Back in Havana

Hello! This weekend was fantastic, albeit full of tedious traveling. Friday morning we went to the airport and took a propeller plane to Santiago, on the eastern end of the island. We took a cab through the infamous heat and beautiful greenery of eastern Cuba to our hotel, the Hotel de Las Americas (we each had our own rooms with two queen beds each, which was absolutely GLORIOUS). We didn’t spend too much time in Santiago since we had to go explore other parts of eastern Cuba, but we did get a chance to walk around at night and get a feel for the city. The architecture is completely different from Havana; the city had the vibe of a small Hispanic port city… which I guess is exactly what Santiago is. Things are definitely slower-paced, but sadly there were more beggars and “street performers” than in Havana, which I attributed to the lack of any real industry in the town, the vast majority of which is devoted to tourism. Saturday we took a bus to nearby Baconao to see and climb a giant rock called, of all things, La Gran Piedra, and then go to a small local beach.

On Sunday we said goodbye to the wonderful continental breakfast of our hotel (oh eggs, how I’d missed you so), and took a 4 hour bus ride to Baracoa. Baracoa is your average mountain town, except that the mountains are covered in dense rainforests. The city itself was quiet but beautiful, but down by the harbor (also called the Malecon there) even buildings 50 meters from the wall’s edge had been completely demolished by the waves caused by Hanna and Ike. The scenery leading up to the city was absolutely gorgeous, and along the way to the town there were small, seemingly self-sustained communities with their own pigs, chickens, etc. Many of them had jerry-rigged a pipe system to bring water from higher up on the mountain, which was really neat to see. I think it would be enlightening to live that way for a year or so; it would definitely give me a better appreciation for the people behind the scenes of my daily subsistence, and for the advancements that have been made in technology since the times when all humans lived that way. As we drove past these communities, I noticed a more concentrated collection of revolutionary and Communist Party murals than in Cuba or Santiago (which is saying a lot). It’s pretty ironic that the most agrarian communities of Cuba (and the world, when you think about it, i.e. the farmers and serfs of Cuba and Russia, respectively) are the most enthusiastic about Communism, when they are without a doubt the farthest thing imaginable from the ideal proletariat that Marx had in mind. Once we got to our hotel, we mostly just relaxed and walked around the town, knowing that we would need our energy for Monday…

We woke up around 6 on Monday to go hiking up El Yunque. In Spanish, El Yunque means “anvil,” and that’s a pretty accurate description for this plateau covered in dense greenery. The hike was unbelievably intense, and at one point we even had to ford a river. So needless to say, about halfway through the 2.5 hour uphill half, Sandra and I decided to listen to our overworked bodies and let the testosterone-driven guys continue the journey without us. A few hours later, they met us coming down the hill, and we went back to the hotel to get our belongings and begin the ride back to Santiago. On the ride back I saw a side of Cuba that I’d never seen before: its grain fields. The sun set beautifully on wide fields of crops marked by electricity poles, but the effects of the hurricanes could still be seen in missing rooms from the top levels of houses, and barren fields that once held the country’s crops. It is truly a testament to the human spirit that these farmers can persevere to provide the nation with the little food they can, despite the constant reminder that there will be a food shortage for the next six months at the least; despite the threat of another hurricane; despite the fact that they barely have enough food to feed themselves and their families; and despite the fact that the fixed prices imposed by the Cuban government in the midst of this crisis prevent them from making enough money on their goods to recoup their immense losses.

After such a relaxing vacation (and after getting back to the residencia around 1:30 in the morning), most of us didn’t feel like waking up for 8 AM class on Tuesday. So we skipped our classes and were just lounging around, when I saw an e-mail that Carmita, our “Inge away from home” sent us about a great opportunity for us. Doctor Julia Sweig, the Director of Latin American Relations for the Council on Foreign Relations in the U.S., was coming to give a speech that day about the political climate in the United States and what it would mean for relationships with Latin America and Cuba in particular. In true Cuba fashion the meeting was open to anyone who wanted to attend (in the United States Michael, Jake, and I would have needed press passes or some such nonsense).

