By Tom Miller. Sep't 9, 1996.
TALK about history repeating itself. What worries Cubans most these days is not an American invasion, either military or financial, but a Spanish takeover.
A century after a protracted and gruesome war to rid the island of Spanish rule, a mix of shrewd and haute Spaniards are again riding herd, buying up hotels and investing in industries. Their displays of wealth in a country suspicious of ostentation coupled with their historical role as colonial masters make them the current bad guys Cuba cannot do without.
Likewise, we can't do without each other, either. Yet the embargo began in 1962, and except for tightening a couple of ratchets more than three decades later, it is the same embargo that Cuba endured during its high-flying years in the 1970s and early '80s. The sugar harvest ending in 1995 netted just 3.3 million tons, the lowest yield in three decades. Ten years ago, Cuba was a world leader in sugar exports; now it struggles just to get its crop to port.
Relations between the two nations are so static that prejudices fall into neat categories country to country, generation to generation. They tell the joke about the muchacho who gets hold of some spray paint and begins to color the wall with the word DOWN. He looks over his shoulder, sees no one, and paints the word WITH. Just as he starts the third word with an ``F,'' a state security man taps him on the shoulder. ``Oh, am I glad to see you,'' the youth says, turning around. ``How do you spell that man's name? Is it Flinton or Clinton?''
Despite the embargo, we Americans are not unknown here. Some selflessly give their time and talent to artistic, scientific or social efforts. Others bring Saturday night values with them: At Jose Marti International Airport in late 1995, I met a well-to-do Miami restaurateur who bragged that he had just thrown away a few thousand dollars within a few days on free-lance guides, beautiful women, fancy clothes to dress them in, expensive rental cars, classy restaurants and lavish tips.
Everything he did, from entering Cuba through a third country to returning home with aged rum and fine cigars, violated the embargo. Could Cuba handle planeloads of similarly inclined American visitors -- in short, are Cubans ready for Batista-era tourism? Probably not, but I suspect they're willing to try.
The driver of my gypsy cab one day swore he would never again use black-market gasoline. ``It used to be you know who got it for you, but now everybody's doing it. Sometimes they dilute the gas with alcohol or other additives. I only trade on the black market when I have to. There are too many thieves out there now.''
Rationed gas, which comes to about a half-tank a month, has been superseded by a nationwide chain of brightly lit filling stations, infused with Panamanian money, selling gas to anyone with dollars.
The taxista dropped me off at a cultural center where I paid 5 pesos to see Los Bufomaniacos, a campy two-man comedy group, and Anacaona, a sexy, 12-woman band with bass guitar, two saxophones, a flute and lots of percussion. The following day I took Jesus, a friend and literary friend, to dinner in a private living room. These living-room dining spots, known as paladares, were so widespread underground that the government legalized them, and now imposes a sales tax on each one.
For $8, this paladar served terrific pizza and a beer. The co-owner used her two words of English as she put our pies on the table: ``Chicago style.'' The paladares -- reasonably priced for tourists, not prohibitively pricey for Cubans -- now crop up on every block. Across from the pizzeria were two more paladares; one run by a former Cubana airlines stewardess, the other by a fading soap opera actress.
Despite the law, some home restaurants remain without a license, which would require them to pick up supplies from government dispensaries. ``If I were to get my ingredients from the state distributor,'' said one successful paladar owner, ``they'd be overpriced, underweight, late in coming and second-rate. Now I've got regular suppliers who come to my door from the countryside. I trust them.''
A former X-ray technician, lanky and clean-shaven, introduced me to the owner of another paladar. This one specialized in pork dishes. ``We pay 500 pesos a month for our government license,'' the proprietor said. ``The inspector from the Department of Hygiene and Epidemiology makes surprise visits. If he finds something out of order we have to pay a 1,500-peso fine.'' Has that ever happened? ``No, no. We just give him 100 pesos to look the other way.''
The fellow who brought me to the paladar has followed the path of millions of Latin Americans migrating to their capital cities when their families in the provinces run out of money. He and his niece came from Santiago de Cuba and rented a one-and-a-half room, $20-a-month hovel that remains unfurnished save for a couple of mattresses, a television and a refrigerator. Every time they climb the stairs to their second-floor flat, they must duck a web of live electrical wires that hangs precariously low from the ceiling. They had been in the capital a year.
``The people of Havana, they think they're so superior. Fidel and Raul are from Oriente like us. That's where revolutions start, you know. Here, we sell cigars and artisania like beaded necklaces and earrings. My niece peddles them on the street and at La Plaza de la Catedral. With the money we make, we can support our relatives and have enough to replenish our stock here. We fly back to Santiago every few weeks for 100 pesos each way. We go stand-by, but if you slip the man $3, you can always get on.''
He looked through the open window at the 50 other dwellings that share a common cement courtyard. ``The officials have their cars, their fancy homes. Look, we have one light bulb in the entire place. We're the ones who are keeping this country going. We're the true Communists.''
Others talk of spiritual corruption. ``That's what's changed most,'' says a woman who has considered herself a revolutionary since the mid-1950s. ``From the outside it looks great, this new foreign investment policy. Look at all the money pouring in. But to those of us who live here, we're saddened because they're selling our country from under us as fast as they can. And we can't even buy into it. We have no capital to invest in our own patria.''
How, I asked, does she see Cuba in the year 2000. ``The end of the century? I don't know how it will look at the end of this week. Mira, I know I'm to see someone at his house in one hour. Beyond that, I cannot make plans. Tomorrow? Who knows? Everything could change by then. We could be out of gas. Or electricity. We may not be allowed on the streets. They have robbed more than our land. THEY HAVE ROBBED OUR SPIRIT.'' --