The driver reiterated what  I  have  heard  many  times;  no  one in Cuba goes to bed hungry. The  problem  is  that having enough to eat is a very low minimum to  go  on  for  very  long.  People  need  consumer  goods,  not personal computers,  but  razors  and  tooth  paste. These are very scarce indeed.  People  are  still  healthy,  but seem thinner than last year.

No  matter  what,  Cuba  is  still  Cuba. I checked into my hotel for  mostly  Cubans,  at  the beach, and felt that old tingle the warm  breeze,  the  Cuban  musical  speech,  the warm smiles, the kisses.  My  first lunch at the hotel restaurant provided me with a  trio  of  guitarists  who  sang  as if they had just come down from heaven. I gave them $6  two for each person, and they almost fainted  at  my  largesse.  (Last  year the black market exchange was  1  to  40,  now  it's 1 to 100.) The next song was dedicated to  me   "Para  usted, de todo corazón y con mucho amor". How can one  resist  such  people? They sang a Mexican bolero which could have  easily  put  them  into  the  Hollywood  Bowl  under  other circumstances.  The  chicken was meaty, tough and full of flavor, the  way  chickens  used  to  be  before  they  were reduced to a hormone laden  mush  by  the multinationals in the U.S. The first day  the  waiter bowed in a courtly manner, rather charming since the  sea breezes were blowing and everyone was dressed in shorts. The  second  day,  since  he now knew me, he gave me a hug. There are  not  many  restaurants  in the world where the waiter greets you with a hug.

My  suite,  for  $20,  included a sitting room, a non functioning kitchen,  the  bedroom  and  bath   and  not much  water. The air conditioner  wasn't  that  great,  either. Through the open door, a  beetle  was  trying  to  get  into my room. Well, we're in the tropics,  I  thought  with a shrug. Without injuring it, I kicked it  outside.  Curious  as  to what it would do, I watched it turn around  several  times  trying  to orient itself. Without warning a  lizard  shot  out of the bush and in a flash had swallowed it. I  was  left  to  muse  how much the lizard and the Empire had in common, except that Cuba is one of the beetles that got away

The  old  woman  at  the  hotel  gate in charge of letting people in  or  out  had  not  spoken  to  me more than a minute when she pointedly  told  me  she  was  Spanish,  that is, both her father and  her  mother  had  been  born  in Spain. Her husband had died years  ago  and  now  all  she  had was her little dog. She never had  children,  "eché‚  cuatro barrigas"; they had all miscarried. She  had  been  in  a  convent  as  a girl thinking of becoming a nun,  and  like  a  good  Christian  had taught her little dog to bark at Black people.

I  went  tootling  out  to the Reparto Eléctrico to see my friend Rafael.  The  Reparto  is a complex of condominium type buildings on  the  outskirts  of  Habana.  It  was  built to get people out of  slum  houses  in  town. Rafael's family's house was literally falling  down when the government gave them the apartment (living room,  dining  room,  two bedrooms, bath and kitchen). His mother is  paying  12.50  a  month. She owes 700 pesos, and then it will be  all  hers.  She  is going to give it to her son, although she can  sell  it  to anyone she chooses. With a coat of paint on the outside,  sorely  lacking,  the  Reparto  would  be quite lovely. Even  now,  the  palm  trees,  guayaba,  mango,  banana trees and bougainvillea  give it an attractive air.

Rafael  was  full  of  stories  of his adventures in the merchant marines.  He  said  that when he was offshore in Canada (the crew was  not  allowed  to disembark) a Canadian national on board had died,  and   had  to  be unloaded.  A friend of Rafael, El Pichi, who  everybody  thought   was  crazy anyway, jumped on the casket as  they  were  unloading   it  and  refused to get back on ship. The  Communist  party  official  in charge of handling the morale of  the  ship,  was  sent  to  talk  El  Pichi into surrendering, promising  that  nothing  would  happen  to  him  if  he  behaved reasonably.  The  official  went  and  after  a  brief discussion also  refused  to  get  back  on  board. Last thing he had heard, related  Rafael amid shouts of laughter, was that they had opened a restaurant with their savings from working in Canada.

Another  story was closer to home. Rafael had just gotten married (I  suspect  he marries only to get the all expense paid two week vacation  the  government  gives  him. A first  marriage involved a  Spanish  woman  staying  at  the hotel who was later found  in Rafael's  bed  by  his  bride. That marriage lasted less than the honeymoon   but  that is yet another story). His second honeymoon was  at  the  luxury  Itabo  Hotel, compliments of the Revolution.   Again,  the  couple had been befriended  by  Spanish  tourists.  They were asked to visit them in  their  room, to give them some presents  a magazine, a scarf, nothing  important.  Rafael  was  stopped  by the conserje saying guests  were  not  allowed  to visit in each other's rooms (while this  is  true,  Rafael  is  convinced  that it was because he is Afro Cuban.)  They  explained  that  there was no funny business, and  the  conserje  let  them  go  saying he was not responsible. After  the  visit,  Rafael  received  another visit from Security saying  he was under arrest for stealing $500 from the Spaniards. Rafael  was  taken  to  the police station  some honeymoon! As it happened,  the  person  involved  in the investigation was an old school chum of his, and assured him he would not be found guilty. In due course, Rafael was released.

This,  however, was only the beginning of the story. Rafael found out  later  that  the  cajera  at  the  desk  was  aware that the Spaniards  had  put  all their money in a safety deposit box  all except  $500,  which  they  had  in  their room. The conserje had let  Rafael  go  as  an  easy mark to blame for taking the money. When  the  conserje  was called into the police station, Rafael's old  school chum took half of the $500 in return for not charging him.  The  cajera was left out in the cold and spilled the beans. All  three,  cajera, conserje and school chum are all doing time. Rafael  did not know if the Spaniards ever got any of their money back.

Another  story  involved  Del  Pino,  a  high government official in  the Communist Party who had flown to freedom from the horrors of  Castro's  Cuba.  He was received as a hero by the U.S. press, who  neglected  to  mention  that  he  was  responsible  for  the near starvation  of  tens  of  thousands. As the person in charge of  administering  a  province, in an attempt at sabotage,  he  deliberately created a riot by  withholding  milk, eggs and cooking oil (some of it donated), among  other  staples,  and  diverting  these to other provinces. The  ensuing  investigation  forced  his  hand  and  he  flew  to "freedom", that is,  to escape criminal charges.

The  Human  Rights  Commission has persuaded the Cuban government to  release  the  captive AIDS infected people from the Los Cocos hospital,  where  they  were  being  cared  for  and had a better diet   than  most  Cubans,  but  were  not  allowed  out  without supervision.  The  AIDS  patients  can now walk free again. Since most  of  them  were  prostitutes to begin with, AIDS in Cuba has started  to  take  hold  as never before. Thank you, Human Rights Commission.

Cubans  with  relatives  in  the  U.S. can legally receive $300 a month.  (there  is  no  limit  to the underground network). Since the dollar is 100 to one, this means that some Cubans make 30,000 pesos  a  month without lifting a finger, while others work their butt  off  and  make  only  200 incredibly, five dollars a month. The  sincere,  uncorrupted  Communist  cannot  buy  at the dollar stores  while  the  Cuban with the gusano family in Miami can buy gasoline,  a  car,  a  vacation, toys for his kids. The Communist has  a  difficult  time  feeding  his  children , let alone going on  trips  and buying toys. Monthly  rations last up to the 15th, after  that,  it's  black  market  all  the way for those who can afford  it.

The  gusanos  are  not  well  liked by the neighbors, not so much for  political  reasons,  but  because  they tend to lord it over everyone  else.  Gusanos  tend to be white in a black population. One  gusana  who  had  been  drinking  rather heavily said at the beach;  "If  all  the  men in the world disappeared, and the last man was Black, I would just  die". A gusano family in the Reparto had  already  been caught in a boat trying to reach Florida. They were  sent  back  and  fined. When they heard I was from the U.S. the  man  came over conspiratorially, as if we were kindred souls united  against  the  trashy Cubans. I set him straight about the U.S.,  telling  stories  of   drugs,  riots  and killings, to say nothing  of  pollution  and  pesticides. He didn't believe me. He invited   me   to   his  neat as a pin  apartment  with  its  new refrigerator,  its  microwave,  its stereo and its satellite dish showing  HBO,  MTV  and  the  Discovery  Channel. HBO was showing a  sleazy  movie  about  a  cop who tries to hit on another man's wife.   The  gusano  looked  at  it as if were the sacred Word. I told  him those movies were a dime a dozen, and boring, and left. His  son,  a  pale,  blue eyed  rat faced boy who went around the neighborhood  saying  "fuck  you" to everyone (his only English), accompanied  me  down  the stairs without comment. The gossip has it  that  the family is trying for another boat sortie. This time they'd  better  make  it.  The  second try earns  them jail time.

