YOUR MAN IN HAVANA

Emil Signes AKA Emilito

May 1999

for his US family

(with some later comments)
Final Rev saved 5/14/10 14:15

2009: in anticipation of visiting Havana this year - with US family members - for the 100th anniversary of the wedding of my grandparents, I have modified this report (but very slightly).

[2010: following my Havana trip of January I simply note that all my assumptions regarding family addresses had to be reevaluated. I have not updated the 2009 observations nor any other change of perspectives.  For those, see links to subsequent trip reports, located at the bottom of the page.]
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The original version of this account was wrtten at top speed, driven by unknown irresistible forces within me, between April 24 and May 8, 1999.  It was distributed as a 4-part “e-mail serial” to members of the US descendants of Antonio LAGOS TOLEDO and Pepita BESTEIRO GRACCIANI*, married in Havana in 1909, as well as to some Besteiro relatives in Spain. An illustrated version was prepared on May 31.

The HTML version was put together in September 1999 more or less from the original.  Although this story may be a bit personal, I felt it was too important to explain, in this version meant for family, the way things are in Cuba.

2009: a satellite image of Havana. Go to http://maps.google.com, select Havana,Cuba and zoom in for details.

Most places referred to in the text are here. In the upper right, across the harbor, is La Cabaña, which we visited Tuesday. Staying at the top of the map and crossing the harbor to the main part of the city, from East to West are Old Havana (Habana Vieja), Central Havana (where the "La Habana" indicator is, above), Vedado, and Miramar (both indicated on the map).

Our hotel, the Plaza, is located between the two vertical yellow lines by the third "a" in Habana at the Parque Central (the left yellow line is the Prado).  Across the Parque Central is the Gran Teatro.  The Malecón runs along the Caribbean at the top of the picture.  San Lázaro  is the street just south of the Malecón. 

Calles Obispo and O'Reilly run East-West in Habana Vieja, and the Plaza de Armas and the café La Mina are on Obispo near the water.  Consulado and Galiano run North-South to the West of the Prado.

The University, where we saw the rugby practice is just below the words "Calle 23", in the vicinity of a stadium which can barely be seen on the map.  The Hotel New York, where Manuel Lagos lived out the end of his life, is in Chinatown, just below the university, on Calle Zanja.

The great Necropolis of Colón is the big white rectangle to the left of center.

Our relatives are scattered throughout the city. Alicia and Roxana live in Central Havana, as does Micky; Diana lives in Vedado. Mercedita lives in Cerro, and Isabelita and José Antonio live in Santos Suárez.

Introduction

 When we finally made the announcement that we were going to visit Cuba – for Heide it would be the first time, and for me it would be for the first time in 44 years – I received the following message from Rodolfito, a second cousin living in Miami:

“Les deseo un feliz viaje y por favor dale un abrazo y un beso a mi tio Miguel Angel, como tambien a todos los primos y demas familiares.  Por favor preparate mentalmente porque ese pais no es lo que tu una vez conociste, el DICTADOR COMUNISTA lo ha destruido todo, puedo decirte que hoy en dia es el pais mas pobre y represivo de America Latina.

Un fuerte abrazo,

Rodolfo” 

( . . . [Best wishes to the family] . . . Please prepare yourself mentally, because this isn’t the country you once knew, the COMUNIST DICTATOR has destroyed everything, I can tell you that today it’s the poorest and most repressive country in Latin America.)

OK, Rudy, I thought, let’s not get too carried away, I mean I know things are bad, but that’s a bit much.  Then I thought, “Why do these Cuban exiles exaggerate everything?” 

Nevertheless, after having spent a week there, I must say that though I had thought I was prepared, I was not.  By the second day there I was infused with a profound sadness, even - briefly - a desire to leave immediately.  I was sorry I had gone.

If I didn’t have relatives there, however, I would never have known. 

Aside from the beat-up appearance of many of the buildings, most tourists, I’m sure, don’t have a clue.  Especially the ones that just go to the beach hotels and never leave their little comfort zone.

By the time we left, however, I was able to appreciate the way people retain the ability to enjoy the small things in life, and the way they manage to survive, and face with humor, the most depressing and even humiliating circumstances.

Now I can say that I’m glad we went: it was wonderful to see old relatives and meet new ones.  Overall it was an enriching experience, and I’m sure we’ll do it again.  And I recommend it to you, if you’re prepared to visit our relatives (and not just places), and try to understand their lives and the ambience in which they live.

Family Tree

The process of preparing the family tree and connecting with as many relatives as possible made me realize, once again, just how long we had lost personal contact with a group of relatives that used to be so close to the entire Paterson Lagos-Besteiro clan.  (The word Paterson, in those times, was redundant).

I decided this family research was not – for me, anyway – something that could be done without being “up close and personal.”  A trip was necessary. 

Background

Cuba has played an important part in the history of everyone in the US Lagos-Besteiro family, because my generation’s grandparents were married there and 3 of their 6 children that survived infancy were born there. Antonio Lagos immigrated to Cuba in 1905, and Pepita Besteiro in 1907. They were married in 1909 in Havana, and my mother Carmen was born there in 1910.  After a brief return to Spain where Manuel (Uncle Manny) was born in 1911, they returned to Havana where Victorina (Aunt Vicky) was born in 1912.  Although they had left for New York earlier, they returned in 1916 and Dolores (Lolita, or Aunt Dee), was born in Havana in 1917.  When Lolita, her mother and siblings left Havana later that year to arrive ahead of the US's entry into World War I, Manuel stayed for about 2-3 years - till after the end of the war - and lived with relatives.

 
Antonio LAGOS (Papa) and Pepita BESTEIRO (Maina) wedding, Havana, 20 December 1909

Between that time and 1959, Antonio and Pepita made several visits to Cuba, and as a kid I remember the Cubans visiting for a month every summer (until and including 1959), when a great time was had by all.  Uncle Dominic, Aunt Betty, Uncle Mario (tío Domingo, tía Isabel and tío Mario) and a host of their descendants and in-laws were a summer fixture.  The last time (1959) they were here they all came bringing Fidel dolls as gifts and bragging about what good his revolutionary reforms were doing for the country.  By the next year, everything had changed.

Uncle Dominic                                Aunt Betty                                     Uncle Mario

 It has never been the same since.

There have been a few visits since then (Aunt Jo, Uncle Mike and Michelle visited in 1981, Buzz and Manuel in 1991 for the Pan Am games; that may have been all.)  Since the revolution, about half of the Cuban relatives have left the country: some are in Miami, some in Puerto Rico, some in Venezuela.  With those (about 30) remaining in Cuba, however, except for the visits noted above, there has been virtually no personal contact over the last 40 years. 

40 years is a long time.

Visa

While exploring the Internet looking for regulations on visiting Cuba, I found out there’s no ban on visiting, but an American can’t spend any of his or her own money – or that of any other American – there, which makes it kinda difficult. One exception was people visiting close relatives in extreme hardship.  I didn’t read the fine print, but I figured, from my teenage days, these relatives were as close as they come.  Furthermore, from what I'd been told, just about everyone in Cuba was living in extreme hardship, especially since the fall of the USSR.  So I plunged ahead.

The web page I was reading noted that Marazul Travel (Weehawken, NJ) was virtually the only US agent that handled visas to Cuba.

So I contacted them, and they said sure, visiting cousin, no problem, and sent me a visa application.  I filled it out with all the appropriate relative information, and sent them a check for $75 x 2 = $150.  About three weeks later they told me my visa had been approved, and that I should start making travel arrangements.

After getting prices from them (their routes included travel via Miami, Nassau, and Cancun), I realized that it was going to be far cheaper going through my friend Brian Graville’s travel agent in Toronto.  We managed to secure a package that included airfare from Toronto, a week at a pretty nice hotel in Old Havana (the Plaza), and breakfast, for less than $600 each.  To go through them, however, we had to part with an additional $50 each to get Marazul to free the visas.

When we got the visas, we were shocked to find out they were Cuban visas, and not US visas.  No problem, said the lady at Marazul, you just travel under a “general license”.  @#$%^%$#, I thought, but it seems that it’s true: if you satisfy the “close relatives and extreme hardship” requirements, you can go without any written US permission.

At this point there was no stopping us, however, the tickets were bought, and we were going.  Just to cover ourselves, however, we asked Heide’s mother in Germany if she would be willing to cover the trip, and she said, OK. We got money from Germany, documented its purpose, and we were off to Cuba without having to spend any of Uncle Sam’s money.  And therefore, hopefully, doubly legally. 

I was to see very many US passports during our time away, belonging to people who were obviously not concerned about making the trip.  Anyway, I reckon that a society that values the right to bear arms should also be willing to protect the right to travel.

When people with Cuban connections got a whiff of our intentions, we were overwhelmed with clothes, medicines, and other goodies for friends and relatives.  We had read that the baggage allowance was 20 kg per person, and we knew we were over.  Roos Travel, our agent, said that Hola Sun, the package provider, has a deal with the airlines that allows 30 kg (66 lbs) per person. We hoped so. 

The trip to Havana

We drove to Toronto on Friday April 16 loaded down with 128 pounds (58 kg) worth of stuff, more than half of which was to give away. 

We found out that, not only were we allowed to take 30 kg, but were also issued a tourist card by Hola Sun holidays.  This tourist card could be used instead of the Cuban visas we had been issued.  Therefore, it appeared, we had spent $250 for visas that we wouldn’t need.

We had lots of cash with us, which was necessary because neither Amex cards nor any credit cards on American banks are valid.  

On the plane to Havana, we met an Ecuadorian woman who had been to Cuba several times. We discussed the visa options we had (visa from Marazul and tourist card), and she strongly suggested we use the tourist card.  The visa which says you are visiting family needs the address of a relative, and she indicated that the relative would be visited by the government to make sure the tourist kicked something back into the government coffers.

Although we were to find no evidence that this was true (and cousin Diana said she had never heard of such a thing), this conversation convinced us that we would use our tourist cards and leave the visas for the scrapbook. [Note of 2009: I have found no evidence that what the Ecuadorian lady said has any basis in fact.  There are enough imperfections in Cuban society that I don't want to pass on unfounded rumors as if they were facts.]

She was also carrying 2 rolls of toilet paper in her carry-on. 

A portent of things to come? 

Saturday evening

The plane arrived in Havana at 7 PM, and as we waited for our luggage (one of our bags was the last to arrive, which caused a bit of nervousness), the Ecuadorian lady walked by.  She was chagrined: Cuban customs had discovered the frozen chicken she had stowed in her carry-on and taken it from her. 

As we exited the customs area at the airport, a pair of people grabbed our bags and put them on carts.  Not wanting to cause any waves, nor knowing the protocol at the airport, we let them take them.  We found a Havanatur representative who was able to direct us to the proper bus for our hotel (transfer to and from the hotel was included as part of the package).  We followed the guys with the cart and got there and gave each of them a dollar.  At that point a third person, who had accompanied them, said angrily. “¡Coño! ¿Y yo?”  (Hey – what about me?!)  I gave him a dollar and they all disappeared.

This was our first exposure to the “jineteros” (hustlers), who are omnipresent in Havana. 

We joined three people in the minibus who had been there about half an hour waiting to be transported to their hotels, and we waited still longer.  Finally, just as we were to arrange to take cabs, the driver appeared and we headed off into the dark and mostly unlit suburban Havana night.

We arrived at the hotel after 9 PM and found there, awaiting us, cousin Diana and her daughter Diana Isabel, Alicia, a Graciani relative, and her daughter Roxana.  Also, José Antonio, son of Isabelita Mateo, a member of the Lorenzo branch (her grandmother Joaquina had spent some time in Paterson taking care of Lolita [Aunt Dee] when she was a baby), and José Antonio’s wife Minerva.  Isabelita's father, Ricardo, was well known to members of my mother's generation.

