Where Is Cuba Going?

Where Is Cuba Going?


Published: September 20, 2012 17 Comments

On the plane, something odd but also vaguely magical-seeming happened:

namely, nobody knew what time it was. Right before we landed, the flight

attendant made an announcement, in English and Spanish, that although

daylight saving time recently went into effect in the States, the island

didn't observe that custom. As a result, we had caught up — our time had

passed into sync with Cuban time. You will not need to change your

watches. Then, moments later, she came on again and apologized. She had

been wrong, she said. The time in Cuba was different. She didn't specify

how many hours ahead. At that point, people around us looked at one

another. How could the not know what time it is where we're

going? Another flight attendant, hurrying down the aisle, said loudly,

"I just talked to some actual Cubans, in the back, and they say it'll be

the same time." That settled it: we would be landing in ignorance. We

knew our phones weren't going to work because they were tied to a U.S.

company that didn't operate on the island.

The 6-year-old sat between us, looking back and forth at our faces. "Is

something wrong?" she asked.

"No," my wife, Mariana, said, "just funny." But to me she did the

eyebrows up and down.

"What?" I said.

"Nothing," she said, "just — into the zone."

Mi esposa travels to Cuba every so many years, to do movie-related

research (she's a film-studies professor) and to visit her mother's

family, a dwindling number of which, as death and have

surpassed the birthrate, still live in the same small inland town, a

dusty, colonial-looking agricultural town, not a place anyone's heard

of. To them, even after half a century, it's the querencia, an

untranslatable Spanish word that means something like "the place where

you are your most authentic self." They won't go on about Cuba around

you in a magic-realist way. Nor do they dream of trying to reclaim their

land when the Castros die. Destiny settled their branch of the family

not in Florida, where, if you're Cuban-American, your nostalgia and

anger (and sense of community) are continually stoked, but in Carolina

del Norte, where nobody cares. They tend to be fairly laid back about

politics. But their memories stitch helplessly back to and through that

town over generations, back to the ur-ancestors who came from a small

village in the Canary Islands.

My wife's 91-year-old Cuban grandmother, who lives with us much of the

time, once drew for me on top of a white cake box a map of their

hometown. It started out like something you would make to give someone

directions but ended up as detailed in places as a highway atlas. More

so, really, because it was personally annotated. Here is the corner

where my father have the bodega. Here is the alley where the old man

used to walk his grandson, in a white suit, and we always say, 'Let's go

to watch it,' because he have his pocket full of stones, and when the

boy runs, the old man throw and hit him in the legs. She was remembering

back through Castro and Batista, back through all of that, into the time

of Machado, even back through him into her parents' time, the years of

mustachioed Gómez in his black frock coat. The night I met her, 18 years

ago, she cooked me Turkish-delight-level black with Spanish

olives, and flan in a coffee can. She said: "Mira, Yon, at this time" —

she meant the early '40s — "they make a census, all the teacher go to

have a census in Cuba. We see places nobody know the name. I ride a

small horse. One night there is a storm — we pass the storm under a

palma. In one house is un enano. You know what is? A dwarf. He say, 'I

count half!' " Her stories are like that. You actually want them to go

longer. This is no small thing for me, as my life has evolved by

unforeseen paths such that I see more of this abuelita than of any other

human being. Neither of us ever leaves the house, and during the day

it's the two of us. Those could be some paw-chewingly long hours in the

kitchen, if she were talking to me about religion or something. Mostly

she calls people in Miami and watches Univision at the same time,

waiting for my wife and daughters to get home, after which she perks up.

Because my wife and her family have living relatives in Cuba, they can

get a humanitarian exception that lets you fly direct from Miami. The

legal loopholes combining to make that possible must fill hard drives.

But you can in fact go that way, if you obtain one of these exceptions

or are immediate family with someone who does. I first tagged along 12

years ago. It's hands down the strangest way to travel to Cuba, which

you might not expect, because technically it's the simplest. But the

bureaucracy in Miami was so heavy, at least back then, you had

to show up the night before and stay in an airport so you could

wake up early and spend the day in a series of bewildering lines,

getting things signed or stamped. That first time, the tedium was

alleviated by a little cluster of Miami relatives who followed us to and

through each line, standing slightly off to the side. I spoke hardly any

Spanish then. My wife told me they were giving her all sorts of warnings

about Havana and messages for various people in their town. Now and then

one of them would rub my arm and smile warmly at me, gestures that I

took to mean, "Words aren't necessary to express the mutual

understanding of familial connection that we now possess," but that when

I think about it now, would have been identical to those signaling,

"You, simpleton."

One line was for having your luggage wrapped in plastic. A couple of

muscly Latin guys in shorts were waiting there. They lifted each

suitcase or bag onto a little spinning platform, turned it blazingly

fast to seal it in industrial-strength shrink-wrap from a roll that

looked like it held a landfill's worth and charged you for it. Their

spinning was so energetic, it doubled as a feat of strength. Everyone

watched. The reasons behind the plastic were not laid out. Later in the

waiting area, a woman told us it was to discourage quick-fingered Cuban

bag handlers on the other side. They took not gold and money, which few

people were foolish enough to pack, but toothpaste and shampoo,

necessities. This year, however, the plastic wrap was optional.

There were other post-Bush differences in the direct-to-Cuba zone. The

lines had grown fewer and shorter. Most noticeable, the Cubans on our

flight — a mixture of Cuban-Americans and returning Cuban nationals who

had been in Florida or D.C. on visas of their own (some people do move

back and forth) — weren't carrying as much stuff. The crowd cast a

fairly normal profile. Last time, people had multiple pairs of shoes

tied around their necks by the laces. Thick gorgets of reading glasses.