No es fácil.  The peasants in the countryside have grain, fruits, vegetables,  hogs,  eggs.  They  bring  their produce (illegally) into  the  cities, and,   unwilling to sell at government prices, sell  to  individuals  for  dollars.  Some are quickly becoming a privileged class, much as the kulaks of yore. People are hoarding money  to  the  extent that the government can't pay its workers. A  recent  proposal  was to charge for sports events in an effort to  get  the  Cuban peso circulating.* In the Reparto electricity and  water  have gone off for hours at a time since the beginning of  the  year.  The  people  in one building also have no gas and are  reduced to  cooking with charcoal and using Coleman lanterns for  light.  Some  hospitals  have  no water and patients have to bring their own sheets. The CP official in charge of one building gets  extra  gas  rations,  and  sells the gas for dollars to buy meat  for  his  children.  Events are free. The  five  main  problems in Cuba are; Electricity,  Water,  Food,  Clothing and Transportation. All are traceable to the blockade. To say that the U.S. should be brought to  justice  at  a  Nurenberg type  tribunal  is not to overstate the case.

A  girl  from  the  Reparto came over  and asked   me if I wanted to be saved. I said no.

A  young, smiling doctor dressed in a spotless tunic and complete with  stethoscope  came  by  the  Reparto  on Monday. Someone had called  him,  and  he  took  advantage of the occasion to look in on  some  of  his  older  patients. His clinic is just two blocks away  and is available without an appointment, and is, of course, free. Everywhere in Cuba there are clinics within walking distance. In the US walking distance will get you to a 711.

El  Babalawo.  Santería is pervasive in Cuba, although not always obvious.  I  had  been in Rafael's house a week before I realized that  behind  a  table, on the floor, was a coconut shell adorned with  cowrie  shells  to make a face, also  a knife, a candle and a  saint.  His  grand aunt  gives  readings  and "consultas".  In addition I was assured that  when Fidel Castro was in Nigeria was  the  only  time he was dressed all in white. He had received his initiation and become a Babalawo, a supreme leader.

Cuban  television.  Many  areas do not have electrical shortages. Those  who  live  in  those  areas and have color TV and possibly a  satellite  dish  have all the TV they can use. Even so, in the Reparto  on  only  one station one Saturday  I saw the following;

Interviews  with  the  survivors of the University uprisings that led  to  the  triumph of the Revolution, and interview with Benny Moré‚  (now  deceased),  a remembrance of Nicolás Guillén,  Aretha,  Janet  Jackson,  Rod  Stewart, Bruce Springsteen, Van Van and all the Salsa  you  could take for one evening. The movie (complete with  dildoes)  was  Amos and Andrew, with Nicolas Cage, somewhat  bewildering  to  my  Afro Cuban  friends who found it hard to see how  a  movie  that  had  bloodhounds set on a Black man could be funny.  The  Sunday  night  movie  was "Hello, Dolly" with Barbra Streisand.  Interspersed among the program breaks were ads urging the use of condoms.

The  succès  de scandale of the season is the prize winning Fresa y  Chocolate,  about  a gay man who falls in love with a Juventud Comunista  (UJC)  University  student.   The  general  opinion in the  Reparto  was  that  people have a right to live as they wish and not be persecuted "like before".

I  inadvertently  let  on  that  I  was having a birthday. Rafael immediately  set  about buying a huge cake made with black market flour.  There  are  people  in the Reparto that can supply almost anything.  We  invited  the  neighbors  (or  more correctly, they invited themselves), and had a small party. They sang the Spanish version of "Happy Birthday":

                        Mucha Felicidad
                        En el día de hoy
                        Te deseamos, Antonio
                        Mucha felicidad.

As  I  looked  around  at  their  open, smiling faces, completely lacking  in  guile,  I  was  reminded  once again of what a great people  the  Cubans  are.  Nothing  stops them. Ultimately, there is  LIFE.  Lush,  pulsating, big booty  tropical life. Every adult takes  care of every child (and scolds him if necessary).  People are  always  coming  and  going, looking for that jabalí that was slaughtered,  that  tank  of  crude beer on the black market, the next  party.  The  chickens  scratch, the hogs grunt, the puppies whine,  people  laugh,  cry,  gossip, make love, get drunk. Being  in  Cuba  is  like  being  in other Latin American  countries but it  is  not  like  being  in  the  U.S. A kind of pall hangs over American  cities a  kind  of  ominous  silence under the noise of the  helicopters.  In  the  Reparto  there was noise at the base, a  happy  noise,  a  comforting family noise. The lights went out and  it  was not long before the neighborhood was sitting outside in  the  dark.   First  the older people sang the old songs, José José‚ José Alfredo  Jiménez,  Pedro  Vargas.  Then  the young people started with  Nelson Ned,  and Whitney Houston. It was not long, however,  before  the  whole  thing had melted down to the Rumba. Some  one  brought  a  spoon  to  mark the rhythm, others beat on chairs,  others    chanted "gumbayé‚" and "babalú" and West Africa sailed  effortlessly   into  the  Reparto, carried in by the soft warm  winds.  Cuba  was  being  Cuba, indestructible, anchored in its  history,  confident  of the future, unimpressed by hardship, ready  to  take  on  all  comers, fighting if necessary, but ever ready  to  extend  a  hand  in  friendship  and  with   the  most unconditional love on the planet.
        
CUBA UNDER THE DOLLAR 1995         

The  New  Economic  Policy  of  allowing foreign companies to set up  merchandising  in  Cuba  has  the economy reeling. The stores are  bursting with goods. Foreign companies have taken over Cuban stores  that had closed, fixed them up, hired whomever they want, fired  the  rest,  unheard  of in Cuba, and started charging high prices,  also  unheard of. The resulting unemployment has created a  serious  problem  for the Revolution.  Instead of solving  the problem  in  a  socialist  direction,  it  has  palliated it with small  time  capitalism.  Farmers  can  sell  their goods (with a fee  and  a permit, of course), and keep the profits. The workers who  have  been  fired  by  the foreign companies can sell on the street  to  take  up the slack, and do. The problem is that under capitalism,  true  to  form,  the  big fish eats the little fish. Gusanos  once  again  come  out  on  top.  They can, with initial capital  from  Miami,  contract  a  furniture  maker in pesos who can  make  an  expensive  living  room  set, and the entrepreneur can sell at a profit in dollars.  Who has dollars? Other gusanos, people  in  tourism,  and  thieves. Last year everyone complained that  there  were no consumer goods, this year everyone complains about  the muggings and hijackings (welcome to capitalism). Those without  dollars  can  do little to improve their lot. I saw some pitiful  tables  of  the  unemployed  on  the street  offering to sharpen  scissors  and mend shoes. The unemployed still get their free  medical  care  and  education, they still get their libreta (rations)  but  they  still  have to come up with about 200 pesos a  month  to  cover  costs  (about  5  dollars).  Habaneros  look prosperous,  have  gained  weight,  and are still better off than the  rest  of  Latin  America.  What will happen in the future is anybody's guess.

Ordinary  people  are  not fooled, however. Amparo said she would rather  work  in a socialist store than a capitalist one, because in  the  government  store  you  can  sit down, you can chat with the  customers,  the  hours are shorter, and you cannot be fired. In  a  capitalist store you have to stand up all day, work harder and  longer  (because  the  others  have been fired), and you are still paid in pesos.

There   are   now  three  economies  in  Cuba;  the  divisa,  the convertible  peso  and  the Cuban peso. The divisa is the dollar. The  job  of  the  tourist  is  to  turn  over his dollars to the government  by  buying  Cuban.  Naturally,  the Cubans themselves want  to  buy  in  the  dollar  stores so there is a mad scramble for  dollars  akin  to  the  Gold Rush. So that dollars don't get "lost"  in  the  shuffle,  there  is  the convertible Cuban money which  can  be  exchanged  for  dollars  within  Cuba,  while the government  hangs on to as many "real" dollars as it can by using the  proxies.  Third,  there  is  the  Cuban  peso which pays all salaries  and  buys  all  purchases  with  the libreta. Thanks to a  booming  tourist economy the government has been able to lower libreta  prices  on  basic  food  stuffs.  An example of how this works:  Caracol, a Cuban government store chain that manufactures and   sells  beach  clothes  in  Europe,  Latin  America, and the Caribbean,  sold  63  million  dollars  worth of goods last year. Thirty  three  percent  was  used to buy food, fuel and medicines for  the  population. The Junta de Planificación has a long range program  to make everything in dollar stores available at libreta prices  to  workers,  at  which  point  the  dollar will become a useless and obsolete relic.