I left Heide to talk to the relatives while I checked in.  The guy who took our five bags to room 453 was very friendly and helpful, and I decided to give him a $5 tip.  When I reached into my pocket, I found a single along with the five, and said, what the hell, so I gave him $6.

With everything checked in, I returned to the group, who was sitting in the lobby quietly talking, and asked “Well?  Aren’t we going to do something?  Let’s have a few drinks, maybe get something to eat, party on down, whatever?”  I was met with a quiet smile (which I later was to interpret as “You don’t get it, do you?)”  The words that they spoke were, “Well, we thought you’d be very tired after this long trip.”  I looked around and saw there was a bar in the hotel, and invited everyone for a drink. 

We went in, put a couple of tables together, ordered a round of drinks, and sat and talked for about an hour or more.

I don’t know whether I specifically brought the topic up, but the matter of salaries came up, and we were told, in detail, just what everyone made.  It appeared that professional people were earning in the neighborhood of $10-15 per month, persons with probably the equivalent of an associate degree, about $7 per month, retirees on pension about the same.
 

 
José Antonio and Heide at hotel bar, Saturday night

 Whether or not it was intended as a message, it certainly served as one: at this hotel (and unfortunately, as it turned out, throughout most of Havana), they seemed to be saying, we are now in your world.  Furthermore, for us to stay in your world, it’s going to have to be on your dollar.

 
Alicia and Roxana

I made a quick calculation – if the average Cuban professional made 200 pesos per month (a hair less than $10), then the $1.50 the hotel was charging for domestic beer would represent more than 15% of their monthly income.  To put this in American terms, for an American making $36,000 per year, 15% of monthly income would represent a price per beer of $450.  The round of 8 I had just bought would cost $3,600.  That would be a world we certainly couldn’t afford to be in at our expense.  I realized then that everything we did together would be entirely at our expense. Not that I had a problem with that; it was just the enormity of the disparity that stunned me.

It then struck me that I had tipped the bellhop the equivalent of two weeks’ wages for an engineer.

Dollars vs. Pesos

Until 1993, the possession of dollars in Cuba was a crime.  There were a few dollar shops for foreigners, but basically the entire economy, from the perspective of the native, was peso-based. There were shortages, and huge lines for virtually everything were ubiquitous.  This is well documented in a wonderful book about travel in Cuba in 1990, “Trading with the Enemy” by Tom Miller. 

The shortages, and the lines, were a great difficulty for a Cuba whose economy had just been shattered by the collapse of the Soviet Union.  When you could get stuff legally, however, prices were usually reasonable and within the reach of the average Cuban.

With the legalization of the dollar, and the concurrent decision to encourage tourism, absolute shortages started to lessen.  They were replaced, however, by products that, while available, were priced in dollars at prices similar to those we would pay in the US, and therefore completely out of the reach of the average Cuban.  Diana’s engineer son Arturito was to comment later in the week that the water glasses on the table cost $0.85 each, or more than his daily wage. 

Cuba now consists of two completely intermingled economies, that of the peso and that of the dollar.  The problem is that, for Cubans far too often this means earning in pesos and paying in dollars.

How can anyone do this?  I innocently ask.  It turns out there are a few ways.   

Firstly, the Cuban exiles in the United States now number about 15-20% of the population of Cuba itself, so there are a number of families with relatives in the US who manage to get dollars to Cuba (mostly illegally, but as I’m told repeatedly this week, “Almost everything in Cuba now is illegal.”)

Then there are those that earn dollars.  Prominent among these are waiters, maids, taxi drivers, and of course, bellhops.  Interestingly, I’m told that, because of the desirability of that profession, bellhops have to “buy themselves in” (under the table, of course).  Think of it as tuition for Bellhop University.  (Let’s make a few elementary calculations.  Assume a bellhop works 20 days in a month, takes up 10 sets of bags in a day, and gets $2 per tip.  That comes out to about $400 per month, or more than 25 times an engineer’s monthly salary.) 

Then there are employees of foreign companies, and of course hustlers (jineteros), whores (jineteras), etc.

People with regular jobs also moonlight.  Thus a hardware engineer with whom I spoke, who earned $15 per month, through repairing computers, etc., has been able to own his own computer and also be on the Internet. 

One theory as to why illegal activities are not only everywhere, but also everywhere tolerated is that, first of all, it is recognized that they are necessary to survive.  Secondly, it means that virtually anyone is set up to be found guilty of something if the government so desires.

Whether overtly or in a quiet and unobtrusive way, the government seems to have an hold on just about everyone. 

Engineers and doctors

Commenting on moonlighting professionals the following observation was made.  Engineers, who often have technical skills, can often find some activity to supply them with dollars.  “But what can a doctor do?”   

I'm told that many taxicabs in Havana are being driven by off-duty medical doctors, whose wage scale is on a par with other professionals in Cuba. 

Perhaps they should be looking for bellhops to sponsor them. 

Traveling

Given their financial conditions, it is not easy for Cubans to travel abroad.  Nor are they usually allowed to. For financial reasons, it’s even difficult to travel within Cuba, and many Habaneros (residents of Havana) don’t know much outside their city.  In fact, as city buses have become scarce and unpredictable, it’s even hard to travel within Havana.  Many relatives within the city haven’t seen each other in years. 

José Antonio, however, in a comment that was to be echoed several times during the week, wasn’t too concerned about this facet of life.  “People tell us how sorry they are that we can’t travel”, he said.  “We really don’t worry about that; we’re too concerned with figuring out where the next meal is coming from.”

Convertible pesos

At first, when I received a bunch of aluminum Cuban coins in change at the bar, I figured that, without an exact payment of the bill, I would always be receiving worthless change.  For example, if my bill was $9.20, and I paid with a $10 bill, rather than 80 cents, I would receive 80 centavos in change.  80 centavos in pesos represents 4 cents on the dollar.  Then when, at the hotel reception, I asked for five singles in exchange for a $5 bill, and got 4 singles plus a peso coin, I snapped at the cashier.

It turns out, however, that there is really a third monetary unit in Cuba – the “peso convertible”.  This is reflected in an entirely distinct set of coins and bills that reflect a fixed 1 to 1 correspondence with the dollar: i.e. a convertible peso coin or bill can be exchanged for a dollar (but only in Cuba of course).

I had laughed at the exchange rate published in the currency table of a Cuban newspaper (all newspapers are published by the government, of course), which showed the peso at 1 to 1 with the dollar.  I was able to receive 21 pesos to the dollar at a CADECA, a government-run change agency, and according to the Internet, the actual exchange rate was 23 to the dollar.  I suppose, in retrospect, they were talking about convertible pesos.  I hope they were. 

You’ve heard the expression “as queer as a three dollar bill?”  Well, I got one in Cuba – after paying with a twenty for a $17 CD (not too many Cubans buy them at those prices), I received a bill marked “3 pesos convertibles”.  I didn’t complain, but later left it as a tip at a restaurant.  Let him find out if it’s really convertible, I figured.

My completely uneducated guess is that Cuba is heading towards an eventual changeover to an economy where this convertible peso, pegged at 1 to 1 to the dollar, becomes the official currency.  This is pretty much what Argentina does. [Note of 2009: apparently this has happened, with an additional 10% charged for conversion of the US dollar, which is no longer usable as currency. I don't really know the specifics.]

But back to Saturday night.  Diana’s husband Simón Goldsztein  (the mysterious “z” had been added erroneously by Cuban officials to his father’s marriage certificate, and is now part of the official spelling) showed up as everyone else left.  He joined us for a beer, and among other things, told me of his stepmother Baruja, and two sisters, Fania and Frida, who had left for Miami in 1948 and never been heard of since.  I told him when it came to family things I was Sherlock Holmes.  So now I have a family discovery project: find two women with the all-too-common surname of Goldstein, who have probably married, and may even be dead, last heard from in Miami in 1949, planning to move to California.

Know them?

 
Simón

When Simón and Diana leave, around midnight, Heide and I realize that we haven’t eaten since breakfast, except for a pretty lousy airplane meal.  We order a grilled ham and cheese sandwich, one of far too many that we would eat that week, especially given that we were in Cuba, and love Cuban food.  At that time I also discover a real treat: $2 for a healthy shot of “añejo”, 7-year old Cuban rum.  It would be my final drink every night that week. 

Sunday

Breakfast is part of our package, and it’s a huge buffet spread, with lots of choices.  Among them are lots of fruits – oranges, pineapples, mango, papaya, etc.  Ironically, so we're told, fruit is often hard to come by for regular Cubans.  But it's always available at the tourist hotels. 

Breakfast is on the top floor, on a balcony with a nice view of the city.

 
View from the Hotel Plaza at breakfast

Correos, or new math: where 50 cents = 2 ½ cents

We had arranged to meet Diana and Simón at 1 PM, and figured we would invite them out to lunch with us.  Following breakfast I spoke to a tourist company lady at the hotel and asked her how much postcard postage was, and where to get it.  She told me that each postcard was 50 centavos (on the peso), and that I needed to convert dollars across the street in a CADECA, where I would get about 20 pesos to the dollar.  Then I was to go to Correos (the post office), which was across the Parque Central from the hotel, and buy the stamps.  I was surprised to find out both were open on Sunday. 

I changed the money and went to the post office.  They were about to sell me the stamps at 50 centavos on the dollar (i.e. 50 US cents each), but when I said, “No, no, ¡en pesos!, they said I had to do that “mañana.”  Afraid that mañana they would say they same thing, I still walked out without buying any stamps.

Later in the week, in fact, I returned to the Post Office and was directed to a window where I again asked for stamps – while holding a stack of 20 peso notes in front of the woman behind the bars.  Before I could say anything, she said “¿Pesos?  Next window.”  And there I got 80 stamps for a total of 40 pesos, or $2.00.  Had I got the identical stamps at the first window, they would have cost me $40.  

Gran Teatro de la Habana

 Next door to Correos is the Gran Teatro de la Habana (Great Theater of Havana), one of the city’s truly wonderful buildings.

 
Gran Teatro as seen from the Hotel Plaza

While walking by, we were approached by a woman who wanted to sell us a tour for $2, and while at first wary, we thought, sure, why not?  It turned out to be well worth it.  It is a spectacular building with many uses, many auditoriums, home to the national ballet and many other theatrical institutions.

Being there on Sunday we missed it, but we’re told that during the week the place is full of little kids taking ballet lessons.  That would have been neat to observe.  (Note of July 14: this is where the kids are practicing in the movie “The Buena Vista Social Club” during the segment on pianist Rubén González.) 

One of the things Heide and I really wanted to do while we were in Cuba was to take in a zarzuela.  A zarzuela is a very Spanish operetta, popular mostly just in Spain and Spanish speaking countries.  We kind of despaired of finding one in Cuba, but when we asked our guide about it she said, “Yes, there is a zarzuela – a Cuban zarzuela – starting on Friday evening.  As we were leaving Saturday morning, the timing was perfect, and we decided to invite all the family to attend with us.

The zarzuela, “María la O”, by Ernesto Lecuona, was to be one of the highlights of our week. 

 
Preparing the set for María la O

Habana Vieja and the Cuban “pastime” of standing in line

Diana and Simón showed up at 1 PM, and when we asked them to join us for lunch, they replied that they’d eaten and seemed genuinely shocked when we said we hadn’t (it was one of those “two worlds” kind of problems).  The rest of the afternoon, in conjunction with a pleasant tour of Old Havana, seemed to be an exercise in finding us a cheap place to eat (even though we were quite prepared to pay American prices for lunch).

We walked the entire length of Calle Obispo, beginning with a stop at la Floridita, a Hemingway hangout where the Daiquiri was supposedly invented.  We walked in for a look around, but by this time I didn’t even have the nerve to suggest that we have a daiquiri (at what I suppose would have been the $3-5 we would expect to spend in the States).

