New Worlds - Havana

“So tell me more about this Batista.”



They were driving west along the wondrous Malecón, Havana's seafront promenade with its high stone seawall, past the centuries-old mansions facing the sea. The setting sun bathed the gaily colored façades of arches and balconies in rose, purple and lemon, fanciful three-story palaces aglow with a glamour that refused to fade away.



“Batista has been running Cuba through puppet presidents for years,” Jack told Will as they sped along the wide curving embankment that separated the city from the bay, the grand old mansions giving way to towering hotels and modern high-rise apartments rising out of shanty-towns and slums. “Since the 30’s, really. And when the bloody bastard couldn’t find one to do his dirty work, he staged a coup and named himself dictator.”



“Batista wants to convert the Malecón, one of the most beautiful avenues in the world, into one giant, hotel zone to exploit gambling run by foreign gangsters,” Flavio added, turning around to make his point, narrowing missing several cars and a bicyclist. He answered the indignant horns blaring with his own, waving cheerfully at the passing motorists.



“I would think growth would be good for Havana,” Will said, a puzzled look on his face. “New buildings bring new jobs, right?”



“Not good,” Jack said, shaking his head. “Batista might say his goal’s to create new jobs, but he’s gone and gutted the laws like a bleeding fish, changed the rules altogether. He’s left it wide open for the crooks an’ cons running the casinos t’ bring their own dealers and croupiers from the States.” Gesturing to underline his words, Jack leaned closer to Will, eyes darkened with anger towards the corruption. ”And let me tell you, the only jobs left for the local habaneros are nothing but shitty.”



“You think for a minute these foreign gangsters are going to dedicate their fabulous earnings to build schools, open highways or raise the standard of living in the countryside?” Flavio spat out the window in disgust.



“It's all about profit,” Jack explained. “The big American companies get rich, the gangsters get richer while Batista and his cronies are busy skimming their share off the top. Everybody profits, everyone except,” Jack paused, finger raised, “the Cubans themselves. They get to suffer, while the bloody powers that be pour millions into shiny new hotels and casinos.” Jack sat back in the seat. ”Blood money,’s what it is.” Watching Will’s chin line sharpen as he clenched his teeth, Jack knew what the man was thinking. “Sound familiar?”



“Yes, too familiar.” Will frowned. “Why doesn’t someone do something about it?”



Flavio pulled over abruptly and turned around, thrusting a handful of photographs under Will’s nose. “This is what happens if one complains.” Will leafed through them in grim silence, photo after photo of bodies bloodied with bullets, young faces ripped apart by savage tortures. “Batista’s thugs protect their patch with sadistic pleasure,” Flavio told him, his voice trembling with emotion. “The time has come, la daga en el suelo. Everyone must decide what side they are on.” He pointed to the grisly photos. “Are we just to ignore the cries of our countrymen, the ones tortured and buried alive by the political police? Or the men found castrated and left by the side of the road to serve as examples?”



“Unfortunately, what Flavio here says is all true,” Jack said. “It’s become a common sight to find the poor buggers who dared to object hanging from the lamp posts come sunrise.”



Flavio regained his composure and put the photos away, glancing quickly in his mirrors before sliding back out into traffic. “The people of Cuba suffer. We are a country of beat-up schools, starving peasants, wide-spread poverty and massive unemployment. Here in Havana, prostitution and poverty is epidemic. And in the countryside, the peasants are suffering as well. Many of them are living in huts with thatched roofs and dirt floors. They have no running water, no refrigeration, no bathrooms, nothing but rice and beans to eat. And what does Batista do? He gives the gangsters millions in government funds for hotel construction.”



Flavio suddenly swerved into a side street. “But why not show you first-hand what I speak of?”



“You don’t need to show me,” Will said stiffly, “I have seen this before. Too many times, in fact.”



Jack sighed, Will‘s solemn face twisting his gut. “History does have an ugly way of repeating itself.” Seeking Will’s hand into his own, Jack soothed the helplessness they both felt, with the familiarity of each other’s touch. The scenery changed in silence.



Up ahead, the palatial Hotel Nacional de Cuba came into view. Sitting on a bluff across from the Malecón, it was an impressive and imposing sight. Its two high towers, ten stories apiece, could be seen at a distance all over the city, and, in turn, the hotel offered spectacular views of the ocean and harbour, along with almost all of Havana. Elegant and luxurious in the classic style, it was "the" place to be inHavana. It was frequented by film legends like Frank Sinatra, Errol Flynn, Clark Gable, and Ava Gardner, along with hoards of tourists from America, who flooded the hotel's spacious reception areas, dining rooms and gardens.



The long drive approaching the hotel was lined with stately palm trees, flanked by a succession of tennis courts leading down to the left. The sound of splashing and laughter came wafting up from the poolside, beyond which elegantly coffered guests strolled on manicured lawns under mature trees. Expensive, shiny new cars crowded the lavish entrance. Inside the Nacional’s magnificent tiled and vaulted lobby they could see waiters rushing back and forth with silver trays of drinks.



The contrast with the surrounding area could not have been more marked. In the two blocks they’d traveled since turning off the Malecón, Will had seen barefoot tattered-clothed children playing in the street among litter and dirt, dodging between rusting derelict cars. But here there was unembarrassed indulgence. Red carpets and uniformed commissioners waited to ease the paths of the rich American tourists.



Remembering the ragged children on the streets and roadside vendors peddling cheap food, Will’s thoughts flashed back to his own childhood in England, as the uniformed attendant opened the cab door. Will didn’t need to be shown. He knew first-hand, what sort of society could accommodate such grandiose luxury and abject poverty in such close proximity.



He had grown up in one.