Cubans turn to tourist trade just to survive

It was one of Jose's favourite jokes. Dr Menendez goes to Washington (it was agreed that this is what Fidel Castro would be called. When people talk about him in Cuba they do not like to do so by name, whether in public or in private). President Clinton takes him to the Grand Canyon, and he asks Dr Menendez to shout something, anything, anything at all.

Dr Menendez thinks, then roars "Socialism!". The word echoes back at him, in ever-declining waves, "socialism . . . socialism . . . socialism." "Terrific, isn't it?" says President Clinton. Dr Menendez is impressed but tells President Clinton they have an even better echo in Cuba. He invites President Clinton to visit and test the Cuban echo. The invitation is accepted.

In the weeks leading up to the Clinton visit Dr Menendez organises hundreds of people in separate groups all along the valleys of Pinar del Rio province. He shouts the word "Socialism", and they repeat it back to him at intervals, until it fades away out of hearing. They rehearse and rehearse. Nothing can go wrong.

President Clinton arrives. Dr Menendez brings him to Pinar del Rio, and invites him to shout something, anything, anything at all. President Clinton shouts "Beef!". There's a brief silence. Then the "echo" roars "Where? . . . Where? . . . Where?" all along the valleys of Pinar del Rio. Jose loved that joke. He laughed and laughed at it.

Food is now a basic problem in Cuba as the US trade embargo bites ever more deeply and the Soviet Union and its eastern bloc allies fade into history, like an echo in the Grand Canyon. Every person in Cuba is limited to five pounds of rice a month, and meat is far too expensive for the ordinary person. That was one reason Jose liked to work in the tourist trade. His meals were supplied by the hotel, and were up to tourist standard.

Jose was a lecturer in American literature at a university in Cuba, but gave it up to organise games for bored German tourists around the hotel swimming pool. Or Canadians, or South Americans. He is in his mid-20s and, like all Cubans who speak English, he does so in an American accent. He loves American literature.

He was earning $8 a month teaching at the university, but early last year he and his wife had their first child. He needed more money and so tried to get into tourism. At the hotel he was earning $7 a month, but made a lot more in tips.

Jose got tired of seeing younger people earn far more than the most senior professors as hotel maids, bellboys and cooks, or by selling cigars on the black market. Generally in Cuba this has meant that fewer and fewer young people are going on to third-level education. They are opting to work in tourism (one million visitors in 1996, and growing), rather than train for the professions.

When Jose's wife gave birth to their daughter last year, she suffered a 20-hour labour without anaesthetic or epidural. There was none available. One of the items hardest hit by the US embargo is medical supplies. All American companies and their subsidiaries are forbidden by Washington to trade with Cuba.

Their little daughter has been chronically ill since birth, with a series of infections and rashes. Health care is free for all, but is crucified by the lack of medicines. Such is the pressure on doctors that many are deeply frustrated and there have been instances of maltreatment. There are queues and long delays.

But it is hardest on the old people. Jose begins to weep when he talks about his elderly parents. They haven't enough food, but cannot afford any more. Even then there is nowhere to keep it, as the ancient fridge they have no longer works. The spare parts would have to come from the US, and you cannot get spare parts from the US in Cuba. He weeps because he thinks of all his parents have done for him and now that they need him he is powerless to do anything for them.

Jose does not criticise Fidel Castro. Nor does he praise him, though he says some people in Cuba believe he has millions of dollars stashed away in Swiss banks. But very few people in Cuba really believe that, he says. It is clear Jose has little ideological commitment to communism, nor for that matter does he hate the United States. His struggle to make a living for himself and his family does not leave much room for the sort of reflection that might allow the foundations for either.

Right now he would just like to see Corinne, his little daughter, have better health. He would also like to have a steady job in tourism. The one he has now will end in a few months. Then he doesn't know what he will do.

Juan has a steady job. He is in his 30s and teaches at a high school in Havana during the day. Then in the evenings he offers himself as an informal guide to tourists he might see in the city. He sidles up to them in the street, finds out where they are from, and talks about someone from that country he has met. That's his style. Then he offers a city-centre walking tour for $10.

He earns $7 a month teaching. At the moment he is saving for his 11-year-old daughter's birthday, in a few weeks, and he also needs money to keep up the alimony payments to his former wife. They divorced a few years ago, "but she is still my best friend", he says.

He's a very entertaining guide. Everybody knows him, so he can bring you through parts of Havana it might be best to avoid, though there is little crime in the city. People are very much afraid of the police, who are everywhere and very helpful to tourists.

Walking through the rundown chivalry of Havana's colonial streets, he greets the children by name. An old man sits on a doorstep in the warm sun. You can see the ribs clearly through his naked torso. "It's very hard on the old people," Juan says. His own mother recently retired from work as a cleaner at his school. Her pension is $1 a month.

A queue of women has formed outside a shop. Inside its shelves are bare except for a few layers of eggs, stacked one on the other. There are dogs and cats everywhere, their bones as visible as the old man's.

In the Chinatown area of the city there is one of those new private markets, recently allowed by the government. Farmers are now allowed sell their surplus produce there. The vegetables are small, malformed and covered in earth. There is not much produce there, nor much trade going on.

In downtown Havana the shops are empty of goods. Juan points one out. It has a few isolated spare parts for bicycles in its windows, along with one packet of detergent. It is probably one of the few shops Cubans are likely to visit, he says.

Bicycles are as common in Cuba as they are in China. And everywhere there is noise. Men offering taxis, cigars or chicos (women) to the passing tourists. Ancient Chevrolets, Ladas, bikes and sputtering old lorries belching black smoke into the passing heedless crowds.

But all is quiet in the Church of Our Lady of Carmel. There's a huge statue of her over the building outside. Inside a smaller statue of her is adorned in rich, heavily embroidered cloth, in that excessive Latin American style. There are other similarly overdressed statues, and some of Christ whose bleeding injuries are depicted in graphic detail.

In the still gloom it becomes clear that efforts are being made to do long-standing repair work. Scaffolding has been erected in one side altar, for some essential repairs. "For the Pope's visit," a priest says. He is Spanish but has been in the Congo for almost 20 years, arriving in Havana two years ago. Along a wall are pictures and a photograph of St Therese of Lisieux. People of mixed ages and races pray silently, then come and go.

A woman administrator explains there has never been religious persecution in Cuba since the revolution (1959). They have 300 children there every Saturday learning the catechism, she says.

They are a noisy bunch, too. A hapless nun shepherds some of them on to the altar where they are to sing during Mass, accompanied by a man on a piano. He is also on the altar. The church is full, and the priest is slow. He takes an hour. But no one seems to mind.

Instead of shaking hands at the "sign of peace" everybody links arms and sings, right across the aisles. Then at the end a group of elderly people in light-blue garb crowd around the statue of Our Lady of Carmel, singing, and each holding a candle. It is a happy, pious scene.

Down by the sea in Old Havana there is a statue of King Neptune, Roman god of the sea. On a hill directly across the harbour is an even larger statue of the Sacred Heart, erected before the revolution. You could say it is a city where Christ and Neptune walk hand in hand. They do so under the steady gaze of Che Guevara. His image is everywhere.