Hybrid networks and urban spaces in post-socialist Cuba

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HYBRID NETWORKS AND URBAN SPACES
IN POST-SOCIALIST CUBA

by

Erica Michelle Angert

A Dissertation Presented to the
FACULTY OF THE GRADUATE SCHOOL
UNIVERSITY OF SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA
In Partial Fulfillment of the
Requirements for the Degree
DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY
(ANTHROPOLOGY)

December 2006

Copyright 2006 Erica Michelle Angert

ii
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I'd like to thank the residents of Solar Madrid and in particular the members
of the Baro family and their network of friends, religious practitioners, and
acquaintances. They tolerated my continuous presence in their home and endless
questions for over a year and a half and continue to welcome me to Havana. In order
to protect their identities, their names and the name of the solar have been changed
in this dissertation. I'd also like to thank the Fundación Fernando Ortiz for their
logistical support and research guidance during my stay in Cuba and in particular,
the foundation's president, Miguel Barnet Lanza, vice presidents Trinidad Pérez
Valdés and María Teresa Linares Savio, and one of it's lead researchers, Jesús
Guanche Pérez. This dissertation, however, does not necessarily reflect the goals or
projects of the Foundation. Thanks to my dissertation committee at the University of
Southern California for their wisdom and emotional encouragement. Without the
support, editorial expertise, and historical perspective of Adrián López Denis, this
project would not be complete. Thanks to Cecilia and Oliver for dealing with my
frustrations and chaos.

iii
TABLE OF CONTENTS

Acknowledgments ii

List of Tables iv

List of Figures v

Abstract xi

Chapter 1: Introduction 1

Chapter 2: Wrecking Balls 43

Chapter 3: Solar Systems 94

Chapter 4: Healing Contexts 165

Chapter 5: Affirmative Actions 215

Chapter 6: Party Politics 279

Chapter 7: Conclusion 394

Glossary 402

References 407

Appendix 441

iv
LIST OF TABLES

Table 1: Popular Councils in Centro Habana, circa 2000 6
(Compiled by the author)

Table 2: Monthly Income in Havana, Cuba in March-April, 2002 27
(reproduced from Mesa-Lago, 2002b: 5)
v
LIST OF FIGURES

Figure 1: Cuba and the Greater Caribbean Region (Map Courtesy of about.com) 3

Figure 2: Cuba and Havana 4
(Photograph courtesy of NASA, modified by the author)

Figure 3: Centro Habana and surrounding municipalities 5
(Photograph courtesy of NASA, modified by the author)

Figure 4: Municipality of Centro Habana and its five popular Councils 7
(Modified from previous image)

Figure 5: Socioeconomic Hybridization in Contemporary Cuba 30

Figure 6: Socioeconomic Hybridization in Cuban Society Pre and Post 1990 33

Figure 7: Entrance to the Solar 98

Figure 8: Layout of Solar Madrid and its 16 Apartments 99

Figure 9: Central Courtyard of the Solar 100

Figure 10: Water Tanks 100

Figure 11: Barbacoa, 2
nd
Floor of Apartment 100

Figure 12: A Solar in Havana in 1914 (photo reproduced from 105
Enrique Núñez' Vivienda de Pobres en la Habana)

Figure 13: A Solar on San Lázaro Avenue in Cayo Hueso in 1914 107
(photo reproduced from Enrique Núñez' Vivienda
de Pobres en la Habana)

Figure 14: Imelda 124

Figure 15: Imelda Baro's Family Genogram 127

Figure 16: The Baro Family Genogram and Layout of Solar Madrid 128

Figure 17: Imelda's Home, Apartment #15 130

Figure 18: Zaira's Home, Apartment #4 131
vi

Figure 19: Danya's Home, Apartment #5 132

Figure 20: Manuel's Home, Apartment #16 133

Figure 21: Imelda sells peanuts at a weekly outdoor concert a few 135
blocks from the solar

Figure 22: Imelda, surrounded by grandchildren, neighbors, 136
and her plants

Figure 23: Zaira cooks dinner in her apartment 139

Figure 24: Apartment #1 in 1999 145

Figure 25: Apartment #1 in 2006 145

Figure 26: A short wall divides the bathroom and the kitchen area 146
near the front entrance. Imelda cooks while La Prieta dances.

Figure 27: Close-up of new bathroom added to Imelda's apartment in 2001 147

Figure 28: Crawling to the Church of St. Lazarus on December 16 181

Figure 29: General Structure of the National Health System 193

Figure 30: La Prieta performs an offering for Oshun 219

Figure 31: Altar prepared for spiritist ceremony 220

Figure 32: Dancer Sergio Larrinaga Morejón dressed as Oggun 224

Figure 33: Dancer Yaumara Oviedo González dressed as Oshun 224

Figure 34: La Prieta in front of her altar for Oshun, January 2002 228

Figure 35: Marcos and Jazmin at boarding school in Melena del Sur 258

Figure 36: Items received during a Mano de Arula ceremony. 261
Three cement and stone Eleggua statues sitting in clay bowls form
the front row. The "warriors" are behind Eleggua. These include
two bowls containing Oggun's iron tools and Ochosi's bow and
arrow in the middle, and five Osun statues in the back row.

vii
Figure 37: Mercedes explains the significance of rumba music and 282
traditional popular culture in Cayo Hueso to a television crew.

Figure 38: Calixto Callava (Music Composer) 283

Figure 39: Zaira (wearing a light tank top) talks to Mercedes while Clave 284
y Guaguancó members dance and play a Columbia rhythm, one of
three types of rumba beats

Figure 40: Interviewer for the TV film crew (far left) dances and 289
claps behind the camera while the musical group Clave y
Guaguancó plays a song dedicated to Calixto Callava

Figure 41: While watching Clave y Guaguancó musicians, film producer 290
(far right) chats with member of the Baro family

Figure 42: Clave y Guaguancó musicians, dressed in brand name attire 293

Figure 43: Clave y Guaguancó dancers and musicians performing 294
a guaguancó rhythm for the TV crew

Figure 44: Mercedes addresses the crowd and film crew, establishing 295
the rules of the columbia style rumba dance

Figure 45: The rumba continues inside Zaira's apartment. Local 299
musician Santiago (far right) plays with some of the musicians
from Clave y Guaguancó and others from the neighborhood.

Figure 46: After spouting rum over the crowd, Zaira (and La Prieta 299
behind her) dance

Figure 47: Singer Fariñas and four drummers with cajones, or 301
improvised box drums, begin a rumba song.

Figure 48: After one song, a small crowd gathers around the musicians 302
and one drummer (center right) shifts out and is replaced by another.

Figure 49: Zaira, Imelda, La Prieta, and Valeria (left to right) gather 302
around the musicians and sing the chorus. Imelda collects
plastic cups.

Figure 50: Imelda's daughter Catarina and grandaughter Ynez sing the 303
chorus (right to left)

viii
Figure 51: La Prieta pours rum for the guests 303

Figure 52: Yoruba Andabo playing at the Hotel Nacional 316

Figure 53: Las Vegas Nightclub 318

Figure 54: Yoruba Andabo on stage inside Las Vegas nightclub 319

Figure 55: Chan 319

Figure 56: Giovanni 319

Figure 57: Chappottín 320

Figure 58: Marino 320

Figure 59: Zaira throws a coin outside the window of the boat taxi and 321
prays to Yemaya for a safe journey across the harbor.

Figure 60: Disembarking from the boat taxi upon arrival in Regla 321

Figure 61: Zaira prays to Yemaya in front of the statue of Our Lady of Regla 322

Figure 62: Left to right: Chan, Zaira, granddaughter of Chan and Carmen, 324
Carmen. Zaira plans the cajon for Callava with Chan and Carmen.

Figure 63: Zaira buys white lilies in front of the Catholic Church of 326
"Nuestra Señora del Carmen"

Figure 64: Zaira offers white flowers to Oshun/La Caridad del Cobre 326
(Our Lady of Charity)

Figure 65: Zaira arranges an altar for the misa espiritual for Calixto Callava, 328
which took place two days before the cajon

Figure 66: Close-up of the altar for the misa for Callava 328

Figure 67: Photo of Calixto Callava given to Zaira by Chan and Carmen 329

Figure 68: Film crew captures Zaira, La Prieta, and Chano buying meat 331
at the market

Figure 69: Zaira buys taro root for the caldosa (soup) 332

ix
Figure 70: Altar for Callava on the day of the cajon 334

Figure 71: The Obbá arranges the altar for Calixto Callava 336

Figure 72: Chan, the Obbá, and the spiritist wash the rooster 336
before its sacrifice

Figure 73: The Obbá sprinkles the rooster's blood and feathers 337
on the altar to Callava

Figure 74: Zaira sits next to the spirit altar while the band plays 338
several songs for Callava

Figure 75: Guests peering through Zaira's metal grated window into 339
her living room to watch Yoruba Andabo sing to the spirit altar

Figure 76: Yoruba Andabo plays rumba music in the patio of 341
Solar Madrid

Figure 77: Zaira dances with Fariñas, a prominent rumba vocalist, 344
in the center of the solar 'stage'

Figure 78: Juan de Dios, a dancer from the National Folkloric Company, 344
dances with a young professional dancer from Yoruba Andabo

Figure 79: Eloy Machado, creator of Sabado de la Rumba 345
(Rumba Saturday), a weekly rumba performance at a
cultural center in Havana, dances solo

Figure 80: Pancho Quinto, wearing a tour shirt that features himself, 345
sings and dances with Yoruba Andabo

Figure 81: Yoruba Andabo plays one final song in front 348
of the altar to Callava

Figure 82: One of Imelda's children, Benicia, distributes boxes 349
of food to the guests

Figure 83: "El Trono": The throne or altar to the orisha Chango for 354
Mateo's first cumpleaños de santo

Figure 84: A van from the Ministry of Culture brings the bands' equipment 355
to Solar Madrid

x
Figure 85: Zaira helps bring the band's equipment into the solar 356

Figure 86: The band Michel Maza y Su Tentación sing in the patio of 357
Solar Madrid for Mateo's first cumpleaños de santo

Figure 87: Nearly 200 guests crowded inside the patio of Solar 358
Madrid to hear Michel Maza y Su Tentación

Figure 88: Michel Maza invites La Prieta to the microphone to 358
address the guests

Figure 89: Mateo, in front of his altar to the orisha Chango, 360
celebrating his cumpleaños de santo, one year after his
hacer santo ceremony

Figure 90: Imelda Baro's grandchildren are networked enough to 371
draw nearly 200 nicely dressed guests to Mateo's
cumpleaños de santo

Figure 91: Michel Maza (center of photo with microphone) 375
sings about los barrios marginales in Solar Madrid

Figure 92: Zaira in her room arranging flowers for her spirit altar, 387
which is in the top right corner of the photo (7 glasses of water,
one with a crucifix, and flower offerings)

xi
ABSTRACT

In this dissertation I argue that the profound crisis known as the "Special
Period" faced by the Cuban socialist state upon the disintegration of the Soviet
Union created a series of unexpected opportunities for upward mobility among
traditionally marginalized sectors of its urban population. Making a very efficient
use of traditional practices and survival networks, members of these popular sectors
were able to take full advantage of such opportunities. Their aggregated efforts were
the engine behind the relative recovery of Cuban economic, social, and cultural life
in the aftermath of the crisis. Now, the government is too weak to control the entire
spectrum of socioeconomic life, but nonetheless remains strong enough to partially
shield Cuban society from the influences of global capitalism. As a result, a new
form of social organization is emerging. Cubans are creating a popular economy
using a combination of strategies developed among previously marginalized
communities in Havana, but eventually embraced and even legalized by many
sectors of mainstream society. These include cooptation, translation, appropriation,
and ultimate transformation of official policies, symbols, and discourses. Together,
these parallel currents of cultural, socioeconomic, and political renovation amount to
what could be considered the most radical social change in Cuba since the
Revolution of 1959.
Fieldwork for this study was carried out among residents of a particular kind
of low-income tenement known as a solar in the barrio of Cayo Hueso. The
xii
ambiguous role of the solar in Cuban cultural and political imaginaries provides a
window into larger social issues, while the daily practices of its primarily Afro-
Cuban inhabitants illuminates the creative potential of informal networks operating
from within previously marginalized and impoverished communities. The individual
chapters examine extended forms of kinship and the architectural logic of a solar, the
complex synergy between public health and private healing, educational pathways
available for young solar residents, the complementary role of formal and informal
mechanisms of social control, and Santeria religious celebrations designed to
improve the connections between living and deceased family members, providing
further evidence of the ontological value and political significance of social networks
and their hybridization.
1
CHAPTER 1: INTRODUCTION

This is a study about the daily life of the urban poor in contemporary Havana,
Cuba. I begin by exploring the theoretical and methodological implications of
several models social scientists have used to understand poverty in other geopolitical
contexts. Because urban marginality and socioeconomic informality are two of the
major categories involved in the articulation of these models, I devote the first half of
this introduction to clarifying their intellectual genealogy.
1
After mapping this
conceptual territory, I discuss the multiple implications of placing contemporary
Havana within its coordinates. Before getting to the heart of the problem, however,
it is important to understand where the extended family at the center of my study
falls within the larger picture of Cuban society in general and Havana in particular.
The Republic of Cuba is an archipelago consisting of the island of Cuba, the
Isle of Youth, and several other small islands or keys. The largest insular territory in
the Caribbean (110,860 km
2
), Cuba is also the most populated with 11,369,670
inhabitants (July 2005 estimate). One of the lowest birth rates in the region (12.03
births per 1,000 inhabitants) combined with one of the highest life expectancies
(77.23 years), results in a population that is aging fast but growing slowly. Less than
20% of the people are 14 years old or younger, and the median age (35.36 years) is
among the highest in Latin America. Its infant mortality (6.33 deaths per 1,000 life
births) is the lowest in the region, while its literacy rate (97%) ranks among the
highest. Other basic health and education indicators, as reported by the government,
2
are equivalent to those of most developed countries.
2
In purely economic terms,
however, the nation is not doing as well. Although inconsistencies in the local use of
international standards make all comparisons very difficult, it is safe to assume that
the island is one of the five countries with the lowest level of gross domestic product
(GDP) per capita in Latin America. Other economic indicators, like trade balances,
external debt per capita, or real salaries place Cuba squarely among the poorest
nations in the region.
3
Given the apparent lack of correlation between social and
economic indicators, the best way to understand the relative position of the nation is
perhaps to use the Human Development Index compiled by the United Nations.
According to this index, Cuba ranked seventh among 32 Latin American and
Caribbean countries in 2005.
4

3

Cuba

Figure 1: Cuba and the Greater Caribbean Region (Map Courtesy of about.com)
Ciudad de La Habana, the capital of Cuba, is also the smallest and most
populated of the nation’s fourteen provinces. Encompassing the city of Havana
proper and its vast suburbs, the metropolis has an area of 721.01 km
2
and it is the
permanent home of 2,196,472 people, for a population density of 3,046.4 inhabitants
per km
2
(July 2004 estimates). With a median age of 37.4 years, Havana is aging
faster than the rest of Cuba. The city has the lowest birth rate (9.5 births per 1,000
inhabitants) and the lowest life expectancy (75.9 years) on the island. For decades,
Havana used to receive many immigrants from the Cuban countryside, but severe
government restrictions have curbed this influx, while emigration out of city (mainly
4
to other countries) has soared in recent years. As a net result of these migratory
exchanges, Havana is losing an average of 10,000 people every year (approximately
4.5 per 1,000 inhabitants). Because of its low birth rates, the city is unable to fully
compensate for this migratory drain, so its general population is shrinking by an
average of 5,000 people every year.
5

Figure 2: Cuba and Havana
(Photograph courtesy of NASA, modified by the author)

5
The province of Ciudad de La Habana is divided into fifteen municipalities.
Sandwiched between the administrative core of the city (Plaza de la Revolución),
and its historic center (Havana Vieja), the municipality of Centro Habana (Figure 3)
is the smallest (3.39 km
2
) and most densely populated (47,137 inhabitants per km
2
)
of the metropolitan area. Centro Habana is a conglomerate of working class
neighborhoods full of old and dilapidated buildings but lacking the touristy aura
conferred to Old Havana by its monumental examples of colonial public
architecture. As a result, the municipality has been mostly excluded from recent
waves of massive investment devoted to the restoration of the historic center of the
city.

Diez de
Octubre
Guanabacoa
San Miguel
Habana
del Este
Regla
Centro
Habana
Habana
Vieja
Plaza de la
Revolución
Cerro
Figure 3: Centro Habana and surrounding municipalities
(Photograph courtesy of NASA, modified by the author)
6
Centro Habana is divided into five administrative units known as Consejos
Populares (Popular Councils). These subdivisions can be roughly identified with
traditional barrios and their names can be traced back to popular denominations in
use for at least a century (Figure 4). Among them, Cayo Hueso is the most
populated and one of the largest (Table 1).
6
At the beginning of the twentieth
century, Cuban cigar workers returning from their exile in Tampa and Key West
conferred a distinctive identity to this neighborhood. Among those workers, Key
West was referred to as Cayo Hueso, after the original Spanish name of the island.
Their barrio in Havana inherited the name and its early history was marked by the
solidarity prevalent among Cuban cigar rollers. Today, Cayo Hueso is well-known
as a major powerhouse of popular urban culture in Havana.
Population

Density
Popular Council

Area km2
Inhabitants Families 1000
inhabitants
per km
2

1000
families
per km
2
Cayo Hueso 0.81 34,410 7,480 43.0 9.4
Dragones 0.50 33,139 8,330 66.3 16.7
Colón 0.51 26,000 5,440 51.0 10.7
Pueblo Nuevo 0.90 30,360 7,140 33.7 7.9
Los Sitios 0.68 31,452 7,990 46.3 11.8

Total 3.39155,3613638045.8 10.7
Table 1: Popular Councils in Centro Habana, circa 2000
(Compiled by the author)
7

Cayo Hueso
Dragones
Colón
Pueblo
Nuevo
Los Sitios
Figure 4: Centro Habana municipality and its five popular Councils
(Modified from previous image)

I lived in Cayo Hueso for a year (May, 1999 - June, 2000) and carried out my
fieldwork among the residents of a particular kind of low-income tenement known as
ciudadela or solar. Developed since the nineteenth century as a solution to chronic
housing shortages, these tenements usually consist of 10-60 units surrounding a
central courtyard, with one passageway leading to the street. In Cuba, solares have
an ambiguous reputation. On the one hand, they have been associated with
8
stereotypes of architectural improvisation, physical chaos, and urban anarchy while
the behavior of its tenants has been linked to equally stereotypical traits like mental
disorders, domestic violence, and sexual promiscuity (Chailloux 1945). At the same
time, solares have enjoyed a solid reputation as cradles of cultural creativity and
reservoirs of sociopolitical energy.
7
This dissertation explores some of the myths
and realities surrounding the Cuban solar through a close reading of the relevant
literature, framed by my own personal experiences in the field. At the core of this
research is the notion that the ambiguous role of the solar in Cuban cultural and
political imaginaries provides a window into larger social issues, while the daily
practices of its inhabitants illuminates the creative potential of informal hybrid
networks operating from within formally marginalized communities.
Understanding urban marginality is rather difficult, because the term has been
liberally used by psychologists, sociologists, geographers, political scientists,
historians, economists, and anthropologists to describe an expanding range of
phenomena. Rather than attempting to navigate chronologically through this
labyrinth of references, I will limit my efforts to outlining a series of larger
transformations in the study of socioeconomic and cultural marginality in Latin
America that took place during the last five decades. At the 2003 meeting of the
Latin American Studies Association a handful of influential scholars directly
involved in this process discussed the evolution of marginality studies in the region.
My own view of the topic follows their treatment of the material very closely.
8

9
After World War II until the end of the 1960s, marginality was understood
either as a form of social deviance hindering capitalist development, as a
manifestation of structural problems inherent to capitalism, or as a perverse
articulation of socioeconomic and cultural forces that reinforce themselves through
vicious cycles of disempowerment. Some scholars, inspired by modernization
theory, argued that the growing number of unemployed individuals crammed into the
poorest barrios of Latin American cities were mostly rural immigrants, and as such
belonged to the “traditional” sector of society. Their exclusion was only temporary
and they would be integrated as soon as the capitalist modernization process was
completed (Germani 1968).
During the 1960s, the paradigm of modernization was losing ground while
dependency theory emerged as a master explanation of Latin American
underdevelopment. In the Marxist tradition, the urban poor came to be described in
their relation to capital as a “marginal mass” (Nun 1969), as an industrial reserve
army (Cardoso 1970), or as a “marginal pole” (Quijano 1973) separated from but
articulated to the rest of the society. Their exclusion was structural rather than
transitory, because their existence was understood as a surplus of capitalist activity
that in turn contributed to the stability of the whole system. Marginal individuals
were occasional providers of cheap labor or consumers of otherwise unmarketable
low-end goods and services. In political terms they were dismissed as a reactionary
force (described sometimes under the Marxist label lumpenproletariat) or embraced
as a “wretched” and desperate mass full of revolutionary potential (Fanon 1963).
10
While Marxist scholars tended to maximize the role of socioeconomic
variables in their structural explanation of the causes and consequences of
marginality, other experts were committed to demonstrate that the attitudes and
behavior of the poor were in themselves part of the problem. The influential Center
for Social Development of Latin America (DESAL) promoted a dualistic view
consistent with that of the followers of modernization theory (1969). From this point
of view, marginal individuals were immigrants uprooted from their rural
communities, unable to adjust to city life, disconnected from civic institutions, self-
segregated within the limits of their ghettos, sexually promiscuous, violent, criminal,
and easily seduced by the false promises of populists or revolutionaries.
9

Until the mid-1960s, most scholars involved in marginality studies shared
some common notions, independent of their ideological or epistemological positions.
According to them, marginal communities were a rather homogeneous conglomerate
of excluded, uneducated, and poorly organized people, who were unable to solve
their problems on their own. All solutions to marginality were expected to come
from above and outside these communities, in the form of capitalist modernization,
social engineering, welfare reform, or revolutions led by the middleclass. Willingly
or not, these scholarly opinions contributed to the consolidation of widespread myths
about the nature of poverty and the behavior of the urban poor. Social exclusion and
marginalization were in turn reinforced by public policies based upon the resulting
social stereotypes.
10

11
During the late 1960s, a series of empirical studies on poverty in Latin
American cities started to shift the scholarly focus from structural explanations and
overarching policy recipes to an analysis of the socioeconomic implications of daily
life interactions among the poor. Most of the stereotypes informing “the myth of
marginality” were questioned by a new generation of scholars who argued that poor
communities of slum dwellers were more heterogeneous, rational, modern,
organized, and socially integrated than previously assumed.
11
Their survival
strategies were based on highly articulated networks and their ability to maximize
the benefits of political patronage were remarkable. Rather than being inherently
radical, fatalistic, or easy to manipulate, these communities seemed to be
ideologically flexible enough to adapt their collective strategies to the complex
dynamics of Latin American politics. While some of the traits previously used to
characterize marginal populations fell out of fashion entirely, others were
reinterpreted in a more favorable light. For example, the idea that strong family ties
along extended kinship models were a hindrance to modernization was substituted by
a reevaluation of the importance of those ties in the formation of social networks.
12

As a result of this transformation, studies of urban poverty in the last two decades
have been marked by an emphasis on the agency of the poor, while policy
recommendations have shifted toward incorporating the communities and their
leaders at all levels, from the planning and design of the programs to their
implementation and evaluation. In general, collective actors are more respected,
12
multiple strategies are gaining space, and local solutions are considered more
important than global recipes (Turner 1967, Portes 1971).
Just as the so-called “margins” of society have been understood via their
complex relationship to “centers” of power, economic informality has been
constructed in its opposition (articulation) to formality. In the 1970s, a landmark
report on employment in Kenya published by the International Labour Office (ILO)
fueled the systematic study of this phenomenon worldwide (1972). Labels like
informal economy or informal sector have been used since then to characterize
economic activities that fall outside the regulatory, fiscal, or supportive framework
provided (imposed) by state regulations. On the other hand, some unregulated
activities that take place within a family (raising children, preparing meals, etc…)
are grouped under the umbrella term household economy and distinguished from the
informal economy by the fact that the latter involves actual monetary transactions of
good and services. On the other hand, what separates informality from outright
criminality is that the goods and services in question are themselves legal.
13

While scholars working on, or from, developing countries tend to favor terms
like informal economy or informal sector, experts dealing with similar activities in
the context of developed nations preferred the use of labels like underground or
shadow economy, and those describing the phenomenon in socialist countries refer
to it as a “second economy”. Although absolute consistency is lacking and other
synonyms abound, general usage of each term reflects expectations regarding the
actual relationship between the state and the economic actors involved. Extra-legal
13
activities are usually tolerated in developing countries because state authorities
assume that their benefits outweigh their social cost. In developed countries it is the
relatively high marginal costs of full enforcement that explains the persistence of
certain illegalities like tax evasion. Within socialism, the sheer volume and depth of
the “second economy” make its total eradication practically impossible.
14

In Latin America, the study of socioeconomic informality has flourished in
the last three decades, paralleling an extraordinary increase in the significance of the
phenomenon itself. This research has resulted in the development of several
theoretical models, empirical methodologies, and policy recommendations to address
the multiple causes and consequences of informality. Scholars working at the
Employment Program for Latin America and the Caribbean (PRELAC), based in
Chile, followed more closely the dualistic model introduced by ILO in its original
studies. Lead by Viktor Tokman, these experts proposed a model according to which
the main reasons behind the growth of the informal sector resided in the inability of
immature labor markets in peripheral societies to incorporate new workers fast
enough. As a “second best” alternative to regular employment, they considered
informality a valuable survival strategy on the part of excluded workers. While
recommending the stimulation of certain informal answers to structural
unemployment, their policy packages were nonetheless directed toward eradicating
informality in the long run.
15

Following the example of Alejandro Portes, other experts criticized the
dualistic approach of ILO/PRELAC and shifted their analytical emphasis to the
14
articulation between informal and formal economies at local, regional, and
international levels. From their point of view, informality was socially important
because it contributed to lowering the cost of formal operations. Rather than a mere
set of survival strategies used by the poor, it was a form of productive and
distributive organization that benefited both formal entrepreneurs and the state by
giving a competitive edge to those regular firms that managed to subcontract larger
amounts of labor within informal markets.
16
Despite the differences between these
approaches heralded by Tokman and Portes, both lines of thought coincided in
treating informality as a consequence of structural deficiencies inherent to the
uneven development of capitalism. From their point of view, informal workers were
victims of exclusion and/or overexploitation who would rather be employed in the
formal economy and enjoy all the benefits of a more secure and stable job.
In the early 1990s, Hernando de Soto and his followers at the Peruvian
Freedom and Democracy Institute proposed a radically different interpretation of
informality. According to them, it was an excess of regulation imposed by Latin
American states that forced many individuals to adopt informal strategies. De Soto
(1986) considered these individuals to be entrepreneurs rather than workers. Their
ambition was to operate regular businesses but arbitrary regulations and burdensome
taxes imposed an excessive cost of entry into the formal sector, creating strong
incentives for informality. From this point of view, Latin American states were
“mercantilist” entities that protected their national elites from full competition by
limiting the access of the masses to the benefits of capitalism. Reducing these
15
artificial barriers through full-fledged liberalization, while encouraging popular
entrepreneurship, would eventually improve the life of the poor and contribute to the
economic development of the region. This model became highly influential in policy
circles because it was coherent with larger neo-liberalizing trends sweeping the
continent at the time. As a result, academic debates on the connections between
informality and development became even more politicized in the 1990s. Some
opponents of the legalistic approach pioneered by de Soto claimed that it
romanticized the urban poor, while others argued that it was impossible to find a
correlation between levels of state regulation and informal activity. Critics also
suggested that government interventions limited the operations of larger firms, thus
creating the conditions under which informality was in fact profitable. Rather than
allowing the incorporation of small entrepreneurs into the formal economy,
liberalization would eliminate the incentives that made their business viable in the
first place.
17

In Latin America, the studies of socioeconomic informality and of urban
poverty have been intimately connected since the 1970s. Many scholars have
extended the methodologies and theoretical insights originally developed in one of
these areas to address the other. Nonetheless, a true synthesis across disciplines,
ideological positions, or geopolitical contexts remains problematic. In a way, the
most obvious obstacles are conceptual in nature. Informality, however central, is
only one out of many aspects in the complex universe of urban poverty. Reducing
the life of the poor to the operation of the informal economy would be as misleading
16
as understanding informality as a set of strategies embraced only by impoverished
communities.
In the 1990s, a handful of Latin American scholars, spearheaded by José Luis
Coraggio, introduced the concept of “popular economy” in an attempt to redefine the
role, limits, and relative position of all socioeconomic sectors while going beyond
the dualistic perspective implicit in the use of terms like formal and informal. As a
category, “popular economy” is eminently inclusive. According to Coraggio (1993),
its economic substrate includes all activities centered on widely defined household
units (individuals, families, communities, cooperatives) and directed toward the
trans-generational reproduction of the cultural and biological life of their members.
This reproduction is possible through the aggregation (articulation) of the work
energies and capabilities of the members into labor pools operating within and across
household units. Distinctions between income-generating labor (either within the
formal or informal economy) and other forms of non-monetized work directly
involved in the reproduction of the household units (what is usually understood as
household economy) are less relevant for an analysis centered on the articulation of
those labor pools. Besides labor, other resources are also pooled to maximize the
social and cultural reproduction of household units. These include physical capital
(in the form of housing, durable goods, tools, etc…), human capital (in the form of
individual and collective knowledge), and social capital (in the form of multiple
networks). Usually, pooling within a household unit takes the form of non-
monetized exchanges while other forms of aggregation involving several units could
17
include mercantile transactions, direct barter, reciprocal gift giving, or even pure
cooperation based on other forms of solidarity.
18

Centering the analysis of socioeconomic activities on the household units and
their multiple connections opens a new way to understand urban poverty. Rather
than distinguishing the informal production of goods and services from the work
done to raise children or maintain a home, this approach encourages the integration
of informal and household economies. Instead of insisting on a separation between
state, market, and society, the notion of popular economy operates at the interface of
all socioeconomic subsystems. Connections between households are as important as
those between the aggregated popular economy and the public economy or the
corporate capitalist economy. A significant amount of goods and services circulates
within the popular economy or flows in and out of it in the form of informal
production or mass consumption. Multiple forms of physical, human, and social
capital also circulate in, within, and out of the aggregated popular economy. Given
its heterogeneous and open nature, understanding the popular economy requires the
use of multiple research tools. In principle, many of the traditional approaches used
to conceptualize informality and urban poverty could contribute to the understanding
of some aspects of the popular economy. After all, the category itself has been
introduced as an analytical and social promise, rather than as a description of
existing phenomena. Scholars are explicitly invited to participate in the social
construction of the concept, policy makers are exhorted to promote it, and people are
encouraged to embrace it and give it a voice. Although building upon existing
18
features of the household as a socioeconomic substrate, the popular economy is, up
to a certain degree, something to be invented.
19

Having charted the genealogy of a few key concepts that are essential to the
production of a theoretical framework for my dissertation, I would like to discuss the
extent to which these categories, methodologies, or analytical models can be used to
understand the inner workings of urban poverty in contemporary Havana. Most of
the concepts reviewed in previous pages were developed to explain or describe
phenomena squarely placed within the geopolitical boundaries of capitalism. In fact,
the structural features essential to the characterization of the capitalist mode of
production play a central role in the articulation of almost every analytical category
mentioned in this introduction. Deploying these concepts in contemporary Cuba
requires a redefinition of the socialist status of the island and/or a bit of tinkering
with the concepts themselves. In the following pages I plan to do both.
The history of Cuba is commonly understood as a series of successive
transformations, but it could also be described as a telescopic arrangement of open-
ended or inconclusive historical processes. In a nutshell, these include five hundred
years of colonialism starting in the 1500s, a century of formal independence
inaugurated in the 1900s, forty years of real socialism since the 1960s, and almost
two decades of its virtual collapse after the fall of the Berlin Wall. Because none of
these processes has “ended” in any meaningful way, Cuba is today a palimpsest of
(post)colonial and (post)socialist realities. Simultaneously, the island has been
located within several geopolitical spheres of influence. Cuba has been connected to
19
Spain since the sixteenth century, to the United States since the beginning of the
nineteenth, and to various incarnations of Russia and its ideological satellites (Soviet
or otherwise) since the peak of the Cold War. The island has been destination,
temporary station, or even hub in a series of ongoing migratory movements that have
altered and continue to alter the demographic and cultural landscape of Africa,
Europe, and the Americas. Although the nature of all these transatlantic links has
changed in kind (from the socioeconomic to the political, and back) and in content
(from the material to the symbolic, and back) none has been really severed. Each of
these historical incorporations, nonetheless, has been officially inaugurated through
the staging of ritual severances and imagined as a radical substitution. As a result,
discoveries, abolitions, independences, eradications, and revolutions abound in the
formal chronologies of Cuban history. While accepting these narratives uncritically
is perhaps a bad idea, dismissing them entirely is also problematic. Socioeconomic,
political, and cultural transformations have in fact resulted in highly visible displays
of historical discontinuity. Addressing them along less apparent but very significant
permanencies requires an epistemic compromise. In the Cuban context, cultural
change seems to operate through a combination of reproductions and substitutions.
In the 1940s, Fernando Ortiz proposed one of the earliest formulations of this
principle when he said that “the real history of Cuba is the history of its intermeshed
transculturations” (Ortiz [1947] 1995: 98).
20
He had coined the neologism as a
“more fitting” alternative to acculturation, the label favored by Anglo-American
scholars to describe the process through which the culture of a dominated group is
20
substituted by that of a dominant group, resulting in the eventual assimilation of the
dominated culture into the dominant one. Ortiz states:
I am of the opinion that the word transculturation better expresses the
different phases of the process of transition from one culture to another
because this does not consist merely in acquiring another culture, which is
what the English word acculturation really implies, but the process also
necessarily involves the loss or uprooting of a previous culture, which could
be described as a deculturation. In addition it carries the idea of the
consequent creation of new cultural phenomena, which could be called
neoculturation. (Ortiz [1947] 1995: 102-103)

Although Ortiz recognized that many cultural contacts involved significant
asymmetries, his model of transculturation suggested that mutual influences between
the cultures involved were possible even in the presence of high-powered
differentials. Still framed by dualistic notions of cultural destruction and creation,
the term would ultimately emerge as a metaphor for reproduction through cross-
fertilization.
21

In the 1990s, transculturation was reintroduced into the vocabulary of
anthropology and cultural studies, alongside a dozen other terms invoked to explain
cultural exchanges as mixture.
22
Among those categories, hybridization has become
particularly fashionable across several geopolitical and disciplinary practices.
Making sense of this proliferation is particularly difficult because the study of
hybridization is emerging as a hybrid enterprise in itself. According to Kraniauskas
(2000: 116), the works of subaltern scholars Homi Bhabha and Néstor García
Canclini are representative of two major complementary directions taken by the
field. Bhabha (1994) has directed his attention toward a psychoanalytic and literary
critique of essentialisms implicit in most (post)colonial and (post)modern
21
chronologies. In contrast, García Canclini (1989) approached hybridization from a
socio-anthropological perspective grounded in Latin American experiences. For
Canclini, the multiple connections between high, popular, and mass culture are better
understood as a process involving historical and social forms of hybridization. In
Latin America, the reproduction of tradition as folklore is in itself a modernizing
strategy involving heterogeneous displays of historical temporality (García Canclini
1993). Between the extremes of total assimilation and absolute difference (between
that is, "melting pots" and "multicultural utopias"), hybrid cultures, societies, and
histories open a possibility to extend the political project of modernity in new,
unexpected directions.
23

From this point of view, the history of Latin America over the last five
centuries could be understood as a long and still ongoing process of modernization
through hybridization. By the same token, most distinctions between traditional and
modern, or between pure and hybrid, could be described as analytical artifacts
generated by the creation of historical metanarratives. Each new modernizing effort
acquires legitimacy through a reification of its immediate past as tradition and every
instance of hybridization results in an illusion of purity being retrospectively
bestowed upon the ingredients of the social mixture. Nonetheless, whatever comes
to be identified as traditional and/or pure in each historical moment is probably the
result of previous cycles of modernization and/or hybridization. Old hybrids are re-
hybridized and modern social features are modernized again. In the meantime, the
binary thinking attached to those distinctions fuels discourses of development and
22
progress.
24
In Latin America, Creole entities undergo further Creolization,
syncretism continues as meta-syncretism, and Mulato cultures keep incorporating
new ingredients.
25
After the forces of social intermixing have acquired some
historical momentum, subsequent encounters between hybrid entities would probably
proceed along a socially favored path toward further hybridization.
Within the region, Cuba is one of those places where hybridization has been
taking place at an exponential rate for quite a long time. Many experts, inside and
outside the island, have embraced some version of Ortiz’s transculturation model as
their official explanation of the island's distant history.
26
What has happened since
the second half of the twentieth century, however, is mostly understood in terms of
historical rupture. Since the 1960s, studies of the complex causes, uneven course,
and multiple consequences of the Cuban revolution have become a cottage industry
shaped by Cold War dualisms. Different political persuasions, disciplinary
boundaries, geopolitical origins, and linguistic conventions have infused this
enormous body of literature with so many analytical, factual, and ideological
dichotomies that any discussion of Cuban issues that is framed by hybrid rather than
dualistic notions seems almost impossible today (Fernández 1992, Martín 1999,
Hernandez-Reguant 2005). Although this heavily polarized epistemic landscape has
started to thaw in the last fifteen years, dominant paradigms are still based upon
more or less explicit scholarly reenactments of the Cold War.

Polarizations resulted in a particular distribution of research topics within the
existing literature on the Cuban revolution. Issues that were central to the
23
development of Latin American social sciences during the Cold War remained
almost unexplored in Cuba. At least two factors played a central role in explaining
this divergence. In the late 1960s, the Cuban revolutionary government became
increasingly suspicious of the ultimate intentions of foreign scholars and more
involved in the control of social science research curricula within the island. As a
result, academic criticisms from outside came to be perceived as intromissions, or
even imperially backed acts of aggression, while criticism from inside emerged as
forms of intellectual inadequacy or ideological betrayal. At the same time, Latin
American studies as a whole was becoming more polarized. Events like the Cuban
revolution itself had a huge impact on the radicalization of an entire generation of
scholars across the Americas. Social science research was framed by larger
ideological debates and in turn contributed to them. Under the influence of
Marxism, many scholars established analytical links between the major social
problems facing the region and what they perceived to be key structural features of
the capitalist system. Cuba emerged as an exception within the hemisphere because
it became “socialist” precisely at this time.
27

During the Cold War, Cuban exceptionality resulted from a combination of
actual changes taking place in the island and parallel transformations in the scholarly
community. Since the 1990s, “the return of Cuba to Latin America” (Centeno, 2004)
has been fueled by a similar convergence of historical and epistemic forces. The
island is perceived to be “less different” now, because the fall of the Berlin Wall
accelerated actual transformations of its socioeconomic landscape, but also because
24
scholars are more open to think outside the box of dualistic macro-narratives. In the
United States, the shift from Cubanology to Cuban Studies (Fernández 1992) is a
clear example of the synergy established between geopolitical and intellectual
transformations.
28
Within the island, a profound scholarly renovation is also taking
place alongside larger social changes.

A will to accept and understand the
multiplicity of Cuban society and Cuban cultures is perhaps the only common
feature in what otherwise can be interpreted as centrifugal efforts to reinvigorate the
tired epistemic landscapes inherited from the Cold War on both sides of the Florida
Strait.
29
Given its open nature, this intellectual renovation is very different from
previous attempts at charting the development of the nation. Bringing hybridization
back into the picture has been in itself a hybrid process. Questioning the hegemonic
role of dualism opens the door for the coexistence of alternative historical models,
including the dualistic ones.
It is now possible to explain Cuba’s encounter with socialism in the 1960s as
another instance of transculturation that resulted in the creation of multiple hybrid
forms of socioeconomic and cultural organization. Rather than a clean break with its
capitalist past, the Cuban revolution can be seen as an accelerating accumulation of
historical, social, and cultural hybridizations. This model offers a great deal of
heuristic potential. For example, many analysts were puzzled by the fact that Cuba
seemed somehow immune to the fever of “transitions” running through most
socialist states in the early 1990s. The island changed a great deal during this time,
but this transformation failed to produce the outcome that some experts had
25
predicted.
30
Understood as yet another instance of hybridization, the Cuban style of
ambiguous “transitions” seems a little more intelligible. Instead of a historical
parenthesis between socialism and capitalism, this "Special Period" emerges as the
ultimate example of the hybrid nature of Cuban society and culture.
Coined by Fidel Castro (1990) the phrase Special Period in Time of Peace
(Período Especial en Tiempo de Paz) is commonly abbreviated as Special Period and
used to describe the severe macroeconomic crisis and subsequent adjustments
triggered by the sudden end of major flows of Soviet aid to Cuba in 1989. More than
just a “period”, the term identifies an open-ended process of socioeconomic and
cultural transformations that after fifteen years seems less and less “special”.
Between 1990 and 1993 almost every economic indicator was affected by this crisis.
Exports decreased by 80%, imports by 75%, sugar production by 44%, basic
foodstuff output by 38%, and gross domestic product by 35%. In an attempt to halt
the crisis, the government implemented a series of market-oriented reforms between
1993 and 1996. The tourist industry was revived, the state promoted the creation of
mixed enterprises involving foreign capital, and dollar-based transactions among
individuals were legalized. At the same time, many state farms were transformed
into quasi-cooperatives, private farmers were allowed to sell their crops at market
prices, and limited forms of self-employment were authorized. Experts agree that
these reforms were partially responsible for a limited economic recovery initiated in
1993 that lasted to the end of the decade. Many central socio-cultural conventions
were altered either as a direct result of the initial shock or in the context of the first
26
cycle of reforms enacted by the government. According to some analysts,
socioeconomic inequalities became more severe in the 1990s. Individuals employed
in the tourist industry and other key areas of the dollar economy were able to earn
many times more money than regular state workers. Self-employed individuals
involved in the operation of legal micro-enterprises generated significantly higher
incomes. Immediate access to hard currency remittances from Cubans living abroad
emerged as another source of privilege, while those involved in illegal operations
like prostitution or black market sales of luxury items benefited indirectly from the
tourist boom. Market-oriented reforms were practically halted by the end of the
century, and many experts claim that recent moves to reverse some of them are
motivated by state concerns with their destabilizing consequences.
31

27

Occupations Cuban Pesos U.S. Dollars
(26 pesos =$1)

State Sector

Lowest pension 100 4
Lowest salary 100 4
Teacher (elementary and secondary) 200-400 8-15
University professor 300-560 12-22
Engineer, physician 300-650 12-25
Garbage collector 300-500 12-19
Policeman (regular) 200-500 8-19
Policeman (security for tourists) 700-800 27-31
Officer, armed forces 350-700 13-23
Cabinet minister 450-600 17-23

Private Sector

Domestic servant 520-1,040 20-40
Private farmer 2,000-50,000 77-1,923
Transporter (truck with 20-60 seats) 10,000-20,000 385-770
Prostitute(jinetera) -- 240-1,400
Landlord of room, apartment, or home -- 250-4,000
Artist or musician (known abroad) -- 600-6,000
Owner of small private restaurant
(paladar)
-- 12,500-50,000

Table 2: Monthly Income in Havana, Cuba in March-April, 2002 (reproduced
from Mesa-Lago, 2002b: 5)
As seen in the table above, workers in the state sector earn significantly
lower incomes than those associated with the emerging private sector. The latest
government attempts to compensate for these disparities include an offensive against
legal micro-enterprises through a combination of regulation and heavy taxation,
combined with a nation-wide campaign against the black market. Unsurprisingly,
these measures are forcing many workers to go even deeper underground.
32
In a
parallel move, the state is trying new strategies on the monetary front. These include
28
small increases in government wages and exchange rate policies directed to fortify
the relative position of the Cuban regular peso. Although the possession of
American dollars (USD) is still legal, convertible Cuban pesos (CUC) have been
required for all official transactions since November of 2004. Major foreign
currencies can be exchanged for CUC at floating rates, but an additional 20% fee is
imposed on USD. At the same time, overall consumer prices are rising in the hard
currency stores, and those earning their incomes in regular pesos (as oppose to CUC)
are now paying more for the same basket of basic goods. As a whole, the final social
effects of the recentralizing measures remain ambiguous (Mesa Lago, 2005).
Most descriptions of Cuban socioeconomic reality are still based on dualistic
models that emphasize state versus market dichotomies. However, clear-cut
distinctions between categories like socialism and capitalism, center and periphery,
traditional and modern, marginal and mainstream, or formal and informal are less
significant in a context where most relationships between social actors and
institutions can be better understood as instances of networking and hybridization.
Thus, as an alternative, I would like to propose a model based on the interactions
between three major economic subsystems, with an emphasis on overlapping
synergies and flows rather than boundaries or limits (Figure 5). My definition of
public, entrepreneurial, and popular subsystems takes the work of Coraggio (1993)
one step further, because I claim that, in the Cuban case, hybridization is already
producing a popular economy. Seven major socioeconomic agents, distributed along
fluid spectrums of formality, efficiency, and equality, can be identified in this model.
29
State institutions are considered more egalitarian and less efficient than private firms,
but both are relatively formal. The management of resources within households
offers a compromise between efficiency and equality, with a maximum degree of
informality. Mixed enterprises represent the formal intersection of public and
entrepreneurial realms. Although limited by state control, Cuban cooperatives
(UBPC) are a source of quasi-egalitarian but still inefficient interactions between the
public and popular subsystems. Illegal micro-enterprises operate at the intersection
of the entrepreneurial and popular subsystems. These are efficient but informal
arrangements that could contribute to an increase in inequality. Finally, legal micro-
enterprises represent the intersection of the three subsystems and offer a solid
compromise between formality, equality, and efficiency. The four social agents
operating at the intersection of the subsystems are the most obvious hybrid entities in
this model, but not the only ones. State institutions, private firms, and households
ought to be understood as the result of larger cycles of hybridization involving both
domestic and transnational linkages.
30

Formality
Cooperatives
Inefficiency Inequality
Private
Firms
Legal
Micro-
Enterprises
Illegal
Micro-
Enterprises
Households
Mixed
Enterprises
State
Institutions
Entrepreneurial
Economic
Subsystem
Equality Efficiency
Public
Economic
Subsystem
Popular
Economic
Subsystem
Informality
Figure 5: Socioeconomic Hybridization in Contemporary Cuba
31
In Cuba, the operation of state institutions has been traditionally dependant
on extraterritorial connections. Recent deals with China and oil subsidies flowing
from Venezuela fall short of previous arrangements with the Soviet block, but they
are still substantial. Private firms, on the other hand, are mostly subsidiaries of
foreign corporations. Finally, with more than a million Cubans living outside the
island, many households ought to be considered transnational in nature. Remittances
channeled through these transnational households are one of the most important
sources of hard currency for the economy as a whole (Mesa Lago, 2005). Although
this model can be used to provide a basic description of the relationships between
large generic categories, the socioeconomic interactions that really interest me
involve the residents of a solar in Havana connected through networks established
across these categories.
For example, a few members of an extended family living in a solar could be
involved as formal employees in public institutions and/or private firms while others
operate fully within the informal economy, and yet others work within their
respective households. A given individual could play several of these roles
consecutively or, at times, even simultaneously. This extended family would interact
with other families or individuals to form larger networks based on degrees of trust,
as described by Lomnitz (1988) and reviewed by Richards and Roberts (1998).
These interactions could be formal and/or informal, monetized and/or based on filial
solidarity, local and/or transnational. More importantly, some of the principles
regulating the allocation of resources and the nature of the exchanges within and
32
between these networks would be outside the analytical reach of conventional
economics.
Although this model seems rather static, what has been occurring in Cuba in
the 1990s is a gradual shift from an overwhelming presence of the state and formal
activities to a greater presence of the popular economic subsystem and more
informal practices. The diagrams in Figure 6 of Cuba's socioeconomic activity pre
and post 1990, show that two new socioeconomic agents were created in the 1990's,
"mixed enterprises" and "legal micro-enterprises". Out of necessity, the Cuban State
agreed to the formation of joint ventures with International firms to develop a
massive service economy in a short period of time. And, for the first time, the state
provided legal licenses for individuals and families to operate small restaurants, rent
out rooms, or sell certain foods out of their homes. Some of the informal activities
that before the 1990s had taken place in the household and illegal black market
became legalized and formalized. Overall, the 1990s was marked by a shift in the
composition of society such that the household became a more active and more
hybrid place and the popular economy increased in visibility.
33

After
1990
Before
1990
7
6
5
4
3
2
1
Legal Micro-Enterprises
Cooperatives
Mixed Enterprises
Households
Illegal Micro-Enterprises
State Institutions
Private Firms
Figure 6: Socioeconomic
Hybridization in Cuban
Society before and after
1990
7
6
3
2
4 5
1
3
2
4
5
1

34

During my fieldwork in Havana I documented the efforts of an extended
Afro-Cuban family of thirty-five individuals to survive, develop, and grow at the
turn of the twentieth century. Seventeen members of this family live in a solar in the
Cayo Hueso neighborhood and operate mostly on the informal side of the
socioeconomic spectrum. Their overall welfare, however, depends on larger
networks of relatives, friends, and associates working within formal as well as
informal spheres, in Cuba and abroad. Extending and reinforcing networks such as
these through daily life interactions is one of the most important forms of social and
economic investment among the urban poor of Havana. Ultimately, the success of
every household depends on the ability of its members to deploy elaborated forms of
social capital across economic, cultural, and political boundaries. Poor people in
Havana survive, develop, and grow by casting symbolic and literal nets around
increasingly scarce resources. These deployments involve a complex articulation of
individual and collective forms of social agency grounded in highly codified
practices and strategically informed by shifting circumstances. Common strategies
include the cooptation, translation, appropriation, and ultimate transformation of
official policies, symbols, and discourses into “homemade” tools for personal and
communal development. The immediate result of this process is the reinforcement
of all the networks involved. Another obvious consequence is the re-hybridization of
all social actors operating along those networks. An increase in social order, at all
35
levels, constitutes a less apparent but utterly important outcome of this synergy
between hybridization and networking.
This study about the daily life of the urban poor in contemporary Havana is
an attempt to chart a complex pattern of highly articulated hybrid networks in order
to understand the mechanisms involved in their social production, strategic
deployment, and political significance. Chapter Two looks at other analyses of
urban poverty and marginality in Havana in the early years of the revolution,
focusing on the works of the North American anthropologist Oscar Lewis and Cuban
filmmaker Sara Gómez. Chapter Three deals with the connections between extended
forms of kinship and the architectural logic of a solar in Cayo Hueso. I introduce the
main characters of my story while describing how their use of both communal and
intimate space embodies much larger concerns about the relationships between
public and private realms. In Chapter Four I discuss the role of syncretism in the
production of redundant and mutually reinforcing hybrid networks. This chapter is
based upon several case studies that illustrate the complex synergy between public
health and private healing in a solar in Havana. Chapter Five explores how certain
elements of the official disciplinary agenda promoted by the state are recycled into
innovative strategies for personal and collective development. Here I describe the
educational pathways available for a handful of young solar residents while
discussing the complementary role of formal and informal mechanisms of social
control in the reproduction and expansion of communal ties. Chapter Six brings
together all the central elements of my argument. Here I analyze a series of religious
36
ceremonies/ cum block parties organized by members of the family under study.
These celebrations, explicitly designed to improve the connections between living
and deceased members of extended networks, provide further evidence of the
ontological value and political significance of hybridized networks. The final
Chapter Seven offers some concluding remarks about the significance of
hybridization, social networks, and the politics of marginality in Havana.
37
CHAPTER 1 ENDNOTES

1
See pages 8 and 12 for the definitions and discussions of the terms 'urban marginality' and
'socioeconomic informality' respectively.
2
Some basic information about Cuba was taken from an entry in the CIA World Fact Book,
available online at http://www.cia.gov/cia/publications/factbook/geos/cu.html (accessed
March 29, 2006). Other data come from a demographic yearbook published on the island by
the Oficina Nacional de Estadísticas, or ONE (ONE 2005b, online at
http://www.cubagob.cu/otras_info/sitioone/anuariodemog/anuariodemografico2004.pdf,
accessed March 29, 2006). Discrepancies between sources published in Cuba and in the
United States are very common and very difficult to sort out. For example, the CIA claims
that the Cuban population is divided into four “ethnic groups” and their proportions are
“mulatto 51%, white 37%, black 11%, Chinese 1%”. The Cuban government prefers to use
the term “skin color” (color de la piel). According to the latest official census, taken in
2002, 65% of the population was “white” (blanca), 24.9% was “mulatto” (mestiza), and
10.1% was black (negra). See ONE (2005a: 164 online at
http://out.uclv.edu.cu/gru/informe_nacional.pdf, accessed March 29, 2006). Quantitative
information on controversial categories like “race” remains elusive because these rigid labels
are unable to capture the fluid nature of ethnic multiplicity on the island. However, the
political implications of these figures as base indicators to evaluate the extent of Cuban
“racial” inequalities has fueled the production of wildly disparate guesstimates on both sides
of the Florida Strait. For two complementary analyses of the history of racial demography in
revolutionary Cuba see Moore (1988: 357-365) and de la Fuente (2001: 307-309).
3
Cuban socioeconomic statistics are hard to compare with those of other countries because
many series have been compiled using a different set of key assumptions. Evaluating the
Gross Domestic Product (GDP) is particularly hard. From 1962 to 1989, Cuba compiled an
indicator known as Global Social Product, a Soviet aggregate measure that remains
impossible to compare with or reduce to regular GDP figures. Complicating the issue even
further is the fact that even those standards were modified several times during the period, or
otherwise loosely applied (Pérez-López 1991). Estimates for the 1990s are particularly
problematic because the government switched to international standards in the middle of that
decade (Mesa-Lago 1998: 858-860). GDP figures beginning in 2004 are calculated using
yet another set of formulas designed to incorporate the value of free social services provided
by the government. In a similar way, unemployment indexes are now calculated by
including among the employed those individuals who receive a fraction of their previous
salaries while staying at home or going back to school (Mesa-Lago, 2005: 2-5). A balanced
overview of recent developments in the study of Cuban economy can be obtained from two
collections of topical essays compiled by Ritter (2004) and Dominguez, Pérez Villanueva,
and Barbería (2004).
4
The HDI is a comparative measure of wellbeing resulting from a weighted average of
indexes describing life expectancy, literacy rate, school enrollment ratios, and GDP per
capita. Recent tables are available online at
38

http://hdr.undp.org/docs/statistics/indices/index_tables.pdf (accessed March 29, 2006). For a
critique of the methodology used to compile the Cuban figures (and a useful overview of the
island’s rankings through the 1990s) see Mesa-Lago (2002a). The most obvious problem
with this Index is its dependence on very unreliable GDP figures.
5
All statistics on Havana and its municipalities were taken from ONE (Oficina Nacional de
Estadísticas) (2005a: 189 and 2005b). For an excellent overview of urban developments in
the city as a whole see Segre, Coyula, and Scarpaci (2002). On the cultural dimensions of
this historical process see Kapcia (2005).
6
The information on population and housing included in Table 1 was compiled from
unpublished reports generously provided by researchers at Taller de Transformación
Integral del Barrio de Cayo Hueso in Havana. I would like to thank the members of the
Taller staff for their enthusiastic support. On the history of the neighborhood see Colectivo
de Autores, 1990.
7
On the historical evolution of the solar during the nineteenth century see Arriaga Mesa and
Delgado Valdés (1995). An excellent photographic inventory of notorious solares at the
beginning of the twentieth century can be found in Nuñez (1914). Housing policies
contributing to the proliferation of the solares are discussed in Bay y Sevilla (1924). For a
classic account of moral depravation and criminality centered around these tenements see
Chailloux Cardona (1945). A sympathetic account of the vibrant cultural life in the
contemporary solares can be found in Cárdenas Jiménez (2002).
8
The panel at LASA was sponsored by the Latin American Research Review and presided
over by its editors, who published a polished version of the presentations in the same journal
a year later. The panelists were Mercedes Gonzalez de la Rocha, Elizabeth Jelin, Janice
Perlman, Alejandro Portes, Brian R. Roberts, Helen Safa, and Peter Ward. All but Portes
contributed to the issue of LARR.
9
Under the “culture of poverty” thesis promoted by Oscar Lewis (1961 and 1966), marginal
individuals were described, along very similar lines, as lazy, fatalistic, unable to defer
gratification, apolitical, etc. I will discuss these issues in more detail in Chapter 2.
10
An excellent overview of the early literature, with hundreds of references, can be found in
Perlman (1976: 91-131). She distinguishes between seven major approaches to marginality
among social theorists: “(1) the psycho-sociological; (2) the architectural-ecological; (3) the
ethnographic; (4) the traditional-modernizing; (5) the culture of poverty; (6) the DESAL
participation ideology developed in Chile; and (7) the radicalism ‘theory’” (Perlman 1976:
98).
11
British architect John Turner was instrumental in changing the dominant views on slums.
Based on his experiences in Peru, Turner (1967, 1969) claimed that squatter settlements
represented a creative solution to housing shortages rather than a source of social problems.
It was better for the government to contribute to this process by upgrading the infrastructure
of the slums instead of trying to eradicate them. Along these lines see also Mangin (1967),
39

