That Saturday we spent our customary three hours food shopping. Like multi-tasking, live streaming and other modern marvels, one-stop shopping doesn’t compute in Cuba. After years of it, I try to find the fun in shuttling between vegetable markets for the salad fixings and fruit we’ll need for the week, then on to the bakery, the honey man’s house, and the juice bar where they fill your liter-and-a-half bottles with fresh squeezed OJ or pineapple juice for 7 pesos (a whopping 35 or so cents). Then comes the dreaded dollar stores – dreaded because they’re absurdly expensive, they get mobbed on weekends, and they never have everything (and sometimes nearly nothing) you need.

While it may sound romantic in a Parisian/Manhattan, shopping-the-neighborhood kind of way, in reality it’s a crowded, expensive exercise in frustration where you stand on long lines to buy whatever’s available.

The Saturday in question, however, opened a new chapter in shopping distress: cruising the aisles of one of Havana’s biggest and best stocked grocery stores (see note 1), looking for two items we desperately needed (see note 2), we were brought up short in front of a freezer piled high with Butterball turkeys. My first reaction was ‘how many gringos work in that Interests Section anyway?’ (see note 3). Then I thought, ‘Cubans aren’t celebrating Thanksgiving and they definitely aren’t paying…Holy shit! $30 for a 10-pound turkey?!’ I know it has come a long way (figuratively speaking) and it looks plump and juicy wrapped seductively in it’s blue and yellow Butterball wrapper, but thirty bucks? Yowza. With that price tag, our idea of hosting a Thanksgiving feast for our Cuban and Yuma friends fizzled.

As we fielded calls from American strays wanting to know if our feast was on, my friend Angela – another of those lovely women-over-65 I’m so fond of here – called us to invite us to her house for Thanksgiving. An American who has lived here twice as long as me, Angela is a fabulous cook and great hostess. It looked like all was not lost for Cuban turkey day.

Angela lives in the heart of it. She can walk to half a dozen theaters and as many bars. She takes her dog down the block to the Malecón. She’s also steps from my favorite paladar (see note 4) and on Raul’s commute route. Her building is an architectural prize-winner and the two-bedroom apartments are highly livable. Which is why a bunch of notable intellectuals, poets, and athletes also reside there. It’s not quite Fama y Aplauso, but it’s close (see note 5).

Given the status of Angela’s neighbors, I shouldn’t have been surprised when we arrived at her building and encountered a young Cuban woman with a striking grey-eyed, caramel-coated Siberian Husky. I’m not sure I’d ever seen a dog quite like this, and certainly not here in Havana (if you ask me, such northern breeds should be outlawed in these tropical climes). We stopped to pet the dog and ask about him, which is obligatory when running into Cubans in the street with their kids or pets in tow.

“He’s 8 months old,” his owner told us.

“And a big mouth to feed, eh?” my husband averred with that food security subtext that laces many casual conversations here.

“The problem is, we can’t get him to eat anything. He’s so fussy he won’t even eat steak!” said the young woman who had fed her dog something 11 million Cubans only dream of.

After picking my jaw off the ground I thought: ‘Terry is living on rice and lentils and this woman is feeding beef to her pure bred.’ I smiled weakly. ‘I bet I could buy five Butterballs with what she paid for that pup on the black market.’ Cuban contradictions: they just keep on coming.

—

The aromas drifting from Angela’s kitchen, through the living room, to the balcony and Malecón beyond were pure home: golden crispy turkey, herby stuffing, fresh-baked pie, drippings, and gravy. As we took it all in, Angela presented us to the other guests: Inés, a very proper black woman who is an urban planner; César, her multi-lingual, globe-trotting husband who is an ecological agriculture expert and set off my Gaydar immediately (see note 6); and Moisés, an accomplished professor and set designer – no Gaydar required.

Everyone had brought something to the party and the sideboard was heavily laden. There was a green salad, an eggplant dish, a squash dish, stuffing (which is a hard concept to explain to Cubans, who, even as they’re eating it, can’t believe stale bread could taste so good), sweet potato pie, and gravy. But the jewel in the menu’s crown was the cranberry sauce.

I believe the world is divided into two kinds of people: those who eat “cranberry sauce” from a can and those who don’t (and won’t). You can imagine which camp the Cook’s Illustrated-subscribing, Epicurious-browsing Angela falls into. So rather than import a can of that…whatever it is, she made one of those clever culinary punts Havana requires: she re-hydrated her Trader Joe’s dried cranberries, chopped in some orange and zest and I don’t know what else and let it stew overnight. It was delicious, and a delicious first, for the majority of the guests.

Meanwhile, the perfectly plucked and tucked turkey sat in all its crispy, golden glory on the kitchen counter. Angela and I chatted as she finished the gravy. Her beloved next door neighbors (so beloved they share custody of her dog and recently surprised her after one of her off-island trips by painting her entire apartment) always partake in the feast, she told me, but never with the other guests. Instead, they take the casserole dishes and salad bowl, gravy boat, and platter of meat down the hall to eat in the comfort of their own home. I was glad Angela gave me the head’s up – otherwise I might have blurted out something off-the-wall inappropriate when a long-haired Cuban loped into the kitchen, scooped the turkey off the counter, and spirited it out the front door. For once, I kept my mouth shut and the turkey arrived 20 minutes later all carved and artfully arranged on two platters: one for light meat, one for dark. Mysteriously, there was no skin on those platters and for a second I wondered if Angela’s neighbors were part of the Husky lady’s clan. Perhaps they were saving the best part not for the dog, but for themselves, I reasoned, though that would go against what I know about (most) Cubans and these folks in particular (see note 7).

Finally it was time to dig in and the two Yuma and four Cubans did what millions around the United States and expats around the world were doing this fourth Thursday in November: we ate, drank, and made merry. And when we couldn’t pack in another bite, the longhaired neighbor with a junkie’s slope shuffled in and carried off the moveable feast. At least another six people were going to sup on that pavo Butterball and try cranberries for the first time.

Inés dozed in the rocker. Angela passed coffees around, while my husband and César swapped Poland travel stories. With the ¡buen provechos! still echoing around the apartment, I realized this was my first Thanksgiving in Cuba that really felt like it. And it had more to do with Angela and César, Inés, Moisés, and my husband than Butterball. For these old and new friends, I’m thankful.

Notes

1. These stores used to be called “diplotiendas” in the 90s because only diplomats and foreigners were allowed to shop there. This was back when dollars were illegal for Cubans to hold. I was surprised when I rocked up to one of these stores in 1993 (at Calle 70 & 3ra, the store in this post coincidentally) and I had to show my passport to gain entry. In another of those innumerable instances here where there’s a rule and 20 ways to break it, my Cuban friends followed close on my heels and we got all giddy and went weak in the knees ogling the bright, shiny products displayed aisle after aisle.

2. For weeks we’ve been trying to get dishwashing soap. Now, coffee has gone missing: we’ve been to 7 stores in the past 3 days searching for coffee. Needless to say, my jones has already kicked in. As I write this, our house has neither dishwashing soap nor coffee – a situation we’ll have to resolve somehow, fast.

3. Until 1977, the two countries had no diplomatic representatives in their respective capitals. That year, US and Cuba opened what are called Interests Sections instead of consulates or full blown embassies in Havana and Washington. Also, in the writing of this post, I learned there are just 51 US citizens employed at the US Interests Section in Havana. They can’t all be buying turkeys can they?!

4. Paladares are privately-owned and operated restaurants found in most cities across the island. You read right: privately owned and operated, and these, along with other legal private enterprises in Cuba (renting out rooms, taxis, cafeterias) are making some Cubans very rich. So when you read about everything in Cuba being owned and run by the state and all Cubans being poor, think again.

5. Fama y Aplauso is a 20-story high rise on the corner of Infanta & Manglar in a nondescript pocket of Havana near the Estadio Latinoamericano. Some of Cuba’s most famous musicians, athletes, and policy wonks live here, in lovely 2- or 3-bedroom apartments with expansive views over the city. The residents’ star power is why the building is nicknamed Fame and Applause.

6. In Cuba, homosexuals are one thing, while men who have sex with men (MSM) are in a category all their own. Machismo – that complex ingrained, learned, and replicated construct that has effects on everything here from household chores to condom use – means few men identify as homosexuals, even as they fiddle the flesh flute of their extramarital boy toys. In fact, it’s not uncommon for Cuban men to have a wife and kids and male lovers. I know several.

7. I’ve just learned from my husband that it’s a cultural thing: eating bird skin just doesn’t appeal (and it is weird if you think about it). Still, that doesn’t keep Cubans from sharpening their elbows when it comes to apportioning the glistening, saffron-hued skin of a freshly roasted pig.

While I was away on my hitchhiking trip, one of the American study abroad students got hit by some flying sperm on Avenida G.

In the past few weeks, Cuba had started to lose some of its magical socialist utopia vibe. For the majority of the past three months, I constantly gushed about the wonderful things about this country that were so unexpected and backwards from the rest of the world (for ex. Cuba’s two selling points education and healthcare), and one of them was safety. Every time I walked home alone with my laptop on my back at midnight (clearly a muggable foreigner), I marveled at the low crime rates and public safety. In no other capital city in the world would I feel so safe walking alone at night as in Havana.

