Cafecitos y Populares

Twice a week for many months I sat entranced, strangely soothed by the cigarette smoke swirling through the shafts of sunlight, and the silky, melodious Spanish that hung on the hot heavy air. The broken-slatted shutters and flap-down-easel chairs probably started life around the same time as he did. The blackboard had long hosted his habitual pack of dark tobacco Populares.

A startlingly handsome young man he would have been in his revolutionary days. The immaculate metallic hair and perfectly pressed brown polyester suit revealed a proud supporter of the cause, while the tiny frame hidden beneath betrayed the faithful survivor of a 40-year-long diet of rice and beans.

As he spoke of embargos and balseros, the obligatory Fidel and Che, he shared all the passion and hope of a nation. For him, no dreams of Miami, no change of career to earn the tourist dollar; his revolutionary fervour ran deep and so did the lessons he taught. I began to see his country through his eyes.

On every street, mustard-mini-skirted schoolgirls reminded me of the revolution's educational success. My rationed breakfast roll held the sacrifice of the people. Sitting out on the curb, or strolling past the shiny-torsoed domino players in the shady park, I felt the simplicity and unity of community. Waiting down a back alley for my deliciously greasy home-made pizza, I marvelled at the ingenuity of my neighbours, who used toilet rolls for hair curlers.

Yes, this was communism. Children stood in lines in public places: but here they did not chant and stamp; here they danced salsa and laughed. This was communism warped by the heat of the sun and the warmth of the people. Clearly, I became aware of the darker side of the communist coin. I looked out for party informants and resented police surveillance. But my overriding impression was sugar-laced: sugar-laced like the cafecito we sipped at the street vendor's across the road, my Cuban culture teacher still talking way after the bell had rung.