Rogler (1967), Portes (1971), Turner and Fichter (1972) and Turner (1977). Alejandro
Portes (1972) questioned many theoretical, methodological, and empirical assumptions
implicit in previous evaluations of the participation of the urban poor in voluntary
associations, their supposed radicalism, and the nature and extent of their opposition to
housing improvement programs. Studies by Peattie (1968) on the barrios of Venezuela and
Roberts (1973) on urban poverty in Guatemala City followed a similar critical direction. A
comprehensive review of this literature can be found in Peattie and Alderete-Haas (1981).
12
Larissa Lomnitz (1977) pioneered the use of network analysis to study the survival role of
social interactions among residents of a Mexican slum. On the importance of cohesion and
solidarity within poor communities see Roberts (1973) and Safa (1974). For a review of
anthropological literature on “the value of the family” see Creed (2000). General works on
network analysis are discussed in Emirbayer and Goodwin (1994). On the economic role of
networks see Smith-Doerr and Powell (2003).
13
The general literature on informality is vast and rich in controversies. For a useful
collection of introductory essays see Portes, Castells and Benton (1989). A concise and
updated overview of the literature can be found in Portes and Haller (2005). For a historical
perspective on informality in the long run see essays compiled in Tabak and Crichlow
(2000). Another volume edited by Guha-Khasnobis, Kanbur, and Ostrom (2006) contains
several discussions on the linkages between formal and informal economies.
14
A typology of socioeconomic informality can be found in Feige (1990). Essays on the
“underground economy” in developed countries are available in Feige (1989), Tanzi (1982),
and Lippert and Walker (1997). For an overview of the “second economy” in the USSR see
Treml and Alexeev (1993). Another collection of papers evaluates the impact of informality
in Eastern Europe after the Cold War (Neef and Stanculescu, 2002). For recent overviews of
the general literature see Losby et al (2002) and Gërxhani (2004).
15
For a comprehensive coverage of all the literature relevant to the debates discussed in this
and the following paragraphs see essays compiled in Tokman (1992) and Rakowski (1994).
16
The main positions of the group are outlined in Portes and Schauffer (1993). See also
Armstrong and McGee (1985), Portes and Sassen-Koob (1987), or Benería and Roldán
(1987).
17
For systematic discussions of the ideas of de Soto see Bromley (1990), Rossini and
Thomas (1990), and Loayza (1997).
18
Along these lines see a handful of essays compiled in Adrianzen and Ballon (1992).
Reviews of the relevant literature can be found in Nyssens (1997) and Bergesio (2004).
19
“When we speak of a POPULAR ECONOMY we are referring to a possible but not yet
constituted configuration of resources, agents and relationships which, while maintaining
some of the central qualitative characteristics of the initial substrate of households, would
develop a higher degree of interdependence and would institutionalize new rules governing
40

work and distribution, taking the form of a subsystem in relation to the economy as a whole”
(Coraggio, 1993: [11], his emphasis).
20
Fernando Ortiz, considered the most influential Cuban scholar in the field of Afro Cuban
studies, lived from 1881-1969. He began his career with a focus on the study of “criminal
ethnology” from a strong Lombrosian perspective (Ortiz 1906 and 1916). His works on
ethnosemantics (Ortiz 1923 and 1924), on ethnomusicology and dance ethnography (Ortiz
1950, 1951 and 1952-55), and on the theory of race construction (1946) constituted the
foundational base of a whole Cuban tradition in folklore studies. He studied Afro-Cuban
culture and particularly religion, at a time when such research was not very fashionable. He
popularized the term "Afro-Cuban" and is best known for his usage of the term "ajiaco"
(1940), or Cuban stew to symbolize the complex hybridization of Cuban culture. See the
conclusion for a discussion of ajiaco. In his well know Cuban Counterpoint: Tobacco and
Sugar (1947), Ortiz coined the term "enmeshed transculturation" to better describe the
“cultural encounter” of African and European traditions in the New World.
21
"In the end, as the school of Malinowski's followers maintains, the result of every union of
cultures is similar to that of the reproductive process between individuals: the offspring
always has something of both parents but is always different from each of them” (Ortiz
[1947] 1995: 102-103).
22
“Anyway, here we are now, with hybridity, collage, mélange, hotchpotch, montage,
synergy, bricolage, creolization, mestizaje, mongrelization, syncretism, transculturation,
third cultures and what have you; some terms used perhaps only in passing as summary
metaphors, others with claims to more analytical status, and others again with more regional
or thematic strongholds” (Hannerz 1997: 13).
23
An excellent overview of the literature on hybridization can be found in Kraidy (2005).
24
This notion of hybridization as a recurrent phenomenon has been implicit in many classic
models. As quoted above, Ortiz's reference to “intermeshed transculturations” implied that
yet another level of connectivity was in fact required to translate cultural change into history.
He obviously considered each of the ingredients in the Cuban social mixture to be of a
composite nature.
25
In Latin America, criollo (translated as creole) is a hybrid term used to discuss cultural
mixture, in particular, the convergence of African, European, and indigenous native
Americans born in the new world (primarily the pan-Caribbean belt of sugar plantations),
but the exact mix varies for each country and over time as new immigrants arrive. In the
United States, the term "creole" generally refers to descendants from Louisiana.
26
For a recent revisiting of Ortiz's notion of transculturation see Coronil (1995). See Font
and Quiroz (2005) for a collection of essays reevaluating the impact of Ortiz.
27
Cuban Communism, an emblematic compilation of articles critical of the Castro
government and framed by the classic rhetoric of the Cold War, has been refurbished a
41

dozen times since the 1970s (Horowitz and Suchlicki, 2003). Dogmatic defenses of the
regime, on the other hand, are still published in Cuba and abroad. For a comprehensive
collection of topic essays reviewing the contributions of scholars working outside Cuba see
Fernández (1992). A general overview of social science production from within the island
can be found in Martín (1999) while the development of sociology as a discipline is
discussed in Nuñez Jover (1997). An excellent analysis of the ways in which Cold War
polarization framed Cuban academic discourses within anthropology can be found in
Hernandez-Reguant (2005).
28
In the 1980's, a debate began about what term to use for studies of Cuba. In the 1960's, the
term used was "Cubanology", mirroring the term "Sovietology", which indicated the study of
the Soviet Union by U.S. scholars. The latter was done primarily by political scientists at
think tanks intent on critiquing the Soviet model of socialism. In a similar vein, Cubanology
was also a heavily slanted discipline. It grew in part, out of the inappropriateness of using
the social sciences (economics, sociology, etc.) in the 1960's to analyze socialist societies.
The authors involved in the edited series, Cuban Communism, became labeled as
Cubanologists (Horowitz and Suchlicki 1970) both within the U.S and Cuba. Writing from
the U.S., many of these scholars were Cuban exiles critiquing the Castro regime and its
socialist endeavors. From within Cuba, these books were considered propaganda. In the
1980's, scholars wanted to separate from that label, as they espoused a more balance view of
life in Cuba (see footnote 29 below). The term "Cuban Studies" became in vogue to
describe a field that offered a more hybrid, less binary portrayal of Cuban society.
29
Within Cuba, the journal Temas is the clearest example of the complex nature of this
transformation in mainstream social sciences since the nineties. Published in Madrid, the
journal Encuentro de la Cultura Cubana emerged as a forum for scholars working inside and
outside the island. A parallel reading of both publications could bring into focus a
stereoscopic portrait of Cuban society in the last decade. Temas is available online at
http://www.temas.cult.cu/index.php, and Encuentro is at
http://arch1.cubaencuentro.com/revista/25/20051028/59df5d6e5c7a5becd5387c685052aa6a.
html (both accessed on April 27, 2006). Experts working from multiple perspectives, inside
and outside the island, can increasingly share print space within more balanced and
comprehensive edited volumes. See Behar (1996), Fernández and Cámara Betancourt
(2000), Purcell and Rothkopf (2000), Azicri and Deal (2004), Tulchin et al (2005). Under
similarly inclusive paradigms, a handful of international journals have published special
issues devoted to Cuba. See, for example Michigan Quarterly Review (Summer/Fall 1994),
Papers: Revista de Sociologia, Número 52: Estructura social de Cuba (1997), Latin
American Perspectives No.3 and No.4: The Cuban Revolution Confronts the Future, Part 1
and Part 2 (2002), boundary 2 29(3): Special Issue: From Cuba (2002), and Journal of Latin
American Anthropology 10(2): Cuba's Alternative Geographies (2005).
30
Classics of the “transition” approach from an array of ideological positions are
Oppenheimer (1992), Halebsky and Kirk (1992), and Schulz (1994). For Cuban criticisms
of this literature see Retamar (1996) and Hernández (2003). The best coverage of the issue
can be found in the fifteen volumes of Cuba in Transition (1991-2005). Some authors and
institutions, on the island and abroad, use the word “transition” in a wider sense. A typical
disclaimer along those lines can be found in the introduction to one of the best evaluations of
42

the Cuban economic performance in the nineties by the United Nations Economic
Commission for Latin America and the Caribbean: “The term “transition”, as it is used here,
does not imply a change from a socialist to a capitalist regime, but the course chosen and the
time it takes for the economy and society to adjust to radically different foreign
circumstances. No judgment is made of the final outcome of the reform process: as will be
seen further on, other open-ended options are available on which decisions will have to be
made” (ECLAC, 2001: 2).
31
Despite its limitations, an official report compiled by ECLAC (2001) provides the best
overview of the Cuban formal economy during the special period. On the consequences of
the crisis see Uriarte (2002). Balanced assessments of the Cuban economic performance and
future prospects can be found in essay collections published by Monreal (2002), Domínguez,
Pérez Villanueva, and Barberia (2004), and Ritter (2004). For a comprehensive treatment of
recent developments see Mesa Lago (2005).
32
For a classic study on Cuban informal economy, see Pérez-López (1995). For empirical
and theoretical updates see Ritter (2005) and Henken (2005).
43
CHAPTER 2: WRECKING BALLS

Attempts at analyzing marginality and poverty in Havana are very
limited. Two notable efforts, which will be discussed at length in this chapter,
are by Oscar Lewis, a North American anthropologist, and Sara Gómez, a Cuban
filmmaker. Both of these scholars evaluate housing problems and solutions in
the l960's and 1970's when eliminating poverty and inequalities was a top priority
for the new socialist state. There was a proliferation of social science research on
the island in the 1980's some of which focused on various groups of individuals
marginalized by the socialist system. My own research in the late 1990s also
attempted to understand marginality in Havana and like Lewis's and Gomez's
studies was based in an analysis of housing.
In Havana, informal solutions for chronic housing shortages have evolved
along two complementary paths. Like in many other cities of developing
nations, squatters have occupied empty lands in peripheral areas and created
highly visible slums. Poor tenants, on the other hand, have entered into semi-
legal arrangements with the owners of underutilized buildings, resulting in the
creation of tenements known as solares. As in many other regions of the world,
the continued existence of slums in Havana has depended on a precarious
balance between the collective agency of slum-dwellers, the pressures exerted by
the formal communities that surround them, and the political will of the higher
authorities. After a slum has acquired critical mass, its physical eradication
44
through legitimate means requires large amounts of political capital. Up to a
degree, the survival of slums has depended on their public visibility. Although
considered a source of illegal behavior and social deviance, Cuban slums have
been tolerated because their inhabitants could be partially contained within their
borders. Razing a slum would create a larger logistical problem for the
authorities than accepting its existence.
1

Solares, on the other hand, proliferated in the early 1900s precisely
because they were a rather discreet solution to housing shortages. For the
tenants, the partial invisibility of the solar produced a certain degree of security
through obscurity. The society at large, on the other hand, benefited from the
existence of the solares because low-paid workers in the service and
manufacturing industries could afford to live close to their workplaces in a city
with a rather poor system of public transportation. As a result, a combination of
economic forces, urban traditions, and social pressures gave solares a strategic
advantage over slums during the first half of the twentieth century. Today, they
constitute an established feature in the urban landscape of the city where,
according to official estimates, there are more than 7,000 of these tenements
(Hautrive).
In the 1960s, the Cuban revolutionary government tried to eradicate some
of the most notorious slums of Havana. In the first section of this chapter I look
at the North American anthropologist Oscar Lewis's analysis of some of the most
prominent social and cultural issues raised by these attempts. Solares, on the
45
other hand, represented a less obvious source of alternative socialization and
remained under the radar until the 1970s, when the government tried to eliminate
some of them in the Cayo Hueso neighborhood. The second section of this
chapter reflects the perspective of Cuban filmmaker Sara Gómez of these events.
Both sections offer impressions of different intellectuals on marginality during
the early years of the revolution. The third section looks at efforts to study
marginal groups by both Cuban and non-Cuban social scientists in the 1980's and
1990's. The fourth and final section of this chapter introduces my own research
in a solar in Cayo Hueso at the turn of the 21
st
century.

46
PART I: LIVING THE REVOLUTION

On a cold morning in February 1968, the last day of his two-week long visit
to Cuba, Oscar Lewis, an American anthropologist well-known for his work on the
culture of poverty in Mexico and Puerto Rico, met Fidel Castro in a prearranged spot
at the side of a highway, somewhere outside of Havana. The Cuban leader was
sitting behind the wheel of a jeep, wearing green fatigues, carrying a gun and
surrounded by a dozen members of his heavily armed personal guard. Castro drove
through the sunny countryside for six long hours, talking nonstop about
underdevelopment, imperialism, irrigation, the cattle industry and agricultural
miracles. It was after dark when the caravan pulled up before a small cabin and
dinner was served. Sitting at the table with Castro, his personal physician, the
Minister of Education and other cultural bureaucrats, Oscar Lewis was treated to a
methodical exposition of his own theories on the nature of poverty. Fidel Castro
knew some of his books, was very interested in the methodological implications of
his novel approach to the problem, and even suggested a strategy for future inquiries
centered on Cuban revolutionary experiences with poverty eradication. Lewis
expressed serious concerns about the possibilities of carrying out objective research
on the island. From his point of view, the project was viable only under certain
conditions. He needed anonymity for his subjects, complete independence, and
absolute freedom of research. Castro consented to everything. The agreement was,
of course, an oral one.
2

47
Born Oscar Yehezkiel Lefkowitz in 1914, Lewis was the fifth son of a poor
Polish immigrant couple living in New York. Exposed to both anti-Semitic
prejudice and socialist literature at an early age, Oscar became very aware of the
problems faced by marginalized people in a hierarchical society. Those concerns
contributed to shaping his intellectual development and scholarly interests. Lewis
earned a bachelor degree in Social Sciences at the College of the City of New York
and pursued a PhD in Anthropology at Columbia University. As an undergraduate,
Lewis was influenced by Philip S. Foner, a Marxist scholar working on the history of
trade unionism and slavery in the United States. At Columbia he studied under the
tutelage of Ruth Benedict, and took several courses on religion and social
psychology. After doing fieldwork among the Blackfoot in reservations located in
Alberta and Montana, he managed to publish a monograph on the subject while
working as a taxi driver and night school teacher in Brooklyn (Lewis 1942).
Lewis married Ruth Maslow, another young and enthusiastic teacher, during
his first year at Columbia. His wife would become his major collaborator, working
in the field as a general project coordinator and active interviewer, or back home as a
manuscript editor of most of Lewis’ books. She could be considered co-author of
every major piece of scholarship published under her husband’s name. The Lewises
always worked together, traveling as a family, and this was a key factor in their
success in establishing a profound rapport with other families in the field, who
became not only informants but also life long friends.
48
While doing fieldwork in Mexico City, the Lewises met the Sánchez family,
their most important informants, and Oscar Lewis published his first account of the
subject that would make him famous. In Five Families: Mexican Case Studies in the
Culture of Poverty, Lewis (1959) coined this catchy phrase to describe a series of
psychological and behavioral characteristics supposedly common to the poorest
sector of the lower class in modern societies. At the time, the culture of poverty
thesis was just a loose idea, presented with no systematic discussion on the concept
of culture and no clear definition of poverty as a socioeconomic phenomenon. There
was no explanation provided as to how material poverty, measured in relative
income terms, related to the common traits of this “subculture” (Lewis’s favorite
term in his earlier work). The whole argument seemed to be a tautological word
game and future attempts to introduce some analytical rigor to this early scheme
would contribute to even greater levels of confusion. As a result of his Mexican
experiences, the main focus of Oscar Lewis’s work shifted from the rural to the
urban environment. The success of The Children of Sanchez (Lewis 1961) brought
him additional funding to carry out a massive amount of fieldwork in Puerto Rico.
Over a five-year period, he would collect more and more material, publishing La
Vida: a Puerto Rican Family in the Culture of Poverty (Lewis 1966). In the
introduction to this volume he presented the first systematic discussion of his already
famous and polemic expression:
As an anthropologist I have tried to understand poverty and its associated
traits as a culture or, more accurately, as a subculture with its own structure
and rationale, as a way of life which is passed down from generation to
generation along family lines. This view directs attention to the fact that the
49
culture of poverty in modern nations is not only a matter of economic
deprivation, or disorganization or of the absence of something. It is also
something positive and provides some rewards without which the poor could
hardly carry on (Lewis 1966: xliii).

From its inception, the thesis was loaded with ambiguity. According to
Lewis’s model, in certain historical contexts poor people adapted to poverty by
developing a series of cultural traits that in turn could contribute to the perpetuation
of their socioeconomic status. From his point of view, poverty and the culture of
poverty were connected through a self-perpetuating cycle. At some point, the
circularity of the process he was trying to clarify extended to the explanation itself.
For example, he identified more than five dozen traits of the culture of poverty, but
at least one third of them were simple indicators of socioeconomic status, like
unemployment, low wages, or chronic shortage of cash, rather than cultural
variables. More controversially, Lewis described several other traits in the language
used to characterize mental disorders. Relying on procedures like the Rorshach test,
he claimed that poor people suffered from “mother-deprivation and inferiority, weak
ego structure, orality, dependency, fatalism, resignation, and confusion of sexual
identity” (Rigdon 1988: 113-115). His understanding of the “personality of the
poor” was marked by the language of psychopathology, and his views on cultural
reproduction were influenced by Freudian notions about the crucial role of parenting
and early childhood experiences in the development of all adults.
Like many other liberal intellectuals of his generation, Lewis was trying to
reconcile Marxism with psychoanalysis by bridging the gap between biography and
50
history (Higgins 1978: 366). Theory, however, was never his forte. He enjoyed
doing fieldwork and writing ethnographic narratives with a novelistic style. In the
field he encountered hybrid subjects surviving through highly articulated networks
and dealing with complexity in very creative ways. Lewis was able to convey some
of the richness of their lives in his books but failed to analyze it using equally
sophisticated tools.
In his list of the traits of the culture of poverty he included a very revealing
one: “Members attempt to utilize and integrate into a workable way of life the
remnants of beliefs and customs of different origins” (Ridgon 1988: 114). He
witnessed what we now identify as the process of transculturation, but was unable to
understand it as anything but "neurosis" brought about by chronic deprivation. He
described the rich ingredients of Mexican and Puerto Rican popular culture as
“remnants”, reducing them to the status of vestigial artifacts. Ironically, Lewis'
failure to hybridize his own Freudian and Marxist influences into a coherent
theoretical apparatus blinded him to the successful acts of ideological and cultural
synthesis taking place right before him.
From his point of view, the culture of poverty transcended regional, rural-
urban, or national differences. Similarities in family structure, interpersonal
relations, value systems, and spending patterns among poor people everywhere
resulted from convergent adaptations to common problems rather than cultural
exchanges (Lewis 1966: xlii). His position on this subject, however, was also
ambivalent. On one hand, he considered “the culture of poverty” to be a result of
51
“independent invention and convergence”. It was a natural phenomenon, the
structural consequence of “common problems”. On the other hand, those “common
problems” were not universal, but historically predetermined:
The culture of poverty can come into being in a variety of historical contexts.
However, it tends to grow and flourish in societies with the following set of
conditions: (1) a cash economy, wage labor and production for profit; (2) a
persistently high rate of unemployment and underemployment for unskilled
labor; (3) low wages; (4) the failure to provide social, political and economic
organization, either on a voluntary basis or by government imposition, for the
low-income population; (5) the existence of a bilateral kinship system rather
than a unilateral one; and finally, (6) the existence of a set of values in the
dominant class which stresses the accumulation of wealth and property, the
possibility of upward mobility and thrift, and explains low economic status as
the result of personal inadequacy or inferiority (Lewis 1966: xliii-xliv).

In one way or another, Lewis included the first five conditions in his list of
common traits of the culture of poverty (Ridgon 1988: 114-113). He considered
them to be, at the same time, causes and consequences of the phenomenon itself.
The policies that came to be associated with his thesis were loaded with similarly
circular fallacies. For Lewis, the solution to the problems represented by the culture
of poverty would never come from the poor themselves. Depending on the scale of
the problem, but also on the geopolitical circumstances of the country affected,
Lewis described two different strategic approaches:
What is the future of the culture of poverty? In considering this question, one
must distinguish between those countries in which it represents a relatively
small segment of the population and those in which it constitutes a very large
one. Obviously the solutions will differ in these two situations. In the United
States, the major solution proposed by planners and social workers in dealing
with multiple-problem families and the so-called hard core of poverty has
been to attempt slowly to raise their level of living and to incorporate them
52
into the middle class. Wherever possible, there has been some reliance upon
psychiatric treatment (Lewis 1966: lii).
This combination of psychiatry and social work was designed to deal with the
“individual deficiencies” of the poor, and based upon a definition of poverty as a
collective pathology. For logistical reasons related to the scale of the problem,
however, this solution was not exportable to the Third World:
In the underdeveloped countries, however, where great masses of people live
in the culture of poverty, a social-work solution does not seem feasible.
Because of the magnitude of the problem, psychiatrists can hardly begin to
cope with it. They have all they can do to care for their own growing middle
class. In these countries the people with a culture of poverty may seek a
more revolutionary solution (Lewis 1966:lii).
In Lewis’s formula for Latin America, only middleclass-led revolutions could
give a sense of belonging and self-respect to the poor. Solutions, at any scale and in
any place, would come from “above”, because the people who are living “below”
would not be able to help themselves. It is at this level that his arguments revealed
their ideological ambiguity. Lewis endorsed social revolutions in the terms familiar
to many members of the so-called “Old Left”. From his point of view, poverty and
the culture of poverty in Latin America resulted from deeply rooted social
inequalities that could only be resolved through radical transformations of the whole
society at a national and even continental level. His convictions were also based on
a description of the poor as people without positive agency, whose initiatives were
mostly directed toward the perpetuation of their own misfortune. It was this aspect
of his thesis that would eventually become notorious, and the culture of poverty
53
would emerge as a reactionary justification for inequality rather than a Marxist
critique of capitalism.
In the United States, conservative scholars and policy makers stripped
Lewis’s thesis of its Marxism and used it to justify their own views on the nature of
poverty. His liberal critics within the “New Left” reacted against the concept itself
instead of fighting its conservative appropriation.
3
Almost every aspect of Lewis’
work was severely criticized in the late 1960s. His methodology was considered
insufficient, his writing style was deemed superficial, his thesis was considered
racist, and his ultimate ideological intentions came under suspicion. When
considered under the paradigm of the "sociology of knowledge", it seems clear that
the reception and destiny of his thesis was determined by the turbulent debates
generated around the so-called War on Poverty in the United States, rather than by a
careful assessment of the multiple implications of his ethnographic work (Harvey
and Reed, 1996).
By the time of his interview with Fidel Castro, Lewis himself was already
taking some distance from the culture of poverty thesis, as evidenced by his private
correspondence. Doing research in Cuba was an opportunity to get back to the field
and away from academic controversies while showcasing his Marxist sympathies.
At the same time, it was his last chance to bring some fresh evidence back into the
old debate on the culture of poverty. One of the corollaries of his thesis was the
notion that socialism was incompatible with the culture of poverty: “On the basis of
my limited experience in one socialist country – Cuba – and on the basis of my
54
reading, I am inclined to believe that the culture of poverty does not exist in the
socialist countries” (Lewis 1966: xlix). He was eager to demonstrate that radical
social change could transform the culture of the poor, even before fully eliminating
historical inequalities:
By creating basic structural changes in society, by redistributing wealth, by
organizing the poor and giving them a sense of belonging, of power and of
leadership, revolutions frequently succeed in abolishing some of the basic
characteristics of the culture of poverty even when they do not succeed in
abolishing poverty itself (Lewis 1966:lii)

As a direct result of his informal negotiations with Fidel Castro, Lewis and
his family arrived in Cuba in February, 1969 with 750 pounds of luggage, a
substantial research grant provided by the Ford Foundation, and all of the required
permits issued by officials in Washington and Havana. The Cuban government
leased three houses to the research team and provided transportation services, food,
and some office supplies. Cuban drivers, typists and household workers were hired
to cover basic logistical needs. Ten local students were assigned to the project as
field assistants, joining a group of eight others that came with the Lewises from
Mexico and the United States. A few months of training in basic anthropological
techniques were necessary before the Cuban members of the team became familiar
with the project’s philosophy. They were all very young, had no previous
background in the social sciences, and their commitment to the revolutionary
enterprise made it very difficult for them to conduct interviews on sensitive topics
without passing judgment on the political and moral integrity of their informants
(Lewis, Lewis and Rigdon 1977-78, I:xi). However, a strong rapport ensued
55
between American researchers, Cuban staff, and local families once these initial
problems were sorted out. The most ambitious attempt to evaluate the cultural and
ideological consequences of a socialist revolution was finally on its way.
Oscar Lewis’s interest in Cuba dated back to the summer of 1946, when he
was invited to teach an anthropology course in the School of Social Work at the
University of Havana. The young professor took his students into the field for a
survey of life conditions in Melena del Sur, a sugar-mill community outside Havana,
and they also visited Las Yaguas, a shantytown located at the outskirts of the capital.
During a short trip to the island in August of 1961 as a correspondent for Harper’s
Magazine, Lewis managed to go back to both locations and reestablish contact with
a handful of old informants. The transformations initiated by the revolutionary
government were already visible in Las Yaguas. State-sponsored organizations were
being established in the neighborhood, a few communal facilities had been
constructed, and a national campaign for the reduction of illiteracy was on its way,
with dozens of volunteers already teaching there. Lewis considered the place to be
an excellent laboratory for testing his ideas about the relationships between poverty,
culture and social change. Eight years later, when he returned to Cuba with the
research team, Las Yaguas had already disappeared. As part of a nation-wide
program to “eradicate” the most notorious slums, families living in the area were
relocated to seven different housing developments of 100 to 126 units each. All able
members of the community participated in the construction of the new apartments,
using materials provided by the government, and with the support of voluntary
56
workers from the Ministry of Industry. By the end of 1963, the shantytown was
empty. As part of the relocation agreement, the neighbors were asked to demolish
their own shacks before leaving, in a move that had obvious symbolic as well as
practical purposes.
In 1969, Oscar Lewis centered his initial work on a thorough study of the
relocation of slums dwellers to Buena Ventura, a pseudonym used by his team to
identify one of the new housing complexes. If he was interested in evaluating the
impact of a decade-old revolution on the life of the poor, this radical transformation
of the landscape was an excellent place to start. The project included a comparison
of Buena Ventura with another community of relocated settlers that the team called
Bolívar. According to initial findings, in terms of cultural and political change
Buena Ventura was considered to be an example of “poorly-integrated settlement”,
while Bolívar was regarded as a success story. Douglas Butterworth, a professor of
anthropology at the University of Illinois that joined the team in February of 1970,
took over the supervision of the Cuban students interviewing most of the families
living in Buena Ventura. A parallel study involved five unrelated families living in
an apartment building located in Miramar, a fancy suburb of Havana, in an effort to
include residents from other sectors of Cuban society. The rural part of the research,
dealing with the revolutionary transformations in Melena del Sur, was scheduled to
start during the second half of the three-year project.
On June 26, 1970, the Lewises were supposed to travel back to the United
States for a summer break. The day before, Oscar was requested to appear at the
57
office of the Cuban Foreign Minister, Dr. Raúl Roa. He was informed that the
government had decided to suspend the research project. The reasons given
included accepting support from the Ford Foundation, hiring “nonintegrated” local
typists, using the Israeli diplomatic pouch for sending documents to the United
States, and interviewing subjects that were situated outside the scope of the original
agreement. These ranged from members of the Army and the Communist Party to
middle-class families and counterrevolutionaries. According to Ruth Lewis,
someone she identified as Mr. X had approached the team a few months before,
offering to share the experiences of his family. They interviewed Mr. X, who voiced
a strong opposition to the revolution, and also met with his wife. Apparently, a high-
ranking government official who was related to family X felt threatened by the
possibility that some of his own sexual indiscretions would be revealed during an
interview. This official happened to be a close friend of Manuel Piñeiro Losada,
head of Cuban State Security, who had opposed the project since its inception by
expressing serious doubts about the nature of Oscar Lewis’ connections with the
Ford Foundation. A combination of ideological prejudices from the Cuban side and
political naiveté on the part of the American anthropologists had created a very
delicate situation for the team.
Lewis protested all charges and requested a personal meeting with Castro to
clear out any misunderstandings. After leaving Roa’s office, Oscar Lewis went back
to the team headquarters, accompanied by a group of State Security agents. They
confiscated all tapes, manuscripts, photographs and charts stored in the main office,
58
in the Lewises’s residence, and in the staff house. The equivalent of 35,000 pages of
raw data was lost. Copies of some of this material had already been taken to the
United States by the researchers on previous trips, and a token fraction of the
confiscated papers was eventually returned to them. Nonetheless, the project
suffered a substantial net loss, and had been halted at its mid-point. Oscar Lewis
was formally accused of spying for the CIA, and all foreign members of the team
were politely asked to leave the country.
Unable to communicate directly with Castro, Lewis was visited instead by
Piñeiro, who explained the charges in detail. Piñeiro told him that Fidel was very
upset with the harsh criticisms contained in two recent books about Cuba written by
European intellectuals invited to the island because of their liberal credentials
(Dumont 1970, Karol 1970). In the context created by these “betrayals”, Oscar
Lewis’s insistence on gathering “sensitive information” about the Party and the
Army was highly suspicious. In a second visit, Piñeiro praised Lewis for the
“thoroughness and patience” demonstrated in his interviews with “this
counterrevolutionary worm, Señor X.” Coming from a professional “interrogator”,
the comment was quite ironic. After listening to the confiscated tapes, Piñeiro was
convinced that Oscar Lewis was not a CIA agent. The Lewises felt obliged to
remind him of the previous agreement with Castro, regarding the confidentiality and
safety of all informants involved in the project. Piñeiro assured them that his men at
the State Security Department were known for their professionalism, and the
protection of all subjects was guarantied. “We are not fascists here!” he said.
59
A week after the Lewises left Cuba they found out that Mr. X had been
arrested for “suspicious behavior”. He was sentenced to seven years in prison, but
served two years and nine months, most of it in labor camps. While incarcerated, he
suffered from illness, beatings by other inmates, and numerous personal
humiliations. Once released, his employment opportunities were drastically reduced
and he lived under continuous surveillance until the end of the decade.
4
Oscar Lewis
was also severely affected by his Cuban experiences. Intellectual and political
frustrations, compounded with the physical stress of intensive fieldwork, had been
taxing his health for several years. He suffered from a heart condition, which was
kept under control by large doses of medication. Apparently, when Raúl Roa
presented him with charges of being a CIA agent, Lewis had a minor heart attack
right there at the Foreign Minister’s office (Rigdon 1988: 105). Back in the United
States, his condition worsened. On September 17, 1970, he was hospitalized in
Illinois and diagnosed with an acute myocardial infection. Oscar Lewis died in New
York on December 16, 1970, six months after his return from Havana and just nine
days short of his 56
th
birthday.
The Cuban government never changed its official position regarding Lewis’
involvement with the CIA. His trip had coincided with a very difficult economic
and political time on the island. Since 1968, all national resources had been geared
toward the production of ten million tons of sugar in the 1970’s harvest. This
campaign involved mass mobilizations of “volunteers” recruited as cane cutters,
creating a critical shortage of labor in other areas of the economy. On July 26, 1970,
60
Castro gave a detailed and discouraging report of the national situation. The harvest
had fallen painfully short of the ten million tons, and almost none of the other
productive goals set for that year had been met. A general shortage of goods and
services, combined with long hours of hard labor, fueled waves of popular
discontent. In this context, even friendly criticisms were considered a threat to
national security. Lewis’s work was perceived as espionage because it could reveal
the frustrations of the Cuban working class to the outside world. According to his
wife, the end of their research project was in part “the result of a general crackdown
on foreign intellectuals that summer of 1970” (Lewis, Lewis and Rigdon 1977-78, I:
xxiii). However, she also mentioned that some other scholars from European and
American universities were conducting research in Cuba, on topics like economics,
education, housing policies and institutional life. These researchers were allowed to
finish their work without any visible form of governmental interference. Ruth Lewis
concluded: “I believe it is fair to say that the sensitive nature of our research played a
large part in the sudden end of the project”.
In 1972, Castro's brother Raúl made a clear reference to Oscar Lewis in
another speech:
A certain part of the visitors from the capitalist countries – sociologists,
professors, newspapermen, sailors, and tourists – must be secret agents or
collaborators with the enemy information agencies. One North American
sociologist, now dead, connected to the Ford Foundation, established ties
with counterrevolutionary elements before arriving in Cuba. Once here, he
carried out sociological studies departing from the proposals he had made to
the Cuban authorities. He dealt with 327 informants, among whom were
militants of the Party and of the Youth [Union of Young Communists],
administrative functionaries, and members of mass organizations, who
unconsciously volunteered interesting data. There were also anti-socialists
61
and elements who are enemies of the Revolution who offered it consciously.
He availed himself of taped interviews, inquiries, conversations, written
reports, pamphlets, and materials he solicited about political organizations,
mass organizations, the educational system, and biographical data of our
leaders. And he even tried subtly to obtain facts about FAR [Revolutionary
Armed Forces] and MININT [Ministry of the Interior] (quoted in Lewis,
Lewis and Rigdon 1977-78, I: xxiv).
From the perspective of the Cuban government, Lewis’ unlimited appetite for
information was a crime in itself. His ambitious project had the potential to become
another dangerous exposé. In this context, expelling the team and confiscating some
of the crucial data collected in Havana was a bold move. Writing as a “critical
friend” of the revolution, Oscar Lewis was more “dangerous” than as an open
“enemy”. If his angered heirs decided to publish the results of the Cuban research in
the form of a systematic denunciation of the regime, this could be used by Havana as
extra proof that he was in fact working for the CIA from the beginning.
Given the enormous amount of raw material to be processed, methodological
as well as ideological and political factors should be taken into account in order to
explain why the final publication of these results took more than a decade to be
completed. The bulk of the data appeared as a three-volume series, under the
general title Living the Revolution: an Oral History of Contemporary Cuba (Lewis,
Lewis and Rigdon 1977-78). A Foreword at the beginning of the first volume
served as a general preface for the series. Each installment included an Introduction
summarizing the life history of the informants and providing some context for the
“autobiographies” that constituted the main part of the series. Ruth Lewis and Susan
Rigdon edited these “autobiographies” piecing together long fragments from audio
62
taped interviews conducted by different members of the team. A Glossary and a
Selected Bibliography were also included at the end of each volume. The trilogy
showcased a total of fifteen long life histories and thirteen short or partial ones.
Occasional footnotes contributed to the clarification of factual details by providing
additional sources and cross-referencing the opinions of different informants. Some
timid conclusive remarks for the whole series were provided in an Afterword written
by Rigdon and placed at the end of the third volume.
Four Men, the first installment in the trilogy, was based on more than a
hundred interviews with four adult males and some of their immediate relatives.
Three of the main protagonists were former residents of Las Yaguas, living in
Bolívar and Buena Ventura at the time the interviews were conducted. Each life
history was chronologically organized and narrated in the first person, with
comments by family members providing an interesting counterpoint to the main
story. Questions and remarks by the interviewers were removed and some degree of
rhetorical uniformity was achieved through the stylistic manipulation of the
translations. The second volume, titled Four Women, followed a very similar
pattern. In the Introduction, the authors confessed that the informants were not
interviewed for a study on gender but “it seems logical now, in the light of the great
wave of consciousness-raising on women’s rights that has been developing in Cuba
and in the United States, to group their stories together in one volume” (Lewis,
Lewis and Rigdon 1977-78, II: ix). Perhaps this editorial decision reflected the fact
that Ruth Lewis and Susan Rigdon were committed to a more explicit exploration of
63
the connections between gender issues and social change. Despite the obvious
symmetries between Four Men and Four Women, the life histories presented in the
latter were not centered on Las Yaguas. These four informants had different
socioeconomic backgrounds, but none of them came from the slums. The stories
collected in Neighbors, the third volume of the series, were even further removed
from the original focus on slum culture that characterized most of Oscar Lewis’
previous work. By charting the life of five families occupying the same apartment
building, the book offered a rich anecdotal perspective on how the revolution
affected complex social interactions at a micro level. In the early 1960’s, after the
original owners left Cuba, all housing units in this fancy building were assigned to
working class couples, most of them from the countryside. Their stories,
complemented with detailed observations of their daily routines and inventories of
their belongings, reflected the contradictions inherent in any form of upward
mobility in a socialist context.
The final publication was a monograph titled The People of Buena Ventura
(Butterworth 1981). Based on partial surveys and interviews conducted among
relocated slum dwellers, this book returned to the original questions posed by the
project. However, in terms of length, scope, and organization, the monograph
offered a clear contrast to the life stories collected in Living the Revolution.
Butterworth used aggregated data and quantitative analysis in his discussion of the
social consequences of spatial relocation. References to personal stories or
particular events in the life of the informants were used as examples in the context of
64
wider evaluations, with the emphasis on collective rather than individual
experiences. The material was arranged along general topics like marriage,
education, and community relations. Butterworth used numerous references from
secondary sources to support his interpretations or to offer a critical contrast to his
conclusions. In a sense, The People of Buena Ventura provided the entire project
with some analytical closure that was carefully avoided in the open-ended
“autobiographies” assembled in Living the Revolution. In his Concluding Remarks,
the author boldly summarized the result of his methodical evaluation:
Ten years after the triumph of the Revolution, and despite major efforts by
the Castro government to reeducate and indoctrinate the people of Buena
Ventura, most of the former Las Yaguas families had not lived up to the
ideals of the Revolution (Butterworth 1981: 140).
65
PART II: "THE NEW MAN" AND DE CIERTA MANERA (IN A CERTAIN WAY)

Understanding the ideological and intellectual fascination of Oscar Lewis
with the social agenda of the Cuban revolutionary leadership is relatively easy. The
interest of the local bureaucrats in the culture of poverty thesis, however, deserves a
more careful analysis. In the late 1960s the revolution was entering a mature phase
of its development and the revolutionary elites had embarked on a serious
reevaluation of their basic assumptions about the nature of poverty, social exclusion,
and marginality. In the early years, these problems were described as a direct
consequence of capitalism, and its total eradication under new socialist conditions
was considered only a matter of time. When a decade of radical change failed to
produce its expected results, the government implemented two parallel lines of
response: a campaign of international propaganda efforts to cover up the magnitude
and nature of this failure, complemented by a domestic program of popular
reeducation to transform the culture of the marginalized sectors. From a political
point of view, Lewis’s project was closely monitored because it could either provide
extra ammunition for the official campaign or become a rather dangerous exposé. In
bureaucratic terms, however, his study was considered valuable as a third party
assessment of a massive campaign of social engineering. Another “War on Poverty”
was in full swing on the island when Lewis arrived in Havana, and he was caught in
its crossfire once again.
66
Cuban bureaucrats were interested in practical information that could be used
to evaluate the central eugenic program of the revolution, designed to create an entire
generation of “New Men”, freed from the heritages of their past (Guevara 1968). As
a socialist version of old Western stereotypes of human perfection, the New Man
became an embodiment of all revolutionary ideals. “He” was envisioned as the
civilized, healthy, and socially conscious premium blend of a working class hero and
a Victorian gentleman. Always willing to serve the community and ready to
sacrifice everything for the cause of socialism, the New Man was promoted as a
positive role model for Cuban youth (Kapcia 2005). On the opposite side of the
political spectrum, the Gusano or worm, embodied all negative values and traits
associated with the capitalist past. Originally coined to identify the bourgeois
enemies of the revolutionary government, this derogatory term was eventually
applied to anyone who resisted or opposed its programs. After initial waves of exile
took most members of the old elites to Miami or elsewhere, the remaining Gusanos
were in fact members of traditionally marginalized sectors. Paradoxically, the
conservative ideal of an obedient good citizen was recycled into the socialist New
Man model, while bourgeois stereotypes regarding the deviant nature of marginal
individuals were incorporated into the Gusano label (Fernandes 2003). The Cuban
revolutionary government made marginality a political crime, an ideological stigma,
and a national offense. After all, if the revolution had eliminated capitalist
exploitation and this was the ultimate cause of marginality, any remaining forms of
deviant behavior could only be explained as a result of individual choices.
67
Clear cut distinctions between Gusanos and New Men were very prominent
as a rhetorical and pedagogical artifact in the discourse of the Cuban leadership
during the 1960s and 1970s. Up to a degree, razing Las Yaguas and relocating its
inhabitants was an experiment in social reeducation, framed within a highly dualistic
model. The team lead by Oscar Lewis was trying to understand the wider
implications of this experiment. These scholars were interested in the transformation
of Las Yaguas as a case study that could contribute to clarifying issues regarding the
nature of social change in general. Cuban intellectuals, on the other hand, were
interested in the eradication of Las Yaguas because the neighborhood had been the
stereotypical setting for all marginal behaviors embedded in the notion of the
Gusano. Razing Las Yaguas had been officially presented as an attempt to transform
the urban landscape of Havana while changing the inner life of their marginal
inhabitants (Butterworth 1980). If it was in fact possible to turn Gusanos into New
Men, relocating the people of Las Yaguas could provide the perfect opportunity to
evaluate the effectiveness of wider strategies for social engineering. At a deeper
level, the events could even contribute some answers to pressing questions regarding
the direction and extent of other programs and policies. In the revolutionary Cuba of
the early 1970s, poverty was considered to be either residual or self-inflicted.
Otherwise, at least according to the government, it was nonexistent. The same
official position was commonly extended to other forms of social deviance. As a
result, discussing the problem of socioeconomic marginality provided an oblique
way of addressing other forms of ideological exclusion.
68
De Cierta Manera was the first feature film directed by an Afro-Cuban
woman. Trained as a classical pianist, Sara Gómez Yera became interested in the
production of documentaries after participating in a workshop for young
ethnographers taught in Havana in the early 1960s. She started her professional
career working as an assistant at the state-run Cuban Institute of Cinematographic
Arts and Industries (ICAIC). Between 1964 and 1974, Sara Gómez directed ten
short documentaries on various topics and earned a reputation as a talented, albeit
controversial artist. Afro-Cuban themes and subjects were central to the narrative of
many of these pieces, some of which dealt with difficult issues or approached
conventional problems from an unconventional angle. One of her documentaries, for
example, deals with the daily life of young prisoners in a labor camp. The shock
value associated with her work was also a result of tensions between the content of
the films and the context of their release. She produced two graphic instructional
shorts on prenatal care, delivery, and breastfeeding addressed exclusively to first-
time mothers but purposely distributed in the theaters for a general audience. Sara
was particularly fond of exposing regular moviegoers to the daily-life experiences of
common people that were otherwise ignored in Cuban mainstream cinema. Her
feature film De Cierta Manera, was her last project. Sara Gómez died of an asthma
attack in 1974, during the final editing stages of the movie. She was only 31 years
old.
De Cierta Manera combines documentary and fictional narrative styles,
“performed” by an explosive mix of professional actors and common people from
69
the poor neighborhoods of Havana. The fictional side of the plot is centered around
the difficult relationship between Yolanda, a white middle-class schoolteacher and
Mario, an Afro-Cuban worker born in Las Yaguas and relocated to the Miraflores
neighborhood. Both characters are struggling with conflicts at their workplace,
which in turn highlight their personal differences, bringing into focus the most
intimate dimensions of a larger social change. As a teacher in the local school,
Yolanda is caught between her pedagogical ideals and the crude realities of daily life
in Miraflores. More experienced colleagues try to lecture her on the virtues of the
official approach to revolutionary education and the ultimate effectiveness of
institutional interventions. Yolanda chooses, however, to get involved with the
troubled students and their single mothers in a series of dramatic encounters that
denounce the negative impact of paternal absence while highlighting the
extraordinary contributions of humble women to the wellbeing of their families and
to society at large. These exchanges between actress Yolanda Cuéllar and the poor
women of Miraflores playing themselves are among the strongest and most complex
passages in the film. On the one hand, the adamant resistance of the young teacher
to follow the example of her mainstream peers mirrors the filmmaker’s own defense
of her uncompromising aesthetic and political positions. As an Afro-cuban mother
of two and a divorcee trying to juggle her professional and familial responsibilities
within a highly phallocentric culture, Sara Gómez seems to align herself with the
poor women of Miraflores rather than with the inexperienced middleclass
schoolteacher.
70
At yet another level, however, Sara and Yolanda share a certain distance
from the marginal population, an “otherness” based on socioeconomic background
rather than race. Early in the film, Yolanda is “interviewed” in front of her school
for one of the documentary-like sections. Answering an obvious question she says:
“How do I feel? Well, not very well. I graduated from different schools. Then I
came here, and all this was a different world, one I thought no longer existed”
(quoted in Chanan 2004: 286). Through Yolanda, Sara Gómez is chronicling her
own personal journey into the universe of urban marginality. Like the schoolteacher,
the filmmaker seems to be sympathetic but uncomfortable, critical but tolerant,
surprised but enlightened. Her boyfriend Mario takes Yolanda (sometimes literally
by the hand) into a whole world that he is trying to abandon while she is struggling
to understand. This, again, could be interpreted as an autobiographic reference to
Sara’s own personal relationship with soundman Germinal Hernández. Familiar
with Afrocuban religious traditions as a practitioner and personally connected with
the Cayo Hueso marginal underworld, Germinal was instrumental in introducing
Sara to a universe that she had approached mostly as an academic curiosity before.
5

Reading De Cierta Manera as the chronicle of a love affair between a male marginal
figure and a female middleclass intellectual becomes even more complicated by the
fact that Germinal did all the sound work for the actual film, under Sara’s
supervision. Ultimately, ambiguity of purpose, voice, message, and style are the
trademarks of this amazing film. As Chanan (2004: 285) said, De Cierta Manera is
“a prime example of the process of syncretism”.
6

71
While Yolanda struggles with her inner demons at school, Mario is also
caught between competing loyalties at his workplace. Humberto, a coworker and
good friend, creates a moral dilemma for him by breaking the rigid disciplinary code
of the factory, lying about it to everyone, and making Mario his only confidant.
Humberto had spent a week on vacation with his girlfriend and told his boss that he
was caring for his sick mother. At the beginning of the film, in a highly charged
scene, Humberto is trying to provide excuses for his absence at a public meeting with
all of the factory workers. In an outburst of violent honesty, Mario tells everyone
that his friend is actually lying. As a result, Humberto is sentenced to a few months
of forced labor and Mario descends into a spiral of doubts and guilt.
When Yolanda tries to justify his decision arguing that it was in fact moral to
put the collective needs of society before the individual loyalty among friends, Mario
feels even more misunderstood. He has been forced to choose between the
revolutionary (masculine) ideals he professes and the traditional codes of horizontal
solidarity that regulate what is considered appropriate (masculine) behavior among
members of a marginal community. Trying to explain his dilemma to another male
friend, Mario claims that snitching on Humberto was a feminine thing to do. The
friend responds by saying that it was in fact a revolutionary thing to do. Mario,
frustrated, replies that he is a hard working revolutionary man and that the
revolution, after all, was made by men. Chanan (2004: 291) claims that the location
for this exchange was selected to emphasize the historical dimensions of the conflict.
Mario is talking in front of a well-known equestrian statue of General Antonio
72
Maceo in Malecón, Havana’s most popular promenade. The ultimate symbol of
Afrocuban masculinity and revolutionary prowess, Maceo is shown riding a horse
with enormous bronze balls. The statue is, at the same time, one of the most visible
landmarks in the Cayo Hueso neighborhood and the subject of sexually charged
jokes among Cubans.
While the eradication of Las Yaguas and the creation of Miraflores provide a
sociological and historical background to the main story of the film, the ongoing
transformation of Cayo Hueso constitutes the most important source of visual
symbolism in De Cierta Manera. An enormous wrecking ball hitting the crumbling
walls of old colonial buildings still standing at the core of the neighborhood is a
recurrent image throughout the film, and its powerful blasts are an essential
ingredient in the soundtrack. In the opening scenes, dramatic shots of the wrecking
ball alternate with images of busy construction workers building an apartment tower
in a simple but effective reference to the dialectic nature of creative destruction as a
tool of social change. Rather than just glorifying the process, however, the film
seems to emphasize its ambiguous nature. A female voiceover accompanying these
images states, as a matter of fact: “In Havana, right now, a wide zone of solares and
tenements is being transformed. The old neighborhood of Cayo Hueso is being
destroyed and remodeled”.
7
Then, the camera pans along the houses in Miraflores,
while a male narrator establishes the confrontational tone of the film in more explicit
terms:
“But all throughout these years the revolution has not relinquished its fight
against all remnants of marginal culture. Five new housing complexes were
73
built in 1961 to provide shelter for the neighbors of the razed shantytown of
Las Yaguas. (…) This transformation in housing policy is just a part of a
studied strategy of integration. Along with education, increasingly linked to
productive work, these efforts are our principal weapon.”
8

The two main characters in the story are directly involved in this national war
against marginality, and throughout the movie their workplaces are depicted as battle
zones. The front lines, nonetheless, seem to run through and between the main
protagonists. The relationship between Yolanda and Mario represents the
articulation of education and productive work enshrined within the official rhetoric
of revolutionary change. With a plot centered on their conflicts as a couple,
however, De Cierta Manera provides a critical counterpoint to this optimistic
rhetoric. In the same opening scene, the narrators explain how a marginal sector has
emerged within capitalist societies as a result of structural limitations implicit in their
mode of production. Then, a text in bold black letters asserts that “After the triumph
of the revolution there is no marginal sector in Cuba whatsoever.”
9
A few seconds
later, the film shows images of Afro-cuban people idling around Miraflores while
police officers patrol the streets and goats graze in the front lawns. Then, the male
narrator intervenes: “But culture, lying in the deepest layers of consciousness in the
form of habits, customs, beliefs, norms, and values, can offer a tenacious resistance
to social change”.
10
More people sitting around and more goats are pictured while
the female narrator introduces one of the central theses of the film: “That is why,
even after the conditions that produced marginality have been radically transformed,
we can still study, in this very same neighborhood, the culture of the marginal
sector”.
11
As the sequence progresses, racial references become more obvious. A
74
series of close-ups alternating between smiling Afro-Cuban faces and shoulders
covered with prison tattoos is shown as the voiceover continues: “Being displaced
from the productive process, their low educational level and their dependency on oral
traditions turned marginal people into the most active preservers of traditional
culture”.
12
Then, the film takes us into a factory where Afro-Cuban workers are
busy assembling buses, while the male narrator says:
Lacking concrete experiences as permanent workers and a practical
involvement with unions or political organizations, members of the old
marginal sectors of Cuban society attained new levels of employment after
the revolution without an equivalent development of their consciousness that
would allow them to situate their motivations and vital interest within a labor
framework.
13

The camera follows one particular worker walking across a maze of steel
beams. We recognize the face of Humberto, and then we see that he is approaching
Mario, who is working on the roof of a half assembled bus. The music is gradually
replaced by factory noises while the female narrator takes over, “Against the current
political and social background we could sometimes detect some inertia and apathy
in the man of marginal origins, and that explains the persistence of some antisocial
attitudes within the revolution”.
14
Immediately, we hear Humberto yelling at Mario,
who is deafened by the loud noise of machinery. Using a combination of body
language and slang, the two friends make plans for a Sunday afternoon of domino
playing and rum drinking.
As a film, De Cierta Manera is organized around a complex dialogue
between the formal tone of bureaucratic reason inherent in all pedagogical
voiceovers and the vibrant nature of popular lingo. While the official discourse
75
deplores the fact that marginal people have become “the most active preservers of
traditional culture”, loosely scripted exchanges among the actors and the neighbors
of Miraflores celebrate the richness of that very same culture. Echoing the jargon of
Marxist textbooks, the authoritative voiceover defines “culture” as a mysterious
force: “lying in the deepest layers of consciousness in the form of habits, customs,
beliefs, norms, and values”. Because this hidden arsenal of established principles
“can offer a tenacious resistance to social change”, the reasoning goes, it is necessary
to fight against “all remnants of marginal culture” using formal education and
productive labor as weapons.
This film is an excellent analysis of the lives of marginal and middle class
individuals struggling with the new revolutionary ideals and systems presented to
them. As a middle class, Afro-Cuban woman working in Havana at the moment of
greatest changes within the organizational structure of the government and society,
Sara Gómez was in an ideal position to carefully critique the socialist agenda. The
film, however, offers no definitive answer as to the relative success of the revolution
and instead portrays a patchwork of mixed messages and contradictory images that
seem to show 'transculturation' in the making. The complexity of the main
characters, her use of a hand-held 16mm camera and black and white film along with
the complex mixture of documentary and fictional styles all contribute to the creation
of a strong sense of cultural hybridity.
Sara Gómez' ability to characterize the complex influences on people's lives
(from Afro-Cuban religions to Labor Codes) is even more astounding considering
76
the political pressures she was facing at the time. According to at least one author,
Sara Gómez was reprimanded and imprisoned by authorities twice for her
involvement with other Afro-Cuban intellectuals (Moore 1988). In 1968, a few days
before the World Cultural Congress in Havana, Gómez, along with 20 other well-
known black intellectuals, was called into a meeting with the Minister of Education,
José Llanusa Gobels. It was rumored that the group was going to present a paper on
race and culture at the Congress. At the meeting, the minister asked them to openly
voice their complaints and they each, in turn, expressed their concerns, happy that
"finally, the revolutionary government had taken an interest in the thoughts coming
from Blacks" (Moore 1988:309). After speaking their minds, the Minister told them
that they were all seditious and counterrevolutionary for even thinking of drafting
what he called a "Black Manifesto", and they were all banned from the Congress and
forced to recant their statements. Some were arrested or placed in labor camps and
others ended up in mental hospitals. It is ironic that this event occurred just one
month before Oscar Lewis was given the green light from Fidel to do ethnographic
research in Cuba. In spite of this silencing, Sara Gomez continued to make films and
risk being involved with other black intellectuals. In 1969, she was supposedly a
part of the "Movimiento Black Power", a group of 100 black intellectuals that
"defied the authorities by wearing their hair in Afros and getting together to read and
comment on Frantz Fannon's works" (Moore 1988:312). In 1971, the group was
discovered by the secret police and all of the leaders were arrested. After recanting
in jail, many of these intellectuals went into exile. But after confronting censorship
77
and repression for the second time, Sara Gómez went on to work on her most
controversial film, De Cierta Manera, before her sudden death in 1974.
De Cierta Manera is a self-reflective film that chronicles Gómez' encounter
with life on the margins in Havana. Her own inner conflicts understanding the lower
class world of her second husband, Germinal Hernandez, are played out in her film
in the fictional story of Yolanda and Mario. But the viewer cannot just enjoy
watching this love affair unfold because documentary segments with jarring
narrations interrupt the plot. These clips remind the viewer that Sara Gómez is there,
carefully piecing together her complex theories about marginality in Cuba. In the
ethnographic sections of the film where she has poor residents from the slums 'act' as
themselves, Gómez's brilliance shines. With a hand-held camera and a small film
crew, she was able to capture incredibly natural and heart-wrenching interactions
between poor families and the educational system. Yolanda, the teacher played by a
first time actress, is conflicted with these encounters. Being a marginalized
individual herself (a black woman), no doubt helped Gómez blend into this
community, but the film reveals the artificiality of this attempt. This conscious and
exposed self-reflexivity depicts Gómez's process of learning and theorizing about
life.
De Cierta Manera is the closest example of the development of a theory of
marginalization coming from within the community. Looking in particular at Mario
(Germinal), the Afro-Cuban factory worker, the film shows how marginalized
communities envision their own predicament. Through Mario's encounters at work
78
and at home, with other factory workers and his middle-class teacher/girlfriend, to
his interactions in the streets, with authorities, musicians, and Afro-Cuban religious
priests, a highly networked community is depicted, one where marginalized
individuals reflect on their actions and develop ways to explain their society.
Whereas intellectuals can convene and debate topics at a University, and the
Communist Party can deliberate over social life and programs at their congresses,
those at the margins of society are constantly theorizing about their world in their
daily interactions through repetition and continual revision of stories about
conflicting life events. It is through these exchanges within enmeshed networks that
forms of collective intelligence emerge and the marginalized communities show that
they have agency and are aware of it.

79
PART III: SOCIAL SCIENCE IN CUBA, 1980 – 2000

Oscar Lewis and Sara Gómez were both victims of contradictory national and
foreign government policies during the 1970's, known as the "African Decade", a
decade that began with a government call to control and repress the Abakua
brotherhood and ended with the Mariel exodus of 1980, where many Afro-Cubans
left the country in boats.
15
It is oddly coincidental that both intellectuals died rather
suddenly before completing their controversial projects, which focused on the impact
of the revolution on marginal individuals in Cuba. Certainly the topic and the
difficulties they had pursuing it had weighed heavy on their well-being.
From the 1980's onward, the Cuban government followed a less repressive
strategy in dealing with intellectuals who wanted to explore cultural life at the
margins of society. A new Ministry of Culture was developed with a mandate to
"manage, guide, control and implement the state's and government's cultural policy"
as well as to "defend, preserve and enrich the Cuban nation's cultural heritage"
(IFACCA 2006). The Ministry officially supported amateur and professional artists
and cultural workers and the publishing of texts about Cuba's "folk and traditional"
culture. This marked the beginning of the re-emergence of the social sciences in
Cuba. In the 1970's in Cuba (as well as in the U.S. and elsewhere) anthropologists
were considered "agents of imperialism" whose scientific knowledge only
contributed to the domination of the West over the rest. By belonging to a dominant
class, anthropologists could not understand revolutionary change (Grigulevich 1976).
80
The repressive apparatus of the Cuban government was able to shut out virtually all
social science endeavors during this decade. By the 1980's, however, the
government began to espouse a Soviet style "ethnography." They felt that a study of
different ethnic traditions would enrich and integrate the community (Bromlei 1978).
Fernando Ortiz' books were republished and Afro-Cuban culture was "rescued". In
the mid- 1980's the project of compiling a Cuban Ethnographic Atlas began. The
government essentially espoused Ortiz' agenda of selecting elements of the culture of
the disenfranchised and incorporating them into the creation of a new national
identity.
16
In spite of this renewed interest in Cuba's cultural "heritage", research
addressing the controversial effects of the revolution on various marginalized groups
and studies of ongoing social problems would not occur until the 1990's.
Anthropology as a discipline re-emerged in Cuba in the 1990's with on-going
attempts to locate a Cuban national identity (Martin 1995, de la Torre 1995, Guanche
1996a, 1996b). The Cuban researchers charged with this task were based at a few
academic institutions that were created during this decade. The Fernando Ortiz
Foundation, which opened in 1995 and is located near but independent from the
University of Havana, has an official goal of studying the life and work of Fernando
Ortiz and investigating Cuban cultural identity (Fundación Fernando Ortiz 2003).
Miguel Barnet, the creator and president of the Foundation, oversees all of the
foundation's research projects, publications, seminars, and cultural events. The Juan
Marinello Center for Research and Development of Cuban Culture opened in 1996
and also offers courses and workshops on Cuban culture and directs social research
81
projects. The Anthropology Center focuses on a study of archaeology and ethnology
and also opened around the same time.
These cultural centers, although focused on nationalist goals, often did not
have appropriate financial backing from the Cuban state. Throughout the decade,
and up until today, they have become hosts to foreign researchers who provide
monetary support in return for visas and guidance. (My own dissertation research
would not have been possible without the support of the Fernando Ortiz Foundation.)
These foreign scholars brought with them the theoretical concerns of postmodernism,
post-colonialism, feminism, etc. and were overall skeptical of the dichotomous pro-
socialist or pro-capitalist agendas of previous scholars. As indicated by Hernandez-
Reguant in a recent compilation of articles about Cuba by foreign scholars in the
Journal of Latin American Anthropology, this new wave of researchers
directed their attention to issues of representation and ideology, subjectivity
and citizenship, social difference and cultural circulation within the
framework of the new economic reforms. Their work disrupted revolutionary
silences concerning racial and sexual inequality as well as U.S. claims of
capitalist teleology, painting a nuanced picture of life on the island and
offering alternative readings of polarized historiographies (2005:300).

During the decade of the 1990's publications flourished concerning the status
of various traditionally marginalized groups of people and how they had fared as a
result of the revolutionary attempts to achieve social equality. Assessments of the
Cuban Women's Federation fight for sexual equality (Molyneux 1996) and concerns
about gender and social change emerged (Stoner and Serrano Pérez 2000, Smith and
Padula 1996 and Jennissen and Lundy 2001). Sexuality (Padula 1996, Strout 1996,
Bell 1990), prostitution (Schwartz 1997, Fusco 1998, Facio 1998, Fernández 1999),
82
and homosexuality (Leiner 1994, Lumsden 1996) during the "Special Period" were
debated. Scholars examined race and black power movements in revolutionary Cuba
(McGarrity 1992, Moore 1995, Daniel 2000, de la Fuente 2001).
Classic works on Afro-Cuban religions by Fernando Ortiz (1995 [1947]) and
Rómulo Lachatañeré (1995 [1942]) continued to be republished and some of their
unpublished manuscripts were published (Ortiz 2000). New texts on religious
traditions flourished throughout the decade (Bolivar Aróstegui 1990, Moore 1997,
Bolivar Aróstegui and González Díaz de Villegas 1998, Arce Burguera and Ferrer
Castro 1999). Many of these texts were written by or in collaboration with initiated
Afro-Cuban practitioners such as paleros, santeros, and babalawos (Millet 1993,
Güerere 1993, Fernández Robaina 1994, and Espinosa and Piñero 1997) and some
authors even signed their texts with the African names given to them during
initiation (Pedroso/Ogun Tola 1995). Whereas before the 1990s, scholars denied
their involvement in Afro-Cuban religions, after the 1990s many proudly announced
their initiation credentials and priesthood status. In spite of this influx of scholarship
on Afro-Cuban religions and specific marginalized groups in Cuba, there was a
noticeable lack of writings about the lives of the urban poor. Cuban researchers have
even argued that "poverty" does not exist in Cuba and that there are just "at risk" or
"vulnerable" segments of the population (Ferriol Muruaga et al. 1998).