About three weeks ago, this bubble of safety popped a little. One of the girls in our program was robbed at knifepoint a block away from our house. It was 2:30am, she was alone, and there aren’t really streetlights in our area. She didn’t lose too much of great value (except for a Marx-Engels reader!) and was fine, but we were all a little shaken up by the news, and started being more careful about things like that.

Other things started to happen too. Another girl got hit by a car on her way to school. (She was bruised but okay). Two girls got roofied at a club (turns out they had willingly accepted drugs, but hadn’t known they were roofies—they were okay too, no worries). Anyways, the point is, although everyone was mostly fine after all these incidents, they happened pretty close to each other in time-space, and it seemed like for a while that crazy things were just happening to the American study abroad students.

And then this poor girl got hit by flying sperm on her way to class.

Let me explain. There is a big sprawling avenue that leads to the Art and Letters Faculty of the University of Havana called Avenida de los presidentes, or Avenida G. It’s got a big grassy middle section, and there’s a point right before it gets to the university where there’s a rotunda/oval thing with a monument/statue in the middle, and the cars drive around it. By the sidewalk, there are cliffs with trees and buildings growing off of it, about 20 feet tall. This area—where the road curves so it’s hard to see the oncoming cars (and thus dangerous to walk in the street) and the sidewalk comes right to the edge of the cliffs—is staked out by some men who stand behind trees or bushes and masturbate to the women walking by underneath. Often, passing the area, one hears hisses or whistles, and if one is inexperienced enough to turn her head, she will see one of these sick men, grinning at her and yanking their thing.

We had known about them for a while, but until the incident with the American girl we always thought they were just sickos who got off in public. Turns out, they have an even more specific aim—their public masturbation is actually a game of target shooting. We told the story to one of the Cuban women who work in our house. She was unsurprised. Apparently most habaneros know about them and their special spot. They’re called “tiradores” (shooters/throwers) and they pay off the cops so that they can play their yank and shoot game in peace.

Although I laughed for a week about this, it’s a real threat. Every time I walk to Spanish class and pass that place, I make sure to walk as far from the cliffs as I possibly can, even if it means walking in the middle of the street. For some reason, the idea of getting hit by a car is much more pleasant than that of being hit by some flying sperm.

The Elena Ruz sandwich always seemed a little out of place on the menu.  A combination of roasted turkey, cream cheese and strawberry preserves, it floats alongside the heavier ham, lechon asado and cheese melds of Cuban lunch menus – lighter and prettier with a first and last name.  Named for Elena Ruz, a Havana socialite who had the unusual combination made to order for her at El Caramelo.  Then a fashionable cafe in the 1930s, it landed on the menu becoming a popular item.  According to later interviews, her parents were scandalized to see a sign for “Sandwich Elena Ruz 25 centavos” on display, though as she pointed out the other sandwiches only went for 10 cents at the time.

Sandwich Elena Ruz
Though its served all year, this is my favorite way to use Thanksgiving leftovers. Traditionally made with strawberry preserves, leftover cranberry sauce can be substituted.

Roasted turkey, sliced
Strawberry preserves
Cream cheese, softened and blended
Pan de medianoche*

Slice roll in half.  Evenly spread cream cheese one side.  Form a 1/4″ wide strip down the middle of the other half and spread the strawberry preserves on the other.  Cover with one half with layer of roasted turkey and close.  Press on a greased griddle until lightly toasted and warmed through.  Cut on the diagonal and serve.

*Toasted white bread can be substituted for the pressed sandwich roll.

Pan de Medianoche
Originally adapted with permission from Three Guys From Miami Cook Cuban by Glenn Lindgren, Raúl Musibay, and Jorge Castillo.  I substituted butter for lard and added the final cup of flour by hand.  I’ve re-posted the recipe to reflect some changes I made the second time around.

2 packets (dry active) yeast (4 1/2 teaspoons)
3/4 cup white sugar
1 1/4 cup warm water (105 to 115 degrees F)
1/2 cup unsalted butter, melted
3 eggs
2 teaspoons salt
5-6 cups bread flour, more or less

1 egg beaten with 2 tablespoons warm water

In a large bowl, mix yeast and three tablespoons sugar in one 1 1/4 cup of water. Place in a warm place and wait for the yeast to begin bubbling. (If it doesn’t bubble and foam, you have some bad yeast or something else went wrong and you’ll need to start over.)

Beat the eggs until foamy.  Add the eggs, the rest of the sugar, salt, and melted lard to the yeast/water mixture.

Using a mixer fitted with the dough hook attachment on low speed, add four cups of flour, one cup at a time.  Continue to beat on medium, until the dough just begins to pull away from sides of bowl.

Pour dough onto a lightly floured surface and knead in remaining cup of flour, as needed, until dough is smooth and elastic, about 10 minutes.  Form dough into a ball place into a large, greased mixing bowl, immediately turning over so that all sides are greased.  Cover with a piece of lightly greased plastic wrap and set aside in a warm, draft free place until doubled in bulk, about 2 hours.  At this point it can be refrigerated over night and brought to room temperature before proceeding.

Place the dough on your work surface and punch it down.  Divide the dough into good-sized handfuls.  Roll each handful on a lightly floured surface to make cylinders about five inches long and about 2 1/4 inches in diameter. Arrange rolls on a lightly greased baking sheet.  Cover with a slightly damp, clean towel. Let rise in a warm place for about one hour or until the rolls double in volume.

Preheat oven to 350º F

Brush the tops of the rolls liberally with the egg glaze. Bake until golden brown — about 25 to 35 minutes. Remove the rolls from the oven, take them off the baking sheet and let cool on a wire rack. While they are still warm, brush the tops with a little melted butter. Use for medianoche sandwiches, or serve warm as a side dish.

CAO cigars are well known brand when about non cuban cigars. They are making lots of cigars in different blends. I’ve tried 4 of them and some I liked and some I didn’t really paid any attention to it later on and this what happens when there is a brand and tens of blends. The CAO usually comes in a digitized humidor box and I think this is the reason these cigars high priced. Making the long story short I’ve sampled 2 cigars were given to me by one of my friend came from london and here what I found about it:

Size: 6 1/4 X 52

Wrapper: Dominican Rep.

Binder: Dominican Rep.

Filler: Dominican Rep. Nicaragua, Brazil

Initial thoughts:

Well made cigar with no soft spots on the body. The wrapper is dark brown oily with some veins here and there. The prelight draw brought some cocoa and earth. The draw it self was very good with some resistance. The burn was good and th ash was light gray.

1st third:

Straight medium body smoke with sweet spicy earthy profile. An inch down the cigar shows some cocoa notes and some tobacco taste. It then gets spicier and sweeter but no real change in the other flavors.

2nd third:

Here found a pepper kick and a leathery back ground with hint of sweet cocoa. The smoke is smooth and creamy with no harshness. More aged tobacco, earthiness and spiciness here to get the attention by the half way point. The aroma is very nice with sweet cocoa bean and Roasted nuts.

Final third:

Hint of caramel here complement the earth and spices. With shots of leather this cigar reach the final lap. The body is in the upper side of medium or the lower of full but still smooth on the palate. Nothing more to report in here.

Final thoughts:

I liked the cigar but I would appreciate it more if there were more complexity. This is a straight medium body earthy spicy leathery smoke good for afternoon tea break of even breakfast. For sure I’m not going to add it to my humidor very soon.

Foto: gresei

Am Biertresen:

Gast: Ich hätte gern eine Havana-Cola, einen Wodka-O und eine Cola.
Bedienung: Tut mir leid, wir haben hier am Tresen nur die häufigsten Kundenwünsche. Für Getränke mit O-Saft musst du an die große Bar gehen.
Gast: Okay, dann zwei Havana-Cola und eine Cola. Light!
Bedienung: Wir haben auch keine Cola light. Nur die normale.
Gast: Dann drei Havana-Cola.

Gast: Habt ihr Kaffee?
Bedienung: Nur an der großen Bar.
Gast: Dann nehm ich ein Bier.

Joi seara am iesit in Havana, unde surpriza, Cristi si-a primit cadoul putin mai devreme:

Last night I went to the first festival of alternative music in Cuba; at a hip hop concert in the Pabellón a week or so ago we had met this guy with a head full of white silvery mohawk/dreads who is an artistic director of concerts and shit, and all into the alternative scene, who told us about it, because he was directing it.

First: alternative music means something different in Cuba than back in the States. It means anything that is not salsa or reggaetón (or merengue or bachata or son or afrocuban/Caribbean in any way). This includes hip hop, rap, rock, emo, metal, reggae, house, electronica. For example, the guy we met at that hip hop concert looked kind of like a punker (he was old too, his hair was naturally white) and we started to talk about music, and he started to trash reggaeton, so I asked him what he thought of the hip hop group that was playing (because in my mind hip hop and reggaeton are similar, both induce a lot of ass-shaking), and he said it was great, you know, alternativo.

Second: the alternative scene is pretty small in Cuba, so all these people hang out in the same crowd. This seems a little incongruous and weird to me (in a positive, kind of funny way, of course) because generally rockers, hip-hoppers, and electronickers give off pretty different vibes, and here they all group themselves together into one—alternativos—and hang out together. Cool, I think, but once the scene gets bigger, it will probably not last. They mostly seem to be unified in their vehement hatred of reggaeton (and indifference to salsa).