Walking down Calle Obispo we saw lots of major renovations, another indication of the Cuban government’s commitment to the tourist industry (how things change!)  Simón pointed out a few places to eat that seemed to be inexpensive – pizza was one, but we gave it a pass.  Finally we came to a place that Simón recognized.  “The food is cheap here, you can get a glass of beer for 3 pesos (15 cents), etc. 

Only problem was, there was a “cola” – a queue, a line.  A long one, in fact.  I had read about these lines in “Trading with the Enemy”, and was finally to experience one.  The ethics of the line were, you found “el último” (last person in line), and made sure that person knew you were behind him or her. At that point, you could go about your own business, returning occasionally to check the status of the line.  Of course, if the person in front of you got served before you returned, you lost your place in line and had to start from scratch.  The estimate for this wait was about an hour and a half.  We continued our walk.

We went further down Calle Obispo, then walked along the harbor to the Presidential palace and headed back.  Among the sights we saw were the Castillo de la Real Fuerza, the Iglesia del Santo Ángelo Costudio, a really neat old church where José Martí was christened, Batista’s old Presidential Palace (now a museum of the Revolution), the Granma memorial, and many other sites of Old Havana. 

With Diana at the Castillo de la Real Fuerza (Morro Castle is barely visible in the background)

Diana continued taking Heide and me along old streets while Simón checked the line . . . eventually he found us and motioned us back. When we got there, it still wasn’t time, so the three of us waited in the lobby of the “Ambos Mundos” hotel.  Diana had a botched hip operation a few years ago (maybe the guy came straight to the O.R. from driving his taxi) and is forced to walk with a cane, so it seemed appropriate that after two hours of walking she rest a bit.  Simón waited by the restaurant, three doors away.

Places frequented by Hemingway are great tourist attractions (Hemingway lived in Cuba and was a supporter of the Revolution).  The Ambos Mundos hotel is one of his hangouts and Room 511, where he stayed, is available to visit (for a charge of course).

The security person at the Ambos Mundos paced around while we sat and waited.  He probably recognized that Diana was a Cuban, and the tourist hotels aren’t too crazy about having Cubans inside, some of them outright forbid them.  In fact, he left us alone, and Simón finally came to get us. 

After another 10 minutes on the line (we were now past the 2 hour mark), a friend of Simón and Diana’s showed up, and after being introduced to us said, “You know, they only allow Cubans in there.”  Simón went to check, and it was true.  Diana went ballistic and went in to have a word with the management. The answer: “I’m sorry, but I’ll lose my job if I let them in.”

A compromise was struck, and we were sold 4 meals in cardboard cartons.  They each consisted of half a chicken and an ample portion of black beans and rice.  The total price was 100 pesos ($5 total, or $1.25 each).  We went to the nearby Plaza de Armas, and sat down on the bench to begin our meal, as stray dogs hovered nearby waiting for scraps.  One problem – we had no cutlery, which wasn’t too much of a problem with the chicken, but . . . rice?    

With typical Cuban ingenuity, Diana ripped off a piece of cardboard from the top of the box, cupped it into a U-shape, and – voila! – a spoon emerged.  We had a great meal, and the dogs devoured the scraps.  A park cleaner seemed to know the dogs and looked out for the strays: she came over and screamed at one of dogs “You have a home, leave the food for ‘La gaviota’, who has to feed on scraps!”

We headed back to the hotel on O’Reilly Street, another main drag in Old Havana. 

When we got to the hotel, we were met by Miguel Ángel, son of Tío Domingo (AKA Uncle Dominic), and  Miguel Ángel’s children Miguel Ángel (Miguelito, or Miki) and Mercedes (Merceditas or Mercy), and Merceditas’ husband Enrique.  They joined us for a beer and brought new family information for the tree.  Mercy invited us to join her family for an evening trip to the Cabaña, a huge fort across the harbor.

 
Miguelito and Miguel Ángel examining family data

 I gave Miguel Ángel’s children a great big bag of goodies that his sister Raquelita had sent for him: medicine, clothes, other things in short supply in Cuba.
 

 
Merceditas & Enrique

While many of the things we commonly take or send to Cuba, such as clothes, are now available, even if unaffordable, at dollar shops in Havana, medicine is not.  Simple things like vitamins, aspirin, anti-inflammatories, anti-histamines, etc. are simply not found in Cuba.  Period.

A stranger in your own country

Saturday evening I had given José Antonio a bag of goodies sent by a friend.  Even after I had passed on these and Raquelita’s gifts, I still had a bunch of things to give away: a huge suitcase-full, in fact.  I was going to bring Simón and Diana up to the room to help us sort these for distribution, but Simón said “Let me ask at the desk first to see if we can come up.”  I said “Screw the desk (or as close as I knew how to say that in Spanish), it’s our room!” He said “No, no, let me ask.”  When he asked, he was given a drop dead look. “Of course not!  Residents only.”  Apparently this hostility towards Cubans at hotels is typical.  Cubans seem to accept it as a fact of life: “Los cubanos somos conformes.” (We Cubans are resigned.) 

Interestingly, one of the scathing criticisms of the Batista regime was the phenomenon of “tourist apartheid.”  Well, folks, tourist apartheid is alive and well in Castro’s Cuba.  In spades.

At any rate, we brought the suitcase downstairs (where we were given a dirty look by security – I don’t know if he thought we were going to sell it, or what – but I didn’t care).  The idea was to get it to Diana’s  father Bebo’s house.  This meant taking a taxi, which sent Simón scurrying to negotiate. 

If you’re a foreigner, you normally just take a local cab: most of them are metered and the rates are reasonable (although there are some that are a lot cheaper than others, and in the non-metered cabs you’d better negotiate beforehand).

Habaneros, however, take “taxis particulares”  (private cabs) where they can negotiate rates.  Usually these are just ordinary people with no taxi license that need to pick up a buck or two.  At any rate, Simón negotiated a $3 cab ride to Bebo’s house in Vedado.  All the way there, the driver kept saying “Are you sure you’re all Cuban?  If they catch me with paying riders, they’ll fine me.  I have a wife and child and I can’t afford that.”  Diana teased him:  “Yes, we’re all Cubans.  From Miami.”  We made it there undetected, I gave the driver his $3, and he was very pleased.

A visit to Bebo’s

When we got to Bebo’s, Diana had to shout up three stories to get the door opened, as the bell doesn’t work.  We walked up to the apartment where I had spent a month in 1955.  It didn’t seem that much different, although the furniture seemed older, and the rooms sparsely furnished. 

Bebo, who is nearly 80, seemed in fine spirits and sharp as a tack.  We also met Diana’s son Arturito and his wife Maribel, who is pregnant for the first time after nearly 13 years of marriage.  Finally, we met Diana’s 17-year old grandson Eduardo, her daughter’s son, and his “novia” Gislen, both of whom also live with Bebo.

[Note of 7/30: Maribel gave birth, by Caesarian section, to an 8 ¼ lb. baby boy, Mario Arturo, at 12:30 PM on July 22, 1999. Everyone was thrilled.] 

 
The residents of the 3rd floor of this house in Vedado.  Top: Bebo, Arturito, Maribel.  Bottom: Eduardo, Gislen

Since the revolution, although people theoretically own their houses, they’re not allowed to sell them.  In fact, they can’t even move unless the people into whose house they are moving move simultaneously.  Diana told of one case where 21 simultaneous moves were necessary (like a huge and complicated trade among sporting franchises). When things like this are arranged, the entire set of moves has to take place in a single day.  There is at least one place, on the Prado, a wide boulevard in Old Havana, where people gather informally to arrange these mass moves. 

As a result of the housing situation, it is quite common to find several generations of a single family living under one roof.  Thus Bebo, his grandson and granddaughter in law, and his great grandson all live in his house; Diana’s daughter and the rest of her family in another.

I don’t think the original plan called for us to eat there, but it was after 9 PM. Shortly after we arrived Simón excused himself and disappeared for about half an hour.  He returned, having visited his and Diana’s apartment, with some food that was to complement our meal – a small portion of tunafish (probably one person’s ration by our standards) and a box of Holyland Motzahs. 

Taking into account that Diana and Simón live on the seventh floor of a building whose elevator was not working, he put himself out quite a bit just for us.  Imagine, too, what it must be like climbing seven stories on a regular basis with a bad hip and a cane.  The elevator fails often – at one point they went 13 consecutive months without a functioning elevator.

They were still “working” on the elevator when we left Cuba. 

Our meal – for nine people -- consisted of these two items, a small dish of tomato slices and a dish of onion slices.  We ate sparsely, and our hosts seemed to do the same, trying to make sure we had enough to eat.  I was happy with tomato and onion sandwiches (with Motzah instead of bread), but I suspect that kind of meal gets old after a while.

During our meal we learned a little more about the salary structure and its implications.  Upon graduation from college, engineers all start out at exactly 198 pesos (at the 21:1 exchange, that’s $9.43) a month.  Then after a few months, it goes up to 220, then 240, etc, (I confess I don’t remember the exact figures, but in absolute terms it goes from almost nothing to almost nothing in neat pre-programmed steps, regardless of performance).  The result is that there is very little incentive for people to work hard to pursue a career.  For two reasons: one, it doesn’t matter how you perform, you’re going to get the same salary.  And two, this salary is absolutely a trifle compared with the cost of living.  In a land where waiters and bellhops rule, why bother to be an engineer or a doctor? 

Eduardo notes that he plans to go to college – but because he enjoys studying, not because he has any illusions about its helping him cope with life afterwards.

The lack of incentives also leads to lack of productivity: I’m told by many people that Cubans “go to work”, but they rarely work.  During the week we’re told the following anecdote: A Japanese company moves to Cuba and the Japanese and Cuban employees work side by side.  At 7:30, the Japanese workers begin to work.  The Cubans talk about the nightmare they had catching the guagua (bus), and discuss last evening’s soap opera. At 9 AM, the Cubans break for coffee, and the Japanese keep working.  At 10 AM it’s time for a snack for the Cubans while the Japanese work.  (It goes on and on like this; you get the drift.) 

At the end of the day, the Japanese workers tell the Cubans, “It was really enjoyable spending the day with you.  We’re sorry we couldn’t show solidarity with you in your strike, but then we’re not Cuban . . . “

Rationing is a way of life in Cuba.  Nevertheless, rations are often not available.  I see a ration book (“la libreta”) with a line saying “aceite” (cooking oil).  Although it is checked in January, there are no check marks for February, March or April.  Although the family was theoretically allowed a ration each month, it was not available. 

I also notice during the week that no one refers to Castro by name. One common substitute seems to be to say “he” while stroking an imaginary beard.

Among our family are people that favor Castro and his policies (which are still referred to as “the revolution”) and those that don’t.  Likewise among other people with whom we spoke there seemed to be varying degree of enthusiam or lack thereof regarding the government. During the entire week, no one came out and attacked him, although the failures of his policies were noted repeatedly. 

Political correctness also plays a part in Cuban life.  People are expected to attend meetings of the local Committee for the Defense of the Revolution, and other government based activities.  If they don’t, there are no dire consequences, but people “remember” who did and who didn’t fulfill their obligations whenever there is a “plum” to hand out.

Here is the format of one such summons:

(SUMMONS.  “Compañero (Comrade) -- address: You are summoned for the Financial Report of the DELEGATE of our district no. . . We expect you promptly”) (CDR = Comite para la defensa de la Revolución)

(Note: the above is not a summary of this evening’s discussion, but a compilation of things heard throughout the week.  Nevertheless the evening’s discussions were a good entry into the system and its consequences.)

Tropicana

In 1955, during my first (and last) trip to Havana, my parents and Diana’s parents planned a visit to Tropicana, Havana’s finest night club, and were going to take Diana and me.  But by the end of the month, the two of us had fought so much that, although they went, they didn’t take us.  I was really angry! 