83
PART IV: THE SOLAR: A HOME BASE FOR MY RESEARCH

I arrived in Havana in May 1999 with a desire to better understand how the
urban poor have managed to survive the economic crisis of the 1990's. Aware of
improvements in housing, education and health brought about by revolutionary
programs, in the countryside in particular, I wanted to assess the urban situation. I
knew that networks of extended families and fictive religious kin factored greatly
into survival strategies, but not how or to what extent they spread into State
institutions and private firms, nationally and internationally. A study of networks
would be the best way to understand the poor.
In order to find a base for operations, I looked at housing strategies for the
poor, which primarily fell into two categories: slums (shantytowns and squatter
settlements), which are located on the outskirts of the city and tenements (popularly
known as solares), which are physically integrated into the city. As slums are more
homogenous (concentrated poverty) and segregated from the city proper, I felt that
solares would be a better location from which to study social networking. Also,
9.4% of Havana's population lives in solares whereas only 3.3% live in slums
(Coyula and Hamberg 2003:13).
Although the city of Havana was founded in 1519 and still contains many
colonial buildings, most structures are under 100 years old. Unlike most Latin
American cities that have a few wealthy families standing out amongst a sea of poor,
Havana has always had a large lower–middle class population. As the city grew, the
84
very wealthy moved further West to the posh, beach front areas of Vedado and
Mirimar and left their mansions in the city's center which were subdivided into
tenements. With the revolution, many of the city's middle class and wealthy families
went into exile and their homes were also divided and given to low-income residents
or migrants to Havana. With the enactment of the Urban Reform Law of 1960,
anyone residing in an apartment or home automatically became the owner of the
property. Thus, many people squatted in vacant lots and became permanent
inhabitants. Today, when new apartments are built in Havana, they are given to a
mix of residents, ranging from state employees (white and blue collar) to residents of
slums and temporary shelters. As a consequence of this geographic heterogeneity of
Havana, the poor are relatively invisible. They live is solares masked by classical
facades and are embedded in, not segregated from, the social fabric of urban life.
This solar housing structure, which constitutes a very particular kind of
cultural and architectural ghetto, was established in Havana by the middle of the 19th
century. There are three types of solares in Havana known by the terms ciudadela,
cuartería, and casa de vecinidad. Ciudadelas are a single or double row of rooms
built around a narrow courtyard. They were originally used as housing for men from
rural areas who worked in Havana during the week. Cuarterías are large mansions,
hotels, or boarding houses that have been subdivided into rooms for approximately
60 families. Casa de vecinidad is a small, subdivided house with around 10 to 15
rooms. Generally not considered a solar, but rather an apartment complex, pasajes
are similar to ciudadelas in that they are a double row of dwellings, but they open to
85
the street at both ends and each unit is usually more than one room with separate
dining, bedroom, and bathrooms. The three types of solares generally consist of
single room units with shared bathrooms, showers, and courtyard and one
passageway leading to the street. Although solares usually do not have running
water and have minimal sanitary installations, they are continuously being improved
and expanded. Solares are considered improvised units, and when residents find
building materials, they add divisions in the main room, or a barbacoa which is a
loft-like structure built a few feet below the ceiling to create a short second floor.
These wood platforms are often very unsafe and hot, but they usually hold beds and
increase the privacy of residents.
In Havana, there are approximately 7,000 solares with a total of 60, 754
units. They represent three-fourths of all of the solares in Cuba. The average
household size in Havana in 1995 was 3.43 (Benítez Pérez 1999). Central Havana is
one of five municipalities with the worst housing conditions in the province of
Havana, with 40-47% of its units considered to be in poor condition (Coyula and
Hamberg 2003). The barrio of Cayo Hueso, in particular, is the most populated but
also more economically heterogeneous and the recipient of much international aid. It
is home to very upscale resources and contains the luxurious Habana Libre Hotel,
numerous tourist restaurants and nightclubs, and the well-equipped hospital
Hermanos Amejeida. The first "Neighborhood Transformation Workshops" was
piloted in Cayo Hueso in 1988. With money from international NGO's such as
OXFAM-Canada and UNICEF, the entire neighborhood was targeted for
86
rehabilitation. After a thorough inventory of the area, residents could buy
inexpensive building materials to repair their own homes and government agencies
were responsible for improvement of neighborhood infrastructure. 10,000 units were
repaired and schools, health facilities, streets and sidewalks were upgraded (Coyula
and Hamberg 2003:28). By targeting the entire neighborhood, the project hoped to
increase self-esteem and a sense of local identity. A study conducted after the
renovations indicated that, in comparison with other barrios, Cayo Hueso had less
severely damaged housing and improved health among the elderly (Spiegel et. al.
2003). According to Yassi, one of the researchers involved in the evaluation,
The area has one pivotal strength: the community itself. It’s so strong, the
social capital that exists in that community. I found myself saying at one
point: ‘I wish I brought my kids up here’. And this is an inner-city
community that’s the most crowded community in all Cuba (quoted in
Campbell 2001).

The heterogeneous nature of Cayo Hueso's population and the residents' high
degree of social capital made it an opportune place to study social networking. I was
fortunate in that during my second week in Cuba I found a solar in Cayo Hueso,
which would serve as a home base for my research. An investigator at the Fernando
Ortiz Foundation had suggested that I interview Mercedes, an Afro-Cuban dance
professor who was working on a project to revive rumba, an Afro-Cuban musical
genre, in Cayo Hueso. I had read about rumba and it's power to bring poor people
together and even promote social change within the community (Daniel 1995). I had
also read that rumba was played primarily in solares:
Solares, the large houses that were divided into crowded living quarters and
where poor Cubans were forced to live, served also as meeting places to
87
relax, play, and dream in song, dance, and poetry. (…) From the solares,
Afro-Cubans expressed their personal successes or failures in love relations,
satirized government practices, and gradually fashioned the dance/music
complex called rumba. Poor Cubans, both dark- and light-skinned, created a
music and dance of their own… (Daniel 1995:19).

Thus, I was very excited when Mercedes suggested that we meet at Solar Madrid to
observe the filming of a rumba for a culture series on Cuban television.
17
In this
haphazard manner, I stumbled into a world of music, dance, religion, and dense
networks emanating from a poor tenement.
I attended the rumba at Solar Madrid on June 26, 1999. After the television
crew filmed the rumba performance, Mercedes introduced me to the Baro family
who had served as a host for the event. The family was very welcoming and insisted
that I return to hang out with them. Over the next few weeks I met all of the Baro
family members and explained my research agenda to them and the concept of
fieldwork. They all had prior experience working with foreigners who were
interested in investigating Afro-Cuban cultural traditions and readily accepted me
into their home. I was not able to live with them as their homes were already
overcrowded, but I resided five blocks away and visited them nearly every day for
the next year.
Solar Madrid is a typical small solar, which would fall under the category of
solares known as ciudadelas. As there has never been a poll of the three types of
solares described above, it is not possible to determine how typical it is of all solar
types. None of the current residents knew exactly when the solar had been
constructed. One resident said that it was a publicly owned horse stable in 1890.
88
Another resident denied this. It is likely, however, that the individual units were
constructed in 1915-1920 when there was an influx of migration from the
countryside to Havana. Solar Madrid had 16 one-room units housing a total of 57
people at the start of my fieldwork, although the number fluctuated weekly. There
was an average of 3.8 individuals per housing unit in the solar in comparison with an
average in Havana as a whole of 3.43.
18
There were 27 male (47.4%) and 30 female
(52.6%) residents, ranging from 1 to 83 years old. These figures are very similar to
those of the 2002 census that indicated that 48% of Havana residents were male and
52% were female (ONE 2005a). The ages of the residents broke down into the
following categories: 12 (21%) were age 0-19, 13 (23%) were age 20-29, 22 (39%)
were age 30-49, and 10 (18%) were over age 50. This roughly coincides with the
population of Cuba as a whole, which has a median age of 35 years (ONE 2005b).
Although these categories are very subjective, based on my own assessment, 51
(89%) residents were black or mestizo and 6 (11%) were white.
19
This breakdown is
quite different from figures for Cuba as a whole based on two contradictory sources.
The CIA claims that 62% of Cuba is black and "mulatto", 37% is white, and 1%
Chinese (2006). According to the latest Cuban census taken in 2002, 35% of the
population was identified as black ("negra") or mulatto ("mestiza") and 65% of the
population was identified as white (ONE 2005a).
Residents in Solar Madrid held occupations in a wide variety of sectors.
Twelve (21%) of the residents were infants/toddlers or school-age. Eight (14%) of
the residents were retired. The remaining thirty-seven (65%) individuals were able
89
workers. Of these 37 working age residents, twelve (32%) were unemployed and 25
(68%) held a wide variety of jobs. Six residents (16%) were state employees (bus
driver, police officer, electrician). One resident (3%) worked at a state-approved
cooperative (agriculture merchant). One resident (3%) worked at a private mixed
enterprise (manicurist for a hotel). Nine residents (24%) worked at private legal or
semi-legal enterprises (manicurist, raising pigs, bicycle taxi, santera). Fourteen
residents (38%) held illegal jobs (black market exchange of stolen goods,
prostitution, drug dealing). Many of the residents held jobs in several of these
sectors at once and were therefore counted twice in the figures above. The Cuban
census does not list unemployed individuals or those involved in illegal or semi-legal
activities so it is very difficult to determine if Solar Madrid is representative of the
population.
Having visited several solares in Cayo Hueso, I would say that the age,
gender, and occupations of the inhabitants of Solar Madrid are similar to those in
other solares. Most other solares in the area are larger, double layered structures
with more units and more occupants. Solar Madrid had a medium sized courtyard,
in comparison to some solares where residents have added extensions to their homes,
which protruded into the central public space. As many of the other solares in the
area were larger, their courtyards were also more spacious. Nonetheless, due to
these considerable generalizations, I would suggest that the residents of Solar
Madrid and their daily social interactions are similar in nature to that of other solares
in Havana.
90
I thus embarked on a study of social networking and survival strategies, using
Solar Madrid as my home base and starting point. My visits with the Baro family
members living in the Solar Madrid and travels with them around the neighborhood
allowed me to map out their net of interactions and spatial terrain (Chapter 3).
Looking specifically at health concerns and their solutions illuminated the Baro
family's interlinked connections with both the Cuban Public Health system and
world of private religious healing in Santeria (Chapter 4). Evaluating the choices in
life for young solar residents allowed me to analyze the relations between the official
education system leading to state employment and private learning opportunities
leading to informal occupations (Chapter 5). A close examination of religious
celebrations highlighted the ultimate value of hybrid networks and strategies of
living (Chapter 6). Using the solar as a base for my research provided a vantage
point from which to better understand the complex syncretic world of the poor.
91
CHAPTER 2 ENDNOTES

1
For a thorough discussion of substandard housing (tenements, slums, improvised units,
shantytowns, etc.) in Havana see Coyula and Hamberg, 2003. This report for the UN
Development Planning Unit (DPU) provides a detailed description and history of
substandard housing units and their occupants, and housing programs and policies, focusing
on the decade of the 1990's.
2
Unless otherwise stated, all details of Oscar Lewis’s work in Cuba are taken from his wife's
account of the events, included as a foreword in Four Men (Lewis, Lewis and Rigdon 1977-
78, I: vii-xxx).
3
His books were reviewed in several journals with a mix of skepticism and enthusiasm.
Fourteen specialists discussed The Children of Sánchez, Pedro Martínez and La Vida, in a
collective attempt to clarify some key points, with an interesting précis from the author
himself (Lewis 1967). In Culture and Poverty, Valentine (1968) revealed contradictions
implicit in the thesis and connected them with a long tradition of pejorative “behavioral
science” in the line of Frazier, Glazer and Moynihan. This book was also collectively
reviewed in Current Anthropology (Valentine et al 1969). Weaver and Magid (1969)
compiled an interesting series of essays dealing with the problem of poverty from a
multidisciplinary perspective. In 1966, the American Anthropological Association held a
symposium in Pittsburgh, specially dedicated to discussions on the culture of poverty.
Eleanor Leacock (1971) published a compilation of the papers presented at the symposium,
illustrating the ambiguous reception of the culture of poverty thesis. Winter (1971)
presented a similar compilation as a result of another scholarly meeting at Temple University
in 1969.
4
Mr. X and his family left Havana in 1980, as a result of the 1977 agreement between Castro
and President Carter regarding the release and subsequent exodus of many Cuban political
prisoners. Ruth M. Lewis had sent several letters on his behalf to the United States
government, and she visited the X family once they arrive in Florida (Rigdon 1988: 167-
172).
5
Information about Sara Gómez's personal life is taken from an interview with her son,
Alfredo R. Hernandez Goméz, on 04/24/2004 and from the documentary film, ¿Donde Esta
Sara Gomez? by Alessandro Müller.
6
I would suggest that the best way to read this film is, as Chanan has, as an excellent
example of syncretism (2004). Many critics see this piece as a film about gender
(McGillivray 1998, Reid 1991) or race (Ebrahim 1998). I believe that it is a syncretic
depiction of life on the margins, that cannot be reduced to any essential category, but rather
shows the complexity of life in a certain way.
7
“En la Habana, en estos momentos, una amplia zona de solares y cuarterías se transforma.
Se destruye y se remodela el viejo barrio de Cayo Hueso.”
92

8
“Pero durante estos años la revolución no ha dejado de actuar contra todo resto de cultura
marginal. En 1961 se construyeron cinco repartos nuevos para alojar a los vecinos del
desaparecido barrio insalubre de Las Yaguas. (…) todo es parte del cambio habitacional
dentro de una estudiada estrategia de integración. Paralelamente a la educación, cada día más
íntimamente ligada al trabajo, constituye nuestra arma principal.
9
“Después del triunfo de la revolución no existe en Cuba sector marginal alguno”
10
“Pero la cultura que vive en los planos más profundos de la conciencia en forma de
hábitos, costumbres, creencias, normas, valores, puede mantener una tenaz resistencia a los
cambios sociales.”
11
“Por eso, aún después de haber sido radicalmente transformadas las condiciones que
dieron lugar al marginalismo, nosotros, en estos mismos repartos podemos todavía estudiar
la cultura del sector que en ellas se formó”
12
“Desplazados del proceso de producción, su bajo nivel educacional y su dependencia de
las tradiciones orales, hicieron que los marginales fueran los más activos conservadores de la
cultura tradicional”.
13
“La falta de una experiencia concreta de trabajo habitual y de una práctica sindical y
política, hizo que el antiguo sector marginal de la sociedad cubana arribase a las
posibilidades laborales dentro de la revolución sin un desarrollo de la conciencia como para
que sus intereses vitales y motivaciones estuvieran situados dentro del marco del trabajo”
14
“Frente a los intereses sociales y políticos de la época, a veces podemos percibir cierta
inercia y desinterés en el hombre de antigua procedencia marginal, lo que explica la
permanencia de algunas actitudes antisociales dentro de la revolución”.
15
See "Black Cuba in the "African Decade", Chapter 19 of Carlos Moore's Castro, The
Black, and Africa (1988) for a detailed outline of government policies during the 1970's
within Cuba as well as the country's interventions in Africa which shaped the way race was
understood or ignored in Cuba. This controversial book outlines the harsh consequences of
the revolutionary government's policies of systematically denying that racism exists in Cuba.
Moore describes how all Afro-Cuban religions were repressed by the government in the
1960's, causing them to go further underground. As this tactic made it harder to control the
practices, the government changed their policies and in the 1970's chose to only openly
repress the Abakua sect, which was considered a focus of "criminality and juvenile
delinquency" (Moore 1988: 102 and 304). The "Mariel Boatlift" or "Mariel Exodus" is
named as such because in a period of 7 months in 1980, 125,000 Cubans left the country in
boats from the Mariel harbor. Although leaving Cuba as political refugees, Fidel Castro
reported that they were "delinquents, criminals, homosexuals, the mentally ill, and social
undesirables" (Hufker and Cavender, 1990). As a group, the Mariel immigrants had lower
incomes and were "darker" than the Cuban immigrants who arrived in the 1960's. For more
on race and adaptation of these immigrants in Florida see Skop (2001) and Portes, Stepick
and Truelove (1986).
93

16
As an unintended consequence of the new availability of these texts, religious priests
incorporated Fernando Ortiz into their religious practices and theories.
17
For a detailed description of this event see Chapter 6.
18
In estimating these figures, I did not count the one unit in the middle of the solar which is
the size of a closet and only recently became the home for one resident.
19
As indicated in footnote 2 of Chapter 1, race is a very elusive category.
94
CHAPTER 3: SOLAR SYSTEMS

For more than a century, urban marginality in Cuba has been associated with
the solar. Solar residents are predominantly Afro-Cuban women and their children
who survive literally at the margins of the socialist sphere, through an intricate web
of religious, “criminal,” and ethnic solidarity, in flagrant contradiction with the so
called “principles of the Revolution”. At various moments in Cuba’s history, the
government has tried to eradicate the solar and “better incorporate” its occupants
into mainstream society. This stemmed partly from a belief that the inhabitants’
behaviors and mere presence would contradict the “pure” goals of the nation.
In this stressful atmosphere, the family plays a central role as a productive
and reproductive unit. Collective survival strategies are strongly linked to family
commitment and kinship solidarity. Basic needs are fulfilled through the mutual
exploitation of filial networks, and the idea of (individual) economic independence is
overwhelmingly absent. Personal success depends upon the extension and depth of
kin-like connections. The logic of daily life is intertwined in a web of mutual
commitments. Asymmetries in the distribution of “personal” wealth are reduced
through a complicated system of small services and “gift” exchanges. Currents of
positive and negative feelings heavily influence economic relations among members
of the same kin. Relatives receive preferential treatment as clients of all small
“family businesses”. As a consequence of the high unemployment and
underemployment rates, only a few lucky ones make enough money to survive, and
are usually drained of any “extra” resources by sharing them with other family
95
members. Sometimes an entire household economy depends upon the stable income
of one individual. Since many of these “wealthy” people are usually involved in
illicit activities, their own survival and success also depends upon familial and
communal complicity. The cohesion of the group is not only a matter of moral
value, but economic value as well. For these reasons, trading services and sharing
things constitute the main elements that keep the family together in the solar.
The implications of theories developed around the idea of the built
environment as a social construction are discussed in the first section of this chapter.
In the solar, the home is not only a privileged place in which family values are
reproduced and household decisions are made, but it is also the basic unit of spatial
organization at the community level. Many interfamily relations can be explored
through an analysis of the symbolic role of dwelling in the construction of the
physical borders between private and public realms. This analysis includes
historical, political and social dimensions related to the development of building
techniques, architectonic principles and informal strategies of the usage of space.
Continuous negotiation is the key to efficiency in the collective exploitation of the
central shared space in the solar. Here, the “economic value of the family” plays an
important role. In the second section of this chapter, I will try to explain how some
theoretical insights into the relationships between domestic economy and household
organization can be used to understand the meaning of the family as a productive
unit. Some scholars have portrayed informal market strategies based upon family
commitment as a cultural source of economic inefficiency, where as others have
96
considered filial solidarity a key element in explaining the financial and social
success of certain family business formulas. In the solar, where surviving is of
ultimate importance, the positive value of kinship networks is unquestionable.
Working together, these networks constitute an alternative web of social, economic
and micro-political pathways, whose analysis forms the nucleus of my dissertation.
The third section of this chapter looks in depth at the complex network of the
members of the Baro family and the spaces they occupy.

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PART 1: THE PLACE OF THE FAMILY IN THE SOLAR:
UNDERSTANDING THE BUILT ENVIRONMENT

Buildings, indeed, the entire built environment, are essentially social and
cultural products. Buildings result from social needs and accommodate a
variety of functions – economic, social, political, religious and cultural. Their
size, appearance, location and form are governed not simply by physical
factors (climate materials or topography) but by a society’s ideas, its forms of
economic and social organization, its distribution of resources and authority,
its activities and the beliefs and values which prevail at any one period of
time.
Anthony D. King (1980:193)

Solar Madrid, which is located in the Cayo Hueso neighborhood, a few blocks from
the famous Habana Libre Hotel, could be considered an emblematic example the
solar housing design known as ciudadela. The entrance looks like a door to a house,
providing a facade of normalcy (Figure 7). Once inside, the 16 units are organized
in a rectangle, facing a central courtyard (Figure 8). The shared area in the middle
has places to wash and hang clothes, several drains used to dump dirty water and a
small outhouse with two public toilets (Figure 9). Each apartment has a few tanks of
water, in the front or on the roof, which are filled twice a week from a pipe truck
provided by the government (Photo 10). The door to every unit generally remains
open to circulate air. An average of 4 people live in each apartment and all but one
of the families are of Afro-Cuban descent. Most of the apartments consist of one
medium sized room divided by a barbacoa or second floor balcony, which is built
into the first floor (Figure 11). The balcony generally has beds and the first floor
room consists of a kitchen, dining area, television, and at least one bed. Many of the
98
apartments now have a bathroom, but some of the tenants have a bucket for a toilet
to avoid using the public bathrooms in the middle of the solar. Because of the heat
and cramped living conditions, residents spend much of their day outside. Visitors
arrive at all hours: friends, tourists, manicure clients, or door-to-door salespeople,
mostly offering black market items.

Figure 7: Entrance to the Solar

99

Drain
Separate
Apartment
Separate Apartment
16

1

6
15
14
13
2
3
4
5
7 8
9
10
11
12

Main
Street

Figure 8: Layout of Solar Madrid and its 16 Apartments

100

Figure 9: Central Courtyard of the Solar

Figure 10: Water Tanks Figure 11: Barbacoa, 2
nd
Floor of Apartment

101
The process of social and cultural production of the solar as a built
environment should be the first dimension of any analysis of family-space dynamics
in this context. There is an abundant literature associated with the anthropology of
domestic spatial forms, regarding their relation to household composition, power
distribution, or family values. Carol Stack's ground-breaking ethnography, All Our
Kin, discusses survival strategies of African-American families in the south (1974).
She looked at "domestic networks" that extended throughout several households,
which had a constant fluctuation of residents. Family members moved around to
different households but still maintained their networks. In particular, child-rearing
responsibilities were shared and children were often raised in households other than
their own nuclear family, questioning its assumption as a traditional family form.
Extended families devised resilient responses to chronic poverty and unemployment,
which centered around exchanges between different households. These households
would join forces for food preparation and consumption, caring for children, the sick
and the elderly, and for the exchange of scarce household objects.
In a similar manner, the Baro family also had elastic household boundaries
and the 35 members and resources constantly shifted amongst 14 households. For
example, one washing machine was carted six blocks from its owner to two other
households every week. The purchase of food, especially the State-subsidized food,
and meal preparation always involved more than one household. In comparison to
the Flats of Jackson Harbor described by Stack, however, the solar space allows
several families to live in separate units yet sharing a courtyard. This close
102
proximity to extended kin facilitated exchanges and reduced transportation costs,
which were quite high for the residents of the Flats. The solar layout also facilitates
exchanges with non-kin families and the Baros had daily interactions with nearly all
of the 12 unrelated families living in the solar. Baro family members lived in 4
solares within a 6-block area. Frequent visits to all of these solares insured that the
family personally knew nearly 100 non-kin related family households. Although not
close friends with all of these families, knowledge of the residents' age, occupations,
and overall interests was an asset when considering economic or religious
exchanges.
Many architects have also contributed to studies of domestic space by
exploring non-Western forms of housing in their pursuit of alternative sources of
inspiration.
1
The analysis of housing design as a symbolic representation of deep-set
cultural structures has developed into an entire sub-field of anthropology. From
comparative architectural studies to discussions on symbolic power and domestic
organization, the role of the house as a nucleus for familial and communal life has
been a central element in any major theory of micro-socialization since the 1970s.
2

The gender dimensions of housing have also been explored from the perspective of
female sexual development (Hirschon 1981) and general life cycle progression
(Tobert 1989). Cross-cultural studies of sexual segregation as reflected in the
physical structure of the house, reviewed by Pellow (1988), constitute an entire sub-
field of its own. Trying to go beyond the limits of traditional structuralism, Moore
(1986) presented an alternative approach to the logic of space design, by considering
103
the built environment a “socially written text”. However, the multiplicity of
functions inherent in structural elements of a house, as compared to the “purely
expressive” role of linguistic signs, constitutes a serious obstacle to the application of
the model of human language in any analysis of the built form.
In trying to understand the symbolic role of the dwelling form, other scholars
approached the problem from the perspective of ritual theory. Strongly influenced by
the paradigms of phenomenology, the works of Richardson (1980, 1982) provide an
alternative explanation to the symbolic role of the built environment as a stage for
social representations in which reality is performed and constructed at the same
time.
3
In general, by insisting on an analysis of domestic and public buildings as
cultural symbols or social metaphors, anthropologists since Levi-Strauss have
opened a wide path toward a more dynamic understanding of human space.
Since the late 1960s, many well-known scholars have been discussing issues
related to the political economy of space as an expression of macro-ideological
trends in the history of the modern world. These concepts are now of central
importance in the social sciences. The influential books of Michel Foucault (1970
and 1975) on the evolution of discipline technologies, linked bodies and power by
means of the spatial logic of particular buildings designed to maximize social
surveillance. Anthony Giddens (1976 and 1979) explained the social reproduction
of collective values through everyday actions based on individual agency and solidly
grounded in spatial relations. He was interested in how macro changes, such as the
French Revolution or Industrial Revolution, affected simple daily practices. His
104
approach provided useful connections between the micro-analytical dimensions of
human behavior and larger trends of social “structuration” (Giddens 1984). Pierre
Bourdieu (1977) also discussed the influence of individual agency in space
reconfiguration through daily practices. He even applied some of these ideas to the
specific study of dwelling forms (Bourdieu 1971), clarifying many theoretical issues
and inspiring a very welcome renovation in the field.
By assuming that the built environment is a dynamic result of social
construction processes, anthropologists are now able to provide a more
comprehensive framework to ongoing discussions of the meaning of domestic space.
First and foremost, this idea opens a window to the past, encouraging the use of
social history tools to better understand the evolution of dwelling through time as an
expression of the changes in the value system of society. Several studies conducted
by Paul Rabinow (1982, 1989a, and 1989b) on the politics of French colonial urban
planning are among the most intelligent (and critical) applications of Foucaultian
paradigms to a non-European environment.
4

Most of the studies reviewed above are directly relevant to an analysis of the
data I gathered in Havana. From an historic point of view, two distinctive processes
of social construction can be isolated in a study of the evolution of the Cuban solar
as a built environment beginning in the colonial period. Originally this form of
housing was a result of successive divisions of a main building, or casa solariega
(Figure 12). Turning an old family house into several independent rooms for renting
purposes has been part of the solution for urban growth in Havana since the
105
seventeenth century. The pressures generated by huge seasonal fluctuations of the
urban population, due to the annual presence of the Spanish Treasure Fleet (Flota)
in the harbor, created a demand for semi-permanent housing solutions in a city
lacking any real hospitality infrastructure. As a result of a chronic housing shortage,
rent has always been relatively high in Havana, stimulating spatial improvisations
among homeowners and informal subletting formulas among the tenants.
Throughout the nineteenth century, the population growth of Havana outpaced that
of the available housing units (Arriaga Mesa and Delgado Valdés 1995). Up to a
certain degree, the evolution of the solar can be understood as a result of market
forces. Its particular architectural and social logic, however, was shaped by several
other factors and should not be considered a mere result of economic or
demographic pressures.

Figure 12: A Solar in Havana in 1914 (photo reproduced from Enrique Núñez'
Vivienda de Pobres en la Habana)

106
The influence of plantation slavery on the political and social culture of
colonial Cuba has been explored extensively in the last three decades. As an
important ingredient in the plantation formula, Cuban slave owners designed a very
unique housing structure, a prison-like kind of building called a barracon where the
slaves were locked during the night (Pérez 1975). As described in many original
reports (Fraginals 1978), the physical layout of the barracon after the 1830s was
very similar to a stylized blueprint of the 20
th
century solar (Figure 13). There are
obvious connections between the barracon design and several other panoptic
arrangements developed in modern Europe at that time. Through his classic
discussion of the ideological genealogy of architectonic devices of social control,
Foucault (1975) has shown how similarities in the layout of hospitals, workshops,
prisons and schools echo a deep concern with discipline of the body and social
regulation of public space. It would be relatively easy to trace the connections
between Cuban barracon owners and European hospital-prison designers in the 19
th

century. But a much greater research effort is required in order to establish a clear
link between the barracon and the solar as similar “order utopias” in the evolution
of the multiethnic Cuban society. Ex-slaves turned the solar into an ambiguous
combination of prison and fortress with their ability to re-appropriate space and
recycle power. An important sector of the urban Afro-Cuban community has been
historically confined to the solar as a result of discriminatory policies, but at the
same time, this community has found a particular source of “protection” in the
secluded space. Today, for example, it is very hard to define the symbolic role of
107
the external walls of the solar. Are these walls there to contain the “dangerous
bodies” of its poor inhabitants, or to limit the entry of repressive forces? In order to
answer these questions, a more comprehensive discussion of the social meaning of
public and private space will to be carried out.

Figure 13: A Solar on San Lázaro Avenue in Cayo Hueso in 1914 (photo reproduced
from Enrique Núñez' Vivienda de Pobres en la Habana)

A combination of symbolic approaches is useful to clarify some of the most
intriguing aspects of daily life in a Cuban solar. For example, in many of the
apartments that I visited, the distribution of internal space could be considered
“female oriented”. The main door opens right into the kitchen area, providing not
only sunlight and ventilation, but also an opportunity to see and be seen. Cooking is
one of the most important daily routines among the women-headed families living in
Solar Madrid, and the prominent position of the kitchen provides a public assertion
of domestic efficiency and economic solvency, through which women can confirm
108
their role as food (life) providers. While peeling garlic or potatoes by the kitchen
(main) door, they also have privileged access to whatever is going on in the central
yard. Women perform these little acts of domestic power practically in front of each
other, under a constant flow of mutual evaluation that somehow “certifies” the
normalcy of their lives. This particular distribution of space could be related to
“collective surveillance” practices, but also to symbolic ways of legitimizing the
hierarchical position of women as heads of their families, as providers of security
and protection, and as carriers of a very particular kind of “outdoor” knowledge. To
better understand this symbolic role of dwelling organization and design, the built
forms should be considered simultaneously socially meaningful and socially
produced.

109
PART II: THE VALUE OF THE FAMILY: HOUSEHOLD STRATEGIES AND
DOMESTIC ECONOMY

Diverse economic experiences in different cultural contexts lead to
divergent family forms, different family relations, and varied family
commitments, both between societies and within them, as well as over
time. These commitments can influence human actions in ways that
impact broad political and economic developments.
Gerald W. Creed (2000:330)

Recent theoretical developments in the growing sub-field of kinship and
household economic studies open a very promising path toward an analysis of family
dynamics in the Cuban solar. The role of the “ideal family” (white, middle-class,
biparental and stable) as nuclear source for the reproduction of mainstream values
has been seriously questioned not only from ethnographic or historic perspectives
that provide evidence of equally valid alternative models among exotic or ancient
cultures, but also from the study of non-conventional forms of familial structure
“back home” and in the present. Since the eighties, there has been an increasing
interest in the discussion of alternative family organization in the context of the
Western world that has been triggered by political, social and technological changes
that have affected biological reproduction, interpersonal communication and the
legal environment. Issues like gay and lesbian parenting-marriage arrangements
(Weston 1991, Lewin 1993 and Stiers 1999), adoption of children (Modell 1994),
and the proliferation of alternative reproduction procedures through “artificial”
fertilization involving egg or sperm donations (Hayden 1995), are provoking a
dramatic epistemic turn in the study of kinship and family. Less spectacular but
110
more widespread social trends associated with the liberation of women, the
increasing divorce rate, the redefinition of gender roles and the transformation of
household economy, also contributed to a serious reformulation of basic paradigms
in anthropology and sociology that could be traced back to the sixties (Bender 1967,
Yanagisako 1979).
The relationships between household economy, family structure and the
development of capitalism have been extensively explored from two divergent
perspectives. On one side, some scholars have insisted that the existence of strong
cooperative values based upon solidarity and filial commitment constituted an
obstacle to economic growth by limiting individual competition and efficiency “in
the name of the family” (Wolf and Hanley 1985). This deterministic approach has
been criticized for oversimplifying the dynamics of daily familial interactions and
for providing a Manichean representation of the household economy in accord with
so called “modernization theory”. On the other hand, Laslett (1972) insisted on the
unlimited flexibility of the family, whose organization and values are radically
shaped by socioeconomic contingencies. From his point of view, family values are
merely expressions of the economic and social context, and the interactions between
household members do not have economic value per se. Many anthropologists and
sociologists trained in Marxist theory have received this materialistic approach with
enthusiasm, and have conducted studies of domestic adaptation to major economic
trends (Smith, Wallerstein and Evers 1984, Maclachlan 1987, Casey 1989).
However, economic determinism is similar to cultural determinism in that both
111
provide insufficient pictures of the complex interaction between family values and
domestic economy (Goody 1996). Any deterministic approach results in radical
oversimplifications, limiting the analytical potential of the model by predefining
which of the two variables has a dominant role.
This artificial opposition of “economic” and “cultural” forces echoed old
discussions on the Marxist relation between “base and superstructure” or even older
debates on the role of moral versus political economies. Only by explaining the
mutual influence of family values and domestic economy through a more flexible
model could it be possible to provide a dialectic solution to these conflicts. Many
scholars since the eighties have been working in that direction. As outlined by Creed
(2000), these efforts included serious theoretical discussions and large amounts of
ethnographic and socio-historical research in the field. In order to move from the
previous dichotomist models into a more comprehensive and dynamic framework,
some scholars involved in the study of the “culture of domestic economies” started
paying attention to family dynamics as a process, instead of focusing on “family
values” as a result. This methodological reorientation evolved into an authentic
epistemic turn. By rediscovering family history and reinventing economic
efficiency, a handful of social scientists opened a promising avenue to future
developments in the field of household studies.
Family values are related to economic development in intricate ways that
cannot be considered deterministic in any sense. Evidence provided by social
historians reinforce the idea that family objectives and strategies, rather than
112
individual goals, contribute to shape the supply and demand forces in early stages of
capitalist development in Europe (Davidoff and Hall 1987, Seccombe 1993). At the
same time, international contingencies, natural disasters and technological changes
altered the market balance, and families adjusted their strategies or redefined their
goals to fit into new economic circumstances (Creighton 1996). For example, as a
result of technological transformations and market pressures, women were
incorporated into the wage earning working force in nineteenth-century factories in
England. This development produced a conceptual revolution in terms of family
values and household economic strategies. For many working-class families, this
was considered a period of crisis not only because of the threat that this new
mobility of women posed to the male order of things, but also because of the
potential effect of any supply excess in the Malthusian labor markets at the time. As
a result of these conflicts, not only was the balance of power inside the household
reshaped, but the strategic design of domestic economies and the whole logic of the
labor market were also transformed (Humphries 1990). Many social historians
studied these mutual interactions of cultural and economic trends in other European
contexts (Sabean 1990, Pedersen 1995) and in North America (Ryan 1981, McMurry
1995). The evidence collected suggests that it is probably impossible to produce a
single explanatory model that includes all of the variables involved in these
interactions, but at least it is clear that the complex nature of household dynamics
calls for a serious reassessment of any simplistic cause-effect link between family
values and domestic economy.
113
Following a more direct approach, some historians tried to reconstruct the
process through which economic changes are “translated” into a certain kind of
family-values discourse. Burgiere et al (1996) compiled a collection of essays on
family history oriented in this general direction. In his ambitious study of family
dynamics since the middle ages, Gillis (1996) connected economic and household
cycles using a transnational perspective that provided a useful framework for further
discussions on the construction of values. The results of such broad academic
exercises are undoubtedly biased by the magnitude of their temporal and spatial
scope. However, by relating changes in the logic of the family world with certain
macroeconomic oscillations that affected the Atlantic circuits of production and
distribution of slaves and other “goods”, Gillis opened a whole new area of
discussion on the formulation of household strategies. It will be possible now to
move ahead in this direction through concrete case studies, trying to link
transformations in family discourse with the short-term rhetoric of “economic
progress”. This micro-historical approach could be particularly useful in elucidating
the evolution of matrifocality in the Cuban solar since the nineteenth century. It
would probably not be possible to understand the complex interplay of these
variables by relying solely on contemporary data.
As Creed (2000) has pointed out, it could be productive to redirect the
ongoing analysis of the relation between domestic economy and family values
toward a systematic evaluation of the “economic value of the family”. Far more
than a mere word game, this idea enlightens the theoretical developments to come.
114
Assuming that family commitment and kin solidarity are based on a process of
flexible cultural selection among alternative arrangements (Harris 1981) instead of
being a result of “irrational feelings” or immobile traditions, social scientists would
be in a better position to build a model of the relation between familial strategies and
market economy based on dynamic mutual adjustments. This model would go far
beyond cultural or economic determinism, by presenting family values as plastic and
the result of historically limited arrangements that generate a wide spectrum of
possible household strategies.
The adaptation of domestic economies to general market pressures is only
one side of the problem. The process of household decision-making affects both the
supply and the demand ends of the market balance. Such a model is basically a
result of considering the household and not the individual as the basic unit of
economic agency. The immediate consequences of placing household strategies at
the core of economic decision-making processes are directly relevant to cultural
studies of kinship. The productive role of the family is definitely influenced by the
predominant beliefs about what types of interactions among household members are
possible (and preferable) in every concrete set of circumstances. If the possible
decisions seem to be historically limited as a result of budgetary or legal constraints,
the preferences are also restricted from a cultural-moral point of view. Between the
limits imposed by the written laws and the unwritten rules of “good” social behavior,
household strategies constitute a very particular realm, subject to restrictions but
open to evolution and change.
115
In the traditional microeconomic literature, the household constitutes a unit
for analysis of consumption decisions. Since the fifties, it has been obvious that
many consumers organize their priorities around budgetary discussions at the family
level. Only recently, some scholars started paying attention to the role of the family
on the supply side of the market (Netting 1993). The growing importance of the
small family business as a component of formal and informal economies justifies the
renewed interest of sociologists and economists in this particular area. Barlett (1993)
studied the “family farm” in the U.S. as a canonical example of organization based
upon kin ties that become more efficient and resilient by using “obsolete” managerial
styles and hiring strategies, in apparent contradiction with external market pressures.
This approach receives social and political support precisely because of the
perceived “value” of the kind of relations involved. Even after considering that the
use of kin labor sometimes implied the exploitation of women and children (O’Hara
1998), a nostalgic perception of the “traditional American type of family”
magisterially deconstructed by Coontz (1992) fueled the political legitimacy and
economic success of the family farm. At least in this case, the “value of the family”
constituted a marketable commodity.
In other contexts, the “family farm” formula has also been successful. The
small coffee producers in Costa Rica work under a similar type of kin based
organization. As studied by Sick (1999), this model becomes successful through a
creative use of income diversification strategies based on migration and educational
development of the youngest generations. Family commitment is apparently the
116
only link that keeps this fragile system from falling apart. Traditionalism is here a
“value” that contributes to sustain a modern version of the family farm. The analysis
of domestic rural economy in developing countries has also been carried out from an
ecological perspective. Netting (1993) associated the “value” of the small household
as a production unit with the cultural and environmental sustainability of intensive
agriculture formulas based upon traditional kin relationships. A combination of
ecological paradigms, ethnographic techniques and microeconomic reasoning has
proven to be particularly useful to understand household strategies and resource
management in poor rural communities of Colombia (Gudeman and Rivera 1990),
Belize (Wilk 1991), and Kenya (Hakansson 1994).
The value of kinship relations as a source of managerial innovation in
contemporary Japan has been commonplace in economic literature since the
aggressive presence of this nation in world trade made it obvious. By organizing the
firm as a family and encouraging workers commitment to collective outcome and
quality, Japanese business strategists not only reproduced ancestral traditions, but
also created a new management style that was exported as a novelty to other
developed countries. Of course, the export value of such exotic alternatives of
productive organization based on real or fictive kin ties is still measured in the
simplistic terms of economic success. From the anthropological point of view the
picture is more complicated, and a multidimensional evaluation of the long-term
consequences of marketing kinship is still unclear. For example, Kondo’s (1990)
study of the Japanese workplace is structured around the roles of gender and power
117
relations in the development of business management ideals through specific forms
of kin rhetoric. Her concern with inequality in a context of hierarchical familial
arrangements introduced a completely new perspective to the discussion of the
productive and reproductive function of kinship and family.
The impact of kinship culture on macroeconomic development has been
seriously reassessed in the nineties. Rothstein and Blim (1992) provided a useful
compilation of essays dealing with the anthropological dimensions of contemporary
industrialization processes. The contributions of Bruun (1993) and Farquhar (1994)
to the study of family centered entrepreneurial activity in socialist China after the
market-oriented reforms showed the impact of kinship prestige on the creation of
clientele networks. Old and well-respected families proved to be especially
successful in the new market context, and families, instead of individuals, seemed to
be the “engine” of the spectacular Chinese economic growth of recent years. Oxfeld
(1993) complemented these results through an analysis of family business among
Chinese immigrants in Calcutta.
The links between social structure, kinship and family have been explored in
the Caribbean region from anthropological and sociological perspectives. At this
point, the imprecise limits of both disciplines impede an authentic methodological
demarcation of the subjects. The complexity of the problems discussed and the
immense volume of literature accumulated, create an epistemological maze, which is
very difficult to surmount. Several bibliographies, anthologies, and systematic
reviews have been compiled (R. Price 1970, Rawlins 1987, Stuart 1985). It is
118
precisely the “unusual” role of the woman as “head of the family” in the Caribbean
that converts this theme into an authentic challenge, for traditional anthropology, as
well as for radical feminism or cultural studies.
Edith Clarke, an anthropologist trained in Great Britain, began an analytic
tradition of questioning the dichotomy between private woman and public man after
several years of social work experience in Jamaica. Her contributions to the study of
gender roles and family organization were based in a solid historical background,
and intimately tied to discussions of land tenure, marriage, sexuality and
reproduction, household typology and kinship structure (Clarke 1957). Her
combination of certain paradigms, coming from British structural-functionalism, and
some principles from the cultural ecology approach, from the Columbia school of
area studies, resulted in an intelligent piece of scholarship. The relevance of this
analysis was immediately recognized and it became a methodological model for
forthcoming efforts.
Practically at the same time, Raymond T. Smith published an influential book
on kinship and family in Guyana (1956). His training years in Cambridge under
Meyer Fortes, a specialist on the dynamics of the African family, determined the
original focus of Smith’s research on household cycles. But successive course work
at the University of the West Indies (Jamaica) allowed him to get involved in the
renovated wave of socio-historical revisionism coming from the “colonial”
peripheries in the 1950’s. Both Fortes (1949) and R. T. Smith’s (1956) studies on
kinship organization have been criticized for mechanically connecting individual life
119
cycles with changes in the household organization, and for their lack of historical
background. However, Smith’s influence among his colleagues was definitely
strong. He coined the term “matrifocal family” to emphasize the role of women in
the Caribbean region (R. T. Smith 1973). His efforts to go beyond schemes about
the “pathological condition” of the Afro American family, without falling to the
temptation of explaining every single aspect of the kinship structure based on
African influences, should be considered one of the best attempts at overcoming the
Frazier-Herskovits debate.
5
In a recent revision of his previous ideas, R. T. Smith
(1996) made a heroic attempt to synthesize the debates on pluralism, matrifocality
and race relations, by emphasizing the impact of class and race on the male role.
Under the influence of R.T. Smith, Nancie L. González wrote a series of
articles and books as a result of extensive fieldwork carried out among the Garifuna
of Belize. Her ideas on the role of the consanguineal household (González 1960,
1969), and her redefinitions of matrifocality (1970, 1984), together with original
research on sex preference patterns (1979) and the social meaning of family wealth
in Central America (1983), gave González an indisputable leadership in the field.
Peter Wilson (1969, 1973) moved in another direction, with an original proposal
based on the relationship between gender roles and social prestige that stimulated
further studies on the politics of machismo. It is not easy to sum up the lines of
investigation that opened after these pioneering studies. James Allman reviewed
some of the methodological implications of these studies in his introduction to an
interesting discussion on conjugal unions in Haiti (1985).
120
More recently, issues related with power, kinship, and social hierarchies have
been analyzed from historical to more contemporary perspectives. An article by Jack
Alexander (1984), another one of R. T. Smith’s students, deals with the influence of
power disparity and renegotiation of racial boundaries on sexual relations between
masters and slaves. In this sub-field, a monograph by Verena Martínez-Alier (1974)
set the standard for any future discussions. Her treatment of social inequality as an
important element in the social construction of sexual values, and her insights on the
relation between a colonial legal environment and gender issues, initiated an entire
line of research. Studies by Barrow (1986ab), on the role of the female as portrayed
in male representations, and by Lazarus-Black (1991), on the relation between
kinship ideology and law, are examples of a renovated interest in studies of social
hierarchy and gender in the Caribbean. Coming from a strong agenda of militant
feminism and postcolonial studies, M. Jacqui Alexander (1991) discusses how sexual
behavior is normalized through hegemonic discourse on “morality” in contemporary
Trinidad and Tobago.
Hilary Beckles, a social historian from Barbados, has reconstructed the
gender discourses in Caribbean slave societies as a result of twenty years of serious
research. Educated in Great Britain and engaged at the same time in social research
and political activism, Beckles published several articles on the articulation between
gender, race and class in the market world of the slave mode of production. In a
recent monograph, he condensed the results of those studies, reviewing the
contributions of other scholars in the area (Beckles 1999). From the initial efforts of
121
Martínez-Alier to the programmatic ideas of Bariteau (1992), militant gender issues
have been central in the feminist history of slavery. After Beckles, the myth of the
“black-poor-rebel-woman” as a hero of the active resistance against male-white-
capitalist oppression should be questioned, in order to include other key dimensions
of daily life, and other strategies of class mobility during the slavery period.
Debates about the causes and consequences of matrifocality in the Caribbean
have questioned whether or not this mother-centered household structure crossed
class and race divisions. In a recent analysis of matrifocality in Cuba, Safa claims
that mother-centered households grew in Cuba after the Revolution, in spite of
attempts by the State to encourage marriage and the nuclear family model (2005).
Although legal marriage has always been a sign of 'whitening' in Cuba, attempts by
the State to create class and race equality, along with an increase of working women,
has resulted in an increase of consensual unions. Safa finds that an increase in
women in the labor force leads to changes in the family structure via marital conflict
and an increased reliance on consanguineal kinship ties among women (1995). She
strives to remove the negative connotations of matrifocality and focus on financial
and emotional support that women receive from links to multiple kin as opposed to
relying on one spouse.
The possibility of using the “value of the family” framework in a socialist
context is particularly relevant for my own research. The Cuban solar, albeit
marginal, is still part of a self-proclaimed socialist array of legal and economic
variables. From my point of view, any analysis based on household economy is
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particularly important among the poor Afro-Cuban women-headed families living in
the solar. For them, kin related connections, extended family arrangements and
fictive kinship liaisons, are the major components of daily survival networks. Living
in the solar is, up to a certain point, surviving through connections based on family
centered commitments.

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PART III: FAMILIES IN THE SOLAR: THE BARO FAMILY

The economic strategies of poor female-headed families in Havana today are
a result of long-term transformations of values and continuous changes in the
economic context. Glancing at the life history of one great grandmother, Imelda
Baro, will help to understand the complex interplay of these variables.
Paradoxically, the overpowering presence of the state and the budgetary constraints
faced by the poor household members are fueling family oriented economic
behaviors that allow these people not only to survive, but in some ways provide a
source of reaffirmation and pride. Through daily survival practices, in a context of
continuous renegotiation of the borders between public and private realms, the Baro
family is building its own autonomous space. I will introduce the solar space and its
residents, and analyze the dynamics of family life that occurs within its walls. In
order to evaluate the impact of spatial arrangements on the reproduction of
marginalizing labels and subaltern identities, it is necessary to look at daily life
interactions in the “solar system”. From the rooms to the courtyard, to the streets
and back, a description of the circulation of people is useful for understanding how
power networks operate in the solar. The roles of windows and doors, the
redistribution of privileged spaces, and the regulations over the use of communal
areas and services, will be discussed as indicators of hierarchical patterns of
organization. The gradual disappearance of collective areas in the solar will offer an
historical dimension to these hierarchical patterns. The status of some complex
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idealizations, like “privacy” or “property” will be assessed in an attempt to better
understand the meaning of microscopic boundaries within the “system” and the
function of this “system” as a whole.

A. In the Rooms: Imelda Baro and her Family

Figure 14: Imelda
Five generations of the Baro family have lived in Solar Madrid over more
than half a century. In October of 1934, just two hours after she was born, Imelda
Baro arrived at Solar Madrid, covered in a towel and oil cloth. Due to a heavy
cyclone, her mother feared that the wooden Calixto Garcia Hospital would fall
down, and preferred to die at home. Imelda said to me that she was born with the
features of all of the Baros who descended from the town of Alquizar: a nicely
shaped nose, almost white skin, and large boned. Her light complexion came from a
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white great grandfather from England, and she was very proud of her coloring,
which has been stereotypically linked to sexual desire, physical beauty, and a
national ideal, representing the optimistic outcome of the merger between slave and
colonialist (Fernandez 2001). Imelda spent most of her life in Solar Madrid, moving
occasionally with her family when she was younger. At age 5, her parents rented the
apartment in Solar Madrid for 18 pesos a month and they moved to the town of
Caimanera because her father was recruited to work as a carpenter at the
Guantanamo base. Unfortunately, he got typhus shortly after their arrival and died at
the early age of 33. Her mother was pregnant with twins at the time and decided to
have an abortion, which was performed by an Afro-Cuban healer. Imelda moved
back to Havana with her mother, who found residence at the home of a politician for
whom she cooked. The family liked Imelda’s mother and gave Imelda a scholarship
to go to a boarding school, Colegio de la Inmaculada Concepcion, until she was 7
years old. Imelda remembered hearing the bells ring in the middle of the night
indicating that an orphaned infant was being dropped off next door at the Casa de
Beneficiencia. Imelda’s mother married a second husband who was a contractor,
and the family spent most of their time in a large house in the countryside town of
San Francisco de Paula, close to the home of Ernest Hemingway. They eventually
sold this plot of land, which was bigger than the entire solar, and moved permanently
to Havana in the early 1940s.
Imelda began to work in 1964 when her mother fell ill and died two years
later of heart failure. She worked for more than 30 years cleaning the hospital where
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she was born, until her retirement just a few years ago. Endowed with a strong
character and an energetic personality, Imelda constitutes the symbolic center of the
Baro family. She has raised five daughters and two sons from four different fathers,
each of whom successively disappeared from the picture (Figure 15). In the solar,
Imelda is widely respected for her roles as head of a family, arbiter of domestic
disputes, and occasional first aid nurse. Her youngest son Manuel, two oldest
daughters, Danya and Zaira, and five grandchildren also live in the solar. Members
of the Baro family “own” four out of the sixteen apartments in the solar (Figure 16).
The government officially owns all property in Cuba, but individuals do have a
certain amount of control over the property in which they live. Women in the solar,
therefore, exert an enormous influence on the local dynamics of daily life, whether it
involves the functioning of the family, the allocation of space, the practice of Afro-
Cuban religions, or fiesta organization.
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Figure 15: Imelda Baro's Family Genogram

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1
6
16
15
14
13
2
3
4
5
7 8
9
10
11
12
Figure 16: The Baro
Family Genogram
and Layout of
Solar Madrid
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Imelda has focused an enormous amount of energy toward ensuring that all
of her seven children have a place to live that they can claim as their own, an
extremely difficult task in Havana today. Not only does this free space in her own
crowded apartment, but it also transfers the responsibility and burden of feeding her
nine grand children and three great grandchildren to others. Her two grand
daughters, La Prieta and Jazmin, who could not live with their own mothers due to
lack of space, live in her apartment (Figure 17). But the apartment itself is to be
passed down to her youngest daughter Odelia who lived with her husband and two
children in Eastern Havana in 1999. In a rare arrangement, Odelia's husband actually
owns their apartment and if they were to separate, she would not be able to keep it.
Her husband had inherited the apartment from his parents, who had been relocated
from a slum dwelling to a high-rise building on the outskirts of the city in one of the
government's many attempts to eradicate poverty. Her husband also had the fortune
of gaining good employment with the state as bartender at a small bar frequented by
tourists along the Malecon. He earned money and respect from this job, which came
with perks, such as a weeklong camping trip with his family every year. In addition,
a sister in Spain sent money frequently, enabling him to furnish his high-rise
apartment with all of the latest electronics and amenities. He was able to become a
Santero (hacer santo), son of Obatalla. Many in the Baro family were jealous of
Odelia because she lived in such a modern apartment, the only family member who
did not have to go to the bathroom in a bucket. However, she preferred to be in the
solar, and lost her attraction for the luxurious apartment and her stable and relatively
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‘wealthy’ husband. Two years after I left Cuba she moved back into Imelda’s
apartment in Solar Madrid with her two daughters. Living a one-hour bus ride away
from the rest of her extended family in Cayo Hueso meant that she was essentially
out of the loop of her family network and daily interactions.

Figure 17: Imelda's Home, Apartment #15
Zaira and Danya live across the patio from Imelda in neighboring apartments
#4 and #5 (Figure 8, 18 and 19). On the first floor of Zaira's apartment there is an
old refrigerator, a kitchen area, a metal couch, and a bed where Zaira sleeps with
either a boyfriend or her son, Marcos, when he is home from boarding school on the
weekends. Zaira's daughter, La Prieta, sleeps and eats in Imelda's apartment due to
lack of space and personal conflicts. Zaira's apartment also has a built-in second
floor, but through a prior arrangement, this is occupied by Octavio, the father of two
of Imelda's children, Benicia and Odelia. Octavio is rarely home as he works all day
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long in a nearby agromercado. A small door, which is often locked, connects Zaira's
living room with Danya's apartment. Danya's apartment has two beds on the second
floor separated by a curtain where Danya and her (short-term) boyfriend Silvano
sleep as well as Danya's daughter Ynez and her (short-term) boyfriend Tabo.
Alonzo, Danya's son, sleeps on a couch on the first floor, when he is home from
boarding school on the weekends.

Figure 18: Zaira's Home, Apartment #4

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Figure 19: Danya's Home, Apartment #5
Imelda's youngest son, Manuel, lives in a tiny closet-sized room in the
building in the middle of the courtyard of Solar Madrid (See Apartment 16 in Figure
8 and Figure 20). Inside his little space there is a single bed and a television. He
eats meals cooked for him by his mother Imelda in Apartment 15. He lives in a
building that was formerly public space in the solar. Now only a toilet and drain
where showers are taken remain as 'public' space in the back part of his building,
although only a few residents use them. As all of the apartments have cement floors,
most residents close their front door and shower in their kitchen or the area closest to
the front door. When they are finished bathing, they sweep the dirty water into one
of the drains in the middle of the courtyard. Many residents now have toilets, and
those who do not usually defecate into a bucket inside the house and dump it down
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the public toilet in the central courtyard. This was the system used by the Baro
family in 1999-2000.

Figure 20: Manuel's Home, Apartment #16
Imelda has two more daughters, Benicia and Catarina, who live in
neighboring solares, one and three blocks away. Catarina lives with her two sons
who are in their 20's and occasionally a lover. She lives in a typical one-room
apartment with a built-in short second floor where there are two beds. On the first
floor, there is a tiny kitchen area separated by a wall from the living room where
there is a couch, TV, card table, and a pile of bricks and building products. A bucket
behind the front door is used for urination and the same area is used for showering.
Benicia lives in a tiny room of a neighboring solar with her boyfriend Ricardo and
his elderly mother. The first floor has a kitchen counter, a bed for the older woman,
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and a rocking chair. The second floor, which is about 4 feet tall, has a mattress
where Benicia and her boyfriend sleep. Since there is no room for Benicia' daughter
Jazmin to sleep, she stays in Imelda's apartment in Solar Madrid.
Imelda's oldest son, Maximo, took a boat to the United States in 1993. When
I left Cuba in 2000, Imelda asked me to try to contact him because she had not heard
from him in over two years. After much searching, I did locate him in Mobile,
Alabama. He had recently spent time in prison and had several health problems as
well, from years of working double shifts in a factory. He did contact Imelda and
even sent her money and gifts, which she appreciated.
As a venerable retired person, Imelda makes a living through selling peanuts,
fried pasta, or popsicles in the main entrance of the solar. She is afraid of walking
through the streets to offer her product, because as an unlicensed food handler, if
caught by official inspectors she could be forced to pay a relatively large fine. For
this reason, her travels are limited to the immediate neighborhood, and she only
ventures to “dangerous” sites to buy food at a nearby market or to attend a weekly
rumba event, frequented by religious practitioners and rumba dancers (Figure 21). In
this sense, the somewhat secluded area provided by the layout of the solar offers her
a protected environment in which she can freely sell her peanuts and also supplies
her with a handful of regular clients. Relatives, friends, and neighbors are Imelda’s
primary customers. In fact, she actually runs a family-centered business. Her
granddaughters buy the peanuts for her at a distant, less-expensive market if she is
too tired to travel. She has a connection at a paper factory and buys a ream at
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reduced cost. Her daughters glue together the paper cones that hold the peanuts and
the youngest children bring their friends in to buy them. With family support, a
great-grandmother can still actively participate in society in a very productive
manner.

Figure 21: Imelda sells peanuts at a weekly outdoor concert a few blocks from the
solar

During the last month of my fieldwork period, Imelda began cleaning a
nearby discotheque, Las Vegas, for tourists. In spite of her position as the oldest
member of her family, she was one of a few who held a state-employed position.
She earns 100 pesos for every 15 days that she works, approximately $4.00. The
money she had been earning from selling peanuts was no longer sufficient. But
Imelda was also proud of her job in a tourist establishment, a position often held by
‘white’ Cubans and one that offers the possibility of earning tourist dollars and perks
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for friends and family. On her first day at the job, she auspiciously found a 10 peso
note on the floor. Imelda also finds that she is needed in her family with her daily
“teachings” regarding herbal medicine and Santeria ritual preparations. She
maintains several potted plants filled with herbs, aloe, and spices in a small outdoor
area in front of her house which was not claimed by other residents (Figure 22).