Men wearing 10 hats, several pairs of pants, everybody's pockets

bulging. Everybody wearing fanny packs. The rule was, if you could get

it onto your body, you could bring it aboard. At least five people

carried giant stuffed animals and other large toys. That's one of the

things in the Cuban-American community, in which going back is generally

frowned upon — but if it's to meet your nieto for the first time. . . .

None of that, though, is what makes the Miami-to-Havana flights strange.

It's that this most obvious route, more than any of the much longer

workarounds by which American citizens can get to the island, lets you

feel most fully the truth of Cuba's sheer proximity. It's one of those

flights in which, almost as soon as you reach your maximum altitude, you

begin your descent, and within minutes you're looking down on a diorama

of palm trees growing incongruously in green fields, and within seconds

you hit the ground and everyone bursts into applause. The country you

land in is too unlike your own to have been reached that quickly, all

but instantaneously, and is after all, you recall, on hostile terms with

your own. As if you've passed through a warp. 
"Why are they clapping?"

the 6-year-old asked.

I explained that it was special, coming here. Some of these people, when

they left Cuba, might have thought they would never see it again. Some

had been hearing about it all their lives and were seeing it for the

first time.

"Also, they like to clap and yell," my wife said.

The 6-year-old did her philosopher face, gazing out the window. She gets

a little dimple on her forehead when the big thoughts are brewing. "Now

I'm here," she said.

"Yes, you are."

"And I'm Cuban," she said.

"You are part Cuban, that's true."

"You're not any Cuban," she said, not meanly, just sort of marveling.

She looks like me, pale with blue eyes and light brown hair and

freckles. Yet she has largely been raised day to day by intense,

dark-eyed Cuban-American women, and their blood is in her, and the

history of their family, with all of its drama and all of its issues,

has exerted an incalculable influence on who and what she is. At some

point in her life, she'll have to figure out what all of that means to

her; the whole story and the way she looks will be part of its

strangeness. For me it was all behind glass. I felt the sudden

separation between us, between the relative depths of what this trip

would mean to us, many years on. One of those moments of generational

wooziness that come with having kids, like realizing there's a part of

their lives you won't see.

We landed under searingly vivid skies, something like what the blue

tablet from a packet of Easter dye lets off. The land right around the

airport is farmed; we saw a man plowing with oxen. The fertility of Cuba

is the thing you can't put into words. I've never stood on a piece of

ground as throbbingly, even pornographically, generative. Throw a used

battery into a divot, and it will put out shoots — that's how it feels.

You could smell it, in the smoky, slightly putrid smell of turned

fields. More and more, as we drove, that odor mingled with the smell of

the sea.

This was the first time I was in post-Fidel Cuba. It was funny to think

that not long ago, there were smart people who doubted that such a thing

could exist, i.e., who believed that with the fall of Fidel would come

the fall of Communism on the island. But Fidel didn't fall. He did fall,

physically — on the tape that gets shown over and over in Miami, of him

coming down the ramp after giving that speech in 2004 and tumbling and

breaking his knee — but his leadership didn't. He executed one of the

most brilliantly engineered successions in history, a succession that

was at the same time a self-entrenchment. First, he faked his own death

in a way: serious intestinal operation, he might not make it. Raúl is

brought in as "acting president." A year and a half later, Castro mostly

recovered. But Raúl is officially named president, with Castro's

approval. It was almost as if, "Is Fidel still . . . ?" Amazing. So now

they rule together, with Raúl out front, but everyone understanding that

Fidel retains massive authority. Not to say that Raúl doesn't wield

power — he has always had plenty — but it's a partnership of some kind.

What comes after is as much of a mystery as ever.

Our relationship with them seems just as uncertain. Barack Obama was

going to open things up, and he did tinker with the rules regarding

travel, but now they say that when you try to follow these rules, you

get caught up in all kinds of forms and tape. He eased the restrictions

on remittances, so more money is making it back to the island, and that

may have made the biggest difference so far. Boats with medical and

other relief supplies have recently left Miami, sailing straight to the

island, which hasn't happened in decades. These humanitarian shipments

can, according to The Miami Herald, include pretty much anything a

Cuban-American family wants to send to its relatives: Barbie dolls,

electronics, sugary cereal. In many cases, you have a situation in which

the family is first wiring money over, then shipping the goods. The

money is used on the other side to pay the various fees associated with

getting the stuff. So it's as if you're reaching over and re-buying the

merchandise for your relatives. The money, needless to say, goes to the

government. Still, capitalism is making small inroads. And Raúl has

taken baby steps toward us: Cubans can own their own cars, operate their

own businesses, own property. That's all new. For obvious reasons it's

not an immediate possibility for a vast majority of the people, and it

could be taken away tomorrow morning by decree, but it matters.

Otherwise, our attitude toward Cuba feels very wait and see, as what

we're waiting to see grows less and less clear. We've learned to live

with it, like when the doctor says, "What you have could kill you, but

not before you die a natural death." Earlier this year Obama said to a

Spanish newspaper: "No authoritarian regime will last forever. The day

will come in which the Cuban people will be free." Not, notice, no

dictator can live forever, but no "authoritarian regime." But how long

can one last? Two hundred years?

Perhaps a second term will be different. All presidents, if they want to

mess with our Cuba relations at even the microscopic level, find

themselves up against the Florida community, and those are large,

powerful and arguably insane forces.

My wife's people got out in the early 1960s, so they've been in the

States for half a century. Lax regulations, strict regulations. It's all

a oneness. They take, I suppose, a Cuban view, that matters on the

island are perpetually and in some way inherently screwed up and have

been forever.