The Tropicana is one of the few clubs to have survived the entire Revolutionary period and is a tourist highlight.  I was determined that, after 44 years, we would finally attend the Tropicana, and I invited both Diana and Simón to join Heide and me.

Diana, however, said she had heard that the Tropicana cost $75 per person, and that while she appreciated the offer, if that were true, she couldn’t even imagine spending that kind of money, and wouldn’t go. 

When I checked the price, I found out it was possible to do the Tropicana for closer to $50, on the cheap.  Still, given what I now knew, I had to agree with Diana.  Scratch the Tropicana.  Given what I now knew, it would have been obscene to spend that kind of money on a cabaret.

The next day we gave Diana the money we would have spent to take the four of us to the Tropicana.  And we never missed it.

 
Tropicana [1955]

It was well after midnight, and we called a cab.  We returned to the hotel in a metered cab for $3.50.  We went straight to the bar for a couple of beers (the bar was open 24 hours a day, which was kind of cool).  Arturito had asked us what our impression of Cuba was, and we had responded that, gee, we had just got there.  During my second beer, I commented to Heide that I already knew how this trip to Cuba made me feel – “una tristeza profunda” (a profound sadness -- oddly, although we were speaking English, I said it in Spanish).  I finished the evening with two añejos.

Oh yes, I forgot: before we left Bebo’s, I made a quick trip to the bathroom.   

There was no toilet paper.  And the toilet didn’t flush.

We had only been in Cuba slightly more than 24 hours, and already my head was spinning.

YOUR MAN IN HAVANA – Part 2 

Recap

After 44 years of isolation, I have returned to Cuba to visit my relatives.  Imagining I’ll find something better than what most people gather from what they see and hear in the US media, I’m rattled to find out it’s even worse than I had imagined.  If the next five days are as bad as this, it will be a long week.  

Monday

 Sadness, continued

I am in pretty much of a funk all Monday morning and kind of sit around the hotel room, doing nothing much, still thinking of how people are forced to live here.

We repeat our walk down Calle Obispo, looking for some presents to bring home.  Still not in a mood to spend money, we get nothing and our lunch consists of a ham and cheese sandwich at the hotel.

I had brought José Antonio a “care” package, including clothes, medicine and some US dollars, from a good friend of his in New Jersey.  As part of a planned visit to his house to get online with his computer, he invited me and Heide to join him for dinner at a “paladar,” a family-owned restaurant in Cuba.  Paladares vary in quality and price, but even if this was a good, inexpensive one (which it likely was, being in a residential neighborhood), I knew that he was dipping into his monetary gift to do it.  This kind of made me feel uncomfortable, but I didn’t want to say “no”.

We made a 5 PM date with José Antonio to compute, dine, and compute again.

First, however, we were to meet Diana at Alicia’s house in Centro Habana, then walk to Carlos III, Havana’s largest shopping center, where Simón is employed. 

Alicia lives in the house in which she was born, the only one she has ever known. She lives with her husband Juan, her daughter Roxana, and Roxana’s 7-year old son Jonathan.  Juan has been suffering from Parkinson’s for more than 12 years, and although he remains at home, is virtually uncommunicative.

 
Jonathan

Although Alicia, who is small and frail, has had to transport Juan, a large heavy man, between his bed and his chair – wherever he has had to be, in fact, until recently she had not been able to get a wheelchair for him.  After she dropped him four times, however, she finally was able, after much red tape, to get the wheelchair.  This has made her life easier, she says.

Since Roxana’s divorce, she and Jonathan have lived with Alicia, and Jonathan (who is in the first grade) is home today as his teacher had to go home sick from school.  Alicia urges him to show us some of his homework, and what I see amazes me.  Among the math problems, for example, are 16 - x = 14.  Now I don’t know when I first learned to use “x”, or when my kids did, but it sure as hell wasn’t in the first grade. 

Likewise, the Spanish homework he has seems pretty advanced to me.

Jonathan has just reached the age of 7, which is a critical year in a child’s life.  The government provides milk (powdered milk, I saw no other kind during my entire trip) for children until they reach the age of seven, then it is cut off, and families have to rely on the ration book.  The rationed amount of milk costs 2 pesos (10 US cents), but there hasn’t been any available for a couple of months.  To buy milk outside the government rations would cost 20 pesos (a dollar) for the same quantity. 

Alicia had detached her retina in an accident and then re-detached it while it was healing, while rescuing Jonathan from a fall, and is now blind in one eye.

On top of everything else, Alicia, like just about everyone, has to moonlight; she tutors two groups of children, twice a week. 

It is obvious Alicia has led a difficult and confining life over the last several years.

Diana was to arrive at about the same time we were, and we came late.  It is 1½ hours after our scheduled arrival time.  Alicia notes that she probably hasn’t been able to catch the “guagua” (bus).  There is no bus schedule and there are not nearly enough guaguas to meet the demand.  Sometimes, we are told, people can wait 2 hours or more without a guagua passing by.  This can be not only very frustrating, but even worse if it means you arrive late at work because of it.  Roxana’s route to work includes looking for someone she knows driving a car, while walking, and possibly catching a guagua if one comes by. 

Private cars?  Forget it.  Although there are some (and everything you’ve heard about 40s and 50s American cars all over the place is true), most cars are company-owned and right now it seems quite impossible for Cubans to get their own cars.  Bicycles, however, have become a quite popular substitute.

This is quite a change: Maurice Halperin notes that in 1959 there were more private cars in Cuba than in Spain, and that during his years in Havana, which went through 1968, he never saw an adult Cuban on a bicycle. 

When I had called to give Diana our arrival time, she said they would meet us at the hotel, because it was “a bit difficult” for them to get to the airport.  This, it seems, was quite an understatement.  Getting to the hotel must have been difficult enough.

A diabolical, and uniquely Cuban, solution was devised to relieve the transportation shortage: the “camello”, or camel.  Towed by a tractor, it is a long container with roughly a camel-like shape (two humps) that can accommodate 300 people.  We saw lots of camellos during our travels, always packed to the rafters with people.  The price is right – one cent – but the conditions horrible with everyone packed together, and petty theft is rampant.  Alicia notes that she and Roxana came to the hotel to meet us in a camello, and that the man standing next to Roxana was in heavy-duty molesting mode, which, because of the tightness of the situation, Roxana could do little about.  Until, luckily, a man holding a baby came by and called the molester off. 

 
Camello in Havana.   This one is in front of 819 San Lázaro, old family address (discussed later).

Diana finally arrives and brings some clothes she has selected for Jonathan from the pile we left at Bebo’s house.  He loves them and immediately puts them on.

We walk to the Carlos III, Havana’s largest shopping center, where Simón is employed in some sort of management capacity.  The Carlos III, which sells strictly in dollars, is pretty average, even less than average, when compared to US malls.  We wander through the various stores, noting that prices are comparable to, and more often than not, more expensive than, those in the US. 

While not crowded, the mall has a reasonable amount of traffic, so there are certainly a number of people capable of paying in dollars.  Simón says it grosses about $80,000 a day.

Ice Cream, Moneda Nacional (M.N.), and Paladares

The two of us go to leave, and I tell Diana and Simón that José Antonio has invited Heide and me out for dinner: I’m thinking if all four of us show up, this will put extra pressure on José Antonio as he will probably need to invite us all for dinner.  Nevertheless, Diana notes that, because of the difficulty of getting around the city, she hasn’t seen Isabel – nor her 91-year-old mother – in years, and they join us.

On the way to getting a cab, Simón excitedly notices an ice cream stand, and buys us some ice cream cones – at 3 pesos, or 15 cents, apiece.  They were awesome. 

It’s nearly 7 when we arrive, and meet Isabelita and her 91-year old mother, who also suffers from Parkinsons.  Her medication prevents her from shaking, but she just sits quietly saying nothing.

We have a pleasant conversation with Isabelita, José Antonio and Minerva, all of whom live in the same house.  José Antonio treats us all to a pre-dinner añejo. 

I’m asked what I remember about my 1955 visit, and restrain myself from saying that I always remember it as a chance to visit our rich relatives in Cuba.  (At that time, I had never been out of the Northeast, never been on a plane, never been on a boat, and they had visited us for a month every year, always bringing neat presents.)

I’m still not sure what the dinner plans are, but Diana and Simón get up to join us.  Minerva says she is tired and unable to come along, but I wonder if it is because two unexpected people are coming.  I’m not sure just what is happening, and wonder if I am just being overly sensitive to a nonexistent “situation”.  Then I think again about Diana and Simón and a thought comes to mind. 

Maybe they are just hungry.

Paladares

Along with the huge food shortages of the early 90s, underground restaurants began springing up in private homes.  In 1994 the government legalized home restaurants, or paladares, allowing them to serve up to 12 people at one time.  One reason for legalizing them, of course, was so they could tax them.

Moneda nacional.  Paladares are taxed differently depending on whether they sell in dollars, or in pesos.  I notice, however, that the word peso is normally not used on menus, etc.  Rather the term in favor is “moneda nacional”, or simply M.N.  So if you see a price $10 on something, it could be dollars or pesos.  If it says 10.00 (M.N.), however, you can be sure it’s in pesos.  As you can imagine, it’s -- a lot -- cheaper to license a paladar that charges in M.N. than it is one that charges in dollars.  Sometimes, USD is used to represent US Dollars, but often one just sees the ambiguous $ sign.

I wonder to myself, in complete ignorance, if the reason for the M.N. designation is somehow connected with an eventual change to the convertible peso. 

The paladar to which José Antonio takes us charges in M.N.  We select lomo criollo (pork loin), and we also have salad, black beans and rice, and a couple of beers each.  I offer to pay but, as I figured, am turned down.  I watch José Antonio count out the money – 8 bills of 50 pesos each: the entire meal including drinks has cost $20 for five of us.  It was one of the two best meals we had all week.  By our standards, it was a huge bargain.

Still, it’s more than a month’s salary for him, and I know that he’s dipped heavily into the money his friend Juan Carlos has sent. 

La gaviota and the Internet

We return to José Antonio’s house for coffee.  There, the majority of the people watch a serialized soap opera from Colombia.  It is either called “La gaviota”, or at least she is one of its main characters.  It seems to be a program that everyone watches, and discusses the following day at work.

José Antonio and I go to work on his computer.  I install America Online, my printer/scanner and software and my digital camera capture software.  Then he connects to the Internet.  The connection is very slow, but I still try to get online with both my AOL and Yahoo IDs.   Finally I can get onto both.  Due to the slow connection, I pick out 2 or 3 messages and check them out.  

José Antonio notes with surprise that the screen name of one of the senders is “tortillera”.  He wonders, “Did she know what she was doing when she selected that name for herself?”  I say, “More than likely.”

 
With José Antonio at his computer

We finally left well after midnight, took a cab to the hotel via Diana and Simón’s house.  We hit the hotel bar where I had my evening añejo, then went to bed.
 

Tuesday

7:30 AM Phone Calls

Mercedita starts work early and the only time she can call is about 7:30 AM.  So we have steeled ourselves for the early morning call each day.  Today she calls and asks if we can join her and family for a visit to the Cabaña, a huge old Spanish fort on the other side of Havana Harbor.

 We’d be delighted, I say, and we arrange to meet at the hotel between 7:30 and 8 PM.

Old Family Addresses

I have been looking forward to finding some of the houses in which our family used to live.  I realize, in panic, however, that I forgot to bring them.  I’m pretty sure, however, that they’re in my database, and I have a copy with me.  I reckon I can install it on José Antonio’s computer tomorrow, and check.

Nevertheless, I remember vaguely, two addresses.  One of them is San Nicolás, 1.  We see from the map that we have to walk down Neptuno Street to get to San Nicolás, and when we ask the hotel doorman how far it is, he says, “Very far.”  Nevertheless, we walk, and it takes about 10 minutes. 

