Havana Good Times Aren't For Everyone

HAVANA - There's a joke making the rounds in Havana which says there are three good things in the country: education, health, and sports, and three problems which haven't been resolved: breakfast, lunch and dinner.

That Cubans can crack jokes about food scarcity is key to understanding this proud, passionate people whose commitment to their country borders on the obsessive.

"Cuba is our life," said Carlos Romero, 32, a budding writer in Havana. "Our slogans, our billboards, Fidel's long speeches, everything we do or say revolves around Cuba. Even in Miami all they can talk about is Cuba."

Being Cuban, for some, is more important than food or freedom. "The rest will come," laughs Carlos. This fierce pride helps explain how a tiny country of 11 million people has withstood four decades of economic and political cold shoulder by the world's most powerful nation just to the north.

The pride and passion come mixed with stoicism and Cubans often smile in the face of hardship. There is little food, less money, limited fuel, few consumer goods, and things could get worse before they get better. But Cuba is a land accustomed to hard times. If you think this is bad, Cubans joke, you should have been here in 1993. That was considered the worst year, when Havana's lights went out, food disappeared and the country almost came to a standstill. But Cuba pulled out of the tunnel. Things may not be rosy yet, but they are improving.

Along the Malecon, Havana's sweeping seaside drive, crowds of young people gather at night with guitars and beer to sing of love and pain and dance under the stars. Everyone is welcome. Take a walk on the night's side and be drawn in by the hypnotic rhythms of pounding surf and guitar strings.

In contrast to this fire are decrepit buildings across the street, once delicate ornate gems which time and salt have torn and worn down. Slow restoration may bring back some former glory but for now, the buildings have lost their soul.

Go down the street a bit and Cubans gather outside a dollar-currency hamburger outlet. Their noses pressed against the window, they stare at mostly foreign clients who can afford to pay a fifth of a Cuban's average monthly salary for the privilege of wolfing down a burger and fries. No matter. Around the corner is a peso restaurant, and here a hamburger costs 80 cents.

But dollars are dollars and some people will do almost anything to get their hands on them. They may leave their jobs as teachers or technicians to tend bars or drive illegal taxis or solicit sex or guide foreigners through the city. They may also steal from their place of work and try to sell goods on the black market for dollars.

"If we had to be punished every time we steal or 'help' the system along, the entire Cuban population would have to be jailed," said Manuel, an artist who doesn't paint because he can't afford to buy colors. Dishonesty has crept into everyday life, but many have no choice if they want to feed their families.

Shopping has become a national pastime, more from need than greed. Many Cubans carry a plastic bag just in case there's something to buy. Conversations center on where to find a cheap pineapple or the recent arrival of a shipment of toilet paper. Hours are wasted each day tracking down elusive supplies of milk or oil, often sold in contraband from someone's back room.

Until recently even diplomats were in on the black market bonanza. At '70', the diplomatic dollar store, some African and Asian diplomats bought out beer and food supplies as soon as they arrived and resold them to Cuban middlemen, who then marketed them to small restaurant owners or other black marketeers. Scandal erupted and measures were taken. The customary 33 percent diplomatic discount was slashed by more than half and the procedure tightened.

Cubans are at times confused by all these new changes and know something is seriously wrong in their socialist paradise.

"We need you foreigners, but we don't like what you are doing to our country," said Marilia, 28, who works at a government ministry. There is a love-hate relationship with tourists. Cuba wants their dollars but doesn't like the crime and consumerism which money brings.

Nor do many Cubans like the new rich class the dollar has created, which goes to the heart of the country's egalitarianism and threatens the very soul of its revolution, a revolution based on social equality and the redistribution of wealth from a tiny elite.

Egalitarianism is easily visible in everyday life. In one meeting with a school principal, the cleaning lady interrupts his speech to inject her own comments about educational policy. In a bar, a doctor's closest friend is the night watchman. People still call one another 'comrade.' Cubans have succeeded in blurring many traditional social distinctions, and they are loath to see class differences return - especially those based on money.

The government does what it can to keep the spirit of the socialist revolution alive. Billboards here don't peddle consumer goods. Resistir, Luchar y Vencer, they say - resist, fight and win. Long Live the Revolution. My favorite is Socialism, Stronger than Ever, a bit delusive given Cuba's gradual move towards capitalism.

In Old Havana, disciplined tour groups are herded from monument to plaza on de rigueur day-trips, admiring restoration efforts paid for by Unesco. But Havana has a life most beach-bound tourists never see: the bars and nightclubs of vibrant Vedado, the beautifully restored mansions of Fifth Avenue which house embassies and foreign companies, the stately homes of Cubanacan where diplomats live in luxurious isolation, the crowded city beaches filled with entire families or office groups, or the slums of Cayo Hueso, where scrawny children play in the streets while their mothers stand in long lines waiting for scarce supplies.

Outside the city weekend roads are strangely empty. Few people can afford cars or the fuel to run them just for leisure. In some more rural areas the 20th century has disappeared. Fields are plowed with oxen and there is no modern equipment. You don't need dollars to run an ox. Travelers ride on horseback, and thatched houses replace concrete socialist architecture.

Along the country's roads, some with potholes as big as a city bus, long lines of hitchhikers are funneled by yellow-clad officials into government cars. It is illegal for government vehicles not to pick up hitchhikers if they have room. Few buses - many of them retrieved from Canadian scrap heaps - pass by, and when they do dozens of people push into spaces meant for one or two. Yet it all happens with grace and humor. Few voices are raised, and Cubans inevitably opt for laughter over frustration.

"I hope they never give away the entire country," my friend Carita told me. "Cuba is special and we want it to stay that way. What most people are worried about is the apres-Castro. There's a lot of loyalty towards Fidel but we don't know what will happen after he goes."

Fidel Castro's towering intellect and charisma have helped him lead his people through 40 years of turbulence and periodic ostracism. Even in today's tough times, few people blame the former guerrilla leader. Instead they point to the US embargo and the fall of the Soviet Union as the main causes of their troubles, although they do acknowledge their own government's economic mismanagement.

Understanding this country of contradictions is the labor of a lifetime. For each objectionable trait there is a creative or heartwarming characteristic, with reality probably somewhere in between.

After nearly two months I left Cuba with a heavy heart, filled with hope because of its people but frustration because of its leaders.

At times Cuba seems to hang by a thread - and that thread is named Fidel Castro. If he must be maligned for something, it might be for his apparent indifference to the future. He has done precious little beyond nominating his brother Raul - the actively disliked head of the armed forces - to succeed him. Yet Cubans keep hoping. They cannot believe he hasn't devised some master plan to be revealed when the time comes. If there is such a plan, no one has told Cubans about it. And in the end, that silence could turn out to be Castro's greatest crime.