There was a moment in the taxi, a little nothing exchange but so densely

underlayered with meaning that if you could pass it through an

extracting machine, you would understand a lot about how it is between

Cubans and Cuban-Americans. The driver, a guy who said he grew up in

Havana, told a tiny lie, or a half lie. The fact that you can't even say

whether it was a lie or not is significant. My wife had asked him to

explain for me the way it works with Cuba's two separate currencies,

CUPs and CUCs, Cuban pesos and convertible pesos (also called "chavitos"

or simply "dollars"). When I was last there, we didn't use either of

these, though both existed. We paid for everything in actual, green U.S.

dollars. That's what people wanted. There were stores in which you could

pay in only dollars. But in 2004, Castro decided — partly as a gesture

of contempt for the U.S. embargo — that he would abolish the use of U.S.

dollars on the island and enforce the use of CUCs, pegged to the U.S.

dollar but distinct from it. This coexisted alongside the original

currency, which would remain pegged to the spirit of the revolution. For

obvious reasons, the actual Cuban peso is worth much less than the

other, dollar-equivalent Cuban peso, something on the order of 25 to 1.

But the driver said simply, "No, they are equal."

"Really?" my wife said. "No . . . that can't be."

He insisted that there was no difference between the relative values of

the currencies. They were the same.

He knew that this was wrong. He probably could have told you the

exchange rates from that morning. But he also knew that it had a

rightness in it. For official accounting purposes, the two currencies

are considered equivalent. Their respective values might fluctuate on a

given day, of course, but it couldn't be said that the CUP was worth

less than the CUC That's partly what he meant. He also meant that if

you're going to fly to Cuba from Miami and rub it in my face that our

money is worth one twenty-fifth of yours, I'm gonna feed you some

hilarious communist math and see how you like it. Cubans call it la

doble moral. Meaning, different situations call forth different ethical

codes. He wasn't being deceptive. He was saying what my wife forced him

to say. She had been a bit breezy, it seemed, in mentioning the

unevenness between the currencies, which is the kind of absurdity her

family would laugh at affectionately in the kitchen. But they don't have

to suffer it anymore. And he was partly reminding her of that, fencing

her off from a conversation in which Cubans would joke together about

the notion that the CUP and the CUC had even the slightest connection to

each other. That was for them, that laughter. So, a very complex

statement, that not-quite-lie. After it, he was totally friendly and

dropped us at one of the Cuban-owned tourist hotels on the edge of Havana.

People walking by on the street didn't seem as skinny. That was the most

instantly perceptible difference, if you were seeing Raúl's Cuba for the

first time. They weren't sickly looking before, but under Fidel you

noticed more the way men's shirts flapped about them and the knobbiness

of women's knees. Now people were filling out their clothes. The

island's overall dietary level had apparently gone up a tick. (One

possible factor involved was an increase in the amount of food coming

over from the United States. Unknown to most people, we do sell a lot of

agricultural products to Cuba, second only in value to Brazil. Under a

law that Bill Clinton squeaked through on his way out, Cuba purchases

food and medicine from us on a cash basis, meaning, bizarrely, that a

lot of the chicken in the con pollo consumed on the island by

Canadian tourists is raised in the Midwest — the embargo/blockade has

always been messy when you lean in close).

The idea was to spend some days traveling around, before going to see

family. Once you see them, it gets emotional, and after that,

sightseeing feels wrong somehow.

The ladies wanted to visit the Havana aquarium before it closed for the

day — my wife went there when she was younger — so they took off. The

hostility of the hotel workers was to be experienced. I started making

up reasons to approach them, just to provoke it and make sure I hadn't

imagined it. My reflex during an odd social interaction is to assume

fault, and this can create its own distortion, making it hard to see

what the other person is doing, but no, these people were being

fantastically unfriendly. It was one of the big, newly built Gaviota

hotels — Gaviota is the quasi-official Cuban tourist organization

(financed in part by transnational but controlled by a

prominent Cuban general). Loosely speaking, these men and women worked

for the government. It's not that they were incompetent or mean; they

just had zero motivation to be nice to tourists or in a hurry to do

anything for them, and for me, after years immersed in a

may-I-pour-you-more-sweet-tea culture, the contrast held a fascination.

In a way it was refreshing to see people so emphatically not kowtowing

to rich white tourists, even if that was you, but of course this feeling

was not to be trusted: you liked their unfriendliness because they

seemed more authentically anti-capitalist that way. Especially wild was

a woman about my age at the main reception desk, who evidently had to

handle all the complaints about the wee-fee service in the lobby. She

looked at you dead-level and half-smiling when you approached as if in

her mind she were already pushing in the blade. At the desk, they sold

little scratch cards, with passwords on them, that looked like lottery

tickets and in hindsight had much else in common with lottery tickets.

But there were no cards that day. "They are in the city," she said — and

in my mind I saw them being unloaded from small boats at night — "but we

don't have them here." I was advised to try the hotel next door, a few

minutes' walk — another, equally massive, equally generically

pan-Latin-style Gaviota hotel. Would a card I bought there work here? "I

hope so," she said, still doing that smile. "But," I said, "we made

reservations at this hotel specifically because you advertised the

wee-fee service." A total lie. We didn't need it. I wanted to see if she

would crack. She shook her head so slowly with exaggeratedly sincere

sorrow, like a long-suffering teacher forced to tell her most obnoxious

pupil he had failed. "I understand," she murmured, and went back to work.