The  socialist  economy  works like this: You are given a monthly libreta.  There  is  one  for  clothes  and one for food and over the  counter  medicines.  Goods  are  very  cheap. As an example, with  a   200  peso  a month income one can buy a three peso pair of  tennis  shoes  (about  ten  cents USD). With the food libreta you can get a special medical diet, if applicable, which includes  meat,  chicken,  vegetables  and milk.  Other rations are cookies and  vinegar.  Monthly rations are rice, other grains, oil, lard, sugar,   compote,  tomato  preserves,  soap,  detergent,  coffee, kerosene,  butane,  alcohol,  cigarettes, matches, toothpaste and rum.  These  goods  are  the  cheapest  and  can be had by anyone (sometimes they are scarce, however). Even if you are not working you  still  get  the  libreta  and  get the basics as long as you can   rub   200   pesos   together,  about  5 dollars USD. On the other  hand,  the  government  has raised prices on utilities and a  few  other  things to motivate jobholding among those who have left  the  work  force  voluntarily.  Too  many  people  found it profitable  quit  their  job, find money through other means, and still get their rations.

The  next  expensive  rung  on  the  ladder  is the sale of Cuban merchandise  in  government stores and (now) in the open markets, accessible  in  worker's  pesos.  Here  all  manner of things can be  had,  relatively  cheap  but  no longer subsidized. I went to a  mercado  agropecuario, which had the look and feel (and smell) of  any  market in Latin America, although it was perhaps cleaner than  most.  Here  the  peasants from the countryside profit with a  frenzy.   Garlic  and  onions  were  2 pesos each (5 cents USD) and housewives   were   screaming  bloody  murder  at  how  expensive everything  was.  Still,  the  market  did  not  go  begging  for customers.

The  top  rung  on  the  ladder is the dollar economy. Those with dollars  can  buy  the  same things available anywhere else, from Granny Goose potato chips packed in Anaheim to VCRs to Mitsubishi cars.  I  even  saw a woman in a parked car talking on a cellular telephone.

U.S.  Americans  might  tend to think that somehow Cuba is on the verge  of  becoming  Americanized.  I don't think so. It is still very  much  Latin  America,  and  its orientation lies elsewhere. I  took a walk down embassy row in Miramar and realized how there is  a  whole  other  world  that U.S. Americans have no knowledge of.  Here were the embassies of Iran, Iraq, Congo, Benin, Angola, Mozambique,  Western  Sahara Republic, Viet Nam, Laos, Palestine, everything  except  the  U.S. Embassy. Foreign capital comes from Spain,  Japan  and  Latin  America,  and  it is doubtful that the Cubans,  socialist or otherwise, will ever accept U.S. domination again.

The  scramble  for dollars has created big and little corruption. I  went  to  the  Feria  del Libro, books that are supposed to be available  to  all  Cuban  workers  and are therefore in worker's pesos.  The  girl  selling  them charged me eight pesos (12 cents USD).  Since  I  only  had dollars, she made a deal and wanted to charge  me only four dollars (160 pesos), until my friend Rafael, furious, threw the eight pesos on the counter.  

All  my  friends  in  the  Reparto came over to greet and kiss; I wonder  how  much   of  that  is  motivated by hopes of a gift of a  few  dollars.  

Just  as  one  thing is true, the opposite is also true.  I spoke to  Sara, who, along with her husband, has been a Communist since before  the  Revolution.  She  is a sweet old lady who was trying to  make  an  addition to her tiny house (con muchos sacrificios) so  her  grandchildren  could  come  and visit her. We had a nice chat  about  the  current  situation  in  the  U.S., the national struggle  of  Latinos,  the  takeover  of  Congress by the right. She  was,  of  course,  perfectly  informed  as to circumstances. As  I  left,  I  tried  to give her, in friendship, a few dollars to  help  in the construction. Ten dollars would buy huge amounts of   cement.   With  great  dignity,  she  refused.  It  is  this stalwartness  that  makes  it  likely  for  Socialism to continue in Cuba.

Depressing  news  on  the  psychosexual  front.  Homosexuals  and prostitutes  still  can  get  up to two years in jail. There have been  raids  around  the  Cine  Yara and at Habana's one gay bar. In  spite  of the recent liberalization with "Fresa y Chocolate", and  an ongoing gay character in the current Cuban novela (played as  burlesque),  jurisprudence  has not caught up with real life. Most  people  consider  the  old  laws  anachronisms. A foreigner was  caught  making  pornos with two Cuban girls on his camcorder and  got  fined  thousands  of  dollars.  The girls got two years in jail.

I  went  to  the  house of Rosita Fornés, the monstruo sagrado of Cuban  musicals  cum Zarzuela. La Fornés has nothing but contempt for  the  gusanas  such  as Celia Cruz who have left la Patria by selling  themselves  to  the  Empire. She is now 74 years old and still  beautiful.  I  did  not  meet her, but I met the next best thing, a drag queen who impersonates her. Officially this young man is the housekeeper, hired by the star to take care of her beach house. She was gracious enough to  put  on  a show with la Fornés's own costumes. In fact, I got the  impression  that  the only thing that would have stopped her would have been a fire hose.

The  queens  got  together  and  pressured  the government to let them  put  on a show at the Bellas Artes. After they came up with the  idea  of  making it an AIDS benefit, the Minister of Culture gave  in.  La  Fausse  Fornés  did  not go for fear that it might be  police  trap, but on February 28, everything went off without a  hitch,  standing  room  only,  and the show was even broadcast on TV as a cultural event.

The  CDR  manages  to keep on top of things as far as hanky panky in  the  neighborhood  is  concerned. There is the president, the vice   president,   the   vigilance  committee,  the  ideological propaganda,  maintenance  and volunteer work committees. All live within  a  few  houses  of each member of the community. The lady from  mantenimiento  came  by Rafael's house to have him sign for a  Wednesday  meeting  to  discuss painting and clean up, part of a  national  beautification  campaign.  The government is at long last  supplying  the  paint  for  the Reparto. The discussion was to  be  about  each  household  keeping their allotment of paints and  supplies  at  home  and  being responsible for it so that it wouldn't get stolen. Rafael went to the  beach instead.

There   is  an  appalling  lack  of  seriousness  among  ordinary citizens.   For  example,  they  sit,  hypnotized,  watching  the telenovelas,  and  go  through  writhing  agonies  of suspense as it  unfolds;  "Alabao,  she's  going  to  find out her husband is cheating!"  they'll  scream.   In  some  ways, Socialism has bred a  complacency  that things will get done anyway, and is a victim of its own success.

While  people  living  in the Reparto will not get much attention paid  to  their  complaints  (mostly  because  if the electricity goes  off,  for  example,  nothing can be done about it, since it is  being  rationed), people in a job context can and do get some satisfaction.  They  got  rid  of Carlos. When I went to visit my friends  at  the  Gran  Vía,  they  were  happy  to  tell me that complaints  about  Carlos  (pronounced  "Calo")  trying  to score points  with  the  Party  by  running  an efficient operation and working  them  to  death had their effect. Now some nice old lady is  the  administrator and Carlos is working someplace else. This reminded  me  of   how  120  workers out of 180 signed a petition against  the  administrator  at my jobsite, and the administrator is still there, trying to take revenge on the signatories.

I  had  been  unable  to  get  rid of a cough I imported into the country,  and  Isabel  came  to  take me to the clinic. We walked two short blocks, no appointment, and sat down.  After 5 minutes, she  poked  her  head  into  the  doctor's office and asked if we could  come  in. She explained that she had a "guest". The doctor finished  with  her  current  patient  and  asked me to sit down. She  asked  me my name, age and where I was staying. She listened to my breathing, took my blood pressure, asked me a few other questions and  made  out  a  prescription for a cough medicine. She made an appointment  for  a  chest  X  Ray the next day (it was 7 pm). We thanked  her and walked out. No muss, no fuss, no fee. I couldn't help  but  think  how  foreigners are treated in U.S. clinics. If anyone  should  suggest  they receive free medical care, half the doctors stateside  would have a heart attack.

Cuba  is  very  much aware of the mistakes of the ex USSR. Rather than  dogmatically  shielding  itself  from  the need for change, the  Party  is  flexible  enough  to  tread the dangerous path of the  New  Economic  Policy  in  order  to  solve some of the most pressing  needs  of  the  population,  but without forsaking  the gains  made.  Humanism  and  antibureaucratism  rule, as does the dialectic.  In spite of charges of elitism, most things are still substantially  for  the  people.  Cuba is small enough that it is hard  to  become  isolated from daily problems.  Party people are in  the  thick  of  things,  and are often  the agents of change. The  future   is  in  their hands as never before, and as long as they maintain close ties with the masses, who continue to support the system, Socialism in Cuba will endure.

