I consider all of this one evening in March 2016. I’m in a building where almost every one of the owners rents to tourists. I’m on the balcony of an apartment belonging to a veteran diplomat who has mentored several generations of Cubans working in the foreign service. It’s his birthday.
The conversation of the old guard turns to politics. Children. Businesses. One side is rhetorical, the other pragmatic. One is history, the other geography: all a matter of position.
The soiree is being held just a few days before U.S. president Barack Obama’s visit to the island. At one point, someone checks their cell phone only to find a memo from the government sent to everyone who rents out their home.
It’s . . . an antiterrorist measure! A warning about potential tenants from Middle Eastern countries—Israel, too, has been included—and an instruction for people to remain alert. The message suggests a tropical version of the Axis of Evil in which, sooner or later, the usual local suspects will play a role.
“They’re preventing Havana from becoming another Dallas,” a teenage girl says, alluding to the assassination of JFK.
“Don’t worry, baby. Dallas didn’t have State Security,” her boyfriend replies.
It seems like Obama’s visit is prompting a Cuban version of the Patriot Act. And preventive detention will no longer be a Soviet legacy, but a very contemporary American practice.
The Cuban capital’s new private sector will either be antiterrorist, or it simply won’t be.
2.
A few weeks later, my mother stands at her window, looking out at the teeming street. She doesn’t dare go outside and doesn’t understand the neighbors’ explanation for the mounting chaos outside their homes: “They’re filming The Fast and the Furious in Havana.” (It is actually the eighth installment in this film franchise, to be called The Fate of the Furious.)
Today, in Cuba, everything is considered a turning point, an event we imbue with transcendent power to denote a before and an after in the life of this country. It might be geopolitical in scope, cultural, or purely frivolous; so it doesn’t matter whether it’s Obama’s visit or a Rolling Stones concert, the opening of Galleria Continua or a runway show by Chanel.
The Fate of the Furious is no exception. In this neighborhood there’s almost never anyone outside this early, but now inhabitants have to negotiate dozens of motorcycles, race cars, vans, “luxury” vintage convertibles, flashy dudes reeking of Prada, models, paparazzi, private security guards, extras . . . and the countless curious onlookers for whom all of this is “an unnamable fiesta,” as the poet José Lezama Lima would say.
Not quite sure what to make of the full-fledged occupation of the neighborhood, my mother comes to the conclusion that we are witnessing the “American invasion” live.
She’s not wrong.
For over half a century, and apart from exceptions like the docu-series Cuban Chrome (about the vintage cars found everywhere in Havana), we have never had American productions of this scale in Cuba. But now, one of the many business opportunities this country hopes to exploit is that of becoming an enormous Hollywood set, a virgin stage through which its unlikely superheroes can race—fast and furious.
This isn’t to say that Cuba has been absent from the plotlines of American cinema, from Hitchcock to Coppola. But most often, as decreed by the embargo or the bureaucracy, it was re-created in the Dominican Republic or Puerto Rico. Nor was Cuba absent from television series like The Agency, Law & Order, CSI, The Simpsons, House, and Castle. In fact, those stories provide a clue as to what lies ahead for Cubans, as far as stereotypes go. It’s all the same: an assassination attempt on Fidel Castro at the United Nations or a trillion-dollar bill the FBI sends Homer Simpson to obtain in Havana. It might even go so far as the case of a baseball player killed in Manhattan, solved by the writer-detective Castle, in which the Cuban suspects speak Taíno, an extinct language!
In any event . . .
For a long time now—on the left and the right, among tourists and the politically committed—Cuba has been a place people come not to discover reality, but to confirm a script. As such, its paradoxes are pushed into the background, its people condemned to be mere symbols squashed by the weight of prior judgment, of prejudice.
It’s paradoxical that, while Cuban filmmakers have been fighting for a new film law for years, everything should run so smoothly when it comes to an American megaproduction like The Fate of the Furious. Caught between national lethargy and transnational speed, local filmmakers continue to demand independence. And, of course, they both fear and want to take advantage of the deluge unleashed by the thawing of diplomatic relations with the United States, precisely when the production of television series is at its peak and financial need forces them to participate yet carefully navigate the subordinate role they have been given.
Their challenge cannot be boiled down to a simple matter of independent filmmaking, but involves having a different discourse that would allow them to address this mash-up of tourism and the thaw of relations that is already feeding a new-old folktale in which even ideology is set to become just another chapter in the history of tropicalism. Such tension also reflects just how complex the opening up of relations with the United States is, and the delicate balance required.
From a practical point of view, this industry, which allows for the possibility of profit, technological updates, and work opportunities, is tempting and even necessary. From a cultural point of view, here at the outset of this new era, we are already heading back to the picturesque scenes of Our Man in Havana, where Cubans—maracas in hand—set the rhythm for the imperturbable avalanche of neocolonialism.
3.
The Seventh Cuban Communist Party Congress ended at almost the same time as the filming of The Fate of the Furious. And it did so arm in arm with another vintage fetish: that of unanimity. Pondering the topics discussed at the congress—and, more important, the topics that were not discussed—a group of old revolutionaries carries on its favorite pastime: fixing the country from a bar in Havana.