Partly what had been clashing were our respective ideas about the role

of an individual in solving a crisis. In the United States, we all go

around so empowered-feeling all the time, and when you travel you feel

it, a sense of hypertrophy, the thing that makes us look like giant

babies to the Europeans. Bring us our soda refills or we'll get them

ourselves! The sheer notion that I thought she herself could do anything

about the wee-fee, about getting the cards here faster, was probably

genuinely amusing to her. Did I not think she wanted the wee-fee fixed?

Did I think she actually liked standing there answering the exact same

question from a never-ending line of childishly outraged foreigners?

At the neighboring hotel, they did have cards. But their wee-fee was

down. "It's not working?" I asked the man. "It's working," he said, "but

not right now." The whole island's Internet runs through three

unpredictable satellites, although I had read that a cable of some kind

was recently installed. If so, it did not get routed to these hotels.

Which was lucky in the end — it accelerated the technological molting

that had to happen and left you feeling more present. In the basement,

near the business center (where a woman took delight in telling

travelers from all lands that they could not do various simple-sounding

things on the computer consoles), I noticed a small postcard that showed

a picture of Fidel, and the caption read in Spanish, "In the history of

U.S. intelligence, no greater amount of money and resources have been

put toward bringing down a single man than have been spent to get

Fidel." And below that, "El mérito es estar vivo." Roughly, "the victory

lies in staying alive."

I kept seeing small groups of Asian men get on and off the elevators.

That was new. Ten years ago the only Asian faces you might have seen

were in Chinatown — there is one in Havana, Barrio Chino, several square

blocks of ostensibly Chinese restaurants and faded signs with lanterns

and pagodas on them, a neighborhood left behind by thousands of Chinese

agricultural workers who arrived in the 19th century, and where very

occasionally you might still see Asian features. These guys — all men, I

saw no women — seemed dressed as inconspicuously as possible,

loosefitting light-blue jeans and generic polo shirts and sunglasses.

The bartender told me that they were here to do business. China was

doing "bastante de negocios" in Cuba these days, including in oil, he

said. At that moment a Chinese-made exploratory rig sat about 30 miles

off the northern coast. We would be able to see it, he said, driving

along the main highway. Cuba has lately been partnering with foreign

petroleum companies to explore prospective undersea oil fields. A major

discovery would be a mainline to economic independence, that most

long-elusive goal of the revolution. So far, though, the wells have come

up dry or disappointing.

Cuba's involvement with China has been intensifying for more than a

decade, as Russian influence has receded. The Chinese have built an

amusement park and sold fleets of buses. They have been granted use — if

our intelligence can be trusted — of a large signals-intelligence base

on the outskirts of Havana near the airport, a giant electronic ear-horn

right off our shores, the price we pay for renouncing any involvement

with a country so close. There is the sheer geopolitical weirdness of

Guantánamo's being there, too: the Chinese and the Americans operating

on the same island, off the coast of Florida. Guantánamo was supposed to

be gone. It's holding on like the Castros.

The empty midafternoon lobby was vast and square-tiled and full of the

drone of floor waxing, and the 6-year-old spilled into it laughing, her

mother racewalking behind her, trying to catch her. They saw me at the

bar and ran over. "We have to show you this," the 6-year-old said. She

was pulling on my wife's purse. Mariana pulled out her phone and pushed

play on a movie, handing it to me. At the aquarium, a little boy had

celebrated his birthday, and his parents had gone in for the dolphin

special. You put the kid on a raft and pushed it out into the pool.

Shortly thereafter, one of the aquarium's giant 500-pound dolphins

started jumping over the kid and raft, in great looping leaps, one after

the other. The splash was considerable. The kid looked terrified, he was

face forward, clutching the raft at the edges. The repeating image of

the dolphin — frozen massive and pendulous directly above him — got

better every time. The audience laughed and clapped in the concrete

bleachers, you could hear it on the video. My wife was laughing so hard

she had tears in her eyes. "You wouldn't see that in the States," she

said proudly.

We scanned for the Chinese-built oil platform the next day, and thought

we saw something once, though it may have been a ship. To ride along the

coastal road with the windows down was sublime. The gaps between houses

kept giving you glimpses of the sea behind. There weren't many other

cars, but the few that passed left a heavy, organic smell of exhaust in

the air. You could taste dinosaurs in it. It carried that

precatalytic-converter nostalgia. We were driving down the spine of

Cuba, into the vast green interior of the island. Hitchhikers were

scattered along the highway, as were people selling various things —

garlic, strings of fish. They ran at you as you passed, yelling and

seeming to come too close to the car.

I woke up the next day to the sounds of morning pool activity. Water

splashing on concrete. Insistent, unfamiliar bird song. Sleepy murmurs

of people rubbing lotion on themselves. Hotel carts rattled by outside

the double glass doors. It was about 8 a.m. in Varadero on a warm spring

day, which I'm pretty sure is literally Utopia, in some vague

historico-linguistic way: the northern shore of Cuba, that supposedly

moved Columbus to call this the most beautiful place human eyes had ever

seen. My wife has a thing about going to Varadero when she goes to Cuba.

I don't know if she even likes it. She does it for her family. To them

it would seem insane to skip it — it was the place they most wanted to

go when they lived there — not to go, on returning, would be like taking

a trip to Keystone, S.D., and not going to see Mount Rushmore.

