The View from Havana

HAVANA — Whichever Castro may be running the show at any given time, life in Cuba isn't that bad...

...That is, if you don't mind travel restrictions, a measly state salary, only five government-run newspapers and zero Internet access and, at this grocery store, not much choice in the juice department.

Then again, choice isn't communism's forte. Still, how bad, or good, is life in Cuba? When I was there this February, people seemed happy — but it could just be the great weather, or the sunny Caribbean disposition. The buildings are crumbling, but the streets are no dirtier than those in Manhattan. Homelessness is non-existent. The literacy rate hovers around 97 percent, and more than half of the population holds a university degree.

Even with the facts, it's impossible to evaluate life in Cuba unless you go there. Once in Havana, it doesn't get much easier.

My second day in Havana, I helped push a car uphill. I was standing outside the press office, waiting to receive my journalist visa. It was a hot Saturday afternoon, and the thoroughfare in Vedado — a boisterous entertainment district — was a cacophony of car horns, street conversations and a band playing guajira in an open-air cafe. On the street in front of me, a hulking 1950s Plymouth crept by, eventually revealing a tiny woman pushing on the back bumper. Her husband, in the driver's seat, was frantically trying to jumpstart the car. I joined in the pushing effort. After some failed attempts, the man got out and popped the hood, exposing an engine that looked like it had been excavated from the bottom of the Caribbean.

Understandably, transportation is a major problem in Cuba. The road is a nursing home for Chevys from a bygone era; the unkempt rusty tanks spew plumes of black smoke. Coinciding with the economic embargo, post-1960s American vehicles are nonexistent. Meantime, the origins of the other vehicles on the road reflects those countries which have picked up the slack in support to the island. Miniature Russian Ladas are everywhere, and all tourist agencies use Korean-made Hyundais. The newest vehicles on the road are Chinese buses, a sign of recent Asian economic ties.

Another issue rankling Cubans is housing. With no private property or real estate market, most Cubans spend their entire lives in just one home. The only way to move is to swap residences — a complex, clandestine and illegal process. Not much construction has been completed since Castro took power. Thus, Havana's architectural landscape reads like a history book. With colorful colonial era facades, vast plazas and baroque churches, old Havana resembles a small town in southern Spain. In the newer areas, the art deco theatres, such as the Karl Marx Theatre in Miramar, are Russian-made. The Russian embassy — phallic, robotic and windowless — has my vote as the strangest structure in Havana. One of the newer looking edifices on the iconic avenue Malecon is the American Interest Section. In 2006, the Americans erected an electronic sign to display news and anti-Castro propaganda. Fidel did as any autocratic despot would: he ordered the construction of hundreds of flagpoles directly in front of the American building to obscure visibility.

As that example shows, in the propaganda war, the US is fighting an uphill battle. Upon exiting Jose Marti airport in Havana, one is confronted by a vast billboard with Bush's face and a pun that translates as "asshole assassin." Another billboard on the Malecon uses portraits to compare Bush and Luis Posada Carriles — a CIA-funded Cuban exile who was responsible for a string of deadly bombs in Havana 1976 — to Hitler.

Economically, pseudo-socialism is the Cuban model. Some call it entrepreneurial socialism, because only about 10 percent of Cubans can survive on the state salary alone; the vast majority earns extra income in creative ways. They steal from work and sell on the immense black market, or work for tips in the lucrative tourism industry. Some rent an extra room in their house or get remittances from family abroad. Essentially, Cuba has a dual economy — one government-controlled and the other non-Cuban. An example of this two-tiered system is at Coppelia, a famous two-story ice cream parlor that resembles an open-air evangelical church. On the weekends, Habaneros line the blocks around Coppelia, some waiting for hours for the cold stuff. For Cubans, there is only one flavor, and the price is in Cuban pesos. For tourists, however, there is a separate "tourist only" kiosk, and no line. Here, flavors abound — vanilla, strawberry swirl and mango. And tourists must pay a much higher price with the convertible peso, a different currency. A policeman standing at the entrance initially denied me entry to the Cuban-only side until I convinced him that I was just taking pictures and would not actually buy ice cream.

The economy is only one point of obfuscation in trying to understand Cuba. Things don't get any simpler on the political side. On Sunday, Feb. 24, the National Assembly met. It's a powerless, monolithic cabinet with 614 members, the youngest of whom is 18 years old. I spoke to several of the deputies that afternoon, and I had trouble finding a unique opinion on the outlook of the Cuban government. In that meeting, they rubberstamped the election of the Council of State, whose president, Raul Castro, will also continue as leader of the military. Fidel officially resigned a few weeks ago, and he was not in attendance that day. But, from my seat in the balcony for press and invited guests, Fidel's presence was apparent. At the close of the meeting, the hall erupted in a collective "Viva Fidel!"