Carmita was really excited that some of us decided to come, and as Dr. Sweig proceeded to give her speech in heavily American-accented Spanglish, I thought that nothing would make Carmita happier than if one of us asked a question during the Q&A session that was to follow. After the speech was over, five or six older Cuban men approached the microphone and asked their questions, many of which seemed to be designed to try and “trap” Dr. Sweig in some manner. (I’m not sure if this was due more to her position in such a questionably moral organization, or to the huge blow to their machismo-conditioned egos that a woman was sent as their ambassador from the United States; maybe a mix of both). Unlike Q&A sessions that I’d seen before, this one’s format was for every person to ask their questions, then have Dr. Sweig respond to them all at once… meaning I had less time than I thought I would to draft a question. After a few of the men had asked their long-winded questions preceded by paragraphs of historical context and the room sat in the momentary silence of shuffling, the moderator asked, “¿Alguién más?” and I awkwardly dashed up to the mic. In English, I thanked Dr. Sweig for coming to speak, and told her my name and what school I was from when she asked. I proceeded to ask my question in Spanish. I won’t put it all here since it was about a paragraph, but I basically asked her how she thought the removal of the embargo would influence the exchange of ideas between the two countries, rather than the exchange of goods. It’s a good thing I just went up there and did it, because had I realized beforehand that I was about to speak to, without a doubt, the most powerful person I’d ever talked to, I might have just stayed put.

Her answer to my question was nothing terribly revealing (she essentially said “yes, it will influence the exchange of ideas”), but the question of another attendee definitely opened my eyes. Though a few of the men who asked questions after me chided my question for not staying on the topic of economic development, the coordinator of the conference later asked Dr. Sweig when the lack of academic exchange would begin to subside, because, as she said “Lo sentimos. (We feel it.)” That really took me by surprise; I guess I sort of viewed myself as an unwanted intruder here, not so much as an inadequate reminder of the vibrant and healthy exchange student system that used to exist between our two countries. I agree with that woman that the free travel of academic persons should be one of the very first steps in removing the embargo; both countries have so much to learn from each other, and as long as that free exchange is stunted, all American students will “learn” about Cuba are the prejudices and distorted myths that have existed for decades.

But then after the conference the really exciting thing happened! Dr. Sweig’s research assistant on this trip, a young guy maybe 5 years older than us, came over to us and told us he’d love to grab a beer with us before they left on Saturday. We exchanged contact information, and if all goes well, hopefully we’ll get to meet with him this week. I’m really excited to talk with him about all things Cuban and American, and what the CFR thinks about it all. Strange that within a couple of months I’ve not only been able to get more involved in Cuban political happenings than I’d ever imagined, but that it’s also been easier to learn about American foreign policy straight from the horse’s mouth than it ever would be in my own country.

Various Updates

Not too much to write about since I posted those photos; I think we’re realizing that you don’t have to travel all over the province to learn while we’re here, since one conversation with any Cuban on the street is enough to give us plenty to think about.

On Monday I went with Michael to a meeting of the University Professors’ Union where they were discussing the various merits and shortcomings of Cuba’s imminent new Social Security plan. Surprisingly enough, Cuba is having an almost identical problem with their Social Security to what is happening in the U.S. The population is aging, and soon there won’t be enough young people to pay for their elders’ benefits. So the main point of the new plan is to push back the age of retirement by five years, starting next year and increasing in 6 month increments until they reach the desired age (60 for men, 55 for women). They’ve also thrown some other changes in, which suit some better than others; hence, the need to discuss potential revisions.
The process of revision goes like this: The ministry in charge of the social benefits distributes a draft of the plan to the public, through the government newspaper (the only newspaper) The Granma. People have a chance to read it, and then the various unions around the country assemble for a few months to discuss and debate about what works and doesn’t for their particular demographic. At the same time as this is going on, the same ministry that wrote the plan in the first place goes door to door in areas to take a census about what Cubans do and don’t like about the plan. Once the unions and citizens have pleaded their cases, their suggestions are sent back to the original ministry, who compiles everything and tries to accommodate as many people as possible.
Before the meeting began, the president of the Union made a sort of inspirational speech about what everyone in the room was about to do. He mentioned that in any other country in the world, even developed countries, their process would be performed by a Congress; thus, their responsibility was even greater since they were true representations of the people. I guess the people in the room had heard something to this effect before, because they didn’t seem particularly moved. To me, however, it was a true epiphany. For all of the liberties that Cuba takes away from its people, this was definitely a more legitimate manifestation of democracy than anything I have ever seen in the States. I’m sure it would be much harder to implement in the U.S., due to pure scale issues; still I’ve always thought it ridiculous that so few people, though they may be elected, have the power to control so much of our lives. I suppose it’s a result of having taken so much power away from the legislative branches of each individual state; with state congresses given their original Constitutional duties back, we would have a law-passing system very similar to the process that Cuba is currently experiencing.

