Eat little, live long
Sunday, May 13th 2007
It's hard to believe there's a place on the planet without KFC,
McDonalds and junk food. But that's Cuba, a nation of modern-day
Spartans who don't worry about dieting or obesity, writes Nazma Muller,
in the second of a five-part series.
TT$7 = 1 CUC
(Cuban convertible peso)
1 CUC = 24 pesos
(moneda nacional)
In November 2004 the Cuban government outlawed the use of the US dollar
and introduced the CUC as the main currency to be used by foreigners.
Most stores and supermarkets accept only CUC, which cannot be exchanged
outside of the country.
"Tu no quieres la bolsa?" Dalgis asked.
I didn't get the question the first time, so she repeated it. Did I want
the plastic
bag back? I had brought some fish for her in the bag, and she thought
maybe I wanted it back-save myself 50 centavos (TT 15 cents), or use it
to put garbage. Nothing is wasted in Cuba.
The fish itself was like gold. Most is exported, sold to tourists in
hotels or to expatriates. The ordinary Cuban can only get fish that is
going bad. A friend of mine had managed to buy about ten pounds of a
small but fresh variety under the counter, a la izquierda (to the left),
as the Cubans say, without irony.
I told Dalgis she could keep the bag.
"Gracias," she smiled.
Her husband, Esteban, was the neighbourhood zapatero. There was a
fósforero too, who was at a desk in his front yard from early in the
morning, repairing and refilling disposable lighters. The rubber soles
had come off my old sneakers and Esteban had stitched them back so well
(for 30 pesos-TT$9), they will probably last another five years. He and
Dalgis were campesinos, originally from provinces hundreds of miles
away, and they were grateful for their tiny flat in the capital, despite
the water shortages. The water truck had come by just a few days before,
and they had bought a few buckets.
But Dalgis and Esteban were happy in their tiny flat. The kitchen was
five feet square, with just a sink, two shelves, a cupboard and a stove.
The ancient fridge with rust spots was in the living room, along with
the rest of their furniture. There was hardly any space to walk between
the wooden rocking chairs, the glass table and four wrought-iron chairs
against the front wall, and a wooden bench with wicker seats. On a space
saver, a small coloured TV rested on an older black and white set,
covered with a doily during the day.
He came home at 2pm on the dot when he was on the day shift, ringing his
bicycle bell. A few minutes later he would appear on the landing
carrying the bike, which he parked against a wall in the small bedroom.
Then he came into the kitchen and kissed Dalgis.
Esteban worked in a factory that made laboratory equipment. In the
mornings, before sun-up, he would drop Dalgis to work on the back of his
bicycle. He usually ate lunch or dinner at the factory, and had his
other meal at home. Her food was simple but delicious-usually a
combination of yellow or white rice and beans, pork or chicken, boiled
tania, fried plantain, beets, tomato and cucumber salad, or cabbage. "Me
gusta cocinar," she said, and it showed. The day I left Cuba, she
prepared curried chicken with rice and peas, beets and salad, and a flan
so rich I almost cried.
I had come to value things like flan and three-course meals after just a
week of living on my own. (I'd moved, grudgingly, to a legal, much more
expensive casa particular on the orders of the director of the school
where I was studying Spanish.) Just doing the shopping for a week was
exhausting. The shops in Playa, one of the posher neighbourhoods in
Havana, were few and far apart. I walked everywhere since taxis started
their meters at 1 CUC for foreigners.
The closest shop, three blocks away, was small and sold just the bare
essentials. However, it was neatly divided in two-one section for food,
the other for toiletries. There was a counter on either side, with two
sales assistants each, plus a supervisor. They all stopped and looked at
what I was buying. It was clear that I was a rich foreigner to be
casually ordering a tin of tuna, a small bottle of mayonnaise, vinegar,
oil and two small packets of tangerine-flavoured biscuits. I gobbled
down both packs on the way home. My body was apparently craving sucrose
or food colouring number 5. It was bizarre; in Trinidad, with
supermarkets full of chocolates and MSG-loaded snacks, I could go for
weeks without junk food. But in Cuba, where everything was expensive and
scarce, I had a perverse, constant craving for soft drinks and Pringles.
My classmate, the son of an African diplomat, knew all the supermarkets
and stores in Playa. He was only in Cuba a few months, but already he
spoke very good Spanish, albeit with a French accent, the result of
listening for hours to reggaeton and salsa, and watching DVDs subtitled
in Spanish. There was little else to do. He attended class in the
morning then went home to listen to music or watch films. They had
cable, mostly Middle Eastern and African channels, and his father was
always watching Al-Jazeera or the BBC.