So, in short, the elections brought no change. Any hope that Cuba was on course for substantial reform was all but squashed. Raul is 76, and his number two man, "Machadito," is 77. The average age of the Council of State is 70. These old comrades from Fidel's revolution are unlikely to relinquish power to the younger generation until they physically cannot stand up — which is exactly what happened to Fidel, and he has been confined to expression with just a pen and paper.

The youth were most let down by the election results. Out of a total population of 11 million in Cuba, 2.2 million were born after 1992. Sometimes called the "lost generation," these Cubans never experienced the glory of the revolution, or affirmation for communism under Soviet financial support. Advocates for change in Cuba are looking to the youth to spark an opposition movement. Even after the election cemented the reign of the old communist guard, some of the younger generation remains optimistic. At a bus station outside of Havana, a man in his mid-20s told me, "now that Fidel is fading, something can happen."

Yet efforts to organize dissent have been unsuccessful thus far. Such organization is nearly impossible in Cuba, where public gatherings are closely watched by the government. But there may be other obstacles to this galvanizing dissent — not all youngsters I talked to want swift reform. At a book fair in East Havana, a group of high school boys, one of whom purchased Cien Horas Con Fidel — a best-selling lengthy tome of interviews with Fidel — said although they realize the shortcomings of the government, they're ultimately proud of their country and leader. A law student in her mid-20s confided, in impeccable English, that growing up with the virtues of socialism would make it impossible for her to live anywhere other than Cuba. "My home is in Cuba, and no matter how undesirable rationing may be, I will raise my kids in this system." So it seems that while many of the younger generation will acknowledge the shortcomings of the government, they're hesitant to challenge the basic structure. Indeed, during a break at the elections that Sunday, a 24-year-old parliamentary member told me, "I represent the youth, and the change we want is in line with revolution." In essence, they want improvements, not changes.

A few weeks ago, Ricardo Alarcon, the president of the National Assembly, invited students to voice their grievances with the government. According to the students, they want to use the Internet, stay in hotels and travel outside of Cuba. The youth "want to be able to travel. I personally want to go to Paris," said Laura, a 17-year-old graphic design student. She's now studying in a becaria, or boarding school in the countryside. During the week, she shares yard work and a small, cramped dorm with dozens of other girls. She's learning French at the school, but doubts she'll ever put what she's learnt to practice.

Free travel is one of the fundamental rights denied to average Cubans. Having travelled the world extensively, I think it's unconscionable not to be able to leave your country. Moreover, even visiting family or studying abroad is restricted. Unless someone has a legitimate need — professional musicians and athletes get visas without delay — leaving is next to impossible. Shouldn't the government allow Cuban medical students to compete with the best in the world, or realize their dream of perfecting their French in Paris? Invariably, this question brought the response that it's not actually Cuba's fault. Rather, it's due to other countries' harsh immigration policies. In these responses and many others, the line between myth and fact is nebulous, and I wasn't convinced the answers were honest opinions.

The youth also grumble about the Internet. These days in Cuba, information spreads most quickly via la radio bomba, or by word of mouth. Printed news is controlled by the state. There is no free press. Luckily, the youth are getting plugged into the Internet. On the weekends, Laura, the graphic design student, uses the Internet at a nearby hotel. It costs about $7 an hour, and is not censored. It is via the Internet that she can see pictures of Paris. She chats with other friends in Cuba, as well as friends she has made through social networking sites. Thus, between the travel ban and media censorship, the Internet is the only liberalizing mechanism available to Cubans. "There is a lot of frustration among the youth," Laura says while chatting online. The Internet has the potential to open the country to worldwide press. Just as vitally, it may be the catalyst to any serious organization among voices of dissent. Still, until it becomes widely available, this potential won't be fully realized.

At the political level, the US and Cuba have been vehement enemies for nearly 50 years. From reports in Washington, we imagine Havana must be swarming with poverty. People there must be miserable, right? Do they know we have iPods and blogs and flickr and sushi? I talked to young and old, politician and civilian, students, cab drivers and bartenders. Men and women, black and white. I wouldn't say anyone is miserable. In fact, most people I came across in Havana are complacent. Still, there latent hope for something new, some reform that will bring higher quality of life that, at present, they can only imagine.

My last night in Havana, I took a stroll through the cobblestoned, narrow streets Habana Vieja, the oldest part of the city. It's within walking distance from the port where, at one time, sailors and slaves and sugar mixed in a rum-fueled cocktail that created mambo and mulatto. The mood was reminiscent to that other famous port town, Cadiz, where boats bound for Cuba left the old world for the new, via the Congo. Notes from bands playing son songs floated through the air. On a street corner, a cadre of effervescent young boys wailed bolero folk songs into the night. This scene hasn't changed in 50 years. I don't expect it to anytime soon.