The signs of the times speak loudly in Cuba, sometimes through their silence: A 17-hour drive across the heart of the island in a battered, burgundy-and-gray 1956 Ford Fairlane included long stretches in which there was surprisingly little ideology on display; few of the billboards that once trumpeted revolutionary slogans.
Those that remained had less of the nostalgic lilt of “socialism or death” and more of the eager pitch of self-help books or business management bibles.
“Florida advances through its own effort,” a sign in the town of that name read, while another proclaimed: “Quality is respect for the people.”
Illustration: Kevin Sheu
Another said simply: “Work hard,” a notion stripped of the ideological imperative that used to complete the thought with phrases like: “to defeat imperialism,” or “to build socialism.”
Dispatched to Cuba last month after US President Barack Obama’s surprise announcement that he would renew full diplomatic relations with Havana, I set off on a road trip from the capital, near the west end of the island, to Guantanamo at the east end.
The mileage chart on my map said the distance was 909km, but it felt a lot longer sitting on the cream-colored, quilted vinyl seat of the Ford, which had lost a lot of its spring in the years since former Cuban president Fidel Castro swept into power.
The vintage Ford was not part of the original plan — it was Christmastime, and flights across the island were sold out and the rental cars were all taken. So I started looking for a driver, preferably someone with a newish car. I did not want to get stuck on the roadside in some broken-down Soviet-era Lada or a rusting relic from former US president Dwight D. Eisenhower’s administration.
When Julio Cesar Lopez showed up in his big Ford at my hotel, the Habana Libre, I almost dismissed him out of hand, but he said that he had recently replaced the motor and that the car had made several trips across the island and back. He even promised to replace the bald front right tire and change the oil — we had a deal.
Along the way, a slowly changing Cuba revealed itself, sometimes through what was there and sometimes through what was not.
Another sign of the times: “This house for sale.” That concept did not exist, legally, before 2011, when home sales were first allowed under changes designed to inject some capitalist life into the country’s creaky socialist economy. Now, “For Sale” signs are a common sight. Even more common are signs for the hundreds of small private restaurants, called paladares, which operated largely in the shadows until 2010, when they greatly expanded after the government allowed some people to go into business for themselves.
There were also discouraging signs.
One was the lack of little bars on my phone, showing that there was no cellular coverage in the areas between cities — an indication of Cuba’s backward telecommunications network.
There was a near absence of trucks carrying merchandise or farm produce, a sign of an economy that barely ticks.
While there was little car and truck traffic, there was a lot of everything else. Sharing the highway with us were bicycles, oxcarts, tractors, motorcycles (some with sidecars) and horsecarts of every type (large and small two-wheeled farm carts, four-wheeled carts that carried up to 10 passengers and light carriages that served as taxis).
There were also a lot of breakdowns, which is to be expected when a high percentage of the cars on the road were made before John F. Kennedy was elected US president in 1960.
An hour out of Havana, a man with no shirt leaned on a gray Lada with the hood up, not having bothered to move it off the road. Near a town called Torriente, a couple kissed passionately beside a broken-down red Chevy. Near Santiago de Cuba, a woman with an anxious face sat surrounded by a brood of children in a stalled, burnt-orange Buick — I never saw a tow truck.
Cuba is a beautiful island, green and fertile, a poem of vibrant color and sensual light. A scarlet sunset bleeds across the Caribbean sky, bruised purple at the edges. In the heat of the day, a woman in a shocking-pink shirt walks under a red parasol. An old man in jonquil pants sits on a fence. Pale green sugar cane grows in red dirt fields.
On day two, we had breakfast at the Ciego de Avila Hotel, a decaying throwback to an age of Soviet-financed plans to build big resorts for vacationing workers.
Done up in peeling, garish green and gold, it was a jumble of window boxes sprouting miniature palm trees, concrete arches and balconies. The swimming pool sparkled blue and empty. Of 147 rooms, only about 15 were occupied; there seemed to be more workers than guests.
We drove with the windows down, swaying over the blacktop, the air beating around us. Lopez babied the car over bumpy stretches, which got more frequent the farther we got from Havana.
The Ford was full of rattles and bangs, and when we hit a bump it was like shaking a can loaded with nickels. There were small vent windows in the front and no seatbelts.
The odometer was stuck at 26948.0. How many times had it turned over before freezing? Cuba, too, is frozen in the past. Younger Cubans — and many older ones too — are aching for the odometer to start turning again. The car was beautiful and old and tired — Cuba is all those things.
For all that, a Cuban journalist remarked to me along the way how much the country has changed since an ailing Castro first stepped aside in 2006 and his brother became president two years later and started his gradual economic reforms.
Five years ago, the journalist said people talked about politics: What Fidel Castro said, what incumbent President Raul Castro was going to do. Now, they talk about money and business.
The average salary in 2013 was about US$20 a month, according to the government. People told me that can easily be eaten up by monthly bills for a cellphone, electricity and other basics, though some other expenses, like education and healthcare, are covered by the government.
The gap between what people earn and what things cost was a constant topic of conversation. Many people rely on money sent to them by relatives abroad. Many are in a constant struggle to get by, raising and selling pigs, buying or selling products on the black market, starting a business or waiting tables in a paladar.
Yasmani Berbes, 27, quit his job as a physical education teacher to run a restaurant in his family’s house in Contramaestre, a town near Santiago de Cuba. As a teacher he made 500 pesos (about US$21) a month.
“Here, there are days now when I can make 500 pesos,” he said. “There’s a positive change in the Cuban population. They’ve opened up a lot to the idea of doing business.”
He had less faith in the country’s leaders: “There’s still a lot of people with a 19th-century revolutionary mentality,” he said. “Lots of taboos and prohibitions.”
Lopez, who is about half the age of his Ford, was a careful motorist — his car was his livelihood.
“If I had the choice, I’d pick a modern car,” he said. “With a modern car, what we’re doing in 12 hours we could do in nine.”
(He was also an optimist: The trip ended up taking 17 hours over two days, although that included small detours and meals.)
However, Lopez said that having any car at all was a blessing because it gave him a way to make a living. I told him that lots of people abroad saw old cars like his as a quaint symbol of revolutionary Cuba.
I asked him what the car symbolized for him.
“Money,” he said.
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