One day I was liming at the apartment and was startled to see a feature
on the Beeb about Jamaica and the other venues for the ICC Cricket World
Cup. I had completely forgotten about it. The images of higglers and
hustlers, the bustling crowds and long lines of traffic in Kingston
seemed so far away from the quiet streets outside where no one was ever
in a hurry.
My friend knew where everything was in the small air-conditioned mart
close to diplomatic residences on Calle 42. I bought powder detergent,
two packs of spaghetti, dishwashing liquid, a can of tuna, a can of
seafood, a packet of ketchup and a potato-chip snack. Total: 13 CUC
(TT$90). The snack, made in Malaysia, tasted like stale straw.
How do the Cubans do it? I wondered, as I packed away the meagre
groceries. I had spent five minutes looking at hair products in the
corner shop. In the end I couldn't bring myself to spend 5 CUC (TT$35)
on a gel, when whole families ate for a week on less.
On Sunday, I went on a shopping spree at the street feria with 5 CUC.
Everyone in the area went to the feria, market bags in hand or pulling
trolley bags. The produce there was cheaper than the state-owned market
near my apartment. It was brought in from the provinces in trucks early
in the morning. The whole street was closed off and stalls set up. A
muscular fella in a blue merino and faded garbadine pants ripped the
tops off three pineapples with his bare hands and dropped them gently
into my plastic bag. Then he smiled and winked. Nobody pushed or shoved;
they all waited patiently until their turn came.
A woman walked by with a chicken leg and thigh in her hand. The crowd
around the meat stalls was three deep. Flies buzzed around pigs' heads
on hooks and stacks of slimy chicken parts laid out on the long wooden
table. I decided to buy meat at the big, air-conditioned supermarket on
Calle 70 instead. I bought two lbs of rice for seven pesos, one lb of
red beans (4 pesos), one lb of black beans (4 pesos), 2 lbs of plantain
(5 pesos), a half lb of red peppers (5 pesos), and two pineapples (10
pesos). Total: TT$10.
After school one day, we went to the supermarket on Calle 70, the
equivalent of a mall in Playa. We checked in our bags-only wallets and
purses were allowed. Inside, the small shop selling toiletries was
packed with women. We spent ten minutes looking for bathroom cleaner in
the first two rows of washing-up liquid. Finally, we found a bottle with
a picture of a toilet and bath.
Towards the back was the deli counter. My jaw dropped; after the feria I
didn't think there were things like deli counters in Cuba. (Everyone ate
dry bread, without butter. When I bought my teacher's mother a block of
mantequilla, she exclaimed, "Que rico!" and looked at me teary-eyed.)
But lo and behold there at the deli counter were huge blocks of cheddar
and Dutch edam, even a mouldy Camembert. And the sausages! All types of
salami and chains of salchicha. I finally calmed down enough to buy a
small piece of cheddar for 3 CUC.
It was impossible to prepare a different meal every day on the portable
two-burner gas cooker. For three days I ate boiled spaghetti, mashed
potato and some kind of chicken-flavoured cousin of potted meat which I
had bought at the corner shop, thinking it was salami. I'd put it in the
tray below the freezer and left it. When I took it out, it was frozen
solid (the thermostat on the fridge had died sometime in the Sixties).
So I thought I'd thaw it out by putting it under the tap. In five
seconds the outside melted into putty, while the rest stayed rock-solid.
I sawed off a few slices and threw it in hot oil. Amazingly, the whole
mess became edible chunks of sausage after a few minutes. I closed my
eyes and ate: most Cubans couldn't afford to buy it, whatever it was.
So when my friend delivered the 10 lbs of fish, I felt bad about eating
it all. Especially after I heard the next-door neighbour muttering to
his wife about "el olor" after I had curried some and the smell had
reached the corner. I felt self-conscious about eating fish when
everyone else was having fried eggs or plantain as usual. So I packed up
the rest of the fish and took it to Dalgis. I asked her to do me a
favour and take it off my hands.
A week later, she invited me to her birthday lime. Her whole family was
crammed into the apartment. She introduced a taciturn old man as the
father of her daughter (her first husband). Only after he had eaten two
servings of lunch, two slices of cake and ice-cream did he speak. And
then, mostly to Esteban. The two were good friends, it seemed.
After bustling about serving everyone, Dalgis opened the box of Nestle
bonbons I'd given her. When she saw the bright, colourful wrappers on
the individually wrapped chocolates and sweets, her face lit up. "Aye,
que linda! Muchas gracias!" She picked out the biggest one and gave it
to me. But I shook my head, saying I didn't like sweets. So she gave it
to her granddaughter. The little girl smiled like it was Christmas Day.
She took her time eating the chocolate. When she was finished, she
licked the paper, folded it neatly and put it in her pocket.
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