Children of the Revolution
With the recent resignation of long-time leader Fidel Castro and an influx of monied travellers, Cuba's Revolution is showing chinks in its armour. Paul Chai heads to Havana to chart the changes.
"Guantanamera, Guajira Guantanamera..."
I have been in Havana just one night and I have heard this Cuban musical staple - literally "Girl from Guantanamo" - at least half a dozen times (by the end of the trip I will have lost count). I have also had several touts try to sell me the nation's famed cigars, including a hotel security guard who inexplicably led us into a teak closet under the stairs to try to close the deal. And I have had to pretend to be from Iceland to fend off a constant stream of prostitutes at work in Centro Habana's Casa de la Música. (Australia gives them some conversational hooks - kangaroos, the Olympics, Sydney - but Iceland stops them in their tracks).
So, as I sit on the balcony of the Hotel Santa Isabel, strains of salsa mingling with the tangy sea breeze, I ponder a relationship that is off to an unpromising start.
I have come to Havana with an old school friend to experience this confused isle for myself after years of loving it from afar. It is an affection that began, as it did for so many, with Cuban music. Not so much Buena Vista Social Club, (which I skimmed guiltily a day before boarding the plane) but from a London friend in the late '90s whose love of Latin music was infectious. Days of downloaded music later and I had hatched plans to travel to this bastion of socialism before too much changed.
But I dallied and, like the beautiful senorita you admire across a crowded dancefloor, it appears that once we finally meet, Cuba and I have little in common.
Tired from the onslaught of black market offers and a little disheartened, I try to call home to Sydney only to find the phone is not working. I summon the night porter who cannot help, so instead, on departing, he asks: "Do you like Cuban women?"
In Cuba, life is lived on the street. Washing hangs next to tattered strings of Cuban flags; an old man sits in a wheelchair selling hands of brown, stubby bananas; nearby a group of kids plays baseball with a stick and a can.
For many residents this is a necessity as most of the historic Spanish colonial facades they live behind are rotting from the inside out. Many of these beautiful frontages have no inside walls or little in the way of running water; front doors are optional. ∫So barbers ply their trade in doorways, fruit markets spring up in gutted houses and families huddle in a single front room amongst tattered mattresses and elegant stairways to nowhere.
But it does not take long to realise that the root of many of Cuba's problems is also its appeal: the trade embargo put in place by the United States. When it was clear, in 1962, that Castro would not co-operate, the US imposed an economic and commercial embargo on the island. The results have kept Cuba in a romantic time warp of mid-century Chevys and a charming lack of advertising. Wandering the dilapidated neighbourhoods, you feel that you have somehow managed to travel not only far from home, but to another, simpler, time. The illusion is almost perfect: no Coke signs, no chain stores, and the only recognisable brand the island's ubiquitous Havana Club rum.
But this bathetic facade comes with a costly social downside. The embargo has created great poverty and despite opening up the island to tourism in the '90s - in an effort to prop up the ailing economy - the effects are not being felt on the street.
Every day an armoured car rolls slowly down Calle Obispo Havana's main commercial artery. It is surrounded by several blank-faced military officers. The armoured car's purpose is to collect the profits from the shops, banks, bars and hotels along this bustling tourist strip, most of which will be returned to Castro's coffers. Habaguanex is the government's tourist arm responsible for hotels, bars and restaruants. With little in the way of international competition it is a virtual monopoly and room rates in the big hotels hardly vary. Neither do the wages. Employees earn about $13 a month and there is little incentive - they are all public servants.
It is unsurprising then that the recent parade of affluent foreigners has also taken the shine off the Revolution. Cuba faces the question "Can you half-do Socialism?" and the answer appears to be "No".
But the US embargo is showing signs of weakness. Money shipped in from Miami expats has created a restless middle class that is dissatisfied with the status quo, and why not when one hotel porter is keeping his parents - both doctors - on his tips. And despite President Bush's verbal hardline on Cuba, Castro's recent resignation has given hope that the island may be on the road to change. But it will take a lot to combat the cult of personality surrounding the one-time Comandante, even as he watches from the political sidelines.
"Castro is an old man with old ideas," says a barman one night in a discussion that would once have been prohibido. "But while he is alive the young people in the party are too afraid to push for change, but that is what we need."