Third: Alternativos also call themselves “underground” sometimes. I think this is because 1) they are a little anti-establishment, they have only recently started to be recognized as an art form by the government (the Cuban government is a heavy sponsor of culture and art, and does a surprising wonderful job for a Communist regime), and sometimes the lyrics and messages in music are a little controversial and say bad things about the system; and 2) most of the rest of Cuba is pretty conformist culture-wise, everyone dances salsa and listens to reggaeton/other Latiny islandy things, dresses in a similar style, so these people are pretty anti-conformist too, and you can recognize them with just one look, dreads and afros and random strange articles of clothing worn is a strange way are pretty common.

Anyways this concert was an award ceremony of sorts, for up and coming alternative artists who had submitted works in different categories of alternative music. It was pretty shoddy and put together (it’s Cuba), and there were probably not more than 100 people in the audience, but maybe it was historic (?). Some parts of it were pretty entertaining, at least. My friend’s favorite act was this metal group called Hypnosis who were wearing all red and black and all had long hair down to their butts (blonde or black, one girl had braids that made her look medusa-like) and they kept on head banging very seriously, so that all their hair would cover their face, anyways it looked pretty funny and you could tell they were all really into it and gave it their all. My favorite act was a hiphop/rapper called La Rueda who was this short and skinny little mulatto who had a huge beard and looked a little Arab (maybe because of the beard, maybe because he actually was) and he was also wearing this turban, and his acceptance speech was pretty bomb, and he rapped about discrimination and sabor while hopping around like a maniac, so much that he lost his turban and long dreads down to his butt came tumbling out, swinging around the stage. The best part was that he had two accomplices too, who were all very weird too, turban wearing, jumping around and doing flips and one of them kept on shouting the lyrics in the main guys ears with him (he wasn’t miked, so I can’t imagine it was for anything more than show) and it was just so entertaining because here were these weird guys hopping around the stage like crazy 4 year olds on speed, shouting about people discriminating against other people to a pretty thumping beat.

After the show we went to talk to our white mohawk-dreaded friend and congratulated him, and he was like oh man so many things went wrong and we reassured him that it was great, even though you could obviously tell that things had gone wrong. Yeah alternativos!

That’s what they call hitchhiking in this country. I guess it makes a little more sense in Spanish—hacer botella—well, grammatically at least.

I think the term originates from back when people used to have bottles in their cars for hitchhikers to put tips in. Haciendo or cogiendo botella in Cuba is a legitimate, government sponsored mode of transportation, because there is generally a shortage of transportation in this country, and extra space not being used in cars seems like a good thing to take advantage of. Although many people just stand on the side of the road holding out their hands or some small bills (usually no more than $1), outside of every major city there is an “amarillo” stand, where guys in yellow outfits run out into the middle of the highway and hold out cardboard signs that say PARE (stop), and shuffle people into cars/trucks/buses based on destination. I say it is government sponsored because government owned vehicles are required by law to stop and take travelers free of charge if they have the space (this does not always happen, bribes happen for line cutting and things like that).

Anyways, the reason I’m saying all this stuff about traveling in bottle is that I did it this weekend with two friends, we hitchhiked Cuban style all the way from Havana to the beautiful cities of Santa Clara and Cienfuegos in the center of the island and back—about 600 kilometers total, all for less than $2 each (it could have been less, too, but we were generous).

This is what happened:

Asked people how to get to an Amarillo stop in Havana. Got there, bumbled around a little stupidly (our first time!). Waited in the hot hot sun, I thought about how I should have packed my spf65 sunscreen instead of the 15.

Finally, after an hour or two of tired, impatient waiting (we’d been trying to get out of Havana for about 4 hours now) we hopped onto a bus that was going in the general direction we wanted to go. We got dropped off under a bridge about half an hour later, still closer to Havana than anything else. Waited. The good thing, though, was that there were a lot of Cubans with us in the same position, and though they weren’t ecstatic about all the cars driving past without stopping they didn’t seem too perturbed or antsy about the situation. I start to climb up the bridge to pass the time, and then lo and behold, just as I climb down, a truck stops, and the Cuban friend we made while waiting is waving frantically at us to get on. I climb on, or rather, I step on the wheel and then some men who are already up pull me over the side of the truck (it was pretty tall, and there were no foot holds), and then watch as my friend who is halfway up gets thrown off as the truck starts to drive away. Luckily, everyone starts to scream “Espérate!” so the truck stops again and then he gets on.

Our first camioneta! This is an open backed truck, you know, the old kind that normally carries boxes of things to sell. Ours had apparently been transporting large amounts of papaya before the humans got on, because the floor was covered in slippery black seeds and red pulp. Anyways, even though we couldn’t sit, my friend had almost died, I was getting severely sun/wind burned, and the truck looked like it was one pothole away from falling into pieces (not to mention a few oxygen particles away from crumbling), we felt like the kings of the world, because there we were, cruising down the national highway with all these Cubans on this tall truck, the wind blowing our hair in this majestic way, definitively leaving Havana for real, finally. I had seen something like this in “Guantanamera,” a Cuban movie, and thought it was pretty novel, and now there I was, doing it myself. I felt pretty cool.

Got dropped off at Jaguey, had dinner. In Jaguey there were tons of Chinese people (from China, a pretty rare sight in Cuba based on all the stares I get in the streets) for some reason (we walked into a restaurant and literally everyone inside was Chinese, and I burst out laughing then scuttled away) and I awkwardly avoided them. For some reason, my gutsiness turns off whenever I’m faced with large groups of Asians. I need to work on that.

Went to the side of the highway to try to get to Cienfuegos. By that time, it was dark, and we were a little worried. Luckily, however, everyone was stopping (this didn’t happen the other time) which was a good sign, even though no one wanted to go to Cienfuegos. Finally, we hopped onto a truck going to Santa Clara, which is a big city close to Cienfuegos that we considered going to, but didn’t seem as cool.

The second camioneta ride was one of the best parts of the entire trip. It was pitch black by the time we got on, and the Cuban national highway doesn’t have lights on it, so it was really really black. I used my backpack as a pillow and leaned back (no papaya gunk this time, just a lot of dirt). The sky was beautiful, llenísima de estrellas, with a little bright sliver of moon. I had never seen so many stars in my life. There were also some navy officers on the truck, and their outfits were billowing romantically in the wind.

Santa Clara: saw the Che museum and mausoleum. Rode in our first peso-horse carriage, and thought it was novel, but the next day we took two more. Like other things that seem novel, it was just one of those things about transportation that are pretty normal in Cuba.

Went to Cienfuegos. Indulged in having money and dished out $5 each for a taxi over there, but it was worth it, I think, because we got there in probably 1/5 of the time it would have taken. Also, in the United States, sometimes I dish out $5 for Boloco burritos.

Cienfuegos: extremely clean and orderly and pretty and nice. Felt not like Cuba, but somewhere else in Latin America, except for things were extraordinarily cheap. We got an illegal casa particular for $20 for the three of us, which was a great deal, especially because usually they make 3 people get two rooms. We did have to sleep 3 on a bed, however, which was not so nice. Luckily, went to a club that night and didn’t sleep too much. The club felt extremely un-Cuban as well, filled with people who looked like they had money, and no one was trying to hustle us. The best part of Cienfuegos was when we climbed up to this mirador which was a beautiful old crumbling mansion with a really tall tower and you could see the entire city and bay and it was so beautiful it felt like the entire trip was worth it just for being able to run around up there. Also there was a time when we climbed to the roof of our casa at night and sat up there talking, which was nice too.

Bottled our way back. Same old camioneta and Amarillo shit, even stopped in Jaguey for lunch again (ate at the same place, it was the only one with food), saw and avoided some Asians, got back to Havana, tanned, dirty, bruised, but alive and happy, and feeling pretty happy about ourselves.

Reinaldo Escobar / Desdecuba.com

Summary of the previous episode in Havana: Yoani Sanchez, the most known Cuban blogger and one of the most active opponents to Castro’s regime, had been arrested during a few minutes and beaten by State Security agents. This weekend her husband Reinaldo Escobar, who is also a well known blogger, organized an event to protest against this act of violence. He wanted to meet security agents in a “verbal duel” about the incident.

But while he was talking with journalists, several hundreds of people arrived and began to shout against him. “They pulled my hair, hit me with a shoe, tore my shirt, pulled away my bag of books. I lost my glasses”, Escobar told Reuters. He and his supporters hardly escaped from a lynch. One might think that a movement of such a magnitude was not spontaneous even if Cuban authorities explained that “the Cuban people are tired of Yoani Sanchez”.

This new incident came a few days after the publication of an interview of Barack Obama on Yoani Sanchez’ blog. Some videos have been taken from the incident :

Up and moving to a foreign country is like tiptoeing across a tightrope without a net. It takes balls (or ovaries, as we say on this side of the Straits), but can be stupid, reckless, and if all goes horribly wrong, detrimental to breathing.

When I landed in Cuba to live full time – without a net – in April 2002, I had a pretty good idea of what I was in for (see note 1). But imagining 6-hour blackouts and bucket showers is one thing. Cooking, eating, reading and lovemaking by candlelight followed by a military shower is something (uncomfortably, unsustainably) else.