We walk all the way down San Nicolás to the waterfront, the Malecón, but the numbers don’t seem to go as far as #1, and the last buildings seem to open up on the Malecón, and not on San Nicolás.  Heide notes that I may have confused this address with Aunt Dee’s Towaco address, 1 Nicholas Street.  Maybe, I say.
 

 
View of the Malecón from the corner of San Nicolás

At any rate, we are now on THE famous Malecón.  In Christopher Baker’s guidebook he says, “How many times have I walked the Malecón?  Twenty?  Thirty?  Once is never enough, for Havana’s seafront boulevard enigmatically seems to represent all of Havana.”  In fact, although this was our first visit there, we were to walk the Malecón several times during our trip. 

It’s unbelievable how so many obviously nice buildings are rapidly decaying along the Malecón.  There is now a tremendous influx of Spanish money to restore buildings along this great boulevard, and you can see construction in progress at various spots along its length.  In fact, there are huge amounts of Spanish money being invested all over Cuba, especially Havana.  I joke to our relatives that the Spaniards, thrown out of Cuba at the end of the 19th Century, may return to reclaim it at the beginning of the 21st.  They are not amused.

While sitting on the Malecón wall, we are greeted by Pedro and Teresa, a couple who tell us all about their great paladar: shrimp and lots of other shellfish and seafood, all for $10.  This is interesting, because the guidebooks say that the paladares are forbidden to serve shellfish.  The phrase “almost everything in Cuba is illegal” comes to mind once again. 

We walk along the Malecón to an open-air amphitheater, climb to the top and enjoy the sights for about half an hour or so.

I remember a “1” and an “8” and the street “San Lázaro”, so we decide to look for 18 San Lázaro.  After a long walk, we get there.  It is in a decaying (read “typical”) area of town, and I photograph it. 

Along our walk today, as everyday, we notice the omnipresence of police.  Havana is responding to the need to keep the city safe and has placed police on virtually every corner.  I understand that, in order to meet the demand for police, they have significantly upped the salary they are paid.

Havana is also trying its best to stamp out prostitution and young girls walking by police are regularly asked for their identification (carné).   Based on what we see, I don’t think they would pass New Jersey’s new racial profiling standards. 

Socialism.  According to what I’ve read, signs honoring socialism, particularly the slogan “Socialismo o Muerte” (Socialism or Death) are everywhere.  While we see tons of signs celebrating the 40th year of the Revolution (which is considered an ongoing process), we see few direct praises of socialism.  I’m told that the new spin is to praise the gains Cuba has achieved under socialism (while likely preparing the nation for its new, nonsocialist future).
 

 
One of the few praises to socialism that we saw

I suggest we track down the paladar of Pedro and Teresa, but Heide reckons that we’ve walked enough already, so we go back to the hotel for a ham and cheese sandwich.

Rugby in Cuba

Can there be a trip without rugby?

Had it not been for a tournament in Trinidad, I would not even have dreamed of looking for rugby in Cuba.  I would have been as sure as sure can be that it didn’t exist.   

Thanks, however, to Mauricio Sanmartín, a Colombian now living in the US, I saw there was.  I had met Mauricio in Trinidad where he was playing for, I believe, a Venezuelan team.  He not only led me to his web page on Caribbean rugby, but also put up a page for my little invitational team Atlantis (both can now be found from http://rugby7.com).

At the same time I was getting this information, a Dominican Republic contact e-mailed me and asked me if I wanted to bring a team to Cuba and participate in a 3-way sevens tournament with them.  He also told me there was only one team in Cuba (in Havana, of course).  At that time (early 1996) I wasn’t ready to do that. 

Mauricio’s web page gives an e-mail address for Cuban rugby, and when I contacted it, I got a brief response like “Yes, we play rugby.  Call our captain Ramón at 555-000 for information.”  While still in the US, I had asked José Antonio to contact Ramón, and found out the team practiced on Tuesdays and Thursdays at 4:30 at the University of Havana’s stadium field.

José Antonio arranged to meet us at the hotel (I don’t think it had yet sunk in just how difficult that must be for him), and we grabbed a cab to Vedado and the University of Havana.  We arrived a little after 4:30, although I had no illusions that anyone would show up till 5. 

The field is huge, and simultaneously we saw multiple baseball and soccer practices taking place.  I guess, they can fit a few rugby players on here, I mused. 

In fact, it was well after 5 PM when we finally saw a small group of people throwing around a rugby ball.  I went up to them and introduced myself.

I met team president Chukin Chao, captain Ramón Rodríguez, and team doctor Osvaldo García González.  They gave me the run down on the history and status of rugby in Cuba.  They also noted that, as of this month, there were now three teams in Cuba. 

 
Chukin, Emilito, Ramón, Osvaldo

Ricardo Martínez, a Catalan rugby coach from Barcelona, in Havana on business, founded the team in 1992.  From that time until 1998, it was the only team in Cuba, and therefore could only compete against teams from other countries.  Fortunately, they came fairly regularly, and the club could always manage at least 7 or 8 games per year.  Their club, the Indios Caribe, has played against teams from the Dominican Republic, Trinidad and Tobago, Jamaica, the Cayman Islands, Guyana, Great Britain, France, Portugal, Argentina, even Tahiti.  They expect a team from Hong Kong to visit in early 2000. 

After five years of existence, the club went from a miniscule number of members to about 100 or more.  At that point, a second club, the Giraldillos were formed, and they are based in the east of Havana.  A third club, in the Martí section and as yet unnamed, was just spun off in March of 1999.  Both the Indios Caribe and the Giraldillos can field 35-40 players, with the Martí team hovering at around 20 participants.

Chao noted that the club members went on a “missionary” expedition to Santiago, the biggest city on the other end of the island, to try to create a team and therefore some natural geographic rivalry, but so far this has not borne fruit. 

To date, rugby is recognized only as a recreational activity and not as an official sport.  One hopes that this will change, and I imagine that becoming an Olympic medal sport will go a long way to making this happen.  We are all keeping our fingers crossed that we will see rugby in the 2004 Olympics. [note of 2009: now we're hoping for 2016]

News of rugby north of the border has not filtered down to Cuba.  They are surprised that we play here in the US, and had originally thought when I referred to rugby I probably meant American football.  Furthermore, the entire concept of women playing rugby is beyond their ken. 

I tell Chukin I may want an invitation to visit; a rugby tour would be a nice cultural exchange.  He says they would certainly be willing to entertain a sevens tournament. The first ever Havana Sevens?  Hmmm. [note of 2009: we participated in tourneys that we instigated in 2000 and 2001, and in 2009 a Canadian team  participated in a Cuban Sevens; we are looking forward to returning with a US team to a sevens tournament in 2010.]

We return to the hotel via José Antonio’s house, and prepare for our tour to the Cabaña.

Castillo San Carlos de la Cabaña, El Cristo de Casablanca, and Ciudad Panamericano

Mercy comes to pick us up.  Her son Geovanni is the only one of our relatives I meet with access to a car.  I am given the front passenger’s seat.  I feel a little guilty about this courtesy, because it means that poor Miguel Ángel is stuffed in the back with Heide, Mercy, Geovanni’s wife Yohanka and their son Daniel.  But the guilt passes quickly; it’s comfortable in front. 

We drive through the tunnel under the harbor and park at the entrance to la Cabaña. La Cabaña, built in 1764-74 following the British invasion, is the largest fort in the Americas.  You reach it by crossing a massive drawbridge over a 12-meter-deep moat.  Entrance is $3 for all: well, that’s USD for foreigners, and M.N.  for Cubans. 

 
Miguel Ángel, Heide and Mercedita at the Cabaña drawbridge

We arrive a little early and walk through a museum dedicated to Che Guevara.  Just about every detail of Che’s life is pictured here, including a video of his dead body after the Bolivian army assassinated him. 

 Every night, at exactly 9 PM, a cañonazo, or cannon firing, forms the featured part of the re-creation of a colonial Spanish ceremony.  A small unit assembles in military fashion, dressed in scarlet 18th century garb and led by fife and drum.  The cañonazo used to signal the closing of the city gates and the raising of the chain to seal the harbormouth.  Now it just makes visitors start: even if you’re prepared, the thunderous boom still catches you.

 
Miguel Ángel, Geovanni with his son Daniel and wife Yohanka at la Cabaña gift shop

 Following the ceremony we walked through some more museum areas in the huge fort, and then got back in the car for a trip to the Cristo de Casablanca.  This statue of Christ is huge (I forget how many zillion tons of marble).  It even looks huge from the other side of the harbor, so up close it’s quite imposing.

I note on the plaque dedicating the statue that it was dedicated on December 25, 1958, or less than a week prior to Che’s entry into Havana and the final victory of the Revolution.

 
Santo Cristo

Following el Cristo, we drive through the Ciudad Panamericano.  This is the Pan-American Games complex, built at great cost in 1991. It was built to accommodate the athletes, so I imagine Manuel Lagos stayed here when he competed for the US at the 1991 Pan-American Games.  Today it’s a residential community for Cubans, and also a common honeymoon destination.

We arrive back at the hotel sometime between 10 and 11, and figure it’s too early to go to bed.

Wandering down Calle Obispo, the site of our long walk on Sunday, we discover a Cuban band playing in a little place called “La Lluvia de Oro”.  The band plays till midnight, we drink a couple of $1 Hatuey beers (which Heide doesn’t like), and then a sole guitarist sits at a table and unofficially plays and sings a few tunes.  They include “La Bamba,” and, all with a very thick Spanish accent, “Hotel California”, several Beatles songs and a medley of Bob Marley.  Cool.

We finish the evening at the hotel bar.  We realize that once again we have forgotten to eat since lunch and have a ham and cheese sandwich. 

Wednesday

 In today’s 7:30 phone call, Mercy asks us if we can get together either tomorrow afternoon or evening.  She promises a trip to her father’s house to look for family data.  I say sure, anytime is fine.  She says she’ll get back to me 7:30 AM tomorrow with details. 

Following a relatively unproductive morning, we meet Diana at Bebo’s house at noon.  We have a coffee, then head for the Cemetery for what will be the experience of a lifetime.

Cementerio de Colón, Lagos-Graciani, Brujería

One of the many pieces of data I have requested is the date of Tío Manuel Lagos's death.  (Tío Manuel was Antonio Lagos' brother.  He was also the husband of Victorina Graciani, Pepita Besteiro's mother.  That is, two brothers who married mother and daughter.  Manuel and Victorina had a son, Paquito Lagos Graciani, who died at a year old.  If he had lived and had descendants, it would have kept my genealogy program busy calculating relationships: he was both my mother's uncle and first cousin, for example.  [Of course, Manuel was my grandfather’s step-father-in-law as well as his brother.]  I'm also looking for data on Paquito, but I digress.)

Arturito, in charge of the family papers, finds records of Tío Manuel in the family burial information.  It turns out he was exhumed on January 17, 1964 and moved into the same ossuary as Victorina.  But no death date is given. 

Need an explanation?  OK, here's the custom in Cuba.  Bodies are buried for a small number of years (5-ish), until there is nothing left but bones.  The bones are then collected (a family member must be present), and deposited in a small box which is then placed in the family “osario” (bone pile, or ossuary).  Sometimes the body has not completely decomposed at the time of the first exhumation, and in this case it is reburied and a second attempt is made a couple of years later.  Sometimes more than two attempts are necessary.  It is, from what I can gather, as unpleasant as it sounds.  (Aunt Betty, for example, took nearly 10 years to turn to bones.)

At any rate, with the records showing the date of exhumation and the location of the ossuary, we hope that the cemetery's office will be able to help us find the date of Tío Manuel's death. 