This is an ever-shrinking group, shaken by the permanent age-related departures it is experiencing. (“I’m next in line,” my father used to say, until his turn came and he departed from both life and the group.)
All of these men rose up against Batista. Many of them carry the weight of more than one war on their shoulders. Almost all of them have children or grandchildren in Miami. Those whose homes are still respectable supplement their meager pensions by renting rooms to tourists. They are trying to retrain for these new times, never quite adapting, never quite surrendering, criticizing everything all the while. (Or everything that’s “not the same but equal,” as singer-songwriter Silvio Rodríguez would say.) Along with their discussions of la cosa—things, the situation—there is always rum. And an ambulance whenever one of them goes too far.
In Cuba, there is rum that marks the border between acceptable and dangerous. It is called Ron Planchao and a 250 cc Tetra Brik carton costs one Cuban convertible peso, or about a dollar. Connoisseurs of the spirit say these little Tetra Briks conceal a decent (though not always respectable) rum. The problem is that some of the veterans in this bar have, financially speaking, fallen beneath the waterline of Ron Planchao. And the combination of age and the harshest of spirits—that cocktail of hard liquor and soft currency—often put them in a difficult situation. Their distress also has as much to do with the passion of their arguments regarding economic reform, Obama’s cleverness, the lack of a tangible plan for the future, and the fact that the new inequalities have placed them—“us, those of us who risked our lives for this”—in a precarious state.
From their twilight years, these old men ponder a revolution that, to their grandchildren, is nothing but an echo of the past. They keep waiting for a sign from their brethren in power about which political model will be followed, but all that comes out of the government are signs of economic reform. They hold tight to the days when Cuba proclaimed itself the first free territ
ory in the Americas, yet the television at the bar portrays it only as the number-one attraction for foreign investment in the Caribbean.
Outside the bar where the old veterans are steeped in their alcoholic battles, you see the typical row of taxis waiting for tourists. It is a varied lineup, always a vintage American car, or a Chinese Geely, even a massive Soviet Chaika. In Cuba, outlandish cars are nothing new. But this Russian limousine goes beyond mere extravagance.
In actual fact, there are now ten Chaikas available for hire in Havana. The fleet was a gift from the top Soviet brass to allow Fidel to travel in safety. (No other taxi could presume to have such an illustrious pedigree.) Should you hire it, the driver will explain how this Communist limousine works, pointing out spaces for radio receivers and the escort detail, compartments for the auxiliary weapons. In terms of business, under the new Cuban economic system, this taxi is no different. “I have to pay thirty Cuban convertible pesos [about thirty dollars] to the company every day,” the driver says. “Twenty-seven, to be exact.”
Could there be a better example of how the scraps of socialism are being recycled in this new era? Could there be a clearer representation of the state of communism, where in order to become viable under the constraints of economic reform, it must draw upon El Comandante’s fleet of vehicles?
If there were any doubts as to this symbiosis, they vanish once we reach our destination. The sperm whale of Cuban taxis drops us at the door to TaBARish: a “Soviet” bar filled with Communist memorabilia, where one can order caviar, vodka, soup, or pickles, surrounded by walls plastered in copies of the newspaper Pravda. Yuri Gagarin smiles out from them, and the red flag—complete with hammer and sickle—adds the finishing touch to the combined aesthetic of Soviet nostalgia and the new Cuban reality.
TaBARish turns, or attempts to turn, old communism into business. Here, and at the restaurant Nazdarovie (because TaBARish is not the only Soviet-themed business that has opened since private enterprise was allowed), you will find Russians and Cubans who once studied in the Soviet Union (tens of thousands of them did). Decorations include those famous matryoshka dolls, these ones dressed up for the occasion with the painted faces of Lenin, Stalin, Khrushchev, and Gorbachev. There is even one of Putin, a disturbing reminder to me that the Cold War ended when an agreement was reached between old Communists and new oligarchs.
As soon as the Revolution began, Cuban socialism began to conquer the old emblems of capitalism along its forced march. It began with the Hilton Hotel, rebaptized the Hotel Habana Libre, where Fidel Castro set up camp. This then cascaded all the way down to the old American cars, which continued to do battle with Soviet engines installed. Along the way, garrisons became schools, private clubs became workers’ clubs, and so on with cabarets, fine restaurants, hotels . . .
Now, you can sense the exact opposite: within the heart of the flagships of socialism, you can increasingly hear the beat of commercial deals. Look no further than the Committees for the Defense of the Revolution, or CDRs, which now also guard private rentals. Or stop to hear how the language of police work has become part of the chorus of everyday life. Come in, the captain will see you now. Run him through the system. Take it easy and cooperate. To say nothing of the widespread use of a cell phone app that can provide the name, address, and date of birth of the caller. (Yet no one is shocked by the use and abuse of Cuban big data, maintaining that private enterprise and an end to privacy are perfectly compatible.)
4.