CUBA 96 SANTIAGO                       

Since the U.S. Government refused to give him a visa, Eddy had thrown himself into the ocean as a balsero and had been  picked up and taken to Guantanamo Naval Base for a year and a half. Now he showed up at my house, full of dreams of getting rich and  buying a Lamborghini (in two or three months, as soon as he was settled). A high school drop out, speaking a thick Cuban patois,  unable to speak English, Black, he really thought he could live  like in the U.S. movies. He swore he would never go back to Cuba. A few weeks of trying to get a job, and working by the day pouring out cement or sweeping out a business for 37 dollars a day, cooled his bird for awhile. Finally he blurted out "Este pais es trememda mielda". He started sneaking my videotapes of Cuba that I had taken in previous years, full of nostalgia and homesickness.

Eddy was a good source of information that is never available to U.S. Americans. When they arrived at the Naval Base, the Cubans were greeted with lunches of free beef, pork or chicken every day, a 60" color tv 24 hours a day with shows in Spanish from Miami, stores so they could shop, gambling, prostitution and pornos. Gloria Estefan took her whole show down thereto keep up the spirits of the victims of Godless Communism. The U.S. Government, the one who mercilessly beats Mexicans who founded the Southwest if they catch them trying to get back to their ancestral lands, gives the Cubans, most of whom are lowlifes who want to marry some rich American, a work permit, airfare to the destination of their choice, $200 a month welfare, 8 months free medical care, and job referrals. (The last thing most of them want to do is work). Eddy did not get an apartment because I had agreed to sponsor him, or the Government would have found an apartment for him.

The Revolution, of course, is aware of the problems. Granma last year published an analysis of what was going on: Cuba must preserve Socialism, yet undergo changes consistent with the world and its realities. It has undergone a diminishing of its economy, financial imbalance, disdain for work, social lack of discipline, and a loss of values. Foreign investment has increased, the dollar has become current, the land can be used partly for profit, farmer's markets have opened up, people can work for themselves upon payment of a tax. On the up side, Cubans must solve their own problems and depend less on the paternalism of the State. Some graduates have trouble finding jobs unless these come out of tourism, biotechnology or the agrarian sector. There is a downward trend from social property to private property, from industrial labor to manual, artisan or agrarian labor, from technological work to service jobs. With unemployment comes the black market, theft and other illegal activities. Untouched by the changes are health, education and social security. The challenge is to preserve Socialist gains as well as Cuban roots, spirituality and solidarity. Effort and heroic action are needed more than ever before.

I landed in Mérida, with very little money, on a Wednesday, and went straightway past the Zapatista demonstrators to the ticket office. Some of my expenses; ticket to Mérida $350. Hotel in Mérida, $11. Ticket to La Habana, $126. Most meals, $10. Lasy year flights to La Habana had been Thursdays and Sundays only. Now flights are daily. If Jesse Helms could see this!

La Habana has become so familiar I swear I know it better than Los Angeles (my own neighborhood excepted). I asked the taxi driver from the airport the standard questions, are things better or worse. For the first time in years the answer was they were better. Apparently the "período especial" has turned a corner. "The lights don't go out nearly as much, and there is plenty of water. Now that we can buy in the shops, people save up and get all the consumer goods they want." I was able to confirm this later-- for the first time, not only are people selling on the street, but the stores for Cubans, in pesos, are full of cheap clothes and other goods. Some stores feature stove, refrigerators and freezers (sorry, available in dollars only- but still people buy them). Thus I was unprepared for Rafael's hard luck story of how his mother had no money to pay the light bill this month. He said he had been studying and had gotten a further degree as an able-bodied seaman 1st Class with Basic English, but he said there was no work. He said he could get work in his area, but jobs were sold for $200. Later I asked several people and all said this was not true. Apparently Rafael was trying to soak me. He was wearing a little thin. When I got back Eddy said he had been fired for raping a co-worker. Rafael's story is that he had been going with the girl, and when he tired of her she made up the story in revenge. Whatever the truth, in Cuba if you are fired, you have to take a lower job or go back to school and improve your qualifications, but you cannot go back to your original job level. Rafael has the choice of going to work in the fields ot improving his skills and trying another area of work.

I was getting a little tired of La Habana. It is a great, romantic city full of glamour and culture, but the mad dash for dollars has created a really demented class of hustlers. One private taxi driver called me four times at the hotel to make sure I hadn't forgotten that I had promised him the $10 to take me to the airport the next morning. Beautiful, beautiful dusky girls stop you every few feet and offer love's delights. Many of them are intelligent girls going to the University, but female emancipation and the traditional Cuban sensuality makes them unable to see anything "wrong" in what they do. Cubans are about as far removed from the Puritannical Americans as you can get, and these attitudes are probably what is most attractive about them. Nevertheless, I was tired of the same old hustles I had seen before. I wanted some new hustles. I had decided to go to Santiago.

The airport to Santiago, Via Cubana de Aviación, was crowded, but orderly. There didn't seem to be any of the bureaucratic snafus that mar underdeveloped societies, where everything is very complicated and in triplicate (Although airline tickets are of course computerized, many offices elsewhere still do things by hand with carbon paper for copies). We walked to the gate with an hour to spare. The only thing available to eat at this point were some sandwiches and some Tropicola, at a small bar run by a young, very typical Cuban woman. The lunch cost 6 pesos (here transport is for Cubans and everything is in pesos) . I remarked that I hadn't had lunch and the sandwich was just a starter, and she inisisted in giving me a chicken leg from her own lunch. She refused the dollar tip I tried to give her (USD 20 pesos-down from last year). The loudspeaker calmly announced Cubana flights   Habana-Paris, Brussels and Munich. Would that Jesse Helms could see this! Finally, on time, the flight to Santiago was announced.

Getting on a plane in Cuba for a local flight has a time-warp feeling. There are few airport buses. Usually you walk to the plane, like in a 1950's movie. The flight was at 8 pm and the lighting was correspondingly muted. I buckled my seat and saw smoke filling the aisle. The plane was on fire! Since no one seemed concerned, I stifled my screams. On closer examination I noticed it was a refreshing vapor that cleared the stale air. I remarked to my seat partner that they had this clouds-beneath-your feet effect so that in case the plane crashed, you would feel at home in heaven; a kind of free sample. I looked around, The plane seemed quaint, like a renovated military plane.
A sign in Cyrillic next  to   the call  buttons   betrayed its origin. Since Cuba is a small island, no flight is over two hours. This is an excuse not to serve any food. (Mexicana serves food, but charges $30 more to Santiago.) The flight attendants are mostly decoration.  At the halfway point they saunter down the aisle with candies and tiny half-filled cups of coffee. The rest of the time they close the curtains and gossip.

My seat partner was an interesting older lady with blonde hair that did nothing to cover up her mulato features. I asked her something I was curious about. If  I, as a tourist, was charged $150., howcould Cubans afford such a price?The plane was filled to the brim with Cubans. She explained that Cubans wetre charged 100 pesos, a fortune to them, but five dollars to me, for the same ticket. She further went on to explain that if a Cuban got a package tour (I suspect one has to qualify), he could get an all-expense paid 3 day package for 500 pesos ($25) at the Hotel Santiago, which would cost me $100 a day just for the room. So that's how they do it, I thought. Tourism really helps the Cubans. No wonder Mas Canosa froths at the mouth.  

After the modern, clean and inviting Antonio Maceo airport, I had a look around Santiago. It is a tropical dream. Fecund, mountainous, it is the hero city near where the guerrillas hid out in the Sierra Maestra. Following the suggestion   of my seat partner, I went to the University Youth Hostel, past the luxury Santiago and Las Americas hotels to the exhuberant tropical setting of my $12 a day room. No hot water, share the bath with one neighbor. The hotel was relaxed and homey, and I was soon exchanging gossip with the desk clerk and recipes with the cook. I showed Felipe the clerk a jar of chile de árbol that I had taken with me to liven up the bland Cuban food, stating that there was no chile hotter than a tomato in Cuba. He pretended to argue, saying with a straight face that some chiles were very hot, that there were three degrees of picante in Cuba; "picante, más picante y la puta de tu madre," collapsing in gales of laughter. A hotel guest walked up and Felipe burst into a tirade of fluent German. He had been in the DDR for six years.