Figure 22: Imelda, surrounded by grandchildren and neighbors, and her plants
B. In the Courtyard
Reminiscing about the good old days, Imelda told me about the
transformation of the solar space from community oriented to individually focused.
For most of her life, Imelda has been in the same little apartment in Solar Madrid
and has been living there longer than any other tenant currently alive. She
remembers the hurricane of 1944, which destroyed much of the solar infrastructure,
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including the two pipe faucets that used to deliver running water. The wells in the
ground became contaminated and were closed, and from then on water was delivered
to the solar by a wagon or truck. The floor of the solar used to be stone and a large
tree provided shade for the women to rest after washing their clothes on the two
washboards or for the men who would periodically cook a communal meal in the
central patio. The bathrooms in the building in the middle of the patio were used by
everyone and were kept very clean since they were serviced by the ‘encargado’ who
also serviced the faucets and sinks. All of the tenants cleaned inside and in front of
their house on Saturday. The ‘encargado’ turned on the five lights every night at
6pm and had everyone take their clothes off of the lines. At 11pm the front door to
the solar was closed. All of the neighbors showed great respect toward each other.
When someone in the solar died, music was not heard for two weeks. Over the
decades, this high level of communal organization diminished. The tree in the
central patio was torn down, the stone floor replaced by cement; the communal
bathrooms are only used by a few families and are rarely cleaned. Everyone has
their own clothesline and buckets for washing and used water is dumped down three
communal drains, which are often overflowing with soiled water. There are no
lights, faucets, or sinks in the central area and no one in charge of maintaining the
shared space in the solar. Imelda complained, “when someone dies now, the music
continues blasting”. Neighbors are self-absorbed and even contemptuous to each
other behind closed doors. The backstabbing gossip overflowed between cracked
doors and windows. La Prieta was accused of sleeping with the man in apartment
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#14, deflecting the blame from him and his mistress to his neighbor. La Prieta was
also blamed for disrupting the marriage between her cousin Ynez and Tabo in
Apartment #5, because she accompanied her to the house of his lover one night
when Ynez wanted to confront him. The family in apartment #9 disliked the new
arrivals in apartment #6 from the "Oriente", a popular but derogatory term for the
Eastern part of Cuba. With these ongoing fissions and collapse in lines of
communication, the central patio was often very tense. But with the severe
humidity, heat and overcrowding inside apartments, overflow into the courtyard was
necessary, even if it exacerbated clashes due to competing interests.
Imelda's daughters Danya and Zaira had two children each, from different
fathers who abandoned them. The absence of the paternal figure is a very common
phenomenon in the solar, and the Baro family has been essentially matrifocal for
three generations. Women “own” the apartments, run the domestic economy and are
responsible for procuring the daily subsistence for the family through the black
market network (Figure 23). Any minor repair jobs or even major housing
reconstructions are undertaken by women, who hire and pay for external help if
needed. Their occasional lovers, who eventually become fathers of their children,
have no responsibility for household improvements and only minimum legal
accountability in the raising of the children. The idea that men come and go but
women stay at home is collectively assumed as a “fact” not only at the level of daily
routines, but also from the broader perspective of the life cycle.
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Figure 23: Zaira cooks dinner in her apartment
Three of the four units in the solar occupied by the Baro family were headed
by women with somewhat long term male visitors. These men were significant
contributors to the household economy and yet they also benefited from the living
arrangement. As long as the relationship proved mutually beneficial for all parties,
the extended family members included, their presence was embraced.
Zaira earns a living buying and selling gasoline on the black market. She
stores a gallon or two in her apartment when they were available, sending men to the
street outside the solar or to the abandoned gas station and repair shop on the corner,
to wait for cars to drive by looking for inexpensive gasoline. She could earn a few
dollars off of each gallon of gasoline that she sold. The men she worked with were
usually her boyfriends and they would stay with her for several months at a time.
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In 1999, Zaira had reunited with Jacinto, the father of her son Marcos, for
approximately nine months. They had been separated for 12 years while he served a
prison sentence. After his release, he began work in construction and met a new
girlfriend, but a recent back injury had prohibited any lifting. He had also recently
fathered a child who had health issues. Due to a myriad of difficulties with his
current girlfriend, Jacinto had returned to Zaira's apartment. As a result, their son
Marcos son had to find another place to sleep on the weekend, when he was home
from boarding school. He slept in Imelda's apartment, which was already quite
crowded because she also housed her granddaughter Jazmin on the weekend.
Jacinto helped Zaira obtain customers for her gasoline sales operation and spent his
days sitting at the abandoned gas station on the corner. Partly due to the
inconvenience caused to the extended family by Jacinto's presence and his paltry
contributions, he did not last long in the solar.
Zaira's next boyfriend was Manuel Andrés, a successful salesman. He had
actually worked at the gas station on the corner when it was open and knew all of its
customers. Because of the trust he had gained with these drivers, he was easily able
to sell gasoline to them at reduced black market prices. Zaira experienced a brief
period where her refrigerator was fully stocked and her son Marcos ate well at
boarding school and was clothed with new attire. However, Manuel Andrés had
worked out of the solar before and many residents did not like him. It was said that
he was very open and talked too much, not a good quality when working in an illegal
business. Zaira had partnered with him before and told me that he traveled from one
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gas station to the next, taking customers from other residents. This time she broke
her ties with him because she found out that he was not giving her an equal share in
the profits. Zaira had considered the meals and clothes that he supplied to the family
as gifts to a lover and had expected him to give her half the cash he had earned.
Despite his claims of innocence, the entire family booted him out after just a few
months.
During a subsequent trip I made to Cuba in the spring of 2004, Zaira was
dating a man who worked in a rum factory. He was very popular in the family, as he
kept Zaira and others happily intoxicated. Zaira frequently complained to me about
her inability to maintain a boyfriend, and she blamed the spirit of her late husband,
Calixto Callava. Many religious cleansings and ceremonies occurred in her
apartment to rid it of this bothersome spirit (See chapter 6) who not only prevented
her from having a lasting relationship but also contributed to her declining health.
Although a devout believer of Santeria and the power of the dead, her daughter La
Prieta felt that much of her mother's problems stemmed from her excessive drinking.
Imelda's daughter Danya who lived in apartment #5 (Figure 19) worked as a
cook in a small family-owned (un-official) restaurant in Old Havana. After several
years she stopped this job, and on a recent trip I made to Cuba in 2006 I found that
she was now painting designer nails. She has a Styrofoam board displaying over
200 nails featuring popular figures like Che Guevara and Charlie Chaplin,
commercial logos for Cristal beer, and popular orishas in Santeria such as Elegua
and Yemaya. Clients could choose a design from her display board and she would
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paint their nails. A lawyer had seen her work on a friend's hand and contacted her,
requesting that she participate in a Cuban Culture Festival that occurs periodically in
Old Havana. The festival is sponsored by a German foundation and caters to tourist
groups that travel to Havana. She said that she can make a lot of money at these
events as she works directly with foreign clients. She also paints nails in the solar
but as competition is heavy from other manicurists and she charges more than
standard nail painting, her local business is slow.
Danya periodically had a boyfriend living with her, depending on the
household circumstances. In 1999, she had a boyfriend named Silvano who had
reportedly escaped a jail sentence in Santiago, a large town in Southeastern Cuba.
She told me that he was the only one caught in a fight with seven men and was
sentenced to four years in jail for peligrosidad, or potential dangerousness. A rock
had hit him in the forehead and he received several stitches in the hospital, after
which he fled to Havana. Silvano took shelter in the solar where he also participated
in illicit businesses and contributed to Danya's income. For a brief period he sold 22
karat gold pendant-like shapes that he would glue to a front tooth with a special
Japanese adhesive. The popular Nike swoosh sold for $8. He also assisted Danya's
brother Manuel in finding foreign clients at the beach who wanted to buy marijuana.
He stayed for over a year and a half. His daughter from a previous marriage would
even stay in the solar periodically when her mother had a foreign guest in town. The
profits from these unions trickled down to Danya as well. In 2006 when I visited,
Danya did not have a boyfriend, but her daughter had a one-month-old baby, and
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with the additional crib and mother-in-law visiting, the second floor barbacoa was
crowded.
Solar Madrid was marked by a constant fluctuation of other residents as well.
Solares around Havana are notorious for housing new immigrants from Santiago and
other parts of Cuba. Many people rented their solar apartment for $30 a month and
moved in with relatives. Immigrants from the countryside occupied three apartments
inside Solar Madrid, which often had fluctuating occupants, as family members
would move in temporarily until they found employment and residence. One young
couple in their mid twenties, Orlando and Marisol moved to Apartment #6 in Solar
Madrid from the Oriente and Holguin, respectively. Recent immigrants to Havana
often occupied unpopular forms of employment. Marisol's 22 year old brother was a
police officer and would stay in the solar every weekend. Orlando's brothers and
parents would also visit for extended periods of time. The residents in Apartment #9
who shared a drain, clothes line space, and a bathroom with Orlando and Marisol did
not like the increase in residents from the Oriente. Contributing to the dispute,
Orlando and Marisol earned a living by raising a pig in the patio of the solar. The
pig would often get loose and run wildly in the courtyard until caught by its owners.
The young couple also recycled bottles from a nearby hospital and filled them with
dish detergent, which they sold on the black market. Orlando drove a bicycle taxi
for a short period. Marisol also painted nails for 3 pesos per person. The family's
resourcefulness likely caused some resentment among residents in the solar. Three
months after I left the field an unfortunate fire killed six of the family members,
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including Orlando and Marisol. One of Orlando's brother's survived and he rebuilt
and remained in the apartment. When I returned in 2006, however, an older couple
occupied the apartment.
Residents left the solar under more pleasant circumstances as well. Zaira's
best friend Milena lived with her 83 year old mother Zita, her boyfriend, and her 20
year old son António. Shortly after I left Havana, Zita passed away, António was
released from prison, and Milena and her boyfriend moved to Italy where her
daughter lived with an Italian husband and two children. The apartment was left to
António who remained in Cuba with his girlfriend and his son. By 2006 however,
surprising everyone, Milena had returned to Solar Madrid and her son had returned
to prison. La Prieta said that Milena was a bit crazy and could not handle the
upscale lifestyle in Italy. It is likely that she was not able to survive without her
dense network of family, friends and neighbors.
In addition to the fluctuation in residents, apartment walls were frequently
extended and interiors rebuilt, when materials were available and appropriate
negotiations with the neighbors occurred. When the elderly tenant in Apartment #1
passed away, Federico and Dolores of Apartment #2 cleaned it out and rebuilt the
inside. Imelda had co-opted the outdoor space in front of this apartment with a large
table, which held her numerous potted plants and bucket for washing clothes (Photo
22). Federico and Dolores asked her to move her plants so that they could extend
the apartment outward into the courtyard. She complied but later complained that
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her plants were not doing well inside her apartment. This was a significant loss of
outdoor space for Imelda and her family (Figure 24 and Figure 25).

Figure 24: Apartment #1 in 1999

Figure 25: Apartment #1 in 2006
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The largest renovation for the Baro family occurred in 2001, when both Zaira
and Imelda added a kitchen sink and bathroom to their apartments (Figure 23 and
Figure 26). Each bathroom had a toilet that would flush if a bucket of water was
dumped down it, and a drain on the floor so that they could take a shower in front of
the toilet (Figure 27). Brick walls were built to enclose the bathroom. Neither Zaira
nor Imelda have tanks of water on their rooftops so all water has to be brought inside
the house from large barrels of water in the courtyard. Nonetheless, this was a major
improvement for both households, as the family was one of the last in the solar to
build a bathroom inside their apartment, contributing to the decline in usage of the
public spaces in the solar.

Figure 26: A short wall divides the bathroom and the kitchen area near the front
entrance. Imelda cooks while La Prieta dances.

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Figure 27: Close-up of new bathroom added to Imelda's apartment in 2001
In spite of the various tensions between the families living in the crowded
solar, the central courtyard was generally a bustling social environment where the
residents looked out for each other, guarded against unwanted visitors, and alerted
friends when hot items arrived. Police rarely entered the solar, but they often lurked
in the street waiting to catch a crime in action. When they were in the vicinity, solar
residents would be notified and would curb any illegal activities.
Manuel, along with a handful of men in the solar, would sell marijuana to
Cubans or tourists out of his room in the middle of the patio. He would often walk
along the streets looking for tourists to whom he could sell, and bring back to his
apartment to smoke. Usually, however, he would send younger boys out to the
hotels to do this more dangerous work of finding clients.
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More often than not, people would come through the solar with clothes, rugs,
or knickknacks for the home, bought on the black market. Miranda and Ileana both
traveled from one solar to another trying to sell items bought from dollar stores, but
in reduced Cuban peso prices, and then sold for a small profit. They would wake up
very early in the morning and stand in line outside of the dollar stores and wait for
the store vendors to 'sell' off certain items in their back storage that wouldn't be
missed. Solar residents tended to enjoy looking at these items, but rarely had money
to buy them. Sometimes they would refer the salesperson to a friend who they knew
was looking for a similar item. With this system, Cubans who only circulated in the
Cuban peso economy would be able to look at and even purchase higher quality
items from dollar stores. And although Miranda and Ileana rarely sold items to solar
residents, their frequent visits reinforced relationships between residents of three
solares in Cayo Hueso.
Although not seen in Solar Madrid, many families had small businesses
selling pizza, boxed meals of beans, rice, and meat, sweet pastries, or coffee. The
ingredients for these items, such as flour and sugar, would generally be bought at
reduced prices from the government run bread shops, where bakers knew that a
pound of baking materials wouldn't be missed by the state. Other entrepreneurs
would walk through the solar selling newspapers, brooms or bread and butter. The
Granma daily newspaper could be bought from government stands early in the
morning for 10 pesetas and then sold for 1 peso.
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Although the solar was a very social place, residents often went to the main
street to catch the breeze. Even Imelda would sit on a neighbor's front step every so
often to cool off. And some of the younger residents (age 15 to 30) would generally
spend a large portion of the day outside of the solar, working the streets, or visiting
friends and markets both far and near.

C. In the Street: La Prieta
Representing the next generation of solar residents, La Prieta, age 21,
circulates primarily “in the streets”. There is a complex network of gift exchange
among the residents of the solares in Cayo Hueso. La Prieta often ambles through
the neighborhood to different solares trying to loan her shoes or clothes for money.
She might loan a nice shirt to her friend who will in turn loan her five dollars. If La
Prieta does not return the money with interest to her friend in an allotted period of
time, her friend is allowed to keep the shirt. At times when she does have money,
she might offer it to a friend who will give her a piece of clothing of equal value in
return. By doing these exchanges, La Prieta reinforces her networks with her friends
and residents of other solares and scarce resources are shared within the community.
La Prieta and her friends also frequent Cuban discothèques where they can
pay in Cuban pesos and dress in their finest, forgetting their home life for a while. If
they have money or foreign dates, they go to the fancier tourist nightclubs.
6
La
Prieta often travels to the distant towns of Regla or Luyano to visit her madrina or
padrino, religious godparents in Santeria. Periodically she will travel to La Lisa to
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visit her father with whom she has a close relationship. As she is not responsible for
cooking and only periodically cares for younger children, she travels the farthest
from home and covers the broadest area of all other family members. Although her
travels require extensive amounts of time (waiting for buses) and some money, they
are well worth the effort as the visits reinforce connections with friends and family
members.
Young men in the solar, including La Prieta's younger cousin and brother,
also spent their time in the streets. They would primarily look for foreigners who
wanted to buy cigars or marijuana, which could be purchased in the solar from other
family members. They would also offer foreigners tours of the city or excursions to
caves in the countryside near Pinar del Rio. In their hotels, foreigners are offered
expensive packaged tours to the beaches and areas outside of Havana, but the more
adventurous ones often prefer to use a Cuban guide who knows how to find cheap
transportation to lesser-frequented areas. The job of working the streets and catering
to tourists is extremely risky and is generally done by those in their late teens, 20's
and early 30's. Imelda and Zaira rarely traveled more than a few blocks from the
solar. Before leaving for the streets, young solar residents would tell me, "Voy al
fuego" or "I am going into the fire". The reasons for referring to the street as a
danger zone will be explored further in Chapter 5.
There is an extensive amount of literature and rhetoric in Cuba praising
family values and encouraging healthy marriages. The manner in which household
chores and child care should be carried out is described and enforced through a
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“Family Code” passed in 1977 (Hassanbegovic 2000). Weddings in Cuba are even
subsidized by the government, which provides newly married couples a gift package
that includes a 3-night stay in a hotel for their honeymoon, kitchenware, and other
essential home items. La Prieta, and others of her generation, are expected to find a
partner, possibly have a child, and move out of the solar. As housing is a big
problem in Cuba, all young couples take up residence in the home of either of their
parents, chosen based on the amount of space available. Since Imelda's apartment
was quite tight, La Prieta was expected to find another home. Over the years that I
knew her, she frequently shifted residence.
Although La Prieta primarily lived with Imelda in 1999-2000 when I was
doing my initial fieldwork, she often moved in with other family members. When
her boyfriend Chano was released from prison in September of 1999, he stayed with
La Prieta in Imelda's apartment, as he had no other place to go. Two weeks after his
arrival, La Prieta's uncle Manuel said that he had to leave. Housing and feeding
another person had become too difficult for Imelda. Zaira, surprisingly, supported
her daughter's desire to remain with Chano, and offered her kitchen as a place where
they could sleep. The very next day, Zaira's kitchen was cleared out and a bed and
portable closet was moved from Imelda's barbacoa across the patio to Zaira's
apartment. At the time, Zaira's kitchen was a small room with a door, but it had a tin
roof that was not properly cemented to the brick walls, leaving cracks where roaches
would enter. In spite of these problems, La Prieta and Chano were happy to have a
place to sleep together. However, two weeks later, in one of Zaira's drunken
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tantrums, she beat La Prieta and kicked Chano out of her apartment, saying that he
had not contributed anything to the household and had not been working. La Prieta
and Chano spent a day wandering around solares in the area looking for someone
who was willing to sublet a room to them. By 8pm, they had settled into the
apartment of Catarina, La Prieta's aunt, who agreed to let them sleep in a bed in her
barbacoa, which was empty because her son was in prison. Catarina in part took
them in because she was angry at her sister Zaira, but also because she needed the
$35 per month that La Prieta promised to give her. La Prieta was happy to be away
from her mother, but complained that Catarina's food was worse and that they only
ate once a day, at 7pm.
Chano and La Prieta spent their days wandering the streets trying to find
money and food. They stayed at Catarina's for three weeks, after which Chano
disappeared for a few days, and La Prieta returned to Imelda's apartment in Solar
Madrid. It was rumored that he had been staying with another girlfriend in Old
Havana. A few days after he left, an espiritista told La Prieta that Chano had been
cursed, and that his other girlfriend had given him poisoned food. This transferred
bad energy to him, which confused him and caused him to want to control two
women. A few days after this reading, Chano appeared in Solar Madrid with
chicken and soft drinks for Zaira. Without having to say anything, he confirmed the
rumors that he was now living with another woman in Old Havana. La Prieta was
happy to be back in the solar and told me that she really did not love Chano, but had
supported him because she felt bad because he had no place to live. In spite of the
153
heated familial conflicts in the Baro family, they did manage to pool their resources
and allow one granddaughter to live with her boyfriend for over a month and a half.
On a return trip I made in January of 2002 La Prieta was living with Nereo,
an older boyfriend who lived a few blocks away from Solar Madrid. She
downplayed this relationship to a man who was approximately 20 years older than
her, and actually a close friend of her mothers. Others in her family did not give it
much importance, as the man was a long time friend of the family. Nereo offered a
much needed space for La Prieta to sleep, as well as food and money, at a time when
household shifts in the Baro family caused a loss of space and financial support.
Odelia, Imelda's youngest daughter, had just left her husband in Eastern Havana and
had moved back into the solar along with her two daughters, ages 6 and 8. The three
of them stayed in Imelda's barbacoa, the very location where La Prieta had slept.
Having lived temporarily in the crowded apartment of her mother on the other side
of the patio, La Prieta needed to find a place to live. La Prieta told me that santeras
had always predicted and even instructed her to be with an older man. Most
importantly, at that time, Nereo was assisting her with the final purchases she needed
for her initiation ceremony into Santeria priesthood, a very costly endeavor.
During another return trip in the spring of 2004, La Prieta was staying with
José, a boyfriend who lived approximately 6 blocks north of the solar. This man
was also older than her, by approximately 15 years, and was also a friend of the
family and even a former lover of her mother. Zaira insisted that their relationship
occurred a long time ago and that there was nothing between them now. La Prieta's
154
new boyfriend had his own apartment, which she was very pleased about. He
worked in a cigar factory and earned a steady living, and was able to keep La Prieta
well fed.
During a return trip I made in January 2006, La Prieta was living with her
"husband" in an apartment in Luyano, a town within the city of Havana proper, but a
bus ride away from her family. She met Valerio, who was just slightly older than
her, through her madrina in Santeria. She looked up to him as he had recently
become a babalawo, the highest position in Santeria. As they are both a part of the
same religious family located near their home, they attended ceremonies together on
a regular basis. La Prieta was happy to be living in an apartment with only him, and
no other family members, far from the craziness of life in the solar in Central
Havana. She also emphasized to me that he had no connections with her family and
did not know anyone in Solar Madrid.
The youngest generation in the Baro family was nearly absent from Solar
Madrid, reflecting the country's revolutionary goals and declining birth rate. Imelda
now has three great grandchildren, born in 1998, 2001, and 2005 (See Figure 15).
The first two are children of her grandsons and they live with their mothers, who are
no longer living with the Baro family members. The most recent arrival, the
daughter of Imelda's granddaughter Ynez, lives across the patio in Solar Madrid.
Imelda also has nine grandchildren in Cuba, who in 1999 ranged in age from four to
twenty. Chela(4) and Isabela (6) lived in Eastern Havana and only visited Solar
Madrid periodically, on the weekends. Jazmin (13), Marcos (14), and Alonzo (14)
155
all lived in Solar Madrid, but they went to boarding school during the week and
were only home on the weekends. La Prieta (20), Mateo (20), and Emelio (19) had
left school and were either "in the street" category above or in prison in 1999.
In Cuba, there is a disguised fear that strong family bonds could potentially
detract from the productive goals of the nation. One way to prevent these bonds
from forming is through an educational system in which children are required to
attend boarding schools in the countryside, far from home. During the early years of
the Castro regime, there was a strong focus on molding children into ideal
revolutionary citizens, with unique nationalistic morals very different from the value
system that their parents had acquired during their youth. The brightest children
spent six formative years away from home, from age eleven or twelve to eighteen,
returning only twice a month to visit their families. Although this arrangement did
divide different generations within the family, it also had the benefit or creating extra
space in the crowded home and additional food on the table.
The Baro family (along with all of the other families in the solar) has devised
a complex household strategy for survival through its divisions of labor "in the
rooms", "in the courtyard", and "in the streets", and with children in the countryside
building human capital. In each of these sections, I have focused on a particular
generation within the family. However, this has been done mostly for descriptive
purposes, as age distribution is not so clearly marked in the spatial terrain. What is
most phenomenal is the ability of the family to pool its resources and strengths and
manage to co-exist with a powerful State that frequently attempts to repress and
156
punish their daily life activities and even their choice of dwelling in a solar in
Havana.
The Cuban revolutionary government has always sought to "eliminate areas
with social problems: squatter settlements, tenements and others" (Oliveras and
Núñez 2001:7). As discussed in Chapter Two, in 1961, the large squatter settlement
known as Las Yaguas was demolished and tenants were relocated to new apartments
in the city of Camilo Cienfuegos. Many high-rise buildings replaced slum dwellings
in the early years of the revolution. Odelia's husband benefited from one of these
moves, although with mixed results, as she herself did not enjoy living in such a
housing design. During the last decade, there have been some futile efforts to
eradicate solares and tenements without sanitation in Central Havana, with much
resistance from tenants (Rosa Garcia 2000). Apart from the physical destruction of
marginally designated buildings, the government has also criminalized or
admonished most of the daily activities of marginal people, such as those living in
Solar Madrid.
Fidel Castro has often spoken about the street as a place where counter-
revolutionary activities occur. In a 1967 speech, he explicitly condemned street
vendors:
What good does it do for thousands of people to migrate to the cities every
year? If the investments are being made in the rural areas, what are those
people going to do in the city? Make brooms and lollipops, set up stands to
sell fritters; that is, live like a parasite in the city?
(Castro 1967:23)

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And a year later he stated in a speech, "Are we going to construct socialism, or are
we going to construct vending stands?" (Castro 1968:268-269). Migration to the city
was condemned, as well as the easier work of sales, whereas construction or sugar
cane cutting in rural areas was the developmental focus of the government. In the
first two years of the revolution over 20,000 homes or apartments were build in rural
areas, whereas only 18,000 were built in all urban areas where the majority of the
population lived (García Vazquez 1965). After this initial period of housing
development, construction in Havana declined drastically. In 1970, only 300
dwellings were built in Havana in comparison to 4,000 throughout the country
(Capello). The government always praised the difficult manual labor of rural
farming and prioritized rural development in housing, education, and health care.
On the contrary, over the past four and a half decades, private businesses, such as
selling peanuts or candy in the city, have been periodically and randomly legalized
or criminalized, leading to much apprehension among people such as Imelda.
Nearly all forms of street commerce and activity have been considered counter-
revolutionary (Capello), and numerous attempts have been made to control it.
7

Large cities, and Havana in particular, have been problematic for the
government in its attempts to create equality and eliminate poverty and the marginal
sectors. Before the revolution, the standard of living, rate of industrial production,
and development was far greater in Havana than in rural areas. This discrepancy in
wealth between urban and rural areas, in part, instigated the guerilla movement and
fostered an alliance between the guerillas and the peasants in the Sierra Maestra
158
Mountains in the late 1950's. Thus, after winning in 1959, the revolutionary
government had a political basis for supporting the countryside and halting
economic development in the city. The support from peasants also influenced Fidel
Castro's discourse condemning the city and its streets. Although efforts to rebuild
Havana and restore historic buildings increased in the 1980's and 1990's, numerous
regulations were also implemented to discourage migration to Havana, and
especially to the populated municipalities of Old Havana, Central Havana, Cerro,
and Diez de Octubre.
In 1997, Decree 217 was passed to regulate migration to Havana. Upon
arrival in Havana, the migrant must report to the president of the Municipal
Administration Board of the area they intend to reside. The Board will determine if
they can legally reside in Havana based on certain conditions. If the apartment is in
a tourist zone, approval is needed from the hotel owners. The Municipal Board of
Architecture and City Planning must determine if the apartment is healthy and
habitable with adequate living conditions. The apartment must have 10 square
meters per person. Once all approvals have been granted, the migrant must file a
change of address with the office of the Identity Card, and will then be allowed to
receive rationed food and products from the state. If these procedures have not been
followed, the migrant will be fined up to 1000 pesos and sent back to his or her
original home. As all laws in Cuba, this one is very vague and has the hidden
agenda of preventing the movement of poor rural migrants to the city. Police
officers may freely stop anyone on the street and demand to see their identity card.
159
If their card does not list an address in Havana, they can be fined and sent on a bus
or train back to the countryside. It is not incidental that the municipalities identified
in the law are heavily populated by Afro-Cubans, contain numerous solares and
make-shift tenements, and also have a lot of tourist establishments and Cubans
catering to their needs through informal networks.
All residents of solar Madrid are affected by this law, as they are subject to
heightened scrutiny by the police and are frequently asked to show their
identification cards. Orlando and his family from the eastern part of Cuba were
especially affected, and even at their deaths, the press indicated that the extended
family had recently arrived from the Oriente, the eastern part of the island. In spite
of state efforts at controlling migration of primarily poor Afro-Cubans to Havana,
and efforts to curb street activities, residents of Solar Madrid, and the Baro family in
particular, have devised ways to maneuver within and outside of the system by
building and maintaining networks and resources within the family, amongst friends
in neighboring solares, and within their religious 'families'.
160

PART IV: CONCLUSION

An analysis of informal solutions to the problem of housing in Havana is
central to an understanding of social and familial interactions in a Cuban solar. It is
possible to discuss the “architectural logic” of this particular form of tenement as a
renegotiation of the borders between the private and public spheres. Because of the
physical layout of the solar, most of the spaces, both inside and outside, are public.
The circular and communal structure allows for more illicit networks to be made
which result in better food and a substantial increase in the income of its residents.
On the downside, the tenants’ private lives are extremely restricted. The major
housing shortage and economic crisis, combined with the overpowering presence of
the state, has limited people’s autonomy. But in the central patio of the
contemporary solar, fragile notions of “property” are produced and reproduced
through a continuous redesign of the collective space available, suggesting the
existence of a very complex model of intra- and interfamily connections.
The Baro family could be considered “marginal,” in political and economic
terms, but only if politics is defined from the narrow perspective of the “public
transcript”. They do not participate in any “active” form of political resistance.
They survive “at the margins” of a highly centralized state, in a sort of social and
economic limbo that (technically) does not exist. Many aspects of their daily lives
involve illegal practices, from minor operations in the black market to drug dealing,
161
prostitution or even assaults and other violent crimes. After two centuries of
capitalist exploitation and forty years of socialist repression, the mere existence of
people like the members of the Baro family is an open challenge to the Cuban
establishment. For this group, surviving does not only mean “being there” against
all odds. They rule their own world, imposing their particular existential logic on the
rest of their neighbors. As people who have developed a highly specialized mode of
survival within this system, the marginal members of the Afro-Cuban community
have been relatively less affected by the economic commotion of the Special Period
at the beginning of the nineteen nineties, which was associated with the end of the
USSR's subsidies to Cuba. They were only peripheral beneficiaries of the previous
order of things, and now they are suffering only a lateral impact from the ongoing
crisis.
For the Baro family, eating food that they cannot legally afford, using
services to which they are not formally entitled, and participating in an extended
network of potentially dangerous liaisons are forms of resistance. Their defiant
behaviors seem to be oriented against formal bylaws and abstract authority figures
like “the police”, but not against Castro. They do not fight “the system” or “the rule
of the party”, but eventually bypass all systems and cheat any rule they can. Their
hidden transcripts are articulated around a tremendously complex Afro-Cuban
mythology, and, as we will see in Chapter 4 to 6, the leadership of santeros and
babalawos constitutes an important source of moral legitimacy among them.
162
This study of survival strategies in the Cuban solar is organized around the
economic, social and political role of family based networks, as well as on the “built
environment”, as alternative sources of security and support for their members.
Addressing poverty or marginality from this point of view allows me to go beyond
the limits imposed by stigmatizing labels or crude ideological prejudices. The
matrifocal family, considered by many scholars to be deficient or dysfunctional, has
proven to be particularly efficient in the solar context, at least in terms of the
economics of the household. The absence of the father figure is compensated by the
existence of extended kinship structures founded upon religious, ethnic and gender
solidarity. This form of family structure is particularly useful during family
emergency situations. From my point of view, the impact of these social interactions
goes beyond the limits of mere survival strategies, and becomes an expression of
resistance and a source of hope. It appears that the future of the “marginal” people
in the Cuban solar will depend on how these solidarity networks evolve in the years
to come.
This chapter has attempted to show how marginal groups of people, in
particular, families living in solares in Cayo Hueso, have devised networking
strategies which have enabled the co-optation of space, sharing of scarce resources,
and a small degree of certainty in highly fragile world. The solar space has proven
to be instrumental in supporting complex exchanges between diverse parties, along a
continuum of legality and familiarity. Within the Baro family network, scarce
resources such as clothes, beds, food and money have shifted frequently among
163
apartments in several different solares. Family members have also moved around to
different homes in order to accommodate changing circumstances. Through a
description of household activities and occupations of the Baro family and some of
the solar residents a popular economic system can be charted. Family members,
working at home, in the courtyard, in the streets, and at school pool their labor
capabilities together to support the extended family unit. Daily activities of family
members take them into state institutions and private firms generating income in the
Cuban peso and US dollar economies. This financial capital has allowed
improvement and expansion of several of the Baro family apartments. But without a
consistent flow of money, each day is improvised to fit the needs of different family
members. This flexibility within the family provides a degree of assurance that
everyone will have a space to sleep and food eat each day. The dense network of
Baro family members throughout several solares in Cayo Hueso have allowed the
family not just to survive, but thrive, continuously improving their circumstances.
164
CHAPTER 3 ENDNOTES

1
See for example, the works of Moholy-Nagy (1957), Rudofsky (1964), and Van Eyck
(1969). In a more analytical direction, Alexander (1964) applied the perspectives of
structural-functionalism to a cross-cultural discussion of the “universal principles of good
design”.
2
The connections between family organization, household management and housing
development have been studied from ethno-historical (Laslett 1972) and cross-cultural
(Hammel and Laslett 1974, Lawrence 1981) perspectives. Using sophisticated techniques of
ethno-archaeology outlined by Schiffer (1978), many scholars extended the studies of
dwelling forms to include expressions of ancient political economy (Whiting and Ayres
1968), kinship structure (Ember 1973), or social behavior (Kent, 1984).
3
Inspired by Victor Turner’s work, Doxtater (1984) developed a set of categories to explain
how some architectural forms of expression provide content and context to complex ritual
processes. The fact that in many cultures a building should be inaugurated through liturgical
ceremonies before becoming a temple, a marketplace, or a real home is considered
analogous to the rites of passage that any individual suffers to become a full member of the
social community (Saile 1985, Pavlides and Hesser 1989).
4
The role of power asymmetries and popular resistance in the configuration of built space
has occupied many other scholars, mainly dealing with the analysis of self-help housing
strategies in the Third World (Dwyer 1975, Ward 1982, Robbins 1989, Potter and Conway
1997, and Mathéy 1992).
5
From Frazier’s point of view, the continual presence of African traditions in the New
World was limited to the realm of folklore, and social institutions like the “Negro Family”
were functioning without visible connections to the structure of their African “equivalents”.
Even the religious and linguistic influences from Africa were disappearing under the
pressure of a new “Brazilian nationhood”. For Frazier, the “dysfunctional condition” of the
Afro American household was a result of the “weakness of institutional control” that
stimulated the creation of “natural families” with high levels of “promiscuity”, “in response
to economic and social conditions in Brazil” (Frazier 1943:403-404). On the other side,
Herskovits insisted on the idea that it was possible to trace the impact of persistent African
remnants not only at linguistic or cosmological levels, but also as formal constituents of
familial and social institutions (1941). Where Frazier found a very common socioeconomic
tragedy, Herskovits discovered an unwilling pattern of African behavior.
6
See chapter 5 for a thorough discussion of dating foreign men and prostitution.
7
See chapter 5 for a discussion of laws prohibiting prostitution, pimping, and loafing and
other efforts to curb street commerce such as the use neighborhood vigilance. See Chapter 4
and Chapter 5 for a discussion of vigilance through occupations, such as the young family
doctor and the social worker.
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CHAPTER 4: HEALING CONTEXTS

Solutions to health problems among solar residents have involved a complex
management of formal and informal systems, between family members, State
employees, and religious priests. Reliance on networks can lead to preferential
treatment in the hierarchically organized public health system in Cuba. Priests in the
Afro-Cuban religion of Santeria also play a prominent role in addressing health
problems, especially when the State system is not reliable. This chapter looks at
various contexts in which healing takes place. The first part of the chapter briefly
reviews the literature on healing in other countries in the Caribbean. The second
section looks at healing in the Afro-Cuban Santeria tradition through a critical look
at Babalu Aye, the orisha who rules over illness. The third and fourth sections are
case studies that illustrate the correlation between public health and private healing
among members of the Baro family and their friends. Cuba's public health system
and its complex association with alternative therapies are discussed in the fifth
section. The sixth and final section reviews the perceptions of healing practices in
Solar Madrid.

166
PART I: HEALING IN THE CARIBBEAN

Popular healing practices in the Caribbean have been studied systematically
since the end of the World War II. Two excellent bibliographies on the subject
(Harrison and Cosminsky 1976, Cosminsky and Harrison 1984) show how the
relation between traditional medicine and public health issues has become a focus of
attention in the academic literature on medical anthropology in Africa, Latin
America and the Caribbean basin. Because of the mysterious complexity of voodoo
practices, religious healing in Haiti is the favorite subject of ethno-medicine studies
in the area. Paul Brodwin (1996) analyzes the connections between moral discourse
and the power of healing in rural areas of that country, with an interesting emphasis
on the socio-historical background of voodoo therapies. The works of Farmer (1988,
1992) are a brilliant example of the new directions taken by medical anthropology in
the region. With a creative incorporation of political and symbolic resonance in the
discussion of moral issues and epidemic phenomena, Farmer used the bodily fluids
as metaphoric dimensions of both “social disease” and racial prejudice in Haiti.
Further appreciation of these epistemic suggestions will likely generate a huge
amount of new scholarship in the years to come.
The recent emphasis on the study of religions in the Caribbean is not only a
“natural” continuation of early traditions initiated by local ethnographers like Ortiz,
or Western “visitors” like Herskovits (1937) and Metraux (1959). The postmodern
influences are undoubtedly behind those renovated efforts. Gerdes Fleurant (1996)
167
discusses the holistic relations between musical rhythms and cosmovision in Haiti
both as a trained ethnomusicologist and as an enthusiastic voodoo practitioner and
drum player. A new compilation of essays prepared by Fernández Olmos and
Paravisini-Gebert (1997) constitutes an excellent example of those refreshing views.
In this volume, the contributions of Matibag (1997), Frye (1997), Savory (1997) and
Romero-Cesareo (1997) shift emphasis from pure ethnographic research to an
analysis of the literary resonance of Afro Caribbean religions.
Georges Brandon’s book on Santería in the African Diaspora (1993) insists
on the transnational dimensions of the Cuban-Yoruba cults, in the same line
developed by Murphy (1988 and 1994). The “catholic” branch of the Cuban exile
religious experience has also been studied (Tweed 1997). An ambitious collective
effort by a dozen anthropologists dealing with the problem of identity and religious
diaspora in the Anglophone Caribbean is a foundational compilation in the field
(Pulis 1999). Mama Lola (Brown 1991) is undoubtedly the masterpiece of a new
genre of ethnographic studies, focusing on the experiences of “natives” who practice
their religion in the heart of a Western metropolis. The academic reception of this
spiritual biography of a Vodou priestess living with her family in Brooklyn has been
controversial (Sanjek 1992 and Trouillot 1994). Dismissing the supposed “lack” of a
socio-historical background, that for Brown seems to be more of a stylistic
provocation than an insufficiency, Mama Lola will become a reference to further
reconstructions of ethnographic discourse in a postmodern context. Unfortunately,
in a recently published life history of a Cuban Santero practicing in the Bronx (Vélez
168
2000), Brown’s methodological suggestions as well as a comparison to the other rich
African based religions in the area are lacking.
Infectious Rhythm, a recent book by Barbara Browning (1998) on the
“metaphors of contagion and the spread of African culture” constitutes perhaps the
most ambitious and fortunate attempt of pushing the limits of medical anthropology
and the boundaries of the “Caribbean”. She discusses the impact of AIDS
“epidemiological” myths on academic figurations, artistic representations and
marketing strategies, crossing the physical space and infringing the confines of the
human and social bodies. Haiti is in the ambiguous “center” of her discourse (“Haiti
is here / Haiti is not here”), but she also finds her center in Africa, in Brazil, in the
L.A. riots, in a Benetton ad, or in cyber space. Browning trespasses the disciplines
and does “fieldwork” in art galleries or from her sofa, in front of the T.V. She writes
about promiscuity in a promiscuous, provocative way. Her “natives” are self-
conscious people that ironically explain themselves, producing more questions than
answers. Following the replication of elusive rhythms, the sexual implications of
colonial power, or the symbolic traces of dangerous and omnipresent “African
Blood”, Browning’s book seems to portray, through its own intensity, the drama of
any “divided region” and the heuristic insufficiencies of any linear or “pure” strategy
of analysis.

169
PART II: BABALÚ AYÉ AND SAN LÁZARO

Babalú Ayé was very much into women. He was continuously playing out
and about at night until everyone in the world lost respect for him and even
his wife Oshun abandoned him. On Holy Thursday, Orula warned him,
“Today, control yourself and don’t go wondering about with women”.
Without heeding Orúmbila’s advice, that night he slept with one of his
lovers. The next day, he woke up with his body completely covered with pus
filled ulcers. People ran away from him because they were afraid of
contagion, and only a few dogs followed him, those that liked to lick open
sores. Despite all of his begging, Olofi refused to pardon him, and in the
end, Babalú Ayé died. But Oshun felt sorry for him and thanks to her
cunning tricks she convinced Olofi to bring him back to life. Now, Babalú
Ayé is very knowledgeable about the extreme suffering of the sick and
diseased and for this, he has returned very charitable and merciful.
1

In her book Orishas in Cuba, Natalia Bolívar used this allegoric vignette to introduce
the figure of Babalú Ayé, a Santeria deity also known as San Lázaro or Saint Lazarus
(Bolivar 1990). Like Haitian Voodoo and Brazilian Candomble, Afro-Cuban
Santeria is considered to be the result of syncretism - a long process of religious,
symbolic, and political negotiations between people of European and African descent
in the slave societies of colonial Latin America.
2
In this section I analyze this
vignette with the understanding that syncretism, represented by the cult of San
Lázaro/Babalú Ayé, provides a useful model to appreciate ongoing interactions
between socialist medicine and Afro Cuban religious healing in times of economic
and epidemic crisis.
Charting the genealogies of both San Lázaro and Babalú Ayé can help
identify many instances of syncretism. At least two significant individuals going by
the name of Lazarus were mentioned in the New Testament. One was the brother of
Martha and Mary of Bethania, friends of Jesus Christ. According to the book of
170
John, Lazarus got seriously ill and his sister asked Jesus for help, but he delayed his
appearance and the patient died. Four days after the funeral, Jesus finally came to
Bethania and promised a desolate Martha that her brother would rise again from the
dead. Talking to the tombstone, Jesus asked Lazarus to come out and he emerged.
This resurrection was heralded as a great miracle and helped solidify Jesus'
reputation as the son of god. The other person named Lazarus in the Bible was a
character in one of Jesus´s parables. Trying to make a point about the importance of
charity, Jesus told the story of a rich man living in luxury. At his gate lay a beggar
named Lazarus with sores on his legs that stray dogs came to lick. Eventually, both
the beggar and the rich man died. Lazarus was carried to heaven by angels and laid
at the bosom of Abraham, while the rich man went to hell and suffered eternal thirst.
According to late medieval traditions, Lazarus of Bethania traveled to France,
became the first Bishop of Marseille, and was canonized by the Catholic Church as
Saint Lazarus (Zamora 2000). Officially, this saint was represented as a priest
wearing a habit, but the Lazarus of popular iconography was portrayed as an old man
in rags standing outside a city, bent over his crutches, with two dogs licking the sores
that covered his legs. Adding further levels of complexity to the figure, his medical
condition was identified as leprosy and this composite Lazarus became the patron
saint of lepers. Fear of contagion and the identification of leprosy with religious sin
and sexual transgressions contributed to the marginalization of lepers (Canizares
2000). This process was also fueled by the rise of the leprosarium, an institution that
171
framed popular perceptions of leprosy in terms of religious seclusion, martyrdom,
and sanitary discipline.
In colonial Latin America, leprosariums were built adjacent to a church
dedicated to the cult of Saint Lazarus. They were located at the periphery of large
cities and became a common ingredient of the urban landscape (Prada 2002). Slaves
living in those cities established an enduring connection between the iconography of
Lazarus and their own African traditions. They associated the outburst of epidemic
diseases like smallpox with changes in the mood of their local deities. “Sonponno
goes by seventeen names” is a Nigerian proverb that illustrates the complexities
surrounding the god of smallpox among the Yoruba people (Ramírez Calzadilla
1997). Considering that thousands of African slaves from different areas and
language groups were brought to Havana over a period of several centuries, it seems
clear that any representation of the Afro-Cuban Babalú Ayé was in itself the result of
syncretism. The name seems to derive from Obaluaye, one of the Yoruban names
for Sonponno, who is characterized as a healer and as one who delivers punishment
in the form of disease.
In eighteenth century Cuba the leprosarium and church of San Lázaro were
located near Havana. In 1917, a new hospital and chapel were built near the town of
Rincón, twenty minutes away from the capital. Every year, on December 17
th
,
thousands of people walk to the Rincon sanctuary in a spectacular display of public
adoration. Many devotees of San Lázaro/Babalú Ayé perform acts of self-
flagellation, crawl for miles, or drag heavy stones chained to their legs. Blood is
172
literally offered to the Saint as payment for the miraculous recovery of one's health
or that of a close relative. Heavily policed and criticized in the media as an example
of irrational fanaticism, the procession was nonetheless tolerated by the socialist
authorities even during periods of high religious and political repression. For
decades, December 17
th
was the only day of the year in which public displays of
popular religiosity were allowed. Because it was allowed to continue, the procession
to Rincón became a socialist equivalent of the Afro-Cuban carnivals from the
colonial era.
Let us return to the story of the sexual excess, venereal infection, social
isolation, death, and resurrection of Babalú Aye. The whole sequence describing his
death and his comeback as a charitable healer is clearly connected with the miracle
of Lazarus of Bethania and the figure of the Bishop of Marseille, while his physical
appearance as a sick man on crutches reminds us of the beggar from the parable.
Olofi, the highest deity in Santeria, plays the role of Jesus Christ, while Oshun
represents the sister of Lazarus asking Olofi to resurrect him. As a moral tale,
however, the story introduces us into a universe ruled by a very specific prohibition
(no sex on Holy Thursday), the transgression of which is swiftly punished by severe
infection. Betraying Oshun is not the cause of Babalú´s downfall. Despite being
upset, she is willing to “trick” Olofi into bringing her ex-husband back to life. What
ultimately decides the fate of Babalú Ayé is his decision to ignore Orula´s advice.
In order to fully understand the implications of this story, the circumstances
surrounding the first appearance of the book Orishas in Cuba should be mentioned.
173
Published in 1990 by the Writers Union, the volume came to fill an artificial vacuum
produced by decades of official prejudice, intellectual disdain, and academic
censorship in Cuba towards the Santeria religion. Apparently, its author was
commissioned to write the book in the mid-1980´s as part of an ambitious plan of
political reconciliation between the Cuban government and local religious
communities. Before then, Natalia Bolívar was a minor state museum director
whose connections with marginalized Afrocuban practitioners and ill-reputed
scholars were tolerated only because of her impeccable revolutionary credentials.
Orishas in Cuba, the book that launched her career, is marketed today as the Bible of
Santeria, and she is considered one of the most prominent experts in the field.
Bolivar divided her monograph in sections dedicated to the main Orishas, or
Afro-Cuban deities. Each section was headed with a short story like the one
examined here. These parables, called patakies, are at the core of Ifá, the Yoruban
divinatory system that provides Santeria worshipers with guidance and advice on
daily matters, while serving as the main repository for Orisha philosophy and
cosmology. Transmitted by oral tradition and collected in handwritten notebooks,
thousands of patakies are usually available to the babalawos, men who are in charge
of consulting the oracle of Ifá. This flexible set of guidelines remains open to
change not only through the addition and suppression of stories, but also by means of
continuous reinterpretation and actualization of the existing material.
It is precisely this narrative flexibility of the patakí universe that allows
babalawos to offer a perfect match between the practical recommendations of the
174
oracle and the specific needs of each individual worshiper. Using a similar strategy,
Bolivar presents her readers with a sanitized version of Ifá, maximizing the
connection between the Afro-Cuban cosmology of her informants and the
revolutionary ideology of her institutional patrons. As an example of meta-
syncretism, such an approach reproduces the complex interplay of power between
Catholicism and African-based beliefs that is behind the production of Santeria itself.
The popular pattakí about Babalú Ayé illustrates how the Orisha came to be
revered as the deity of smallpox, leprosy, venereal diseases and infections of the
skin. It also shows the complex connections between physical and social illness and
acceptance. This chapter explores various aspects of health and healing in Afro-
Cuban religious traditions, Catholicism, and Cuba’s public health system. By
looking at some examples of health interventions among solar residents, a complex
web of these three institutional traditions can be seen.

175
PART III: SEPTEMBER 14, 1999: CRISTINA'S SURGERY

In September 1999, Imelda Baro’s daughter Catarina became sick. Like most
women in Cuba, single or married, in troubling times one relies on the family.
Catarina was a woman in her mid-thirties with two sons whose husband had fled to
the U.S as a political refugee nineteen years earlier, when her youngest son was still
in utero. She had occasional lovers, both men and women, and had spent several
years in prison for using counterfeit money. When she fell ill in 1999, her oldest son
Mateo, age 20, was in prison and her youngest son, Emelio, was caring for Mateo’s
1-year old son Silvano, in his father's absence. The mother of the young boy was
frequently on drugs or walking the streets trying to sell black market products so his
care was mostly the responsibility of Emelio, but other family members contributed
as well. With a fragile support network in her nuclear family, Catarina turned to her
madrina, or religious godmother, Lupe Milena, who lived in Solar Madrid, for help.
Lupe Milena suggested that Catarina see Valeria, a certified nurse with extensive
history of associations with the family, as she had worked with Imelda for twenty
years at Hospital Calixto Garcia. Valeria took Catarina to see a friend of hers, a
surgeon, who also happened to be Afro-Cuban like herself. A week later, on
September 14
th
, Catarina had a complicated surgical procedure which was described
to me by different people as a tumor removal, an abortion, a hysterectomy, and
liposuction, or as they call it, cirujía estética (aesthetic surgery).
176
The surgery was a success, albeit very painful. Catarina’s mother and her
four sisters kept continual watch over her at the hospital. Zaira, her older sister,
spent the most time there, along with her daughter La Prieta and her boyfriend,
Chano. They would read Mexican soap operas to her and change her bedpan when
needed. The recovery room looked like a large warehouse with hundreds of beds
lined up with no partitioning. There was a bathroom and shower area at the end of
the large room. Running water was available for two hours every morning. Each
patient had a bucket of water under his or her bed. The tiny windows allowed for
little light and airflow.
Two days after the surgery, Catarina returned to her mother’s apartment in
Solar Madrid to recuperate. She was greeted by all of her extended family members
who celebrated throughout the day, with plenty of rum, food, and music. Catarina
was propped up near the doorway since everyone stressed that she needed sun to
heal. A manicurist painted her finger and toe nails with bright colors and sparkles
while she coughed up phlegm and attempted to forget the excruciating pain in her
stomach. When Silvano came in, he was held up to Catarina so she could give her
grandson a kiss. She began to cry inconsolably. She had, in fact, had an abortion
along with a complicated removal of a tumor in her uterus, which the doctor said
would cause her to be infertile. The loss of her 4-month fetus and knowledge that
she could no longer have children was heavy. Feeble attempts were made to cheer
her up, and she eventually joined a game of dominoes before night set in. The nurse
177
visited the following day to change her bandage; the family doctor was not involved
in her recovery.
On the surface, this health crisis appears to be managed through a series of
connections based on racial and gender solidarity. All of Catarina’s main informants
and helpers were in fact Afro-Cuban women. But another factor became quickly
apparent. All of these women were initiated into Santeria, and associated with one
casa de santo or temple led by the successful santera, Valeria. In part because of her
full-time state job as a nurse, Valeria had a good reputation in the Baro family as an
honest santera. She became the madrina for Lupe Milena, performing the necessary
rites so she could become a santera. Breaking off from Valeria, Lupe Milena started
her own practice and devoted all of her time to the religion. In turn, she performed
the santo ceremony for Catarina at a time when she was in trouble. In the late
1980's, Catarina had been given a four-year prison sentence for selling counterfeit
money. Lupe Milena managed to get her an extended weekend pass from prison so
that she could become a iyabo, and wear white instead of the usual prison clothes for
a year. With such a grand and public show of devotion to the Orishas, a reduced
sentence was granted. Catarina had hoped that her madrina would be able to help
her once again through another difficult situation.
In many ways, the hospital is quite similar in structure to the solar. Every
patient’s move and sound is open to the public eye. Chairs get shuffled from bed to
bed as visitors check on their relatives. Friends and family always surrounded
Catarina’s bed. It was her religious community, however, her madrina, Valeria the
178
nurse and santera, and La Prieta, the most devoted worshiper in the solar, who made
her hospital stay more comfortable. They would pray to the orishas out loud and tell
Catarina that they were helping her to heal. Such comments would reduce the sterile
hospital atmosphere. The family connection with Valeria also allowed the Baro
family to enter the frigid, state-run hospital system with more ease. They made the
transition on their own terms, they entered through the “back door”.
The Cuban government has a very hierarchically organized system for
handling people who are sick. If she had followed this system, Catarina would have
first visited the family doctor, the local health care provider. This doctor would have
sent her to a specialist at a different hospital, and then she would have been placed in
line for a surgery date. Instead of going to her locally designated hospital, Catarina
went to Calixto Garcia, where she has established connections in the religious
community. She thus received more attentive care, although possibly under worse
conditions. (The floor flooded with two inches of water one day, making mobility
impossible.) Her experience in the hospital was much more pleasant due to the more
enclosed and private environment created by the presence of her nurse, the santera,
who was therefore both a physical and spiritual healer.

179
PART IV: DECEMBER 16, 1999: PILGRIMAGE TO SAN LAZARO

A pilgrimage to the Iglesia de San Lazaro, or Church of Saint Lazarus, is a
journey that encompasses many transformations. Spatially, it is a movement from
the packed inner city of Havana through progressively smaller neighborhoods,
passing by Mazorra, the psychiatric hospital, and the small town of Santiago de las
Vegas. From there, it is a two-mile walk through farmlands, passing Lazareto, a
large home that quarantine's a small number of leprosy patients, and Los Cocos, a
sanitarium across the street from the leprosarium for patients who are HIV+. Finally,
one arrives at the Church of San Lazaro. As noted earlier, he is popularly known in
Cuba as Babalú Ayé, the saint for the chronically ill, homeless, and elderly, and is
often depicted as a leper, beggar, and healer wearing raggedy clothes. Every year at
midnight on December 16
th
, thousands of Cubans from all around the country make a
pilgrimage to the church to fulfill promises, give money and pay respect to the saint
for wishes granted while placing new requests for good health, prosperity, visas, and
the like. The church, in return, donates money to the sanitariums, strategically built
so that the winds would carry the diseases away from the densely populated city.
All of the hospices for the infirm were originally built in the 1700’s on the
outskirts of Old Havana, in the area currently known as San Lazaro in Cayo Hueso.
Within a few blocks, all of the ‘derelicts’ of Havana could be found, well contained
in the Casa de Beneficencia (the home of abandoned children), the Hospital de San
Lazaro (for leprosy patients), and the Casa de Dementes (the home for "demented"
people). As the city grew larger, the patients were moved further and further away,
180
until the 20
th
century, when they reached their current locations, approximately
fifteen miles outside the city. The history of Cayo Hueso has not been forgotten.
Even today, it is considered ecologically impossible to clean, as it was formerly
located on a lower plateau where the refuse and sewage from Old Havana drained.
A wall of burial vaults from the former San Lazaro cemetery can still be found in
Cayo Hueso, now a part of a tenement building. It is likely not coincidental that
many Cubans of African descent live in solares in this area, as the unhealthy air of
the 18
th
century still lingers.
The church of San Lazaro (or St. Lazarus) is a popular pilgrimage site as the
saint has been known to perform miracles, cure the terminally ill, provide mobility to
people with paralyzed legs, and most importantly, to cure diseases of the skin.
Diseases such as leprosy and AIDS are often very visible as they cause
transformations of the skin, which are quite open for the public to view. On the
night of the 16
th
of December, devotees with missing limbs can be found crawling to
the church and those in good health tie cement blocks to their feet and inch their way
backwards on their rear ends, until their pants are tattered revealing bloody skin
wounds (Figure 28). Residents of Lazareto and Los Cocos participate in the march
or cheer the crowds of people on from behind their fenced in sanctuaries. Yerberos,
herbalist healers considered to be the descendants of San Lazaro, line the path to the
church selling their medicinal plants along with candles, cigars, and flowers. The
massive aggregation of people has often become a stage for political voice as well.
In 1993, close to midnight, crowds of people briefly began chanting for freedom
181
before state police disrupted the impromptu rally. But for the most part, the devotees
of Babalú Ayé and San Lazaro walk the fifteen miles from Havana in search of
individual healing and miraculous transformations.

Figure 28: Crawling to the Church of St. Lazarus on December 16th
Miracles and dreams kept many Cubans alive, in spiritual and psychological
terms, during the “Special Period” in the early 1990's, after the collapse of the Soviet
Union and subsequent loss of subsidies to Cuba. I made the pilgrimage to San
Lazaro on December 16
th
, 1999 with La Prieta, my main informant, Yeyo, Macusa,
Macusa and Yeyo's son Yeyo Jr., and the Moreira family who had recently been
introduced to me by La Prieta’s boyfriend Chano. Everyone was making the long
journey for different reasons. La Prieta was having a lot of pain in her mouth
because she had two cavities and problems with her wisdom teeth. She had one
182
tooth pulled that morning because she did not have enough money to have the cavity
filled. She did not want to have the other teeth pulled as well. Complaining that
dentists in Cuba never really fix your teeth, she felt that some assistance from San
Lazaro would be prudent. Aside from easing the pain in her mouth, the saint could
help her earn the finances she needed to hacer santo, and become a santera healer
herself.
Yeyo and Macusa are a couple who live in a solar around the corner from La
Prieta’s solar. They have a one-year old son whom they wanted to hold in front of
San Lazaro to be blessed. When they were out of ear-shot, people would tell me that
the boy was the ugliest baby they had ever seen. He was a very light skinned boy,
disproportioned as infants usually are, and his father and mother were both very
dark. Many wondered if the father was actually a tourist, since Macusa had been
involved in sex work previously. The boy's coloring was frequently discussed,
which certainly brought up doubts about his future. Earlier, Macusa had also made a
promise to San Lazaro that if her 19-year old husband were released from prison, she
would make the journey to the church and honor the saint. In November, a month
before, Yeyo was released. Although the sentence was much longer, he managed to
serve only two years for peligrosidad, or “potential dangerousness.” The crime is
arbitrarily defined by Cuban law and can include any man in his career-earning years
who does not hold state employment, who is seen talking to tourists, who has
accumulated merchandise which he cannot prove he paid for with state earnings, and
many other vague statuses which insinuate that he is a nuisance to society and not
183
following revolutionary morals. Yeyo had not been employed, and it was also
rumored that he threw a stone into the street. Despite the ambiguity of his offense,
the two-year sentence was very trying for his wife and newborn son who had lived
with his mother in the interim and were struggling to survive financially. After his
release, he immediately secured a position at a factory on Zanja making coffin boxes.
But the pilgrimage to San Lazaro to honor Babalú Ayé was a more reliable way to
assure his safety from the vigilant eye of the police.
The Moreira family had become devout worshipers of San Lazaro two years
earlier when the mother of the family, who had formerly been a successful prostitute,
was diagnosed with AIDS. She had caught the HIV virus from a European man
vacationing in Cuba and unfortunately her five-year old son and husband had been
infected as well. Once the man had learned of his own illness, he very
apologetically notified his Cuban lover, and sent money, clothes, and gifts to the
Moreira’s on a regular basis. Like many Cubans, they had always been involved in
Santeria, making frequent offerings to their Orishas, but now, they paid special
attention to Babalú Ayé, with pilgrimages to the church and elaborate performances
in his honor. Since this Orisha is specifically revered as the deity of venereal
diseases and skin infections, he is an ideal choice for worship. After all, he did
contract his pus-filled ulcers as a punishment for sleeping with too many women.
Significantly, the pattakí does not end with fatal consequences for Babalú
Ayé because of his sluttish behavior. His wife takes pity on him and uses her
powers to bring him back to life, as a good citizen, “charitable and merciful.” One
184
could certainly draw the conclusion that illicit sexual behaviors and fun nights out
are valid pastimes that do not deserve punishment. Certainly a woman who has
contracted the HIV virus and passed it on to her husband and son has been punished
enough and needs someone like Babalú Ayé to turn to for support and approval. But
the family also followed the advice of medical doctors and received injections on a
regular basis at their local sanitarium as part of their treatment. There was not a
contradiction between following two different forms of treatment. In fact, they were
seen as complementary, and each satisfied different needs. Santeria offerings and
pilgrimages offered far more than psychological comfort. Very real transformations
in social status and diagnoses have occurred among worshippers and this family
wanted to maximize their chances at a good life.
In the mid 1980’s, the government attempted to control AIDS with a
controversial plan that included compulsory testing of at-risk groups, such as men
returning from the war in Angola. Those who were infected with the virus were
forced to live in Los Cocos, a somewhat luxurious sanitarium of single-family homes
and gardens built on several acres of land in 1986. Partly due to these strict policies
of isolation, many Cubans felt that they were not at risk. But, the 1980’s also saw a
gradual return of tourism to the island. Formerly considered an evil under socialist
ideologies, tourism became a necessity by the end of the decade when subsidies from
the Soviet Union terminated. From 3,000 vacationers from the Soviet Union in 1972
to a campaign to bring 2 million tourists to the island in 2000, the demand for sex
workers also saw a sharp increase (Schwartz 1997). In 1989, after much
185
international pressure and an increase in patients at the sanitarium, the government
relaxed its policies and allowed people with AIDS to live at home, as long as they
routinely received treatment and behaved appropriately (Wald 1995). One informant
had told me that if it could be proven that a person had knowingly infected other
people, the individual was forced to live in Los Cocos.
By the time the Moreira family had been infected, there were AIDS
sanitariums in each of Cuba’s 14 provinces. When the family was found to have the
virus, they went to their local sanitarium for an initial orientation period that
included testing, medical and psychological evaluation, and a thorough AIDS
education program, after which they were free to leave and were supposed to receive
outpatient care from their family doctor. The Moreira’s told me that they rarely
visited their family doctor, but did return to the sanitarium for blood tests, physical
check-ups, and inoculations on a regular basis. According to the national plan, every
family doctor is supposed to provide day-to-day attention to people in the
neighborhood who were HIV+, and they are supposed to be part of a team that
educated the community about the disease so that those infected were not
discriminated against (MacDonald 1999). But the Moreira’s took it upon themselves
to educate family and friends and were very active in the Cuba AIDS Project and the
periodic International Conferences on AIDS in Havana. La Prieta's boyfriend,
Chano accompanied me to a benefit that the Moreira's hosted at their apartment in
Old Havana for AIDS awareness day. A periodically successful pimp and drug
dealer in Havana, Chano had met Sra. Moreira during her heyday as a popular sex
186
worker in Old Havana’s central park. He himself was not HIV+, but had come to
learn a lot about the disease through this family, and enjoyed the free meals they
offered at their fundraising parties. In a sense, their illness had brought them closer
to both the local community and international environment, and with external funds
and access to Los Cocos, they lived much better than many of their friends.
We began the journey to San Lazaro by walking to the Capitolio (Capital
Building) where many of the buses depart. Chano left us at the bus stop, despite La
Prieta’s threat that she would never sleep with him again if he did not accompany
her. He claimed that at the church there would be numerous police officers who
wanted him locked up or dead. Although not unfounded, his paranoia served to
color his bad reputation and undoubtedly added excitement to his otherwise
monotonous daily struggle for survival. There was a line around the park for the bus
to Rincon. La Prieta managed to push us to the front of the line, and used the little
Yeyo as an excuse to get a seat on the bus.
After getting off the bus in Santiago de Las Vegas we bought some food, and
then proceeded to make the 2 km trek on foot to the church. The masses of people
increased as our 1 1/2 hour walk progressed. We passed women carrying children on
their stomachs as they crawled, a man holding a burning candle in front of him
which dripped wax all over his hand, and others dragging large cement blocks.
When we passed under the gates of the church, Yeyo Sr., who had up until now
seemed uninterested in the journey, took his shoes and socks off and walked barefoot
into the church. Inside, we were shoulder-to-shoulder with the masses pushing
187
toward the altar of St. Lazarus to quickly ask for peace, health, prosperity, and the
like before being spit out the door into the moonlit night. Outside, we lit candles,
listened to the singing and clapping, and watched the crowds. The first aid rescue
teams carried out the devotees who had fainted on stretchers. We waited until
midnight, when the priest gave a mass which was broadcast through speakers to the
thousands of people outside of the church. We then made the long journey back to
Havana, carrying sleeping children and scampering to get inside buses and cabs.
Exhausted at the end of a long day, with promises fulfilled and requests delivered,
everyone fell soundly asleep.