Little by little, things improved. Gradually, I adjusted. I sprang for a $15 electric shower unit (known as widow makers in some countries) and we kept a list of debate topics on hand for the next blackout. Over time, I grew accustomed to my neighbors dropping by unannounced for coffee and a chat and I no longer started at the good-natured yelling Cubans indulge in. Poco a poco my wardrobe got shorter and tighter, I perfected the use of a pressure cooker, and grew used to the idea that gladiolas aren’t just for dead people (see note 2).

But clothing, cooking, even floral tendencies, are differences you expect in foreign countries. In Pakistan I had to cover my head. In Guatemala I (happily) forsook bread for tortillas. Here in Havana however, I was blindsided by something else entirely, something wholly unexpected: I’m surrounded by old people.

It’s not simply that Cubans have a longer life expectancy than you (see note 3) or that the country has 1,488 centenarians and counting. Sure, the island is a willing poster child for the 120 Club (see note 4), but the ubiquity of the elderly here has more to do with the culture of aging than health indicators.

In Cuba, great pains are taken to keep the ’senior zits’ and ‘blue hairs’ (as my mother calls them, even though – technically – she forms part of their ranks) actively involved in society. Active aging they call it. Every day, from Pinar del Río to Guantánamo, you’ll see seniors doing knee bends and loosening their rotator cuffs in free, outdoor exercise classes; raisin-like men mixing up the dominos at seniors’ centers; and great grandmothers wheeling their sweet potatoes and yucca away from the Tulipán vegetable market.

As end of days approach, it is the rare Cuban that gets parked in a nursing home. Here, people prefer to take care of their own, at home – even hospice happens at home, in your own bed. Up north, meanwhile, we tend to shutter people away once they reach a certain age. Where I’m from, growing old and dying at home is the rare exception. I get that nursing homes are handy. Who wants to change their mother’s diaper or go unrecognized by their own father as he battles demons known only to Alzheimer’s patients? But, the incontinent and impenetrable aside, I think the Cubans are on to something with their family-based aging in place.

Teresita was my first clue. Wide-hipped and curmudgeonly, with hair dyed the color of bread crusts, Teresita is my 86-year old neighbor. She’s the archetypical despotic Cuban matriarch, heading up four generations of females squeezed into a 2-bedroom apartment. Though able-bodied, Teresita never leaves the apartment. Despite her cranky, iron-fisted disposition, we call her “Terry” with affection.

Times are hard for Terry and her girls. She had to share her rubber-sheeted bed with her 56-year old daughter Lila until the latter emigrated to Tampa. It happened exactly like most leave-takings here in Cuba: here one day, gone the next. The space opened up in Terry’s bed couldn’t compensate for the sorrow it planted in her heart. With the high drama that grips so many Cuban women, Terry comes to me after Lila has left to say the only thing she has to look forward to now is the grave.

While her granddaughter is out earning her daily bread and her great granddaughter is at school learning her times tables, Terry is left alone. All day, every day. She’s locked in, but far from shut-in: perched at her window observing all the comings and goings, Terry is The Gossip. From her I learn a trio of young thugs are posing as public health inspectors, finessing their way into the homes of little old ladies, and robbing them blind. It’s Terry who tells me that Omara from upstairs in going to Spain and Yusi downstairs is dating a new guy.

“He’s black,” she whispers to me, passing a couple of fingers along her forearm – the classic Cuban sign for a person of color.

Like many white ladies of an age, Terry is a little bit racist, which is akin to being a little pregnant in my book, but I let it slide. She’s got over eight decades of memories and experience and I find myself heading across the hall to “talk story” as we say in Hawaii. I find reasons to knock on her door – bringing her the reading material she so desperately craves and dropping by for coffee and a turn in her broken cane rocker. Over tiny cups of sweet and musky bodega coffee (see note 5), she tells me about her brutal, pre-revolution childhood.

Rocking and sipping, she tells me how her father’s second wife, a wicked substitute for Terry’s dead mother, forced her to work beginning at an absurdly early age. There were the customary cooking and cleaning chores that every household has, but young Terry was also forced to take outside work, washing and ironing the neighbors’ guyaberas, slacks, and skirts. If she protested, she met the business end of a belt. She’s less forthcoming about her husband, who gave her one daughter and a whole lot of headaches. Of course, our conversation always detours to the terrain of her various ailments: stiff joints, failing eyes, and a chronic, inexplicable throbbing in her thigh. If I let her roam, we’ll get lost in the badlands of her aches and pains.

Then there’s Carmita, my 82-year old friend from Regla (see note 6). She’s more affectionate and sharp-witted than Teresita, but is a similarly iron-willed matriarch with a long gone husband. ‘Good riddance!’ she exclaims with a devlish smile. ‘That one was born unfaithful.’ Laying a liver-spotted hand on my leg she cracks jokes about macho men and criticizes complicit women in that spirited, pre-curve feminist way of hers.

Sipping the same sweet, musky coffee from the same teeny cups everyone has here, Carmita spins tales of teaching hicks from the sticks to read during the 1961 literacy campaign. With her eyes closed softly, she recreates the Bay of Pigs attack, reliving those tense days. Carmita can be mercurial, fluctuating between placcid and resigned, spunky and spent. Like Teresita – like everyone I’m realizing – her life has been peppered with profound pain and loss.

Carmita has her health problems too – arthritis forced her to abandon her sewing business some years ago and the diabetes is under control. For now. While she fries up some plantains for her handsome grandson, Carmita relates last night’s dream with that munificent smile of hers. In the dream, her recently deceased daughter has been revived, the cancer expunged, her lifeblood back.

“Give me a hug Mom.”

“It won’t hurt?”

“No, Mom. I’m good. I’m healthy.”

Her words hung in the small, dark kitchen.

“And then you woke up, though you never wanted to,” I say with finality.

“It was horrible muchacha.”

I can’t imagine.

Old Cuba likewise comes alive sitting on Evarina’s porch in Miramar. Homebound and 80-something, Evarina’s a bulldog of a dame. She’s from the Oriente originally, (which means something if you know the island), and once upon a time was a daily cigar smoker like myself. Her diabetes is having its way with her and there’s some concern she might lose her foot. While she tries to “resolve” a course of the Cuban wonder drug for diabetic foot, she passes her time burning up the phone lines gossiping about her sister’s new cleaning lady and the Braves’ acquisition of her favorite ball player.

Then there’s Mary and Esther. Debra and Julia. When I step back and look at the landscape of my life here in Havana, I’m shocked to realize that the people I like best, that are the most interesting and engaging, are, on average, 79 years old. Old women, the lot of them. Why, I ask myself, are there so many viejitas in my midst? Could this even happen in the States?

Gotta run. Carmita’s expecting me in Regla and has promised to tell me about when Hemingway was sweet on her, dropping by her work to flirt and conquer.

Notes

1. I had been here several times before, first as a volunteer in 1993 during the Special Period (which was very, very “special” according to the Cuban joke,) and most recently in 2000.

2. There are a couple of Cuban characteristics I will never get used to. Topping the list is the national penchant for spoiling movie endings. If you have Cuban friends, you know what I’m talking about. The other is eating pizza with a knife and fork.

3. Cubans’ life expectancy is 78.3 – just surpassing the US figure of 78. Meanwhile, 16% percent of the island’s population is over 60; this will shoot up to 25% by 2025. Cuba’s recently concluded national centenarian study is fascinating.

4. Fidel Castro is the Club’s most famous member.

5. The “bodega” is where Cubans receive their monthly rations – food and other staples provided almost free by the State. As I type this, the ration card is being phased out in one of the most radical departures for the Cuban government in recent memory (I’d hate to be the person who had to convince Fidel that cutting rations is a good idea). Last week, potatoes and dried peas were dropped from the ration card. Bread and coffee are next but won’t go as gently into that good night as papas and chicharro, I’m afraid. In Cuba, bread and coffee mean breakfast. Making people buy these staples is going to be tricky – especially coffee, which, like everywhere, is very expensive: we make one espresso pot a day, spending around $15 a month. Being that the average salary is $12 a month, we’ll soon be facing a national java jones unless other provisions are made.

6. Regla is known as the “Little Sierra Maestra” it’s that revolutionary. It’s also home to the Black Virgin of Regla (Havana Bay’s patron saint and closely linked with Yemayá) and many secrets great and small. You can drive to Regla in 10 minutes from downtown Havana, but cross the bay via ferry for a picturesque, enjoyable journey to what could be a small town in the island’s interior, with all the friendly faces and simple fun that implies.

I’m just returning from the Global Forum for Health Research meeting in Havana, Cuba. The theme of this year’s meeting was “Innovating for the Health of All.” As a veteran of the biotechnology industry I thought I knew something about innovation. After all, innovation has been the engine behind the emergence of biotechnology worldwide from a cottage industry in the late 1970s to a vital force for improving health care and building national wealth. But I encountered a new and puzzling use of the term innovation, in the form of “social innovation” to address global health needs.

To understand social innovation in the context of global health, I spoke with Rakgadi Mohlahlane, a senior researcher at the University of Pretoria in South Africa, whose focus is HIV medical education in Africa. She described one of the problems that she is passionate about addressing: how can one design programs for HIV therapy for residents of remote African villages? In South Africa, it is estimated that 5.2 million individuals are living with HIV among a population of 27 million people. The country has one of the world’s largest HIV treatment programs with about 5 million people taking antiretroviral (ARV) therapy, but it primarily reaches urban residents and has not penetrated into more remote, isolated settings.