There has also been progress this week with making friends with the Cuban students in our classes. It’s been a little tough until now because we float around various years and academic fields of study every day, whereas they stay in their same year and field all day, so we’re not really around them long enough to make an impression. But yesterday I talked with some students for a while, and then today when one of our professors didn’t show up, we spent the period (and some of the next) playing what is essentially charades with some of our classmates. It was a lot of fun, although the rules are a little different (there are different rules for every round, for example). The strange thing was that when the 20 or so of us returned fifteen minutes late for our next class, the professor simply let us come in without a word and began the class. Not continued. Began. For fifteen minutes she had heard us playing directly below the window of the classroom, and just passed the time until the final round was done. I’m not complaining, since I was kind of worried as the game continued that we would all be reprimanded. It was just kind of silly; I suppose she had sort of a “let kids be kids,” mentality about it.

Like I said earlier, life in Habana has become slightly less driven by the initial “Let’s go everywhere we possibly can and explore!” mentality, and the routine has gotten a bit monotonous this past week… Which is why I can’t wait for this weekend! Tomorrow morning we’re flying to Santiago, a city on the eastern side of the island. It’s a much slower way of life than in Habana, and the city seems to be frozen in the late 1800s as far as the architecture goes. Our hotel is apparently gorgeous, with a pool, gardens, and we each get our own bedroom! I have absolutely no work to do for the whole weekend, and I am more than ready to enjoy 4 days of vacation—which is funny because Cuba was supposed to be a vacation in itself. I guess I’m just really lucky; but then if there’s one thing this experience has taught me so far, that’s definitely it.

I won’t have internet at all this weekend, so until Tuesday!

Fotos!

Here are some pictures of dolphins, Callejón de Hammel, and random sights around Havana:

Roncos and Refrigerators

I apologize to anyone who has been waiting to hear about my dinner on Sunday. I still don’t have all of my thoughts put together about it, but I thought I’d post anyway so that nobody thinks I was mugged or raped by some random Cuban fisherman.

Michael and I met Hector at the Malecon around 5:30 on Sunday night. As he led us to our destination, Hector explained that, sadly, the fish we had caught on Thursday could not be eaten for dinner. Thursday night he had taken it home and put it in his freezer, but when he woke up on Friday the power had gone out (as he said it often does in his neighborhood), and the fish had spoiled. So he had some smaller fish for us, which he assured us were still quite tasty. Also, because of the frequent power outages in his neighborhood, we were not going to eat at his house, but at the home of his cousin Berto. We met Berto along the way, and rounded the corner of a large, dilapidated colonial mansion (due to the housing shortage in Cuba, several families usually share one of these houses, with one extended family taking over maybe 2 or 3 rooms). To get to Berto’s room we had to pass through the overgrown central courtyard of the house, criss-crossed with ropes for hanging drying laundry. The coolest thing about the courtyard was that, standing in the center, I was surrounded by the smells of 3 or 4 families cooking dinner, as well as the sounds of each family’s television or radio emanating from respective corners of the house’s interior.

Berto opened the door to his living space, and I was in shock. His home consisted of one oblong room, no bigger in square feet than my bedroom and bathroom at home. The room was so small that at one point Hector wanted to find a radio to play some music, and there was literally only one place to look. On the left of the room was his “bedroom,” which just consisted of a small bed in the apartment’s corner. To the right was a mangled rack upon which he kept his shoes, as well as the “bathroom” (a toilet, a bucket of cold water with some soap, and a towel on a rope for drying one’s hands). In the center of the apartment was Berto’s kitchen, in which stood a fold-away table only slightly bigger than a school desk, a stove, a sink with a few cooking tools such as a tin measuring cup, and in the center, the jarring contrast of a sparkling white refrigerator (more about this later).

