Salon Wanderlust | Passages: Waiting for Fidel

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__________W A I T I N G_F O R fidel
__A JOURNALIST VENTURES INTO CUBA IN SEARCH OF A
___FACE-TO-FACE ENCOUNTER WITH FIDEL.

| E X C E R P T |
From "Waiting for Fidel"
By Christopher Hunt
Houghton Mifflin
259 pages
Nonfiction

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Editor's note: Drawn in by Fidel Castro's public charisma, his firm resilience to the sways of American capitalism and his revolutionary dignity, Christopher Hunt threw his better judgment aside and embarked on a journey through Cuba. His goal was a face-to-face encounter with Cuba's bearded leader. What he thought would be a simple task turned out to be far more difficult, and Hunt was thrown into an eye-opening, soul-stretching tour of post-revolutionary Cuba. In the following excerpt from his compelling account, Hunt describes his initial encounters with Cuban culture in Castro's Havana.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
BY CHRISTOPHER HUNT | Boris seemed an odd name for a mulatto tall enough to touch ceilings. It made more sense when he explained his father's infatuation with all things Soviet around the time of his birth in the mid-1960s. Since then he had sprouted a mustache thick enough to cover his upper lip. The growth garbled his speech. One phrase, however, stuck out: "No hay problema."
No problem. In our first half-hour Boris repeated it no less than a dozen times. Every iteration increased my concern that there was, in fact, a significant problem with our deal.
"Are you sure I can rent your apartment?"
"No problem."
"It's not against the law?"
"No problem."
"And the neighbors won't report me?"
Boris's answers probably would have differed little had I asked whether Castro killed Kennedy. The gangly giant had just wrapped his fingers around a wad of my dollars. In a country where monthly wages were averaging less than eight bucks, the prospect of returning several twenty-dollar bills could probably breed tales taller than Everest. "No problem" would be repeated until I was in trouble or out of twenties.
The look of my lodgings did little for my confidence. Years had passed since paint touched the outside of the four-story block. Laundry hung from rusted balconies. Shutters dangled at unnatural angles. Moving to the front door, I found that plywood had replaced glass in the frame. Bulbs intended to light the spiral of stairs either didn't work or didn't exist.
A gate of iron bars guarded the fourth-floor apartment. The front door had two bolts. Both the door and the gate, warned Boris, were to be locked at all times. Before returning to his in-laws' home, where his family of three would bunk until my departure, Boris added a final thought.
"Don't let anybody in the door."
"Who's going to come to the door?"
"Nobody. But don't let him in."
Maybe the bogeymen were imaginary. The dangers inside the dank apartment were real. A trial of the television in the uncarpeted living room produced a blizzard of specks. In the kitchen, a coffin-size refrigerator alternately groaned to life and rattled to a halt. Running the water required twisting a faucet beyond the bars guarding the window.
The stove was no less idiosyncratic. Nothing happened when I turned on the gas. I remembered the taped rod hanging behind the stove. Boris had shown me how scraping the metal tip against a burner created a spark. He hadn't pointed out that the rod was attached to a wire inserted in a socket. Grabbing the exposed end of the homemade lighter shot a disconcerting ZZZTTT up my forearm.
The bathroom was no easier to operate. An attachment the shape of a can took the place of a standard shower head. A sliding lever allowed bathers to select cold, warm, or hot water, which Boris promised would gush. My test of the warm setting produced a dribble. Hopeful that less heat would mean more volume, I reached a wet hand up to the lever. ZZZTTT.
I lay on the bed and retraced the steps that had brought me from the Cuban mission in New York to the apartment in Havana. The backtracking lasted until the voice of a woman wafted in the windows, which opened onto an air shaft. She sounded strong, though not particularly young. I never learned her name or, in the weeks I spent a few feet above her window, saw her face. I did, however, know the name of her lover.
"Lazaro." Twenty or so seconds later she repeated the name. "Lazaro."