Why does this problem require “social innovation?” Providing ARVs isn’t just a matter of sending pills along with instructions for use. First, the knowledge that someone is HIV-positive is profoundly transforming for the individual, for their family, and for their community contacts. And while testing is an essential first step in controlling the epidemic, it’s a step approached fearfully and is often avoided by individuals who may be HIV-positive. Infection is still a cause for social opprobrium, which is perhaps even more intense in small communities where it is difficult to find the refuge of anonymity. Second, there is an intense need for culturally appropriate medical education—on the value of knowing one’s HIV status, on the complex management of this disease, and on the appropriate precautions for both HIV-positive and HIV-negative individuals. Third, implementation plans have to take into account the dearth of medical professionals who can provide oversight of patients to stay on chronic therapies or make adjustments to regimens. ARVs can have serious side effects; regimens can be complicated; and poor compliance can result in the development of drug resistance. How do you effectively support a patient in an isolated village of 600 people who must take a chronic therapy for the rest of his or her life?

Think of the challenge of developing an HIV testing and treatment program for a rural and scientifically unsophisticated community in Africa. And then multiply by the tens of neglected diseases and hundreds of different community, religious, and social contexts around the globe. And that’s how I came to understand the need for social innovation in the context of global health.

– David Cook is the Vice President of Business Development at BIO Ventures for Global Health.

• Author: Enrique Cirules
• Paperback: 200 pages (December, 2004)
• Publisher: Ocean Press (distributed by Pluto in the UK)
• ISBN: 18761754277

The Mafia dominates the Havana described in this book. They used it as both a haven and a playground – “the most splendid of paradises” (p.21) as the author puts it. Drugs, prostitution, gambling were their stock in trade. These come as little surprise. But this book does surprise in other ways.

Enrique Cirules has delved deeply into both Cuban and US archives as well as interviewing eye-witnesses. He slowly builds a complex picture of the financial, media and political links of the Mafia. When they described them as ‘organised crime’ they certainly meant organised!

Cirules lists the links between key Mafia players and banks and other financial institutions (used for money-laundering). He details the way in which the Mafia bought into the media and explains the often complicated links betweeen them and different political tendencies (including both Batista and his sometime rivals in the Autenticos).

The Mafia operated in Cuba for nearly 25 years with very few problems – whoever was supposedly in power. Even when the infamous Lucky Luciano moved publicly to Cuba there was an extreme reluctance to do anything about it on the part of the Cuban authorities (or what the author calls, perhaps more accurately, the “apparant power”). His eventual departure was only under threat of an embargo of medical supplies from the US and the covert opposition of Meyer Lansky himself to his stay. As Cirules explains: “Lansky was both Luciano’s Lieutenant and boss of the empire of Havana, and his assistance in any other circumstance would have been of extraordinary value to Lucky. But the fact that Lucky, the Chief of the Mafia, was moving permanently to Cuba threatened Lansky’s local rule. Opposition to Luciano from other hostile quarters in any case threatened Mafia business interests on the island”. (p.47). Even when he left in ‘47 it wasn’t as a prisoner but as a First Class passenger of some social note!

Only when the Cuban Revolution, led by Fidel Castro, finally won on January 1, 1959 was the party really over for what had become a ‘criminal state’. Cirules has provided a valuable service in documenting the corruption that preceded it and direct US links to it. The account is often dry but it adds greatly to understanding the period.
 

Reviewed by Patrick Harrington

As pernas que suportam meu peso extraordinário estão felizes em se levantar e parecem cientes de que permanecerão estiradas por um bom tempo. Propriamente dito, não sou eu e sim meus membros inferiores e superiores que regozijam a liberdade de movimento. Sequer reclamam da carga que cabe a eles suportar. Estou feliz porque nada foi extraviado.

A recepção havanesa não é particularmente calorosa. Não seria exagero dizer que beira o oposto. Enquanto aguardo pela passagem da imigração, listo mil problemas que poderia ter para entrar no país e como escaparia deles. Uma senhora grita na minha direção: “Le toca a usted”. Apresso o passo e sigo para a cabine. Do outro lado do vidro, uma negra bonita, talvez hipermetrope a julgar pelos óculos, me encara com olhos pretos gentis, mas sem excesso de simpatia. Enquanto ela faz perguntas de rotina em um sotaque de espanhol que não me é familiar, me distraio com a artimanha do seu penteado. Puxadas rente à raiz, as tranças do rastafári formam curvas sinuosas na cabeça da mulher. “Seus pais são brasileiros?”, pergunta. “Sim”, respondo um pouco aflita. “Os dois?”, lança novamente. “Sim. Minha mãe é brasileira e meu pai é grego, naturalizado brasileiro.” Ela me manda olhar para a câmera fotográfica circular que pende pouco acima da minha cabeça. Eu sorrio, não há cliques. Ela aciona o botão que destranca a porta e penso que passei pelo mais difícil.

Poucos passos e eis ao raio-X. Temia um pouco essa parte por motivos tecnológicos – e pela notória paranóia de espionagem dos cubanos. Decidi trazer o laptop pela facilidade de escrever sobre a viagem. O smartphone veio junto por um simples motivo: em Cuba, o acesso à internet é extremamente caro e restrito. Achei que seria uma mão na roda trazer o celular comigo. Mas lendo sobre as proibições em casa, me saltou aos olhos que aparelhos de GPS têm a entrada vetada no país e, por azar, o diabinho móvel está equipado com um sistema desse, ainda que nunca tenha sido ativado. Decidi arriscar.

Coloco todas as coisas na esteira (inclusive meu casaco, a pedido do senhor) e quando vou recolher meus pertences, o homem pede para ver novamente o passaporte. Estendo-o com a mão firme na esperança de que meu nervosismo não transparecesse. Ele passa a vista, olha pra mim já devolvendo o documento e faz sinal para que eu vá embora. Meu palpite é que eu tinha a senha: Brasil. Qualquer outra nacionalidade, a não ser a russa e a venezuelana, e a protagonista estaria em apuros. Pode ser que não, mas como eu gosto do suspense.

Cruzo as portas do desembarque e procuro a placa da Quick Viaggi, responsável pelo transporte até o hotel. São muitas placas, muitos senhores de calças azul-marinho e camisas brancas. Não encontro. Rita e eu estamos desesperadas para fumar. Sei que cultivo um mau vício, mas estou na terra do tabaco mais caro e prestigiado do mundo. No momento em que as portas se abrem para a rua, a umidade e o calor sobrenaturais cobrem o meu corpo e imediatamente as roupas grudam em mim e me sinto melada. Mal consigo terminar o cigarro. São muitas horas sem nicotina, fico tonta. Volto ao saguão e pergunto pela Cubatur. Um senhor me indica o número do ônibus que devo entrar. A caminhada até o estacionamento leva poucos minutos e a força do sol de 13h está se exibindo. Não gostei dessa informação do ônibus. Significa que vou perder um tempo precioso porque o transporte é meu e de outros 27 suados. Vejo alguns carros antigos parados e giro um pouco a vista para me deparar com uma frota de taxis da marca francesa Peugeot. Não entendi.

Já estou sentada no ônibus quando uma senhora branca de cabelos curtos alourados entra e chama meu nome. Lupe é a minha referência em Cuba para tudo o que concerne vouchers, transportes, passagens, hotéis. Ela se apresenta rapidamente, sua fala é mansa e simpática. Pergunto se o tempo estagnou nesse calor e ela arqueia as sobrancelhas, solta um riso de canto de boca e responde que sim. “Era para estar mais fresco, mas não está.” Não me consolo. Pergunto outras informações básicas como o câmbio e o preço de coisas triviais. Ela não se apressa. É gentil em me dar as informações que preciso. Já estamos de partida, então ela escreve seu número de telefone em um dos muitos papeis que agência de viagem me deu, se despede e desce do ônibus.

A guia da Cubatur relaciona a ordem de parada dos hotéis e como o Plaza fica em Havana Velha, centro histórico, Rita e eu seremos as últimas a ser deixadas. É chato porque preciso desesperadamente de um banho, mas não será de todo o mal. Poderemos dar uma volta grande em Havana.

O caminho do aeroporto até a cidade é bonito. Só o vidro da janela me separa das planícies verdes e tropicais do lado de fora. Ao contrário do que imaginara, o asfalto é liso e conservado. Começamos a ver cidade. São bairros de subúrbio de Havana, as ruas são veredas estreitas, casas com paredes descascadas colam-se umas às outras. Não consigo me concentrar no que a mulher diz no microfone – um mix de city tour e dados estatísticos do país. Estou com os olhos e a câmera vidrados no mundo que passa. A trilha sonora é “Chan Chan”, do Buena Vista Social Club. Só na minha cabeça.

Quando entramos no bairro de Miramar, noto como ele se assemelha às regiões suburbanas dos Estados Unidos da década de 1950. Aqui o espaço é amplo e as casas são térreas, espaçadas e sem muros ou grades. Só um gramado na frente. Os automobiles aos poucos vão dando as caras. Não há lixo na rua. Por todo canto há bancos e sombras de árvores. São as praças que os cubanos conhecem como parques. Parece que o tempo voltou.

