Buena Suerte Cuba. Nos Vemos

My day of air travel out of Cuba began early this morning as I struggled to keep my eyes open in the endless airport check-in line. I had trouble discerning when I was awake and when I was asleep on my first flight, a groggy state of mind that wasn't helped when I opened the breakfast box handed to me by the air stewardess to find a can of SPAM sitting inside, waiting for me to dig in with a spoon. The can remained sealed when the stewardess passed by a second time to collect the rubbish. I'm now on my second flight and more awake, and this seems like a good opportunity to finish this blog with a final post.

My head is still buzzing with thoughts and questions about Cuba. One of the reasons I was originally attracted to visit was to find out how different life and culture are in a country where McDonald's and Starbucks are forbidden. But despite the suspicious presence of a few American products like Coca-Cola on supermarket shelves, this aspect turned out not to be that interesting.

Instead, I'm left wondering about Fidel and the system of government that runs life in the country. What kind of dictator sets up a "Committee for the Defence of the Revolution", with one member living on every block of every city in the country whose job it is to monitor anything possibly subversive or anti-government, and won't relinquish power no matter how old or possibly dead he is, but at the same time puts such a large emphasis on free education and medical care? It's a mentality that defies a simple good / bad label, and I would love to sit down and pick his brain.

Also, having recently worked in Silicon Valley, where entrepreneurialism has been the source of so many companies now driving the American economy, I can't understand the idea behind an economic system which seems to do everything possible to cut off growth. Is this inherent to Communism, or just Cuba's corrupt state of affairs?

Lastly, I'm wondering where the parents are of the child who has been running up and down the aisle of the plane for the last 10 minutes driving me crazy. If they don't calm her down I might have to stick my foot out and put a stop to it myself.

That's all from me. Thanks very much for reading.

Almost Gone

As I get ready to leave Cuba, it's time to say goodbye to some things I didn't write about, but which nevertheless I'm fond of. I'll be leaving behind Roberto's fantastic Creole cooking. The dinners he produced with a seemingly inherited ability to create amazing flavours were always a high point of my day. I won't again be waking up in the near future with the sound of salsa on the neighbour's stereo drifting through the windows. Walking down the street I won't pass dozens of people wolfing down the unofficial national food — cake. Or stare hungrily at an entire icing-covered cake being carried away from the dirty street-facing window of a tiny bakery.

I will have to say goodbye to the charismatic Afro-Cuban religion, where lit cigarettes are placed in the mouths of statues of saints so that they smoke during ceremonies, where there is a black Madonna, and where rum is drunk in place of wine. I will leave behind the local slang, where a tourist is called "juma" and money is "guaniquiki". And finally, I will tearfully bid farewell to the nickname I was given by Roberto and Francisco when I started staying at their house: papichuli.

Welcome to First Grade

There's an American building along the waterfront in Havana, possibly the only one in all of Cuba with the exception of those at Guantanamo Bay. Named the "Building of American Interests", it's where Cubans go for any US-related business — for example, to wade through the long process of getting a visa if a relative has invited them to visit. And also, someone in charge there may have been hoping, to break free the chains of Cuban state-controlled news and opinion.

Taking full advantage of its property, the building put up large pro-America, anti-Fidel propaganda signs outside. This of course didn't sit too well with the Cuban government, which responded by encircling the building with black banners to hide the signs. It also stationed police officers to move along anybody mulling about hoping to get a peak around the banners.

I'm not sure if the signs are there simply to irritate Fidel or an honest attempt at influencing the opinions of Cubans who walk by the building. Whatever the case, the fact that the dialogue between the two governments is at this level is hilarious.

A Different Way to Unwind

Here's something new I learnt tonight: take a Cuban coffee — strong, black, served in a tiny espresso mug — mix in some cream rum, add a cigar, sit out on the balcony of a house overlooking the street, and relax and talk. You now have a combination that's a lot tastier than a night out on Red Bull + vodka mixed with other people's cigarette smoke.

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?'

A Tough Question

It's getting harder and harder to see Cuba as communist in anything but the label the government gives itself. What does it take? Everything — property, business, income, even freedom of speech. What does it give back? Education, medical care, yes. And also pensions of US$6-US$8 per month, enough to pay part of the electricity bill, which goes back to the state. It gives large fees to any private businesses it has decided to allow. It gives 30 year prison sentences to anyone caught defacing one of the many patriotic slogans plastered everywhere, like Che's "Hasta la Victoria, Siempre!" It seems to give no help to those in poverty, like the ones a block from where I'm staying while visiting Cienfuegos, trying to find dinner by fishing in the contaminated water by the slums.

Everywhere I go, I see how impossibly expensive things are by a Cuban wage. I see crowds of people waiting by the road to get home from work — waiting for the bus which might not come for 3 or 4 hours. I see a country held back, breaking down.

It's hard not to think of some of the observations made by Alberto Granado and Che Guevara on their famous journey through South America; observations about government and poverty that Che started revolutions to change. Thanks in part to that motorcycle trip, the gap between rich and poor in Cuba isn't that big. Unfortunately, it's not from eliminating poverty.

All the same, for every problem I see here, it's easy to think of an Indian equivalent where the beaurocracy is 10 times worse and the poverty 10 times as apalling. This US has plenty of poverty too, not to mention violence. So what is the best way to structure a society?