THE CUBA CHRONICLES III
Sunday, May 20th 2007
What does it mean to be a young Cuban in the 21st century? While the
rest of the world wears Che
T-shirts and shouts "Viva la revolucion!", those who have grown up as
heirs to Marti, Maceo and Guevara don't always want to be heroes, writes
Nazma Muller in the third of a
five-part series.
"Uno, dos, tres. Uno, dos, tres." We always started the same way, facing
the big mirror on the living room wall. As Los Van Van called out,
"Aiyee, mamita! Arriba, arriba! Que lo que pasa aqui?", Daniel* held my
left wrist and guided me through the steps, first to the right, then to
the left. "No fuimos," he intoned, my cue to begin a circle. "Atras! Atras!"
Every Tuesday and Thursday he arrived at Rosa's* house promptly at
6.30pm. He was her only child and she adored him. He kissed all of the
women on the cheek, and shook his stepfather Pedro's* hand. We limed on
the porch for a while, then went inside and pushed back the antique
furniture to clear a space. He was a very good teacher; after just two
weeks of classes, I could fake my way through a whole song.
He tried to throw me off by moving faster, kicking up his legs and
twisting his torso. But I had been buffed repeatedly: "No apure!" So I
kept my head up and tried to keep time with Los Van Van's slower beat.
"Muy bien," Daniel beamed.
When he smiled like that the gorgeous devil could make a woman eight
years his senior blush. Rosa had asked me, half-seriously, more than
once, "Tu no quieres Daniel?" He desperately wanted to leave Cuba, and I
could be his passport out. But he had a live-in girlfriend, Mildred, of
five years. (A lot of Cubans under the age of 35 have English names,
after soap opera actors or movie stars.) They had completed university
and were working the mandatory two years in government service. Everyone
worked for the state but their salaries were slightly lower.
"Pero el tiene una novia," I protested.
"No importa," Rosa shook her head. "Ella lo esperará." Mildred would
wait for him. Personally, I thought she would kill him, then me. But
they earned about 250 pesos each (TT$73) a month. I was paying him 5 CUC
(TT$35) an hour. "I make the same amount in three hours," Daniel
calculated in disgust.
How much did I pay for salsa classes in London? he wanted to know. Five
pounds an hour, with 20 students in the class. A personal tutor would
probably charge about £20 an hour. He shook his head in disbelief at
what sounded like a fortune. But, I pointed out, all the things that the
Cuban government provides or subsidises, you will have to pay for: rent,
electricity, gas, water, transport, food plus, if he ever made it to the
States and fell ill, he had better have health insurance.
He didn't care. He wanted to leave, to find out for himself. "Estoy
preparado," he said, using the Cuban expression for someone who is
skilled or educated, and thus prepared for work. He had the free
education in Cuba to thank for that, I responded.
"For that I say, 'Gracias, Fidel'," he responded, clasping his hands in
thanks. "But what kind of life is this?"
Daniel was angry. Tall and handsome, he had a degree, spoke very good
English and was learning German. Yet he couldn't afford a pair of
sneakers on his salary. Like most Cubans, he had to hustle on the
side-salsa classes, pirate DVDs, anything to earn some CUCs.
Later, between mouthfuls of rice and beans and chicken, he railed at the
eight o'clock news. "Even if I get the money for a car as a gift, it
won't be in my name. (The car would have to be bought by someone with
official permission to do so.) What can I buy with my salary? Rice and
beans, nothing else. How are we supposed to buy clothes, soap, shampoo?
But you don't see any of that on the news. Only 'Viva Fidel, viva Fidel'!"
Actually, there was hardly any mention of Fidel in the media. That
evening, we watched as Raul presented a stamp commemorating the 50th
anniversary of the assault on the Presidential Palace to a group of men
who were involved in the attack; he praised the success of the Western
Army training of reservists and militia members; a disabled Havana
mother had started embroidering portraits of The Cuban Five, who had
been convicted of spying and were in prison in the US.
Any news of Fidel was officially sanctioned. When he surprised the world
by calling Chavez's radio programme one afternoon, the entire broadcast
was transmitted on Cuban radio that night. Rosa's cousin stayed up until
1am listening to it. The next day, the text of the conversation ran
across three of Granma's eight pages.
When Daniel got started on "la situación", Pedro got upset. He still
believed in the revolution. He showed me old black and white photos of
himself in the '70s in Russia, where he was sent to study.
There were photos of his other wives as well (Rosa was number five). He
spent his days off reading history and military books and was only to
happy to lend me Che's Bolivian Diary. (After two pages of military
tactics, I gave up.) The Cuban people don't want to change the system,
Pedro declared. There was an election a few years ago, at the municipal
and provincial levels, and 80 per cent voted for Fidel.