1950 em 2009

Na medida em que adentramos a cidade, a paisagem vai mudando. Os prédios estão caindo aos pedaços. É uma decadência escancarada, sem vergonha. Casarões coloniais e neoclássicos construídos com esmero que agora se tornaram cortiços em cujas janelas secam calcinhas num varal improvisado. A impressão impossível que tenho é que o tijolo e o cimento estão enferrujados. Essa é a cor que têm. Estamos na avenida paralela ao famoso Malecón, a orla de Havana, já no bairro de Vedado. Há pouco tempo, passamos por um prédio estranhíssimo e enorme. Os auto-falantes explicam que o monstro de concreto retangular costumava abrigar a Embaixada da União Soviética. Seca. Sem adornos. Amedrontante.

Atrás do histórico e imponente Hotel Nacional (que parece um forte), a realidade é dura. Quase tenho vontade de pedir para me levarem de volta ao aeroporto. “O que diabos eu vim fazer aqui?”, me pergunto clandestinamente.

Nem o caminho pelo Malecón e a vista do mar azul escuro atenuam o incômodo que sinto.

“Coisas belas e sujas.” Sempre gostei dessa combinação de palavras e da implicação sexual que a acompanha. É uma definição acurada de Havana Velha. Duas horas de trajeto e a parada final do ônibus é o Plaza Hotel, no vértice da rua Ignacio Agramonte, no centro do bairro. Enquanto faço um scan 360° do que circunda o ponto, o motorista carrancudo saca a mala do bagageiro na esquina do prédio e nos despacha sem cerimônia. Com um pé direito de muitos metros que eu não saberia precisar, o Plaza tem uma estrutura incrível. Descubro que a construção de geometria singular data do início do século XX.

Recepção do Hotel Plaza

A mulher que nos atende na recepção é memorável. Tem a pele morena, os cabelos cacheados castanhos quase pretos, torneados por mechas mais claras. Sua figura delgada está poluída de tantos acessórios. Anéis dourados adornam quase todos os dedos. As unhas são muito compridas, me lembram Alcione, e desenhadas com flores feitas com esmalte dourado, como não! Seu pescoço e colo estão cobertos de colares. Não consigo ler a plaqueta com seu nome. Ela fala rápido e embolado então vou por dedução. Envergonho-me do diploma de espanhol que nunca emoldurei. Ela entrega um cartão de identificação de hóspede e as chaves. Javier, o bagageiro, nos acompanha até o quarto 230, acende as luzes e vai-se embora. Sempre me esqueço de dar gorjeta e aqui essa falha deve contar mais.

A habitación é simples, mas espaçosa. Os móveis são pesados e antigos, de madeira escura. Fiquei à vontade com a luz dos abajures, não me incomodou a ausência de luz no teto. Disponho de uma televisão, um frigobar pequeno e repleto, um armário grande e um banheiro limpo e velho. Decidimos experimentar uma Cristal, a cerveja mais popular de Cuba. Não tenho o hábito nem o luxo de poder beber com o estômago vazio, mas depois de tanto calor e viagem, a cerveja caiu muito bem. Meus pés viraram duas bolinhas de tanto inchaço. Ninguém gosta de admitir, muito menos eu, que ainda não saí da casa dos 20 anos, mas isso é sintoma da idade. Como se não bastasse, minhas pernas também reagiram e parece que eu tenho elefantíase. É muito estranho sentir a própria circulação.

Depois de desvirginar o frigobar para finalmente degustar a refrescante cerveja Cristal, descansamos e conversamos um pouco no quarto, em especial sobre nossa primeira impressão de Havana. Concordamos que ela é ruim. Realmente espero que aqui não se aplique aquela máxima de que a primeira impressão é a que fica.

Será em vão, mas tomo uma ducha para me livrar do calor, da pele ungida, do cheiro que trouxe comigo do Brasil. Para que eu entre no espírito deste lugar, é preciso me despir de qualquer outro. Preciso sentir Havana como ela é.

Vamos ao hotel vizinho trocar dinheiro em uma Cadeca, casa de câmbio oficial. Muita gente me alertou para não trazer dólares americanos porque na hora da conversão, além de pagar a taxa de câmbio, você é literalmente multado por circular com verdinhas ianques no país. A questão monetária cubana é particular. O Banco Central emite dois tipos de nota: o peso cubano, que tem um poder de compra irrisório, e o peso convertido, o famoso CUC, que é o dinheiro de fato. O sobressalto comum ao estrangeiro é que 1 euro vale 1,31 CUC. Economia não é meu forte e não entendi desde o início como um país pobre como Cuba consegue sustentar um câmbio assim. Recebo meus 131 CUCs e não tenho a menor noção de quanto isso realmente vale aqui.

Não posso dizer que conheço meio mundo, mas já viajei um bocado e em nenhum lugar tive de pagar por um mapa. Aqui, claro, não é assim. Encontro um balcão turístico no lobby do Plaza. Em meio às muitas facetas de Che Guevara, convertidas em pôsteres, postais e marca-livros, estão estendidos dois ou três tipos de mapas. Por 3 pesos, escolho um que também tem os caminhos de Santiago e de Varadero, meus próximos destinos. Munida de direções, quero sair e explorar Havana Velha.

Rita e eu estamos caminhando pelas ruas há menos de cinco minutos e já perdi a conta de quantos homens se assanharam para nós. Não vale à pena tentar reproduzir o conteúdo das cantadas. Deu para perceber que aqui, se correr o bicho pega, se ficar o bicho come. Pergunto-me se esse ditado popular é seguido à risca aqui e, pelo pouco que vi, não duvido que seja. Melhor sorrir e seguir o rumo.

Logo descobrimos que o ponto do hotel é excelente. São cinco e pouco da tarde e o calor não cedeu nem há de ceder. Cruzamos a praça, cheia de sombras benevolentes, em cujo centro está um monumento ao heroi da Independência, José Martí. Não sei se é porque vim de uma cidade sem heróis de pedra e sem praças para abrigá-los, mas acho estranho ver as pessoas sentadas nos bancos, absolutamente alheias ao olhar fixo e onisciente de uma das maiores personalidades nacionais. Seguimos o curso pelo Paseo de Martí e admiro a fachada do alvo e clássico Hotel Inglaterra. Ao seu lado, está o Gran Teatro Nacional de La Habana. Antigamente, muito antigamente, ele costumava abrigar a Associação Asturiana, um reduto refinado do orgulho espanhol. Fico interessada em entrar. Dura pouco. Meus olhos enrabicham pela esquerda e um monumento – porque aquela potência não se transfere a um edifício – esplêndido desvia minha atenção. Eis o Capitólio.

Capitólio

Inaugurado em 20 de maio de 1929, após recordes 3 anos e 50 dias de construção, o colosso de Havana já foi palácio presidencial, sede do governo, Câmara e Senado. Hoje abriga pomposamente o Ministério de Ciência, Tecnologia e Meio Ambiente. O projeto de Raúl Otero e Eugenio Rayni

eri foi inspirado no Capitólio da capital dos Estados Unidos, Washington. Os 93 metros de altitude até a ponta da cúpula já foram o cume da cidade, perdendo seu posto celeste para o Memorial José Martí, em 1950. Nunca me incomodou ter meio metro de altura, mas, veja, me sinto minúscula. Ficou até difícil tirar fotos. O pontinho branco e jeans que se vê na foto poderia ser qualquer pessoa. Em cada lado da escada, uma escultura imensa. A da direita representa a Virtude Tutelar do povo e a da direita, o Trabalho. Austeras, sisudas e lindas. Estou emocionada.

A escadaria do que parecem mil degraus me parece cansativa, sobretudo com este calor dantesco, mas vale à pena. Concomitantemente à primeira investida ao degrau, escuto um apito triplo e estridente. Pi Pi piiiiiiiiiii.

O sentinela

Um guardinha (en)fardado vem descendo e apitando. Uma simpatia em pessoa. Nem se dá o trabalho de abrir a boca para responder “sim” ou “não” quando pergunto se é permitido subir. Burocraticamente, faz o sinal do relógio de pulso e entendo que passei da hora (e, pelo visto, dos limites). Mas, espere. Tudo bem, não posso entrar no Capitólio, já está fechado, mas é proibido subir as escadas? Quer dizer que a pedra angular do turismo, que consiste em subir e tirar fotos, não é permitida? Raro. Rio do japonês desobediente que sorri amarelo pra foto e desce a passos rápidos. Faço algumas fotos mais e me prometo voltar aqui. Vou subir as malditas escadas.

Achamos melhor voltar rumo ao Tacón. Parece que tem uma placa no meu pescoço escrito TURISTA. Fico pensando se existe alguma coisa que nos trai. Será o jeito de vestir ou falamos português muito alto? Prefiro culpar a Rita, que é uma leite-moça. Apesar de que só isso não adiantaria. Cubanos também são brancos. De nada adianta cogitar. Não conseguimos andar impunes. A todo momento, alguém pede ou oferece alguma coisa. “Táxi. As senhoritas desejam um táxi?” Fico um pouco curiosa com as caras suplicantes. Me corta um pouco o coração já que a gente tem noção do que as pessoas passam aqui, mas é um resumo literário. Ver na prática é diametralmente diferente. Também me dá um nervoso, não estou acostumada a tanto assédio.