Sitting up in my twin bed, I looked over at the queen bed — they were

already gone. The massive cafeteria operation swung into motion for only

a couple of hours each morning. You had to be there for the stampede. We

were moving through different micro-Cubas so quickly; too quickly,

really. The day before we rode horses through the jungle to see the

ruins of ancient coffee plantations and the stone huts where the slaves

were kept. We passed cooperative villages of campesinos in the forest

and heard political speeches coming from loudspeakers, something about

the new agriculture laws. The previous night, coming in on the suddenly

pitch-black Cuban highways, zooming up to unlighted "Road Closed" signs

at 60 miles an hour, swerving to miss car-killing potholes and

horse-drawn wagons . . . that was already dreamlike. And now we were

navigating the omelet and cereal stations, in lines of mainly European

tourists: Germans, Italians, Central Europeans and also Brazilians,

Argentines and Canadians. (You know when you're meeting a Canadian,

because they always ask, in the same shocked tone, "How did you get into

the country?" It's an opportunity to remind you that you can't go

legally, and they can. And by extension, that they come from a more

enlightened land. "You need to grow up about that stuff," one guy that I

met at a nature preserve said, to which I wanted to tell him to get a

large and powerful population of Cuban exiles and move them into an

election-determining province of Canada and call me in the morning.)

The cook at the omelet station, when he asked where I was from and I

told him, put up his fists like a boxer, as if we were about to have it

out, then started laughing. He told me that he had family in the United

States, in Florida. That's what everyone says. You can't understand the

transnationally dysfunctional, mutually implicated relationship between

Cuba and Miami, that defies all embargoes and policies of "definitive

abandonment," until you realize that the line often cuts through

families, almost always, in fact. People make all sorts of inner

adjustments. I told the man I hated the embargo (the blockade, as they

call it) and thought it was stupid, which was both true and what he

wanted to hear. He gave me a manly clap-grasp. I didn't go on and say,

of course, that I disliked the embargo most because it, more than

anything, has kept the Castros in power for half a century, given them a

ready-made Goliath for their David. Thanks to the embargo, when the

Castros rail against us as an imperialist enemy, they aren't really

lying. We have in effect declared ourselves the enemy of the Cuban

people and done it under the banner of their , hitting Cuba in a

way that, after all, makes only the people suffer, and far from

punishing those in power, rewards them and buttresses their story. As

for the argument that to deal with tyrants would render our foreign

policy incoherent, we deal with worse every day — we've armed worse —

and in countries that don't have a deeply intimate history with ours,

going back centuries. All this because a relatively small but highly

mobilized exile community holds sway in a state that has the power to

elect presidents. There was no way to gauge how much of this the man

would agree with. We left it at mutually thinking the embargo sucked.

Out by the pool, where my wife and daughter were swimming, I lay on a

chaise in the shade, feeling paler and softer than I ever had in my life

and unlocatably depressed in the way that resorts do so well. I read

"Doctor Zhivago," a new translation by Richard Pevear and Larissa

Volokhonsky (the husband-and-wife team who have been retranslating the

Russian classics for more than 20 years). "Zhivago" isn't on the

Tolstoy/Chekhov level, but there are wonderful passages, including one

that I thought spoke to the gruffness you often encounter in Cubans, the

excessive suspicion of introductory small talk they sometimes

demonstrate. "The fear known as spymania," Pasternak wrote about Russia

after the revolution, "had reduced all speech to a single formal,

predictable pattern. The display of good intentions in discourse was not

conducive to conversation."

Every time I looked up from the book, there were more people in and by

the pool, as if they were surfacing out of the water, out of the

ripples. I had black sunglasses on, so after a while I propped myself at

an angle at which I could seem to read the book but really be moving my

eyeballs, staring at everybody. God, the human body! It was Speedos and

bikinis, no matter the age or body type. You would never see a poolside

scene in the United States with people showing this much skin, except at

a pool where people were there precisely to show off the perfection of

their bodies. The body not consciously sculptured through working out

has become a secret shame and grotesquerie in America, but this

upper-class Euro-Latin crowd had not received that news, to my

distraction. I took in veins and cellulite, paunches and man-paps, the

weird shinglelike sagging that starts to occur on the back of the

thighs, cleavage that showed a spoiled-grape-like wrinkling, the

ash-mottled skin of permanently sun-torched shoulders, all of it

beautiful. All of it beautiful and tormenting. You watched an

18-year-old Argentine girl in her reproductive springtime walk past an

ancient Soviet-looking woman, her body a sculpture of blocks atop

blocks, and both of them wearing black bikinis, the furtive looks they

gave each other, full of emotions straight from the Pliocene, from the

savanna. The old men scowled from behind mirrored shades. The young men

tensed every muscle in order to seem not obsessed with how the girls saw

them, a level of self-consciousness I found I could no longer really

re-enter, as if it had been a drunken state. Everybody was stealing

looks at one another, envying or disdaining or gazing, like me. We were

all inside a matrix of lust and erotic sadness, all turning into

versions of one another, or seeing our past selves.

My wife's people come from a small town with a strange name, a rare

Spanish word that almost doesn't look Spanish when you see it. When they

lived there, the place was not considered all that far from things, from

the cities, but the decay of infrastructure, the collapse of the trains,

has left it stranded. There's simply no reason to have heard of it.

The first time I went, before we were married, they made a big thing of

me. Yankees almost never appear in this town, unless they are lost. I

walked into a stuccoed, leafy house on a quiet street, a house full of

loud talking, hands grabbing my arms. Everyone kissed and cried over my

wife, whom they hadn't seen since she was a teenager. They nicknamed me

"Wao," because everything they would tell me, I would say, "Wow." It

seemed the appropriate response. Wei-Wei, the abuelita, had come with

us, or rather we had gone with her — it ended up being probably the last

time she would ever go back — and she sent money ahead of our visit, for

them to buy food with. She's always sending money, but this time she

sent more, and they laid in pork and all the spices they needed. There

was a long table. All of the men were named some version of Rafael,

Rafaelito, Rafaelín. The matriarch, a shy and tiny woman named Haydee

(eye-day), presided with birdlike hands, making little apologies. You

didn't even have to chew the pork, you could just sort of let it melt.