There have already been unprecedented cultural shifts not seen since Castro and his band of straggly revolutionaries came ashore in the overcrowded yacht Granma from Mexico in 1956, the most obvious of which is the thriving black market. But to say Cuba has been spoiled is to oversimplify, to indulge in travel elitism. All things change; why should Havana remain quaint and poor just for me? Still it is sad to see that while the city's face is a bewitching reminder of past glories, at times its heart can seem hardened and cynical from years of poverty. But make no ∫mistake, Cuba's time is now. Should the embargo fall, and the American floodgates open, the country will morph once again.
The new money is having a positive effect on the streets of La Habana Vieja too. Not all the tourist dollars are going to keep Fidel, and his brother Raul, in Cohibas and natty fatigues. Much of it, as well as a fair chunk of international change from Europe, is being spent on the restoration of this elegantly shambolic city.
If I was unprepared for the onslaught of Havana hucksters, the city's faded grandeur is well-documented and now it is getting a facelift worth hundreds of millions of dollars. Havana is abuzz with scaffolding and building work; the city is in a constant state of restless transformation as the government works to undo the damage done to the World Heritage-listed site by pirates, revolutionaries, poverty and the Atlantic Ocean.
At Havana's cultural highlight, the Museo de la Revolución, you can view the city's changing face in miniature. Housed in an imposing building that is a mix of Spanish, French and German architectural styles, it was finished in 1920, and played host to the Cuban government for 45 years - but, like the rest of La Habana Vieja, it is getting a much-needed makeover. The whole west side of the building is cloaked in scaffolding like a crutch supporting its rheumatic walls. Inside, the restored Hall of Mirrors - used to entertain visiting dignitaries - sits alongside a sunburned central courtyard, which is topped by a faded dome that appears as tired as much of the Socialist rhetoric inside.
Few people get to make their own museum. Spanish Surrealist Salvador Dali was one, Castro is another; and both contain a lofty mix of polemic and hubris. But this is still a fascinating insight into the country before and after the overthrow of Fulgencio Batista. Like the building, and the Revolution itself, some of the exhibitions are showing their age; a dusty mannequin of Che Guevara charging through a jungle of plastic trees; bloodstained uniforms from the Moncada garrison attack that saw a young Castro arrested and jailed; and a wide range of pantalons and shirts worn by the Revolution's great and good.
There is also a room dedicated to the reasons behind the need for Revolution. Here, underneath a picture of a half-naked woman, it cites prostitution as one of the triggers for change. And that is the crux of the problem in this proud island that has, for so many years, given a one-fingered salute to the US. The assault of con artists and beggars in the city - known as jineteros or jockeys, riding on the back of this new wave of tourists - is no more jarring than touts in India or Istanbul but it is so graphically at odds with the Cuban revolutionary ideal. Around every corner are billboards carrying grand statements like "Socialism or Death", and around the next corner is someone willing to sell you their body. Tourism does not so much blend with socialism as it does slam hard up against it and it comes with an unavoidable stench of failure.
Visitors seem to occupy a different space from the locals, travelling in little groups by day, gathering in touristy Havana bars by night. They are even curiously absent from the stunning Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes, which houses a head-spinning collection of local artists and Spanish masters.
It is a point brought home to us that evening. We have discovered, quite by accident, that tonight is Havana Carnivale; an on-again-off-again annual celebration. We see it as our chance to blend and, despite the fact no-one in our hotel knows when it starts, we set off along the Malecón - Havana's seaside promenade - at twilight, following the crowd. Soon we happen upon the main procession; a series of half-a-dozen earnest socialist ∫ floats, buoyed slightly by lines of energetic dancers. We repair to a bar with a good vantage point before realising we are the only travellers in sight. We are seized upon by one jinetero after another and I soon feel like a clapped-out Melbourne Cup mare.
We move on in a tourist-free void and when we are inexplicably refused service in a bar we take it as a sign and retreat to the nearby Hotel Nacional. In its heyday, this magnificent Art Deco hotel played host to stars from Marlon Brando to Cuba's patron saint, "Papa" Hemingway, and it makes one of the city's best mojitos; its secret ingredient a dash of bitters to cut the drink's sometimes cloying sweetness. Mojitos are best sipped on the Nacional's terrace bar by day with a sweeping lawn that ends abruptly at a cliff top overlooking the sea - we sit on the grass nursing a refreshing Cristal, the yawning space before us a physical reminder of the apartheid between us and the festivities below.