Próximo ao teatro, um homem franzino e dentuço, cuja semelhança com a nossa beldade Ronaldinho Gaúcho me assombra, aponta para os pés da Rita, diz qualquer coisa em um tom amigável de um espanhol ininteligível e primeiro eu acho que ele está elogiando seus sapatos. Estúpida, informo que aqueles pares são da marca Melissa. Repito devagar, reproduzindo fielmente a mania de falar de-va-gar na esperança de que o ritmo e não o idioma garanta a compreensão de uma pessoa de outro país. Ao lado dele, anda uma mulher baixinha, menor do que eu.  Como é que ela tem coragem usar uma calça jeans com esse clima? Imagino que ela deva estar presa nas calças há três dias de tão difícil que é de tirar. Nos damos conta de que ele se refere à tatuagem da Rita. Quer saber o que está escrito. “Sê inteiro”, de Fernando Pessoa. Logo o homem levanta a blusa para exibir as suas próprias tatuagens e, na minha hipocrisia brasileira, fico vexada.

O casal é composto por Alberto e Cristina. Eles nos cumprimentam aos beijos após se apresentarem e puxam papo. De onde somos, parabéns pelas olimpíadas no Rio de Janeiro em 2016, o Brasil é um paraíso, as novelas são maravilhosas. Eles nos trazem a boa nova de que, em comemoração ao aniversário do inigualável Buena Vista Social Club, está acontecendo um festival de salsa na cidade e é de graça. Pergunto onde será a festa e os dois se oferecem para nos mostrar o local. Quanta boa vontade. Enquanto vamos andando nas ruelas estreitas e lúgubres de trás do Capitólio, incorro no erro fatal de perguntar se há algum restaurante bom por perto. Não comemos nada desde que pisamos em Cuba. “Sí, como no!”, exclama Alberto. “Vou levá-las em um paladar, onde se come comida criolla, que é o que o cubano realmente come”, explica. Ótimo. Vou conferir a culinária tradicional.

Seguimos conversando e noto que Cristina tem um sorriso de ouro. Pelo menos 3 dentes são de ouro, ou folheado, não sei como isso funciona por aqui. Quando um dos dois para e avisa que chegamos ao restaurante não vejo mesas de fora e mal enxergo a placa que identifica o local. Eles abrem a porta, nos mandam entrar e fico sem rumo porque me deparo com uma sala de estar. Olho para a Rita, ela olha pra mim… Alberto cumprimenta alguém e entra em um cômodo à direita, fazendo sinal para que o sigamos. Então, chegamos ao paladar. Trata-se de sala hermética, sem conexão com o mundo de fora. Cinco mesas redondas, ar condicionado e cortinas vermelhas horrendas. Não há ninguém. O lugar é nosso.

Rita e eu nos sentamos e, repare na intimidade, Alberto e Cristina também se sentam. Uma mulher alta e rechonchuda pergunta o que queremos beber e traz quatro cervejas em seqüência. Mal começamos a conversar e Alberto pergunta se já vamos pedir. “Aqui não é um local de turistas.  A comida é muito mais barata”, ele prega. Não há muita opção. Porco, peixe ou frango. Cristina gentilmente me diz que o porco, aqui “cerdo”, é a comida tradicional. A garçonete/dona da casa/filha da dona me explica que cada prato custa 20 CUCs e vem acompanhado de moros y cristianos, o arroz e feijão deles, e vegetais. “Um prato serve duas pessoas?”, pergunto. Alberto é taxativo. De jeito nenhum. Naturalmente, eles pedem um prato para cada um e mal a mulher vai embora, Cristina já nos agradece pelo que estamos fazendo. Fazendo o quê? Ah, entendi. Que ótimo, a comida é por conta do Brasil.

Passado o desconforto do convite involuntário, começo a fazer perguntas para Cristina. Quero saber detalhes da vida deles, o que pensam do governo, o que eles podem e não podem fazer. Histórias mínimas. “Com Raúl [Castro, o presidente], as coisas estão muito mais difíceis. Tudo piorou”, diz, enquanto tira um Marlboro Lights meu, acende, e  só depois pede permissão. Ela conta coisas que parecem mentiras. Além das cotas de alimentos, que não suprem as necessidades de uma família ao longo de um mês, as mulheres são particularmente prejudicadas por uma questão de natureza. Existe cota para absorventes e a disponibilidade deles não é nem garantida nem regular. Ou seja, as cubanas ainda estão no tempo da toalhinha, do paninho dobrado. É inacreditável.

Coincidentemente, Alberto é cozinheiro do nosso hotel. Peço desculpas de antemão, mas não resisto em perguntar quanto ele ganha. “Ganho 240 pesos cubanos. Dá mais ou menos 24 pesos conversíveis por mês”, responde para uma platéia de duas boquiabertas. Como é possível viver com isso? Cristina trabalha para a fábrica de charutos Patargas, seu salário não é muito diferente. Ela conta que os funcionários das fábricas têm direito a duas caixas por mês e, para fazer uma renda extra, eles se juntam no que ela chama de “cooperativa” e vendem clandestinamente. É o famoso mercado negro do tabaco. Comentamos que trouxemos algumas coisas para dar, sabonetes, pastas de dentes, etc. Ela diz que seria de grande ajuda e não perde a chance de perguntar se também não trouxemos roupas. “Pra mim? Sim, claro. Não posso andar pelada”, penso comigo mesma, com um sarcasmo inevitável. Prefiro acreditar que ela quis saber por curiosidade.

A comida chega e me dou conta de que cada prato que pedimos equivale ao salário deles. Tem alguma coisa errada aqui. Aliás, tem várias coisas erradas aqui, a começar pelo tamanho de cada prato. Só eu fui bonificada com pelo menos uns cinco bifes de porco. O acompanhamento é uma verdadeira panela de arroz e feijão e uma travessa de vagem. Como que isso é individual? Me sinto tão enganada, você não pode imaginar. Não sei qual parte do porco é essa, mas lombo certamente não é. A comida é insossa. A carne não tem tempero algum a não ser sal e limão, nada teatral. Como porque estou com fome. Rita faz o mesmo com seu peixe.

Alberto entra e sai a todo momento da sala. Come pouco, ao contrário de sua mulher. “A gente não é casado, casado. Sabe como é? Temos uma filha de 3 anos. Ela se chama Lorena”, conta Cristina. Alberto se junta a nós com um presente. Uma moeda de 25 centavos de peso cubano, “la moneda del Che”. De um lado seu rosto, do outro uma imagem dele cortando cana. Um gesto gentil ou será a sua contribuição na conta? Meu Deus, perdoai minha maldade.

Não sei do que a gente estava rindo. Repare o saco plástico na mesa.

Já não posso mais comer e ainda tem muita coisa no prato. Digo que estou satisfeita e me perguntam com espanto se não gostei da comida. É fato, não gostei, entretanto fico com a opção educada. “Imagina, estava uma delícia”, minto, descaradamente. Pedimos a conta e o que vem é uma bigorna na cabeça: 99 CUCs. O casal já avisara que era um convite. Eles nem se alteram. Mal chegamos e morremos em quase 50 euros cada uma. Se cada refeição custar um cubano a tira colo e 50 euros, acho que vou reavaliar o papel da nutrição nessa viagem.

Mas é a cena que se segue que realmente não tem preço. Alberto pede à rechonchuda uma sacola plástica, dessas de supermercado, e raspa as carnes que sobraram nos pratos para dentro dela. Vão levar a comida para casa. Assim, em uma sacola plástica, como se fosse um souvenir que acabaram de comprar. Há muito tempo que a pequena Lorena não vê um pedaço de carne. Eu sei que essa história se repete no Brasil. Não venho de um país onde não há miseráveis, famintos, pedintes. Então, por que será que fico tão incomodada? Reflito e me critico o suficiente para reconhecer que santo de casa não faz milagre. No Brasil, eu me esquivo da pobreza. Aqui, não dá.

Bom, eu também estou mais pobre, então a festa de salsa gratuita me interessa muito. Já é noite e seguimos com eles pelas ruas agora mal iluminadas. “Isso que vocês estão vendo é a realidade cubana”, diz Cristina. De portas literalmente abertas, sou convidada a ver as salas minúsculas em que três, quatro, oito pessoas se aglomeram, apertadas, encaloradas. A televisão reina por aqui, não há muito o que se fazer nem dinheiro que possa comprar diversão. Me bate uma tristeza, lembro daquela música do Vinícius de Moraes, tão linda na voz da Bethânia, que diz assim: “é gente humilde / que vontade de chorar”.

"A realidade cubana"

O momento passa quando Cristina diz que está nos levando na cooperativa. Meu segundo erro fatal foi ter comentado no paladar que eu gostaria de comprar charutos. Digo que é melhor passarmos lá amanhã, hoje quero mesmo saber onde é o festival, mas os dois insistem, me deixam sem jeito. Vêm com aquela lorota tão conhecida dos brasileiros, aquela pressão sutil que faz com que você se sinta um imbecil se deixar passar a oportunidade. Não gosto de ser coagida. Além do mais, é nosso primeiro dia aqui, posso estar me precipitando. A vontade que tenho é de puxar a Rita pra outra rua e sair correndo. Mas há um porém. Se eu voltar de Cuba sem os puros tão amados do meu pai, acho que ele me manda de volta só pra comprar. Pior, acho que ele nunca mais olha na minha cara. É sério assim.