The dinner was delicious. Berto cooked us an excellent meal of rice, malanga (a root similar to potato), and fried ronco (in English we call them striped croakers, and I found out yesterday that they’re a step away from being on the U.S.’ endangered species list. Oops.). As we ate and drank the wine that Mike and I brought to the dinner, the conversation spanned over a million completely unrelated topics. Among my favorites was our transition from talking about famous American actors like Henry Fonda to a spirited discussion about Rafiki from the Lion King. At one point Hector and Berto asked us where we had traveled to in the world. I didn’t have too much to offer (Hector wasn’t interested in hearing about England, since he’d heard it rains too much there), but when Mike started talking about Germany and Sweden, the two of them started asking very detailed questions about what each country was like. They were very interested and excited to learn more, but it made me very sad to know that they only way they would ever experience such travels was through the tales of others (I don’t know how many Americans know this, but as if the crippling financial barriers weren’t enough, Cubans are legally forbidden from ever leaving the country. A few of the well-connected Cubans overcome this for small trips, but there is a lot of red tape involved). Hector said that if he could only visit three countries, he would visit the United States, Canada, and Brazil (for the beautiful mulattas they have there, haha). After 4 hours of eating, drinking, and conversing, Mike and I said goodbye and gave Hector our residence’s number so that he could contact us with any future plans.

Even after we got home, the image of the sparkling white fridge plagued me. A few weeks ago, I had noticed large trucks driving through the city loaded with brand new refrigerators. They would stop in certain areas and give them to the residents, at the same time collecting the old retro-looking ones from the Havanans’ houses. After piecing the story together with help from Hector and another Penn student here, who has talked with younger Cubans, I can explain a little bit of the refrigerator situation:

Seventy years ago, most Cubans had American-made refrigerators, many of which have lasted up until today (*sigh* they don’t make ‘em like they used to, huh?). The Cuban government thought it was time for an upgrade, though, and purchased new Japanese refrigerators for its citizens. Since it’s impossible to imagine any Cuban today purchasing such a large appliance on an annual salary of a little over $100, the government didn’t really have a choice if they wanted to keep their citizens happy (and the façade of a successful economy alive). Though heavily subsidized by the Cuban government, the fridges aren’t completely free. Here’s the kicker though: should you decide that you don’t have the money to buy a new refrigerator, and choose to keep your old one that has lasted 70 years and is still going strong, the government slaps you with a fine. On top of this, you’re branded as “anti-revolutionary”.

(Side note, since I don’t think I’ve explained this yet, either: Cubans have to attend monthly meetings of the Communist Party to prove how “revolutionary” they are. There are other activities, like buying the fridge, which they must also perform to prove their devotion to the party. Failure to do these things gets you reported to the government, and then you miss out on the next government handout (the current example is refrigerators, but this was also a big deal when Cubans got televisions in the 90’s).)

So with the refrigerator, the government is giving you a gift that you essentially have no choice but to accept. The image of the brand new refrigerator in the midst of the squalor of Berto’s apartment will stay with me for a long time, and I think it is an excellent metonymy for the Cuban government’s opinion of what is best for the country. By putting as many bandages as possible on the metaphorical broken arm of Cuba’s economy, the government stops revolutions within the Cuban population, as well as outside intervention from outside parties who can take advantage of its citizens’ dissatisfaction. But I can’t help but wonder how long it will be before Cuba’s people act on the fact that new refrigerators mean nothing if you have neither the electricity to run them, nor a scrap of food to put inside.

¡Hector Otra Vez!

Thursday night was a little bit dull, so Michael and I decided to go to the Malecon again. It was storming off in the distance, so we were just sitting on the wall and watching the lightning. Then, all of a sudden, a Cuban fisherman approached us and extended his hand so Mike could shake it… and it was Hector!! My initial reaction was that it was an incredibly serendipitous reunion, but then I realized that he probably fishes every night, so it wasn’t too unlikely that we’d see him there. Still, he was excited to see us, as were we him. We began talking about what we’d been up to since the last time we saw him, and at some point there was a lull in the conversation. I was looking around at all of the fisherman on the Malecon, and I offhandedly mentioned that one night I’d like to learn how to fish. “Pues, !vengan!,” (“Well, come on then!”) said Hector, and began walking to his fishing post, which consisted of a few pieces of bait and a spool of fishing line that he used as his reel.