When does a revolution stop being revolutionary and simply become a tired government doing five decades of talking and no listening? This is the question I discuss with my friend, when we have our Cuban breakthrough. Strolling the back streets of Havana, we spy a grizzled Afro-Cuban gent beckoning us in to a neighbourhood bar. Carnivale still fresh on our minds we hesitate, but head in regardless. Albert, who has the air of a homeless dandy, welcomes us in and introduces us to the bartender, a tall, broad man named Augustine. The bar is little more than a concrete alcove, hemmed in by three roller doors, the only decoration yellowed photocopies of Castro and a crude mural of a river that identifies the bar as Rio Del Plata. We ask for a beer but instead are served cloudy rum from a bottle with the label long since worn off; Augustine adds a muddy green liquid from a plastic bottle and calls it a mojito. It is surprisingly good. We stay for hours chatting to Albert in a mixture of sign language, bad Spanish and, curiously enough, snippets of Italian. As the rum warms our insides to match the stifling afternoon heat, no-one seems to mind the communication challenges and before long we have been invited to a party by Roberto, Albert's brother-in-law. A couple of mojitos in, Roberto asks if we sing and the bar erupts in an impromptu chorus, though there is little agreement on which song we are singing. We leave at sunset with embraces, promises of a reunion (though sadly we cannot find Roberto's house the next day despite a friendly bilingual cabbie) and it is as if a curse has lifted. From here on, for every hassle (three days without internet access before someone finally tells me every official internet card has the username and password printed the wrong way around) there is a joy (the most amazing bacon sandwiches made at 3am by our night porter, who joins us for a beer and a chat). The Cuba I have longed for has finally come into view.
Renewed, we switch abodes to stay in the Hotel Raquel, Habaguanex's renovated showpiece near St Francis of Assisi Square. The hotel is a study in over-the-top elegance and, for a reason best known to Habaguanex, is crammed from its stunning skylight to its Garden of Eden bar with biblical-themed artworks. Originally built as a warehouse and fabric store, this Art Nouveau building, with its imposing reception, is a perfect example of how all of Old Havana will probably look in about 20 years; though now it still coexists with tumbledown homes and makeshift market stalls. It is also hands-down the best service we have received since we arrived but there is a lingering fear that, should all the city's old buildings convert to slick hotels, Havana will lose some of its heart and end up a soulless museum. That evening we dine sumptuously at the nearby Cafe del Oriente, another renovated masterpiece. We have three courses of classic European fare before driving across to the newer suburb of Miramar to taste the capital's famous nightlife.To write about Cuba without mentioning its music would be more than just remiss, it would be unthinkable. Music assaults you from the moment you set foot in Havana, more ubiquitous than any jinetero could hope to be. There is even a museum to the various forms of local music but sadly it was closed on our trip, a victim of the renovation bug.
At the Casa de la Música de Miramar, the suburban sister of the Centro Habana venue, we step into an old colonial home that has been gutted, its cavernous interior containing just a stage and a collection of plastic tables and chairs. Patrons wander in and order bottles of Havana Club, tubs of ice and a selection of local mixers. All is sedate, with just the burble of conversation, until salsa veteran Pedrito Calvo bursts from the blackness. Attired in a pimp-chic suit tailored to within an inch of its life, Calvo soon has the crowd up on its feet; bodies intertwined, sliding sensuously together or dancing energetically on their own, hips shaking like a washing machine on spin cycle.
The night is a clear highlight and our last few days in Havana are spent in search of more Cuban rhythms, from the local-friendly matinees at the two Casas, to strolling the streets in search of impromptu jams - one of which we discover in the disused shell of a house with no roof.
We shop at the BIS Music store in the Casa de la Música de Centro Habana and the shopkeeper chats passionately, digging CDs out of boxes and from the rear of the shop. We emerge with an armful of tunes, many by bands we have never heard of, but all prove essential listening when we return home.
The trip ends as it began, on a rooftop perch, this time at the Hotel Raquel. We sit with an open bottle of Havana Club, puffing lightly on a Cohiba, having finally caved in to a jinetero after a week of noble resistance. It has been a challenging trip but, for now, there are still pockets of the Havana I pictured in bars such as Rio de Plata and at the Casa de la Música in full swing.
Salsa continues to echo through the streets, and from some unseen point I hear the now-familiar chords of Guantanamera strike up. But despite the local rhythms, it is a Cold Chisel standard that I have been reminded of since setting foot in wonderfully chaotic Cuba: Standing on the Outside Looking In.
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