Resolvo cair na conversar. A “cooperativa” nada mais é do que a casa de alguém. Dois ou três homens estão conversando em frente à casa e não fazem muito caso quando entramos. Cristina, que já me chama de “amiga”, veja você, me apresenta a dona da casa e senhora da mutreta. Esqueço instantaneamente seu nome. Desfila pra lá e pra cá em um short extra curto, ela tem pernas pra isso (penso como sou flácida e preguiçosa). Ela também tem um dente de ouro e unhas enormes. Reclama que a escova que fez no cabelo não durou nem um dia nesse tempo. Manda que nos sentemos. A opção é um conjunto de sofá e poltronas de estofado absolutamente quente e decrépito. Chama o marido/homem/senhor da mutreta pra nos atender. “Las chicas buscan los puros”, resume.

O guia

O Senhor Cohiba, como decidir chamá-lo, é um negro intimidante. Transpira sem parar. Em seu pescoço pende uma corrente dourada considerável, ao melhor estilo bicheiro. Quando ele pergunta o que eu quero, fico uns dez segundos sem responder porque não dá para não prestar atenção ao fato de que todas, eu disse todas, as pontas dos seus dentes da arcada superior são de cobertas de ouro. Caio em mim e, humilhada, abro uma folha de papel – um guia – com fotos e informações sobre os charutos que meu pai gentilmente me deu após um tutorial em como reconhecer tabaco falsificado. O cara não tem outra opção a não ser rir. Peço Montecristo, Cohiba Esplendido, Patargas, Romeo y Julieta, meu filho, traga o que tiver. Me diz pra esperar um poquito. Sai, chama alguém e em questão de segundos começam a chegar caixas e mais caixas dos preciosos enroladas em camisetas, dentro de mochilas ou em sacolas pretas. Cheiro um por um, aperto pra sentir a consistência, tento não parecer mais idiota e leiga do que eles acham sou.

Quero saber o preço e ele sempre se esquiva. Finge que não ouvir. Gesticula dando a entender que a gente conversa sobre isso depois. Se eu peço outra coisa, não tem problema. Senhor Cohiba conhece quem precisa, se ele não tem, alguém terá. Começo a achar a situação estranha e pergunto em um espanhol trêmulo o que diabos está acontecendo. “Máfia cubana”, responde, sorrindo dourado. Eu rio de nervoso, sinto uma fincada de adrenalina na axila. O negócio é o seguinte: eu já mandei baixar meio estoque de charuto de Havana, então ou eu compro ou eu morro. Vendem meus órgãos em troca de mais ouro pra cobrir mais dente. Meu Deus, onde é que fui me enfiar.

Sou parte judia e confesso que o cromossomo da barganha veio torto no meu caso. Mas o Senhor Cohiba quer me empurrar cinco caixas de charutos por 500 CUCs. Pra começar, só posso sair do país com duas caixas. Teoricamente, eu precisaria da nota fiscal e isso todo mundo sabe que não vai acontecer. Por fim, nem aqui nem na China eu vou pagar essa fortuna. Digo que com esse dinheiro vou a uma loja e compro uma caixa com garantia de autenticidade e nota fiscal. Eu estou com medo do Senhor Cohiba, mas negociar é preciso. Depois de muita saliva na minha cara, chegamos ao um preço decente. Levamos três caixas por 280 pesos. Cristina diz que eles ganham um bônus por levar clientes até a cooperativa. O prêmio é uma caderneta a mais para compras de supermercado.

Temos que trocar mais dinheiro já que o que nós tínhamos foi Havana abaixo. Cristina e Alberto nos acompanham até o Hotel Parque Central, mas desta vez não andam ao nosso lado. Andam muito à frente, carregando a sacola plástica cheia de porco e peixe misturados, já nem ligam pra nós. Se limitam a olhar pra trás algumas vezes só pra garantir que estamos seguindo. Sabem onde estamos hospedadas, não temos nem como tentar dar o golpe. Quando me lembro do festival de salsa, dão explicações vagas, imprecisas. Um monte de esquerdas e direitas que não formam nenhum endereço.

Fazemos o câmbio e entrego o que falta. Alberto vê uma nota de 20 CUCs na minha mão e com uma cara de cachorro abandonado – o que ele é –, junta as mãos em sinal de prece e me pede o dinheiro. Nego veementemente. Basta. Nos despedimos na porta do hotel e eles somem na escuridão.

Um banho cai como uma luva e me deito para descansar um pouco. O sabão não lavou a raiva que estou sentindo. A cara miserável de Alberto me pedindo o dinheiro se repete milhares de vezes na minha cabeça e em nenhuma delas me sinto mesquinha. Me sinto uma turista babaca, desavisada, que caiu nos golpes mais vagabundos. Apesar dos selos de garantia de qualidade, nada me convence de que os charutos são autênticos. Decidimos sair para ir até o famoso Malecón e desanuviar a cabeça.

As avenidas do Paseo del Prado são separadas por uma ampla e longa praça que vai da esquina do Parque Central até a orla. É mais ou menos como La Rambla, em Barcelona. A única diferença é que aqui não tem luz. Sério. Os postes estão ali, lindamente art decó. Eles só não estão acesos. O que resta são as luzes das marquises dos prédios e nem todos esnobam a escuridão com uma lâmpada incandescente. Meu palpite é que a falta de luz é uma medida de contenção de gasto energético. Melhor andar pela calçada, não? Breu no Brasil é igual a perigo e não é agora que vou me desvincular da paranóia nacional. A tensão no ar poderia ser cortada com uma faca, assim com meu ventre brasileiro caso alguém resolva me atacar. A apreensão é tamanha que ando mais rápido do que minhas pernas curtas podem alcançar. “Rita, anda logo. Se alguém atacar a gente aqui, ninguém nunca vai saber. Vão roubar tudo, nossos dólares, nossos euros!” Não tem como saber se a minha histeria justifica-se ou não.

A beleza supera o abandono

O escuro é superado pelo esplendor arquitetônico. O desgaste, o abandono, a falta de preservação e até o desabamento não são capazes de esconder a beleza primeira que esse lugar tem. Havana é uma miss idosa. Decadente, empobrecida, apegada a uma coroa de brilho falso e a fotos antigas de um tempo que nunca existiu de verdade.

O vento que sopra do mar assim que chegamos ao Malecón é um gracejo que dura pouco. Rita insiste em passear aqui, influenciada pela extensa leitura do escritor cubano Pedro Juan Gutiérrez, cujos livros são proibidos no próprio país. Gutiérrez escreve como vive, ele mesmo se define como um autor visceral. Não poupa nada. O excremento, o cheio do sexo, as noites quentes no Malecón, o amor violento, o excesso de rum e escassez do dinheiro, a pobreza instrínseca. A mureta que separa o mar da orla não tem espaço livre para uma nádega a mais. A impressão que dá é que este é o programa da noite. De todas as noites. Gutiérrez não mentiu.

Andamos sem rumo. Conversamos sobre o nosso desconsolo com a cidade, sobre o assédio, sobre as ciladas em que podemos cair a cada passo que dermos. O sonho de conhecer Cuba, Havana em especial, era mais pulsante na Rita do que em mim e de certa forma a literatura a preparou melhor para o cenário. Eu quero sair um pouco da minha pele.

Damos meia volta e queremos parar em algum lugar. Avistamos restaurantes e bares simpáticos entre notórios cortiços, mas estamos com medo dos preços. Resolvemos ir até um que nos chamou a atenção e dar uma olhada no cardápio. O Café Neruda é uma preciosidade e faz jus ao nome que carrega. Banquetas e mesas de pedra no meio da grama ao delicioso ar livre. É aqui mesmo. Pedimos o menu e qual é a nossa surpresa quando descobrimos que este lugar absolutamente agradável e charmoso é infinitamente mais barato do que aquela espelunca de paladar. Um prato de comida custa 5 CUCs. Cinco! Pagamos 20. Vinte! Sinto subir um calafrio demoníaco e tenho vontade de xingar alto, maldizer Cristina e Alberto publicamente. Tenho vontade de chamar a polícia. Turista idiota! Burra, burra, burra!

Recobro a razão e me forço a esquecer essa história. Estou baqueada, desapontada, mas não posso deixar isso tomar conta de mim. O ódio passa e resolvemos pedir bebidas. Carlos, o garçom, é um homem irritantemente bonito. Um sorriso branquíssimo contrasta com o tom de pele profundamente escuro que cobre um porte atlético e atraente. Aposto que ele sabe dançar. Perguntamos se ele conhece algum lugar com boa música e ele indica La Casa de La Musica. “Me invitan?”, lança, pra ver se cola. Carlos, você é um pão, mas já fomos vítimas de um golpe hoje. Quem dera que você tivesse aparecido primeiro. Teria sido uma falcatrua muito mais interessante. Não me permito mais assanhamento. Um papo bom, algumas Cristal e muito sarcasmo com nossa ingenuidade salvam a noite. Por hoje, é só.