He had already cast his line, so there was nothing to do but wait while we talked about various aspects of fishing. Hector explained to us that the fisherman use 3 or 4 condoms as floats to be able to locate their hooks in the darkness of the night (and here I thought that the condom wrappers littering the sidewalk of the Malecon had come from frisky young Cubans!). After a while Hector took Mike to go in search of something to drink, and I was left in charge of the line. I looked around at all of the fisherman, trying to decide who looked the most helpful should I feel a tug on the line and need some assistance. But nothing happened. A few minutes later Hector and Mike returned with a bottle of rum, and I confessed that, sadly, I had not had any success. Hector said that, on their walk, he and Mike had talked about when the two of us would come to his house for dinner (this invitation had been extended to us since the first night we met him). Like I had previously, I tried very hard to politely decline Hector’s request, since I didn’t feel that I could take what little food he and his family had to eat (especially with the looming food crisis here; maybe more on that later). He kept insisting, and then I realized that by trying to be polite I was actually being very rude to Hector. By essentially preventing him from sharing his food with me, I was suggesting that I knew his situation and his desires better than he. When in reality, who was I to insult him by telling him that he didn’t have enough food to share with others? In my opinion that is one of the most degrading things one human can do to another: refuse a gift because they feel the giver “can’t afford to lose” what is being given. So in the end we agreed that Mike and I would go to his house on Sunday for dinner.

However, I still felt bad that Hector hadn’t caught anything. Admittedly, I began to evaluate the 40-some year old man and started to think that maybe he wasn’t such a great fisherman. Then, the line under my fingers began to twitch. In my shock, I could only stutter, “Hector, pienso que hay algo aquí. (Hector, I think there is something here.)” He felt the line, and immediately jumped up onto the wall of the Malecon (the other side of which is a 30 foot plummet onto the rocky shore of Cuba’s coast), straining and pulling the fishing line with his bare hands. After what seemed to be a terrible struggle, he finally pulled the fish onto the sidewalk. About 15 inches in length, the fish was later determined to weigh about 5 pounds. As it flopped around on the sidewalk, gasping for air, Hector explained to us that it was a bajonao (I later Googled and discovered that in English we call it a porgy), and that it had a great deal of meat on it. Word quickly spread along the Malecon that Hector had caught such a big fish, and as various fishermen came to inspect the health of the catch (e.g. whether its gills were red; whether it had all its teeth), Hector’s tale of vanquish became more and more elaborate (I guess they don’t call them fisherman’s tales for nothing!). Despite being a little grossed out as Hector let the fish suffocate on the ground, I looked into the dead fish’s empty eyes and realized that the pang of guilt I usually feel when I am sport fishing in the United States was nowhere to be found; when one truly kills for subsistence, there is no reason to feel remorse. Hector said I had brought him luck that night, smiled at us and said “¡Para el domingo! (For Sunday!),” and then I was nothing but excited for the meal we would share. We’re going to meet Hector at the Malecon in a few hours; I’m sure it’s going to be delicious!

How Old Are We?

This is a shorter, considerably less substantial post, but I need to vent. Over the past couple of weeks, we’ve had a silent battle with the Cuban university students over, of all things, assigned seats. The professors do not assign seats, but the students have all chosen their spots close to their friends, and if you sit in their spot they will tell you to get up. Sagar tried to argue the irrationality of this stance to them after class one day, and actually convinced a handful of them that “first come, first serve” is a fairer policy. Too bad that next time the class met, he got up during the midpoint break and the girl whose seat he was supposedly sitting in instantly came and moved his notebook onto the floor, and “reclaimed” her seat.

Then today in class I was sitting next to a girl who was drawing on her desk. With markers. And stencils. I mean, I know a few college students who are guilty of the occasional notebook doodle, but ON the desk? I haven’t seen that since grade school. And how many 20-somethings actually own stencils for such an occasion? Unbelievable.

Case in Point

Hello! I apologize for not having updated in a while. Since my last post I’ve:

- Finalized my courses (I bet you all thought that had happened already, huh?). I decided to go with the Society and Religion class, since the Cuban revolution class is for fifth year students, and way over my head.

- Gone to this really cool place called Hammel’s alley. It’s basically a street in Central Havana covered entirely in Santería art and quotations from famous Cuban writers. The colors in the art and somewhat eery nature of the sculptures were beautiful. I really wish the speed of the internet connection was fast enough for me to share some of the pictures I took. Maybe I’ll try later.

- Gotten my clothes washed. It’s a pretty covert operation here. The easiest way to do it is to ask one of the women who work in the residence to handwash your laundry. But this is considered private enterprise, so it’s all done under the table. I had to leave my clothes on my bed. Three days later they reappeared, clean. Then the next day I left the woman’s payment. My friend Sam had to meet his cleaning woman in the kitchen after hours to do the exchange. Very hush hush.

- Found a place where I can get my hair done for the equivalent of $4 (for those of you not familiar with American salon price, it usually costs about $55, so that’s pretty fantastic.