The cook put his two cents in, manifesting the most spectacular misinformation regarding chiles, clearly a rationalization for people who fear them. He solemnly assured everyone that chiles provoke ulcers, hemorrhoids, rectal bleeding (he seemed to have some sort on anal obsesssion) and high blood pressure, and that they would give you a hard on that would last for hours, this last demonstrated with a clenched fist and raised forearm. No amount of reasoned argument could get him   to change his mind.

Still, Santiago was so peaceful that I almost missed the shootings near my house in L.A. I took a taxi to Siboney.

Siboney! As a child I had known the song by Lecuona, and never imagined it was a real place. There it was in all its glory. A fishing village, it doesn't even have a hotel. I scrounged around and rented a room for $15 ( a fortune!) From a lovely retired teacher and her husband. They had turned their second floor over to the infrequent tourism that came their way. I went out on the verandah. The Caribbean broke against the low cliffs 20 feet from their house. The bay was a lush, tropical, rain-foresty green on the hills above, the water was a deep blue that reminded me of the Indian Ocean. I thought I had died and gone to heaven. Mrs. González came out with my dinner- a whole lobster, mounds of rice, mashed potatoes and spanking-fresh salad and the quintessential Cuban coffe (with refills,) all for seven dollars. These Cubans think they're poor, but in a capitalist country the González house would have been razed to build a five-star oceanfront hotel. People never know what they have until they lose it.

Before he retired, Mr. González had been a technician in dialysis machine production. As such he had been invited to tour Eastern Europe in the grand and glorious Soviet days. Ostensibly a technical forum, much of the junket was devoted to uniting people from the USSR, Korea, Viet Nam, etc., in  pleasure trips, rewarding them for being good socialists, sometimes including sex with female delegates and local women. He related how the Cuban delegation arrived in Rumania one night in 15 degree below Celsius weather. Each of theRumanians greeted them with two overcoats on- Ceausescu had cut off the electricity to help finance has grandiose projects and there was no heat in the airport. On a main street was an Arch of Triumph with the legend: "Ceausescu-The Golden Age of Socialism". The Cubans were taken to a hotel, also, with no heat, and little light. There was no food in the restaurant. After some arguing, the cook was able to scrape up some bread, cheese and wine. After the Cubans had eaten, the middle level dignatary politely asked if they had had their fill. When they said "yes," he carefully gathered the wine, cheese and bread that were left and put them in his pockets to take home. Mr. González said that the Rumanians hated Ceausescu's guts and there was general rejoicing when he was brought to justice.

Out of money, I regretfully bade farewell to my gracious hosts and was cast out of Paradise. I made a last minute sortie to the Parque Céspedes in Santiago to look at some excellent books on the Revolution, and another on Mexican cinema. Full of illustrations. Almost every Latin American writer was represented in shiny new editions. La Casa de las Américas has just published Borges's complete works, although it must be said Vargas Llosa is still missing. At this point, all I could do was  look. In the park I was surrounded by mulatos who invited me home, or to have a drink, or anything, and would not let me go. Apparently I was endlessly fascinating. Santiagueros have a reputation for hospitality, and it is not unwarranted. They also have a naive curiosity and a provincial directness which is distinctly refreshing after big, bad Habana. At last I had found what I had been looking for- real people who said what they felt and meant what they said. At least seemingly so.

I discovered a pizza place for $6, and grateful for the air conditioning, sank into my chair and started to write some notes while I waited for my pizza. Santiago is the home  of the Casa de la Trova, and sure enough, some troubadors came around and sang what I know as "bombas veracruzanas", which consist of the lead singer making up a rhyming song on the spot to you and about you. As soon as he saw me, the singer made a song up to the effect that I was writing notes and he did not wish to disturb me, but he was moved to welcome me to his city. We parted with a hug.

I had saved some of my dwindling funds to get an original edition of Paradiso. Back in La Habana, I was offered one with Lezama's signature for $50, but, tempted, I declined. There was a gold-embossed leather-bound Quixote to die for, but I didn't even bother asking the price. Finally I found a bookseller (the Plaza in front of the Cathedral has been turned into wall to wall bookstalls) who sent his scouts and in half an hour has the original in my hands, albeit without the signature. While we waited, he chatted, naturally. He was a retired architect. His brother had fought in the Habana urban guerrillas in the 1950's, but had gone to Miami a couple of years after the triumph of the Revolution, because he had become "disillusioned." They hadn't spoken in 35 years. I remarked it was a good thing that the Revolution had allowed small businesses, like his, to spring up. He quoted Che in saying "you can't nationalize shoe shine boys- it doesn't make economic sense." I retorted by quoting Stalin- "All small businesses must be stamped out, because they grow like a cancer. A small entrepeneur wants to become a big one, then tries to obliterate the competition and become a monopoly." We agreed that the solution had to be some kind of synthesis-allow people free enterprise up to a certain point, not enough to allow them to become rich and exploit others. He agreed, (maybe a little regretfully?). He remarked that he could sell books but could not become a private architect. That job was reserved for State employees.

Changing the subject, he chatted on in amazed tones that in Denmark there was a proposal to allow same-sex marriages. I said this was an issue in the United States, and again we agreed that the issue was a red herring that was designed to make people feel passionately about something as long as it took their minds off the real problems; unemployment, health care, jobs and housing.

Broke, with the now familiar lump in my throat because I was leaving my endlessly fascinating island, I woke up promptly at 5 am, packed my Lezama Lima, and got a taxi to the José Martí. Because of the early hour, some people were late and Mexicana held the flight. They turned out to be 7 male U.S. bimbos who had been in Cancun and had taken it into their empty heads to go to La Habana for a lark. They came pouring in, some of them still drunk, batting their eyelids like owls in the bright lights of the plane, while the Japanese businessmen on board clapped sarcastically. Blond, blue of eye, long of hair, bronzed to a turn, they looked like they had stepped out of a surfer movie. I was reminded again why Cuba was so wonderful- there were no Americans there. These Imperialist wannabes ignored  the other passengers and acted like they were alone in the plane, shouting at each other from one end of it to the other. "Hey Kevin"(or something)"how many girls did you fuck?" leered one of them to a friend 20 seats away. "Fifteen whores in three days, dude," screamed Kevin back. "Yaaoow!" "Mine was real ugly" muttered another, making a face.

I hope you get AIDS, I thought, disgustedly. One thing that has to be said,. The blockade has its good aspects. I fear for Cuba when the floodgates of American tourists are open, as they must someday be. At least I got to know my patria chica while it was still unspoiled.

Back in Mérida, the taxi driver asked me how things were in Cuba. I tried to explain, but to no avail. Less sophisticated than most taxi drivers I have met, he faithfully reported a wild story that had according to him appeared in the Mexican news. A Yucatecan had tried to smuggle dollars (!) Into Cuba, was caught, tortured and killed. I tried to explain that it did not make sense, since the Cuban government wants dollars to come into the country, but it was clear he was sticking to his story.

Again at the airport (because of the blockade I had to take four planes just to get home), the cleaning lady in Mérida came by inches from me as she emptied the ash trays. I kept waiting for her to meet my eyes so that I could say "good morning." She kept her glance studiously on the floor, acting as if I were not there and she were invisible. I reflected how different it was in the Santiago airport where a similar situation developed and I had a nice chat with the cleaning lady there. In Cuba even cleaning ladies expect to be greeted as valued human beings, and not be treated as part of the wallpaper. Granma was right. "The challenge is to maintain Cuban roots, spirituality and solidarity. Effort and heroic action are needed more than ever."  

CUBA 97

I wanted to go to Veracruz. This meant taking 10 planes for the round trip, but there was no other way of finding out if there were flights to La Habana from there, or better yet, a ship I could take. The taxi driver from the airport, in typically Mexican fashion, thought I wanted to stay at an expensive hotel although I told him otherwise, and took me to the Mocambo at $80 dollars a night. It was Semana Santa, my first mistake, and everything was sky high. After I told him that was my hotel budget for four days, he took me to a whorehouse. Mexican whorehouses are everywhere, are relatively cheap, very clean and highly recommended. The taxi drove into the bungalow and the iron curtain snapped shut behind the car. If a King size bed is the largest, this was an Emperor bed, and on a platform. Mirror on the ceiling. I felt trapped, since the doors were closed tightly and there were no windows. It was late, there was no food, indeed no restaurants nearby, and I had to make do with some mineral water. The charming thing about the place was a tiny, private tropical garden that could be seen through plate glass windows in the back. Otherwise, I couldn't get out of there fast enough. Being closed in is no fun if you don't have company.