The woman reiterated the name in octaves high and low. The decibels also varied. Embarrassed by my sightless voyeurism, I wondered whether an awareness of her audience would alter the woman's course. And what about Lazaro? How would Lazaro feel about my tuning in to his lovemaking?
The woman increased her vocabulary. First came "mi amor." "My love" was joined by other sounds of Cuban passion, some intelligible, others not. Words devolved to grunts. These ended, leaving the three of us in a sweaty, midday silence.

For a time, meeting Fidel Castro took a back seat to another priority. I had found a home. What I hadn't found was a level of comfort. I felt strange in Cuba, like a man sleepwalking through somebody else's dream. To snap out of it, I forced myself out the door and into my new neighborhood.
The grid called Vedado was filled mostly by two-story homes. The original owners had decorated the faces of their homes with moldings, ledges, and other frills. Iron gates separated cramped yards from numbered streets and lettered avenues. Covered verandahs provided a place to unwind. Through doors left open for ventilation, I spied high-ceilinged parlors built in another era.
Remnants of high times contrasted with the streets' torpor. Vedado was dead. The roads were traffic-free. On the edges, parked cars had gathered weeks of dust. The heat kept most Cubans off of narrow sidewalks cracked beyond repair. Those who did venture outdoors moved slowly, their eyes cast down. The alternative was sitting in the shade and staring at the heavy air.
That was the choice of the rash of people who had set up tables at the end of their walkways. Hand-drawn signs advertised homemade sweets and savories. Scraps of cardboard attached to fences announced the availability of sofas, chairs, and kitchenware. A notice tacked to a tree in front of one colonial home said: "I'm selling a crib and children's clothing. Used but in good shape. Ring the bell."
The density of enterprise increased near the Hotel Nacional. A middle-age man spread battered books on wooden racks as well as the sidewalk. Titles included "An Interview with Fidel," "Fidel and Religion," and "On the March with Fidel." Another vendor had stretched secondhand records on his patch of pavement. A family of four took advantage of their location opposite a row of state stores by roping off an area in which they guarded shoppers' bicycles.
The grass-roots capitalism supported Boris's lecture on Cuban economic reform. The shift, said my landlord, dated to the 1989 collapse of the Soviet Union. Overnight, Moscow cut annual subsidies worth about $5 billion. Trade with the Eastern bloc, which had accounted for nearly all of the island's commerce, evaporated. Cuba stuck to its communist guns -- central planning over private enterprise, rationed goods instead of shopping sprees. Output dropped by a third over the next four years.
Then the Party's line wavered. Its coffers all but empty, the state permitted mechanics, plumbers, and other tradesmen to sell their services. Cubans were allowed to hold dollars for the first time in more than thirty years. Later, the government sanctioned farmers' markets. More liberalization, including the right to rent out apartments, followed as part of a policy known as "the Opening."
"Doesn't sound like communism," I said.
"Cuba is a confusing place," agreed Boris.
Proof came at a shaded food stand whose proprietors, a bony man and a fleshy woman, had nodded off. They awakened as I looked over the two plates on their table. Both featured potatoes that had been mashed, balled, and fried. While I chewed one of the pasty balls, the vendor, a retired librarian, filled me in on the birth of their business. State rations left them hungry. Inflation made their pensions meaningless. The pair had no choice but to set up shop. The results?
"There's a lot of competition," said the man.
"It's not easy," said his wife.
"La Lucha," he sighed.
"The Struggle," mimicked his wife.
I asked the price of the potato ball. "Three pesos."
That's when I realized I had no cash. Rather, no Cuban cash. I held out a dollar bill. Emptying his pocket, the vendor found just a few coins; their sum fell far short of the exchange rate, which I didn't know.
"You can pay me later. Or tomorrow. We are here every day, all day."
"The Struggle," sighed his wife.

