Ludwig and I had the kind of relationship where I could ask him anything without fear of reproach. I questioned him about the rebellious rumblings of his youth, his wishes for the future and the state of his bathroom.
"Ludwig," I shouted from the back of the tour bus, "why don't the public restrooms here have toilet seats? Do you have a toilet seat at home?"
His frank responses - it's "cultural" to the first query, "yes" to the second - were surprising, not for the content but for the context. Ludwig Diaz Montenegro was a Cuban guide and government employee; I was an American tourist in the communist country.
To pre-empt your interrogation: No, I didn't sneak in through Canada or Cancun. Nor did I have to pose as a soprano to join a touring choral group or stock up on socks to distribute on a humanitarian mission.
All I had to do was sign up for a tour with Friendly Planet. Because regular folks can now visit Cuba, thanks to the Obama administration's decision last year to reinstate licenses allowing U.S. tour operators to lead "people-to-people" trips to the island nation we've boycotted for more than 50 years. Prior to this move, the U.S. government limited travel to those with family members on the island and to groups with an academic, religious, cultural or do-gooder bent.
Since April, the Treasury Department's Office of Foreign Assets Control has issued more than 100 people-to-people licenses to organizations both specialized (Wisconsin Alumni Association, National Trust for Historic Preservation) and mainstream (Insight Cuba and Friendly Planet). The groups must submit itineraries that uphold - deep breath - "a full-time schedule of educational exchange activities that will result in meaningful interaction between the travelers and individuals in Cuba." In other words, learn the Spanish phrase "mucho gusto." You'll be saying it to everyone you meet.
As the largest island in the Caribbean, Cuba sits like a fat mustache on the face of the Caribbean Sea.
Within minutes of meeting Ludwig, our group started peppering him with questions. How much does a teacher earn? (About 450 pesos a month, or $17.) How many Cubans own homes? (85 percent.) Can we go to a baseball game? (Not likely; the Havana team is playing 14 hours away near Guantanamo Bay.)
Whenever we flirted with a delicate topic, Ludwig would remain poised but preface his response with "according to the government." For example, a dissection of the two types of currencies (the peso, or CUP, used only by Cubans; and the convertible peso, or CUC, the hard currency) ended with, "Of course, I'm explaining how things should work in theory."
Second jobs
Eventually, Ludwig let Havana take over the conversation. With eyes and ears wide open, we walked through the UNESCO World Heritage site, a restoration-plan-in-progress. In the Plaza de Armas, we stood among Spanish colonial buildings with romantic arches and balconies inhabited by the phantom bodies of windblown laundry. Shops and restaurants occupied the lower levels, the names recognizable to any global mall shopper: Benetton and Pepe Jeans. In the center of the square, vendors sold books and souvenirs celebrating Che Guevara and the revolution. Freelance artists tailed tourists, drawing caricatures for a tip or performing the popular ditty "Guantanamera." Occasionally an old woman would hold out an empty palm.
The city stayed mute on the subject of homelessness, so Isabel Leon Candelario, of the Historian's Office of the City of Havana, answered for it. "Mainly, they don't want to work," she said. "There is plenty of work to be done, construction and agriculture. It is hard to find homeless. Maybe one or two people in the evenings, a drunk person."
The government guarantees housing and jobs, plus provides free health care and education. Despite ration cards, the Cubans' biggest expenditure is food. Yet most people can't support themselves on federal wages and must work second jobs to acquire hard currency, Ludwig said. He, for example, receives extra funds through gratuities. Other secondary sources include tutoring, translating or performing in the streets with a pair of costumed dachshunds. Whatever it takes.
Cubans young, old and in between are open to talking about whatever is on their minds, whether it's Spider-Man or the current regime. Our first afternoon, we stopped by Callejon de Hamel, a vibrant Havana community steeped in Afro-Cuban traditions.
"There are four religions with African roots," said Elias, our local guide. "We use them as a weapon against our shortages."
The practitioners employ art and dance to shoo away the bad spirits and attract the positive forces. Electrifying murals by local artist Salvador Gonzalez Escalona cover the concrete walls. Every Sunday, dancers perform rumba here in a "Fame"-style block party. The show featured an emotional release of drums, percussion and singing. The music seemed to foil a sinister character with a pirate bandanna who slithered around like a snake. During the event, young men hawked their CDs, standing this close as they waved their wares in my face.
Busy all day
To escape the hard sell, I wandered over to the entryway of El Barracon restaurant, where a lone waiter smoked a cigarette in the twilight. In perfect English, he told me that the eatery had opened four days earlier, benefiting from a revised law that encourages private enterprise. He said that he'd quit his job at a government-owned dining spot, where he'd worked the graveyard shift from 8 p.m. to 6:30 a.m.
"I made 12,000 pesos a month" - about $500, he said. "I was rich, but I was tired."
He stamped out the glowing stub and resumed work mode, inviting me in for a meal of lobster, rice, vegetables and a mojito. At $20, a bargain for an American tourist.
The Friendly Planet itinerary, packed with homegrown and institutionalized goodies, kept us busy from breakfast till dinner. The company never issued a statement requiring our participation, yet I sensed a tacit obligation to board the bus every day.
To clear up any ambiguities, I asked Ruby Goldman, the American representative of Friendly Planet, whether I could duck out to the beach. "You can do anything you want," she said, "as long as you do the people-to-people. I'm not the police."
Despite her consent, guilt squelched my independent streak. I pulled out the day's events and started underlining.
What was on the list? A cigarmaker who rolled stogies in a closet-size space heavy with smoke, and an organic farm outside Havana. Also: the Museum of the Revolution, whose collection of decrepit newspaper clippings, bullet-pocked tanks and display of the Granma, the fishing boat Fidel Castro sailed from Mexico to Cuba in 1956, converged in the former palace of fallen dictator Fulgencio Batista. And finally, a house call to an apartment complex (what HUD would call a project) on the outskirts of town (what we'd label the suburbs).
A family let us roam around the ground-level unit they'd recently moved into. The government had relocated them to the two-bedroom after their colonial domicile in Havana collapsed like a dollhouse made of dry crackers. The daughter's boyfriend admitted that it was hard to live outside the city. The commute to the hospital where he worked was a drag, he said from his perch on the couch, but at least they didn't have to pay rent.
Making a connection
Despite my fascination with the country, my enthusiasm did wane at times. At the Museum of the City, I was in a half-conscious state when a security guard approached me with a handful of U.S. currency. I shook my head, telling her that no, thank you, I didn't need any cash. Then comprehension dawned. I was her black market.
The government exacts a 10 percent tax on currency exchanges from U.S. dollars to CUC, which Cubans need to purchase supplemental sundries at supermarkets and other stores that trade in the hard currency. By comparison, my unpublished rate was one-to-one, no commission. I emptied out the Cuban portion of my wallet and replenished the U.S. side.
"You can't get more people-to-people than this," Ludwig said to me outside the supermarket.