I called for a taxi and told the driver to take me on a tour of the city. God bless taxi drivers. You can find out everything that's going on from them, even things you don't want to know. He launched into a tirade against the PRI, the assassinations, the corruption, the drug dealing. He took me on the ocean front Boulevard Camacho to show the houses of the rich drug dealers- gorgeous houses. One wonders how one missed out on such a bonanza. Finally past the battleship Mariano Azueta permanently docked in the bay to remind everyone of the Yankee invasion and the young sailor, among others, who gave his life defending his city. To the Hotel Baluarte, 28 dollars, air conditioned, clean, color tv, telephone and excellent restaurant. This was more like it. I took a walk along the Malecón and heard two men speaking a strange language. I asked them what it was and they answered with shy pride, "Nahuatl." I was thrilled.

Still, I hadn't come to stay and money was going fast. Ignoring the date on my ticket, I went to the airport the next day and asked to change it. I have learned the trick of NOT going to the travel agency- they make things difficult. At the airport the object is to load as many people as possible on that particular flight and I have never failed to get on with a change of schedule. The catch in this case was that the plane I was given was on old propeller one that sounded like a washing machine out of control. I am not afraid of flying, but I was glad to see familiar Mérida again. The plane was full of tourists (some of them Cubans) on their way to legendary La Habana. I looked enviously as they transferred to a modern Mexicana flight, while I had to stay to arrange transportation from Mérida, since I did not have a through ticket.

At the Cubamex ticket office, more bad news. Sold out for the next two weeks! My whole vacation ruined! The girl took pity on me and sent me to Areocaribe, where I was able to get a ticket the same day on some 3rd rate flight. The girl insisted on spelling my name wrong, even after I made her do it over. Because of this, I was worried there would be trouble at the border. But I sailed through customs as always without as much as a glance at my luggage, just a big welcoming smile from the customs agent.

Cuba! The more I see you the more I love you! (Cuba, que linda es Cuba, quien la defiende la quiere más).  The taxi driver seemed like an old friend, the road through Boyeros barrio seemed like home. I told him Hotel Vedado and was soon in the familiar lobby downtown.

Another rude shock! Tourism is up 20% from last year, and the socialist economy is not going to subsidize the tourists, but the other way around. Prices for tourists have risen, prices for Cubans have fallen. The Vedado, which was $35 last year, was now asking 60 and getting it. I love Habana, but let's get out of here, I thought.

While I waited for the next day, I went to Miramar to look for the Santería tapes. The government has produced a series of 5 tapes with everything you need to know about Santería.  They were not available in VHS, but instead I talked to Lázaro  Mont, a santero who had produced his own video on Ogún, for which I gave him $15. Even though it was a State store, since I was in his office, I am sure he pocketed the money and no one was the wiser. The tape by the way is fascinating Ogún is the African Vulcan, and he is tempted by the Yoruba Venus, Oshún, who gives him honey, which he had never tasted, and brings him back to the village to usher in the Iron Age.

Prosperity is as obvious today as scarcity was obvious in years past. Things are for sale everywhere, people are well dressed, there is plenty of food. 260 major companies are functioning with foreign capital. (Petroleum, tourism, nickel and other mining, heavy industry and transportation.). Forty two of these have signed on since Helms-Burton. Still, La Calzada Infanta is just as grimy as ever. One would like to get cans of paint and just start painting. It would take hundreds of thousands of gallons and many months, but Habana would look gorgeous if it were done. The architecture is superb.    

Matanzas. I got another taxi drivers in an ancient car and asked him to take me to Matanzas. (Matanzas province is where the revanchists landed expecting to be greeted as liberators and were soundly beaten back in three days "la primera derrota del imperialismo yanqui en América Latina"). The driver grumbled that he had to go on the country roads so that he would not be stopped and fined, since he did not have a tourist license. He heavily implied that I should pay him more, but I stuck to my $30 for the 90-odd kilometer trip. Finally we arrived and, incredibly, there was not a single hotel "en divisas" in Matanzas. There were three old tourist hotels for Cubans, dark and dismal, one of which was being renovated. The driver took me to the outskirts to a spanking new hotel built by Cubans for Cubans, but in divisas. Air conditioned, color cable, telephone, 28 dollars, swimming pool, restaurant and a lovely view of the Canimao river.  The paradisal atmosphere was enhanced by the dozen tropical birds in cages in the lobby, which was an open atrium of steel and glass. I sauntered to the restaurant and ordered whatever they were serving. I got orange juice, a thick minestra soup, potato salad with mayonnaise, green salad, a large milanesa steak, fried potatoes and congri (of course), coffee and beer for $10. The restaurant was empty, but tables were covered with fine linen, glass and wine goblets and full service at the ready. Without warning, about 40 Cubans came in joking and laughing and sat down. They looked at me curiously. I found out later that I wasn't really supposed to be there, the restaurant was a way farther down the tropical path, but had been served anyway. THIS restaurant was reserved for work brigades that had distinguished themselves and were having their vacation. Free, of course.

Tired, I went to bed and learned what it was to pay for one's sins. Compliments of the ingrate Canimao, hordes of mosquitos descended upon my helpless body. If I covered myself, it was too hot to sleep (the conditioner could do just so much), if I uncovered myself the bites were so painful I kept jumping up every half hour and scratching myself furiously. I had planned to get Repele, and effective mosquito repellent, but they had been  sold out. "And with good reason," I thought bitterly. I lay there until dawn, scratching , slapping, bleeding while the mosquitos smugly performed dogfights over my head. Finally, gorged and happy at dawn, they went to sleep and I was able to close my eyes for a couple of hours.  

Matanzas had been a mistake. Not only was there nothing there, now I had to double back to Ciudad Habana to try to get to Santiago, my real objective. I talked a driver into taking me to the José Martí airport for the same $30. So far so good. The plane left in the evening, as before. I got the last seat, in the back. My seat mates on one side asked the steward conspiratorially to bring some coffee cups, and he answered mechanically that coffee would be served later. The seat mates mumbled and winked, and the steward brought the cups.  The mates broke out with the Havana Club and pretty soon several people around, including the steward, were having their snorts. As long as the pilot stays out of it, I thought.

I looked at a lady sitting across the aisle from me. She had long hair, a beatific smile, and wore, unusually, something that looked like Sari cottons. I recognized her! She had been on TV the night before, kissing and shaking hands with Fidel. The government had convoked cadres from all over the island to congratulate them for their outstanding work. I asked to see her reconocimiento. It was a framed picture of Che, his hands high in a salute, and over it the legend (paraphrasing) "To Josefina Velazquez Mata, in grateful recognition for your selfless work for the People, for the Patria and for Socialism." Signed, Fidel Castro Ruz. It is hard to express what Josefina must have felt. She couldn't stop smiling. To win the approval of the whole country, to shake hands with Fidel, to be feted as a guest of honor of the Revolution, was almost more than she could stand. She radiated. It turned out the plane was full of cadres de reconocimiento. The trip was a joyous one for everybody.  It would not be necessary to add that the awards, framed, would be placed in the most honored corner of their parlour.
   
Aeropuerto Internacional Antonio Maceo. A  relatively small airport, it is one of the most comfortable I have  been in. The driver took me to the University hostel, as before. There was only one problem. A large bus was parked in front and the hotel was crawling with young people. No room at the inn. I saw Felipe and gave him his two bottles of antacid that I had promised him.

Felipe is dying. If he weighed 140 lbs, last year he surely weighs 120 now. He looks like a little bird. I told him to eat well, to relax, study yoga, take acupuncture, retire, take care of himself. He listened gravely with his eyes on the floor. We both knew it was useless. We parted sadly.

 There was no help for it but to go to Las Américas, a snazzy hotel with salsa night club blaring. This one was $38, still more than I wanted to pay. However, the cable was astounding. Programs that I has seen advertised as coming attractions when I left home were being shown right on schedule: Ghost, Selena, The Second Civil War. Panther, Rocky Horror Picture Show, Clockwork Orange, Transvestite Vegas in Space, Semana Santa in Sevilla, Larry King Live, were all being broadcast on CNN, Cinemax, Showtime, HBO, the Cartoon Network, VH1, TV Espanola, Deutschewelle, and TNT complete with MacDonalds commercials, to name a few. I watched, fascinated because of the context, until very late.

Next morning I had breakfast at the hotel's sidewalk café. A prostitute and her friend boldly asked if they could sit at my table. Security immediately came over and tried to evict them, but she argued that they weren't bothering anybody, and had been asked to sit there. "Are we bothering you?" asked Spokesputa, "Didn't you say we could sit here?" I agreed, amused. Security left us alone, but with a very sour look. I made sure he saw the girls leave without me. His disapproval of their presence was palpable.

