Discontent

"No es fácil."

This phrase of indirect criticism — "it's not easy" — is one I've heard often in my time in Cuba. This time it was spoken by Romina, one of the two doctors I was sitting opposite of on a beautiful warm night. They had been talking about a variety of topics, one of which was how different things were now compared to before the collapse of the Soviet Union, before Cuba had to fend for itself, when life was affordable.

I had seen Romina several times before, and she had always been like most other people here — friendly, generous, getting on with her life. This night, however, the weariness caused by Cuba's long fall was showing through. Given the circumstances, it wasn't hard to understand. Roberto and I had bumped into them seated at an outdoor fast food joint, where they were spending their Saturday night drinking rum and soda. As medical specialists they held some of the highest paid positions in the country, netting them $28 per month. In a country where most price tags are roughly equivalent to those in Europe or the US, they couldn't afford to do much else on their one free evening.

So when Roberto described the cafe we had eaten breakfast at, it was strange but not surprising to see Romina get excited about the prospect of going. In any other country she would be living very well, but here it would be an event to go to a cheap diner.

Some time ago, tourism became the main money-maker in Cuba. (It used to be sugar exports when the Soviet Union supplied the country with farming equipment. These days Cuba has to import some sugar.) The irony that the country now depends on income from something for which it is virtually impossible for its own citizens to do was not lost on the doctors.

"We're like birds in a cage," said one. In a place where most opinions are only revealed by reading between the lines, looking for subtle looks of sarcasm during a conversation, it was surprising to hear such a direct complaint.

Perhaps the importance of tourism explains why foreigners seem to have more rights in Cuba than do Cubans. Foreigners can buy and sell cars, rent rooms in hotels and houses, access the internet, and set up a cell phone line. And, of course, freely speak their opinions about the government. All this, legally off-limits to Cubans.

Some of these rules have bizarre consequences. For example, Cubans do "buy" and "sell" cars, but the legal ownership is impossible to change. So if the original owner leaves the country, at some point the government might knock on the door of the new "owner" and reclaim the car.

Talking to Francisco, who along with Roberto lives in the house where I'm renting a room, I've found this day-to-day uncertainty dictating his life. Although officially retired, his pension may as well not exist for all it contributes to the cost of living. Hence he helps run the house. At 68 he's tired, but he can't relax as he lives week-to-week on the money tourists like me pay. The large chunk the government takes leaves him with enough to get by, but not to save enough to stop working. He gives up the privacy of his home to tourists and a constant stream of inspectors who could toss him out for any slight problem, whether caused by him or a tourist.

A host of airlines cancelled flights to Cuba after the recent US threats against Iran, but if Francisco doesn't rent a room for a month, the government still demands the same hefty fee be paid by the 25th of every month otherwise he loses his rental license permanently. It's easy to see why he can't relax. He can never be sure where his next meal will come from. I hope, as he does, that he finds a way out of the country as soon as possible.

Regarding the Name

I took the name for this blog from a wonderful short novel about an Englishman in the '50s making a living in Havana with a tiny struggling vacuum cleaner business. After being pushed into spying for the British government, he finds himself with nothing to report on, and so starts inventing stories to justify the salary of himself and his imaginary network of contacts. It's a well-written book filled with great characters. Here's an excerpt with one of my favourites, a part begging to be played by Stephen Fry in a movie adaptation.

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'I would be in favour of establishing a radio-unit if he proves to be a good man. He could expend his office staff, I suppose?'

'Oh, of course. At least — you understand it's not a big office sir. Old-fashioned. You know how these merchant-adventurers make do.'

'I know the type, Hawthorne. Small scrubby desk. Half a dozen men in an outer office meant to hold two. Out-of-date accounting machines. Woman-secretary who is completing forty years with the firm.'

Hawthorne now felt able to relax; the Chief had taken charge. Even if one day he read the secret file, the words would convey nothing to him. The small shop for vacuum cleaners had been drowned beyond recovery in the tide of the chief's literary imagination. Agent 59200/5 was established.

'It's all part of the man's character,' the chief explained to Hawthorne, as though he and not Hawthorne had pushed open the door in Lamparilla Street. 'A man who has always learnt to count the pennies and to risk the pounds. That's why he's not a member of the country club — nothing to do with the broken marriage. You're a romantic, Hawthorne. Women have come and gone in his life; I suspect they never meant as much to him as his work. The secret of successfully using an agent is to understand him. Our man in Havana belongs — you might say — to the Kipling age. Walking with kings — how does it go? — and keeping your virtue, crowds and the common touch. I expect somewhere in that ink-stained desk of his there's an old penny note-book of black wash-leather in which he kept his first accounts — a quarter gross of india-rubbers, six boxes of steel nibs...'

'I don't think he goes quite as far back as steel nibs, sir.'

The chief sighed. 'Details don't matter, Hawthorne,' the chief said with irritation. 'But if you are to handle him successfully you'll have to find that penny note-book. I speak metaphorically.'

'Yes, sir.'

'This business about being a recluse because he lost his wife — it's a wrong appreciation, Hawthorne. A man like that reacts quite differently. He doesn't show his loss, he doesn't wear his heart on his sleeve. If your appreciation were correct, why wasn't he a member of the club before his wife died?'

'She left him.'

'Left him? Are you sure?'

'Quite sure, sir.'

'Ah, she never found that penny note-book. Find it, Hawthorne, and he's yours for life. What were we talking about?'