Cuba
Updated: Sep 17
loud patriotism and whispered criticism:
the communist ideal in practice
living in a dysfunctional utopia
Slow change is invisible. Transformation is a blurry wave, unlike the crisp ripple put in motion by the sudden impact of a revolutionary fist disturbing still waters. Maybe the shifting tide had been rolling towards Cuba's shores for decades, but I guess ever since Castro handed over business to the other Castro in 2008, the country’s opening felt increasingly tangible. Rumor had it that the iconically isolated island regime would loosen the policy grip on its people, and that sooner or later there would be an old and a new Cuba, the before and after. Perhaps, December 2014—the dawn of the Cuban thaw—marked the tipping point of Caribbean communism (two words and concepts that feel almost at odds): the first act of the last wriggle, the overstretching of a cocoon that was too tight and worn too long. Moving, shaking, breaking. No going back.
The Cubans shared their drinks as generously as their tales—quintessential life lessons distilled from rum and rumor.
So where was Cuba two months earlier—in October 2014—when I visited? On the cusp, I’d say, remarkably ambiguous and undecided. That Cuba was many things, and many of the things that Cuba was intersected in Havana’s streets. Night and day, the island capital seemed both culture cocktail and cocktail culture, blending a perfectly irresistible variety of ingredients: songs soaked in local anecdotes, colorful dance dispelling drab despair, cars and architectures from different times and places, mojitos and daiquiris. The Cubans shared their drinks as generously as their tales—quintessential life lessons distilled from rum and rumor. With their voices drenched in patriotism, they raved about the socialist life under Castro, declaring the biggest Caribbean island loudly and proudly the most wonderful country in the world. It felt like they meant it. Then, hiding their words in an equally passionate whisper, they detailed the pitfalls of communism and the shortcomings of their government, lamenting their lives. And it felt like they meant it.
"El Cubano inventa," they said—the Cuban comes up with something, finds a way around the odds, reinvents everything always, sharpens resourcefulness with those abrasive and heavy stones of deprivation.
What was I to believe, navigating this cigar smoke of ambiguity? Were these contradictory feelings towards the motherland equally valid and strong? Was the socialist utopia as rewarding as it was insufferable? Certainly, the meager sample size of my informal study conducted over rum and laughter limited the significance of the results significantly, but somehow everyone I encountered appeared torn right along the same line between their heart valves, as though the whole nation was riddled by a societal manic depression. The noble communist ideal seemed to delight the islanders as much as its strict decrees tormented them, creating a collectively equivocal feeling.
The controversy was evident and omnipresent: Cuba was said to have the best educational system and health care in all of Latin America, kids didn’t suffer malnutrition, the state provided, the sun shone. BUT. No matter how hard you’d work, how invested a teacher or doctor you’d be, your paycheck landed in the ballpark of $50 USD, where most consumerist desires beyond the state-provided ration remained prohibitively far from even the most ambitious reach. People in the streets would ask foreigners for pieces of clothing, a pen, or other everyday commodities that weren’t easily accessible to them.
"El Cubano inventa," they said—the Cuban comes up with something, finds a way around the odds, reinvents everything always, sharpens resourcefulness with those abrasive and heavy stones of deprivation.
Despite the communist suffering all around, I never heard calls for capitalism. I guess everyone was aware (or made aware) that the utopia next door was just as dysfunctional.
Despite the communist suffering all around, I never heard calls for capitalism. I guess everyone was aware (or made aware) that the utopia next door was just as dysfunctional. The American dream was an American dream, and the Cuban dream was a Cuban dream.
With all the vagueness engulfing Cuban life on the cusp between eras, I didn’t arrive at any solid conclusions. Fortunately, I didn't have to, in such a fluid nation.
I would have liked to love Cuba, and as a writer and photographer I felt almost obliged to leave my heart and soul there. But to feel so unconditionally about that rum-and-fun island, one needed to ignore or tolerate a lot of local suffering. And to arrive in such an iconic country with the kind of low to moderate expectations that let other places shine upon arrival, is almost unimaginable.
That said, Cuba is really something. Something else, really.
Havana
tales of an informal stay back in the day
Dissecting Havana with my feet during those first days, I tripped over quite a few of the political and economic implications wedded by the Marxian ideal, surprised by how divorced some experiences were from others, both for Cubans and visitors.
Cojímar
Heming-way off
It’s hard to follow someone like Hemingway into their world. He lived it and wrote it with so much ethos.