This is not just any cemetery, it needs to be described.  Below is The Cuba Handbook’s description.

"Described as 'an exercise in pious excesses,' Havana's Necrópolis Cristóbal Colón is renowned worldwide for its flamboyant mausoleums, vaults, and tombs embellished with angels, griffins, cherubs, and other ornamentation.  The cemetery, which covers 56 hectares, has been declared a national monument.  It was laid out, between 1871 and 1886, in blocks like a Roman military camp, with a Greek Orthodox-style ocher-colored church at its center -- the Capillo Central." 

It was probably the most well kept part of the city we'd visited to date.

We go to the office, where we tell Jaime, the local bureaucrat, that we think Manuel died in either 1960 or 1961.  From his (temporary) burial place, which Diana has in her records, Jaime notes that he was buried in an area belonging to a religious society, Milicia Josefina.  He can find, however, no information of his death in either 1960 or 1961.  He calls on an small, old, wizened man in military fatigues – including the obligatory Fidel cap -- to help.  "He will find the information you need."  We walk with him down Calle 1 (that's number one), slightly to the left of the entrance, past the central chapel to Calle I (that's the letter after H).  We take a left on I, follow it about 100 yards or so till we see the Sociedad Valle de Oro mausoleum on the left.  We make a right, and about 4-5 rows of ossuaries in, behind a relatively high cross, there's a flower box on top of a slab, about 30 inches square, on top of the ossuary.  It says Victorina Graciani.  It holds the bones of only 3 people -- Victorina, Manuel, and Isabel Besteiro Gracciani (Aunt Betty). 

 
Victorina Graciani marker

The date of entry to the cemetery (in Cuba, virtually always the day after the person's death) will be written on the box holding Manuel's bones, the man tells us.

He removes the flower box, then carefully takes off the slab and goes to look in to the ossuary to find the box that says Manuel Lagos.  I will never forget the next few seconds as long as I live.  He looks in to the ossuary, then, his eyes open wide, he jumps back, and -- a few moments later -- with a look of shock, cries out, "¡Lo han profanado!"  (They have desecrated it!) 

The boxes of bones have been opened, the tops removed, and what is left of the bones, boxes and tops are intermingled in the bottom of the ossuary.  It turns out that a few years ago, there were a group of practicioners of "santería" (an Afro-Cuban religion that fuses Catholicism with the religion of the African Yoruba tribes) who were robbing the cemetery of bones to use in ceremonies of "brujería" (witchcraft).  Apparently it was a band of four women, “santeras,” who were eventually caught. (That's not to say, however, that this particular desecration didn't occur at another time.)  During the last few years, the cemetery has been shut down at 6 PM, with a group of the police's best German Shepherds let loose to patrol the premises.

The once Manuel Lagos??

Public practice of santería had been outlawed for a long time, in the times when believers of any kind [“creyentes”] were not only discouraged, but prohibited from joining “the party” and therefore getting decent jobs.  The attitude towards santería, however, changed during the last decade, and we had seen a santera in action in the Plaza de la Catedral on our Sunday walk.  She looked as though she was telling fortunes. 

 i\
Santera at Plaza de la Catedral

 At any rate, our guide, after explaining the history of the desecration to us, lowered himself into the ossuary, and a few moments later I saw half of a slab of marble rise from the ossuary, attached to a hand. I took it from him and placed it on the top of the ossuary.  I could see "Lagos Toledo" on one line and a "6" on the next.  A few moments later the second piece was sent up and I laid them side by side.  “Manuel” was on the first line, but I could only see a 27 to the left of the second line.  I went to brush off some of the dirt with my hand, when the man appeared and said, quickly, "No, no, if you do that, we'll never find it."  He then went to find some water, which he poured on the slab, and we could read Manuel Lagos Toledo, 27 julio 1960.  This meant that, almost certainly, his date of death was July 26.  (This is a famous day in Cuban history, 7 years to the day from the first outward action of rebellion by Castro, the attack against Moncada Barracks in Santiago.) 

 
Marble slab with Manuel Lagos burial information

I gave the guy a dollar, and he thanked me.  In retrospect, I wish I had given him ten.

We then walked back to the office where the guy reported to Jaime, who scribbled 27.7.1960 supposedly in a way that was meant to be official on what looked like an envelope scrap.  He gave it to me with the comment "we've gone through a lot of work for this."  I gave him a dollar.  He looked at it with disdain.   

In retrospect, I wish I hadn't have given him squat.

[Note of 2005: it took me a long time to realize that even though people may only make $10 a month or less, a $1 tip wasn't anything like giving you or me 1/10 of our monthly salary as a tip.  People can get their basic necessities for almost nothing, but beyond that they have to pay in dollars at our rates, or 20 times the peso rate.  In other words, to tip the equivalent of of what I "thought" I was tipping, I should have given each of those persons $20.  Think about it.]

On our way out of the cemetery, Diana meets a friend bicycling by.  He stops, and excitedly shows her a couple of CDs he’s just managed to get.  Apparently he’s in business getting new CDs, and then burning pirated copies to sell for the going price of $4-5 (no Cuban can afford the store prices of $15-17 per CD). 

Diana notes, “He’s a Mechanical Engineer.  But by now you know how much that means.”

We stop and grab a ham and cheese sandwich. 

We briefly return to Bebo’s, and Diana tells us she’s planning dinner for us tomorrow night: she’s already arranged with the fisherman to buy some of his catch tomorrow.  I tell her to talk to Mercedita to make sure there’s no conflict, then Heide and Diana go to the Carlos III to shop, and I head to José Antonio’s to compute.

I install Family Origins on José Antonio’s computer and then my family database.  I haven’t put any Havana addresses on it.  @#$%^&*(*&^%$ . . . I frantically e-mail my brother Richard asking him to get me whatever he has. 

José Antonio does have a note I sent him a couple of months ago with information about his great grandmother Joaquina who accompanied Aunt Dee to the US in 1917.  That gave her address as San Lázaro 198.  Well, I had the “1” and the “8”.  2/3 right ain’t bad. . .

We copy over all the photos I’ve taken with my digital camera, scan a few family photos and get online again.  AOL headline news is about a group of high school students in Colorado who have killed more than a dozen people.  Luckily, I’m not asked too much about this American phenomenon.  Like Tom Miller states in his book, it’s hard to explain these things in a country where it’s easier to get an education than a gun. 

I’ve got a note from Richard, who responds that he has given me all the documents he had.  I remember.  They’re in Bethlehem.  Damn!

By this time, Heide and Diana have arrived, and Heide is excited about some black coral she’s found.  

 
Black Coral Jewelry (the earrings are imitation)

Diana tells us that her grandmother had pointed out to her the house that Maina [Victorina] lived in when she died, and although it’s on San Lázaro, it’s obviously not in the area where we were looking.  Nor could it be number 198.

We do get good news – my daughter Heidi’s friend Eileen has e-mailed us that Heidi has had her operation (to relieve the pain due to endometriosis) and that she’s fine.  We’ve been waiting for that note.  In fact, that was the last time I was to check e-mail all week.

Heide reports that, while at Carlos III, she picked up about $25 worth of powdered milk and took it to Alicia’s house.  Alicia was in tears, and Jonathan jumped up and down with glee – powdered milk, it seems, is his favorite treat.

Additionally, we have found out that Diana’s “outside job” is to prepare a pasty blend of flavored ersatz mayonnaise, which she puts on bread, and then, along with coffee and juice, sells it to workers at a local company. She prepares the paste in a blender.  The blender, however, hasn’t worked for some time now, and she’s been forced to make it by hand.  While at Carlos III, Heide picked up a blender for her.  These little things are so much more satisfying than an expensive meal.  And for us they’re painless.

 It’s now 8:30 PM, and Isabelita is cooking food.  I realize that it’s past most people’s dinnertime, and that we should be leaving them be.  We call for a cab, take Diana back, and head to the hotel.

 When we get there, I think – duh! – we should really have invited José Antonio and Minerva to eat with us. Never too late, I hope.  I call them, and they are up for it.  We arrange to meet at 10.  We get a cab, go to their place, and head to Chinatown.

Barrio Chino, Hotel New York, and a Trio with a “Tres”

We are dropped off at one of the most famous streets  (Zanja, I believe) of the Barrio Chino, or Chinatown, and walk by some of the most famous Chinese restaurants.  We then walk down a back street, to a restaurant run by one of José Antonio’s neighbors. They charge in M.N., so before we get comfortable I make sure they will take dollars (silly question).

 
José Antonio, Minerva, Heide at Chinese Restaurant

Three of us get Shrimp Chop Suey at $3 each.  Heide takes the cheap route – Chicken Chop Suey for $1.25.  We have spring rolls, a beer, flan and coffee, and the bill comes to 340.00 (M.N.) Including a generous tip everything has cost us $5 apiece.

We are very near the Hotel New York, which is at the entrance to Chinatown.  Manuel Lagos lived here for the last several years of his life, and died here in about 1960 or . . . er, that should be exactly on 26 July 1960.  We walk by.  I had heard it was an old beat up hotel, and if it was that in the 50s, it should be even more so, I would have thought, in the 90s.  But it was nice and neat and, from the outside at least, seemed a good place. 

From what I’m told, it is a “Cubans only” hotel.

 
Hotel New York lobby, 11:40 PM, Wednesday, April 21, 1999

We headed back to the hotel on foot: we walked by the Partagas cigar factory (no I wasn’t tempted), the Capitolio, the Gran Teatro, and decided to head down Calle Obispo to hear music at our new discovery, the Lluvia de Oro.

We got there at midnight, just as the music ended, and decided to order some beer anyway.  They only had Hatuey, however, and Heide would have none of it, so we left. 

It’s amazing how things work out. Just because Heide decided she didn’t want an Hatuey, we stumbled into an incredible evening.  Walking down Calle Obispo past the “Cubans only” restaurant of Sunday, and up to the Plaza de Armas where we had eaten rice and beans with cardboard, we heard a trio playing sweet music.  We stopped in the place, an outdoor café named La Mina, and listened.

From the time we arrived (about 12:05 AM) until 2 AM, a trio played traditional Cuban music – boleros, guarachas, lots of other Cuban rhythms, you name it, and a few Mexican rancheras.  They didn’t take one single break.  And they were fabulous. 

The trio consisted of a vocalist with maracas, a guitar player, and a person playing a “tres”, an instrument I never knew existed, but forms a part of traditional Cuban music. It seems to be a regular guitar body with three sets of doubled strings.  It sounds sort of like a mandolin.

 
Trio at La Mina (Tres, Vocal/Maracas, Guitar).   Minerva is in foreground.

 Of the songs just about anyone should recognize, they played Guantanamera and Bésame Mucho. For those of you familiar with more typical Cuban songs, they included Virgen de la Caridad, Madrigal, la Negra Tomasa, Hiedra, Reloj, Yolanda, Rey, Anduriña.  There was even Hasta Siempre Camarada, a song written especially for Che Guevara.  An old drunk walked by during this song, shouting “Che!  The only Cuban!  The ONLY Cuban!”  (The fact that Che was Argentinean didn’t seem to bother him at all.)

There was a pair of Mexicans in La Mina who requested a series of Mexican rancheras, and the singer seemed to know all of them.  They were in their glory, and I thought, ironically, given the backdrop of everything I’d learned so far on this trip, “That pair will probably go back to Mexico thinking Cuba is a perfect paradise.  The greatest thing, perhaps, since hot chile.”     

Well after 2 AM we saw José Antonio and Minerva off in a cab, stopped in the bar for an añejo, and went to bed.

Thursday

Today’s 7:30 AM phone call was a relief: Mercy requested a 2:30 PM meeting at her father’s apartment to review family data. This meant there would be no conflict with Diana’s plans, and so far there were no hitches in the schedule.

