In Cuba, life is finding work and making do

It was midnight when we finally arrived in Havana this past March, not sure what to expect. Two journalists, my partner and I had come to Cuba to see what life is like for the average person now, half a century after Fidel Castro's communist revolution.

While thousands of Americans have been coming here illegally through Mexico, Canada or the Bahamas, we joined a stream (more than 47,000 in 2008) who received special licenses from the U.S. government to go to Cuba despite the restrictions imposed on the country in the aftermath of the revolution.

We traveled light — staying in the homes of ordinary Cubans who pay heavy taxes to be in a highly regulated government program to house foreign visitors. And we counted our money carefully, because credit cards are not really an option for Americans, and banks can close for hours at a moment's notice.

In the city, we joined rivers of people on the streets in a cacophony of singing and shouting, laughing and chatting. We drank coffee and ate greasy "cajitas" of pork, rice and tomatoes. In rural areas, it seemed calmer. People waved, smiled and stared. At a splendid beach, a man watched our bikes, then took us home to eat octopus and read our fortunes from shells. In a small village near a river, fishermen fed us rum and fresh fish.

What we discovered was a Cuba both charming and jarring, a nation of vast contradictions. Of splendor and decay, energy and torpor, hope and cynicism.

In the teeming capital of Havana, beautiful chunks of its architectural history are falling into ruin. Despite some restoration efforts, especially in the old part of town, the city's skeleton of intricate stone and concrete is crumbling from time and weather, neglect and lack of money.

Yet, the city pulsates.

The sounds of music, pirated television and the banter of multigenerational families pour out from balconies and windows. At dusk, the drumming and singing of Afro-Cuban Santería followers spills into the street — the hypnotic beat filling the warm spring air. They dance to Yemayá, a goddess who represents life and the sea.

Across town, classic American cars cruise down Havana's narrow, crowded corridors, puffing out heavy, black fumes. At the right corners, fleets of those big cars — Cubans call them "maquinas" or machines — form a cheap alternative to government transit systems.

Here, life seems to be lived in or within view of the street, with few barriers between citizens and the curious eyes of foreigners. Some Cubans, the hustlers, take full advantage of that.

Psst! Psst! "Do you need a room?" . . . "Want to buy cigars?" . . . "Go on a horse ride?"

Others take it even further. At a dingy diner late at night, three Australian tourists — middle-aged men with faded tattoos — buy drinks for Cuban women half their age. The girls accept.

Across the street, on the fabled Malecón, lovers canoodle.

There is very little advertising. Only billboards reminding people of the revolution and its many "victories" for the nation. Still, the economy is fragile. People seem to rely on an informal mix of bartering, part-time jobs and making a few pesos off the tourists to provide for their families.

Cubans boast that literacy rates are high, and that college and health care are free and housing is nearly so.

But shortages, breakdowns, blackouts and long lines are common. The wife of one foreigner living in Havana complained potatoes were not available for three months.

Yet while people sometimes go without, no one starves.

The country is also secure. Unlike Mexico or many Central American countries, drugs are not ravaging the land; it feels safe to stroll the streets, even at night.

In March, Cubans were eager to hear about the new American president. Many asked if he would lift the restrictions, saying that could help them earn more money.

President Obama did open the door, lifting the limits on both how much money Cuban-Americans can send home and how often they can visit.

Will more change come? Who knows?

Castro has survived American sanctions, Soviet abandonment and more. But time is something he cannot escape. When he and his brother are gone, Cubans will face the task of setting the course for the next 50 years.

One thing seems certain: their resilience and resourcefulness will abide.

Erika Schultz is a Seattle Times staff photographer.