They made chicharrones de viento, wind-crackers, the Cubans' witty name

for a kind of poverty-inspired something, frisked up out of salt and

flour and a little lard. There was a bottle of Havana Club on the table

— the first time I ever saw or tasted it. Knowing only a little

classroom Spanish, I struggled to follow their phrases, the swift and

expressive but mud-mouthed Spanish spoken on the island.

After dinner, I made the mistake of saying something about a cigar. It

wasn't as if I asked for one. I probably said something like, "I hear

that your country is famous for its cigars." But they took this as an

overpolite way of asking for one, so the hunt began. The shops were

closed, but the Rafaels started working on the car. You've heard, no

doubt, how in Cuba they still drive working American cars from the

1950s, but this was something else, a Frankenstein made from the parts

of about four different cars from the '50s and one Russian car

apparently from the '70s. They got this creature going, and we started

moving through the streets. No headlights — one of them held an electric

lantern out the window. It was wired to the cigarette lighter. We needed

it badly. Within a mile of leaving the town, we were in the face-close

darkness of unlighted rural roads. They took me to a kind of kiosk, an

open bar in the middle of a field. I don't know what it was, really. A

kind of club. All of the men, about seven of them, were workers in the

tobacco fields. They would smuggle out a cigar or two each week, maybe

defective ones, for personal use or the chance to trade it away.

Rafelito told me, "This is the puro puro."

Back at the house, half the neighborhood gathered to watch me huff on

this thing, many, I slowly realized, hoping to see me vomit. I stood

outside on a back patio, amid chicken coops. The cigar went to my head

like thunder. My knees became untrustworthy. But no throwing up.

Rafaelito had too much to drink and danced like a crazy person. As a

boy, he lost his only brother, drowned in the river. His father, Rafael,

approached me with a wagging finger, asking me if I liked the country.

Of course, I said, bonita, linda y la gente.

"Si." He looked a little bit like a Cuban Groucho Marx. "Si, te gusta el

pais," he said. "Pero, te gusta el sistema?" He pulled the syllables of

el sistema out of his mouth like draws of taffy.

Now they were all gone, all the Rafaels. The two older ones were dead

from disease, and the youngest one had gone to Miami, I don't even know

how. There is a kind of lottery, apparently. Perhaps he won it. He's

working as a mechanic. The house was completely different. The ground

floor was empty and quiet.

Haydee, the old woman of the house, was still there, even more ancient

but seemingly unchanged. I saw her do the same thing now to the

6-year-old that she did to my wife those years ago, wrap her arms around

the girl and sort of refuse to leave, the way a child would. "I'm

keeping her here," she said. "You, go back."

Her husband and son were gone, her grandson gone to Miami. Her other

grandson, Erik, half-brother of the boy who left, was still around. In

fact, he was thriving. He had started a little furniture business. He

was living in the house with his wife and daughter, and all had been

going well. But just months before, they lost a son, an infant, to a

respiratory disease. So within a short span of years, he lost his

father, grandfather and his brother (to emigration), and now his son. He

was the only male in the house.

Erik's daughter, a young girl with glasses and reddish-brown hair, was

as shy as her grandmother. She stayed on the edges of whatever room we

were in. My daughter was at my feet, peeking through my legs at her. I

could feel their intense awareness of each other, but neither would


After lunch, while Erik was explaining different aspects of the

furniture operation to me, my 6-year-old came up and started tugging on

my shirt. She was mouthing something at me. I kept saying, "Please don't

interrupt, sweetheart." She said, "Give me your phone!" I excused myself

from Erik for a second to give her a little lecture. I knew she was

bored, I said, but this was an important day, and she needed to use her

manners, not play with the phone. "Give me the phone!" she said, and ran

off in a huff when I refused.

Barely 20 minutes later we went back upstairs and passed by the little

girl's room. She and the 6-year-old were sitting on the bed, playing on

a phone. It was my wife's. The 6-year-old had taught her cousin to play

Angry Birds. They were smiling and leaning on each other. For the next

two days they were completely inseparable and wanted to sleep in the

same room. They communicated through my wife when they really needed to

work something out. They will probably know each other for the rest of

their lives now, because of that game.

We went out walking the streets, making the rounds to see other family

members — to the old church, with its brightly painted statue of St.

Julian, where Wei-Wei was married and where they remembered her, "la

maestra," past the school where she taught and the corner store her

father owned, where first she and then her children, my mother-in-law

and her brother, grew up playing, before it was taken away — and as we

strolled, I had a diminished, doubtless much-flawed version of the old

woman's cake-box map in my head. I was hearing her voice-over, all the

stories she told me over almost 20 years now, some of them repetitive,

but with details emerging and receding.

Her memories of the revolution begin with the shortwave radio, kept in

the back room by her husband. Wei-Wei and her husband would gather with

friends to listen to the transmissions that the Castro brothers and Che

and Camilo Cienfuegos (the best loved of the young comandantes, at least

by my wife's family, worshiped as a pop star by my mother-in-law, then

11) were broadcasting from the mountains, giving assurance that they

were about to ride down and liberate the island. For years I assumed

that the family had been listening to these speeches in fear — as a

couple, they were about as solidly middle class as could be, a teacher

and a tobacco salesman, and their later experience of the revolution

involved only pain and regret — but the abuelita surprised me one night,

at the table, by saying that, on the contrary, they heard those speeches

with great excitement. No one liked Batista, no one who wasn't directly

benefiting from his thuggery and favoritism. The powerful charisma of

the freedom fighters had percolated down into even quiet, apolitical homes.