- Gone to the national aquarium to see their amazing dolphin show!

- Visited the Museum of the Revolution, which is located inside of what used to be Batista’s Presidential Palace. How’s that for poetic justice? It certainly didn’t paint a pretty picture of the United States’ involvement in Cuban affairs (beginning with our manipulation of affairs during the Spanish-American war), but nothing beyond what I learned in AP U.S. History. After we left the museum, one of the museum guards approached us and asked us where we were from. We told him we were Americans, and he sort of smirked and asked us if we liked the museum. I thought that was kind of funny, because he seemed to think that the Cuban side of things would provide a completely different perspective from the American “propaganda” we are taught in school. It made me realize that, for all of the bias we present through the media about current events, the U.S. does a pretty good job of staying objective in regards to history (of course, the further back in history you go, the easier it seems to be for America to stay objective). I don’t think a Cuban course on even the earliest history of the nation would be taught without at least a hint of bias (which they, of course, would call nationalism).

- Taken a vow with Michael to only speak Spanish until Thanksgiving. Wish us luck!

But here’s a funny story, and the main point of this post:

So last week in my Sociology of Work course, we were discussing the fact that in Cuba (and really in every country), there is a surface economy of “formal” jobs, and an underground “informal” economy that develops under the surface. One girl raised her hand and made a pretty insightful comment, that in her opinion the informal (free-market) economy in Cuba arises in instances where it can fill the gaps left by the formal economy, which is entirely government owned. For example, every shop that has prices in convertible pesos (more or less a US dollar), gives all of its profits to the government, who then apportions salaries for the employees of that shop (which are the same as the salaries for the employees of every other shop, and every other Cuban, actually). But there are still little booths on the side of the street where people sell little snacks and homemade juices, and their prices are in Cuban pesos (25 to a convertible peso, so about 4 cents each). Technically these people are part of the informal economy, since they keep all of their profits without paying taxes to the government. But most of them also have other jobs, the profits of which do go to the government, so they still have a right to the monthly salary that the government gives all Cubans.

Anyway, I digress.

So two days after we have this discussion in class, Michael and I decide to go out on a date. There is this restaurant, El Conejito (the Little Rabbit), that is famous because it makes most of its dishes out of, you guessed it, rabbit. So we go to this restaurant, sit down, and order our food. Forty minutes pass, and although we have gotten our drinks, our food is nowhere in sight. The waiter tells us that our food will be out any second, but fifteen minutes later, still no food. He comes back and tells us that there is a problem with the gas (this is a fairly common problem in restaurants in Cuba, and even our residence has had to delay meals because there was not enough gas to cook the food), but that in less than five minutes, our dinner will be ready. Then, five minutes later, he tells us that our food isn’t coming. Thus, after an hour of waiting for a meal that will never come, we leave the restaurant and begin to search for another place to have dinner. We try another restaurant, but the hostess tells us that we can’t be seated because Michael doesn’t have on long pants (that’s another thing here, Cubans are very big on dressing well for meals, and lots of restaurants and bars have strict dress codes). So we’re starving at this point (we were starving before we got to El Conejito), and Mike takes a risk and asks a random doorman at a hotel that we pass if there’s anywhere we can get a cheap dinner. The doorman tells us to stay where we are runs inside and asks the woman behind the receptionist desk to go get something. She comes back with two bottles of soda and two ham and cheese subs wrapped in saran wrap. He takes them from her, gives them to us, takes the money we give him (a dollar each), and pockets it all.

Although it wasn’t at all the night we had planned, I loved it because it was such a perfect manifestation of the girl in class’s argument. The state-run establishment couldn’t provide its goods due to a utility shortage (the likes of which happen all the time here, and I can’t help but think it’s because the government has so many other things to worry about, e.g. operating a brewery so that Cubans can have beer), so an under-the-counter arrangement popped up to satisfy the unmet demand for dinner. Cubans have actually developed a rather brilliant form of informal economy, in my opinion. Since the government takes all of your profits and then tells you what you can have in the form of salary, there’s no such thing as taxes. Since there’s no such thing as taxes, if you can find a way to earn a little extra on the side, you get to keep all of it, since no one is monitoring your income like the tax system in the U.S. In Cuba the government ignores you once it takes what it needs from your labor, because it assumes that there is no other way for you to make money than the state-run economy. How fortunate for the Cuban families that cannot survive on only 11 dollars a month that the government is wrong in that assumption.