We walk to the Hotel New York, to photograph it in the day time, and then walk down Avenida de Italia to San Lázaro. 

 
Gateway to Barrio Chino.  Through the gate is the Hotel New York.

 
Hotel New York Entrance: Are they Yankee fans?

First we look for # 198, where the family apparently lived in 1917.  On one corner is 202, then across the street is a vacant lot, adjacent to #176.  There is no way the lot could have comprised 20 numbers, and so the location of 198 is a mystery.

Miffed, we head down San Lázaro to try to find the house where, per Diana’s directions, great-grandmother Maina Victorina died in 1931. 

It was a long walk, and in the end there is a gas station where we think the house should be, although the configuration of the streets isn’t as obvious as she described it.  (We were to find out we had missed it by about 2 houses.)

It is a long walk back along the Malecón, and finally we see a bici-taxi, a man riding a bike with two seats behind.  We negotiate a $3 fare, but he’s sweating so much by the time we arrive at the hotel that I give him the $4 he had originally requested.  (It would only have been $2 by cab, but bici-taxis are a lot easier to find in this area.) 

We lunched on a ham and cheese sandwich at the hotel.

We head out to Miguel Ángel’s and arrive about 2:30 PM.  Mercy greets us at the door with a big smile and a “Wait till you see what I’ve found for you!”  First was a book with a compilation of all the letters received on the death of Uncle Dominic in 1958.  So many of them were from the Lagos – Besteiro family in the US; it just reminded me again of how close we used to be.  I hadn’t remembered that he died – in October -- after never fully recovering from a hip-fracturing fall he suffered at Burlington Avenue (Paterson) in July. Nor that my mother had accompanied him on the plane back to Cuba a few days after the accident. 

Then out comes a birth announcement for Francisco Lagos Graciani!  (About the same time, Mercy brings out an Uncle-Dominic-type drink.  Well, it wasn’t anisette, but something similarly strong.)

Francisco Lagos Graciani is Paquito, the son of the brother – mother-in-law marriage (Manuel Lagos and Victorina Gracciani) referred to earlier.  Traditional wisdom has been that he was born in 1909, but I always suspected it was 1908 (details on request), and there it was: 13 October 1908!  Also, an address to add to the list – he was born at Consulado 104/106, Havana.  I remember walking by Consulado, it’s just in Centro Habana, immediately next to Habana Vieja.  Mickey and his wife Silvia, in fact, live on Consulado, just a block or two up the road.  One address down.

 
Paquito LAGOS GRACIANI announcement

Then – a birth and baptismal announcement for my mother, and more news!  She was born on October 5, 1910, but we already knew that.  The Galiano, 125 address, however, was one for which I had been searching (I think it was on her birth certificate, but of course I forgot to bring that information).  Furthermore, the announcement is on a calendar page, which also notes that October 5 is St. Marcelino’s feast.  Now we finally have the reasons for all her names: María del Carmen Victorina Marcelina.  María del Carmen was her paternal grandmother, Victorina, her maternal grandmother, and Marcelina for the saint of the day.  Another mystery solved.

 
Carmita LAGOS BESTEIRO (my mother) announcement

 I know I’ll be out hitting the streets tomorrow to look for houses.

We also find a baptismal date for “Lolita Lagos Besteiro” (Aunt Dee): 20 January 1917.
 

 
Lolita LAGOS BESTEIRO announcement

 Before we left, Heide used the bathroom at Miguel Ángel’s. 

There was no toilet paper.  And no running water.

Following this very pleasant visit with Mercedita and Miguel Ángel, the four of us walk the mile or so to Bebo’s house, where we are to have dinner.  Miguel Ángel stays a while and Bebo brings out a stack of a few hundred pictures, incorporating the “old days” as well as his and Nena’s 1985 visit to the US.  Simón and I walk Miguel Ángel back to his house, and take a different route back.  It’s an old Jewish custom, Simón advises me: take a different route back, so your enemies won’t know where to lay in wait for you.  Another bit of new knowledge.

Aguja (garfish)

We are then treated to a fantastic meal, almost certainly a product of our nonvisit to the Tropicana.  On an absolute scale it was a feast, and it was made even more special by the circumstances.

The main course was aguja, a fish which the dictionary translates as garfish, a word I don’t even know in English.  It is similar, however, to a swordfish, and is the fish caught by Hemingway’s fisherman in “The Old Man and the Sea.” 

We have a nice salad beforehand, black bean soup, black beans and rice with the meal, as well as a Tropicola and some nice Spanish wine.  Finally, fruit afterwards.  It was wonderful!

My only concern was not to drink too much fluid.  At this point, I was trying to avoid going to the bathroom in private houses. 

At any rate, as we commented afterwards, it was a far more rewarding experience than going to the Tropicana ever could have been.

I got a present from Simón – a guayabera – a uniquely Cuban shirt (and a great Cuban invention, as opposed to the camello, a not so great one  . . .)

 
Emilito in Guayabera

A long discussion with Bebo incorporates many of the things we have heard during the week: the many grandiose plans of the revolution that have not borne fruit.

Rice: There was the plan to make Cuba self sufficient in rice production by massively expanding the area in which rice is grown. For various reasons, after many years of failure, Cuba is worse off than at the beginning of the revolution.

Milk:  There was the introduction of the cow that would give an incredible number of liters of milk per day.  Apparently there was “one” such cow, with all successors great failures.  As noted earlier, we didn’t see anything but powdered milk during our entire stay.

Sugar:  With the USSR paying inflated sugar prices during their special relationship with Cuba, Cuba never was forced to produce sugar economically.  With the end of Eastern European support, sugar exports collapsed.

The revolution eschewed tourism as a demeaning activity, thus losing years and years of revenue that could have helped the economy.

An anecdote being told around Cuba:

Bill Clinton, Boris Yeltsin and Fidel Castro are sitting around a table with God.  “God,” Clinton asks, “will the United States ever be rid of racial discrimination?

Yes,” says God, “but not in your lifetime.”

Yeltsin asks “God, will Russia be free of corruption and have food for everyone?”

Yes,” says God, “but not in your lifetime.”

Castro asks “God, will all the goals of the Cuban revolution ever be achieved?”

“Yes,” responds God.  “But not in my lifetime.”

Nevertheless, it has been pointed out several times even by Fidel’s detractors, next week will be the 1st of May and there will be a million people in the streets cheering for the revolution.

Go figure.

For about the tenth time this week I lamely say, “Things have got to change.  There’s no way this can go on.  Yes, he says, of course.  But when?  And how?  None of us have any idea.

The saddest thing to hear is the number of people, even young people, who are coming to the conclusion that “the only hope is to leave.”

People of our generation say, “We’re staying, but we wish our children would leave, so they can have a life.”

Of course, there have been windows of opportunity from time to time, but right now it’s nearly impossible to leave.

Let it be known: free education and free health services don’t necessarily equate to decent living standards.

Cuban Exiles and Cuba

There is a mixed feeling in Cuba towards the Cubans exiled in the US and elsewhere.  Some feel that they are the biggest obstacle to the normalization of relations between the US and Cuba and therefore to the improvement of conditions within Cuba.  I must confess that sometimes I’ve felt the same way.

During the week, a lot is said about the exiles.  Although there is some frustration with them, people here know what they went through.

Ever since shortly after the revolution, people that have left Cuba have had to leave without a penny, with nothing but the clothes on their back.  That continues today. 

Furthermore, Cubans that applied for exit visas were poorly treated.  Once they applied, they lost their jobs and were sent to work in the fields cutting sugarcane until their turn came to leave.  Their names were made public, and often their neighbors, fellow workers or schoolmates would taunt them.  They were called traitors, and often physically beaten up, sometimes nearly to death.

I’m touched by the amount of sympathy and understanding I find for the experience of the exiles. 

Of course, the exiles are also responsible for hundreds of millions of dollars that end up in the hands of people still living in Cuba.

Another anecdote we are told: 

A woman leaving Cuba to live in the US is taunted by shouts of “¡Traidora!  ¡Traidora!” (Traitor!) as she leaves.  Years later, wealthy, she revisits the island and reminds her neighbors of their cruelty.  They respond “No, you had it all wrong, we were shouting ‘¡Trae dolar!  ¡Trae dolar!’” (Bring dollars!)

I share with the people at the table the sadness that I’ve experienced at their fate.  They say they don’t share that sadness, they’ve learned to cope.  Simón says “If I’ve got a radio and another person has a TV, I don’t complain about the person with the TV; I learn how to get the most out of the radio.”

Anyway, again I've incorporated into this evening many things that were said elsewhere.  Well after midnight, however, we took a cab back to the hotel.  You got it – a beer and an añejo.

Friday

I followed my plan and slept in today.  As we were to be picked up at 4:30 AM Saturday morning, I figured, why sleep tonight?

Heide and Diana went shopping at a large outdoor market (feria) on the Malecón in Vedado.  There are hundreds of stands.  Crocheted clothing and jewelry stood out in her mind.  Interestingly, black coral similar to that she had purchased legally yesterday at Carlos III was also available.  It did not, however, have the required license for sale.  Instead, a polished stone called “borgonia” (?) was displayed.  If you were interested in the real black coral, however, you could go behind the stand and peer into hidden bags of black coral beads there.  (As we already know, these days nearly everything in Cuba is illegal.) 

Prices here, for whatever goods they had in common, were significantly lower than at Carlos III.

Meanwhile I was finishing addressing my postcards. I discovered recently that my penchant for sending postcards must have been based on my grandfather’s advice to my mother, in a letter he wrote to her in Spain in 1936:  “Procuraros unas postales y escribidlas y mandadlas a los amigos que significaron tan marcadamente su simpatía por vosotros.  Haced memoria y no omitir a nadie.”  (“Get some postcards and write them and send them to the friends that have taken a liking to you.  Remember not to omit anyone.”) 

Heide and Diana stop briefly at the hotel, and I get a better description of the house on San Lázaro where Maina Victorina died; they have just been there.  When Heide and Diana leave for round 2 of shopping, I go round 2 of house visiting and photographing.  Although Paquito’s birth announcement had said “the house at 104-106 Consulado”, 104 and 106 were two distinct houses.  Galiano has been changed to “Avenida de Italia,” but there is a double house numbered 123 and 125.  The house Diana pointed out is two doors east of Oquendo, on the south side of San Lázaro.  It is numbered 819.  (No, “198” couldn’t have been a misprint; when I return home I find too many documents that refer to San Lázaro 198.)

I must find out if there have been house numbering changes in the last 90 years.

My mother's (possible) birthplace on corner.  Malecón and Gulf of Mexico in background

On the long walk back, I get within half a mile of the hotel, then say “What the hell,” and accept a bici-taxi ride back for $2. 

We decide that, at least once, we should go to one of the restaurants at which we had planned to dine.  It was the “Hostal Valencia” and we had “Paella Típica Cubana” (wondering what the heck that would be).  It was pretty average, and we returned to the hotel to finish packing, and to enjoy one more night, our last fling, in Havana.

Sightseeing, and shopping, and philosophizing, are all over – the only thing left is to party on down. 

TO BE CONTINUED

YOUR MAN IN HAVANA – Part 3

Recap

Following a depressing “opening day,” the rest of the week has shown that Cubans, just like the rest of us, are learning to play with the cards that were dealt them.  They seem to be genuinely pleased by our visit, and we have enjoyed their company.  We have heard so much about the Cuban way of life that it still hasn’t sunk in.

The time for the visit has come to an end, and there’s just one thing left to do  -- have a last night fling!

Music, music, music

María la O and Rosita

We had been looking forward all week to seeing María la O at the Gran Teatro, and although we expected to enjoy it, we were totally overwhelmed by the experience.

We had invited all our relatives to attend, and we were to end up with a party of ten.  Besides the two of us, Diana and Simón, Arturito and Maribel, Mickey and Silvia (hey! I just realized, didn’t they do “Love is Strange” in 1958?), and José Antonio and his mother Isabelita.