188
PART V: CUBAN PUBLIC HEALTH, SOCIAL CONTROL, AND
"ALTERNATIVE" THERAPIES

In order to put these stories of illness and healing into perspective, it is
necessary to look at their political and historical foundations and situate them within
the philosophical underpinnings of Revolutionary Cuba. From the 1960’s onward,
the island's National Health System was redesigned to fit within the gradual
radicalization of the uniquely Cuban socialist project. Internal factors, like the
massive exodus of doctors and deteriorating sanitary conditions due to the
insurrectional battle itself, allowed the state to assume absolute control of the
sanitary apparatus. On the other hand, the incorporation of Cuba into the worldwide
socialist community encouraged a normalization of basic services within a highly
institutionalized structure. Private friendly attention slowly disappeared. A Rural
Medical Service was created to extend the central sanitary model to the entire island.
A policy backed by large official subsidies allowed the organization of massive
vaccination campaigns and huge national operations to eradicate chronic illnesses.
The state prioritized free medical attention as one of the pillars of its new political
design. The “health plans” were integrated into centralized economic planning,
through a rudimentary cost-benefit analysis at all levels (Danielson 1975).
At the moment of greatest institutional maturity, in the middle of the 1980’s,
the design of the national health administration was outlined based on seven basic
principles, cited and discussed below
3
:
189
1. “The functioning of one unique system for health attention for the entire
population.”
4
This basically meant that all non-state models of health care,
private or semi-private, disappeared.
2. “Health is considered a right of all citizens and a responsibility of the State.”
5

Through a complex corporate configuration designed at the state level, the
general principles of the socialist plan were extended to the health professions.
On top of the unfortunate chaos of pain and sickness, the State imposed the order
of its gigantic apparatus of central planning. And at this level, national health
strategies were designed, under egalitarian pretexts with a strong normalization
scheme.
3. “Health services should be accessible to the entire population.”
6
It is the State
that is in charge of carrying health services to all parts of the country,
overcoming geographic obstacles, economic limitations, and “cultural barriers.”
Every citizen should reach “a sufficient cultural level that permits him to
improve his habits and look toward science for the solution to his health
problems.”
7
This emphasis on the scientific, which is one of the pillars of
Marxist rhetoric, had immediate consequences on the establishment of concrete
health policies, with a strong prophylactic character.
4. From the official scientific point of view, “Health attitudes should be of integral
character, with special emphasis on prevention.”
8
The State should try to “avoid
sickness” through “periodic medical examinations for certain groups of the
population” that are considered to be exposed to health risks. This includes
190
groups such as pregnant women and children, a special concern due to obsessive
political efforts to construct a good infant mortality index. The list also
comprised other individuals whose anomalous behaviors were considered to
cause familial and social tensions. Certain phenomenon such as homosexuality,
prostitution, addictions, and marital conflicts were medicalized.
9
The notion of
risk group began to be confused with the doctrine of criminal dangerousness.
10

5. “Health services should be strictly planned.”
11
Apart from the symbolic and
conceptual level of this plan, only direct implementation of established
mechanisms would guarantee the success of official health strategies.
6. “Health intervention should develop with the active participation of the
organized community.”
12
The state shares the health care responsibility with the
“Organizations of the Masses”, associations that began during the first few years
of the revolution which include the Committee for the Defense of the Revolution
(CDR), Federation for Cuban Women (FMC), and the National Association of
Small Farmers (ANAP), formed under the same vertical logic as the educational
and political systems.
13
One assumes that these organizations can afford to
provide “active support” to the National Health System, through their practices
of community education and daily surveillance.
7. A principle of “proletarian internationalism in the health field.”
14
As part of the
country’s foreign politics, hundreds of Cuban doctors would lend their services,
free and strongly subsidized, to countries in Africa, Asia, and Latin America.
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Also, with government support, the island was to educate medical students from
these areas.
These official principles of the National Health System conferred on the Cuban State
an immense responsibility and an enormous amount of power. A large part of the
economic burden resulting from these health problems fell on the central budget, and
the success or failure of sanitary matters was a key element in the generation of
internal political consensus and international solidarity. As a direct consequence of
this, the production and distribution of health statistics also became a monopoly of
the State. The massive “health education” programs were integrally united with
official propaganda on the excellence of the health system. The organizations
mentioned above were united with personal health practices at all levels.
The National Health System has a Territorial Administrative Scheme that
parallels the hierarchical logic of the entire Cuban society, and is controlled by the
State Counsel and the National Assembly of Popular Power (See Figure 29).
Primary, secondary, and tertiary health care is organized in a series of heavily
structured bureaucratic steps. Every Provincial Board answers to the Ministry of
Public Health for the operation of various Municipal Boards. A second regulatory
mechanism based on the so-called Health Commission of the Provincial and
Municipal Assembly functions in parallel to this vertical system of control. Each
Municipal Assembly groups together various Popular Counsels, and each Municipal
Board is formed by a series of Health Areas. Moreover, this double parliamentary
and ministerial hierarchy is influenced at all levels by the Communist Party.
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Through the so-called informal strategies of action, the Communist Party is the
ultimate leader of the entire society, and the National Health System is no exception.
This phenomenon creates a certain ambiguity at the formal legislative level, evident
even in the Constitution of the Republic itself.
193

State Counsel
National Assembly of Popular Power

Health Commission

Counsel of Ministers

Ministry of Public Health

Provincial Assembly of Superior Institutes of
Popular Power Medical Sciences, National
Executive Committee enterprises, Institutes of
Investigation, National
Center of Medical Science
Information

Provincial Sectional Board
of Public Health

Provincial Hospitals,
Centers of Hygiene and
Epidemiology, Blood Banks,
Places of Social Assistance,
Municipal Assembly Polytechnic Institutes,
of Popular Power Provincial enterprises
Executive Committee

Municipal Board
of Public Health Municipal Hospitals,
Rural Hospitals, Policlinics,
Dental Clinics, Maternity
Homes, Family doctor
clinics, medical posts

Figure 29: General Structure of the National Health System
15

194
The basic unit of this utopian machinery for health administration is the
family doctor. This professional role was born, sui generis, at the beginning of the
1980’s. At that time, various public interventions by Fidel Castro made it evident
that the State was preoccupied with two basic questions concerning the
administration of health. One was the growing “excess” of specialists dedicated to
secondary and tertiary care. Hundreds of professionals, formed as a result of
ambitious national plans for medical education, had almost completely covered the
needs of the local clinics, hospitals, and other related units, but reducing the entrance
of new students was not considered an option. The other problem, more profound,
was associated with the political exhaustion of the Cuban socialist formula of the
1970’s, based on absolute centralization. Health wise, this model translated into a
notable difference in quality between secondary and tertiary care, received by the
new elites circulating in the geopolitical center, and primary care dispensable “for
all” at the local level.
Faced with this dilemma, the State tried to redesign the nucleus of primary
care from the bottom, reinforcing the dual health and political function of the
National Health System. Fidel Castro himself recommended that a new specialty be
created, called General Integral Medicine, in order to produce a new generation of
students. From this model, it was possible to increase the quantity of doctors without
renouncing the prestigious label of specialist, while at the same time, elevating
control and sanitary vigilance to an extremely high level of efficiency. According to
Castro, the experimental phase of the project, that involved only ten doctors, had
195
been a success because, “They discovered a lot of people that had never been to the
local clinics, nor the hospitals; people that had not completed their vaccination
plans…. They followed the cases when they went to the hospital, when they were in
the hospital, when they left the hospital…. They are going to bring the clinic to every
citizen” (Pérez 1979). Or rather, the reach of the health control apparatus was
extended, bringing medicine into the home.
Moreover, the project would guarantee employment to more than 75,000
doctors in the future. These young men and women, recent graduates of medical
school, would be in charge of small, poorly equipped clinics from which they were
each supposed to attend to the health care needs of 120 nuclear families. The Plan
allowed the National Health System to extend its parallel network of social control,
which in hegemonic terms meant implementing bureaucratic strategies of
domination. It would also constitute the basis for an ambitious project to export
doctors to the “Third World”, which was a key piece of Cuba’s foreign policy from
that time onward (MINSAP 1990).
In spite of the optimistic tone of the official discourse, from its conception
the family doctor plan confronted resistance at all levels. It was not very popular
among doctors, because it would reduce their work universe to a few families, with
minimal access to health services, supportive resources, and technologically
advanced hospitals. By definition, they would only be confronted with trivial
“cases”, could only employ primitive diagnostic routines, and had a limited arsenal
of therapies. In fact, the network of clinics and hospitals would continue to lend
196
their services, and the role of the family doctor would be patient surveillance and
referral - a sort of selective filter between the population and the service centers. For
a western doctor who thinks of the patient as “case”, family medicine is a type of
professional sentence, for it limits his or her horizon of experiences. For this reason,
earning the title of specialist in General Integral Medicine had an obligatory quality
from the start. Only a limited number of elite students could enter the conventional
specialties, after six years of study. The rest, an overwhelming majority, had to pass
through three years of General Integral Medicine, and later apply for a second
specialty. This massive and mandatory nature of the plan did not contribute to its
popularity, unleashing a spiral of frustrations that nourished its own internal logic.
The work of doctors was made even more difficult as a result of the dramatic
economic crisis in the 1990’s. Prescriptions for drugs written by a doctor had legal
value in only one predetermined pharmacy. In this way, the state tried to avoid the
black market sale of medicines, which were scarce and strongly subsidized.
For young recent graduates, crammed with theories that promote treatment
based on conventional medicines, it was frustrating to see a very limited list of
dispensable drugs in their local pharmacy. Those who worked in hospitals or
educational institutions had radically different access to medications. For many
students, the idea itself of “family doctor” was considered an obstacle in their
professional career. As compensation, the State offered these family doctors the
possibility of obtaining a house next to their clinic, in the same zone where they
worked. Thanks to this, they could confront two basic problems for any young
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Cuban professional: housing and transportation. Each doctor was accompanied by a
nurse who was also guaranteed employment and housing. Nonetheless, in spite of
the material advantages that the plan offers, its mandatory nature is actually the only
guarantee of its continuity. Avoiding this service is a much coveted and exclusive
prize.
The population suffers another series of restrictions as a technical and
political counterpart of the required family doctor plan. Cuban citizens cannot
choose their doctor, but rather the doctor is imposed on them. The State decides who
is in charge of the health of each family. In order to prevent a selection process,
which leaves some clinics empty and others full, complex mechanisms of control
based on the regulated distribution of medicine have been designed at a local level.
Moreover, only with the signature of one’s corresponding family doctor is it possible
to certify an unsanctioned action in front of the central administration, or acquire
admission to a hospital or specialized care center. The relationship that the State
aimed to establish between family and doctor was only sustained, at the beginning at
least, by severe limitation of the circulation of faculty, services, patients, and
medicine. In theory, the family doctor was in charge of controlling the health
condition of his or her potential patients. But the State’s definition of “health”
pertained to a person’s “bio-psycho-social” character. The doctors also have to
maintain a registry of individuals in their zone who have “political problems,” or are
homosexual, promiscuous, lazy, etc. From the perspective of the State, the family
doctor is an agent of order. However, the rigidity of the control mechanisms are
198
more apparent than real. Through illegal connections it is possible to acquire
prescriptions in a different pharmacy, or receive specialized attention without
passing through the regulated channels. It is also possible to lie to the family
doctors, or avoid their penetrating eyes all together.
Paradoxically, tight bonds of solidarity developed between family doctors
and the constituency they served, important mostly because they avoided the
consequential limitations of the official regulations. This camaraderie was partly due
to the location of the outpatient clinics at the political periphery, and the young age
of the professionals, which tended to make them more open to negotiation. For
whatever reason, similar to other aspects of Cuban society, the system maintains its
fragile equilibrium through a strange combination of legal regulations and informal
strategies of action.
In many ways, the family doctor is much closer to the traditional healer than
to the surgeon. With few material resources, a doctor's treatments are by default
highly psychotherapeutic. The family doctor understands the real problems of the
people, but not necessarily as a result of professional training. To a great extent, the
physician shares his or her client’s problems. To a certain point, ecologically and
socially, they share a communal life. In the poorest barrios only the quality of living
conditions and potable water resources differentiate one from the other. With a
miserable salary and lack of real possibilities to legally compensate for it, the family
doctor is an authentic member of the community, formally better educated than the
average, but culturally integrated into a very similar survival pattern.
199
This functional and symbolic identification between the family doctor and the
traditional healer has been reinforced indirectly by other official political practices.
The relation between the State and so-called alternative or traditional medicine has a
very curious history in Cuba. Rejected for many years as barbaric, uncultured, or
undeveloped, in the best of cases, the State did not take traditional medicine
seriously. During the first half of the 20
th
century Afro-Cuban priests and herbalists
were reluctantly tolerated due to their popularity and authority among the people.
After 1959 its practitioners were persecuted and criticized for their ignorance.
At the end of the 1980’s, the State made a spectacular turn in its politics in
relation to alternative medicine. Up until then, the official doctrine of diagnosis and
treatment had been furiously “Western” and “scientific”. In just a few years the
State (all the way through to its armed forces, the most conservative sector)
converted to become the number one promoter of “alternatives”. From hypnosis to
mud therapy, acupuncture, homeopathy, tai chi, and even floral therapy, were little
by little incorporated into the arsenal of legitimate and scientific therapeutic
strategies.
There are several explanations for this phenomenon: It is evident that
internationally there was increased interest in alternative medicine, and the Cuban
State, with its claims of modernity, decided to follow the same path. Above all, it
became an important strategic priority to produce substitutes for the more expensive
and scarce conventional medical practices, especially the highly priced medications.
For those in charge of finances, the so-called “green medicine” was a first step.
200
Basically dedicated to the timely substitution of conventional medicines, herbalist
medicine spanned the length and width of the island in a matter of weeks. Classical
studies on the topic were reedited and hundreds of pamphlets and articles were
published. The traditional figure of the “herbalist,” salesman of magical and
medicinal plants associated with the Afro-Cuban culture, reappeared little by little.
The clandestine anonymity that had enabled survival up until then was gone; the
“herbalist” recovered his respectability, and now sold fascinating stories about the
orishas, as well as plants for the healers to use while chanting to the spirits, to cure
digestive and other disorders.
In this way, what in other political contexts had been the result of social
pressure from the periphery toward the centers of power, in Cuba was part of an
official strategy, coming from above and descending to the masses. The state began
producing herbal or "green" medicines of questionable quality in pill form. Most
Cubans believe in pills, preferably imported ones, or in the remedies given by the
“herbalist”, mixing popular wisdom with magic and fresh plants. The State’s “green
medicine,” encapsulated and packaged in a bottle and with a prescription, was not
very attractive. Midway between large transnational pharmaceuticals and the Afro-
Cuban saints, the State provided its pharmacies with products of dubious quality,
with weak therapeutic effects, for a public that was not interested.
As an unforeseen byproduct of this campaign favoring traditional medicine,
magical-religious practices were revived with unusual strength, and the most
authentic practitioners of Cuban folk medicine returned to the public sphere. That
201
which is really “alternative” in non-western medical practices is the relationship
between the patient and the professional, which is based on radically different
political-health presumptions than those in typical western medicine. The most
interesting product of the government turn toward alternative medicine has been the
unforeseen invigoration of practices that are more horizontal and communal, against
the grain of official intentions. As in other areas, the inefficiency of the State’s
strategies has been a point of departure for its immediate subversion.
This interesting phenomenon of symbolic inversions and political recycling
invites a study of cases of traditional healers, family doctors and potential clients
who move in both circuits. I have only been able to compile a few examples, but
nonetheless, I have attempted to establish the methodological bases of the problem.
This brief analysis of the convergence between herbalists and doctors is thus part of
an unfinished project. Between private magic and public health, between games of
resistance and acquiescence, a precarious model of extra official “auto
administration” has generated a life of its own. In a similar fashion, this
phenomenon of redesign of networks of power has also occurred at other levels. In
the functioning of these mechanisms of subversion hides one of the keys to the
country's uniquely Cuban political stability.

PART VI: "HEALTH" AND "HEALING" IN SOLAR MADRID

It is not surprising that the family doctor was generally avoided in Solar
Madrid, or, at best, was considered an irrelevant person in the community, who did
202
not have much to offer its residents. Imelda told me that she had no reason to visit
the family doctor because she had been curing herself with the help of her herb
garden from the pots outside her door for her entire life. Herbalists and santeras
(Imelda would be considered an uninitiated savant), have been widely known to cure
illnesses ranging from colds to cancerous tumors through careful application of
leaves, herbs, seeds, oils and fruits (González-Wippler 1987). These remedies had
cured her illnesses, along with three surgeries, which had left large scars on her
stomach.
Once, La Prieta excitedly told me that the family doctor had just been by the
solar to tell her that a shipment of iron pills had come into her clinic, and that she,
along with all other young women, should be taking them. The doctor claimed that
her diet lacked iron and that she would have more energy if she took them. La Prieta
seemed skeptical, but at the same time embraced the new and free miracle pill, as it
might just be what she needs. She felt, however, that her pilgrimage to San Lazaro
on December 16
th
provided greater benefits. She had prayed for money for her hacer
santo ceremony, and a little over a year later she became a santera. This new
profession provided her with a source of income that lead to a better diet than that
provided by one jar of iron pills. On a return trip I made to Cuba in 2006, she told
me that her husband, a priest in Santeria, makes sure that she has food every day and
that she never has to eat leftovers, a restriction placed upon her when she performed
her hacer santo ceremony. She had also gained approximately 20lbs since I had first
met her in 1999.
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In Catarina’s situation, the family doctor would certainly not have been able
to perform her surgery, and it might have taken months to find her a surgeon at a
large hospital. With no prior connection to this person who had little to offer her,
she did not even consider visiting her. However, I also question the war-mentality
health philosophy that seemed to be in use by the surgeon. It did seem odd to
remove the entire uterus, instead of just the tumor or the fetus. And the liposuction
in addition to the other three removals seemed like a consolation prize.
16
She would
never be able to have children again, but she would be alive and slim.
When I was sick with a urinary tract infection, something Cuban women
frequently get, La Prieta reluctantly took me to the family doctor, but to no avail
since the doctor was not there. The family doctor is supposed to spend three days in
the clinic and two days in the community each week, performing door to door check-
ups or serving workplaces or schools. Like many Cubans who work for the state for
a meager salary, there is not much incentive to show up for work, and the clinic is
frequently empty. After attempting to visit the doctor three days in a row with no
success, I explained my symptoms to La Prieta. She readily identified my problem
and convinced me to take some of “those pills” which I had brought from the United
States and had forgotten about. Imelda also gave me an herbal tea concoction, which
she recommended I use along with the antibiotics.
Yeyo and Macusa had issues that went beyond the concern of the family
doctor. Although both were physically healthy, their son’s odd appearance and
Yeyo’s prison sentence brought them to a sort of ‘socially unhealthy’ or at-risk
204
category in the eyes of the state and even among some friends and relatives. Their
journey to San Lazaro marked a reentrance of the family into their community.
In order to begin to analyze the choices made with regard to health practices
in the examples provided, going beyond a Western medicine/ traditional healing
divide, it is necessary to look at the political and spatial dimensions of the topic.
How exactly can and should “health” be defined? What is “public” vs. “private”
health? And what do these terms mean? An exploration of these questions will
place in perspective life decisions made in Solar Madrid.
According to the definition of “health” in the preamble of the Constitution of
the World Health Organization (1946), the first principle “basic to the happiness,
harmonious relations and security of all peoples” is stated as: “Health is a state of
complete physical, mental, and social well-being and not merely the absence of
disease or infirmity”. In order to make this definition more appropriate and relevant
for the changing times, it was revised in an amendment published in 1999 by the
Secretariat of the World Health Assembly to include “spiritual” well-being.
Nonetheless, in both definitions, it is assumed that “happiness” is and should be
sought by all people, and that health includes “social well-being,” something that is
never defined in the constitution, but notoriously has different meanings for
everyone. Furthermore, “the enjoyment of the highest attainable standard of health”
is not only a right of all individuals, but a requirement. If one does not seek these
ideals, one becomes a danger to the “peace, security, and harmony” of the State and
its citizens, and can therefore be subject to social measures of control.
17
This
205
preamble has obvious consequences for many people who do not agree with its
goals.
With “happiness” set as an ideal state of mind, a corollary assumption is
made that all people should have a desire to succeed, achieve a high status in the
community, and have strong motivation to reach a certain level of mental and
physical health, a change for the better, taking for granted a prior state of illness or
unhealthy living. Certainly, in many corners of the world, Solar Madrid included,
happiness and achievement have a taken a back seat to a more pressing need,
“survival”. “Healthy living” in the solar would better be defined as being adept at
inventing innovative survival strategies. Happiness is an irrelevant state when one’s
daily preoccupation is struggling to put food on the table. Achieving “physical and
mental health” is also secondary to survival. “Health” itself is a term that has overly
positive connotations. Instead of achieving health, there is a fight not to die.
Certainly having “harmonious relations” with ones neighbors, let alone advanced
degrees and respectable employment, are not sought after options. In fact, according
to the World Health Organization’s definitions, most residents of solar Madrid
would be considered physically unhealthy, and all would be considered “socially”
unacceptable.
The social and physical ideals of a healthy individual are integrally linked in
Cuba into the previously discussed prototype often promoted in the media, the
modern New Man. As a model of human perfection, the New Man is a healthy,
politically correct and socially conscious person who joyfully serves his community.
206
Going beyond the World Health Organization definitions of ideal ways of being, the
New Man is prepared to sacrifice everything for the cause of socialism. In his efforts
toward behavioral eugenics, Castro campaigned to rid the island of social derelicts
and promoted the positive conduct of the New Man. In the unique case of Cuba, the
combination of socialist morals and virtues embodied in notions of a utopian
perfection, along with international pressures for happy and healthy social beings,
has resulted in a greater distancing from and controlling of the “marginal” types in
society who do not abide by these agendas, or who live within a very different
framework.
In order to survive, many living in Solar Madrid have chosen not to work for
the State for a paltry salary and instead have attempted the more lucrative path of
self-employment with tourists. Many people who do work for the State, especially
light-skinned people, are able to use their connections with government officials to
provide paper work for legal means of earning money outside of their official job. I
lived in an apartment owned by a librarian who was able to avoid paying the hefty
$300 monthly fee to the government to obtain a renter’s license, but managed to get
legal paperwork, which allowed her to host a ‘guest’. Even though all Cubans are
guaranteed a State job, most Afro-Cubans without a university education do not have
access to jobs that offer connections to upper level officials who can provide other
legal means of earning hard currency (US dollars or the Cuban Convertible Peso).
Working for the State in any type of job would not provide sufficient money for
survival.
18
Popularly known as a jinetera, those who associate with tourists provide
207
a wide spectrum of services such as city tours, cigars, apartments for rent, taxi rides
in old cars, home cooked meals, dance expertise, love, sex, and drugs. Despite the
high demand for their services from the increasing tourist populations heavily
promoted by the government as Cuba’s number one source of income, from the
outset, their occupations are considered counter-revolutionary and illegal. Even
though State-run hotels, restaurants, and tourist agencies cannot provide for all of the
tourists, it is illegal for individuals to fill this niche. Therefore, many have had to
suffer the consequences and have served time in prison, had abortions, become
single moms, caught the HIV virus, and the like. They easily fall within the socially
and physically diseased category, according to world health standards, and are
readily punished as well.
Instead of achieving these idealistic health outcomes through optimistic
motivation, those in Solar Madrid have chosen a different path: Healing through
miracles. The initial belief in miracles is what guides people like La Prieta and
Catarina to the answers to their problems. Living with their “health condition” of
being poor, black, and “sick”, their focus is on a fight for survival through small
miracles. More than a lottery ticket, a community of healers of all sorts provides
guidelines for spiritual activities that may or may not solve health problems, but do
provide a dense network of relationships leading to contact with people who can
provide assistance and answers. Catarina’s link to her madrina did in fact lead to a
sort of miracle: her surgery was scheduled promptly and was a success, two
outcomes seen less and less frequently in Cuba today. Several years before, her
208
madrina had also helped her to become a iyabo in prison. Re-entering society with
better “credentials”, she could become a practicing santera, although she chose not
to. This change in status was especially significant for her, because in prison she met
a lover whom she continued to see after they were both released. Most of her
extended family members did not approve of her homosexual relationship. At least
her ranking as santera, which she also acquired in prison, served to counter her
declining “health status” by increasing her “social well-being” within the
community.
Apart from miracles, surviving or “healthy living” in the solar also
encompasses a different set of relations and activities. With the emphasis on
maintaining one’s sanity, certain pastimes like drinking, sex, and smoking tobacco
and marijuana have a similar healing effect as western or herbal medicines, and are
not perceived as deviant behaviors within the context of solar living. Greater levels
of rum consumption are tolerated and the line between a social drinker and an
alcoholic is blurred into non-existence. With the overly cramped living conditions,
“space” has become a health commodity. Having a brother or sister in the beca
(boarding school) during the weekdays generally equates to better food consumption
and more room to breathe. And certainly any kind of money coming from relatives
abroad or from tourists means a healthier diet or the possibility of home
improvement.
As mentioned in the previous chapter, one year after I left the field, two of
the apartments in Solar Madrid were refurbished with kitchen sinks, toilets, and an
209
area to shower. These additions, although not absolutely necessary, served to
increase the small amount of “private” space that the occupants had, and certainly
boosted their social standing among friends and neighbors. With even more money,
they could leave the solar completely and live in their own apartment, but this would
take larger miracles.
In Cuba, invasive policies have been initiated to achieve public health goals.
With the vertical organization of the National Health System integrally connected to
the State’s hierarchical structure, health workers have as much, if not more, power to
monitor and control the daily lives of people as do their political counterparts.
Public officials of all sorts frequently enter the home under different pretexts to
“check” the living style of its residents. A band of pest control workers wearing
camouflaged gray suits periodically check homes for mosquitoes, which carry
dengue fever, although outbreaks rarely occur. Water and kerosene is brought to the
home on a weekly or biweekly basis. Every person has a local chapter of the
Committee for the Defense of the Revolution (CDR), which they are encouraged to
join. Although the CDR is officially a non-governmental agency, it does have
regional and national branches whose presidents are connected to the official Poder
Popular or Popular Power. Active members of the CDR serve as a sort of
‘neighborhood watch,’ and have an official goal of preventing local crime and
averting spies from penetrating the country with counter-revolutionary ideologies.
As mentioned earlier, “counter-revolutionary” behaviors have grown to include a
wide spectrum of life styles, including the state of being poor, black, and resident of
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a solar. Local CDR members go door to door actively trying to get residents
involved in the organization by donating time or money to community projects and
activities. And lastly, the family doctor spends at least two days every week going
door to door and checking the health status of the 100 or so families for whom they
are responsible.
Apart from their regular duties, each of these government-employed officials
is also required to report suspicious or counter-revolutionary behaviors to their boss,
a step above in the hierarchy, who follows through with sanctions and punishment of
skeptical individuals. In spite of all of these means of surveillance and control, the
government also has a “snitch” in place in every solar and on every block in the city.
Sworn to never reveal their status as undercover agent, the ever-present eyes of this
big brother, often unsuspecting young women or well-informed spiritual healers,
have landed many citizens in jail with the permanent label of counter-revolutionary.
They are required to keep a daily log of the activities of residents and report
suspicious behavior to their local police chief. As will be seen in the next chapter,
this "snitch" can cause much damage and is a serious intrusion on the small amount
of private space that residents have.
So what effect do all of these agents have for those living in Solar Madrid?
The structure of Solar Madrid and most solares in Havana is designed to contain the
“undisciplined” and “disrespected” members of society. Sixteen small, overcrowded
apartments hide behind only one door. Although providing a façade of normalcy for
its residents (from the outside it looks like an average house or apartment complex),
211
the overall intention is for the poor residents inside to be isolated from the rest of
society. The design is such that upward mobility is impossible. Even with money,
there is no room to park a car or extend one’s apartment, aside from building a
barbacoa, or second floor balcony, that is built into the first floor.
The physical layout of the solar provides a semi-public and semi-private
space in the central courtyard and the individual apartments. In the morning, the
residents spill out of their cramped apartments and wear their pajamas and ‘in-house’
attire in the central area while washing the laundry or brushing their teeth by the
drain. Apartment doors generally remain open to circulate air during the intense heat
of the day. Because of the cramped housing, residents spend much of their day
outside. Again, it is designed for this purpose, so that the residents do not spill out
onto the street but remain in their central courtyard. Because of the structure of the
solar, it does allow for more illicit connections to be made, which can result in better
food and a substantial increase in income of its residents. On the downside, the
tenant’s private life is extremely restricted. Most of their illegal activities can be
easily viewed by any of the above named agents passing through to perform
“standard” duties, and everyone is subject to the watchful eye of the “snitch” at all
times. It is not surprising that solar residents try to have as little contact as possible
with the family doctor. But the structure of the solar also lends itself to a sort of
reverse surveillance. Anyone who enters the solar is subject to the gaze of all of the
women who generally situate themselves in their doorway where the kitchen is
located.
19
Gossip easily spreads when unwelcome characters are “in the house”.
212
Imelda said that she generally leaves the solar and goes to the market or to her
daughter’s solar when the family doctor visits.
In most of the examples provided, the official stance with regard to health
care based on national policies and international pressures has reverberated in a
spiral fashion downward toward the solar communities, producing a variety of side
effects. For the most part, residents find themselves pigeon-holed into a category of
people considered physically and socially unfit for life in the community. Those
who are able to crawl out of this grouping, even briefly, are nonetheless subject to
increased scrutiny due to assumptions of a collective deviancy among those who live
in such crowded and impoverished conditions. On the brighter side, the
government’s promotion of alternative medicines and practices has enabled an
unintended but now legitimate means of support for individuals in these
communities. With the increase of yerberos in Havana, hundreds of legal small
businesses have appeared, offering medicinal plants and roots to a primarily Afro-
Cuban population. The private traditional healers have also served to counter the
official trend of placing solar residents in a socially and physically unfit category by
boosting the morale of residents, accepting them into their santeria families, and
offering them a place in society that is not as bleak as the image the society at large
placed upon them. The primarily Afro-Cuban response to official attempts to push
solar residents to the margins of society is to offer inclusion into a dense network of
Santeria priests and deities that can lead to tangible improvements in their living and
health conditions.
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CHAPTER 4 ENDNOTES

1
This well known pattakí (story) about Babalú Ayé is found in Natalia Bolivar’s Los
Orishas en Cuba (p.142) and was translated by the author.
2
There is a plethora of literature concerning the syncretic nature of Afro-Caribbean
religions. In The African Religions in Brazil (1978), Bastide claims that formerly distinct
religious traditions were blending and transforming in the New World to form a new
religious "coagulation". Desmangles (1977) studied the interpretation of Christian symbols
in Haitian Vodun. More recently, authors have questioned the particular balance between
Catholic and African contributions while some emphasize the multiple influences from
Africa in Voodoo (de Heusch 1989) and Candomble (Megenney 1992) and others accentuate
the Catholic authority (Eustache 1995). Lately, the concept of syncretism has been critiqued
as an overly "deterministic tool" (Pérez y Mena 1998).
3
These seven principles of the National Health Administration are taken from the first of
three volumes of Medicina General Integral by Rigol et. al. 1994, pp.9-10. It was originally
published in 1985 and is used as a textbook for all medical students in Cuba. The quotes
have been translated by the author but the original Spanish version will be included in the
footnotes. Also see Article 49 and 50 of the Constitution of the Republic of Cuba (1981),
pp.24-25 for official statements regarding health service and intervention policies.
Concerning health education, or “La Educación para la salud”, consult Rigol et. al. (1994)
pp. 178-229 where the theme is covered through a rudimentary explanation of social
psychology.
4
“Funcionamiento de un sistema único para la atención de la salud de toda la población”.
Rigol et. al. (1994), p.9.
5
“La salud constituye un derecho de todos los ciudadanos y una responsabilidad del
Estado”. Rigol et. al. (1994), p.9.
6
“Los servicios de salud deben ser accesibles a toda la población”. Rigol et. al. (1994), p.10.
7
“un nivel cultural suficiente que le permite mejorar sus hábitus y buscar en la ciencia la
solución de sus problemas de salud.” Rigol et. al. (1994), p.10.
8
“Las acciones de salud deben ser de carácter integral, con especial acento preventivo”.
Rigol et. al. (1994), p.10.
9
For a further discussion on homosexuality and its repression during revolutionary Cuba,
see Arenas (1993), Leiner (1994), Lumsden (1996), and Paz (1996). To learn the process by
which homosexuality is ‘detected’ in young children in Cuba and treated as a psychiatric
disease, see Ricardo et. al. (1985) Vol. 3, p.363.
10
Efforts to prevent crime through the criminalization and punishment of Peligrosidad, or
“potential dangerousness” will be discussed in Chapter 5.
214

11
“Los servicios de salud deben ser planificados”. Rigol et. al. (1994), p.10.
12
“Las acciones de salud deben desarrollarse con la participación activa de la comunidad
organizada”. Rigol et. al. (1994), p.10.
13
The CDR or “Comité de Defensa de la Revolución” is comprised of numerous local
organizations, every few blocks in Cuba, which every person should belong to or contribute
to if they want to support the revolutionary ideologies. The FMC or “Federacion de Mujeres
Cubanas” is an organization that supports the rights of Cuban women. See Chapter 5 for
further discussion of this organization. The ANAP or "Asociación Nacional de Agricultores
Pequeños" is an association to which all farmers belong that began with the Agrarian Reform
Law of 1959.
14
“El internacionalismo proletario en el campo de la salud”. Rigol et. al. (1994), p.11.
15
This figure was taken from Rigol et. al. 1994, p.13. It has been translated by the author.
16
Liposuction is a vital part of Cuba’s health tourism plan. The procedure was performed in
Cuba long before it became an acceptable practice in the United States.
17
The means by which the World Health Organization can force states and citizens to
comply will not be discussed here. But certainly everyone is subject to the “Healthy People
2000” and “Healthy People 2010” campaigns initiated by the United States and other similar
programs.
18
Fidel Castro himself stated during one speech that the staple foods provided by the State
would only be enough for two weeks out of the month. Money from one’s salary would
cover a few days of meals and creative and innovative ways of inventing money ‘legally’
would supply food for the remaining 1-2 weeks.
19
As mentioned in the previous chapter, the ambiguous layout of the solar allows
inhabitants to watch and be watched by others. According to Michel Foucault (1970 and
1975) the spatial logic of particular buildings such as prisons and hospitals is designed to
maximize social surveillance and social control. The solar's semi-public nature allows some
social regulation of its space. Certainly the snitch has access to a wealth of personal
information of the tenants. And yet, the semi-private structure of the solar also offers
residents some protection. Foucault's panopticon is reversed such that the tenants can spy on
the visitors.
215
CHAPTER 5: AFFIRMATIVE ACTIONS

Every subordinate group creates, out of its ordeal, a “hidden transcript” that
represents a critique of power spoken behind the back of the dominant. The
powerful, for their part, also develop a hidden transcript representing the
practices and claims of their rule that cannot be openly avowed. A
comparison of the hidden transcript of the weak with that of the powerful and
of both hidden transcripts to the public transcript of power relations offers a
substantially new way of understanding resistance to domination.
James C. Scott (1990: xii)

In the Cuban case, the existence of informal networks with their "hidden
transcripts", as identified by political scientist James C. Scott, has an enormous
impact on the relationship between people and groups with power asymmetries. In
this chapter I analyze how alternative social connections are produced and
reproduced among the members of the Baro family. In the solar, some forms of
brotherhood and sisterhood are built upon a basic kinship structure that includes
ethnic and gender solidarities as well as religious-based fictive kin relationships. I
present examples of familial and social interactions observed in the solar to better
understand the circulation of individuals between vertically oriented spaces in the
hierarchically structured state system and horizontally produced informal social
networks among friends and family of more similar social status. These exchanges
lead to not simply survival, but to effective ways to manage at most levels of Cuban
economic and social strata.
There is an enormous amount of literature about the role of gender, ethnic
and religious solidarity in the creation of social networks. Here I focus my analysis
on the significance of these relationships from the point of view of their social
216
agency. For the Baros, the subversion of the chain of command of the state system
is perceived as a legitimate survival strategy. This strategy raises many interesting
questions about the meaning of power and its relationship to agency among the
Afro-Cuban community as a “subaltern” group in Cuba. As discussed earlier, the
mainstream literature related to the political dimensions of marginality emphasizes
the lack of agency of extremely poor people and thus underestimates the social
significance not only of survival strategies, but of the complex political, economic,
and judicial systems developed by the "new poor". Only in the nineteen eighties
(after a century of research on “active” forms of resistance based upon “class
struggle” paradigms or influenced by the civil rights movement traditions) did some
scholars such as James Scott start to pay attention to forms of “passive” resistance as
covert evidence of political agency among the “powerless”.
The pioneering study by the political scientist James Scott (1985) on the role
of subversive gossip, the dragging of feet, and other encoded manifestations of
“passive” resistance among Malayan peasants, opened a completely new perspective
on social scientists' discussions of “subaltern” political agency. In an ambitious and
inspiring effort at making broad theoretical generalizations, Scott (1990) provided
many key elements that have enriched further developments in this direction. From
his point of view, many non-public, non-explicit and non-open forms of resistance
can be understood as manifestations of the “hidden transcript” of the powerless.
Using an eclectic array of ethnographic material, historical evidence, literary sources
and a socially grounded political analysis, Scott produced a model to explain the
217
cross-cultural and trans-historic similarities between responses to oppression in
different contexts. He did not present his findings as either original or terminal
conclusions, but as compelling analytical tools whose applicability could be
reevaluated in any concrete case (1990: x-xiii).
As a system of semiprivate values and clandestine ideas about the meaning of
power, the “hidden transcript” is not exclusively a “weapon of the weak.” Dominant
groups also have their own particular set of ideas about the meaning of power and
the social role of cultural hegemony that constitute the hidden foundation of any
form of public discourse. It is this dual character of the hidden transcript that makes
it such an interesting element in the renegotiation of power asymmetries. By using
hidden transcript formulas as a “natural” strategy of power/resistance negotiation,
both dominant and repressed groups are playing a more subtle and intricate political
game “behind the scenes” than the one that is publicly enacted on the “open stage.”
The fact that both sides of the asymmetrical power relationship know that only part
of the mutual prejudices, fears and intentions of the other side are visible, introduces
an ambiguity in every gesture, every word or every silence.
The most interesting element in Scott’s theory is precisely that numerous
people understand these categories, based on their own personal experiences.
Practically anybody who has been involved in asymmetrical power negotiations
knows how to encode frustration, anger or fear through simple to sophisticated
practices, ranging from ironic body language to the complete sabotage of
communication. Of course, there are innumerable ways in which hidden transcripts
218
are constructed or expressed in any specific culture and under particular historic
circumstances. A systematic study of the hidden transcript should not be geared
toward the creation of an archetypical classification of cultural forms of “passive”
resistance. Instead, it should be oriented toward the understanding of asymmetrical
power situations as complex interplays of invisible, yet very meaningful,
progressions. I will present three examples from my fieldwork experience with the
Baro family to illustrate the pertinence of Scott’s model for an analysis of micro-
political phenomena in a Cuban solar. I begin with a short vignette describing La
Prieta's involvement in Santeria and her subsequent embrace of the religion. I will
then detail Chano's involvement with Santeria and conclude with a short discussion
of the predicaments of La Prieta's brother Marcos and their cousin Jazmin.

PART I: LA PRIETA
Wearing shorts and a raggedy old bra, La Prieta applies another layer of
yellow cake and honey over her slim body. Only a step away, the Almendares River
runs toward the Atlantic, passing slums, a city park, and some of the fancier
neighborhoods on the northwestern side of Havana. Once the cake tray is empty and
her skin has been completely coated in golden icing, La Prieta submerges herself in
the water under the vigilant gaze of her boyfriend Chano (Figure 30). She returns to
the shoreline, having disposed of her undergarments in the river’s current, and wraps
herself in a towel. After drying off, she puts on a second set of clothes brought
specially for the occasion. These are the best clothes she owns. Her offering to
219
Oshun, a saint within the Afro-Cuban religion of Santeria, has been successfully
completed.

Figure 30: La Prieta performs an offering for Oshun
This whole ceremony had been ordained in November 1999, during a
spiritual mass involving some divination and the setting of a properly adorned altar
(Figure 31). Cigars, candles, flowers and herbs were arranged on a table while the
medium, known as an espiritista or "spiritist" in Cuba, chanted her way into a trance.
La Prieta, the spirits said, was in big trouble. Another woman had transferred bad
energy to La Prieta’s boyfriend Chano by giving him poisoned food. Brujeria, or
witchcraft had taken hold of him and he now wanted to control two women.
Offering cake and honey to Oshun would increase her sensuality and draw Chano
toward her once again. Although this would successfully break the curse on Chano,
the spiritist predicted that if La Prieta went to the airport and buried a toy airplane in
220
the dirt near the runway, Oshun would also bring her a foreign man with tan pants
who would take her to France. At the time of the river offering, La Prieta knew that
Chano was in fact seeing another woman, a successful prostitute who lived in Old
Havana. An offering to Oshun was in order, but she felt that burying a toy airplane
would not bring her any closer to France.

Figure 31: Altar prepared for spiritist ceremony
Chano, a tall and skinny man from the Eastern side of Cuba, had been La
Prieta’s boyfriend on and off for several years. He had moved to Havana to make
money, primarily in the drug business. I first met him on the day he had been
released from prison for a drug deal gone bad… or a fight with a girl, which left a
221
scar on her face… or an encounter with a competitor who he shot in the foot. These
colorful stories changed over time but they built up his reputation as a fierce and
untrustworthy pimp with loads of drug money. In private, however, he admitted
being better off in prison than on the city streets, endlessly searching for food and
shelter. For about two months, at the peak of their relationship, he shared a
refurbished kitchen with La Prieta in her mother’s apartment. Eventually they were
kicked out and La Prieta moved back with her grandmother. Chano moved back in
with his other girlfriend, who was the mother of Chano’s only child. She shared a
small room with several people in another dilapidated tenement at walking distance
from La Prieta’s home.
As a light-skinned man with a cursory knowledge of several European
languages, Chano was able to bring foreigners to his other girlfriend’s bedroom. He
would profit from these encounters and the drug deals that often accompanied them.
Dutifully, Chano would bring some money back to La Prieta, the 20-year old woman
he claimed to love. Far from happy with the whole arrangement, La Prieta tolerated
it in order to contribute to the family economy. Chano bought an expensive pair of
shoes for her half brother, and he bought most of the necklaces, clay pots and
garments that La Prieta needed for her initiation into Santeria. If his cash supply
were low, he would just buy a chicken and bring it to her mother.
La Prieta carried her nickname with pride. More than just an allusion to her
blackness, it was a trademark. After meeting someone on the streets, she would
always tell them that if they needed anything, they just had to go to her tenement, in
222
Central Havana and ask for La Prieta, "The Dark Woman". Being well known in her
complex and the whole barrio was a first step toward increasing contact with
foreigners. She told me that her neighbor and competitor Raquel was jealous of her
because she had a pretty face and large chest, which attracted men.
Raquel was one of four young female sex workers in the tenement and the
most successful by far. A very light-skinned woman who frequently dyed her hair
red to stand out from the rest, she bragged of having four husbands, “because none of
them fit quite right”. Raquel spent every weekend and most weeknights touring the
salsa club circuit of Havana. Each evening she earned enough money from tourists
to pay for her entry fee the following night. Once I heard her boasting about how
she was blacklisted at the Turquino Night Club on the top floor of the Havana Libre
Hotel. Every club keeps a list of Cuban women who are barred admission because
they have repeatedly entered with intent to have illicit relations with foreigners.
Raquel was proud of this public mark of her career success and was not bothered by
the inconvenience; there was a plethora of other clubs in the city.
Raquel’s access to nightlife was head and shoulders above La Prieta’s, but
jealousy circulated both ways between them. After all, La Prieta was in fact
profiting from the sex work of her boyfriend’s girlfriend. That position, often
ridiculed by her peers, was also a desirable one. As a part-time sex worker, La
Prieta’s success was relatively modest. Once she showed me some photos of herself
with a foreign man on a bed at the Hotel Nacional in Havana. Both La Prieta and her
mother spoke highly of this man who had a leg impediment and walked with a limp
223
but who treated her very well. La Prieta’s only complaint was that he refused to
leave the hotel gardens overlooking the ocean and join the crowds of dancers during
the Carnival season.
La Prieta's conflict over her relationships with men and participation in the
sex work industry, led her to consult her Santeria godfather Gabino. He performed
a divination ceremony involving the throwing of shells and then proceeded to tell her
this story:
After years of heavy labor as a blacksmith in the city, Oggun decided it was
time to retire. The Orisha, or saint, of war and ironworks missed the simple
ways of the forest and he was dragging a leg after an accident at the
workshop. But life in the city came to a halt soon after his departure, because
everyone needed tools and weapons to survive. Many Orishas went to the
forest and tried to convince Oggun to return, but he refused. Finally, Oshun
decided to try. No one thought the young little goddess of the rivers would
be able to take on the strength of Oggun, but she knew better. Oshun danced
through the forest half-naked, swinging five scarves around to reveal her
bodily charms. Oggun was mesmerized and moved closer to get a better
look. She smeared honey on his lips when her tantalizing spell was wearing
off, and gradually lured him to the center of the city, where the rest of the
Orishas surrounded Oggun and he was forced back to work.
(Recited by Gabino, Fall 1999)

224

Figure 32:
Dancer Sergio
Larrinaga
Morejón dressed
as Oggun

Figure 33: Dancer
Yaumara Oviedo
González dressed as
Oshun

225
As a respected babalawo, Gabino gains La Prieta's trust by displaying the
attributes of both a wise priest and a successful businessman
1
. His gold chains and
Tommy Hilfiger brand name clothes are an essential part of the message Gabino is
sending out to both the Orishas and their worshipers. With stories such as this one,
carefully selected to fit the individual needs of his clients, Gabino helps them to
rationalize their choices. The extensive repertoire of Orisha narratives that
constitute the core of Santeria and other Afro-Cuban religions has been a source of
flexible life scripts for generations of believers. La Prieta can choose to read this
allegory as a ready-made justification for her approach to sex work. To play the role
of a flirtatious Oshun enticing Oggun to provide goods and services for the rest of
the community could be obviously interpreted as a legitimate entrance into the world
of prostitution.
Thus, a powerful synergy has developed between people involved in
marginalized religions, occupations and lifestyles. Prostitution, homosexuality,
black marketing, political subversion, alcoholism and prison jargon are accepted
among Santeria practitioners as common traits of human nature with their
equivalents in the world of the Orishas. These deities are role models and the honor
code they follow is ultimately a confirmation of traditional forms of social order.
They love their mothers, respect their elders and care for others. However, they can
also be cunning alcoholics who are prone to violence and promiscuous sex. The
social appeal of the Orishas is ultimately tied to their dual nature as dirty fighters and
pious heroes who somehow win in the end.
226
In her various journeys through the interconnected worlds of witchcraft,
tricky relationships, Santeria and prostitution, La Prieta collected enough material to
reinvent herself. She could be a full-time sex worker out in the open like Raquel or
use the subtle means of Oshun to secure the attention of her own industrious Oggun
at the Hotel Nacional, limp and all. However, the risks were multiple; from being
blacklisted or jailed to ending up working for a pimp figure like Chano. Somehow,
to pay for the chicken soup of your boyfriend's other girlfriend seemed too cruel a
reversal of fortune to be even considered as an option. Trapped between the
archetypical role models of Santeria and the stereotypical realities of poverty and sex
work, La Prieta had to build her own identity at the margins of a society unable to
provide a better set of viable economic opportunities for young inner-city black
women.
But from her encounters with Gabino, La Prieta also learned about other
forms of personal realization for marginal people like herself and her godfather.
Priesthood was obviously an effective way of gaining wealth and respect while
providing a useful service to others. With his display of girlfriends, jewelry and
magical erudition, Gabino was in fact the ultimate role model. In Santeria, only men
can be ordained babalawos, but women and men can become santeras or santeros, a
parallel form of priesthood that is almost socially equivalent. When I left Cuba in
the summer of 2000, La Prieta was going through the final stages of her preparation
to become a santera, signifying her formal involvement with the Orishas. She had
sold all of her possessions and requested help from all of her friends to pay for the
227
eight hundred dollar cost of the entire process. Chano bought at least $200 worth of
religious paraphernalia that La Prieta needed for her ceremonies, but after I left Cuba
in 2000, he returned to prison and La Prieta still did not have everything she needed
for the ceremony (See list in Appendix A).
In 2001, La Prieta began dating Nereo, a 40-year old friend of her mother's.
La Prieta told me that santeras had always predicted and even instructed her to be
with an older man, and most importantly, Nereo bought all of the live animals that
she needed for her initiation ceremony, valued at $175. La Prieta's father's girlfriend,
who works in the tourist industry in Cayo Largo, a small island in Cuba, bought all
of the sweets, cakes, fruits, and candy for her altar for Oshun. With a $100
contribution from myself during a visit in 2001-02 and assistance from family
members, La Prieta was finally able to have her 5-day hacer santo ceremony and on
January 19
th
, 2002, she was initiated into Santeria priesthood and officially became a
santera (Figure 34). Gabino and his wife assisted La Prieta through this lengthy
series of events that included animal sacrifices, a scary spirit possession, a ritual
blessing of her necklaces and guardian warriors, and several ritual banquets wearing
formal costumes
2
. The initiation solidified La Prieta's relationship with her new
religious family and Gabino officially became her godfather and his wife became her
first godmother. As part of the final stage of La Prieta’s initiation, she wore white
for a whole year and was ordered to abstain from sex and forbidden foods while
learning the trade from her godparents. In 2002, Gabino and his wife went to Miami.
228
As the ultimate proof of his success, he managed to come to the United States with
the help of one of his foreign godsons.