There was a night back home, after a long meal, when for the first time

after knowing her for so long, I got a bit pushy with her — asked her

follow-up questions instead of just mm-hmming — and she gave me a

description of what it had actually been like to watch this optimism

turn to fear, and something worse, what that had actually looked like.

When the milicianos first came from the mountains, she said, "they come

to say hello with this necklace made of pieces of wood and a gold

cross." They mugged for the cameras with these crosses in their teeth. I

asked why. "For you to look at. To pretend that they are Christian. That

they believe in God."

"Everybody cooperate with Fidel," she said. "Everybody was happy that we

had the opportunity to have all the freedom that he promise." She taught

adult literacy classes at night.

Change came with the arrival of the comites, one house per block,

appointed as the government representative for its households. The

rapidity with which that degenerated into spying and becoming complicit

in spying had been breathtaking to watch play out in stark

anthropological terms. Within months, they were taking children aside at

school and asking them about their parents. The parents started pulling

the children out. The first nonpolitical families started to flee.

People betrayed their neighbors to the comites. A woman who lived in the

neighborhood, a woman named Solita, "somebody accuse her of having fried

pork in her house. And they make — she was a teacher — they make a

public, ¿come se llama?, juicio?" Trial. "Exactly. Accusing her of

having pork."

My wife's grandfather had let it be known that he was against the

Castros — not because he had preferred Batista; in fact, the family had

some obscure connection, that I've never been able to get anyone to be

forthcoming about, to one of the other revolutionaries in the mountains,

a rival who was executed not long after the uprising — in any case it

was known that the family's sympathies did not lie with the communists.

"I remember one time we going to the farm," she said, "and when we was

coming back, we stop in Mario's grandmother's house, and we saw my

brother passing on the road very fast. We get scared. We say, 'What

happened?' He says, 'The is going to ask for, getting into your

house.' And at this time we was already saving some American money to

come here. And you believe or not? The first thing that I do in the

house was burning the dollars. To be sure that they don't find it out."

The party came and took away the family business. They took the store.

They took the car, covered in tobacco advertisements. They took "a house

of birds." Not yours anymore. They took a little dog, named Mocha. They

took pictures off the wall. They came in and counted the number of

pictures, and took a certain percentage of them. Absurd things. They

took away the family's tiny beach house in Playa del Rosario, "gave it

to some fishman." But this succession of losses came to seem indistinct

against what was happening outside. The picture had darkened. "So bad,

so cruel all the things that they do it," she said. "The television was

on all day long." She meant both that they were watching all day long,

and that the revolutionaries were transmitting constantly. There was "a

man that the name Blanco," she said. And his trial concerned "if he

abuse the farmers, if he do all these things that accuse him to do it."

They found him guilty. "Then the people go to the street, singing,

'Paredon paredon paredon! Paredon means 'kill in front of the wall." And

then they put this in television. And you see the brain of this man

jumping out. It was getting and and ." She resigned her

job, and they essentially went into hiding.

She got her two children out first, my mother-in-law and her brother, on

waivers made possible by the C.I.A.-initiated, Catholic-sponsored

airlift known as Pedro Pan. The story goes that the C.I.A. started

spreading rumors on the island that the government was about to take

away the children, raise them in camps. People panicked, and the planes

were waiting to fly them away. The children wound up living with

Catholic families all over the United States or, in this case, with an

aunt in North Carolina. Eventually Wei-Wei and her husband got out,

through Mexico, and joined the children. But Pedro Pan tore apart many


We arrived at the house of some cousins, two twins, small men now in

their 50s, one with a mustache and one without, who live with their

mother, whom they tend to hover about protectively. Their father died

after having walked himself to the hospital, after a heart attack.

Nobody had a car, nobody's phone worked. The revolution is famous around

the world for its care, but for a Cuban, that care can be hard to

access, especially if you live far from one of the major cities.

The six-year-old and her cousin were sitting on the sofa, ignoring

everyone. They were holding up dolls to each other in different poses,

sort of: "What do you think of this? Do you approve of this?" We

unloaded the presents we brought for the twins. They handed my wife a

book of socialist Cuban film reviews from before the revolution,

actually a rare and useful book — one of them is a from-home bookseller,

and he had come across it somewhere.

As we were standing around he said, "Did you know that my brother" — the

one with no mustache — "was on a game show?"

They brought forth a VHS tape and started reconfiguring the wires to

make the VCR work. Soon a picture of the studio appeared, three

contestants behind their buzzers. The tape had been recorded over many

times. There was a constant flickering of white meteors across the

image. Felipe to the far left, smiling, looking confident in a

light-green short-sleeve shirt. The game had to do with rhyming. They

would say, "Two words: one of them describes a fruit, one describes a

family member." Answer: lima and prima. Felipe didn't win, but did well

enough, as I understood it, to be invited back. He looked on screen like

he was having a great time. The show had a carefree attitude, compared

with something similar in the United States. The stakes were very low.

You can't have games of chance or leisure games involving any amount of

money, they said. It was outlawed by the revolution, as part of the

purifying backlash against the mob-led casino power. So the prizes were

things like a signed poster of a famous Spanish pop singer or a

decorative mirror. Nobody was going to cry over losing. We congratulated

Felipe on having held his own. He brought out the small metal

lamp-sculpture he won.

Before we left the country, we spent a last day and night in Havana.

Heaven weather. We stepped into the grand cathedral, on one of the main

squares in the old part of town, and listened to a women's choir that

was practicing for the pope. I saw blue-and-red signs announcing his

impending visit, "Viene el Papa!" The women and girls were dressed in

their everyday clothes. They sang beautifully. I'm sure that they were

the best that Cuba had.