N E X T+P A G E+| The new lingo of capitalism


T A B L E_T A L K Is Chicago loaded with too much testosterone? Chat up the Windy City in Table Talk R E C E N T L Y How to buy a Turkish rug By Laura Billings A priceless encounter (01/21/98) First descent By Steve Van Beek Rafting where no human has been before (01/20/98) Olympics bound By Gina Arnold A trip to Japan rekindles a life-shaping obsession (01/19/98) Bad trip By Dawn MacKeen Tale of a flight from hell (01/16/98) Remembering an Everest hero By Suzette Lalime Death of an Everest hero: Anatoli Boukreev (01/16/98) - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Your virtual travel agency - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Browse the Passages archives		__________W A I T I N G_F O R fidel __A JOURNALIST VENTURES INTO CUBA IN SEARCH OF A ___FACE-TO-FACE ENCOUNTER WITH FIDEL. \| E X C E R P T \| From "Waiting for Fidel" By Christopher Hunt Houghton Mifflin 259 pages Nonfiction - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Editor's note: Drawn in by Fidel Castro's public charisma, his firm resilience to the sways of American capitalism and his revolutionary dignity, Christopher Hunt threw his better judgment aside and embarked on a journey through Cuba. His goal was a face-to-face encounter with Cuba's bearded leader. What he thought would be a simple task turned out to be far more difficult, and Hunt was thrown into an eye-opening, soul-stretching tour of post-revolutionary Cuba. In the following excerpt from his compelling account, Hunt describes his initial encounters with Cuban culture in Castro's Havana. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - BY CHRISTOPHER HUNT \| Boris seemed an odd name for a mulatto tall enough to touch ceilings. It made more sense when he explained his father's infatuation with all things Soviet around the time of his birth in the mid-1960s. Since then he had sprouted a mustache thick enough to cover his upper lip. The growth garbled his speech. One phrase, however, stuck out: "No hay problema." No problem. In our first half-hour Boris repeated it no less than a dozen times. Every iteration increased my concern that there was, in fact, a significant problem with our deal. "Are you sure I can rent your apartment?" "No problem." "It's not against the law?" "No problem." "And the neighbors won't report me?" Boris's answers probably would have differed little had I asked whether Castro killed Kennedy. The gangly giant had just wrapped his fingers around a wad of my dollars. In a country where monthly wages were averaging less than eight bucks, the prospect of returning several twenty-dollar bills could probably breed tales taller than Everest. "No problem" would be repeated until I was in trouble or out of twenties. The look of my lodgings did little for my confidence. Years had passed since paint touched the outside of the four-story block. Laundry hung from rusted balconies. Shutters dangled at unnatural angles. Moving to the front door, I found that plywood had replaced glass in the frame. Bulbs intended to light the spiral of stairs either didn't work or didn't exist. A gate of iron bars guarded the fourth-floor apartment. The front door had two bolts. Both the door and the gate, warned Boris, were to be locked at all times. Before returning to his in-laws' home, where his family of three would bunk until my departure, Boris added a final thought. "Don't let anybody in the door." "Who's going to come to the door?" "Nobody. But don't let him in." Maybe the bogeymen were imaginary. The dangers inside the dank apartment were real. A trial of the television in the uncarpeted living room produced a blizzard of specks. In the kitchen, a coffin-size refrigerator alternately groaned to life and rattled to a halt. Running the water required twisting a faucet beyond the bars guarding the window. The stove was no less idiosyncratic. Nothing happened when I turned on the gas. I remembered the taped rod hanging behind the stove. Boris had shown me how scraping the metal tip against a burner created a spark. He hadn't pointed out that the rod was attached to a wire inserted in a socket. Grabbing the exposed end of the homemade lighter shot a disconcerting ZZZTTT up my forearm. The bathroom was no easier to operate. An attachment the shape of a can took the place of a standard shower head. A sliding lever allowed bathers to select cold, warm, or hot water, which Boris promised would gush. My test of the warm setting produced a dribble. Hopeful that less heat would mean more volume, I reached a wet hand up to the lever. ZZZTTT. I lay on the bed and retraced the steps that had brought me from the Cuban mission in New York to the apartment in Havana. The backtracking