Figure 34: La Prieta in front of her altar for Oshun, January 2002
Today, La Prieta is a full-fledged santera, working to build her own clientele
that already includes some foreigners. During a visit in 2006, I learned that she had
become a madrina, or religious godmother and had initiated her first ahijado or
godchild into Santeria priesthood. She had made all of the necessary preparations
and performed all of the rituals for her Venezuelan godson to receive the santo
Elegua. Her godfather Gabino, although now living in Miami, had maintained
229
connections with his Santeria godchildren in Venezuela and arranged to have La
Prieta perform the initiation ceremony. This was a very significant step for La Prieta
as it tested her knowledge and skills of a very important Santeria ritual. Gabino had
returned to Havana for the occasion and was able to oversee the ceremonies although
the responsibility for carrying them out remained completely with La Prieta.
When La Prieta was initiated into Santeria, she formally became a member of
a religious household headed by Gabino and his wife. Even though they moved to
Miami, their religious house in Cuba continued to operate. La Prieta's second
godmother, Gabino's mother, continued to live in the house and with the help of
Gabino's ahijados, or Santeria godchildren, and his religious brothers and sisters,
Santeria rituals continued to be performed on a daily basis. Gabino and his wife
return twice a year to Cuba to perform ceremonies. Although abroad, their
livelihood depends on religious ties in Havana and other countries. Although
Santeria has spread throughout the world, for financial and symbolic reasons, many
foreign believers prefer to travel to Cuba to perform ceremonies. While living in
Cuba, Gabino had built up a following that included godchildren in Mexico,
Venezuela, and Spain. From Miami he maintains these connections and continues to
arrange client ceremonies in his natal home in Havana. Gabino's Cuban godchildren,
La Prieta included, assist Gabino in carrying out these ceremonies.
Through her involvement with Santeria rituals in Gabino's religious house,
La Prieta met and married a santero and babalawo named Valerio. They live
together in his apartment in Luyano, just a few blocks away from the home of their
230
religious family (Gabino's house), and a long bus ride away from Solar Madrid and
La Prieta's blood relatives. With religious events to attend to every day, assisting her
second godmother, La Prieta has been thoroughly educated into all facets of the
religion. She has made numerous trips to the city of Matanzas with her religious
family to assist in rituals and has even learned the subtle differences that distinguish
the religious practice in each region.
Meeting Valerio, a man just slightly older than La Prieta whom she looks up
to because of his high position in the religion, has also been a blessing. Not only has
he drawn her away from the craziness of life in a solar in Cayo Hueso, but he also
makes sure that La Prieta is well fed. She told me that she no longer has to eat
leftovers, something she never liked to do. She also was prohibited from doing so
during her initiation ceremony. Valerio, a shy young man, comes from a well-
educated family that espoused hard working socialist (Russian) values. He works for
the state as a computer technician, and informally works for his religious family
maintaining a database of Orisha stories and spiritual signs. His dual position allows
him to use state resources, such as computer software and parts, in his more informal
community work. Certainly, in many ways, La Prieta's initiation into Santeria has
proven well worth the high cost. Not only is she economically better off now, but
new avenues opened for her leading to a respectable and fulfilling life as a healer.
The connections between Santeria and sex work are as convoluted as
expected from such complex institutions. The social ramifications of priesthood will
open new doors for La Prieta to engage in profitable relationships with foreigners,
231
sex workers, worshipers and other people indirectly involved in both worlds. She
can incorporate her rich experiences into the advice provided to clients during the
divination process, while bringing her network of personal contacts to a whole new
level. Santeria has provided her with access to a larger form of kinship. Through
her godparents she has become part of an extended family, acquiring many friends
and some new responsibilities. In the meantime she has been taking English lessons
and making sure that her wardrobe accurately reflects her position as daughter of
Oshun, goddess of all marginal peoples, sensuality, and Cuban sex workers. She has
already broadened her network to include a godson from Venezuela and her
godfather Gabino in Miami. Through her involvement in Santeria, her international
contacts are beginning to expand, forming a web of support that may lead to a trip
outside the country.
What were the choices that La Prieta had growing up in the poor conditions
of Solar Madrid in a densely populated urban landscape? How did she become a
practicing priestess in the Afro-Cuban Santeria tradition? Glancing at the paths
taken by her generation of relatives and friends in Solar Madrid will provide a
broader picture of the opportunities available.
When I met La Prieta in the summer of 1999, she was 20 years old, living in
Solar Madrid, the place where she was born and raised, and not officially working or
going to school. She had formally graduated from "basic secondary school", grade
7-9. Like most teenagers in Havana, she had attended a boarding school called
Comuna de Paris in Melena del Sur, a village in the countryside roughly two hours
232
outside of Havana. She said that she was a diligent student who received mostly
B+'s and had good marks in discipline, political attitude, and development of the
body. She participated in all of the school activities including several hours of farm
work each morning, 45 days of manual labor in the countryside every summer, and
active involvement in the pioneros, a required student organizational body. Upon
graduation from secondary school, she had a choice of following a pre-university
track of grades 10-12 or entering a 2-4 year technical or vocational program. She
decided not to pursue the university track as her grades were not high enough and
went to a 4-year technical school in transporte automotriz, or auto mechanics, in
Vedado, a bus ride away from the solar. She attended the school for three years and
then decided to drop out because she said that she was not learning any more as she
was no longer interested in the material. Instead, she spent her days at home helping
her grandmother, or in the streets, trying to earn a few dollars. Even if she had
graduated from her trade school, working as a mechanic for the state earning $7 per
month was not a very enticing job. She could easily make that much money in one
day by meeting a foreigner in the street, although as La Prieta said, she was not very
good at meeting foreign men and her girlfriends in the solar were much more
successful.
Along with three other women in the solar La Prieta has, at one point in
her life, "prostituted" herself for money. In Cuba, this involves hanging out in or
near nightclubs and hotels and trying to meet a foreigner who would offer her
food, drinks, or money, for her company, expert knowledge of Havana,
233
connections to cigar or marijuana vendors, or even sex. Women who do this type
of work catering to tourists are generally called jineteras and the work itself,
done by both men and women, is referred to as jineteando (often equated with
hustling or "street work", although it literally translates as "horseback riding") or
trabajando en la calle. La Prieta never considered herself a prostitute or jinetera
and only told me about two memorable experiences with foreign "boyfriends,"
who she described as potential tickets outside of Cuba, which is her long-term
dream. Unlike the other young women in the solar, she claimed that she was
lucky because she always had Cuban boyfriends who supported her and did not
need to sleep with "strange men". Instead, she would often hang out with foreign
men who came to the solar to buy drugs from her uncle. She would benefit from
these encounters as the men would buy beers for her or take her out to eat or to
the beach for the day. She would even accompany my friends from the United
States on their excursions throughout Havana, eating an enjoyable meal along the
way. But there was a lot of competition in the solar, even among her family
members.
Once Nereo brought over an Italian man who wanted to buy marijuana
from Manuel. La Prieta and her aunt Odelia both drank beers that the Italian man
bought for them while the men smoked. After hanging out with him for the day,
both La Prieta and Odelia decided they would sleep with him and proceeded to
flirt extensively. In the end, it turned out that the Italian man really did not want
to have sex. La Prieta told me that it was always difficult to negotiate cross-
234
cultural exchanges involving sex, especially when there is a language barrier. La
Prieta and her friend asked me to teach them key phrases in English such as, "Do
you want cigars?", "Do you have a girlfriend?", "Can we be friends?", "How
much are you going to give me?", and "That is not enough". Clearly not experts,
they were both eager to learn the tools needed to become more involved with
foreigners. Once during our lessons, La Prieta's 20-year old cousin Emelio
walked into the room. She asked him what were the key phrases he used with
foreigners. He laughed while reciting in front of me, "Do you want ganja?", "Do
you want a lady?" with perfect articulation. Emelio brought a foreign man to the
solar once who wanted to meet a young Cuban girl. He introduced him to La
Prieta who was very excited about the encounter. Unfortunately for her, the man
also met Raquel who swiftly stole the foreigner back to her apartment. On
another occasion, Raquel brought some men to the solar whom she had met the
night before at a dance club. They wanted to go to the beach with Raquel and
two of her girlfriends. She chose La Prieta and Ynez and they set out for a day of
fun in the sun. Thus, although La Prieta competed with Raquel and other sex
workers in the solar and on the block, she also benefited from her relationships
with them.
La Prieta's involvement with and profits from foreign men completely
depended on her connections with her extended family members, solar residents,
and young women and men in the neighborhood involved in the same jineteando
business. Her cousins Emelio and Mateo, both in their early 20's, the same age
235
as La Prieta, were always in the streets looking for an opportunity to earn some
money. If they met a foreigner who wanted sex or drugs, they would bring the
man to Solar Madrid. If a deal was struck and La Prieta profited from the
encounter, she would give some money to Emelio or Mateo for bringing her the
customer. Nereo would also bring foreigners to La Prieta and sometimes Raquel
or the other sex workers on the block would bring a few foreign men to the solar,
in search of a few women to even out the pairs.
When a foreigner was brought to the solar, all of the Baro family
resources would be pooled to serve him or her. Aside from drugs, sex and tours
of Havana, Imelda's services as cook and housemaid were also offered to
foreigners. And, if a family member could not be of assistance, the foreigner was
referred to a neighbor in the solar. Foreign women were brought to Marisol to
have their nails painted and those interested in buying wood carvings were
referred to Julio and Nerelsi, the young couple from Guantanamo. If a foreigner
was interested in Afro-Cuban religions, La Prieta would guide them to a tambor,
a Santeria ritual involving music, dance, and spirit possession. La Prieta knew
dozens of santeras in the neighborhood and always knew where the rituals for
the orishas were taking place. For foreigners interested in having a spiritual
reading, she would bring them to a santera, babalawo, or espiritista. There were
numerous ways that foreigners could be served by La Prieta and her family, and
sex was just one of many transactions that could take place.
236
There is a large body of literature concerning sex work in Cuba and the
Caribbean (Kempadoo 1998a, 1999). Much of this literature discusses the
increase in prostitution on the island in the early 1990's following the financial
crisis due to the loss of subsidies from the Soviet Union and the government's
subsequent embrace of tourism as a viable way to save the country's failing
economy (Facio 1998). Foreign tourists to the island have in fact increased
dramatically, from 250,000 in 1988 (Facio 1998) to 1.7 million in 2001, dipping
after September 11, 2001 and increasing to 2.3 million in 2005 (Ministerio de
Tourismo de Cuba). This influx of foreigners has sparked a huge increase in
services provided by the government and Cuban-foreign joint ventures as well as
by the informal sectors. Numerous freelancers, both legal and illegal, serve
tourists in a variety of ways. Families provide lodging in their homes, known as
casa particular, or serve meals in paladars, or private restaurants. Others, who
are lucky to have cars, use them as taxis or serve as tour guides. Many Cubans
involved in these activities continue to work for the state during the day, or have
quit their state job, as their freelance business brings in more money. Fernandez
describes jineteando as "any activity outside of one's salaried employment that
generates hard currency or the possibility of foreign travel" (1999:85).
Alongside these semi legal forms of earning dollars is the burgeoning sex
work industry. Over the past two decades, sex tourism has increased
dramatically, with inconsistent waves of support and repression by the Cuban
government. Fusco mentions (1998:161) a speech by Fidel in 1992, in which he,
237
to some extent, encouraged sex tourism by commenting that "Cuban women
were jineteras not out of need, but because they liked sex, and that they were
among the healthiest and best educated hookers in the business". Lane claims
that Cuban sex workers are stereotyped as more innocent and natural than
veterans from other countries (1994). Similar to most Caribbean countries,
sculptures and paintings of Afro-Cuban women with voluptuous bodies dominate
the outdoor markets in Havana selling the exotic, erotic Cuban 'other' to
foreigners. Theatres and night clubs in all of Cuba's main cities and tourist
establishments feature scantily clad Tropicana dancers and Afro-Cuban
musicians drumming traditional Santeria beats while primarily Afro-Cuban
women gyrate for the audience. Abroad, Cuban tourism is commonly promoted
using black or mestizo models and Cuban women were even featured in Playboy
in 1990 (Cabezas 1998:79). In an effort to shift the blame for the rise in
prostitution from Cuban women to the sex tourists themselves, the Federation of
Cuban Women (FMC) and MAGIN (an organization of prominent women from
the National Women's Press Association) have attempted to change the image of
Cuban women used to promote tourism abroad, by working closely with those in
the tourist industry and encouraging a focus on health and family tourism and the
country's historical and environmental resources (Facio 1999). In spite of these
efforts, "Sun, Sex, and Gold" sells and a large proportion of tourists are men
seeking to have a good time with Cuban women (Kempadoo ed. 1999).
238
Cabezas (1998) criticizes the resurgence of literature on sex work in
Cuba that portrays prostitutes as pathological. Aside from Fidel's comments
above, literature also supports this view that Cuban sex workers are motivated
not by economic need, but by a desire for "consumer goods and recreational
opportunities" (Strout 1996:10). Cuban sex workers are depicted as immoral,
vain, and even lacking "revolutionary consciousness" (Cabezas 1998:83). A
Cuban physician from the Superior Institute of Medical Sciences in Havana goes
as far as to label jineterismo a "psychosocial disease" called "phantomism", a
"juvenile social pathology that destroys the social standards set by the
revolution" (Vallant 2001). The FMC has also publicly denounced prostitution
and reiterated the party line that women sex workers are educated and perform
sex work not for survival, but to buy luxury items (Fusco 1998). Even
underground rappers in Cuba, such as Magia of Obsesión and Primera Base
argue that prostitutes are obsessed with consumerism, "They go on hustling,
brother, going with foreigners, this is the fundamental cause, offering up your
body to triumph in life. That is why I say this, and really it is surprising to
surrender for money…." (Primera Base quoted in Fernandes 2003: 368).
Alternately, sex workers' desire for material culture is also portrayed as
liberating. What is known as "tourist apartheid" is clearly evident on the island,
as the best of Cuba's resources are reserved for tourists. Certain islands and
peninsulas contain only resorts and recreational activities for tourists, and Cubans
are not allowed to visit these beaches. Cubans cannot enter hotels without being
239
stopped by the doorman and asked about their intentions. The best Cuban
musicians play in clubs that charge a 20$ entrance fee, out of reach for most
citizens. The best of the country's meat and produce are used in hotel restaurants
that charge exorbitant prices by Cuban standards. It is hard to find quality beef,
mushrooms, seafood, and certain vegetables in the local markets. However, in
spite of these restrictions, Cubans with access to dollars and a tourist by their side
are allowed to travel freely to all corners of the island. Sex workers are
successfully resisting the Cuban government's attempts to limit the freedom of
movement of its citizens. They are also able to show their power by becoming
the primary providers for their husbands and families at a time when the male
dominated government cannot support its citizens. From a different point of
view, many scholars blame these heroic women as they signify the failure of
socialism and expansion of imperialism (Cabezas 1998).
Sex work, a trade associated with the immorality of capitalism, nearly
disappeared in the early years of the revolution when prostitutes were trained to
do other forms of work. In Four Women. Living the Revolution: An Oral History
of Contemporary Cuba, Oscar Lewis et. al. described the life of Pilar López
Gonzales, a woman who worked in a brothel before the revolution. Pilar was
"rehabilitated" after the revolution, sent to school, given a new house by "the
Ministry", and a job in a textile factory. In an interview, Pilar says,
Now, thanks to a government that cares for all the people, no matter what
they've done or what color they are or how much money they've got, now I
can be anything I want. All I have to do is work hard and I can have a career.
Anybody can; the opportunity is there for the taking (1977:237).
240

Others have painted a less glossy picture of these required re-education schools
which opened in 1961 and taught former prostitutes such things as table manners,
sewing, and how to dress plainly (Salas 1979).
The Communist Party, along with the Federation of Cuban Women
(FMC), are often credited with achieving progress in women's health, education,
employment, and legal rights (Molyneux 2001; Diaz, Fernandez, and Caram
1996). The FMC, set up by Fidel and headed by his sister-in-law Vilma Espín, is
a massive organization with its membership comprising 80% of all Cuban
women. Although the FMC supposedly represents and speaks for the majority of
Cuban women, it operates under the direction of the communist party and was
primarily designed to organize women in support of the revolution. It only
secondarily serves to improve women's literacy, health, and overall economic
and social opportunities (FMC 1975). Bell finds that the FMC's purpose is to
represent government policy to women as opposed to representing women to the
government (1990). Unlike women's organizations in other countries, the FMC
initially opposed a "feminist" agenda and considered feminism bourgeois and
divisive. Women's subordination was considered to be a result of capitalism and
thus something both men and women should fight against. The FMC did fight to
pass the Family Code in 1975. It states that husband and wife are equally
responsible for maintaining children and the home and have equal rights to
practice their professions outside the home, essentially endorsing a working
heterosexual mother (Bell 1990:253). Improvements have been made in
241
employment, where women represented 13% of the labor force in 1953 and
40.6% in 1993 (Safa 2005:324). Another study indicated that women comprised
3% of the working population in 1979 and 38.9% in 1985 (Bell 1990:252).
According to Fidel Castro, there were 262,000 working women in 1953 and
800,600 in 1980, 30% of the work force (Stone 1981:114). Not only were more
women entering the work force, but they were also better educated, with 10% of
women workers holding a college degree in 1986 (Smith and Padula 1996:91).
By 1990, women represented 53% of all university graduates, up from 37% in
1953, and nearly 50% of medical school graduates (Smith and Padula 1996:90).
In spite of these initial and widely published successes, there is evidence that
discrimination continues to exist.
Women are underrepresented in the political arena, especially in the
upper levels of government (Lutjens 1994). Based on a study from the 1990's, on
average, women's salaries are 80-85% of men's, because men occupy higher paid
managerial jobs (Núñez Sarmiento 2001:44-47). In 1982, women comprised
only 5% of the central committee of the communist party, a highly selective
group of individuals, and no women were permanent members of the Politburo,
the highest political body, until 1985 (Bell 1990:253). As Bell states, "A small
male elite… make the basic decisions on Cuban foreign policy, economy, and
society" (1990:253). Padula and Smith argue that a social patriarchy has
replaced a private patriarchy in Cuba, "Men … have less power over their wives
and daughters, but patriarchy has not disappeared… patriarchal power has been
242
assumed by the bureaucratic state which, controlled almost exclusively by white
male elites, has emerged as the new patriarch in Cuban life" (1985:90).
Many argue that progress in women's education and employment made
during the initial years of the revolution has been undermined and even negated
during the Special Period (Safa 2005:326). During the economic crisis that
started in the early 1990's, women have had to bear more of the burden of
providing food, medicine, and shelter for their families. Many women have been
forced to leave their professional careers, either out of economic necessity or
government cutbacks, in order to earn more money in the informal sector,
inventing ways to buy and sell goods or labor (Toro-Morn et al 2002:51). The
Cuban government, however, still maintains that it provides jobs for everyone
and those who choose not to take advantage of those opportunities are considered
to be lacking morals and not supporting the revolution. During the early 1990's
there was a surge of Cuban women marrying foreign men and leaving the
country. As Fusco (1998:155) nicely puts it, "It's no secret that many Cubans see
the pepes (foreign johns) as replacements for a paternalist government that can
no longer provide for them." The sex workers today earn far more money than
any Cuban who works for the state, making approximately $35 per day as
opposed to $10 per month (See Table 2). And those who manage to marry a
foreigner and live abroad become the most significant source of income for their
families in Cuba who receive money from them on a regular basis. As women
have become the primary breadwinners in the family, their income often supports
243
several generations, and sex work is one way to insure that everyone is provided
for. A recent sample of households in Central Havana showed that 60% were
headed by women (Rodriguez Nd.). In a 1995 study, 47% of all women who
were heads of household were found to be employed (Núñez Sarmiento
2001:61). Women have used their networking skills to invent ways to earn
money for their families, building legal, semi-legal, and illegal businesses out of
their connections.
Literature concerning racial differences within the sex work industry in
Cuba is contradictory. There is no consensus as to whether or not sex workers
are predominantly white, black, or mestizo (mixed race). Aside from the fact that
there is no reliable census data on race, some argue that racial categories are
particularly fluid in Cuba and shift based on situational context. Not only are
there over twenty names for different skin colors, it is also said that greater
education and higher class can whiten, while participation in shady activities and
merely living in certain places such as a solar, can darken a person's skin color
(Fernandez 1999). Also while lighter skinned women, often college students and
professionals, frequently do "moonlight" and have sex with tourists, it is
frequently perceived as a romance or cultural exchange by family members and
goes unnoticed by authorities who mistake these women for foreigners.
In spite of these categorizing difficulties, a few things can be summarized
about the literature on race and sex work. One theme from the literature is that
the tourist industry has brought about a higher demand for 'ethnic' or 'exotic'
244
Afro-Cuban or mestizo women by foreign men. Most authors agree that darker-
skinned women, on average, may have fewer ways to earn money legally or
semi-legally, and may be more likely to work in the less legal sex work/favor
giving industry. On the other hand, lighter skinned women and men in Cuba are
more likely to be receiving remittances from relatives abroad, as the
overwhelming majority of the estimated 1.5 million Cubans living abroad are
said to be white. Lighter skinned women are also more likely to be better
educated and have government jobs in the tourist industry or elsewhere that offer
access to dollars. In spite of these advantages that lighter-skinned women are
said to have, darker skinned women and those who represent marginality in Cuba
are becoming the "nouveau riche" (Fusco 1998:160). Afro-Cuban women are
said to have greater contact with foreigners, increased and more stable income,
and more opportunities to leave the country. Because of these successes, they are
often resented by the white population and by men in general who can not
compete for them, with the ultimate response coming from the Cuban
government which has attempted to control their practices in order to profit off of
their earnings.
The Cuban government has erratically responded to sex work over the
years. As mentioned earlier, the 1959 revolution sought to eradicate the
inequalities brought about by the capitalist influences on the island. In particular,
casinos and entertainment for North Americans and foreigners were abolished
and bars frequented by prostitutes were shut down. Tourism declined
245
dramatically, sex workers were trained to do other forms of labor and organized
prostitution was eliminated by 1966 (Bell 1990:255). As the government
claimed that prostitution did not exist, there were no laws to penalize prostitutes.
In 1971, a vagrancy law was established which prohibited Cubans from loafing
(Peral Callado 1972). Along with all Cuban laws, this one was so vague it could
be used to arrest anyone, including young women who for whatever reason were
hanging out in public. At the onset of the "Special Period", Cuba's economic
crisis was so severe that the government began to promote tourism and turned a
blind eye to the increase in sex workers, hoping that the tourist industry could
bring the country out of debt (Facio 1999). Now, however, with sex workers
earning a sizeable income, the government wants to gain economic power, much
as it has with other self-employed vendors which have periodically been
legalized, taxed, and then abolished based on their ability to prosper (Fusco
1998:162). As the government has not yet figured out how to tax and regulate
sex workers, they resort to periodic sweeps of the streets and increased forms of
punishment. Police regularly carry out identity checks near tourist areas, but
never when a foreigner is present. If a woman is caught three times hanging out
alone, in or near a tourist area, or having just left a foreign man, she can be
sentenced to eight years in prison. Foreign men, however, are never harassed by
police or fined for their involvement with Cuban women, giving foreigners more
legal rights than Cubans.
246
Although officially, the vagrancy law no longer exists, it seems to have
been resurrected with the penalty recently increasing from four to eight years
(Fusco 165). In January of 1997, the Fiscal General of Cuba announced that the
Penal Code would continue to consider prostitutes as cases of "social
dangerousness" with a penalty of up to 5 years in prison (Escalona Reguera
1997). Punishments extended to chauffeurs, people who rent rooms to sex
workers, and people who work in the tourist industry who facilitate sex work.
Today, this charge of "peligrosidad", or potential dangerousness can be
arbitrarily applied to almost anyone. Based on my experience, however, it seems
to be applied primarily to Afro-Cuban women and men who are "caught"
hanging out in public or not working. If in the vicinity of a foreigner or a tourist
establishment, they are charged with potentially harassing a foreigner or with
intent to have sex with a foreigner. These arbitrary laws have been erratically
enforced, in part because as one author claims, "The war against the jineteras is
on, but it is a war that the Cuban government cannot afford to lose and cannot
afford to win" (Paternostro 2000). The government wants the tourist dollars, but
not in the hands of the jinetera or in the elusive black market where it cannot be
accounted for.
A consideration of La Prieta and her friends and family members in Solar
Madrid leads to a reconsideration of aspects of the literature on sex work and
women's rights in Cuba. Much of this literature has a very strong anti-imperialist
stance and looks very negatively or sorrowfully upon the expansion of the sex
247
work industry. I would argue, however, that this expansion represents a
significant increase in power and agency for those traditionally marginalized by
the government. It has allowed people like La Prieta and Raquel to support their
families and has offered them a real opportunity for growth, and in some cases, a
chance to live a fulfilling life abroad. Although many feel that "prostitution
should not be celebrated as a practice that gives women agency," the argument is
always couched within the opinion that the revolution provides women with
honest labor options (Fernandes 2003:369). But is this necessarily the case in
Cuba today? All of the sex workers I knew in Havana worked the streets because
they needed the money to survive. As Chano's other girlfriend told me,

My son does not need anything. Because everything I search for, I search for
him. My mother doesn't need anything either, because of all that I have
sought out from jineterismo. And my sisters, the little that they have, I have
given them. And my mother has her house stocked with everything. She has
food, she has a refrigerator, she has fans, she has equipment, she has
everything, television. She has everything. Do you understand me? And the
few clothes that I have, the few clothes that I have as well. I have obtained a
lot: I have had gifts, I have had money. There are times when I don't have
anything and times when I have a lot, do you understand?
3

In her opinion, the sex workers are the backbone of the Cuban economy. She
continues,
If someone is really bringing money into this country here, it is the jineteras.
Here, the one who brings money to the country… the tourist who comes from
his country, what is he going to buy? If he brings clothes, shoes, money,
everything. He comes to look for a lot of women. They say that Cuban
women are hot.
4

For her, the income from sex work is necessary for survival,

248
In this country, jineterismo will never stop. Because people live off of it, do
you understand? Look, before, one woke up and went to school with a full
stomach. But now, there are no longer uniforms. You have to buy
overpriced uniforms in the street. And if you don't have money? Your child
has to go to school wearing last year's uniform. It is up to you to look for
money.
5

In spite of the government's claims to educate and provide employment for
everyone, no Cubans can survive solely on their government salary. Everyone is
forced, and expected, to supplement their income by their own creative means. Most
Cubans have told me that their monthly allotment of food is consumed by the
eleventh day of each month and that they need to buy the rest of the month's food
with their own money, coming from their meager salaries. For those who are not
formally employed, nearly every day is a struggle to find enough money to put food
on the table. With significant cutbacks in employment due to the Special Period,
more and more Cubans find themselves without work, and a majority of those
unemployed are women (Safa 2005:326). Many feel that Afro-Cubans in particular
have been hard hit by the economic crisis, but this can be looked at in a variety of
ways (Safa 2005). Formal state employment, especially in managerial or middle to
upper level positions, and higher education 'whitens' a person. On the opposite end
of the spectrum, low-level state positions such as maintenance and office cleaning,
and participation in the informal sector can "darken" a person. Regardless of these
confusing color lines, due to the economic crisis, there has been a gradual shift for all
Cubans from involvement in formal activities to a greater investment in informal
ones. Thus, there has been a shift toward the lifestyle, values, and survival strategies
of more marginalized peoples.
249
Enrollment at all universities in Cuba has gone down, because the value of a
college education has also decreased. Many Cubans have voluntarily quit their state
jobs, as it is more profitable to barter or sell goods and services on the black market.
Nearly all of these black market exchanges are officially illegal, with only subtle
degrees of illegality differentiating each practice. Thus, making and selling peanuts,
plants, or paintings could be as illegal as hanging out or sleeping with a tourist.
Therefore, Cubans of all colors have "darkened" as nearly everyone participates in
some form of barter or exchange that is to some degree illegal. Those Cubans who
were "marginal" before the revolution and before the Special Period could be said to
have an advantage now, during this period of economic crisis. Most of the families
living in Solar Madrid have decades of experience working in the black market and
building the strong connections needed for illicit transactions.
I return now to the story of La Prieta's initiation into the Santeria priesthood,
which could be considered a graduation from an informal educational system and an
entrance to a new career path. The story of Oshun and Oggun, told to her by her
godfather in 1999, was meant to assist her in making career decisions. La Prieta
could use her sensuality and charm to work with and even profit from her encounters
with others. She could become a car mechanic, much along the lines of the work of
Oggun. She ultimately chose neither to be a mechanic or a full time sex worker and
instead devoted all of her energies toward earning enough money so that she could
perform the santo ceremony and become a priestess. Although it could be loosely
claimed that she is still a jinetera, because priests often work with foreign clients and
250
she herself has already initiated a Venezuelan boy, her primary goal is to study the
religion thoroughly so that she can assist all types of clients that come to her.
Santeria has to some extent co-opted the formal educational system that the state
provides, one that has proven insufficient for La Prieta and many others. To become
a santera also meant to embrace an informal communal association, designed
primarily by marginalized peoples to optimize quality of life. More than just a status
marker, the ceremony formally solidified her entrance into a new family, a dense
network of religious brothers, sisters, godparents and godchildren. This new
religious family would serve as another life support system, separate yet linked to
her blood relatives. After the ceremony was over, she could visit the household of
her new godparents any day of the week to learn the trade or seek advice from
numerous people who had almost overnight become her religious family.
La Prieta rapidly learned the santera's roles and responsibilities after her
initiation ceremony. She would spend days at a time at her godparents' house
assisting in ceremonies while also learning how to perform them, and earning a little
money at the same time. La Prieta's godmother explained to me how the mentorship
worked:
I am teaching my godchildren because I put them to work. They work so that
they can learn. They must learn. Because the saint must learn. There are
many that don't want to and many who hacer santo don't learn. I don't fight
with them. But everyone who arrives at where I am, comes to learn. And
those that stay close by me, learn. They come and stay for two or three days
here. When I perform a santo ceremony, some of my godchildren stake out
here for three days. And I am not going to give them anything? You have to
think. So, whatever I get, I say, 'take this' and I put my godchildren to work
as well because they are the ones who stay with me, sacrificing themselves…
You are going to pay them something because you understand that they were
251
born from your sopera [religious bowl]… because already one's godchild is
one's own child.
6

La Prieta's uncle, also a santero, son of Obattala, de-emphasized the monetary aspect
of the religion and explicitly equated it with a career,
I urge all those who arrive at the religion not to take it as a business, as a
commerce, as a trade. They should take it with affection. One should care
for the saints as one would care for their own mother or children. With the
same faith and fondness. Concerning religion… Aside from that, it is
something very pretty, very beautiful. The religion is like if one were
studying a career because in order to know the religion, one has to study and
one has to read. And… it is the same as if one was studying for a career in
law or a a career in economics.
7

La Prieta's passion for learning about santeria practices and the stories of the saints
began long before her initiation. During the year that I knew her, she went to every
tambor in the neighborhood, and sought advice from all of the spiritists and santeros
in Cayo Hueso. She would patiently wait through long tambors for the dancers to
become posessed by the saints and provide sacred words of advice to her. She would
write down lists of herbs and sacred foods she needed to buy for ceremonies to
appease the saints and to get her life in order. She would accompany friends and
family members to the homes of priests to solve their problems as well. Certainly
her passion for learning about santeria far exceeded anything she had felt for her
pending career in auto mechanics. Santeria had a practical value that was worth far
more than the $800 she had to find to solidify her involvement and become a
priestess under the tuteledge of her godparents. After her initiation ceremony, her
learning curve accelerated as she spent more time at the house of her godparents.
252
Six months after becoming a santera, she wrote me a letter discussing how much she
had learned,
More gossip, I know a lot about the saints, I know how to clean the head, I
am learning a lot about how to hacer santo, you will learn too. I have been
studying because I have a boyfriend who became a babalawo 3 months ago,
his saint is Yemaya, and we are doing really well. He is great and at least he
buys food for me everyday. He knows a lot about the saints and witchcraft
and is teaching me.
8

Through her connections with her religious family, La Prieta met a boyfriend who
was also a priest in Santeria and who taught her not only about santeria but about the
importance of studying.
La Prieta received double the support after her initiation ceremony, from her
new religious family and from the saint of Oshun who now looked over her every
move. This support was as much, if not more, than what she received from her
blood relatives. Two years after La Prieta's initiation, she moved to an apartment a
few blocks away from her godparents house and began to spend almost every day
there, becoming an even more integral part of the family. La Prieta's godmother
explained to me the relationship between a godmother and her godchild:
There are times that you have to give to your godchildren because they don't
have anything. Do you understand? Problems arise and you have to help
them. Because one's godchild is one's child, more so than the children that
one has. It is of stone, but it's a child and they weigh more than those you
give birth to. Because your godchildren sometimes have more problems than
your own children.
9

La Prieta's uncle explains his relationship with his saint, Obatala, and the valuable
assistance he gains:
The problem isn't to hacer santo because… one doesn't do the ceremony so
that the saint can make them a millionaire or a king. Rather, so that you can
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hear their advice and their advice is like that of one's father or mother. For
me, the santo ceremony gave me health, stability and peace, that is what
Obatala has given me, the ruler of peace. He helps me with each step that I
am going to take and I have an Ita book that signals the good things and the
bad things and then… each step that I give in life.
10

Once you have become a santero or santera, a saint is assigned to look after you and
this saint becomes much like a mother or father figure. One can ask the saints for
advice on any situation during a consultation with a spiritist, santera or babalawo.
By throwing stones or shells on the ground, a babalawo acts as a medium between
the saints and the client. Through a complex system, the stone throwing produces
one of a possible 144 configurations, each of which has an accompanying story
known as pattakí, about the world of the saints and set of prescriptions to follow.
These configurations, known as "Ita", and the stories about them have been
informally written down, photo copied, and circulated among priests. La Prieta's
uncle has one version of these saintly recommendations, which he consults
periodically.
11
Santeras and santeros also act as a medium between the saints and
the clients by actually becoming possessed by the saints. Once possessed,
everything they say is considered the divine counsel of a particular saint whose
words should be thoroughly considered. The spirits of the deceased relatives of a
client can possess a spiritist who then prescribes rituals to appease the dead. At the
completion of each of these three types of consultations, sacred advice is provided to
the client and often certain ceremonies or animal sacrifices must be carried out or
restrictions of movement or consumption must be followed so that order can be
restored in a client's world.
254
The advice of the saints must not be taken lightly. Numerous cases document
the dire consequences of challenging their wishes. Stories abound of people
becoming seriously ill because they ate fish or a certain food when they were
forbidden to do so or were outside at high noon when they are supposed to be
indoors. Disobeying the saints not only can create personal health problems, but it
also signals a person's lack of respect for a communal social system, one designed to
support, criticize, and even punish its members, if needed. La Prieta wisely took
advantage of her Santeria network for emotional and spiritual advice as well as
social, nutritional, and spatial support.

PART II: CHANO
La Prieta's boyfriend Chano is a skinny and talkative man in his late 20’s. I
met him in September of 1999 on the day that he had finished a two-year prison
sentence for drug trafficking and moved into apartment No. 15 in Solar Madrid,
sharing a small space with La Prieta, her grandmother Imelda, and her cousin
Jazmin. With no other family members in Havana, Chano intended to stay with the
Baro’s as long as he could. Soon after his appearance in the solar, he started
working again, selling drugs to tourists. The Baro family did not like his risky
business, but they appreciated the money that it brought. Other men in the solar,
involved in small drugs operations, did not like the added competition. On
September 23, 1999, Chano returned to the solar at 4am, directly from the hospital,
covered in dried blood with stitches in his head, back, and arm. Three men from
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another solar located in Old Havana had attacked him. While trying to purchase a
large amount of cocaine outside of his usual territory, Chano ran into the men who
had put him in prison two years before. A fight ensued and he ended up in the
hospital with wounds from a broken glass bottle. He gave the doctors and officials a
false name and told them that he had fallen. On his release from the hospital, Chano
went directly to the Solar Madrid. Zaira bathed him and cleaned his wounds. La
Prieta insisted that the very next day he “register” into Santeria with her padrino,
Gabino.
The next day we went to Gabino’s house at 9am. The babalawo took Chano
to his room filled with religious objects, and began to throw the shells and divine his
past and future. Gabino first did a ceremony of brujería or witchcraft, so that the
three men who beat Chano would be punished and sent to prison. Then he said that
there was a “witch” in the solar who was causing trouble for the Baro family and
could also harm Chano. La Prieta identified the “witch” as a wealthy, white woman
from Oriente, a southeastern province in Cuba. On prior occasions, this woman had
reported illegal activity that occurred in the solar to the police. Gabino said that he
needed to go to their apartment and do a ceremony to protect the house from this
“witch’s evil eye.” This would involve the sacrifice of a chicken and a turtle by the
front door. Sensing that his presence in the solar was causing problems, Gabino told
Chano to find a stable home. In order to stay free of future complications, he had to
stay away from his second girlfriend. Chano admitted that he still had contact with
this other woman, a successful sex worker. The babalawo also predicted that he
256
would land a very big drug deal, but he had to proceed with caution. For the
moment, Chano needed to ‘clean his head’ with herbs and incantations and keep a
low profile. He had to sacrifice a hen for Chango and a small chicken. We left to
buy the animals. La Prieta insisted that the ceremonies be performed right away.
In this story, I have attempted to show how the religious community, an
extensive horizontal network of social relationships, might be used as a replacement
for the state system of institutions. By lying to the authorities in the hospital, Chano
evaded inquiries and judgment by the government. Instead, he willingly followed
his girlfriend to the babalawo to “confess,” or rather, describe the events of the prior
evening, and face a more appropriate “punishment.” The babalawo did not judge
him by analyzing his criminal behaviors or evil intentions, as the police might have.
He worked for him, as if he were his ‘client’ in a law firm. Instead of ordering an
invasive criminal investigation, he suggested that Chano perform several rituals for
the orishas, sacrificing animals and money, instead of doing time in prison. Gabino
attempted to counter the state vigilance system with Afro-Cuban witchcraft and
sound practical advice. He acknowledged the need for Chano’s profession in
society, even though it involved non-sanctioned ways of serving the tourist
community while earning his living. In a subtle way, he also offered him some
sympathy for his “dilemma” over having two girlfriends.
The babalawo’s services were oriented toward providing a private space for
reflection, retribution, and closure for a brutal event. He recycled the repressive
state-ruled system of formal “justice” into a less invasive and more manageable
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“punishment” formula. All of the people involved in this tragic episode, from the
Baro women to Chano (“the criminal”) and Gabino (“the judge”) are playing power
games while giving appropriate punishment under the rules of a parallel “justice
system” counterpoised to the official one. The power/knowledge asymmetries
between Chano as “the guilty victim”, and La Prieta as “the good girlfriend
concerned with the well-being of her partner” are solved through an Afro-Cuban
religious circuit of mutual sacrifices, an alternate moral system. Gabino acted as a
relationship counselor, spiritual healer and justice administrator all in one, as is
normally expected from a man of his status as priest. It is clear that these successful
conflict resolution formulas, because they are beyond the intrusive reach of the
Cuban totalitarian state, constitute acts of “resistance” per se to the official state and
its institutions of justice and law.

PART III: MARCOS AND JAZMIN
La Prieta's brother Marcos was a shy 12-year old boy when I met him in the
summer of 1999. With a forlorn expression on his face, he usually stood in the
entrance of the solar, waiting for something exciting to happen. In the fall of 1999,
he began 8
th
grade at a boarding school in Melena del Sur, a sugar mill town in the
country, 26 miles south of Havana. He attended school with his cousin Jazmin who
was also in the same grade (Figure 35). They would take the bus together every
Monday and return to Havana on Saturday, spending the weekends in Solar Madrid
where they both lived. Marcos stayed with his mother Zaira in apartment No. 4 and
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Jazmin lived with her grandmother Imelda in apartment No. 15. Due to a variety of
reasons, their life paths took very different turns after their middle school years.

Figure 35: Marcos and Jazmin at boarding school in Melena del Sur
In November of 1999, Marcos's teacher called Zaira to tell her that Marcos
was misbehaving in class and was not paying attention. Zaira was very upset at the
news and responded in a variety of ways. She first decided to make a surprise visit
to the school to check up on him, and insisted that I accompany her, along with
Jacinto, Marcos's father. After four hours of buses, tractors, and walking, we arrived
at the school on a Friday afternoon. We found Marcos and Jazmin in a classroom
studying for an exam that they had a few hours later. They briefly stepped out of the
room and onto a balcony to talk to us (Figure 35). Marcos's teacher told us that he
was barely passing his classes, but was picking on students less, since the phone call.
Jacinto wanted a clear cut answer, was he troublesome or not? When Marcos and
259
Jazmin took a break, we gave them the chicken that Zaira had made the night before,
as the school only serves protein once a week and they were both hungry. Then, we
set out for another lengthy trip back to Havana.
A week after this incident, a misa, or spiritual mass, was held in Zaira's
apartment. There were a lot of reasons for holding the mass, including Zaira's health
problems and La Prieta's relationship trauma, but one thing was for certain, Zaira
insisted that Marcos be in the room for the entire ceremony. Marcos grudgingly
attended, sitting silently in the room while the spiritist sprayed perfume on everyone,
and chanted herself into a trance. The spirit that descended did have a few
comments concerning Marcos. A young boy, a friend of Marcos's, was bringing bad
spirits to the house. Zaira had to kill a chicken and cleanse herself with it. Marcos
had to be careful when crossing the street and he was told not to hang out with
someone who wears sunglasses in the doorway of the solar. The spiritist's comments
were a clear warning to Marcos that street life was dangerous and that friendship and
trust should be gained cautiously.
Throughout the spring of 2000, Marcos frequently did not return to the solar
on the weekends because he was detained at school for bad behavior. When he did
come home, he would spend long days away from the solar without notifying a
family member of his whereabouts, something rarely done in the Baro family. At the
conclusion of the school year, Marcos had barely passed 8
th
grade and Jazmin had
finished with a 95.2, a solid A. At the conclusion of 9
th
grade, Jazmin had good
enough marks to enter 10-12
th
grade, the pre-university track, and Marcos began a
260
vocational program in auto mechanics, similar to his sister, La Prieta. In February of
2003, Marcos was sentenced to five years in prison for stealing a necklace. As it was
his first offense, he was released after serving a third of his sentence at a juvenile
correctional facility. Back at home in the fall of 2004, Zaira arranged to have
Marcos participate in a mano de arula ceremony, one of the first stages of several
initiation rituals in Santeria. During the three day mano de arula ceremony, Marcos
performed a series of ritual offerings and received a blessed yellow and green beaded
necklace, a stone or cement statue representing Eleggua, the orisha who opens and
closes paths, and the "warriors", statues and representations of three saints which
protect the initiate (Figure 36). The three warriors received are: Oggun, the orisha of
iron and war, Ochosi, the orisha of hunting, forests, and prisons and Osun, possibly
an orisha, who offers balance to the life and spirituality of the devotee. With the
completion of the mano de arula ceremony, Marcos became a member of a temple
house and began to acquire ritual knowledge. He learned how to "feed" his warriors
properly so that they could protect him, although he would not be granted full
protection until he completed the hacer santo ceremony. During the mano de arula,
Marcos also learned that his guardian saint was Eleggua and that he would go to
prison again. Sacrificing animals for the saints, in particular Ochosi, and covering
the Eleggua statue and his warriors with their blood could possibly guard Marcos
from future troubling situations.
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Figure 36: Items received during a Mano de Arula ceremony. Three cement and
stone Eleggua statues sitting in clay bowls form the front row. The "warriors" are
behind Eleggua. These include two bowls containing Oggun's iron tools and
Ochosi's bow and arrow in the middle, and five Osun statues in the back row.

In December 2005, Zaira visited Marcos in prison on his 19
th
birthday. At
the beginning of the year, he was sentenced to 11 years in prison for assault and
violence involving a foreigner. I visited the solar on December 25
th
, on the day that
La Prieta and her husband Valerio had met with Marcos's prosecutor. La Prieta
recounted the morning's events to me. The prosecutor at the provincial level is the
sister of someone in Gabino's religious house, the Santeria family of both La Prieta
and Valerio. They were going to offer her $300 or two gold chains belonging to
Zaira's boyfriend, in order to review Marcos's case and try to have his sentence
reduced. Before accepting the deal, the prosecutor had asked to see the paperwork
from Marcos's trial. That morning they had showed her the paperwork. Before La
262
Prieta and Valerio arrived, Zaira told me that she wanted Marcos's sentence reduced,
but not too much, because she wanted him to learn his lesson. Unfortunately, the
prosecutor said that because the crime was alta grada, or high priority, his sentence
would not be reduced. High priority crimes are those involving drugs, rape, violence
to foreigners, or minors involved in drugs or prostitution. Marcos would have to
spend the decade of his 20's in prison.
Marcos, along with his cousins and many other teens and young men, has
taken on the dangers of working the streets to try to earn a living. Before leaving the
solar in attempt to earn a few bucks, Chano would tell me, "Voy al fuego" or "I am
going into the fire". This phrase referred to his work of looking for foreigners who
wanted to buy cigars or marijuana, which could be purchased in the solar from other
family members. He would also offer foreigners tours of the city, excursions to
caves in the countryside, or guidance to Santeria rituals. As Cubans are highly
visible near hotels, restaurants and tourist areas, the job of catering informally to
tourists is very risky and police can arrest someone for potentially bothering a tourist
or for being in the vicinity of a tourist establishment. Chano's other girlfriend
explained to me the significance of the streets,
There is a lot of hunger. That's why the youth are thrown into the street
looking for dollars. At seven in the morning, how many people are already in
the streets? If you look down the streets? Millions of people… millions and
millions of people. The kids leave school… sometimes they escape from
school in order to look for money. And after, they want to put their parents
in prison. When a kid casts himself into the streets to look for money at that
hour after having escaped from school, it is because he has more needs than
an adult.
12

I asked Chano to describe to me his typical day and he began:
263

Well, I wake up when I am hungry, when there is no money I leave to look
for just one or two dollars so that my girfriend can cook. If there is nothing
out there, it is the worst, when I wake at 12 noon. It is when there is nothing
out there that there are a lot of police in the streets. This life is really not
easy. This life is hard. With pain. This life that we live. Not everyone can
handle this life, do you understand me?
13

Chano's girlfriend described the police repression,
Here, if you walk one step, you walk another step, they ask for your identity
card. You walk down another block, they ask for your identity card. You are
not even at the middle of the block and they ask for your identity card. The
police officers offend you. For no reason. When the guard offends you,
sometimes you shut up, but there are times that you… you never know… the
officer doesn't know if that day you have… you are in a bad mood because of
a problem you had… they don't understand any of that. They offend you, it
is a lack of respect, and they call on their walkie talkie and a pile of police
officers arrive to shut you up with their large sticks. for no reason. It can't be
like this. This has to change some day, in some way. If you are coming from
a party and are going home to sleep, they hand cuff you, tell you things, and
take you to the station for no reason. It seems like what we have here is
terrorism. Where is the blockade? Because, here, you cannot be. If you are
in Havana, you are illegal. If you are in another province, you are illegal. So
where can one go?
14

The dangers of working the streets are clear, but so are the needs of those who
assume the risks. Chano later told me some of his strategies for dealing with
authorities. He never carried an identity card, as he did not have one, and he always
used a pseudonym. Claiming to know all of the police officers in Central Havana, he
said that they do not bother him and even admitted that some of them help him at
times. One officer in particular was especially friendly to him as he had accidentally
driven his car into Chano once while he was riding his bicycle. Although Chano
ended up in the hospital for a brief period, the officer frequently visited him. In
April, Chano was arrested for getting in a fist fight with a police officer. He was
264
booked at the Zanja police station for three days where he gave the officials the name
of someone without a police record. He was released after a friend paid his $300 bail
(15 USD). Chano told me that he did not intend to appear for the trial and that he
had no fear walking around Colon, his neighborhood in a barrio of Havana Vieja,
even with the police after him. Maintaining connections with authority figures and
being known in his barrio helped Chano through many tricky situations.
Late one afternoon in February of 2000, La Prieta, Chano and I were walking
through the streets of Colon on the way to a tambor, a party for the saints in Santeria.
A police officer stopped us and asked to see the identity cards of myself and La
Prieta. The officer knew Chano and knew that Chano did not have an identity card,
so he did not ask him for his. La Prieta yelled at the police officer, "You have no
reason to ask for my identity card". We both explained to the officer that I was not a
tourist and that I was La Prieta's friend and I had been in Havana for a year. La
Prieta added, "Just give me a fine so I can leave, old man." The officer told us that
La Prieta did not have any respect for him and called a police car to take her to the
Zanja police station. While waiting for the car, a friend went to tell La Prieta's
mother, Zaira, about the incident. She was at the tambor a block away and came
quickly. When she saw La Prieta, she immediately began yelling at her, pulling her
hair, and hitting her. People tried to intervene and a large crowd gathered with
everyone loudly voicing their opinion about the incident. Some felt that Zaira had a
right to hit her daughter, others thought that Zaira's intervention would only hurt La
Prieta's case in court. Officers with dogs arrived and tried to disperse the crowd. A
265
police car finally arrived and took La Prieta to the station. The rest of us walked to
the station and waited there for about 30 minutes for the car to arrive, as it had been
circling the area picking up four other people in the meantime. Four hours later, La
Prieta was released, with a 20 peso fine, approximately 1 U.S. dollar.
The above incident highlights the intricate power games among state and
parental authority figures. Although La Prieta showed disrespect for the officer, it
was for a very valid reason. Havana residents continuously face harassment for
merely walking through their own city. La Prieta later told me that something bad
always happens to her when she walks through Colon because it is a barrio "full of
people from the Oriente", a derogatory term for the province of Santiago and
surrounding areas in the southeastern region of Cuba. She said that she always felt
like a tourist in Havana Vieja, one reason she rarely goes there. For various reasons,
the police officers in Havana are primarily young men from the Oriente. In Havana,
people from these areas are called Palestinos, with reference to Palestinians without
a land, and they are almost considered second-class citizens or belonging to a darker,
lower race. Many of the police officers from the Oriente accept the job so that they
can legally migrate to Havana, a city with the most economic opportunities in the
country. It is no coincidence that the job of controlling and repressing residents is
given to people from out of town, with fewer connections in Havana. Although
corruption does occur among the police force, in spite of their higher salaries in
relation to other state jobs, a distance is created between oppressor and oppressed
266
due to family background and heavily charged connotations that accompany certain
areas of the country.
Young men in the Baro family have frequently had confrontations with the
police. Marcos began to work the streets at a relatively late age compared to other
children in the solar. His cousin Emelio had been arrested at age 10 for begging in
the airport. Emelio, at age 20, described the event to me,
One day I was in the Jose Marti airport with my cousin. We were inside the
airport when they caught us and took us to the police station and we were
held there for two or three days, disappeared, and the people here [in the
solar] were worried because I had told my grandmother that we were going
to the airport to say good-bye to a friend of mine who was leaving the
country. That was a lie. We were going there to talk to the tourists so that
the tourists would give us candies and things. Because you know that this
life in this country is a little… a little difficult so you have to find a way to
look for even just a dollar for food.
15

Since this event, Emelio has not been back to prison and in 2005 he gathered enough
money to hacer santo and become a santero or priest in Santeria. Marcos's cousin
Alonzo had ditched school so many times before the age of 13 that he was sent to a
special school/prison for delinquent children in Santiago de las Vegas, ironically the
same town that houses leprosy and AIDS patients, as well as the mentally ill. One
day in April 2000 I found his mother crying in the solar. Alonzo had escaped from
the school bus, the very bus she had been on as well, and was wandering around
Havana. Alonzo served time in prison from 2002-2004 and was in prison again in
2005 when I visited. I was not told the details of his situation.
Marcos and Alonzo were not the only solar residents in prison during my
return visit in December 2005. Five other young men in their twenties from five
267
different apartments were also serving time in prison, affecting nearly half of the
families in the solar. Zaira complained to me, "Fidel is trying to keep young black
men out of the street." I jokingly asked La Prieta's uncle Manuel how he managed to
stay out of prison. He told me that he does not go out into the streets and instead
puts himself under house arrest in the solar. In the heat of the summer, Manuel was
out on the street walking around and a police officer asked to see his identity card,
for no reason. He showed him his ID indicating that he officially resides in Havana,
and the officer gave him a 100 peso (5 USD) fine solely because he had a previous
record; he had served time in prison over 10 years ago. Because of this incident,
Manuel said that he no longer leaves his apartment.
During my return visit, I also spoke with 19-year old Jazmin. She had just
come back to the solar for a few days because her grandmother Imelda had been
very sick, but was living and working in Camaguey as a trabajador social, or social
worker. She explained to me how at the completion of 11
th
grade, she was given the
option to finish 12
th
grade and social work school in one year after which she would
devote five years to social work and college classes in a field of her choosing,
culminating in the equivalent of a bachelor's degree. The option was tempting for
her because it was considered a back door into college, avoiding the highly
competitive entrance exams and selection process for entering the University of
Havana or the other few universities on the island. Jazmin described the program,
one of Fidel Castro's recent initiatives, as having a very loose concept of social work.
Teams of young social workers are sent far away from their hometowns and work in
268
a wide variety of state run enterprises, taking over all aspects of a business for
several months or years, releasing former employers of their positions. At the
completion of the five years, they are supposed to have the skills to do nearly
anyone's job. For the prior nine months, Jazmin had been itemizing serial numbers
of car engines and body parts in a manufacturing company in Camaguey, a city over
300 miles southeast of Havana. Prior to that, she worked in a gas station. Jazmin
said that most people hate the social workers because they take away their jobs. Not
only do people lose their low paid state jobs, but also their real livelihood of illegal
trading and their position within their informal networks. It is no secret that the real
function of the social worker program is for the government to crack down on black
market trading, corruption, and crime in the public sector. Young students are sent
to places far from their homes where they do not have social or family connections
and are essentially placed in charge of stopping workers from stealing from the state.
However, the students also earn a college degree and explore the country. Jazmin
said that she could not wait to graduate and practice 'social work' for real. Jazmin's
mother was proud of her daughter's achievements and that she was able to travel to
so many places, whereas she herself had never left Havana. La Prieta told us that
Jazmin was the only professional in the family. Ironically, Jazmin is now in charge
of shutting down illegal businesses, informal marketing, and stealing from the state,
everything that her extended family is involved in.
While the Baro family maintains connections with state workers and the
public sector, most of their daily activities concern the economy of the household
269
and informal markets. Their earnings come from re-selling items acquired on the
black market, such as gasoline, clothes, jewelry, mops, or drugs. Often they spent
their days going door to door to try to sell an item. Successful days were not
necessarily marked by the amount of items sold, but rather, the number of people
visited and contacts solidified. Once La Prieta tried to sell a shirt to three of her
girlfriends who lived in the neighborhood. She spent four hours at three different
apartments, chatting with each of her friends about their latest exciting nights out
with tourists, comparing manicures, and having shots of espresso or cigarettes at
each place. None of her friends bought her shirt, but they promised to let her know if
they ran into someone who might want it. Her time had been wisely spent, building
trust among peers (by sharing stories about semi-legal activities) and establishing the
promise of connections to more people and potential buyers.
Cuba is jokingly referred to as a country of sociolism instead of socialism,
certainly having ample socios, or acquaintances, is key to having an improved
quality of life (Centeno 2004). As can be seen in the examples above, the Baro
family spends a large amount of energy toward reinforcing all of their connections
and greatly benefits from this activity so it is time well spent. The family link to
Jazmin will be no different, as they will benefit from knowledge gained about
corrupt rings in other cities and about the State's most recent repressive apparatus.
Jazmin's new professional role of "social worker" also places her in a key position,
able to maneuver through and influence the public and private sectors.

270
CONCLUSION
In the stories of La Prieta, Chano, Marcos and Jazmin above, James
Scott’s ideas of hidden transcripts are particularly relevant. The success of
alternative service networks reinforces the values and power of the Afro-Cuban
community, and provides ideological support to encode forms of subversion and
to reproduce the hidden transcript of the poor. Since the colonial period,
members of the various dominant groups in Cuba have been aware of the
potential impact of Santeria beliefs on the formation of the political culture of
poor people. In order to control the political consequences of these alternative
practices the Cuban state tried everything from brutal repression to hegemonic
appropriation. As Miller (2000) showed, “scientific atheism” had a major role in
the public discourse of the leaders of the Revolution. By using the encoded
symbolism of Santeria “on stage,” some of the most important members of the
Government (including Castro) effectively attracted the attention (and eventual
support) of an important part of the Afro-Cuban community. Some members of
the Baro family, among many other people I spoke to in Cuba, believe that El
Comandante has gained the favors of the orishas through intense sessions of
devout worship. The fact that renowned Santeria practitioners have bought into
this story consolidated Fidel’s overwhelming popularity in the sixties,
independent of the mythical dimensions involved. From Scott’s perspective, this
Machiavellian use of Afro-Cuban symbolism could be considered another
271
example of a hidden transcript that for strategic reasons is not publicly enacted
by the dominant group.
Going beyond Scott, however, the stories above also show how Afro-Cuban
religions not only promote the creation of a very inclusive and tolerant environment
for sex workers and other traditionally marginalized social actors, but that the
community has also assumed some of the repressive strategies of the Cuban state. It
has designed its own mechanisms for regulating such practices as sex work, drug
dealing, and hustling, as it is crucial for the security of its members to establish intra-
communal order. From within a world of mischievous gods, magical narratives and
financially successful spiritual leaders, some legitimate resources ultimately emerge
to explain, justify, and control the daily transgressions of more rigid codes of legal
and moral conduct. The above stories also show that there is not such a clear
distinction between the public and private transcripts of the dominant and repressed
groups, nor a clear separation between the dominant and the repressed. That these
lines have become blurred shows that those in power have become less able to push
the poor to the margins and that in fact the reverse is occurring. As discussed in the
introduction and alluded to in the example of Jazmin's job as a social worker, the
poor and so-called marginal lifestyles are infiltrating the state apparatus and are
becoming mainstream, legitimate ways to live.
In the case of La Prieta, Santeria priesthood opened new doors for personal
development. Through a continuous involvement in these networks, she has
produced concrete assets and substantial amounts of socio-magical knowledge. She
272
now has support from her madrina, padrino, and a large number of religious brothers
and sisters, most important of whom is her husband Valerio. Not only has he
provided her with knowledge about Santeria, a place to live and food to eat, but
through him she was able to establish an informal relationship with a prosecutor in
Havana, a step toward co-opting the state's legal system. When she returns to the
solar now, her relatives ask her for money and advice about the world of the spirits.
Priesthood has presented her with a fresh set of opportunities and venues for spiritual
renewal and socioeconomic mobility.
In the case of Chano, he was essentially reprimanded for being irresponsible
and attempting to deal drugs outside of his territory in Central Havana. Drug dealing
itself was not criminalized, but rather the way in which it was carried out. He was
also chastised for being overly ostentatious concerning his relationship with another
woman. Again, the fact that he had another girlfriend was not an offense in and of
itself, but rather the manner in which he showed off his ability to court two women
and the fact that everybody knew about it. In the spiritist's reading given to La
Prieta, it is Chano's other girlfriend who is at fault, for feeding him poisoned food,
which confused him. In the Santeria 'court', polygamy is deemed more problematic
than drug dealing. As can be seen in prior chapters, serial dating or dating more than
one person is actually quite common and could even be considered a 'survival
strategy' in the community. La Prieta put up with Chano and his indiscretions
because he brought her food and money, yet she also was not happy with the
relationship and spent time with other men as well, in a very discrete way. Chano
273
also puts up with his other girlfriend who spends days at a time sleeping with foreign
clients earning more money than he can usually provide for her. The complexity of
these relationships and illegal activities calls for the involvement of a high priest in
Santeria, someone from within a marginalized world of repressed religious activities
who can most appropriately judge the 'marginalized' citizen.
In the case of Marcos, receiving his warriors in the mano de arula ceremony
unfortunately did not keep him out of prison. However, as his mother Zaira put it,
"He needs to learn his lesson". In other words, it is okay to hustle for money in the
streets, but violently attacking a foreigner is going too far. Although the legal
system may in fact be too harsh on "young black men" according to Zaira, Marcos
went beyond even the rules of the informal sector. The punishment, although
coming from the state, was in a sense, supported by Zaira who did not want Marcos's
sentence to be reduced too much. Marcos's story also shows how poor solar
residents can co-opt even such a rigid system as the legal one. With the right
connections and bribery, the Baro family got a step closer to the heart of the state's
legal apparatus, where key decisions are made. Although this time their connections
did not lead to a reduced sentence for Marcos, their efforts charted a path into
previously unknown territory.
In the case of Jazmin, she is emblematic in her ability to be a part of as well
as a critic of the state's latest repressive mechanism. She knows that she is being
used by the government to do the dirty work of controlling corruption, yet she can
also use her position for personal growth. As one of the few family members
274
formally working for the State, she is also in a good position to establish upper level
connections that may eventually afford greater economic opportunities. The Cuban
socialist state has gone through cycles of repression and freedom, also referred to as
periods of idealism and pragmatism (Mesa-Lago 2004). Pragmatist cycles are
marked by periods of greater economic development and improvement in living
standards, whereas idealistic cycles are marked by a focus on egalitarianism and
more centralized government control (Mesa-Lago 2004:26). According to Mesa-
Lago, the period from 1997-2001 was marked by a slow-down of market reforms
and an increase in ideological campaigns; however, he predicted that this trend
would not continue in the period after 2001 as the revolutionary rhetoric becomes
increasingly less effective (2004:38). As a key player in this repressive cycle,
Jazmin is in effect learning the public and private transcript of the 'dominant' group.
Yet her background in the solar, a den of semi-legal activities and rich networks,
informs her outlook on her new position. In the near future, she will learn how to
earn concrete benefits from her new ties to the state. For now, she pretends to be a
social worker, performing repressive duties for the state, while working toward a
university degree.
This chapter has attempted to show how the Baro family participates in and
supports informal activities through building and reinforcing extended networks.
Through this networking process, some members have also gained new skills,
entered new territories, and have essentially become further hybridized. La Prieta
and Jazmin are clear examples of how using strategies such as co-optation, official
275
policies can be transformed into communal benefits and personal development.
Through their involvement in Santeria and the world of the orishas, the Baros have
received explanations, support, and punishment for personal events and life choices.
The boys and young men in the solar have not fared as well. Marcos's network of
peers unfortunately led to an increase in illegal street activities that brought about his
arrest. Chano's connections to peers and business partners also brought about
destruction, physical injuries after a street fight. Although young women can also be
arrested for street activities, in Solar Madrid and among the Baro family, other
educational opportunities were presented to young women for growth and personal
satisfaction.

276
CHAPTER 5 ENDNOTES

1
A babalawo is a priest of Ifá, a divination tradition associated with Santeria.
2
For a basic description of the initiation process and the significance of the ritual objects
involved, see Murphy (1988) and González-Wippler (1987).
3
Interview with Chano's other girlfriend, a successful sex worker, 06/19/2000. Translated
by author. "A mi hijo no le falta nada. Porque todo lo que busco lo busco pa él. A mi mamá
tampoco le falta nada porque todo lo he buscado por el jineterismo. Y mis hermanas lo
poquito que tienen se lo he dado yo. Mi mamá tiene su casa surtida con todo. Tiene comida
tiene refrigerador, tiene ventiladores, tiene equipos, tiene de todo, el televisor. Tiene de
todo. ¿Me entiendes? Y la poquita ropa que yo tengo, lo poquito que yo tengo, también. Y he
obtenido mucho: he tenido prendas, he tenido dinero hay tiempos que no tengo, hay tiempo
que tengo ¿me entiendes?"
4
Interview with Chano's other girlfriend, a successful sex worker, 06/19/2000. Translated
by author. " Si realmente alguien está trayendo dinero al país aquí son la jineteras. Aquí el
que entra dinero al país el… el… el… el turista que venga de su país aquí ¿qué va a
comprar? Si trae ropa, zapatos, dinero, trae todo. Y vienen a buscar muchas mujeres. Dicen
que las mujeres cubanas son calientes."
5
Interview with Chano's other girlfriend, a successful sex worker, 06/19/2000. Translated
by author. " El jineterismo en este país nunca en la vida se va a acabar. Porque uno vive de
eso. Si uno no viviera de eso ¿tú entiendes? Mira antiguamente uno se levantaba y se iba pa
la escuela con su barriga llena. Porque ya no hay ni uniforme. Ni uniforme hay ya. Tienes
que estar comprándolo a sobreprecio en la calle. ¿Y si no tienes dinero? Tiene que ir el niño
a la escuela con el uniforme del año anterior. Le toca a uno que busca dinero."
6
Interview with La Prieta's madrina, 06/15/2000. "Lo estoy enseñando porque yo a mis
ahijados los pongo a trabajar. Que trabajen pa que ellos aprendan. Deben de aprender.
Porque el santo se debe de aprender. Hay muchos que no quieren y por mucho que hago no
aprenden. Yo no cojo lucha con ellos. Pero todo el que viene a donde estoy yo, viene a
aprender. Y el que se arrima a mí, aprende. Esos mismos vienen y están dos, tres días aquí.
Hay ahijados míos que cuando yo hago un santo se meten tres días aquí. ¿Los voy a tener sin
un medio? Hay que analizar. Entonces lo que se caiga en el cuarto yo le digo “coge” y
ponme al ahijado mío también a trabajar porque ellos son los que se quedan conmigo aquí
sacrificándose…. Que tú le vas a pagar algo porque se sobreentiende que nació de tu
sopera…porque ya es un ahijado de uno es un hijo de uno."
7
Interview with La Prieta's uncle, 06/15/2000. "le exhorto a todos los que llegan a la
religión que no lo cojan como negocio, como tráfico, como comercio. Que lo cojan como
una cosa de cariño. Que como mismo quieren a la mamá de uno, a los hijos de uno, quieran a
los santos. Con esa misma fe y con ese mismo cariño que los quieran. Sobre la religión.
Aparte es muy bonita. Es una cosa muy bella eh… la religión es como si uno estuviera
estudiando una carrera porque para saber de la religión hay que estudiar y hay que leer. Y…
277

es igual de que si uno estuviera estudiando una carrera de derecho o una carrera de
economía."
8
Letter from La Prieta, 10/25/2002. "Otro chisme, se muchisimo de santo, se rogar cabeza
estoy aprendiendo muchisimo como es que se hace el santo, q'ya tu aprenderas también. Lo
he estudiado porque tengo un novio babalao hace 3 meses tiene echo yemalla y no llevamos
de lo mejor. Es buenisimo por lo menos me compra me comida para todos las dias. Sabe
cantidad de santo y de brujeria y me esta enseñando."
9
Interview with La Prieta's madrina, 06/15/2000. "Pues hay veces que a los hijos uno tiene
que darle porque no lo tienen. ¿Ya tú me entiendes? Vienen los problemas y uno tiene que
ayudarlos. Porque el ahijado de uno es un hijo más que uno tiene. Es de piedra pero es un
hijo y ellos pesan más hasta que los que uno pare de sangre. Porque tú tienes algunas veces
más problemas que los que uno pasa."
10
Interview with La Prieta's uncle, 06/15/2000. "El problema no es hacerse santo porque…
cuando llega al santo uno no llega para que el santo eh… lo haga millonario ni lo haga rey.
Sino para que… tú oigas sus consejos y sus consejos son como el padre de uno y como la
madre de uno. El santo para mí es para que me dé salud, estabilidad y paz, que es lo que me
ha dado Obbatalá el dueño de la paz. Que me da para pensar cada paso que voy a dar y
tengo una libreta de Itá donde me señalan las cosas buenas y las cosas malas y entonces…
cada paso que yo doy ante la vida."
11
The Ifa divination system is described in more detail in Falola and Genova (2006). Some
of the stories about the orishas are also written down in Bolivar Aróstegui (1990) and
Cabrera (1980a and 1980b) to name a few.
12
Interview with Chano's other girlfriend, 06/19/2000. "Tremenda hambre. Tremendo
churre que hay. Una pila de negra calva. Sin pelo. No hay ni desriz pa hacer y el desriz que
hay te tumba el poquito pelo que tienes. Y el que no… y aunque haiga desriz no hay dinero
tampoco pa hacerse. ¿Quién dijo eso? Por eso la juventud está en la calle tirada buscando los
fulas. A las 7 de la mañana ¿cuánta gente no hay en la calle ya ahí? ¿Qué tú miras por las
calles? Millones de gente… millones y millones de gente. Los niños salen de la escuela… a
veces se escapan de la escuela pa ir a buscar dinero. Y después quieren meter a los padres
presos. Cuando un niño se tire pa la callea buscar dinero a esa hora después que escapa de la
escuela es porque tiene más necesidad que uno grande."
13
Interview with Chano, 06/19/2000. "Bueno yo me levanto cuando estoy pasmao, cuando
no hay dinero yo salgo a buscar ni siquiera un… un fula o dos pa que mi mujer cocine. Que
no hay ná esto está de pinga cuando me levanto a las doce del día. Que no hay ná son cosas
que hay mucho policía en la calle. No es fácil esta vida de verdad. Esta vida es dura. Con
dolor. Esta vida que nosotros llevamos. To el mundo no aguanta esta vida. ¿Tú me
entiendes?"
14
Interview with Chano's other girlfriend, 06/19/2000. "Si aquí tú caminas un paso, tú
caminas otro paso y te piden el carné. Vuelve a ir a otra cuadra y te piden el carné. No llegas
a la mitad de la cuadra y te piden el carné. Te ofenden los guardias. Por gusto. Cuando el
278

guardia te ofende tú a veces te callas pero hay veces que tú… tú no sabes… el guardia no
sabe si ese día tú tienes… si estás de mal humor, un problema que tuviste… ellos no creen
en nada de eso, ellos no entienden nada de eso. Te ofenden, te faltan el respeto y llaman por
el boqui toqui ese y vienen una cantidad de guardias a caerte a bastonazos. Por gusto. Eso no
puede ser así. Esto tiene que cambiar algún día de alguna forma. Y nadie está por gusto. Si
vienen de su… de por ahí… de su fiesta y van pa sus casa a dormir ya. Lo esposan, le dicen
cosas, lo llevan pa la unidad. Por gusto. Parece que es un terrorismo lo que hay aquí un
bloqueo. ¿Cuál es el bloqueo? Porque aquí tú no puedes estar. Si estás en La Habana está
ilegal. Si estás en otra provincia estás ilegal. Entonces ¿dónde uno va a estar?"
15
Interview with Emelio, 02/22/2000. "Ah, una vez que estaba en el aeropuerto, en el
aeropuerto José Martí con mi primo. Nosotros estábamos dentro del aeropuerto y nos cogen
dentro del aeropuerto, entonces nos llevan pa la policía y nos meten como dos o tres días por
allá, desaparecidos y aquí la gente preocupada porque yo le había dicho a mi abuela que iba
a despedir a un amiguito mío, a un amiguito mío que se iba del país. Iba pal aeropuerto a
despedirlo. Y mentira. Eso era mentira. Nosotros íbamos pa allá a hablar con los turistas y pa
que los turistas nos dieran caramelos y esas cosas. Porque tú sabes que esta vida en este país
está un poco… un poco difícil entonces hay que ver la forma de buscar aunque sea el dólar
de la comida."
279
CHAPTER 6: PARTY POLITICS

Solares in Havana have always been considered hot beds of popular Cuban
traditions. Tourists are frequently attracted to these tenements to witness "authentic"
rumba music, Afro-Cuban religious ceremonies and animal sacrifices, or lively
parties with the locals. Conveniently located within walking distance of most hotels
in Havana, solar residents can informally cater to the needs of foreigners and at the
same time, receive some income, food, or fun. And yet simultaneously, these
residents are performing a service for the State that wants to keep traditional culture
alive and visible so that foreigners return and continue to invest in the country.
Thus, the solar is frequently a place where collaborative activities take place
involving local (informal), state (official), and foreign entities. The semi-private,
semi-public layout of the solar allows such collaborations to take place, but their
success, viewed differently by each party, depends on a variety of factors. A good
mediator or interpreter among disparate parties can make or break an event. The
ability of each party to co-opt the space of the other parties and expand their social
networks and economic and political power also affects the outcome. As individuals
become involved in more and more collaborations, their transcultural skills improve
and they are better prepared for future events.
This chapter looks at three collaborative events that occurred in Solar
Madrid and involved members of the Baro family. Each event was also a party with
live music and varying degrees of religious activity. Organized chronologically, the
280
first event, which took place in June 1999, involved a rumba band called Clave y
Guaguancó. The second event, which took place in March 2000, involved the rumba
band Yoruba Andabo. And the third event in April 2004 involved a popular
timba/salsa group called Michel Maza y Su Tentación.

