Fear in Havana

From Griffith REVIEW Edition 14: The Trouble with Paradise
© Copyright Griffith University & the author.

Written by Oren Siedler

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Oren Siedler's biography and other articles by this writer

“Sir, open your bags, please." My father lifts his enormous suitcases up on to the counter and unzips them. The customs official's eyes widen.

"What's all this for?" he asks my father. He does not wait for an answer, but thrusts his hands into the first bag and examines the CDs, perfume bottles, watches, jewellery, packets of spaghetti, toothpaste, cosmetics, boxes of tampons, shoes and women's underwear. "Do you intend to sell any of this?"

"No, it's all for my girlfriend ... and a few things for her sister and mother ..." my father's voice is calm and friendly. This is Bruce's eighteenth trip to Cuba; he knows the protocol well. The customs official eyes my father suspiciously.

"Who is this?" he points to me.

"She's my daughter. We're taking a vacation together, and she wants to meet my girlfriend, seeing as she might become her stepmother soon enough." I glance at my father, who smiles, impressed with his own joke. I am not amused. Fatima is almost a decade younger than me, and I am dismayed by their relationship. I have come to Cuba to make a film about Bruce – my non-conforming, white-collar criminal father – and his bizarre relationship with a young street-wise Cuban woman who he now intends to marry.

The official remains steely-faced. He rummages further into the bottom of my father's bag and pulls out a black plastic box from under tightly packed clothes and a cooking pan. Bruce sighs.

"Is this is a VCR player?" he asks my father.

"Yes. My girlfriend requested it – she says she gets bored a lot and she likes to watch movies."

"This is not allowed!" the official barks. He takes the VCR across the room to a uniformed official and hands it to him.

"Well, there's another VCR for an official's family," Bruce tells me without moving his lips. "This is the third one."

"Why?" I ask. "What's the problem with a VCR player, for God's sake?"

"Castro wants to control what people see ... let's hope he doesn't find your video camera. Whatever you do, don't tell them you're making a documentary. They'd definitely be suspicious of that." The customs official returns to the bench and tells my father he will be fined for importing undeclared goods into the country.

"I see," my father says politely. "Perhaps I can pay the fine right now?"

Without waiting for an answer my father slides a US$50 bill – pre-folded and waiting in his shirt pocket – across the counter to the official. He takes it without hesitation and motions for Bruce to close his bag, waving us away with a dismissive hand.

DURING THE TAXI RIDE INTO HAVANA, I consider my preconceived notion of this country, instilled by beautiful images from television travel shows, glossy coffee table books and magazine articles. Buena Vista Social Club brought the romance of Cuba to our movie screens. My imagination had been piqued by images of warm people, quaint cars, dancing in the streets and wonderful music spilling from every home – my sense of nostalgia satisfied by a place frozen in time. I am excited to finally be here.

It is almost dark when we pull into Daisy and Victor's street. Bruce tells the taxi driver to stop at the corner. "Their house is up there," he tells me, pointing further up the street. "We don't want to be seen getting out in front of their house."

As the driver helps Bruce with his cumbersome bags, I look up the narrow street, flanked by closely packed two-storey terrace houses with crumbling façades. Colourful peeling paint reveals perished mortar and brick. Small balconies face each other and hang lopsided over the street, with clothes drying on makeshift string clotheslines slung between them.

A group of young teenagers plays a ball game, barely moving to let smoke-belching vintage cars pass. The cars move slowly, navigating the deep holes and crevasses in the road. The explosions from their over-spent mufflers mix with the din of music – a cacophony of frenetic Latin beats – which spills from every second house.

My father pays the driver. He motions with his hand for me to follow. "We have to get into the house without anyone seeing us."

"Why?" I sigh. "What's the big deal?"

"We're not meant to stay with them without permission from the government. If someone sees us going in with all these bags they might dob us in to the officials. They're called chivatos – protectors of the revolution. They can be anyone on the street ... your neighbours."

I drop my bag beside me and look at my father. I can see he is enjoying the subterfuge. Typical, I think to myself with irritation.

"What? You mean Cubans aren't allowed to have guests?"

"Castro wants a cut of every tourist dollar coming into the country; they don't want anyone paying for accommodation without handing over a hefty portion. The government owns all the hotels, and that's where they want us to stay – and they're expensive. On top of this, Cubans aren't allowed to stay with tourists in their hotel rooms, which is no good for me of course."

"Are you serious? You mean the government controls who tourists can have in their hotel rooms?"

"Yep. Castro wants to make sure Cuba doesn't become a kind of Bangkok of the Caribbean. But the people are desperate, so of course a lot of them turn to foreign visitors for ‘sponsorship'."

"Uh, don't you mean prostitution?" I say sarcastically.

"Well, I like to think of it more as a kind of sponsorship – a symbiotic relationship where we both benefit in different ways."

I roll my eyes. "Oh right, and what does she get exactly?"

"Well, she gets gifts, trips away, new experiences, music, books ... and I get ..."

I cut him off before he can finish with a matter-of-fact description of her sexual prowess – something I have heard before, and don't relish hearing again. "It's pathetic. Don't try to cloak reality with smooth words like ‘sponsorship'."

Bruce does not reply, but only chuckles. He walks to the corner and peers down the street. "OK. Let's go."

Daisy meets us nervously at the door and tells us to be quiet as we enter. Her husband, Victor, is sitting with their three children in front of a black and white television in the cramped living room. Apart from the wooden chairs they are sitting on, there is little furniture. The room is dark, illuminated by a bare globe hanging from an exposed wire in the ceiling. They greet us warmly.

"What did you bring us, Bruce?" the children ask my father. Their eyes are bright and hopeful.

"Oh, the usual. Shoes, some clothes."

"CDs?" the oldest girl asks.

"Yep, I brought the ones you asked for."

Daisy pulls open a flimsy partition off the living room and motions for us to go in. "Su dormitorio," she smiles at me. "This is our room," my father translates. It is dark and stuffy. A ladder leads to a tiny loft which will be my father's room. Astained mattress lies on the floor of the main room. This will be my bed for the next three weeks. I am only mildly surprised; Bruce had warned me that this trip would not be luxurious.