In December 2003, I planned to take a city tour of Havana in order to see how
the guide’s scripted narration and the places visited would portray life in the Cuban
capital. When I was beckoned one afternoon in the Hotel Habana Libre by a Cubatur
guide rounding up tourists for a three-hour tour by minivan, I seized the opportunity. If
tourism is a performance of cultural authenticity (MacCannell, 1999 [1976]), I reasoned
that this tour could shed light on the way that Cuba is performing ‘the island nation’ and
its capital for the benefit of foreign visitors. More broadly, it could offer a view of how
Cuba is refashioning itself for tourism development – and, as a consequence, for its own
citizens (see Hern ández, 2003; Prieto, 2004). All that was on my mind as I settled into the
van with about fifteen fellow travellers from Belgium, Malta and Mexico. The guide told
us that he would use English and Spanish, although English was the common currency
of the group. He promised to take us to Revolution Square, the Capitol building, and
‘Colonial Town’ (i.e. Old Havana). As it was raining, we actually covered much more
of the city, infrequently leaving the van, while he kept up a steady monologue.
As we departed from the Habana Libre, our guide, whom I’ll call Francisco, noted
the symbolic importance of the hotel, as the new revolutionary government nationalised
the Havana Hilton and gave it a new name: Free (or Liberated) Havana. Driving
down well-known La Rampa, a street frequented by many tourists, he told us we
would first see the more modern Havana. On our way along the Malec ón, the city’s
emblematic seaside drive, he pointed out the Hotel Nacional and the US Interests Section
as two more emblems – the stately Cuban landmark and the hostile North American
presence. Teasing us in the manner typical of tour guides everywhere, he cracked jokes
that gradually became more politically risky, though they may have been carefully
scripted.
We drove on to the exclusive district of Miramar, the more recently built suburban
area known for its many embassies, large hotels and aspirations to become Cuba’s
equivalent of the Riviera. We were given the ‘inside story’ on a hotel built by drug
money and told that the broad and opulent Fifth Avenue in this part of the city was
built by an elite who wanted an area like the street of the same name in New York
City. Francisco pointed out a number of embassies and playfully alluded to social
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Florence E. Babb
class differences, keeping us guessing about his own. This sub-text of references to
inequality and social difference, without giving the issues too much importance, was
present through much of the tour. There was an unspoken acknowledgment of visitors’
curiosity about how far Cuba had held to socialist principles and how far it had allowed
inequalities to develop in recent years.
Passing La Concha beach club, the Yacht club and Marina Hemingway along with
the Tourist Complex named Papa’s (after the Lost Generation writer), Francisco related
that there are separate marinas for Cubans and foreigners (an allusion to tourism
‘apartheid’). He called our attention to the Chan Chan nightclub, boasting of the
‘rhythm of Compay Segundo’, assuming universal knowledge of the Buena Vista Social
Club. We noticed a school for learning Marxist – Leninist Theory and Francisco quipped
that they practice this theory at the Marina. Telling us that Fidel was a personal friend
of his and that they often visited one another, he said with a wink that tourists were not
invited. His coy ambivalence about the presence of tourists in Cuba may have mirrored
the government’s deeper ambivalence, despite its heavy reliance on tourism.
Francisco talked about the old American cars used as taxis in Havana. Then he
smiled, saying that ‘poor’ people in this part of Havana can’t take the common bus
and must drive Mercedes. As for us, he said, we would all be required to take one of
the ‘camel’ buses ( camellos), truck-pulled train cars named for their distinctive shape.
Although he was not a ‘dictator’, he wanted each of us to choose to ride a pink, blue, or
red one – adding that red ones were for Communists. ‘Who wants to ride a red one?’ he
teased, and a man in the front of the van said quickly that he did not care to do so. The
tourists’ nervous disapproval of Cuba – or at least a performance of disapproval – was
clear, even as they eagerly consumed what its capital city had to offer. It appeared that
socialism offered a backdrop and local colour to be contemplated for its aesthetics,
from a safe distance.
When we passed a row of distinctly impoverished shacks, Francisco informed us that
these were the homes of ‘other ambassadors’. Was he reflecting a socialist principle of
egalitarian self-worth, calling attention to the presence of poverty despite official reports
of its absence, or mocking the residents? Or perhaps just smoothing over the evident
disparities in wealth? From there, we drove to Revolution Square and got out to admire
and take photos of the tall obelisk of Cuban marble, the Martí statue and tribunal where
(until recently) Fidel Castro made his speeches, the Communist Party headquarters and
the likeness of Che. Our guide joked again that ‘Fidel’ was not receiving tourists. His
intimate tone, allowing us to share in his affectionate, if occasionally cynical, view of
the city, had the effect of drawing in our group and conveying a sense that we were
getting an inside story.
In Central Havana, we stopped at the Capitol building, now housing museums and
an Internet café. When some of us got out to take pictures, we found photographers with
apparently ancient cameras on tripods ready to snap our pictures on the Capitol steps; the
instant photos they take evoke the nostalgic illusion of a time gone by. I was approached
by an aggressive cluster of men selling Che coins and the official newspaper Granma,
and vendors of popular hand-wrapped paper cones of peanuts. Then on we went,
looking out on Central Park, the Floridita bar, the old Bacardí building, the Museum
of Fine Arts, and the Museum of the Revolution, as well as remnants of the old city
wall.
We drove on to Havana’s Bay and Old Havana, leaving the minivan to walk around
the Plaza de Armas. Francisco provided a short history of the city and its oldest
fortress, which carries the symbol (La Giraldilla) now found on the label of Havana
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Che, Chevys, and Hemingway’s Daiquiris
Club rum. This provided a useful segue as we were ushered into the Café de Cuba, an
espresso café and shop selling Cuban rum, cigars, and coffee. He introduced us to the
classes of cigars, noting that Arnold Schwarzenegger, like Fidel, bought the best ones,
Cohibas – clearly, men of good taste, whether capitalist or socialist. While a couple
of us ordered espresso and others waited around, Francisco admonished us for being
poor consumers. He seemed motivated to encourage sales, whether or not he benefited
directly from purchases made in the shop. By this time, it was clear that shopping and
leaving tips for the guide were expected, if not required.
As we walked through historic areas of the city, Francisco asked us to admire the
Plaza de la Catedral as well as the newly refurbished hotels, restaurants and Hemingway
sites, including the Hotel Ambos Mundos, where I happened to be staying. What we did
not hear about was what urban geographer Joseph Scarpaci describes as the removal
of many local residents to marginal areas of the city in order to turn Old Havana into
a space for an uncluttered tourist gaze. Running counter to the government’s earlier
policy of favouring the grassroots over elite culture, ‘Socialist planning in the old city
has gone from an antiurban bias, rejecting a capitalist past, to one seemingly unable to
commodify the colonial city quickly enough’ (Scarpaci, 2005: 205).
As the rest of the group headed over to the Palacio de Artesanía, another shopping
venue, I said my goodbyes. Thus ended, for me, an excursion into today’s Havana
as packaged for tourism: a gateway to Cuba, constructed as an ‘authentic’, safe and
vibrant place that is at once proud of its history and culture and good-humoured about
its apparent social contradictions. Tensions are minimised to set travellers at ease and
encourage them to consume the pleasures of the island. The ambivalence about the
present is evident, but any cynicism stays within bounds – ‘Communism’ is thus made
safe for tourism by means of a calculated strategy for enhancing economic development
and refashioning the capital city and the state.