I didn't care for Las Américas. Too touristy. Besides, the manager notified me that they needed the room, since I had not paid in advance and they had a lot of people coming in with reservations. She arranged for me to stay at the Hotel San Juan. Muttering under my breath, I slung my suitcases into the hotel taxi. Complaining loudly to the driver, I told him what I thought of  their precious Américas- loud music, terrible food and too expensive. I said the San Juan was probably no better. Calmly he suggested I stay at his house for $15. What a great idea!! He lived exactly four blocks from there.

His house was like those beautiful old houses in the Vedado, in La Habana. Gracious Corinthian façade, but terribly run down. Mr. Sánchez took me to the front bedroom, overlooking the street. He introduced me to his lovely young wife, Natasha.  They had poured every cent into a cleanly painted, comfortable room with Queen size bed, and a closet.  Their own quarters  were dark and ugly, with a curtain instead  of a door. The kitchen was composed of cement walls and floor with a hot plate and a  refrigerator. Natasha told me later that her husband worked almost around the clock. Their goal was to fix the house up to its former glory.

I took a nap and in the early evening went into the living room to join my hosts. It was there that I witnessed what the Cuban people really think of Fidel. The couple live with Natasha's father, who was sitting in front of the black and white TV set. Fidel was saying, "I know someone who has brought 99 people to Habana. They build a shack,  they tap into the electricity and there they stay. There's no water, there's no transportation. Habana is too crowded for this reason. There is a lack of social discipline that needs to be addressed. Everyone knows who the squatters are, so they go into another barrio to steal, because they don't have jobs. There are plenty of jobs outside La Habana, but they don't want to go there. On the other hand, there are people who work for themselves and make large sums; more than a hospital worker or a teacher. These people come from Oriente. I hope Habaneros don't start becoming xenophobic against them as one finds in Paris or California with foreign immigrants. (Laughter). The ones who make ten times the average salary, at least let them pay taxes. They are the first to complain, yet they benefit from the free services and the low prices of the Revolution."

They hung on every word. These people had listened and watched Fidel for thirty years, yet there was no sound for the duration of the two-hour long speech, except when they laughed at his jokes. It was as if they couldn't get enough of him.

At the Parque de los Estudiantes I had made a date with two young men who were going to take me sightseeing. The driver was my tocayo. In no time at all we were like old friends. Antonio drove along the coast so I could see the beaches and the Caribbean- beautiful, but not good for bathing along this stretch. Then he drove back to town and took me to see the Cuartel Moncada, the Santa Efigenia cemetery, the docks, the Church of the Virgen de la Caridad del Cobre, the parque Céspedes, and the gran Soviet-style Maceo statue. Each sight was grander than the last. Antonio suggested he take me to Siboney, and we went back to Natasha's to get my bags.

In Siboney Mrs. González had an interesting guest. He was a charming, 6'4" Israeli with blue eyes who was working for a German electronics firm. He had just installed a FAX for the González's, and was installing hardware for his company in Cuba. I was anxious to know what he thought of Israeli politics, and questioned him at length. As his English was spotty (he was fluent in Hebrew and German) he answered rather abruptly "yes" or "no" to my questions.

    Question. Would you consider Israel socialist?
                   No.
    Question. Would you consider Israel a democracy?
                      Partly. First are the Ashkenazim, then the Sephardim, then the Ethiopian Jews, then the Arabs at the bottom. It's a class society.
    Question. Would you call it a theocracy?
Yes. They have civil law, but all marriages are performed by the rabbits.       

He pronounced Israel a mess, and changed the subject. Another swig of Havana Club.  He wanted to talk about his girl friend, a mulata, of course. He had just broken up with her because they had been invited to go in a pick up to some "festivitations" and she was too grand to ride in a pick up. He blew his breath out annoyedly. "I make a quarter  of a million Deustche Mark a year, and I don't mind riding in a pick up. I won't see her again", he said indignantly. The party had been great- they had slaughtered a goat and there was plenty of rum and rumba.

The waves thundered against the nearby rocks. In the deep night one could see the evening star, and the lights of the fishermen night fishing on the water. The wind rustled the palm trees. An old German gentleman who had dozed off mumbled something incomprehensible and Dovidl answered back effortlessly. I went down and had a late supper of the heavenly lobster in garlic that Mrs. Gonzalez had prepared for me— same as last year. I went to bed.

The next morning I sat on the same balcony as the sun came up. Three boys about ten years old came walking along the path below and started speaking to me in Italian, thinking I was Italian. They wanted a dollar. I looked at them. To me they represented Cuba in perfect ethnicity. One was white, one was brown, and one was black. They were good friends and were going to share the dollar. I relented and threw down a dollar each, and they were overjoyed. One of them put his hand to his mouth and then flung his arm wide in the gesture of a kiss.

Manuel and Israel, the two guides, came from Santiago to pick me up. We went to have breakfast while we waited for Antonio to bring the car. My plane left for Ciudad Habana at 7 pm, so we had all day. The boys stuck close to me, reveling in the treat of touristing around. In Santiago we had lunch at El Rápido, socialism's answer to MacDonald's. You walk in the same way, order the food and sit at a table. Everything very clean and shiny. A hamburger one dollar, chicken and fries one dollar. Tropicola, thank you very much. We left for the Maceo airport.

Back in La Habana, I was bent on trying my old trick again of changing my schedule.  While waiting for my luggage I struck up a conversation with two Parisiennes who had been on the Santiago flight and were changing flights back to Paris. They didn't like the food, but they looked like snobs anyway. They must have liked the sun, because they looked like fried shrimp. I tried to see the Aerocaribe people but it was late and they had all gone home. The next flight was at 5 am two days later and I would have to pray for cancellations. True to form, the taxi driver, Roberto, invited me to his house for the standard $15.

Roberto lives nearby, in Boyeros, in the same type of multifamiliar that Rafael lives in. Of course he lives on the top floor and there's no such thing as an elevator. However, I was pleasantly surprised at how prosperous he was. He shared his spacious apartment with his son-  three bedrooms, bath, kitchen, living room, TV room (color TV), VCR and toilet paper in the bathroom. Since I had arrived unannounced, I was able to see what he really had in the refrigerator. Milk, unheard of years back, and a plateful of half a dozen steaks. After a huge meal of steak and salad, I went to bed.

The next day my plan was to go back to the airport, but since Roberto had  to continue working, we decided it would be more practical for me to ride along so he wouldn't have to waste gas coming back to pick me up again. He made some fake entries in his taxi log and off we went.

Roberto is divorced, and he went to pick up his daughter to take her to the dance academy. He was very proud of her, she had appeared on TV. She had talent, he underlined. He honked his horn outside his ex-wife's house and she came running out to sit in the car and tell him the latest. A vivacious Cuban woman in full bloom, she related that the daughter was attending a very run down dance academy, and the wife wanted the academy improved.  "You know Magdalena," she told Roberto, she's in the CDR. She told me to write a letter telling of the bad conditions and suggesting improvements, asking why our children are not better served." Magdalena had told her not to say it was just for her daughter, but for everybody. I suggested that she put in the letter that if the instruction is inferior, it lowers the cultural level of the whole country, and she thought this was a great selling point. "I've written the letter, but I'm going to rewrite it and send copies to the Central Committee, the CDR, the FEU and the U.C. If you see a car parked in front of my house" she joked, "you know I'm in trouble." The daughter came out and we went to drop her off.

Roberto took me to the airport. I had always been in transit there and had never really looked around. It turns out that there are three Habana airports; International from Europe, International from the Americas, and National Flights. And over on the other side, where there are no airports now, is a fourth being built!  It will consolidate all international flights and promises to be finished this year- spanking new and shiny, ready to receive more visitors than ever.

Aerocaribe's computer was down, and they could not tell me if the flight was full. There was no help for it but to get up at 4:30 am and be there at 5.

Back at Roberto's someone from the CDR came with a flyer announcing a meeting  the next  evening. I asked him if he went. He said yes, and if he couldn't go his son stood in for him. He said he used to speak up at the meetings. But he had given it up. It's easy to point out that something is wrong, he said, but if there's no money to fix it with, what's the use of complaining? Nothing is going to be done anyway. He was most upset by the bad roads that messed up his taxi. During the conversation, I mentioned the Zapatista slogan "mandar obedeciendo", to lead by serving, and explained that that was why subcomandante Marcos called himself subcommander, because the people were in command. He grunted in surprise, as if he had never thought of that before. He seemed to like the idea.

True to his word, he was up at 4:30 sharp and we trundled off to the airport with my bags. Despite the early hour, the airport (Latin American flights) was packed with Cubans leaving for Cancún. I watched fascinated as blacks and whites, all members of the same family, cried and hung on each other's necks as the others were seen off. Hell will freeze over before families in the U.S. are black and white like that, I thought enviously.