In the evening, we stood on the Morro, the Spanish castillo across the

bay from the Malecón, and looked at the city. There is a Havana — this

was the second time I saw it, a confirmation — that cannot be captured

on photographs, because it involves a totality of light from symphonic

Caribbean clouds and the way they play on the whole city, and that

appears often enough to represent one of the characteristic faces of the

city. The diffused light turns all the buildings a range of pastels.

Then as the sun reddens, it becomes rose-colored.

It was 9:30 by the time we got back to our hotel. Normally that would

have been past the 6-year-old's bedtime, but my wife had a telephone

interview — meant to happen during the day, it got bumped — so she

needed us out of the room for an hour.

Downstairs we sat and listened to the band do the inescapable (in

Havana) "Hasta Siempre, Comandante," with its strange lyrics, "Here lies

the clear/the precious transparency/of your dear presence/Comandante Che

Guevara." Cats were slinking around. The people going by were of every

shade, and many with striking faces. In the most Spanish faces you could

see flashes of the Old World stock that supplied the island with

settlers: the equine noses, the long mouths, at times a Middle Eastern

cast, features I knew from my wife's family pictures.

On the sidewalk a young bicycle-taxi driver named Manuel approached us,

a well-built kid in jean shorts and a tank-top, about 19. He said he

knew an ice cream place that was still open. We set out through the

night. Many of the streets were dark. It was chilly already, and the

6-year-old huddled against my side. It was one of those moments when you

know that you are where you're supposed to be. If your destiny wavered,

it has at least momentarily recovered its track. We ate our chocolate

ice cream at an outdoor bar, under a half moon.

On the way back to the hotel, Manuel asked what I did. When I told him I

was a reporter, he said: "You'd hate it here. There is no freedom of

expression here."

He launched into a tirade against the regime. "It is basically a

prison," he said. "Everyone is afraid."

The things he said, which I had heard many times before — that you can

go to prison for nothing, that there's no opportunity, that people are

terrified to speak out — are the reason I can never quite get with my

leftie-most friends on Cuba, when they want to make excuses for the

regime. It's simply a fact that nearly every Cuban I've ever come to

know beyond a passing acquaintance, everyone not involved with the

party, will turn to you at some point and say something along the lines

of, "It is a prison here." I just heard it from one of the men who

worked for Erik, back in the hometown. I remarked to him that

storefronts on the streets looked a little bit better, more freshly

painted. It was a shallow, small-talky observation.

"No," he said, turning his head and exhaling smoke.

"You mean things haven't improved?" I said.

"There is no future," he said. "We are lost."

The 6-year-old kept asking me what Manuel was saying. I was doing my

best to describe el sistema. Interesting trying to explain to a child

educated in a Quaker Montessori school what could possibly be wrong with

everyone sharing.

We passed the museum with the Granma, the leisure boat that in 1956

carried Fidel and Raúl and Che and Camilo Cienfuegos and 78 other Cuban

revolutionaries from Mexico to a beach on the island's southeast coast.

The cruiser was all lighted up with aquamarine lights, in a building

made of glass. It looked underwater. Manuel stopped the bicycle-taxi and

gazed on it with obvious pride.

"There's always an armed guard in front of it," he said, nodding his

head toward a young man in a green uniform, who was standing with a

machine gun over his shoulder.

"They're worried that someone will try to blow it up or something?" I said.

"They're worried that someone will steal it and go to Miami," he said.

There was a time Mariana took me to Cuba, and we went to a town called

Remedios, in the central part of the island. It is one of the most

ancient Cuban cities. The church on the main square dates from the

Renaissance. When it was restored in the 1950s, the workers discovered

that under the white paint on the high ceiling was a layer of pure gold.

The townspeople had safeguarded it from the pirates in that manner. We

stayed in the home of a man named Piloto. A friendly bicycle-taxi

driver, who introduced himself as Max, told us that Piloto worked for

the government and rented out his spare room only in order to spy on

tourists, and that we should be careful what we said there. But all we

ever got from Piloto and his wife was a nearly silent politeness and one

night a superb lobster dinner. My most vivid memory of Remedios is of

being taken to the house of an artist who lived there, a woodcarver. The

bicycle-taxi driver told us that anyone who had "a great interest in

culture" needed to visit the home of this particular artist. The next

day he took us there, in the afternoon. We rode behind a row of houses

that had strange paintings and animal figures hanging in their

breezeways. After what seemed a long time for a bicycle-taxi ride, we

arrived at the woman's place. Taking out a cigarette, Max told us to

walk ahead, he would wait. At the door of a small, salmon-colored house,

an old woman met us. Not the artist, it emerged. This was the artist's

mother. We sat with her in a kind of narrow front parlor, where she made

sweetly formal small talk for maybe 20 minutes, telling us every so

often that the artist would be out soon.

At a certain moment, a woman appeared in the passageway that led from

the front room into the main part of the house, a woman with rolls of

fat on her limbs, like a baby, and skin covered in moles. She walked on

crutches with braces on her knees. She had a beautiful natural Afro with

a scarf tied around it. She was simply a visually magnificent human

being. She told us the prices of her works, and we bought a little

chicken carving. She said almost nothing otherwise — she had difficulty

speaking — but when we stood up to leave, she lifted a hand and spoke,

or rather delivered, this sentence. It was evidently the message among

all others that she deemed most essential for U.S. visitors. "I know

that at present there are great differences between our peoples," she

said, "but in the future all will be well, because we are all the sons

and daughters of Abraham Lincoln."

John Jeremiah Sullivan is a contributing writer for the magazine and the

author of "Pulphead." He last wrote about Venus and Serena Williams.


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