Cuba Contradictions

It was not illegal for an American to go to Cuba, but it was illegal to spend money there.

Six years ago I flew to Cuba. It was not illegal for an American to go to Cuba, but it was illegal to spend

money there. To cover my tracks, I flew from Miami to Jamaica. The Jamaican entry officer stamped my passport "En

route to Havana." Before I even arrived I was in trouble.

Once in faded and crumbling Old Havana I forgot all about that. Pre-revolutionary Buick’s, Chevy’s and Plymouth’s cruised the streets alongside Russian Volgas. Soon I was drinking daiquiri’s at La Floridita in the footsteps of Hemingway, walking the Malecon, and who would have guessed they have a China Town.

Cubans, for the most part, are poor. But, unlike other poor countries, they are healthy, well-educated, clean, and fashionable. They are overtly friendly, cool-headed, and polite. Violent crime is almost non existent. Traveling for a month, I carried a pocketful of cash and never felt threatened. US credit cards are useless, so no ATM’s.

You can rent a car in Cuba, but you have to pay American cash dollars. The roads are in horrible shape, but traffic is orderly. There is so little fuel, there is no gridlock. If you have empty seats, people expect you to pick them up out of courtesy and saving energy.

As though life had a soundtrack, music is everywhere: mambo, salsa, son, and rumba. People dance. Cuban bodies are made of elastic. It makes us gringos feel thick and pathetic.

There is no advertising, except for government propaganda. Without advertising, blonds don’t have more fun, so there aren’t many flaxen Cubanas.

Prostitution is illegal, but difficult to prove. Buying meals, going dancing, and showering gifts is not a crime. It’s not uncommon to see a fifty year old German man with an eighteen year old Cuban girl. A date with a tourist (male or female) can be worth a month's salary.

The best jobs are frequently in places were the tourists are. There is a story about the wife of a neurosurgeon who left her prestigious husband for the doorman of a modest hotel. The doorman got tips.

There are three currencies in Cuba. The national peso, the US dollar, and something the Cubans call “stupid money,” which is US dollars unashamedly printed and coined in Cuba with no value anywhere but on the island.

Capitalism is creeping into Cuban culture like a snail. The government is schizophrenic when it comes to tourism. They want your dollars, but they want to decide how you spend them and who gets the prize.

Meeting Cubans is easy, but expensive. If you befriend a Cuban, you will inevitably buy them food, drinks, and heaven knows what else. After all, they have very little money of their own. But, they want to show you a good time.

An older Cuban man asked my impressions of his countrymen. “The truth,” I said. "Everyone seems to expect something."

"Of course," he laughed. "They think you are Santa Claus."

If you travel alone it is almost impossible to be lonely. If you sit on a park bench within minutes there is someone sitting next to you. If you can imagine being annoyed by too much attention perhaps you can imagine Cuba.

Contrary to popular belief, modern Cuban food is not hot and spicy. It is bland and starchy. Cubans eat a lot of chicken, but only the dark meat. You wonder how they raise all those thousands of chickens without breasts and wings. “The white meat goes to Varadero,” they tell me, once the favorite beach of all Cubans, now a Cancun-like resort where ordinary Cubans are not welcome.

I didn’t see any signs of therapists on the island. No one told me they were taking Prozac. Cubans tend to sit in groups, talking, eating, and laughing. I went to the beach with a foreign friend and her Cuban husband. When she saw piles of Cubans all in one spot, she insisted on walking farther down the beach to be alone. Her husband protested to no avail. Later she told me she has a therapist at home because she feels lonely and alienated.

On my last day I took a cab to the airport in Santiago. It was 96° and very humid. The doors handles of the cab were broken. I negotiated with the driver. We settled on nine dollars.

As we approached the airport the car stalled.

"Are we out of gas?" I asked.

"No," he said, smiling, showing gaps between his teeth. Dentistry is free in Cuba but only for extraction. "I can't take you ALL THE WAY to the airport." I see the photos of his children on the visor. "I will be arrested. I am an illegal cab."

I wasn’t happy. I got out, paid him $10, and I gave him a nice tip. I shouldered my backpack, and started the long walk in the heat. It wasn’t his fault. It was just part of the contradiction that is Cuba. People aren’t happy the way things are. But they are afraid of what the future may be.

When I reached Miami, a U.S. Customs officer asked me where I've been.

"Jamaica," I say.

He flipped the pages of my passport. My hands got clammy. He focused on something. Flipped some more pages. Then, he picked up his stamp, and hit the page. Ka Pow. I was home.

Click here for an armchair trip to Havana.