lasted until the voice of a woman wafted in the windows, which opened onto an air shaft. She sounded strong, though not particularly young. I never learned her name or, in the weeks I spent a few feet above her window, saw her face. I did, however, know the name of her lover. "Lazaro." Twenty or so seconds later she repeated the name. "Lazaro." The woman reiterated the name in octaves high and low. The decibels also varied. Embarrassed by my sightless voyeurism, I wondered whether an awareness of her audience would alter the woman's course. And what about Lazaro? How would Lazaro feel about my tuning in to his lovemaking? The woman increased her vocabulary. First came "mi amor." "My love" was joined by other sounds of Cuban passion, some intelligible, others not. Words devolved to grunts. These ended, leaving the three of us in a sweaty, midday silence. For a time, meeting Fidel Castro took a back seat to another priority. I had found a home. What I hadn't found was a level of comfort. I felt strange in Cuba, like a man sleepwalking through somebody else's dream. To snap out of it, I forced myself out the door and into my new neighborhood. The grid called Vedado was filled mostly by two-story homes. The original owners had decorated the faces of their homes with moldings, ledges, and other frills. Iron gates separated cramped yards from numbered streets and lettered avenues. Covered verandahs provided a place to unwind. Through doors left open for ventilation, I spied high-ceilinged parlors built in another era. Remnants of high times contrasted with the streets' torpor. Vedado was dead. The roads were traffic-free. On the edges, parked cars had gathered weeks of dust. The heat kept most Cubans off of narrow sidewalks cracked beyond repair. Those who did venture outdoors moved slowly, their eyes cast down. The alternative was sitting in the shade and staring at the heavy air. That was the choice of the rash of people who had set up tables at the end of their walkways. Hand-drawn signs advertised homemade sweets and savories. Scraps of cardboard attached to fences announced the availability of sofas, chairs, and kitchenware. A notice tacked to a tree in front of one colonial home said: "I'm selling a crib and children's clothing. Used but in good shape. Ring the bell." The density of enterprise increased near the Hotel Nacional. A middle-age man spread battered books on wooden racks as well as the sidewalk. Titles included "An Interview with Fidel," "Fidel and Religion," and "On the March with Fidel." Another vendor had stretched secondhand records on his patch of pavement. A family of four took advantage of their location opposite a row of state stores by roping off an area in which they guarded shoppers' bicycles. The grass-roots capitalism supported Boris's lecture on Cuban economic reform. The shift, said my landlord, dated to the 1989 collapse of the Soviet Union. Overnight, Moscow cut annual subsidies worth about $5 billion. Trade with the Eastern bloc, which had accounted for nearly all of the island's commerce, evaporated. Cuba stuck to its communist guns -- central planning over private enterprise, rationed goods instead of shopping sprees. Output dropped by a third over the next four years. Then the Party's line wavered. Its coffers all but empty, the state permitted mechanics, plumbers, and other tradesmen to sell their services. Cubans were allowed to hold dollars for the first time in more than thirty years. Later, the government sanctioned farmers' markets. More liberalization, including the right to rent out apartments, followed as part of a policy known as "the Opening." "Doesn't sound like communism," I said. "Cuba is a confusing place," agreed Boris. Proof came at a shaded food stand whose proprietors, a bony man and a fleshy woman, had nodded off. They awakened as I looked over the two plates on their table. Both featured potatoes that had been mashed, balled, and fried. While I chewed one of the pasty balls, the vendor, a retired librarian, filled me in on the birth of their business. State rations left them hungry. Inflation made their pensions meaningless. The pair had no choice but to set up shop. The results? "There's a lot of competition," said the man. "It's not easy," said his wife. "La Lucha," he sighed. "The Struggle," mimicked his wife. I asked the price of the potato ball. "Three pesos." That's when I realized I had no cash. Rather, no Cuban cash. I held out a dollar bill. Emptying his pocket, the vendor found just a few coins; their sum fell far short of the exchange rate, which I didn't know. "You can pay me later. Or tomorrow. We are here every day, all day." "The Struggle," sighed his wife. N E X T+P A G E+\| The new lingo of capitalism