I went to Aerocaribe (the personnel had finally arrived) and anxiously inquired about my prospects. The flight was full! My heart sank. A very helpful young woman grabbed me by the arm and in a stage whisper told me not to leave, however, because something was in the offing. It turned out that someone had an expired passport, and could not leave with the others. I had my seat!. Impatiently I wondered why the desk clerk was so slow, until he whispered that things would go a lot faster if I gave him a tip. Furious, I gave him five dollars and he stamped my boarding pass.

Flight to Cancún as day broke, transfer in Mérida to a Mexicana flight bound for México City, with another transfer to Los Angeles. At the México City airport I went into my loud routine about how it is the worst airport in the world, just to piss off the attendants. In Los Angeles, Nothing to Declare, and I sailed onto the street and home again. I was left to wonder what I had done to make the U.S. Congress consider me a criminal. It was obvious that they had never experienced the delights of the waves hitting the rocks at Siboney, or Mrs. Gonzalez's lobster.  

1998

Can Cún (the golden serpent) is fabulous. I had never wanted to go, thinking it to be a sort of Las Vegas by the sea, which it is, but I instructed the taxi driver to take me to a cheap hotel downtown, and he complied. ($25), The Mexican city, as opposed to the international jet set city, is a little Maya town with wide streets, typical ambiance and great food. Flights to La Habana are daily, and I had my choice of Aerocaribe, Mexicana or Cubana de Aviación. I chose the latter, and had the familiar Soviet era-cum-mist plane that had so impressed me before. Many people on the plane were surprised and looked around to see if anything was amiss. I finally realized that fully half the plane was loaded with Americans! At customs I saw their blue passports. The other half of the plane had Cubans taking tons of stuff back to their friends and relatives. The blockade is all over but the shouting.

Upon arrival at José Martí, the thing that is most noticeable at first glance is that there a greater crackdown on "anomalies" . Apparently the Party has taken the path of not letting things get out of hand. Non-tourist taxi drivers are more tightly policed. (Coincidentally on my arrival back in Los Angeles I found that pirate taxis had been taken off and only airport taxis were allowed at LAX) "casa alquilada", that almost sacrosanct   alternative to an expensive hotel must now register, pay taxes and take your passport number, or be closed down. However, another way of looking at it is that the illegal has now become legal. For example, so many tourists were staying at private homes, draining state resources away from hotel hard currency, while at the same time that tourism is booming, that the Revolution simply decided to cash in on all that free money floating around. While the scramble for dollars is a fact of life, people are noticeably better dressed and better fed than ever. After all, a half chicken at a restaurant costs only two dollars, and is available to Cubans and tourists alike, Cubans may not be able to buy a new Mitsubishi, but they can afford to go out to dinner, and do.

I tried staying at the Vedado, as before, but was horrified to find that it had been remodeled and prices had doubled (from $35 to $70). I talked to the clerk after staying one night and he surreptitiously gave me and address of a  relative within walking distance- Paquita Pèrez, who lived in a perfect middle class house, complete with piano, and whose daughter was in the Ballet de Cuba.  For twenty five dollars I got the key to the front door, a king size bed, air conditioning and my own bathroom, while Paquita and her daughter watched tv in the front room, or sat in the kitchen and cooked for themselves and gossiped.
                                    
Habana by night is simply sizzling. Many places are open 24 hours. Huge numbers of people from the provinces crowd the streets, looking for excitement. This is turn has led to restrictions on internal migration. By leaving the provinces, people have drained them of talent and created a crowded and chaotic situation in the capital. While Habana is still a safe city, it has become big and bad, nearly a world capital. Night clubs are jumping, restaurants are overflowing, prices are relatively high. Girls, some of them in their early teens, compete in seeing who can wear the tightest and most revealing dresses, the highest heels, the richest tourist on their arm. At the same time more State money is poured into housing, jobs, medical care and all the rest. Many houses (even the multifamiliares in the outskirts, are being carefully painted and restored, giving the city a scrubbed, European look. A toothless old woman, who was selling maní,  complained to me that she wanted to get her teeth fixed, but there was no material at the free clinic, so she needed $20 to buy the material herself, and get her whole mouth fixed. She made it sound like a tragedy, but it's a safe bet that she can raise $20 in a short time, selling peanuts to tourists.

I went to El Conejito, whose specialty is Gigot al Vino. In its elegance and simplicity it looks like a Tudor mansion, with great hardwood beams crossing the ceiling in a bóveda. Prices range from $5 to $10.A party of Frenchmen with their mulatas was slowly getting drunk in a corner, laughing and talking loudly, while a pianist tried to make himself heard above the din. He played some light pieces while the party remained completely unaware of his presence, that is, no tips. Finally he finished a piece with a flourish and in frustration stood up and sarcastically clapped for himself. The frogs didn't even look up.  Amused, I went over, put $5 in the tray on his piano and told him how well he played. He thanked me rotundly. When I went back and sat down he broke into a piece by Agustin Lara.  I gave him the thumbs up and he saluted with his hand. When he finished, he came over and I asked him to sit down at my table. It turned out that he was now retired, but had played for years over Cuban tv and radio, had accompanied all the big names, and had toured with some of them in Latin America. We talked about Toña la Negra, Rita Montaner, Pedro Vargas, María Félix, Jorge Negrete and the Golden Age. I told him that if he played something by Lecuona, I wouldn't get mad, and he played a concert piece with great flourishes. He was thrilled to have an audience that knew something about Latin American culture. After my excellent rabbit and some wine, we parted with a hug.

In Santiago, Antonio took me to the Department store. It is a modern two story building where everything conceivable can be found (in dollars), from refrigerators ($300-$1000) and tv sets ($500) to watches to rum to canned goods, dry goods, clothing, etc. can be had. Fresh fruits, vegetables and meats can be had at the mercado agropecuario in pesos. Later he invited me to meet his charming wife and son, and we sat down in the kitchen to a typical Cuban meal of juice, sliced tomatoes and cucumbers, aji, congri, tostones (fried plantains), and huge pieces of deep fried pork, identical to carnitas, topped off with café con leche at my special request. Then we retired to the living room and discussed life, violence in the U.S., and Tina Modotti, whose biography I had just finished.

Antonio's parents were guajiros, and he takes pride in his peasant background, but the  Revolution, for whatever reason, has turned him into a taxi driver. The result is a mixture of simplicity and sophistication. Able to discuss politics, and things in the world, he reiterated that the only thing that he wanted in life was for his son to finish college and "never disrespect anyone".

Still, there is a way to go before Cuba becomes totally functional. Back in Habana, I tried to reach my friend Magaly on the Isla de la Juventud, but the lines were jammed. I tried buying an air ticket-there were no seats for several days. I took a taxi to the bus terminal, where I could go by bus to Batabano where I could take the hydrofoil to the island. It was so much trouble, so complicated because this was for Cubans and not for tourists, that I gave up. It would have meant standing in line and roasting in a bus for close to two hours just to reach the dock. But even here, as opposed to a few years ago, the cafeteria was fully stocked, (available in dollars and pesos) there was a bookstore and tourist shop (for Cuban tourists). I got a book on African etymologies in Cuban Spanish, which was 40 pesos (2USD), a practice frowned upon in the past.

On the Malecón I met David, who said he was 17, but is only 15, who manfully tried to pimp some girls to me. I scolded him, calling him a "padrote" to which he replied, "you're Mexican" I gave him $5. His mother had been killed in an accident, and his father had remarried. His father beat him, and David had denounced him to the authorities. The father had been put in jail, but David was afraid to stay with him after that, so he came to La Habana. He was on his way to see an aunt and stay with her. David was limping because his cheap tennis shoes had rubbed his heel raw. I gave him a band aid and a pair of socks, and took him to dinner. He had a huge plate of spaghetti and a pair of fried eggs, all of which he wolfed down in a hurry. I urged him to go back to school and get some sort of career. He asked me when my plane was leaving. I told him early, 6 am. He answered with tears in his eyes. "Ill come by and say goodbye". Sure enough, as I left Paquita's in the early morning darkness, David's small figure could be seen in the gloom across the street, waiting to say goodbye. I hugged him, gave him some money and made him promise to get to his aunt's and get back in school posthaste. In front of the Capri I took a turistaxi and reached the plane with plenty of time for boarding.



 
 * Department of State Publication 92323
  * I sat at the manager's desk and noticed a memo: "The following people  are   to  report  to  AIDS  testing  tomorrow, " followed a list of names.
 
 *  Some  players  are  Panamerican Gold Medal Superstars, yet all sports events are free.