PART I: JUNE 1999: RUMBA WITH BAND CLAVE Y GUAGUANCÓ IN SOLAR
MADRID

The moment I first encountered 'transculturation' in the field was when I met
Mercedes, a few weeks after arriving in Cuba in the summer of 1999. Ethnologists
at the Fernando Ortiz Foundation told me that she was a professor of Afro-Cuban
dance and culture, a graduate of the University of Havana, a practicing Santera, and
that she worked for the Ministry of Culture as well as for UNESCO on a project to
revive rumba music and dance in Cayo Hueso. Her bio alone was a patchwork quilt
and the encounter surpassed all of my expectations. We met at Solar Madrid where
she was organizing a staged rumba event to be filmed for a Cuban culture series on
TV.
As employee of the Ministry of Culture, Mercedes was essentially in charge
of producing a scene that would depict "traditional" Afro-Cuban music and dance as
an ongoing popular phenomenon. The TV episode was likely part of the
government's continuous "ideological campaign to strengthen the revolutionary
spirit", by fostering a national culture and pride in the nation's heritage (Mesa-Lago
2004:38). In the early 1960's, the Ministry of Culture brought rumba (along with
281
other popular traditions) to the theatre in an attempt to "protect cultural expressions"
(Daniel 1995:58). Rumba musicians and dancers became salaried government
employers and were paid to "preserve the dance treasures of Cuba; their
responsibility was to share diverse national traditions with fellow Cubans, as well as
with foreigners" (Daniel 1995:59). By professionalizing rumba in the early 1960's,
Daniel finds that the Ministry of Culture was also able to organize and control what
used to be a spontaneous get together of musicians and a large crowd of people who
were usually drinking and potentially a menace to social order (1959:61). Over time,
rumba became a national dance seen almost exclusively in public venues sponsored
by the Ministry of Culture. Now that rumba is no longer a threat to social order, it
seems that people like Mercedes have been charged with returning the tradition to
"its original locus, street corners, where it often shared attention with parallel
activities of traffic, business, and socializing" (Daniel 1995:59). What was once a
marginal tradition, thus moved to the mainstream and back to the marginal.
1

Mercedes, as cultural promoter for the barrio of Cayo Hueso, was a perfect
spokesperson for embracing traditional arts. Wired with a microphone and sitting in
front of a large video camera in the middle of the solar, she described her work
during an interview (Figure 37):
We find ourselves in the barrio of Cayo Hueso, a barrio of pure intertwined
roots, laborers and mestizo, where rumba has very deep roots. Rumba is a
kind of music that can be sung and danced. It was used by the humble black
person in the solar, in the tenements, to express a patriotic sentiment, an
amorous frustration, or a social accusation. Whatever matter affected the
humble black person remained molded inside his rumba drums. For this
reason, we say that rumba has deep roots in a barrio like Cayo Hueso. Since
the 80's we have been given the job of reviving rumba in these solares and
282
tenements. Solares like Solar Nueve and Solar Africa, and recently in Solar
Madrid. UNESCO's world-wide interchange network approved the project,
"I Am Rumba" in 1995, that is to say, rescue and revitalization of rumba in
Cayo Hueso. The rumba project in Cayo Hueso is the first project in Cuba
involving cultural-community work.
2

Figure 37: Mercedes explains the significance of rumba music and traditional
popular culture in Cayo Hueso to a television crew

Mercedes chose to locate this film shoot in Solar Madrid because it was
home to many famous musicians, in particular, the deceased composer Calixto
Callava (Figure 38). She proposed the event to Callava's widow Zaira, suggesting
that it would be a celebration of Callava's spirit. The local favorite, a rumba band
called Clave y Guaguancó, would pay homage to Callava in the courtyard of the
solar (Figure 39). Zaira agreed to participate and serve as a 'host' family, providing
some food and drinks for the musicians that the Ministry of Culture would pay for.
Using her producing skills and knowledge of the residents of Cayo Hueso, Mercedes
283
had, in a sense, turned a mandated TV shoot into a personalized ritual for the
deceased. After the event, she explained to me its significance,
Callava was one of the biggest rumberos of Cuba, one of the biggest
composers of rumba, and there, where he lived, where he reunited with his
friends, with his family, and with his people, we did an evocation to the
eggun (Yoruba term for dead ancestors), to this loss of rumba, in order to
share with him, because rumba doesn't die, and when a rumbero dies, rumba
stays, and the eggun is present when we play rumba.
3

Although a television production, the event was really about reconnecting an eggun
with his people through rumba music. By playing rumba music amongst his friends
and family, Callava's spirit returned to the solar.
Figure 38: Calixto Callava (Music Composer)
284

Figure 39: Zaira (wearing a light tank top) talks to Mercedes while Clave y
Guaguancó members dance and play a Columbia rhythm, one of three types of
rumba beats

By sponsoring rumbas in these solares, or 'hot beds of Afro-Cuban culture',
Mercedes, as a state official and 'cultural representative' of Cayo Hueso , could also
be seen as complicit with government efforts to spotlight Afro-Cuban culture in
order to boost the tourist industry and revolutionary spirit. In this case, rumba style
music and dance needed to be saved and revived, literally show-cased as a museum
piece, yet within its 'native stage', the solar. The state already sponsors professional
rumba musicians who play in hotels, nightclubs, and outdoor cultural arenas such as
Callejon de Hamel, a block in Cayo Hueso that is closed to traffic where Cuban
artwork and scultures are displayed. But this is not enough. The residents of Cayo
Hueso also need a transfusion, a dose of "traditional" music and dance, so they can
285
better play the role of 'native'. This could be viewed as a state effort to re-
marginalize the poor or create more distance from the center by emphasizing the
'otherness' of the solar space. Mercedes is in a sense complicit with this agenda. For
the film shoot she wears a very traditional dress, acting out the native role. In an
interview with me, she emphasizes the uniqueness of rumba in the solar:
Rumba in the solares maintains its characteristics, its purity, why?, because
one of the fundamental things about rumba is its spontaneity, which is lost in
the theatre, which is lost in the plaza, but inside the solar, this primary
characteristic is maintained. Children hear the sound of the drums from when
they are little, the beats of rumba. They dance rumba in their crib, when they
learn how to stand, because in the solar you can feel it, every moment, every
afternoon, the sound of rumba. Music, in a general sense, for this barrio,
forms a part of their idiosyncrasy. Music is present in every family house,
they are teaching music… in other places, sometimes they don't like music…
here it is necessary, it forms a part of the life of the people from this barrio.
One of the things I like most is the unity, the integration, the familiarity that
is established, the fraternity, that is what I like the most and rumba propitiates
it. Rumba allows people to feel good. When you arrive there [at the solar],
whoever arrives there, no one feels like a visitor, you feel like a family, and
that is what I like, that with rumba, you can achieve that, you can find a
family. Because ourselves included… we don't only want people of whatever
background to come to our barrio, to our country. We want them to return.
In order to want to return, they have to feel the compassionate warmth, the
spontaneity, the fraternity, and this unity is achieved through rumba, with this
work.
4

Described as a place where rumba music maintains its 'purity' and spontanaity,
Mercedes essentializes the solar space as one where the traditional arts are passed on
from generation to generation and the community is unified through music. But
Mercedes maneuvers through multiple worlds and state agendas that can benefit the
solar residents as well. Within her description of rumba, one also reads that solar
residents are not backward or stuck in the past. On the contrary, solar residents are
286
very political, social, and future oriented. They use the improvisational nature of
rumba to convey problems that affect their daily lives, bringing the issues to the table
to be debated. According to Mercedes, through an orderly structured artistic format,
rumberos take turns singing improvised lyrics, "to express a patriotic sentiment, an
amorous frustration, or a social accusation". Although Mercedes's job is to "rescue"
this genre of music that is losing popularity, her attempts have succeeded in that
through her efforts, rumba events have been organized in solares and tenants have
used the opportunity to voice their concerns. The rumba in Solar Madrid was
emblematic, in that it was very contrived for a TV crew, and yet the musicians
created a partially improvised song that was dedicated to Calixto Callava, a man who
had composed songs for their band, a man whom they wanted to honor. Zaira also
used the staged rumba to reconnect with her deceased husband and with the
musicians and friends she used to associate with when he was alive. She dressed in
her best and brightest clothes for the rumba, and assisted Mercedes in her complex
coordination of the event, designed to appeal to solar residents and a TV film crew.
For Zaira, it was easy for her to agree to have a TV crew film a celebration in honor
of her deceased husband Callava in the solar. She could only benefit from the
attention, music, rum, and food that such a celebration would bring to her courtyard.
This was an extravagance she had not been privy to since Callava passed away ten
years prior. And yet she was not just a passive recipient of food and drink. She had
the power to control the final outcome, a film clip featuring her solar and her family
members 'acting' the role of traditional music lovers.
287
Solar residents have also excelled at developing human and social capital.
Local musicians and professionals have become world famous for their artistic
talents. And resident networks extend internationally, with community members
working abroad while others cater to tourists back at home. Mercedes explained to
me the rich history of popular cultural in Cayo Hueso and listed its most famous
residents, as she had for the TV film crew:
In Cayo Hueso Chano Pozo learned percussion, anthropologist Fernando
Ortiz lived and worked, and folklorist Rogelio Martinez Furé lived for 39
years. The barrio is home to city historian Eusebio Leal, Afro-Cuban singer
Merceditas Valdés, professor of Brazilian dance Dandy Crawdford, and one
of the greatest musicologists who recently died, Charangón de Elio Revé.
The musical genre known as "feeling" was founded in the 1940's by Ángel
Díaz in the house of his father Tirso Diaz and by Omara Portuondo who was
always in this barrio, going to the solares, for example "La Cristina", to
dance rumba. The comparsa group "Los Componedores de Bateas" began in
Cayo Hueso in 1937. It is a popular and traditional comparsa and it is from
this barrio. The barrio houses the Plaza of Cigar Makers, a sociocultural
center where playwright Paco Alfonso taught and performed his works.
5

She said that she could name even more bands and musicians who lived in the area.
I took this long list as a sign, not only that she was proud of the talent emerging from
the barrio, but she wanted me to know, that from where I was standing in Solar
Madrid, there were sinuous branches extending throughout the nation and to
international destinations, connecting artists and intellectuals of numerous
disciplines. As fortunes may hold, most of these famous residents have passed on
and the music they espoused is no longer fashionable. The rumba and feeling genres
are losing popularity to a younger generation interested in timba and rap music. But
Mercedes in particular, has been charged with salvaging rumba music. The
sponsorship of rumba by UNESCO and the Cuban TV station was also embraced by
288
current solar residents who use the solar's stereotypical traits of musical and dance
prowess and fraternal living to bring tourists back to their door steps, supporting the
state tourist industry while increasing their own standards of living. When 'going
native' is profitable, why not play the role? Solar residents are quite adept at catering
to tourists desires for Cuban music, dance, and religion. The rumba provided all
solar residents with the potential to develop their social capital, to build and maintain
networks with foreigners as well as other community members.
In order to better articulate how official and informal practices converge, it is
necessary to describe in more detail the rumba that took place on June 26th, 1999.
At 10am, the TV film crew and Mercedes arrived at Solar Madrid. One member of
the team put make-up on Mercedes and positioned her on a chair in the middle of the
solar patio (Figure 37). Camera and lights were set up and an interviewer asked
Mercedes four questions about rumba, music, and popular culture in Cayo Hueso.
Mercedes's responses were delivered in a very formulaic manner and appeared to be
memorized. The interviewer repeated the questions several times, asking Mercedes
to pretend that they were having a conversation while drinking a bottle of rum.
Mercedes seemed awkwardly positioned between her multiple roles, as professor and
"native". Whereas the film crew wanted to portray informal popular culture,
Mercedes sought to professionalize herself and the traditional culture she promoted.
The brief interview ended with the film crew slightly discontented with the results.
The musicians from the rumba group Clave y Guaguancó set up their
instruments toward the back of the patio, in front of the public bathrooms and
289
Manuel's apartment. The TV crew taped the song "Guaguancó a Calixto Callava"
twice, from different angles. Although the song uses a guaguancó rhythm in which
couples frequently dance, this was sung in a reverant manner without dancers. As
soon as the music began, the film crew seemed to relax a bit and mingle with the
tenants. The interviewer clapped and danced behind the camera (Figure 40). This
was significant in that it showed that some members of the TV crew identified with
the 'traditional' practices they were taping and even knew how to dance the intricate
moves.

Figure 40: Interviewer for the TV film crew (far left) dances and claps behind the
camera while the musical group Clave y Guaguancó plays a song dedicated to
Calixto Callava

The producer and make-up artist for the TV film crew, a blond haired woman,
chatted with members of the Baro family and complained that she only made 220
pesos per month (approximately $11) and that she did not have any foreigners
290
renting from her, hence no informal income in U.S. dollars (Figure 41). She asked
La Prieta if she could potentially help her to gain foreign tenants. As a state worker,
she clearly needed to work extra-legally outside her official job and build
connections with people who worked in the informal sector in order to survive. In
spite of class and race differences, in this TV shoot, the more formal world of state
workers clearly overlapped with the less formal world of solar residents in their
semi-private space.

Figure 41: While watching Clave y Guaguancó musicians, film producer (far right)
chats with member of the Baro family

The first song paid homage to Calixto Callava and the lyrics reflected the
bands intimate connection to the great composer, even 10 years after he passed away.
The lyrics go as follows:
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Guaguancó a Calixto Callava

(Solo)
Impious death returned
To carry away another rumbero
A melody broke
Causing a great commotion
This time it took away
Calixto Callava
And has left in rumba
And in the rumberos
A great sadness
Calixto Callava you left
Soul, heart and life

(Chorus)
Calixto Callava, in memory of you
We sing to you and play a great rumba

(Solo)
Because you are our friend
And with us, you rumba'd

(Chorus)
We will never forget you, Calixto Callava

(Solo)
With us you played in Solar Madrid

(Chorus)
We will never forget you, Calixto Callava

(Solo)
In Callejon de Hamel you danced with us

(Chorus)
We will never forget you, Calixto Callava

(Solo)
For me you were, Calixto
A man of great value
For that I insist in repeating
Your melody will not die

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(Chorus)
Callava did not die
6

Although this particular song may not have had much meaning to the film crew, it
was carefully selected by the band and Mercedes. The Clave y Guaguancó singers
modified the original version of the song by adding references to personal
interactions they had with Callava in particular places, namely Solar Madrid and
Callejon de Hamel, a small outdoor concert venue a few blocks from the solar in
Cayo Hueso. By taking advantage of the improvisational nature of rumba music, the
singers were able to strengthen ties to the bands historical roots, to the spirit of
Callava, and to his friends and family who still live in Solar Madrid. Since Callava's
death ten years earlier, the Clave y Guaguancó band has become quite famous and
has toured around the world. They no longer play music informally in Solar Madrid
nor do they associate with solar residents on a regular basis. But as state-sponsored
professional musicians, they do play at Callejon de Hamel every Sunday. As the
most popular rumba band in Havana, they are usually the last of three groups who
play. Their elevated social status and wealth is clearly apparent in the brand name
apparel they wear, clothes that most solar residents can not afford or do not have
access to (Figure 42). And yet the band used this staged rumba to reconnect with
their fans from Cayo Hueso, the barrio where they play music, and with solar
residents, many of whom they knew through their work with Callava. Fostering and
maintaining a certain image in crucial to the band's national and international
success. This is accomplished in part, by playing 'in the hood', in the poor solares of
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Havana where popular culture thrives. The band depends on support from these
residents.

Figure 42: Clave y Guaguancó musicians, dressed in brand name attire
Following the homage to Callava, the musicians played another rumba song
with the guaguancó rhythm while two of their dancers performed for the camera
(Figure 43). Mercedes explained the dance to me during an interview:
Guaguancó is another of the rumba styles. It is a partner dance, of urban
character, from here from the solares, from the tenements, but it is a dance
where the skill of the dancer is demonstrated, in the man, trying to vaccinate
[penetrate] her, and in the woman, in not allowing him to vaccinate
[penetrate]. It is an erotically charged movement, a pelvic shock.
7

Upon asking Mercedes if this sensual dance helped the residents of the barrio in any
way improve their knowledge about sexual life, she responded,
Rumba, in Cayo Hueso, for the likes of this barrio for this genre, has an
educational function, a social function, a cultural function, and a preventative
function… from early ages, because when we have these adolescents formed
294
by the rumba cultural modules, these youth are not thinking about… about
other things, about committing crimes.
8

Rumba is therefore, not just any song and dance, but one with multiple functions in
the barrio, including the control of delinquency. This second song was likely chosen
for the TV shoot because of its photogenic nature, the roots of the particular
guaguancó rumba style in the solar, and because it shows the professionalism and
complex ability of the dancers.

Figure 43: Clave y Guaguancó dancers and musicians performing a guaguancó
rhythm for the TV crew

The TV crew began to pack up their equipment after the taping of the
guaguancó dance, but Mercedes stopped them and insisted that they film a song with
the columbia rhythm. She then addressed the crowd that had gathered, "Keep in
mind, that in the part of the columbia after the musical prelude, any man who feels
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truly up to the level of this recording can enter the center stage and show off!"
(Figure 44)
9

Figure 44: Mercedes addresses the crowd and film crew, establishing the rules of the
columbia style rumba dance

People started chanting the name of a professional dancer from Clave y Guaguancó
who would most likely accept the challenge (Figure 39). In many ways, it is
interesting that Mercedes insisted that the TV crew tape the rumba rhythm called
columbia. During these songs, a man will dance alone, visibly on display in the
middle of the dance floor, and will then be challenged by another man who will
replace the first one on the dance floor and will try to perform with greater skill and
more unique moves. I later asked Mercedes why she had insisted that the columbia
song be filmed and she responded,
296
It is because, among the styles of rumba, the one where the dancer can show
the greatest technical virtuosity is precisely in columbia, where he can show
if he is a stylist or not. Because the improvization is infinite. He can
abandon himself completely, and that is where the dancer has liberty and can
improvise and create.
10

Mercedes wanted to document the expertise of the dancer as well as the complex
rules of the dance structure. Her comments to the crowd established a set of
guidelines for the improvisational dance "competition," rules that almost everyone in
the crowd knew except possibly some members of the film crew. In that regard, she
wanted to establish herself as teacher and authority figure. She also wanted to
highlight an additional formal aspect of this particular columbia dance, namely that it
would be preserved on film. Amongst the disciplined structure of the dance rules
concerning when and who can dance, lies a very unique artistic expression.
After the filming of the columbia song, the TV crew packed up their
equipment and Imelda and her family distributed caldosa, a Cuban-style soup, to
everyone present. The TV crew left and the musicians moved their instruments into
Zaira's living room. Shortly after the soup was distributed, the rumba began again.
Some of the Clave y Guaguancó musicians along with musicians from the
neighborhood began to play inside Zaira's living room (Figure 45). The small space
quickly became packed with people singing and dancing. Zaira stood on top of a
metal bench, took a swig of rum from a bottle, and sprayed it over the crowd. This
signaled the start of a more private rumba in honor of Callava (Figure 46). Santiago,
one of the local musicians who had played inside Zaira's apartment, described the
meaning of this rumba for him:
297
It was an homage to the deceased Calixto Callava, who had lived in that
solar, and it was in that solar where he fell ill and died of a very serious
sickness, malign, malign, malign, he died of cancer… A person who
everyone loved, because of his way of being… he was a very courteous
person, a pleasant and social person, a person I respected a lot. They played
three or four rumba songs that mentioned Callava, it was an homage to him,
to all of his musical talents, because he was a good musician, an arranger, a
great composer.
11

Santiago is a well-known musician and santero who lives in an apartment near Solar
Madrid. At an early age, he traveled around the world with an artist named
Mendive, playing drums for a performance act. In spite of, and because of, his fame
he has maintained contacts with friends in places like Solar Madrid and is actively
involved in Santeria. Santiago described how this second rumba formed inside
Zaira's apartment:
The second rumba that you heard there, that had the theme of… that was a
little more traditional, more typical, was because really, at the closing of
these gatherings… at the conclusion of the programmed show… that brought
Clave y Guaguancó… that was a really good group, rumba was already
inserted into the blood, the people didn't leave, the people wanted more
rumba and more rumba and the moment arrived… come here, you are a good
musician, the rumba began again, the drums were put inside the room and
there was a great rumba, and everyone danced and the people who were with
the professional group who wanted to play a little more, left their instruments
there. The people rumba'd, 'you go dance, another goes to dance, whoever is
singing sings, and people ask permission to the person singing so that they
can sing next, the one who is drumming takes a turn on the quinto drum.'
This is the really traditional part of rumba, the black part, the black part of
rumba that I like, this is the rumba that I like.
12

Santiago describes a passion for rumba music among the crowd that had gathered
that day in Solar Madrid along with the traditional "black" manner in which a rumba
band is put together on the fly, with drummers, vocalists, and dancers enlisted one by
one, taking turns throughout a song. Santiago emphasized the improvisational nature
298
of rumba inside Zaira's apartment, what Mercedes had called 'spontaneity', whereas
the performance for the TV crew was highly organized, with each musician playing
an established role and specific pre-selected songs. The solar residents and
neighbors had in a sense created their own rumba by taking some pieces of the
professional rumba performance for the TV film crew and adding their own flair.
The instruments and some of the musicians and dancers from the band moved inside,
but the manner in which the rumba was carried out was completely different. One
dancer from the Clave y Guaguancó played the drums, a singer from a different band
became the soloist, and then began to dance. The roles of the main players
frequently switched in an apparently chaotic yet coherent way. Daniel (1995:104)
defines this phenomenon as a "prepared spontaneous rumba" or "rumba extendida".
She explains that often after a professional rumba performance (with musicians and
dancers paid by the Cuban Ministry of Culture playing prearranged and rehearsed
songs), the participants are so involved and excited that the rumba is extended
spontaneously, usually in a separate location. This rumba, organized by a Ministry
of Culture professional, Mercedes, using Ministry of Culture-sponsored musicians,
would certainly fall under this category. Santiago described how the participants
didn't want to leave and the rumba continued in a different location, inside Zaira's
apartment. After singing several songs inside, the Clave y Guaguancó musicians had
to leave for an evening event and took their instruments. It appeared that the rumba
would come to a close, but this was not the case, as many participants remained and
wanted more music.
299

Figure 45: The rumba continues inside Zaira's apartment. Local musician Santiago
(far right) plays with some of the musicians from Clave y Guaguancó and others
from the neighborhood.

Figure 46: After spouting rum over the crowd, Zaira (and La Prieta behind her)
dance
300

The rumba continued in the central patio of Solar Madrid, even though the
Clave y Guaguancó musicians and instruments departed. Much of the crowd
dispersed momentarily, but an equal number of guests returned when some of the
local musicians brought out the more traditional cajones, or box drums. These wood
boxes are held between the knees and are hit with either the hands or a pair of
spoons. Four drummers and a soloist gathered around in a circle and another song
began (Figure 47-48). Zaira, Imelda, La Prieta and other members of the Baro
family actively participated in the chorus, as by this time, most of the cooking and
clean-up duties were completed and only rum needed to be distributed (Figure 49-
51). Santiago described how this outdoor rumba resembled a traditional rumba:
This spectacle that you saw there is a very traditional thing, it is truly the very
very very fundamental part of rumba. All born in a solar, the musical part of
rumba was born in a solar, all born in a solar… In olden times, the ancestors
of us black people did not have the standard of living of the white part, of the
white part of the system of life that lived in that time. They didn't have
instruments, they didn't have anything, they rumba'd, the rumba was with
boxes, they grabbed a tank, the bottom of a bucket… the neighbor who lived
in the other room, the other neighbor in the other room called him, they took
out a bottle of rum, had two or three drinks, when the mouth was hot, they
took out the buckets, spoons, and began the rumba there…
13

Daniel (1995:101) also defines this type of rumba as "rumba tradicional, rumba de
cajón, or spontaneous rumba". Daniel (1995:102) describes how
Neighbors hear the activity and add chairs in front of their doors, which also
open into the shared patio. Gradually people use the sides of walls, table
tops, drawers, a couple of spoons, and the slightly muffled resonance of
cajones announces that the rumba has begun.

301
By this time, the professional musicians and most of the initial guests had left, but
the Baro family members remained as active participants. And soon after the music
started, solar residents and different neighbors gathered around and the party
continued. More rum was purchased and the crowd stayed long after the sun had set.

Figure 47: Singer Fariñas and four drummers with cajones, or improvised box
drums, begin a rumba song.

302

Figure 48: After one song, a small crowd gathers around the musicians and one
drummer (center right) shifts out and is replaced by another.

Figure 49: Zaira, Imelda, La Prieta, and Valeria (left to right) gather around the
musicians and sing the chorus. Imelda collects plastic cups.
303

Figure 50: Imelda's daughter Catarina and grandaughter Ynez sing the chorus (right
to left)

Figure 51: La Prieta pours rum for the guests

304
I asked Mercedes to describe what I had considered three very different
rumbas, the first rumba in the patio for the TV film crew, the more personalized
rumba inside Zaira's apartment, and the final rumba also in the patio of the solar but
with box drums and local lesser known musicians and greater participation by the
Baro family. Mercedes responded:
It wasn't three different rumbas. You saw a rumba, let's say… a rumba of
invocation, that was done to an eggun (Yoruba word for dead ancestors), a
dead rumbero who was Calixto Callava, who lived in that solar. You saw a
solemn form of invoking this eggun. And after, the group played as usual,
with their style, because there is one rumba, but each group has their own
style, like each dancer has their own style, like each singer has their own
style. And last, there was a rumba, but a rumba of 'drumming for the dead',
which is one of the forms of invoking the dead with rumba. Because rumba,
outside the religious circuit, rumba is played as a means of amusement, but
religious rites are notoriously absent. That is the Cuban man, the myths are
at the base of folklore as echoes of the survival of past traditions, and because
of that those egguns…, the rumba of 'drumming for the dead' has been
revived, that is to say, a rumba where one invokes in a spontaneous way
these dead ancestors, and already that is inside a ceremony, also spontaneous,
but with a funerary character, with a ritualistic character. Even though the
rumba didn't spring forth with a religious purpose, but it's the culture in a
wider sense, humankind and everything that surrounds him, everything that
affects humankind, it is present and all of those things are left molded to the
rhythm of guaguancó and rumba. And for that reason, it was a rumba of
'drumming for the eggun', the dead ancestors. And the ancestor received it
contentedly, with approval, because that eggun was a rumbero.
14

In Mercedes' overview of the rumba, it is clear that each of the three rumbas were
equally as religious and meaningful. I had considered the songs by the band Clave y
Guaguancó to be highly structured and secular in part because they were filmed for
the TV crew. But according to Mercedes, it was a "solemn form of invoking this
eggun." The filming and staging of the event had not detracted from its main
content, a song dedicated to a deceased rumbero, Calixto Callava. The two other
305
songs that Clave y Guaguancó sang had no relevance to Callava and were chosen by
Mercedes to show off the dexterity of the dancers and the complexly structured yet
improvised nature of rumba. It was not that Mercedes had ulterior motives for
organizing this event. There were not any contradictions in pleasing multiple parties:
the state, the community, the band members, Mercedes, the eggun, and Zaira and her
family. In fact, the goals and desires of each party overlapped and isolating certain
aspects of the rumba as benefiting certain people was in a sense meaningless.
Several months later I asked Zaira and La Prieta about the event and why it
had taken place. Zaira responded,
It turned out that Mercedes was the coordinator of… because this was with
some foreigners too. And they wanted to learn about a famous solar where
rumba was born… in this solar and Mercedes came to see me. And they
coordinated and did the… and then it was for Calixto Callava, they wanted to
play for him. Clave y Guaguancó played for Calixto Callava.
15

According to Zaira, this was an event for Callava, which was coordinated by
Mercedes and Clave y Guaguancó. Zaira became involved because she lives in the
famous Solar Madrid. La Prieta also emphasized the fame of the solar,
That day there was an homage to him, he achieved years of rumba, of
something, and she [Mercedes] came with a group called Clave y Guaguancó
who gave this [homage] to him. You know… you arrived.. and after we, here
in the house, continued the party [laughing]. I don't know what she wanted to
do, I don't know her project with the group, up until there we don't know.
Clave y Guaguancó came here to play because it is a famous place, many
musicians have been here in this solar. And [Clave y Guaguancó] came with
Mercedes, a very good representative. And yes, it was here and the report
came out very nice.
16

The event was significant to La Prieta because it was a good party, which also
happened to serve as a television report and benefited Clave y Guaguancó who
306
wanted to pay homage to Callava. It was not an event that her family had initiated,
but they all enjoyed it. The event also helped to maintain the solar's reputation as an
enclave of musical prowess. Publicity and fame for the solar also served to expand
the networks of the residents. The extended day long party with a constant flux of
guests certainly allowed for networking. Mercedes spoke highly of the involvement
of the Baro family and her success at transforming the staged televised event into a
local rumba with all of its traditional characteristics:
You could observe how the residents of the solar joined together to prepare a
caldosa (soup), to toast to him [Callava], to participate… Because after all, it
is an activity that I secured, but participation was given to everyone who was
there from the solar. Everyone participated, but participated actively, not
like spectators watching a band… And wanting everyone to integrate with
each other, with all of the social characteristics… That spontaneous thing,
that characteristic, that idiosyncrasy that Cubans have to want to offer what
they have. Even in moments like this, when we are in a special period of
scarcity, we want to offer what is there, a soup, and they prepared it
themselves.
17

Mercedes emphasized how everyone participated and mingled together. She was in
a sense, the architect of a social scene that linked actors of different class and race
backgrounds, such as the white middle class film crew, solar residents, and well-
traveled musicians like Santiago and the Clave y Guaguancó band members. But
rumba, caldosa (soup), and rum brought everyone together smoothly, along with
everyone's learned ability to deal with situations of power difference. Although
Mercedes does not mention it, rum is an integral part of the rumba scene. La Prieta
laughingly emphasized that it was a good party and was not completely sure of
Mercedes's agenda. Parties are significant opportunities for the Baro family to
network with others whom they would not ordinarily see, and consume food and
307
rum. In this case, they also gained some prestige by being the de facto hosts, even
though they did not have to organize or pay for the event. It was in the best interest
of the Baro family and the solar residents to have a successful party so that guests
and musicians would be more likely to return for whatever type of social or financial
transaction.
I asked Imelda what the rumba scene was like in the solar when she was
little. She recalled,
Well, here rumba occurred principally in that room on the side and the one
next to it where two rumberos lived, father and mother, husband and wife,
who favored everything that was rumba. They took a bucket with some
bones to the fire to make a soup, two bottles of rum and began to play with a
box drum, and the other came with two spoons, and the other came with a can
and a stick, and like that, they began and it was twelve at night and still the
rumba was going. Many people who no longer exist because of the laws of
life, were the ones who propitiated rumba. Here, always, always, always,
when I was a little girl, there was rumba. In everything, from here to there,
principally in this block.
18

Solar Madrid clearly had a history of rumba playing, using improvised instruments,
like those used in the third rumba described above. I asked Imelda if rumba music in
the solar had changed since the days of her youth and she responded,
There is practically no rumba here. Like it was when I was a child, there is
no rumba here. Because the rumberos no longer exist. They no longer exist.
Yes, now I can grab a stick, a box and a can and start beating. But it isn't the
same as what they used to do on the weekends here. There was always
rumba on the weekends here. But now, none of them [rumberos] are here…
someone has to come here… and begin to play and then yes, a little rumba is
formed, but not like before. Not like before.
19

According to Imelda, the nostalgic rumbas of the past will never be brought back to
the solar. Imelda remembers the improvised rumbas in the solar before the
308
revolution professionalized the popular tradition. If Mercedes had not organized this
event and brought Clave y Guaguancó to Solar Madrid, there would not have been a
rumba. Only time will tell if Mercedes's officially sponsored attempts at reviving
rumba in Cayo Hueso will succeed at sustaining community level involvement.
However, Mercedes's efforts have already been successful in that she has helped
expand the dense network of acquaintances in the Baro family.
Mercedes is an emblematic 'hybrid subject' in that she has successfully
crossed several borders and has bridged popular, private, household level systems
and public state institutions. She is one of a small group of black Cubans who
graduated from the University of Havana. Raised in a highly populated, poor, barrio
of Havana, she attended the School for Art Instructors that was created at the start of
the revolution and then received a BA in Philology. Her educational achievements
and family background in traditional Afro-Cuban culture make her a very capable
interpreter and mediator between the more informal language and cultural practices
of solar residents and the formal state apparatus (professional TV film crew). As a
teacher and investigator, she told me that she is responsible for "developing popular
traditional culture in a massive form".
20
Her formal occupation focuses on
expanding the popular sectors into other realms, one being the state, thus bringing
informal practices into a more public and formal realm. In the event discussed
above, television was a medium for achieving this growth. She also frequently
works with tourists, dancers, and anthropologists such as myself to further spread the
popular traditions, while also earning some extra dollars in exchange for her
309
expertise. Her work also supports state agendas, such as the publicity and
commercialization of Afro-Cuban 'folklore' for tourism and for building a national
identity, and the use of Afro-Cuban traditions in fostering the creation of the "new
man". She states,
Dance plays an important role in the development of the new man that we
aspire to for the 21
st
century, principally because when we dance, a healthy
mind and body develop, when we dance an interrelation and
intercommunication is established amongst humankind, from a social point of
view.
21

Thus, the state goal of making all citizens into "new men" overlaps with the popular
practice of rumba, which involves social networking. This all coincides with the
goals of the internationally sponsored UNESCO project, "I Am Rumba" to 'rescue
and revitalize' rumba in Cayo Hueso. As cultural promoter and representative of this
project, Mercedes embraces the UNESCO vision. She says,
Each one of us, as UNESCO says, from our communities, have to put our
small grains of sand, to interchange our diversity of cultures. We have to
develop pluralism in the culture; we can't homogenize culture, nor
monopolize culture.
22

Uniquely qualified for this job, Mercedes embodies and promotes Ortiz' notion of
transculturation (1947/1995). Herself a practicing santera, she frequently crosses
lines between her private religious life, promoting semi-religious and semi-private
rumbas in the solares of Cayo Hueso, teaching religious dances to foreigners, and
publicly performing religious ceremonies for mass consumption, such as the
drumming for the dead ancestor (Calixto Callava) for the Cuban TV culture series.
Yet none of these practices or goals is necessarily contradictory and thus everyone
wins in the end. Collaborative activities, such as the filming of the religious event in
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Solar Madrid, show the changing nature of popular traditional practices. Some
might see this event as a sell-out, revealing private religious ceremonies for
entertainment value (Moore 1989), whereas I prefer to see the skillful abilities of
Mercedes to mediate multiple worlds, assert her own agenda and values in the
collaboration, and co-opt the state agenda.
23
And most importantly, Mercedes
instigated a shift in the visibility and agency of Zaira, who could be considered an
end node in a chain of networks that was activated in order to carry out this
collaborative event.
In a very small way, Zaira was able to co-opt a state-sponsored project and
assert her own goals in return for a show of political allegiance. The TV crew had
wanted to film a real, traditional rumba and Zaira was a key player in this enactment.
Her consent was needed to publicly televise an homage to her deceased husband,
Calixto Callava, and facilitate the staging of a rumba in her solar so that it would
appear to be a natural, everyday, cultural event. Her compliance could also be
viewed as a sell-out, as the government has in a sense shown their power over her
and gained her support. On the other hand, co-optation is always a two-way
phenomenon. Zaira also takes advantage of the state recognition of her importance
and uses this to increase her standing in the barrio. She was able to use the event to
extend her networks that penetrate the bureaucratic apparatus, often viewed as the
most significant ties, as they can be difficult to attain for someone living on the
fringes of the state system. Her immediate family networks were reinforced as her
mother, all five of her siblings, and their families participated and assisted in the
311
event. Her connections with more distant acquaintances, well-known rumberos and
former friends of Callava, were also re-established. She also gained the more
material, yet nonetheless important food, rum, and entertainment. Parties are
significant ways to distribute the wealth and forget about problems in the poor
solares of Cayo Hueso. Zaira, via Mercedes and the state apparatus, was able to
provide a gift to her friends and family. She did not have a large amount of control
over it as the money for the food and the participation of the professional musicians
was limited. However, "Zaira's party" was broadcast on TV and Solar Madrid
experienced a brief period of fame. For Zaira, consenting to the filming and showing
her allegiance to the state agenda (non valuable efforts) was easily traded for the
above gains.
Each event that Mercedes coordinates, bringing together divergent groups,
could be viewed under the lens of casuistry. With multiple goals, values, and
agendas of various parties of differing status, the end result of a joint venture is
unpredictable and ambiguous and yet everyone will reap some benefits as the
popular economy is reinforced and undoubtedly all parties will be further hybridized
by the experience and better prepared for future encounters of a similar nature.

312
PART II: MARCH 2000: RUMBA (CAJON FOR CALLAVA) WITH BAND
YORUBA ANDABO IN SOLAR MADRID

The next large collaborative event that occurred in Solar Madrid was
instigated and coordinated by Zaira. The rumba organized by Mercedes in June a
year earlier gave Zaira enough agency and support that she had the confidence to
arrange her own rumba in a manner that better catered to her own likes and desires.
Zaira began discussing the possibility of having another rumba in the solar in
November 1999, following a spiritual mass that took place in her apartment.
Zaira had been very sick with stomach problems and had been throwing up
blood in the mornings. Her daughter, La Prieta, suggested that she ask two local
spiritists to hold a mass in her apartment. Although always a little hesitant to spend
money on religious ceremonies, Zaira complied for fear her health would worsen.
La Prieta also wanted to hear the advice of the spirits, and they both set out to buy
the necessary items for the altar (Figure 31). The spiritists arrived shortly after the
altar was prepared and preceded to chant their way into a trance, a state where they
could serve as a medium channeling the desires of the dead to the living. The
spiritists told Zaira that the spirit of a young musician, who was hijo de Chango, or
son of Chango (the orisha of thunder and passion), was following her around and
bothering her. Zaira immediately identified this man as her late husband, Calixto
Callava, who had in fact performed the hacer santo ceremony, receiving the orisha
of Chango and becoming initiated into Santeria priesthood. The spirits said that she
needed to keep a sunflower in her house for Oshun (the orisha of love) and gladiolus
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flowers for Babalú Ayé (the orisha of illness). She also had to put a piece of bread
and butter with the crusts cut off above her door. They said that she had stomach
problems and had to take care of her health or she would die young. Zaira confirmed
by nodding and saying luz y progresso, literally meaning "light and progress,"
acknowledging that the spirits had correctly understood her predicament. The spirits
told Zaira that she was not very religious and that she should believe more, instead of
just going along with the ceremonies happening around her. Zaira was instructed to
kill a chicken and cleanse herself with it.
This mass and advice of the spirits brought to the forefront three related
problems that Zaira was having. Since several family members were present, along
with myself, her issues were made public and their resolution would become a joint
effort. First, the spirits said that her deceased husband continued to bother her.
Zaira later told me that Calixto Callava's spirit was hanging around her and would
not allow her to re-marry or have any relationships with men. She had in fact been
in several short relationships with men that all ended badly, with loud verbal
disagreements in the central patio. La Prieta described the problem:
The dead, Eggun, as they say, was bothering her, didn't want her to have a
man here in her house, didn't want her to have a husband in her life, and
bothered and disturbed her and she told him that he was already dead, that he
should leave her to live her life, that as a spirit, she was going to attend to
him with flowers, candles, and all of the things that he had wanted or had
previously. Zaira needed the cajon for her health, and he was her wife, and a
spirit that was very popular.
24

Second, the spirits told Zaira that she needed to take care of her health problems. It
was insinuated that these problems stemmed from a lack of offerings to Babalú Ayé
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or her ex-husband Callava. Blame was never placed on Zaira and her high alcohol
consumption, and was instead transferred to higher beings, spirits and ancestors.
And third, the spirits told Zaira that she was not religious enough. Although not
verbalized, it was clear that instead of spending money on religious offerings, Zaira
was buying rum, drinking excessively, and becoming a nuisance in the family and
the solar. Her mother Imelda would not talk to her and her daughter La Prieta stayed
far away, as Zaira had hit her several times when intoxicated. As in most Afro-
Cuban rituals, the solution to these problems involved offerings of herbs and flowers
and animal sacrifice. For Zaira, this would involve retreat from some of her anti-
social habits and greater participation in the Santeria community. In a sense, her
Santeria networks had lapsed and she needed to reinforce these connections or risk
isolation from her family and community, and problems with the dead, a very
vulnerable position.
25

In January 2000, two months after this mass, Zaira began to plan a cajon, or
spiritual drumming, for Callava. She told me that the rumba in June with the
musical group Clave y Guaguancó had not been very effective and that his spirit was
still bothering her. Instead, she felt that the rumba band Yoruba Andabo would sing
to Callava with more feeling and passion. They would be able to bring his spirit
back to the solar so that Zaira could honor him properly. Callava had been one of
the co-founders of Yoruba Andabo that began in 1961 under the name, Guaguancó
Marítimo Portuario, or Marine Port Guaguancó, named as such because the band
members all worked at the pier together.
26
The group disbanded for a period, and
315
reunited in 1986. Callava had originally been a singer in the band and later served as
director and composer for the group. In his position as director, he had arranged for
Yoruba Andabo to tour the United States. He unfortunately passed away just two
months before the group was to depart, in the early 1990's. Callava was more
involved with the group Yoruba Andabo than with Clave y Guaguancó and thus
Zaira felt that the former would be better able to invoke his spirit.
Planning and preparing for the cajon involved a long series of events where
various musicians and healers were contacted, ceremonies were arranged, and food
and ritual items were purchased. In each activity, it could be argued that Zaira
served as a hub of a wheel, re-connecting with and bringing together diverse actors,
as any party planner would be expected to do. In Zaira's case, this involved a
rebuilding of a previous social network that had existed when she was married to the
renowned rumbero Callava. Much like Mercedes's rumba in the solar, this event
was also a collaboration involving parties of different socioeconomic status.
Although coming from similar backgrounds in the solares of Havana, the Yoruba
Andabo band members were professional musicians who had traveled to numerous
countries around the world, recorded CD's, and were financially better off than Zaira
and her family. Like Clave y Guaguanco, the Yoruba Andabo band members are
paid a salary by the state to perform weekly and practice daily. The band plays for
tourists every Sunday at the Hotel Nacional and every Saturday evening at the
nightclub Las Vegas, a place frequented by Cubans and tourists (Figure 52-54). The
band plays in these highly visible locations because they have become well-known
316
both in Cuba and abroad. In 2001, they won a Grammy for their album La Rumba
Soy Yo. In spite of their fame and success, Yoruba Andabo continues to play in
private homes and solares for Afro-Cuban religious ceremonies. According to US
standards, they would be considered a garage band. Most members still live in
solares or small apartments and none of them own cars. Although it may not be
financially beneficial for the band to play privately at events such as the cajon for
Callava, they need this exposure to build and maintain their social capital. They are
just as dependent on networks as the solar residents. For the cajon for Callava, Zaira
and the band formed a partnership, trading food, rum, music, and friends. Although
barely off-setting the costs, everyone managed to benefit by participating in this
rumba. An outline of these events will reveal the full extent of networking and
bridging involved in a successful collaboration.

Figure 52: Yoruba Andabo playing at the Hotel Nacional
317
In early February, during a lengthy trip to a prison outside of Havana to visit
some relatives, Zaira spoke to me about the possibilities of having a cajon for
Callava in the solar. She told me that Yoruba Andabo had a gig every week at Las
Vegas, a small nightclub a few blocks away from the solar. She wanted to go talk to
the band members the following week and ask them to play in the solar. She thought
that the band would charge $20 along with some expected food and rum. She
stressed to me that she really needed the band to bring Callava's spirit back to her.
Knowing that this was her way of asking for money, I negotiated a deal with her. I
asked if she would mind if I filmed the cajon in return for paying for the band's fees,
and explained to her the visual component of my anthropology program. Zaira
readily agreed and thus re-enforced one network that had lapsed, with myself, as I
had been spending more time with her daughter La Prieta.
A week later Zaira and I went to the Las Vegas nightclub on a Saturday
evening to hear Yoruba Andabo play. The nightclub, less than 1 mile from Solar
Madrid, draws a crowd of both tourists and Cubans as the former are charged a $5
entry fee and the latter pay 5 pesos or 25¢ (Figure 53-54). We arrived early and
Zaira spoke with Chan, Chappottín, Marino and Giovani, four of the band members
and her former friends, about the possibility of hiring the group for a cajon for
Callava (Figure 55-58). She explained to them that Callava had given her a lot of
support in life but that now she was having a problem with his eggun, the spirit of
Callava, who would not allow Zaira to remarry. She said, “I am in my 30’s and
Callava is close to his 70’s and it is time for him to understand that I need another
318
man.”
27
She explained to them that Clave y Guaguancó sang to Callava in the solar
unsuccessfully; Callava's spirit was still bothering her. Chan agreed that Callava
would feel better with Yoruba Andabo singing and also said that the filming of the
event would be a good promotion for the band. Giovanni, the director of the band,
set the price at $40 and scheduled the cajon for March 23
rd
. Zaira later told me that
she thought the price was higher than usual for such an event, and that it was likely
increased because I was there. Throughout the evening, Zaira drank a lot of rum and
spoke to everyone in the band about the importance to her of having this cajon for
Callava, reinforcing her connection with the dead and the band members. Marino, a
musician in the band who had lived in Solar Madrid, suggested that Zaira contact the
santera Carmen and ask her to perform the mass before the cajon during which
Callava's spirit would dictate instructions on how the ceremony should proceed.

Figure 53: Las Vegas Nightclub
319

Figure 54: Yoruba Andabo on stage inside Las Vegas nightclub

Figure 55: Juan Campos "Chan" Figure 56: Giovanni del Pino Rodríguez
320

Figure 57: Miguel Chapottín Beltrán Figure 58: Justo "Marino" García Arango

The following week, Zaira and I took the boat taxi across the harbor to the
town of Regla to discuss the religious ceremonies with Carmen and reconfirm the
date of the cajon with Chan, Carmen's husband. Zaira told me that she was so drunk
the week before at the nightclub, she wanted to make sure Yoruba Andabo would be
coming to the solar to play. After we boarded the boat taxi, Zaira immediately went
to the window and threw a coin into the ocean for Yemaya, and prayed to the
maternal orisha of smooth or raging seas (Figure 59-60). Zaira told me that she
respected the ocean and was afraid of it because she cannot swim. After the boat
docked, we disembarked and walked across the street to the church of Regla, the
Catholic saint which corresponds to the orisha Yemaya. Inside, Zaira prayed in front
of the altar to Regla and she told me that after the cajon for Callava I should return to
the church with flowers for Yemaya (Figure 61). Thus far, our journey to the house
321
of Carmen and Chan had been a clear demonstration of Zaira's devotion to the
orishas, a higher power she acknowledged as such.

Figure 59: Zaira throws a coin outside the window of the boat taxi and prays to
Yemaya for a safe journey across the harbor.

Figure 60: Disembarking from the boat taxi upon arrival in Regla
322

Figure 61: Zaira prays to Yemaya in front of the statue of Our Lady of Regla
Zaira and I walked from the church to Carmen and Chan's house and had a
productive visit planning for the cajon for Callava (Figure 62). We ran into Chan
outside and he confirmed that Yoruba Andabo would play in the solar on the 23
rd
.
He was very excited about the cajon and said that Callava was like a brother to him
and discovered that he could sing. He gave Zaira a photo of Callava that she could
use for the altar for the mass and he sold two tapes to me of Yorba Andabo music for
$7 each that he said I could use for the film. We then spoke to the well-known
santera Carmen who told Zaira everything she needed to buy for the mass and the
cajon. For the spiritual mass the day before the cajon, Zaira would need to buy
323
candles, alcohol, fresh herbs, chalk, white flowers, red roses, and white lilies. On the
morning of the cajon, a rooster would need to be sacrificed in front of an altar which
needed to display honey, coffee with milk, flowers, chalk, coconut, alcohol,
chocolate, and cigarettes. During the cajon, Zaira needed to serve the guests rum,
caldosa (soup), juice, and sweets. Zaira carefully wrote down all of the items and
told Carmen that she wanted to do everything right and did not want people to laugh
at her. Carmen told Zaira that she would not be able to officiate the mass because
she knew Callava when he was alive. She said that it was better to hire a spiritist
who did not know him and asked Zaira if she had anyone in mind. Zaira said that
her daughter La Prieta had recommended using her Catholic godfather who was a
spiritist who also happened to be gay. Carmen and Chan both rejected the idea and
said that Callava had nothing to do with gay men and his spirit would never mount a
gay man's head. Zaira said she would find someone before the cajon, which was
only a week away. After discussing the logistics of the cajon, we all went to the
corner bar to drink beer. Zaira, Chan, and Carmen swapped stories about Callava,
Zaira's relationship to him, and his painful death to cancer.
324

Figure 62: Left to right: Chan, Zaira, granddaughter of Chan and Carmen, Carmen.
Zaira plans the cajon for Callava with Chan and Carmen.

During this outing to the town of Regla, Zaira began to rebuild her social and
religious networks. Countering the acCarmention of her lack of faith in Santeria
during the spiritual mass in November, Zaira expressed her will to follow Carmen's
ritual guidelines and her desire to please the deceased. Chan also strengthened his
connection with the dead as he wanted to honor Callava, a fictive brother who had
discovered his singing talent, which made him a celebrity. From a purely monetary
standpoint, Chan also benefited from the encounter as he sold me two audiocassettes
for $14. Although a professional musician, like everyone else in Cuba, Chan needs
to earn hard currency (U.S. dollars) in order to survive and does so by playing music
privately in people's homes for religious ceremonies or through his contact with
tourists at his weekly performances.
325
The cajon for Callava turned into an intense four-day event. Nearly all of the
Baro family members assisted in the party preparations and even Jazmin and Marcos
were kept home from boarding school for the entire week. The four days were
occupied respectively by a Catholic mass (Day 1), a spiritual misa (mass officiated
by spiritists) (Day 2), shopping for food, animals, and offerings (Day 3), and finally
the cajon for Callava (Day 4). On the first day of the festivities, I arrived at the solar
at 7am to accompany Zaira to the church of "Nuestra Señora del Carmen". We left
immediately as she was eager to arrive on time. As instructed by local spiritists, she
bought white lilies from a merchant in front of the church and then proceeded inside
the sanctuary where she prayed and placed the flowers on the altar of La Caridad del
Cobre (Our Lady of Charity), which corresponds with the Yoruban deity Oshun in
Cuba (Figure 63-64). The sermon had not yet started so she found the priest and
paid a few pesos to rogar la misa, or request that the priest dedicate the mass to
Calixto Callava. We sat in the middle row and stayed for the entire mass. Callava's
name was announced in the beginning of the service along with a dozen other
names.
28

326

Figure 63: Zaira buys white lilies in front of the Catholic Church of "Nuestra Señora
del Carmen"

Figure 64: Zaira offers white flowers to Oshun/La Caridad del Cobre (Our Lady of
Charity)

The spiritual misa (mass) took place in Zaira's apartment on the second day
of ritual preparations. Zaira found two local spiritists, an older one Magdalena, and a
younger woman, Serafina, to perform this misa espiritual, a séance "at which
327
invocations to the dead are made, [along with] ritual cleansings" (Ayorinde
2004:21).
29
I arrived at the solar at 8am and left with Zaira soon after to buy flowers
for the altar. Upon returning to the solar, Zaira carefully arranged the altar in her
living room while I filmed her (Figure 65-67). She placed the photo of Callava in
various places on the table, but eventually removed it completely as she was told by
a santero that Callava would not mount the spiritist if his photo were visible. The
misa began at 2pm and was attended by Zaira, La Prieta, Marcos, Jazmin, Chan,
Carmen, the two spiritists, and myself. For the first twenty minutes, Magdalena read
from a Kardecan spiritist book. Then, she led a two-hour discussion concerning
Callava and his relationship with Zaira, Chan, and Carmen. Gradually, some of the
internal conflicts of the Yoruba Andabo band were revealed. Chan was frustrated
because the band was not advancing. They wanted to travel but had not been abroad
in a long time. Giovanni and his wife, who are both santeros, were in charge of
performing the necessary ceremonies and offerings in order for the band to secure a
gig abroad. Chan felt that these had not been done adequately and preferred that his
wife Carmen were in charge of the "brujeria" (witchcraft), as he called it. Callava
had arranged the group's last big trip to the U.S. and Chan felt that by honoring him
in this cajon, their chances to travel would improve. Chan and Carmen then spoke
about how dedicated Zaira was to Callava during the last ten years of his life and
how she had taken such good care of him when he became sick. They regretted that
Zaira had never officially married Callava, because if she had, she would have
inherited some money and avoided many of her current problems.
328

Figure 65: Zaira arranges an altar for the misa espiritual for Calixto Callava, which
took place two days before the cajon

Figure 66: Close-up of the altar for the misa for Callava
329

Figure 67: Photo of Calixto Callava given to Zaira by Chan and Carmen
Following the discussion, both of the spiritists, in turn, became possessed and
cleansed everyone in the room by brushing the green branches over each person from
head to toe while spinning them, spraying perfume, and blowing cigar smoke. Each
person was instructed to make an offering to the orishas. Zaira had to offer nine
eggplants and a rooster to Callava before the cajon. The spirit of Callava had not
descended on the spiritists, but different spirits had, one who informed Zaira that
Callava wanted her to hold a big party. La Prieta later explained the misa to me:
During the misa, the spiritist lowers the spirit, of them, the spirit that
accompanies each person. Francisca accompanies me. The spiritist that did
the misa is accompanied by the minstrel, each person has a spirit that mounts
them. During the misa the spirits say whether or not you can have a party,
following the likes of the eggun (deceased ancestor) who is going to be
honored, who is going to be given the party. If he wants a party, he gets a
party. If he wants food: chicken, hen, rooster, then he gets food. It is
whatever the eggun wants. After the misa we offered the rooster and after
that we offered the rumba and the cajon.
30

330
Feeling much like a therapy session, the misa came to a close. Callava's continued
influence on the living had been acknowledged. Zaira's prominent role in the life of
this prosperous composer had been recognized. The reasons behind Chan and
Carmen's desire to participate in the cajon also became clear. And most importantly,
Callava gave the approval for Zaira to hold a cajon, a large ritual and party where all
of his friends would attend. Everyone agreed that Callava always loved parties when
he was alive, so in order to honor him properly, a big party was necessary.
The third day of ritual preparations was consumed by shopping for food and
ritual items. Zaira, La Prieta, and Chano went to a large agricultural market,
accompanied by myself and a small film crew. Up until this point I had been able to
film alone. But for the trip to the market and the cajon I needed some assistance
(Figure 68). The crew consisted of three Cubans – one historian and two technicians
(producer, videographer, sound assistant), a Norwegian musicologist (sound
assistant), and an anthropologist from the United States (still photographer). These
additional people, coming from outside of the immediate network of Zaira, La Prieta,
and the solar residents, had a significant effect on everyone around them. In the
market, the merchants were happy to be filmed because more customers came to
their stands wanting to be "seen on TV". While my "actors" patiently bought items
several times so I could capture different angles, people would gather around and
observe (Figure 69). Even the interest of the police and my successful negotiation
efforts was a popular story told by Zaira. At the cajon, the semi-professional crew
conferred a greater degree of importance and authority on those involved in
331
organizing it, Zaira, Callava, and the Yoruba Andabo band members who
appreciated the publicity. After purchasing meat and vegetables for the caldosa
(soup) at the market, we took a taxi back to the solar and dropped off all of the food
at Imelda's apartment, since she was responsible for making the large pot of soup and
individual box lunches for the band members and other important people who would
attend.