 
Mickey and Silvia

The price was right: $10.00 (USD) for foreigners, and $5.00 (M.N.) [USD $0.25] for Cubans.  Actually, that is probably a pretty fair combination of prices. 

At first it seemed there might be a problem sitting together.  The first 10 rows are reserved for foreigners (about the zillionth example of tourist apartheid we’ve encountered), and when we had gone in earlier in the week to arrange tickets, they had said this would be very difficult. But then they worked it out for us, and we are all in the eleventh row.

We stop for a drink beforehand, and I notice that it is a good thing I have the guayabera; it seems to be the universal uniform of the evening. 

When we get there, I am amazed that the theatre, which holds 1500 people, is nearly full.  It has that kind of electric atmosphere that you can sometimes sense before a really good event.

 
At María la O

The zarzuela itself is spectacular.  Lecuona is a genius, and this operetta is truly Cuban in the way it combines the Spanish and the African influences of the country and its culture, in its plot, and especially its music. There are a couple of scenes that are a little too “Stepin Fetchit” for me, but it was hard to escape stereotypes in 1930.

 The plot is pretty much irrelevant, but it is nonetheless at once universal (two love triangles) and Cuban in its ethnic mix.  The heroine, Maria la O, is a “mulata” with two suitors: a Spanish aristocrat and a “negro curro”: an upper class black.  The mixture of musical styles (Spain, Africa, Cuba) was great.  And the performances were exceptional.  According to the program, “María la O es . . . una de las obras capitales de toda la historia del teatro lírico cubano” (María la O is one of the major works of the entire history of Cuban lirical theatre).

Easily the most magical moments of the week, and perhaps of my theatergoing career took place at this performance.  First, in the middle of the first act, as a comedy scene was finishing and the actors were exiting the stage, the crowd broke into thunderous applause.  I thought for a brief moment “gosh, they weren’t that good.”  Then it became obvious that they were applauding for one or both of an elderly couple that had just entered the scene.  The applause grew louder and louder and many shouts of “Bravo!” were heard throughout the theatre, when José Antonio leaned over and told Heide “That actress is the queen of the Havana stage.”  The applause went on, and on, and on.  It seemed like it would never stop. 

Her name is Rosita Fornés, a woman in her mid 70s who has been on the Havana stage for more than 60 years, and is incredibly loved by the public.  “Although she has been all over the world,” the comment was made, “she always comes back.”

In the third act, when she did her primary number, “Te vas juventud,” the applause was even louder, and longer, and after what seemed like an eternity of cheering, the crowd slowly got to its feet.  The ensuing standing ovation – and wild cheering -- was probably even longer than the seated applause.  It was difficult, if not impossible, to be there and still have dry eyes.  She certainly didn’t.  Nor did I. 

The applause at the end of the show was equally effusive, and it was clear we had attended something really special.  As we left the theatre, Mickey commented, with appreciative wonder, “I didn’t know ROSITA was going to be here!”

In the midst of all the poverty and depression of today’s Havana, we had seen something worthy of -- no, better than -- a New York extravaganza. 

Diminutives in Cuba

Speaking of Rosita, I have this observation: while the diminutives –ito, -ita, are common throughout the Spanish speaking world, it seems to me nowhere are they more in use than in Cuba.  Right now is “ahorita,” a mini-bus is a “guaguita,” I’ve heard “everything” expressed as “todito,” etc.  When I called Diana recently to ask about Maribel’s pregnancy, she signed off with “Hasta lueguito.”  But this is especially evident in the names.  One would think that, past the age of puberty (or at some age), one would lose the –ito in his name.  But when I called Diana for the first time in 40 years, back in late 1997, and told her it was Emilio calling, she answered “¡Emilito!”  And so it is: because my father was Emilio, although he’s been dead nearly 30 years, I will be Emilito forever.  Rodolfo Suárez, a huge man, is Rodolfito (his grandfather was Rodolfo).  So it is with Raquelita (grandmother), Isabelita (aunt), and on and on. “Mercy” and “Mickey” are in themselves sort of diminutive, but Merceditas (because of her grandmother) and Miguelito (father) are commonly applied to them as well.

Actually, after all these years, to be universally called Emilito again was kind of neat.

La Mina revisited

Calle Obispo.  La Mina is the second awning-covered cafe on the right. 
To the left, under the trees, is the Plaza de Armas, where we ate lunch with a cardboard spoon on Sunday.

Feeling like an expert in Old Havana, I herded all the relatives to La Mina, where our favorite trio was again scheduled for a midnight to 2 AM performance. 

They played many of the same songs as on Wednesday, and as usual, were able to fulfill just about every request.  As we comprised nearly the entire audience, we had their attention. With my scribbled notes from Wednesday’s performances, I was able to pretend I knew something and threw some requests their way, 

An extra-added attraction was a customer seated at a nearby table, who sat in, and sang exceptionally well.  Was he a professional singer, we asked?  No, was the answer, he’s a lawyer from Spain.  He just likes music a lot.  I guess so.  And I bet he doesn’t have to drive a cab. 

We arrive at 11:59 PM, and a minute later wish Happy Birthday to Isabelita, born on April 24, 1940.  We note that this is also Heidi’s birthday (1970).  When we arrive in Toronto just a few hours later, I email Heidi and ask her to send Isabelita a birthday greeting.  Isabelita replies, in part,

“Dear Heide: Thank you for your happy birthday e.mail.  I hope you had a very nice day too.  Thanks to your parents I started my birthday at l2:00 midnight with a very exciting celebration, they will explain everything to you in detail.  I think I hadn't had such a great time in many years.”   

Only briefly, a bit of sadness crossed my mind -- it took this long to bring a great night?  Then suddenly it struck me: “Come on, Emilito: you probably haven’t had such a great time in many years either!”

 
Isabelita

 Anyway, when we got back to the hotel, it was 2:49 AM, and thanks to our relatives we were well on our way to staying the course of the evening. 

Till We Meet Again

 We took our leave and promised to return.  We were greeted with the same “knowing” smiles that we had received when we arrived.  They seemed to be saying again what we had been told on several occasions that week: “Everyone tells us they’ll be back, but in the last 40 years, no one has ever come back a second time.”

 We’ll see.

The final hours

I needed to stay up.  Heide, however, decided she needed a nap.

I went to the bar and had the Coppelia ice cream I’d been wanting all week (it was just OK), and two coffees to stay awake.  No añejo tonight.

Oh, yeah, the coffee.  Cuban coffee might be my favorite of all coffees, if it only came in decent sized cups: in fact, our breakfast coffees, which did, were awesome.  After dinner or in the evening, however, is a different story.  We’ve all seen expresso cups, but Cuban expresso cups are true cafecito, with “ito” being the operative syllable.  They are thimble-sized.

It’s been a good hotel.  Lots of tourists on package tours (the vast majority from Spain), but the rooms are fine, the bar/snack bar is open 24 hours, and the breakfast is plentiful.  And – it’s centrally located.  If you like being in cities and within walking distance of their attractions, you’ll like being here.

And, I might add, in the rooms you could get CNN, ESPN, and a few other cable channels, all of which are prohibited to the general populace.  They get the choice of two channels, and those are only on between 6 PM and midnight.  (Of course, when he [stroke beard] speaks, there is no choice.)

Hotel Plaza (center and right) as seen through the Parque Central

Heide and I waited in the lobby from 4:30 AM for our “guaguita”, which finally showed up at 5:30.  We got to and onto the plane with no difficulty, and were just about ready to take off, when we were told there was a minor technical problem with the plane.  A few minutes later, we were told this was not something that could be solved very quickly, and we should all leave the plane and bring all our stuff.

Virtually as soon as we were all out of the plane, we were all asked to return to the plane, and we took off almost immediately.  It may have been a technical problem, but I’ll always wonder if it wasn’t a ruse to get someone off the plane.  

The rest of the trip was pretty uneventful, we were picked up at the Toronto airport by Brian (who had minded our car for the week), spent the day with him and his wife Ouida, and left the next morning.  Heide drove the eight hours while I began writing these reminiscences.  By the time we got home, I was only up to Sunday afternoon.

Now, such a short time later (8 May), it seems hard to believe we were ever actually there.  Cuba is another world.  Even Periana, Papa (Antonio Lagos)’s tiny hometown in Spain, which I thought so remote a year ago, seems like the neighborhood across the street compared to Havana.  It’s really hard to describe.  I guess “ya just gotta be there.”

As Simón had said on our first day there, “Cuba es un país único” (Cuba is a unique country.)  I, for one, won’t argue with him.

P.S. of August 2 1999

Although I noted that on May 8 it felt as though we’d never been there, today, 3 months later, it feels as though we were just there yesterday, as if we’ll wake up there tomorrow.  Funny how that is.  (I’m sure that watching Buena Vista Social Club three times and buying all the associated CDs has helped create that feeling.)

 Today it was announced that shortly there will be flights to Cuba from New York.  Slowly but surely, Cubans may be able to reacquaint themselves with the outside world.  Keep your fingers crossed. [note of 2009: still waiting]

 P.P.S.  With every passing day, my desire (need?) to return to Cuba grows.

But only to visit.

YOUR MAN IN HAVANA – Appendix

Historical Addresses

2010: not a single one of these house numbers is current (and therefore the pictures incorrect.  See my 2010 research on location of early family residences.

 Note that based on my search for old addresses I believe it is very likely that street numbers have been changed.  The photos that follow are those of houses baring the current numbers.

Consulado 104-106 (at any rate, these were the numbers in 1999)

After I returned home I found out that San Nicolás 1 was in fact a valid address.  Here, as far as I can tell, are the addresses of Victorina Gracciani and/or Pepita & Antonio in Cuba.

1906  Inquisidor 14.  Manuel LAGOS TOLEDO lived here. [note of 2010: I can no longer find where I got this 1906 information]
1907  Inquisidor 14.  Antonio LAGOS TOLEDO lived here.
1908  Consulado 104-106.  Paquito LAGOS GRACIANI born here.
1910  Galiano 125 (now Avenida de Italia).  Carmen LAGOS BESTEIRO – my mother -- born here.
1912  San Nicolás 1.  Victorina LAGOS BESTEIRO – Aunt Vicky -- born here.
1917  San Lázaro 198.  Lolita LAGOS BESTEIRO – Aunt Dee -- born here.
1931  San Lázaro 819.  According to oral tradition, Victorina GRACIANI LORENZO – my generation’s great grandmother -- died here.
1940  San Lázaro 661.  Maina [Pepita]’s application for a visa to visit Cuba in 1940 listed this address.  This was where Aunt Betty lived at the time, and where Diana was born in 1941.

San Nicolás from the Malecón

 What I don’t know is whether the street numbering has changed since the date these addresses were valid. Diana seems to think that the house Aunt Dee was born in and the one Maina Victorina died in are the same house.

Oh well, it's always good to have more work to do.

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* I since found out Pepita's last name was spelled GRACIANI; her sister Isabel's, however, was spelled GRACCIANI. Details are found in http://emilito.org/family/emilito/graziani/finding_graziani.html )
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Cuba trip reports by emilito:

Family trip to Havana April 1999 - first trip to Cuba since the Revolution

Rugby trip to Havana September 2000 - Atlantis initiated and participated in first-ever rugby sevens in Cuba (PDF only)

Family trip to Havana January 2010 - seven family members travel to Havana for 100th anniversary of their grandfather's marriage

Rugby trip to Havana February 2010 - Atlantis rugby trip to Habana Howlers Sevens 2010

Special reports:

Cubans on Cuba 2010 - conversations with some Cubans about the politics of Cuba

Emilito's family: early addresses in Cuba - early addresses of emilito's ancestors and family