Sooner or later, everyone sits down to a banquet of consequences. So wrote Robert Louis Stevenson, a fan of islands. And that’s what we are experiencing, right now, on the island of Cuba: a banquet of consequences. It comes in the form of a never-ending pageant of international visitors, which can range in a single week from a well-known artist (Frank Stella), to a president (Barack Obama), to a professional baseball team (Tampa Bay), to a famous rock band (Rolling Stones), to a designer fashion show (Karl Lagerfeld and Chanel).
Welcome to the long march, in the form of entertainment, that is leaving a trail of change in a country where it is more acceptable to consume the transformation than to discuss it. It’s as if the cause had to be sacrificed in order to enjoy the consequences.
Let us think back to the time when the Revolution was in vogue. It was the 1960s, and intellectuals from all over the world were in Cuba, ever ready to offer theoretical support for the so-called Cuban way, a socialism that was green (“as green as the palms,” according to Fidel), not red; that was Latin American, not Soviet; and that fed the fantasies of the West.
Today, however, in this Cuba of consequences, it is entertainment that makes the difference. Reggaeton, with its glamorous frivolity, marks the rhythm of this new life. Where once there was Sartre, now there is Beyoncé; where once we had Max Aub, now we have Paris Hilton. Graham Greene has given way to the Rolling Stones, and what was record turnout for the Maximum Leader’s speeches now occurs for the electronic sounds of Major Lazer.
In the midst of this catharsis of controlled hedonism, even a trip as politically significant as Obama’s was filtered through Cuba’s most famous comedian, who performed a skit with the American president that was filled with double entendres, absurd jokes, and unofficial truths.
Even the historic table tennis exchange that took place during the time of Nixon and Mao was more solemn than this encounter between Obama and Pánfilo—an encounter, by the way, that forsook government protocol and left the opposition and exiles feeling out of place.
The United States invested millions of dollars in supporting the democratic cause in Cuba, and here all it took was a simple video of the president playing dominos with a comic figure who understands nothing for viewers to understand it all.
In this Cuba of consequences, no one can imagine Paris Hilton or Mick Jagger debating which is the best political model to follow. And that’s because Cuban authorities themselves seem entirely uninterested in any form of ideological discussion, in a country that swings between illuminating the Bolivarian model and disappearing into the shadow of the Chinese model.
What comes next, after Obama? That’s the question many asked themselves, on the left and the right, on the island and off it. It appears the government may carry on—as much as a government riddled with octogenarians can carry on—and yet there is also a sense of certainty that things need to change. And not just because of measures to open up the service industry—family-run restaurants, gyms, bars, and art galleries—but because the new economy has had an impact on areas traditionally considered sacred in Cuban socialism—education, health, and culture—that are beginning to brace for private initiatives that would have been unthinkable in the past.
A generation is now stepping into public life in the midst of these reforms, at a time when the media is one step removed from its former political servitude, during a time of diplomacy and rampant hedonism.
The problem, though, is not change itself, but where change is leading. That is the tightrope on which this country, in which most people are unprepared for shock therapy, walks.
And while it’s true that Cubans today are eager for money, they are also eager for time. They are eager for new business while still being eager to maintain the support networks that continue to pulse behind the everyday uncertainty.
5.
In January 2016, the government publisher Editorial Arte y Literatura released the novel 1984. In a country that has been described as a utopia—geographically and ideologically—this dystopian novel by George Orwell contained all of the ingredients to make its publication a momentous occasion.
There were those who noted how long it took to publish this masterpiece. And there were those who, as Orwellians, demanded that Animal Farm (the blatant dissection of Stalinism barely concealed behind a universal diatribe against an abstract power) be published next.
Such grievances around the delayed encounter between Cuba and Orwell, the awkward author who was against Stalin yet fought on the Republican sid
e in the Spanish Civil War, who opposed British colonialism and was a lifelong supporter of the “dark side” (as Spanish poet Jesús López Pacheco used to call the left), are not surprising.
But 1984 came to the island at the right time.
Because the Cuba that received this novel is increasingly like a dystopian country, ready to join the Orwellian revival that has taken hold since 2012, with new editions, comics, and announcements of film adaptations. (Hollywood has decided on a new telling of the story, following those already directed in Britain by Rudolph Cartier, Michael Anderson, and Michael Radford.)
In one way or another, we are all Orwellian. But Cubans are subject to “the damned circumstance of absurdity everywhere” in 1984 and Animal Farm.
From this point of view, 1984 is a survival guide, with GPS included, that can help us find our way along a path marked by socialist icons and the culture of entertainment, single-party states and tourism, science and remittances from abroad, anti-imperialism and the American deluge, the Chinese model and Cuban flavor—all bathed in the sweet-and-sour sauce poured over a world in which the free market and democracy filed divorce proceedings years ago. It’s not that, in this Orwellian Cuba, we have bidden farewell to all Marxist discourse (or abandoned the Leninist concept of history, in which socialism is the ultimate end). But these ideas must wrestle with the fall of the Soviet empire that sustained Cuba geopolitically, and the collapse that has been described—how else!—as the death of utopia.
Against this background, Marx and Lenin must live alongside Huxley and Orwell in every nook and cranny of Cuba.
Cuba on the Verge Page 4