What was the alternative? I asked.
There were many alternatives, he responded, anyone can offer themselves
up for any post. The 20 per cent of dissenters didn't vote, or said they
didn't want the candidates on offer.
But, I asked, looking across at Daniel's angry face, what did he think
of Cuba's future? The economy will expand and adapt, Pedro said. Didn't
we adapt when the "special period" began? We will adapt again, he
insisted, glancing quickly at Rosa.
Things weren't so bad for you, she snapped. You were in the military.
She had her own opinion of the days after the collapse of the USSR. Her
salary at that time, 250 pesos, couldn't feed her, Daniel, her mother,
her aunt and her cousin. The exchange rate then was US$1 to 150 pesos.
They would eat the skin of oranges, she said. Daniel would be crying,
"Mami, tengo hambre", but she had nothing to give him. She used to clean
a rich woman's house
for US$1 a day. But even when they had money, the shops were empty.
Pedro admitted that those in the military had fared better. They didn't
eat well, but they didn't starve, like many Cubans had.
When did the special period end? I asked, confused.
"Todavia," they both responded. They were still in the special period.
"Es mejor ahora," Pedro insisted, "pero estamos en el periodo especial
todavia."
Things had definitely improved in the last 10 years. La Maison, a grand
19th century home with marble floors had been converted into a fabulous
open-air venue. On the last Wednesday of the month there was a karaoke
contest and fashion show, complete with Kawasakis and Harley Davidsons
as props. Skinny models in baggy underwear strutted around in amateurish
designs made of cheap fabric.
The singing ranged from ordinary to off-key, but the audience, dressed
to the nines and new to the concept, clapped warmly. They were less
enthusiastic about the National Opera singer who made a guest
appearance, lip-syncing and shaking her hips. Afterwards, the DJ played
a few salsa tunes and the stage was packed with couples twirling in
tight turns. Then the reggaeton took over and it was like being in a
dancehall video.
I looked around, and spotted the Rasta artist who had repaired my
tattoo. He was trying to keep up as his wife wined up and down like an
elevator. The last time I had seen Irving, in July last year, he was
hanging out with two black Rastas. Weed being highly illegal in Cuba, he
and his brethren reached heights of consciousness solely through
reasoning and drumming. "Hay muchos Rastas en Cuba," he said. He
wouldn't say who or what was Babylon-only that it was any kind of oppressor.
Irving traced his own connection to Rastafari back to a childhood friend
whose parents were Jamaican. They used to play reggae all the time, he
said, and he grew up listening to Bob Marley and Burning Spear. He had
all of Bob's albums, plus CDs of Sizzla and Capleton. He had read a lot
about Haile Selassie, and looked unconvinced when I said that the
emperor was most surprised when he arrived in Jamaica to discover that
they thought he was the living god.
Carlito* was intrigued. He had brought me to Irving's house to get my
tattoo touched up. He didn't know anything about Rastafari, but when the
others started debating philosophy and human nature, he joined in with
great enthusiasm. A white Cuban with parents who were professionals, he
lived like any middle-class American teenager. He had studied French and
English in university and was due to marry a Canadian in a couple of
months and leave Cuba. He spent his days listening to music and snorkelling.
He took me to the nearby beach one day. I was surprised to see three
policemen standing around, looking bored. Carlito led me towards a
jetty, where a few families and a group of teenagers sat. A young couple
splashed around in the water. She jumped on his back, and I saw that she
was wearing sneakers. How bizarre. I could see a smaller beach to the
left, partitioned off by a walkway. I followed Carlito and jumped into
the water. It was full of sharp rocks. That's why the girl was wearing
sneakers. Hobbling out, I headed towards the walkway. One of the
policemen stopped me. I didn't understand what he said, so I asked
Carlito. "No podemos ir allá," he explained. "Es para las familias
militares solamente."
One day I went to his house and heard shouting coming from the back
porch. He and his sister were playing Monopoly, while his father was the
banker. They took the game very seriously, and almost came to blows over
the rent for Atlantic Avenue.
I hadn't thought Monopoly would be popular. Was it sold in stores? Not
really, Carlito told me, counting his money carefully, it was hard to
come by. They mostly sold another board game, where the objective was to
raise money to help other poor Third World countries. Carlito thought it
was lame. "Prefiero Monopoly," he said. "Me gusta ganar dinero." He
preferred Monopoly; he liked to earn money.
*Names have been changed to protect their identity.
Next week: El campo and the art of hustling.
http://www.trinidadexpress.com/index.pl/article_news?id=161149506
No comments:
Post a Comment