Figure 68: Film crew captures Zaira, La Prieta, and Chano buying meat at the market
332

Figure 69: Zaira buys taro root for the caldosa (soup)
Leaving the rest of the film crew behind, I went with Zaira and La Prieta to
buy rum, flowers, a cake and other pastries from vendors near the solar. We then
went to 'El Rapido', a fast food restaurant/convenient store that charges in U.S.
dollars. Zaira wanted to buy powdered juice and plastic cups for the party. As we
were crossing the street, a delivery truck pulled up in front of the restaurant and the
driver took a box of cups and plates out of the truck. La Prieta approached him and
asked if he would kindly help her to resolver una cosa (resolve a problem). She
proceeded to explain how she really needed some cups for a religious function, how
grateful she would be if he could give her some, and how ironic it was that he pulled
up just as she was leaving her house to try to find cups. Much to my surprise, the
man complied and gave her approximately 50 red plastic cups. La Prieta had
somehow determined that this man was religious and that he would understand her
333
predicament. The situation emphasized the strong nature of religious networks and
on the contrary, the weaker loyalties to state and private enterprise.
With all of the necessary ritual preparations and party purchases complete,
the day of the cajon finally arrived. It would be marked by a series of events along a
continuum from religious and private ritual offerings to more public and secular
rumba singing and dancing followed by a final religious gesture. The number of
participants also increased and reduced as the events moved to different parts of the
solar patio and inside Zaira's apartment. The cajon was considered a great success
and was the topic of conversation in the solar for weeks following the rumba. The
success could be attributed to the party hosts, Zaira and her family, the band, and the
local and distinguished guests. Even more important however, the unique spatial
layout of the solar allowed for such a grand event to take place.
I arrived at the solar at 8am to witness the chaos of last minute preparations.
Imelda told me that she had only three hours of sleep because she was preparing the
food. She was very upset because the pigs head for the altar had been left out of the
refrigerator over night and had fallen apart. She had sent La Prieta to the market at
7am with hopes that she would arrive early enough to buy another pigs head before
they sold out. Zaira was preparing the altar for Callava. In a small corner of the
solar patio, alongside her apartment wall, she carefully arranged glasses of coffee,
milk, chocolate milk, flowers, wine, rum, distilled alcohol, cigars, coconut pieces,
chalk, and more (Figure 70). The area chosen for the altar was critical as it was in a
small semi-private corner of the solar patio. It was placed where Zaira usually kept
334
a table for washing clothes, a public outdoor area which she had co-opted as it was
directly in front of her house. Significantly, the altar was also in a little corner that
could not be seen upon entering the patio and would require some effort to find.
Although Santeria practitioners have not been officially persecuted during the
revolution, they cannot become members of the communist party and practicing has
been discouraged in many ways.
31
For this reason, some people prefer to practice
privately, behind closed doors. However, within the Afro-Cuban community, one
can gain status and respect from public displays of religiosity. These ceremonies
also legitimize the more secular parties that usually follow them. Zaira's cajon for
Callava had both private and public elements and the solar space allowed for these
transitions.

Figure 70: Altar for Callava on the day of the cajon
The ritual ceremonies began at 11am after a new pig's head had been
purchased, the altar had been arranged, and Chan, Carmen and the spiritist had
335
arrived. An Obbá (a sacrificial priest) had been hired to perform the animal
sacrifices and had begun to prepare an hour earlier (Figure 71). A small group of
relatives and the individuals named above gathered around the altar. Everyone had
their heads covered so that the spirits would not mount them. The Obbá recited
some prayers while tapping his stick on the ground and those gathered around
chanted a response. The rooster was washed by the Obbá, Chan, and the spiritist
(Figure 72). Then, the Obbá slit its neck with a knife, poured the blood on top of the
offerings in the altar, and tore some of its feathers off while laying it carefully on the
ground (Figure 73). Inside the house, two baby chicks were sacrificed for Elegua.
After these quick and quiet ceremonies, Zaira paid the Obbá $5 and he left. The
sacrifices were private rituals attended only by those involved with Callava and
invested in his spiritual well-being, along with the religious practitioners who
conducted or facilitated contact with the spirits and orishas. In looking at figure 71-
73, it is interesting to note how the status of religious practitioners is marked not
only by the wearing of beads and their ritual knowledge but also by their gold rings,
watches, and designer clothes. The black and red bracelet worn by the Obbá is
called an iddé, a prominent sign that he is a babalawo who has completed the Ifá
initiation rituals. This weeklong ceremony, which is often equated with the 'birth of
a king', costs approximately $1,200.
32
Spending such an enormous amount of money
(roughly five years of salary) in one week for Orula is not only a sign of devotion,
but also that one is well connected and has access to key resources.
33
To a lesser
extent, the cajon for Callava was also a demonstration of Zaira's wealth and
336
eagerness to spend money on spirits and saints. The amount of money she spent on
the party could have been used to buy and install a toilet in her apartment. However,
as will be seen below, the value of the party was much greater than a toilet.

Figure 71: The Obbá arranges the altar for Calixto Callava

Figure 72: Chan, the Obbá, and the spiritist wash the rooster before its sacrifice
337

Figure 73: The Obbá sprinkles the rooster's blood and feathers on the altar to Callava

The Yoruba Andabo band arrived at 12:30 and set up their equipment inside
Zaira's living room in front of the spirit altar. This altar was set up on a table
covered with a white tablecloth and looked identical to the altar prepared for the
misa two days earlier (Figure 66). Zaira stood by the door to her apartment and only
allowed the band members, family, and a few religious practitioners to enter
34
.
Then, she sat in a chair next to the altar so that the band faced her and the altar
(Figure 74). After Marino spit rum in each corner of the room, the band played a
song dedicated to Callava. This semi private affair displayed the importance of
Zaira's intimate relationship with Callava. More people were involved than during
the late morning sacrifice of the rooster, yet Zaira controlled the entry. With Zaira's
placement right next to the altar, the band was singing to and honoring her as much
as Callava. Zaira was empowered by this public acknowledgement of her close
relationship with Callava. But ultimately it is the dead who are shown to have even
more power than the living. The spirit of Callava was so strong that he could unite
338
his friends and loved ones. He pestered Zaira enough so that she needed to have a
cajon to honor him.
35
And yet Zaira's connection to this dead man gave her a
legitimate reason to throw a party and sanction her excessive drinking habit, at least
for a day. The more secular singing and dancing that followed the band's songs in
front of the spirit altar became not just any party, but one endorsed by religious
authorities, where those who attended were required to drink, socialize, and have
fun, as that is what Callava had requested. Even though most guests were not invited
into Zaira's living room for the band's homage, they could still listen from outside,
and peek through a large metal grated window (Figure 75). The structure of Zaira's
living room, with thin walls and door-sized windows allowed for the public to
witness a semi-private ritual, an intimate part of Zaira's life, and thus conferred a
greater significance to the event and more reason to be involved.

Figure 74: Zaira sits next to the spirit altar while the band plays several songs for
Callava

339

Figure 75: Guests peering through Zaira's metal grated window into her living room
to watch Yoruba Andabo sing to the spirit altar

During the second song, Serafina, the young spiritist who had performed the
misa two days earlier, became possessed. After flailing around, she was ushered into
Zaira's bedroom. Everyone said that a bad spirit had possessed her and did not want
to go near her for fear they might also become possessed. This was the only
possession that occurred throughout the day.
36
For Serafina, the misa and the cajon
for Callava were an opportunity for her to connect with new people in the religious
community. She was able to meet Carmen, a well-known santera, and all of the
members of the Yoruba Andabo band who are always involved in religious rituals.
She assisted the Obbá in the rooster sacrifice, a man she could potentially work with
at a later occasion (Figure 72). Serafina's services were not needed at the cajon and
she was not paid to attend, yet she stayed the entire day and assisted here and there
with small tasks, helping both the Baro family with the party organization, and the
religious priests. As a young and less experienced spiritist, it is important for
340
Serafina to be visible and make herself and her services widely known in the
community. The cajon, in a sense, offered her some publicity.
After the band played a few songs dedicated to Callava inside Zaira's
apartment, they moved their instruments outside to the solar patio and began to play
more secular dance music (Figure 76). Rum began to flow and the crowd grew
rapidly. The patio of Solar Madrid forms a natural outdoor stage. The band set up
their instruments in front of Apartment #16, toward the back center of the courtyard
where there is a slightly raised step (Figure 8). The crowd formed a semi-circle
around a small open area where people could dance. Zaira would never be able to
obtain a similar performance space outside the solar as it would be too difficult to
get permits for the band to play in a public park and too expensive to play at an
indoor arena. But the theatre like construction of the courtyard allowed Zaira to host
such an event. And with one door leading to the main street, even the guests could
be monitored. The band played for several hours with guests coming and going but
an active crowd always remained.
341

Figure 76: Yoruba Andabo plays rumba music in the patio of Solar Madrid
The rumba was a success partly because numerous distinguished artists
participated. Fariñas, a prominent rumba vocalist, took the lead in singing several
songs and even danced with Zaira, bringing her into the center of the stage, publicly
acknowledging her significance in the event (Figure 77). Juan de Dios, a dancer
from the National Folkloric Company (Conjunto Folklórico Nacional) danced
several songs with a young professional dancer from Yoruba Andabo (Figure 78).
Eloy Machado, creator of Rumba Saturday (Sabado de la Rumba), a weekly rumba
performance at a cultural center in Havana, also participated actively (Figure 79).
Pancho Quinto, a famous drummer, sang with Yoruba Andabo and danced (Figure
80). All of these distinguished guests were originally members of poor,
marginalized communities who attempted to transform popular culture into a
national culture. In their own ways, they attempted to co-opt state spaces and bring
popular traditions into the public arena, thereby cleaning the image of the
342
marginalized individual vis a vis the state. For instance, Eloy Machado, a poet better
known as El Ambia, acted as himself in Sara Gómez's film De Cierta Manera
discussed in Chapter 2. With encouragement from Sara Gómez, he created Sabado
de la Rumba at UNEAC, the National Union of Writers and Artists (Union Nacional
de Escritores y Artistas).
37
The weekly performance at this prominent cultural center
attracted many tourists and was partly responsible for turning rumba, a street dance
from the poor barrios, into a national dance.
38
As mentioned earlier in this chapter,
the Cuban state, which has sponsored all of the artists above, has their own
motivations for bringing rumba and popular traditions to the stage. These include
efforts to control people who participate in popular traditions at the margins of
society and efforts to publicize their cultural practices to bolster the tourist industry.
Those artists, such as rumberos, who work for the state, participated in
commodifying folklore and reproducing it for tourists. However, they were not
viewed as sell-outs within their community but as leaders chosen to publicly
professionalize street music that was already viewed as a complex musical genre
from within the community. Rumberos were also paid well and the money trickled
down into the community. Although they earn more money playing for the state at
hotels, recording albums for tourists, and touring abroad, professional musicians
enjoy and oftentimes prefer to perform in the poor communities from which they
came. Miguel Chappottin Beltran, vocalist for Yoruba Andabo, described the
difference between playing rumba in a hotel vs. a solar (Figure 57). He said, "It
catches more force in the solar… because the people who go are more emotional…
343
they themselves begin to sing and dance, and all that and then, it gives more
emotionality to the rumba."
39
Chan prefers the spontaneity of rumba in the solar as
opposed to the structured theatrical performances in the hotels,
The solar is rumba as it is. You go out and dance, she begins to sing, another
goes out and wait, wait, let me in, wait, give me a turn, hey buddy let me take
the drums, let me play the spoons. That is the perfect rumba. Those who go
are familiar with it. But in the theatre, in the cabaret, it is very distinct. It has
to be a different format. It is the same rumba but with other characteristics.
There are lights, audio… there is organization. But, the heart of rumba is in
the solar.
40

The solar crowd is not only preferred by rumba musicians, but needed.
Knowledgable tourists have become dissatisfied with static theatrical performances
and prefer to see the more vibrant rumba found on the streets.
41
The state, originally
responsible for removing rumba from the poor barrios, now sees the need to "revive"
it is these areas. The musicians need a local following in order to maintain their
prominent position in society, and abroad. The cajon for Callava thus became a
complex collaboration between state sponsored musicians and tenants from a
marginalized solar.
344

Figure 77: Zaira dances with Fariñas, a prominent rumba vocalist, in the center of the
solar 'stage'

Figure 78: Juan de Dios, a dancer from the National Folkloric Company, dances with
a young professional dancer from Yoruba Andabo

345

Figure 79: Eloy Machado, creator of Sabado de la Rumba (Rumba Saturday), a
weekly rumba performance at a cultural center in Havana, dances solo

Figure 80: Pancho Quinto, wearing a tour shirt that features himself, sings and
dances with Yoruba Andabo

After several hours of music in the solar patio, the bottles of rum emptied and
Yoruba Andabo played one last song. They situated their equipment in a semi circle
around the altar for Calixto Callava and played a final homage to him (Figure 81).
After hours of drinking, dancing, and singing the cajon returned to a focus on the
346
spirits, reminding everyone that the party had a purpose, to honor and appease a
great artist who had died in Solar Madrid. Miguel Chapottín Beltrán (Figure 57),
vocalist for Yoruba Andabo, described how the cajon reached Callava's spirit:
Basically, this process works because when we sing to the deceased, he feels
good. That is our style. We sang to him, for example, if he composed three
or four rumba songs, we sang those to him that day, in order to raise his
spirit. That is how we do these things. We always sing songs that represent
the essence of his style. We sing songs that celebrate his spirit. That is the
way we do things, us as well as other rumba players. That is how it is always
done. We sing to the spirit. We stimulate the spirit of the dead. That is how
it is done.
42

Giovanni del Pino Rodríguez (Figure 56) describes why the cajon was needed, over
ten years after Callava passed away:
We used to to give a rumba to a rumbero as a profane offer. For example,
when Callava died, since he was a rumbero, in the funeral home we played
rumba. This is done a lot in Cuba. And after that, time passes and we
assume that the spirit is resting, the spirit of the rumbero. Then, in order to
do something for this spirit, this eggun, something that he would have liked
in his life, we play rumba for the spirit. We say, 'let's go play a rumba for
Callava's eggun'. And we play a rumba to the eggun of Callava. And then
comes the spiritual mass… first you give food to the spirit, you make
preparations, as if it was a spiritual mass, and in the mass you play a rumba.
To an eggun that was a rumbero you play the music that he liked.
43

Several songs that Callava had composed had been sung that day and songs written
after his death, in honor of him, had also been sung. His spirit had certainly been
present among his crowd of friends who were singing, dancing, and enjoying
themselves as if he had been there. La Prieta relates the significance of the cajon to
Callava and to the living:
Yoruba Andabo came to play an homage to a very famous composer who
was Calixto Callava, his homage was very good and that signified an
offering, a ray of light that even though he is in another world, the music of
347
the cajon is very good and reached him… that reached him and that helps us
on earth, health, prosperity and everything is well…
44

A year and a half after the cajon for Callava, I returned to Solar Madrid and asked
Zaira and La Prieta if the cajon had had any affect on their lives. As Zaira is not
very vocal, La Prieta did most of the talking:
La Prieta: The changes… [Zaira] has a stable husband, she has had a change
in her health and well-being, to progress and development, she has a husband.
Things have moved ahead, from where they were before. She has changed a
lot.

Zaira: Yes. Up to now, thanks to him, things are going well, truely.

La Prieta: She rearranged her house with her husband. He helped her a lot
and bought her everything. She put a bathroom and a kitchen in her house,
she made all of these improvements in her house. She didn't have a
television, now she has a television.

Zaira: He exists as a spirit.

La Prieta: The cajon worked. My house was fixed up, cheerful and nice. My
bathroom, my kichen, my furniture was all rearranged nicely.

Zaira: He has given me a lot of tests. He has helped me a lot. He has helped
me a lot. I just speak to him, I say "listen, I don't have money for anything"
and I go out in the street…, [and find some]. For real!. And, up to now, I
only have a toothache [I have no major problems].

La Prieta: It is true that the spirits exist.
45

After the cajon, Zaira remarried and her health and financial problems subsided. In
the place where the altar to Callava had been arranged during the cajon, now lay her
kitchen. A sink and a counter top had been built and the area had been walled off,
extending Zaira's apartment at least 10 feet into the solar patio (Figure 23). A
bathroom with a large shower area and toilet had also been installed next to the
kitchen, so that for the first time in her life, at age 40, she would not have to go to the
348
bathroom in a bucket or shower in the living room and sweep the dirty water out of
the door. Imelda and La Prieta's apartment had also been improved with a toilet and
shower area (Figure 26). Zaira's home improvements had been paid for by her new
lover, but Imelda's had been paid for by Monolo, her son in the United States. After
several years with no contact, Monolo had reconnected with his mother and had been
sending her money. Although one could never trace these home improvements
directly to the cajon for Callava, it is likely that the networks that were rebuilt during
that party helped Zaira and Imelda establish enough support to refurbish their
apartments.

Figure 81: Yoruba Andabo plays one final song in front of the altar to Callava
To complete the cajon and Callava's requests related through the spiritist at
the misa, caldosa (soup) and boxes of food were served after the musicians sang
their final song (Figure 82). For the cajon to be successful, the guests needed to be
349
satisfied with sufficient food, rum, and music. Imelda had made a large pot of
caldosa and served cups of soup to every guest who attended. She also made several
boxed meals for the band members, priests and distinguished guests. Food
distribution is a signficant element of party politics. A small yet important portion of
the transactions that occur in Imelda's family's daily activities circulate in a gift
economy. Not only is oil, bread, and rice exchanged within the family, but at the end
of every religious ceremony, food is distributed. Nearly every day of the week a
religious ceremony occurs in the community that Imelda's family could attend and
eat for free. However, the focus of these parties is not on economic exchange but
rather political gains. The purpose of throwing a big party is to produce and
reproduce strategic alliances.

Figure 82: One of Imelda's children, Benicia, distributes boxes of food to the guests
In this process of developing her social capital, Zaira improved her worth and
status in the community, as she became a more visible and significant member, able
350
to entertain her extended family and friends with a grand ritual celebration. By
honoring Callava, her deceased husband, with such a majestic party with famous
artists, the cajon emphasized to Zaira's guests not only that she is well-connected, but
that she is loyal to her friends even after they die. Food, rum, and music were not the
only things exchanged during the cajon. More importantly, several of Zaira's
networks were reinforced. Her ties to the Santeria community were re-established as
several local priests and healers attended. By hiring Yoruba Andabo, she
reconnected with approximately 20 well-known artists who work for the
government, extending her reach into state spaces and co-opting state resources.
And, not least of all, she reconnected with her entire extended family as all six of
Imelda's children in Cuba pooled their resources and assisted in preparing for and
hosting the event. And Yoruba Andabo, collaborators of this cajon, reconnected
with their roots and improved their stagnant condition. With the large crowd that
had gathered in the solar, they gained popularity among both local and foreign fans,
proving to be a good investment in social capital. As co-hosts, they also invited
artists and musicians who work for the state and are even more renowned than they
are, thereby increasing the perceived success of the party. And, in 2001, just one
year after the cajon, Yoruba Andabo won a Grammy at the Latin American award
ceremony for one of their albums and traveled to a music festival in Mexico. Zaira
and Yoruba Andabo had paid their dues to the dead. With Callava's continued social
contract with the living, his spirit fostered alliances that extended internationally and
improved local conditions. The cajon had proven successful for everyone involved.
351
PART III: APRIL 2004: BIRTHDAY PARTY FOR CHANGO (CUMPLEAÑOS DE
SANTO) WITH TIMBA/SALSA GROUP MICHEL MAZA Y SU TENTACIÓN IN
SOLAR MADRID

The final party that I witnessed in Solar Madrid was the cumpleaños de santo
of Mateo, son of Catarina, grandson of Imelda, and cousin to La Prieta, which
occurred on April 21
st
, 2004. A cumpleaños de santo, literally translated as 'birthday
in saint', is an annual celebration to honor the orisha that rules over the devotee. It
takes place on the day of the year that one completed the hacer santo rituals and
became initiated into the Santeria priesthood, earning the title of a santera or
santero. Mateo was celebrating his first cumpleaños de santo to honor the orisha
Chango. The first birthday is the most important, as it signaled the completion of his
year as a iyabo, or novice initiate into Santeria. Unlike most cumpleaños de santo
rituals, Mateo decided to have an enormous party and invited nearly two hundred
people to Solar Madrid, paid $500 to hire the most popular salsa band of the year,
Michel Maza Su Tentación, and spent approximately $2,000 on the whole affair.
The magnitude of the event required participation from every member of the Baro
family. La Prieta coordinated all of the religious rituals; Zaira supervised the crowd;
Imelda coordinated the cooking and food distribution; and the Baro grandchildren
and great grandchildren brought all of their friends to dance and sing along. Like the
two previous parties described, this one brought together people of different
economic and social status in Havana in a way that everyone who attended benefited.
This event, however, marked a movement to the root of the grass roots, as real local
leaders from the informal, popular sector surfaced. It could also be said that this
352
party was representative of a larger societal transition, from a hierarchical system
focused on the production of goods and services, to a more densely enmeshed
horizontal system focusing on a service economy.
A brief description of the event is necessary in order to fully appreciate the
magnitude of the production and the aptitude of the Baro team. I had arrived in Cuba
for a brief three week visit just a few days before the party, so I was unable to
participate in the preparation for the fiesta, but La Prieta described it to me:
Before the 21st we made all the arrangements. Because I got my santo three
years ago, I was in charge of this operation. We ordered the sweets and that
beautiful cake you can see there. We bought the fruit at the market. We
bought the sugar and put the sweets for each santo in their proper place: the
rice pudding, the coconut fudge, everything. We ordered the custom-made
altar and organized the party. Then we contacted Michel Maza, and he
agreed to play, so we hired him. There is a long tradition of big parties in this
solar…
46

On the morning of the 21
st
, the immense altar to Chango, referred to as a throne, was
set up in Imelda's living room (Figure 83). From floor to ceiling, a space of
approximately 10 square feet was covered with flowers, colorful fabrics, food, and
sweets. The elaborate cake, which cost $100, had a fountain of wine within it,
circulating by a pump.
47
Catarina and La Prieta, the two Santeras in the Baro family,
carefully arranged all of the items. As La Prieta had gone through a similar
ceremony three years before and had been studying Santeria rituals under her
godparents for over five years, she took charge of organizing the religious aspects of
this party. La Prieta described Mateo's throne to me:
All of his saints were in the throne. Eleggua who opens and closes the paths
was there. Oggun who is the owner of iron, who rules over all things made
of iron, was there. Ochosi, the ruler of the prison was there. Obbatala who is
353
the ruler of peace and tranquility was there. There was Yemaya, who rules
over the ocean because the four sides of this country are surrounded by water.
Oshun who rules over sweetness, lovers, and gold was there. Aggayu who is
the master of volcanos was there. Shango who is the ruler of thunder,
lightening, and fire was there. They say that at one moment in life, he was
able to spit fire. He defeated rocks with fire. When he was upset, he would
talk and fire would come out of his mouth. The twins that defeated the devil
were also there in the altar, and the fruit market that you could see there
represented Oyá. This is the market where the Iyabó goes after the seven days
[initiation ceremony]. It is there where you have to go to do your first Eccbó,
to throw away all the bad stuff you have carried until then. Afterwards you go
to the church of Las Mercedes, which is the church of Obbatalá. The altar
represents his house, where he props up the santos, to make then pretty for
the day of the big party.
48

I was impressed with La Prieta's wealth of knowledge and the certainty with which
she spoke about each saint and their powers. In order to properly honor the orishas,
it is customary that every guest who attends the party shakes a rattle in front of the
altar while praying and places some money in a bowl. As guests wandered into the
solar, one of the Baro family members would direct them into Imelda's apartment to
address the orishas. Participation in this ritual ensured that all guests understood the
sanctity of the event. It wasn't just a popular band playing for merriment, but a grand
offering for the Santeria deities.
354

Figure 83: "El Trono": The throne or altar to the orisha Chango for Mateo's first
cumpleaños de santo

At midday the band members and their equipment arrived in a van
owned by the Ministry of Culture (Figure 84). Like the two bands described earlier
in this chapter, the singers and musicians in the group Michel Maza y Su Tentación
are also professional artists paid by the Cuban government. Every week the band
plays at two clubs in Havana, Café Cantante and Casa de la Música. At the time of
this cumpleaños de santo they were also filming a music video. The band's
instruments and sound equipment, which included several large speakers,
355
microphones, and a sound mixing board, are also property of the Cuban state. Like
most government enterprises, the band uses the state resources for their own
purposes when they are not working for the state. The cumpleaños de santo was
scheduled at a time when they were not contracted with the state to practice or
perform. Thus, state resources were used to reinforce private religious activities.

Figure 84: A van from the Ministry of Culture brings the bands' equipment to Solar
Madrid

Zaira helped bring the instruments inside the solar along with Ricardo, the
band's equipment manager (Figure 85). Ricardo served as the original link between
Michel Maza and the Baro family as he is the husband of Benicia, Imelda's 6
th
child.
Michel Maza described his relationship with Ricardo:

Ricardo works with me. I knew him from the marginal neighborhoods. ‘Hey friend,
what's going on? Let’s go and have a drink. Damn, I like you, come work with
me…!’ That is how we started, and it is still the same.
49

356
Ricardo and Benicia live in a solar two blocks away from Solar Madrid. They both
work for the state earning meager salaries of approximately $15 per month. Benicia
cooks meals for nuns in a convent in Central Havana. In spite of their relative
financial poverty, they have a wealth of social capital, as can be seen in their links to
state resources. Benicia is able to bring food home from work and Ricardo can
initiate the process of bringing a pop band to a poor solar in Cayo Hueso.

Figure 85: Zaira helps bring the band's equipment into the solar

After several hours of arranging speakers, microphones, and instruments in
Solar Madrid, the band was finally ready to play. Michel Maza approached the
microphone and began with an appeal to the densely packed patio of the solar. He
asked that everyone pretend to be white for next four hours so that no one is killed
and they have a safe night. Parties with pop stars often generate fights in Havana.
Michel Maza usually plays in classy nightclubs that charge a $20 entrance fee and
are heavily controlled and guarded by police. The security of this event was left in
357
the hands of the Baro family. Fortunately they did an excellent job and no one was
hurt or injured. The band played their first set of 8 songs, which lasted over an hour
and a half (Figure 86-87). After the second song, Michel Maza invited La Prieta, the
"madrina" of the party, up to the microphone and asked her if she had any comments
for the audience. She briefly announced, "Good evening to everybody. I only wish
for tranquility and peace."
50
(Figure 88) Although she did not say much, her
authority over the event was clear. She was running the show.

Figure 86: The band Michel Maza y Su Tentación sing in the patio of Solar Madrid
for Mateo's first cumpleaños de santo

358

Figure 87: Nearly 200 guests crowded inside the patio of Solar Madrid to hear
Michel Maza y Su Tentación

Figure 88: Michel Maza invites La Prieta to the microphone to address the guests

After the first set, the band took a break and boxed meals were distributed to
everyone. This event was clearly more elaborate than the preceding two, as an
expensive meal of rice, beans, meat, and salad was served to everyone, as opposed to
the more inexpensive party food, caldosa (soup). Attesting to the Baro family's
359
physical capital, all of the food staples were acquired from the state bodegas (local
stores that sell food at extremely subsidized prices) and was prepared by Imelda.
Catarina distributed the boxes of food and Jazmin distributed forks individually
wrapped in plastic, likely imported. The Baro family and Michel Maza had gone to
great lengths to ensure that everyone enjoyed themselves. The concert lasted until
almost midnight, with the central courtyard becoming increasingly packed as the
night advanced, with people overflowing into the street and others listening from
neighboring rooftops. It was a night that would not be forgotten and one that would
increase the visibility of the Baro family, Solar Madrid and all of its residents.
In this cumpleaños de santo La Prieta and her cousin Mateo both emerged as
local leaders. This cumpleaños de santo marked the first anniversary since Mateo
became initiated into the Santeria priesthood, symbolizing his birth into a new
religious community. La Prieta described his first year as an initiate or iyabo and the
significance of the first birthday:
He is born. He is like a baby… he is like a baby… and at the end of the year,
like all babies, he celebrates his first birthday. It is like being born into
another life. Like being reborn. We give him the things we would give to an
infant, we dress him with new clothes seven days after they are born, like the
clothes that infants wear when they get out of the hospital, five days after
they are born. It is just like being born. For the first three months they have to
stay in their house everyday after six pm. They cannot get out of their house
until the next morning. For a whole year they have to wear white, even their
pajamas, and their socks have to be white. [These white clothes] represent
purity, peace, and tranquility. And they have, just like babies, a path to follow
in life.
51

The fiesta visibly marked Mateo's entrance into Santeria as a full member. At the
very beginning of the party, he dressed in all white attire, signaling his status as a
360
iyabo. He then left the party briefly for some private rituals and returned wearing a
red and white shirt, the colors of Chango (Figure 89). Much like an apprenticeship,
he had spent one full year learning the trade from his religious family under
restricted conditions. The party signaled his release from these constraints although
prohibitions were placed on him. La Prieta told me that for the rest of his life, he can
no longer eat lamb, squash, flour, and okra. If he did eat any of these, the orishas
would be displeased, and he would become sick. Aside from these minor
inconveniences, Mateo could proudly don his black and white beaded bracelet that
signaled his status as a Santero. And most importantly, by throwing such an
expensive party, Mateo told the religious community that he was serious about his
commitment to the religion and to Chango.

Figure 89: Mateo, in front of his altar to the orisha Chango, celebrating his
cumpleaños de santo, one year after his hacer santo ceremony

361
I asked La Prieta why Mateo had gone above and beyond the scale of most
cumpleaños de santo celebrations and she said, "Mateo's fiesta was so big because he
was very successful… he wanted it, he felt compelled to make it so big."
52
I also
asked Mateo about the magnitude of the party. He responded,
"This big fiesta? That was a tremendous sacrifice… so that everything would
turn out well. A huge sacrifice… a lot of battles… As everything is in
dollars. Everything in dollars…And with 10$ each month? [the average
salary in Cuba] One has to do a lot of things… illegal, of course. Thankfully
there are people who care about one another and all. The fiesta was a lot of
work, a lot of preparation, a lot of movement. Michel Maza… the former
singer of Charanga Habanera… very expensive… everything expensive. A
lot a lot a lot of money. No Cuban has done what I did."
53

As Mateo indicated, the party was a huge sacrifice, but he did have some help. At
that time, Mateo had a girlfriend who was from Mexico. She paid for a large portion
of the party and brought many supplies from Mexico that are difficult to find in
Cuba. Mateo had met his girlfriend through his madrina who lives in Solar Madrid.
She had travelled from Mexico to Havana to receive her santo at the apartment of his
madrina, where Mateo was assisting with the preparations and learning the trade,
having recently completed his santo ceremony. Mateo and his girlfriend were thus
religious siblings. It is not uncommon for couples to meet through their religious
families. Both La Prieta and Mateo had met their partners at their religious houses
and their relationships proved to increase their standing, both socially and
economically in the community.
Mateo's cumpleaños de santo was grand for two other reasons, he owed it to
the saints and he was 'successful'. I first met Mateo in March of 2000 on a Baro
family trip to the countryside, outside of Havana, to the Valle Grande penitentiary
362
where Mateo was nearing the end of a two-year sentence. He had committed the
"crime" of peligrosidad, or potential dangerousness. As he had not been working for
the government, he was considered a potential menace to society and even worse, he
was considered a gusano, a traitor to the socialist ideal of a hard worker. The Jefe de
Sector, or police chief of his neighborhood, caught him after he bought a large color
TV that he clearly couldn't pay for with a Cuban state salary. When asked by the
officer, he could not account for the money, so it was assumed that he had done
something illegal. Mateo disliked his time in jail and when asked about it said:
Imagine… A place that is for twenty people and they have double the amount
of people that they should have. People sleeping on the ground, bad hygiene,
bad food, terrible, terrible. They kill for food… they kill for food. It is sad,
very sad. I do not want to think about it.

During our one-hour prison visit, Mateo ate a large meal of chicken and rice that his
family had brought him. And then, much to the chagrin of his wife who was also
there, he spent some time talking to me, the odd foreigner in the pack of seventeen
family members and friends that had come to visit him.
54
Even from within the
prison walls, Mateo was working the tourist. At the visit, Mateo told me that he had
promised to honor Chango, the orisha who rules over prisons, by performing the
hacer santo ceremony upon his release. His entire family agreed that he needed to
become a Santero in order to avoid returning to prison. After his release, he began
saving money and was able to receive his santo in April of 2003. Shortly after
becoming a santero, he met his Mexican girlfriend who insisted on supporting him
because she also wanted to keep him off the streets so that he would not go to prison.
His cumpleaños de santo in April of 2004 was thus a celebration to thank Chango for
363
his continued freedom and fortunes. And in 2005, he performed the expensive Ifá
initiation rituals to become a babalawo, the highest level of priesthood in Santeria.
In a relatively short period of time, Mateo was able to perform several expensive
rituals and avoid spending time in prison. For this he had Chango to thank.
Mateo was undoubtedly the most successful member of the Baro family. He
was a player and had many of the qualities of his orisha Chango. He always
charmed his girlfriends who all happened to be light-skinned. He was also a thriving
hustler and was able to earn large quantities of money on the streets through
lucrative deals of varying degrees of legality. Like Chano and others who worked
the streets, he chose to spend his money when he had some on relatively intangible
experiences, as opposed to expensive objects that could highlight his wealth and get
him in trouble, which the TV had done for him, and a motorcycle had done for
Chano. Unlike Chano, however, he chose to spend his money on religious rituals.
By doing so, he did acquire something tangible, an inexpensive beaded bracelet, but
one that signaled his high status in the religion and his ability to acquire massive
amounts of money. Both the hacer santo ceremony and Ifá initiation cost over
$1,000 and Mateo had spent an additional $2,000 on his first cumpleaños de santo
which occurred one year after his hacer santo ceremony. Thus, in a period of just
three years Mateo was able to amass approximately $5,000. Even if this had been a
gift from relatives abroad, which it was not, it would still be noteworthy. Acquiring
such a large sum of money in Havana takes incredible skills, but why spend the
364
money on three religious rituals? Unlike La Prieta, Mateo has no intention of
practicing and earning a living as a religious priest.
Holbraad (2004:644) argues that "religious especulación" among Havana
youth, the "conspicuous consumption of ritual services, provides a way for young
initiates to overcome the problem of vulnerability that the happy-go-lucky hedonism
of especulación ordinarily implies." He defines especulación as "a style of
conspicuous consumption which has become a salient model of and for behavior
among so-called 'marginal' groups in inner-city Havana of the post-Soviet period, a
stereotype of ostentatious spending" (2004:644). Going beyond the idea that
marginal groups in Havana are just "living in the moment", Holbraad proposes that
because Ifá cult worship emphasizes luxury and the deities require initiates to spend
massive amounts of money on them, it provides a perfect arena for especulación.
Oscar Lewis also listed "inability to defer gratification" as one of the traits of the
culture of poverty (1966). In recent years, this trait has been associated with
poverty in a more positive light. In Lilies of the Field: Marginal People who Live for
the Moment, 'living in the moment' was considered a strategy by marginal groups to
contest mainstream ideologies (Day, Papataxiarchis and Stewart 1999). Holbraad
finds that 'religious especuladores' enjoy the brief ritual period of luxury only to
return to the daily struggle for food once the ritual period is over. His argument has
several holes. He fails to emphasize how the initiate gains long term networks in a
religious community. He also focuses on the cult of Ifá, which is restricted to men.
Only men are allowed to complete the Ifá initiation rituals and become babalawos or
365
religious priests. Holbraad also centers on the recently initiated babalawo and his
padrino as the sole beneficiaries of the exorbitant spending. He states, "Ifá initiation
bestows a permanent transformation on those who undergo it. Rather than just
behaving as if they were kings, especuladores who become babalawos are re-borne
as kings, through consecration" (2004:662) (italics his emphasis). Lastly, Holbraad
finds it paradoxical that at the time of his fieldwork in the late nineties
(approximately the same time I was in Cuba), the country still faced a downward
economic trajectory following the loss of Soviet support in the early nineties, yet
there was a dramatic increase in the cost of religious initiations and in the numbers of
Cubans becoming initiated.
Mateo had several reasons to throw a grand cumpleaños de santo celebration.
He was treated well, perhaps royally, and he did want to show off his wealth and
hired an expensive band to do so. His statement to me that, "No Cuban has done
what I did" attested to his desire to stand out in the religious community. He was
able to give to his peers a day of fun, food, drink, and good music, and would be able
to count on them in the future for equally exciting times. It is also true that
"ostentatious spending" had got him in trouble before, and, as the government had
released some of its restrictions on Santeria rituals in the early 90's, publicly
spending money on the orishas was now a viable option. Although throwing a big
party can attract the police, it is a one-day event, and Mateo's visibility in the eyes of
the authorities was short-lived. Perhaps Mateo desired to resist the frugal order of
society. He never stated that to me, but he had been punished once for his capitalist
366
desires (purchasing an expensive TV) and his refusal to work for the socialist state.
Spending money on a religious party, in a country where religion was forbidden for
several decades along with gathering people together for any reason, could be
considered counter-revolutionary. Although not negating the possibility of
resistance, it is clear that being reborn into a new community is a costly endeavor.
Not only is Mateo buying prestige as he becomes permanently transformed into a
priest, but he is also acquiring long-term networks. In a society where public
discourse is so controlled, Santeria networks allow for channels of communication.
They open doors for meeting new business partners and foreigners, and the religion
itself is a complex educational system that contains tools to explain one's social
reality. At its base are stories about the complex world and relationships of the
orishas, deities with ordinary and super powers, strengths and weaknesses, and
individual personality traits. These narratives are designed to explain and manage
disorder in the daily life of the devotee. By gaining status as a full priest, Mateo
acquires access to these stories and a wealth of knowledge he can use to understand
his world. The Santeria belief system contains a mysical, capitalist, and socialist
efficiency that is not found any other place in Cuba. With such assets, it is not
paradoxical that the price of rituals has increased, as well as the numbers of devotees
who are paying for them, during Cuba's Special Period of economic crisis. What the
Santeria community offers is something that everyone needs during the arduous
economic crisis occurring in Cuba today, circulation and distribution of wealth, and
access to an underground economy and valuable black market items. Those at the
367
margins of society are able to pay for these ceremonies because many generations of
them have lived in that world and are now, since the nineties, profiting, as the Cuban
socialist state can no longer provide for its people and everyone must use the
underground economy to survive. However, unlike Holbraad's argument, it is not
only men who are thriving in this world. Mateo was not the only king of the fiesta,
as he shared the limelight with La Prieta, especuladora.
La Prieta held an important and visible role in the coordination of Mateo's
cumpleaños de santo and essentially emerged as a local leader and religious advisor.
After her hacer santo ceremony three years earlier, she had an intense internship
under her religious godparents at their popular casa de santo, or religious house. She
had also learned about the religion from two different boyfriends who were both
babalawos, priests of Ifá. Adding to the depth and complexity of her knowledge, she
had assisted her godparents with several rituals in the neighboring province of
Matanzas, and had learned the intricate differences between the religious practices in
each area. Mateo's cumpleaños de santo was an opportunity for her to demonstrate
her ritual expertise to her biological family, religious family, and friends. She
coordinated the event effortlessly and was publicly credited for her expertise by the
pop star Michel Maza at the microphone (Figure 88). Such a display demystified
"religious especulación" as male. Although it was Mateo's cumpleaños de santo, he
was not invited to the microphone by Michel Maza and played a low-key role the
entire day. La Prieta emerged as the religious leader and this was even more
astounding considering that she was not Mateo's madrina, or godmother in Santeria.
368
The density of networks in the Santeria community can be seen by looking at
how La Prieta rose to a prominent position in this cumpleaños de santo ceremony.
Just a few weeks before his cumpleaños de santo, Mateo had a falling out with his
madrina, Lupe Milena. Mateo lives with his brother and mother in a solar about five
blocks away from Solar Madrid. All three of them are Santera/os and performed
their hacer santo ceremony with the same godmother, Lupe Milena, who lives in
Solar Madrid. Lupe Milena's family occupies two of the apartments in Solar Madrid
and they have had several confrontations with members of the Baro family who live
in the solar. La Prieta believed that Lupe Milena was a bruja and that her Santeria
practice focused on performing brujeria. Although literally translated as witchcraft,
in Cuba, brujeria is integrally connected to the Afro-Cuban religious traditions and
has no association with the 15
th
century witch hunts. La Prieta felt that Lupe Milena
performed ritual offerings to the orishas and ancestors in order to punish certain
members of her family. She blamed her for putting her uncle Manuel and Tabo, her
cousin's boyfriend, in prison. La Prieta blamed Lupe Milena for a big scandal in the
solar where she had been accused of sleeping with Lupe Milena's daughter's husband
who lived next door. Among several families in the solar, she was considered a
snitch, an agent of the government responsible for reporting illegal and counter-
revolutionary activities.
55
Shortly before the cumpleaños de santo, it was rumored
that Lupe Milena told Mateo's Mexican girlfriend, who was also her ahijado, or
godchild, that Mateo had cheated on her. Although supposedly not true, this
eventually led to their breakup not long after the ceremony. And because of Lupe
369
Milena's meddling into his relationship, Mateo decided not to include her in his
cumpleaños de santo. Instead of setting up the large altar in her apartment, it was set
up next door, in Imelda's apartment. Instead of using her ritual expertise, Mateo
chose to follow the advice of his cousin, La Prieta, and let her organize all of the
religious aspects of the party. In order to release Lupe Milena as madrina and ritual
advisor for his cumpleaños de santo, Mateo had to pay her $21 and give her two
coconuts and two candles. He followed these rules and Lupe Milena's door remained
closed during the entire party, with no hard feelings.
The complexity of these political-religious rules highlights the self-healing
nature of horizontal Santeria networks. These networks are enmeshed in such a way
that the nodes all fall on the same plain and have equal value. It is not uncommon
for a devotee to become disenchanted with their madrina and switch to an equally
skilled priestess. Prior to her hacer santo ceremony, La Prieta changed madrinas
four times before settling on one who was experienced, did not charge exorbitant
fees, and belonged to an active religious house. As more and more santeros and
santeras appear on the streets of Havana, the religious networks expand and the rules
grow in complexity.
56
Mateo's "payment" to his madrina is one of these new rules
designed to deal with an increasingly common phenomenon. For Lupe Milena, $21
and an offering of a coconut and two candles is a worthy exchange for a ruptured
connection to an ahijado. Although it does damage her practice, with the plethora of
devotees in Havana, Lupe Milena can easily find another person to be her godson.
370
There are ample amounts of redundancy in Santeria networks, which allow for back-
up routes and self-healing connections.
In this cumpleaños de santo Mateo's achievements were celebrated and La
Prieta's expertise was acknowledged, but the real contributors to the success of the
event were the nearly two hundred people who participated enthusiastically. People
attend events like these to see and be seen by others, to meet new people, and to be a
part of a fun event that they can talk about for weeks after. People do not attend
parties just for rum, food, or music. Michel Maza y Su Tentación along with other
pop Cuban bands practice several times a week at studios in Havana and anyone can
stand outside and peer through the open windows and doors to listen. But crowds do
not form at their practices and generally just a few people stand around and listen.
The event must hold the promise of being exclusive and monumental for people to
attend. The active participation of the Baro grandchildren was crucial to the event's
success as they recruited their friends and gathered hundreds of people together
(Figure 90). And their friends showed up nicely dressed, as beauty in Cuba equates
to wealth and enjoyment, and thus contributes to the popularity of the celebration.
That these Baro grandchildren in their teens and twenties with limited resources were
able to throw such a huge party attests to the strength of their networks and
highlights their physical capital.
371

Figure 90: Imelda Baro's grandchildren are networked enough to draw nearly 200
nicely dressed guests to Mateo's cumpleaños de santo

Unaware of the futility of such distinctions, I asked La Prieta why Mateo
chose to hire a pop salsa band for a sacred ritual to honor the orishas. For typical
cumpleaños de santo celebrations, a few men play the sacred bata drums in front of
the throne and then play for the guests with the hope that the orishas might mount
and possess someone. La Prieta responded:
Because he hired a group that was popular, and it's a good group, and he had
the opportunity to contract them. They didn't have any big state activities.
And he brought them because he had the conditions and possibilities. And
because he wanted to. He didn't want rumba. He didn't want folklore
because, thankfully, he didn't need that now… to contract [religious]
drummers, nothing like that. At a later time he will do it, he will have a
foundational drumming for Chango… which is almost the same, but with
tambour drums. And he chose Michel Maza because he understood that
Chango deserved a big fiesta and he gave him one.
57

372
The orishas are capricious and for this occasion, Chango wanted a secular fiesta. In
a sense, La Prieta was returning to the Latin etymology of the term "religion." One
interpretation uses the Latin roots re (again) + ligare (to connect) and another uses
the roots res (with regard to) + legere (to gather).
58
The cumpleaños de santo was
about gathering a large group of people together to mingle and connect with each
other. The reasons why people came together were actually quite incidental. What
was important was that key areas of networks were re-enforced, mainly those
surrounding La Prieta, Mateo, the Baro family, and all of the residents of Solar
Madrid.
The cumpleaños de santo could be perceived as a large marketing campaign
for Solar Madrid. All of the residents benefited from the opportunity to interact with
other people, many of whom they had not met before. With stories about the party
told for weeks after, the solar increased in visibility, and the number of visitors
amplified. Even Michel Maza returned to the solar several times after the party to
chat with members of the Baro family and purchase black market items that are
difficult to find near his suburban Vedado home. The solar had gained a reputation
as a safe place to conduct activities. During the party, the Baro family had been able
to control a large crowd and create a secure place for the band to play. Zaira had
taken this job seriously. It was the first time I had ever seen the metal grated door to
the entrance of the solar locked. Zaira kept the key and monitored the entranceway,
forbidding guests to enter when the solar courtyard became too crowded. The solar
373
had turned into a space much like the popular nightclubs in Havana, but with a local
flavor that appealed to the guests and most importantly, to Michel Maza.
Michel Maza was just as invested in this cumpleaños de santo as was La
Prieta, Mateo, the solar residents, and all of the guests. For him, the event was much
like a company party. He did not earn much money, but he did maintain his fan base
and work on selling his image as a bad boy from the hood. In an interview, Michel
Maza discussed his fans:
Since I was a kid I enjoyed hanging out in the neighborhood... I always had
friends from the marginal neighborhoods. My success as a Cuban popular
musician depends on this public, the people from the hood. You know, most
of my fans are people from the hood. That is why I said, during the party,
that I would play and would do anything that needed to be done for my
people, the people from the hood. I am an honest person, just like that.
59

It was a rare opportunity for him as he usually spends a large portion of the year
touring abroad and, when he is in Cuba, he plays in large theatres or hotel nightclubs
where he has no control over the predominantly foreign crowd. With a $20 entrance
fee, his real fans cannot hear his music live. Similar to the other two musical events
described above, the solar courtyard offered a natural theatre, accessible to the
public, yet in a semi-private setting. The other events, however, were less
momentous because both bands, Clave y Guaguancó and Yoruba Andabo, play at
venues in Central Havana with little or no entrance fee that are easier for solar
residents to attend. Michel Maza, however, is a grand celebrity that can draw crowds
of thousands of people, both in Cuba and abroad. This was a unique occasion for
solar residents to mingle with a star in a small semi-private setting.
374
Michel Maza began his singing career at age 16 with the group Charanga
Habanera, a band that is said to have defined the genre of music known as timba, a
Cuban variation of salsa music.
60
He quickly rose to stardom, as he was the lead
singer of several of their hit songs. After several years of recording albums and
traveling internationally with Charanga Habanera, he broke away and formed his
own band, which is currently called, Michel Maza y Su Tentación. He has recorded
two albums with his band, in 2004 and 2005, and is now considered one of the top
five timba singers. His songs are popular in part because they speak to Cuban youth
and are about life on the streets of Havana (Figure 91). As he puts it,
I like singing about what happens in Centro Habana, what happens in La
Víbora, in the marginal neighborhoods, among the people. That is why I tell
you that my fans, my audience, is the people from the marginal
neighborhoods. I mean, most of my fans are from marginal neighborhoods
because I sing about their reality. For example: "Tell all singers that they
have to put their boxing gloves on, because I am leaving the hospital and
nobody can stop me now." Stuff like that, that people from the hood really
enjoy. It is music for the hood. My salsa, my timba, is music for the people
of the hood.
61

I asked Michel Maza why he chose to perform at Mateo's cumpleaños de santo. He
said that he himself was not a devotee but he respected everyone's beliefs and all of
the saints. He had performed at three other religious parties and considered it a great
opportunity to give to his community. He said:
It is his birthday, they told me, and I decided, "Well, we are going to throw a
big party, we are going to play". And there was no better place than this,
because here I feel better than in a palace. To be honest, I am happier with
my people, they have fun with me and I have fun with them. It is like a big
family, and that is why we decided to throw this party. And we will do it
many more times. I really feel happier doing this for my people than playing
somewhere else. If my people want me to play, they can count on me, no
375
problem. Anywhere, in any corner of any room. My people can count on me
for this kind of work.
62

These private parties are mutually beneficial for Michel Maza and the residents of
residents of Cayo Hueso. Michel Maza has a chance to give to his community, but
he also sells more albums as he knows that the Baro family is networked enough to
draw a large crowd of people. He also learns about the daily struggle of the poor
residents of inner city solares, the raw material for his song lyrics. And the residents
of Solar Madrid and their friends have a chance to party intimately with a pop star
who celebrates their marginal existence.

Figure 91: Michel Maza (center of photo with microphone) sings about los barrios
marginales in Solar Madrid

376
CONCLUSION

By throwing huge parties in Solar Madrid, the Baro family is co-opting the
physical and symbolic resources of Cuba's communist party. In the early 1990's,
after the fall of the Soviet Union and the withdrawal of their support, Cuba entered a
deep economic crisis. With a scarcity of food, oil, and essential resources, the
government could no longer provide the basic necessities for each citizen and feared
collective anger and unrest. The Communist Party made several changes, including
the lifting of some repressive mechanisms and relinquishment of some of its power.
A propaganda campaign also started at this time and signs around the country read
"Somos Felices Aqui," or "We are happy here." In order to appease the masses, the
government would give away food (caldoza) and rum at the CDR headquarters on
each block to celebrate various revolutionary events. They realized that they could
gain support by giving away parties.
One of the biggest parties that the government sponsors is attended by nearly
the entire population on every September 28
th
. It is a national holiday that marks the
anniversary of the creation of the Committee for the Defense of the Revolution
(CDR).
63
At every CDR located on every block in the city of Havana and all areas
of the country, there is a party in the street following a lengthy speech by Fidel
Castro, which is broadcast on both of the country's TV channels. These parties are
subsidized by the government and the members of each CDR are given rum and the
ingredients to make a caldosa. The food and alcohol is then served to every resident
377
on the block who shows up to the party with a bowl, spoon, and cup. Everyone
attends these parties, as absenteeism would suggest a loss of support for the
revolution.
These annual parties achieve a variety of goals for different sectors of
society. By supporting these block parties, the government (perhaps) gains loyalty
from the people and some control and stability over group gatherings and parties that
are occurring anyway. In the 1970's any sort of community gathering was prohibited
because the government feared anti-revolutionary activities. Religious and secular
groups still congregated, but everything was underground. In the 1990's, realizing its
inability to control these get-togethers, the state promoted their own. The people,
however, continued to enjoy their own private parties, but attend the government-
sponsored parties as well, fully aware of the propaganda campaign. For most
residents, a show of support for the Communist Party is inconsequential, and if
anything, it gains them points in the eyes of the local CDR officers who can make
important decisions that affect them. And residents eat free food and alcohol, but
most importantly, they also build and foster their networks. The annual CDR party
and all private parties ultimately reinforce the popular economy and values of
collective consumption. The state thus subsidizes social networking.
Aside from sponsoring parties, the government would also encourage people
to attend political rallies and lengthy speeches by Fidel Castro by having popular
salsa bands play at the completion of each event. In 1997, at the height of these
political campaigns, the Communist Party had Charanga Habanera play at an
378
International Youth Festival in Havana. Live on TV, the band arrived on stage in a
helicopter to the cheers of thousands of people. The broadcast was cut after "Michel
Maza peeled off his shirt and, back to the audience, appeared to be ready to drop his
pants."
64
Among those I spoke to in Solar Madrid it was rumored that he did in fact
unzip his pants and reveal his private parts. After this festival, Charanga Habanera
was suspended for six months. Unfortunately I never asked Michel Maza about this
event during our interview, but nonetheless, what is paradoxical is that both the
Communist Party and Mateo used Michel Maza for promotional purposes. In both
cases, masses of young people came to see Michel Maza, although the main event
was a political speech or a saint's birthday. It is hard to say who used promotional
parties first, the Communist Party, or more marginalized youth like Mateo.
65
What
is true is that parties of all sorts are in vogue and Michel Maza has proven to be a
good, although controversial, mediator between the goals of the state and the people.
This chapter highlighted activities at the most extreme fringes of the social
networks of the Baro family. All three of the religious parties held in Solar Madrid
were complex collaborations between members of the Baro family and state-
sponsored musicians and cultural representatives from the Ministry of Culture. Each
party was successful in that it brought together networks of networks and extended
the reach of each participant. The parties were proof that one can count on even the
most distant relationships. They confirmed that the daily practice of building and
maintaining connections is worthy not just to survive, but also to thrive in society
today. The three parties increased in size, from approximately fifty people to nearly
379
two hundred. The final party spotlighted the efficiency of the Baro family networks.
At the roots of the grassroots, a family was able to formally organize a team of
people to mobilize state resources for a huge private party and effectively control the
crowd. It was proof that informal networks can generate large-scale productions.
The spatial layout of the solar facilitated networking in each of the events.
The building itself was not designed with networking as its goal, but it is certainly an
unintended byproduct.
66
The solar space offers daily contact with a vast array of
people, which enmeshes its residents in a dense network that makes possible
everything from basic tasks of living to pop entertainment. The solar patio is
uniquely shaped like a theatre with a natural stage for musicians and a semi private
space for party guests. And with the Baro family occupying four apartments in the
solar, religious activities and meal preparation can be allocated to different places.
The three parties are also indicative of larger societal transitions that have
occurred since the early 1990's. The economic crisis of the special period brought
about a reduction in the production of goods (such as sugar, homes, roads) and
greater focus on building a service economy. This service economy was not just for
the dramatic increase in tourists, but also for Cuban citizens. Included among these
services is live entertainment. As all salaries are low in Cuba, it is easy for the
government to 'hire' pop bands to play to appease the masses and build support.
And, with the government's reduced ability to control and monitor everyone, Cuban
citizens are also able to hire the same bands and export a good experience from
places like solares. The government indirectly supports these endeavors as they
380
provide "happy" citizens and prevent chaos and unrest. People like the Baro family
have in a sense co-opted the State parties, but the Communist Party supports this as
they ultimately gain some access and control over informal links. In a time when
resources are scarce, "bread and circus" is welcome by everyone.
381
CHAPTER 6 ENDNOTES

1
The word rumba is thought to have an African origin that relates to a party or a gathering
together to dance (León 1984a:153). Rumba is said to have developed in Cuba in the mid
19
th
century among free blacks and enslaved Africans (Daniel 1995:17). As can be seen in
the following quote, rumba is particularly connected to poor Cubans, both white and black,
and with residents of solares. "With the end of slavery, poor black workers continued to
lament their meager opportunities and depressing conditions and expressed their frustrations,
as well as their joys, through dance and music. Solares, the large houses that were divided
into crowded living quarters and where poor Cubans were forced to live, served also as
meeting places to relax, play, and dream in song, dance, and poetry. These solares offered
spatial solace as they distanced poor blacks from continuous racial prejudice and the unjust
realities of political impotence. Martinez-Furé says that rumba came from the solares and
was "a vehicle of liberation and protest" (in Chao Carbonero and Lamerán 1982:114). From
the solares, Afro-Cubans expressed their personal successes or failures in love relations,
satirized government practices, and gradually fashioned the dance/music complex called
rumba. Poor Cubans, both dark- and light-skinned, created a music and dance of their own,
neither totally African nor totally Spanish, that utilized singing, drumming, and dancing in
specific configurations and within specific rules." (Daniel 1995:19)
2
Interview with Mercedes in Solar Madrid by TV film crew, 6/26/99. "Nos encontramos en
el barrio de Cayo Hueso, barrio de acendrada raigambre obrera y mestiza, donde la rumba
tiene raices muy profundas. La rumba es un género musical contable-bailable. Le sirvió al
negro humilde dentro de los solares, dentro de las ciudadelas, para exaltar un sentimiento
patriótico, una frustración amorosa, o una denuncia social. Cualquier cosa que afectó al
negro humilde quedó plasmada dentro de su rumba de cajón. Por eso decimos que la rumba
tiene raíces muy profundas en un barrio como este de Cayo Hueso. Desde los años '80 nos
dimos a la tarea de rescatar, dentro de estos solares, dentro de esas ciudadelas, la rumba,
sobre todo la rumba de cajón. Solares como el solar El Nueve, El África, y recientemente en
La Madrid. La red de intercambio mundial de la UNESCO ha aprobado en 1995 el proyecto
"La rumba soy yo", es decir, rescate y revitalización de la rumba en Cayo Hueso. Es el
primer proyecto en Cuba de trabajo cultural-comunitario este proyecto de la rumba en Cayo
Hueso."
3
Interview with Mercedes, 07/17/99. "Callava era uno de los grandes rumberos de Cuba,
uno de los grandes compositores de la rumba, y ahí, donde el vivia, donde se reunia con sus
amigos, con sus familiares, y con el pueblo, le hicimos una evocación al eggun, a este
muerto de la rumba. Para compartir con él porque la rumba no muere, y cuando muere un
rumbero, la rumba queda, y el eggun está presente cuando tocamos una rumba."
4
Interview with Mercedes, 07/17/99. "La rumba en los solares mantiene sus caracteristicas,
su pureza, ¿por qué?, porque una de las cosas fundamentales en la rumba es la ex-pon-ta-nei-
dad, que en un teatro se pierde, que en una plaza se pierde, pero dentro del solar, esa
característica que debe primar siempre en la rumba se mantiene. Los niños desde pequeñitos
asi, están oyendo sonar los cajones, los tambores con la rumba. Ellos bailan rumba en su
cuna, cuando aprenden a pararse, porque en los solares se siente, a cada momento, a cada
tarde, la rumba sonar. Porque la música en sentido general, para este barrio, forma parte de
382

su i-dio-sin-cra-sia. En cualquier casa de familia está presente la música, esta ensayando una
música, y lejos de estos ensayos… como en otros lugares a veces la música no les gustan…
aquí es necesario, forma parte de la vida de la gente de este barrio. Una de las cosas que más
me gustan es la unidad, es la integración, es la familiaridad que se establece, es la
hermandad, eso es lo que más me gusta, y la rumba lo propicia. Que la gente se sienta bien,
y la rumba lo propicia. Cuando tú llegas allí, cualquier persona que llega allí, nadie se siente
un visitante, se siente una familia, y eso es lo que me gusta, que con la rumba se logra esto,
encontrar una familia. Porque nosotros incluso… Creo que no hay nada más propicio, que la
rumba… Nosotros no nos sentimos solamente que personas de cualquier latitud vengan a
nuestro barrio, a nuestro pais. Queremos que vuelvan, y para que ustedes deseen volver,
tienen que sentir este calor humano, esta espontaneidad, y esta confraternidad, y esta unidad
que se logra a través de la rumba con este trabajo."
5
Interview with Mercedes in Solar Madrid by TV film crew, 6/26/99. "En Cayo Hueso
Chano Pozo aprendió percussion, vivió y trabajo antropologo Don Fernando Ortiz y Rogelio
Martinez Furé ha vivido treinta y nueve años. En este barrio vivió el historiador del ciudad
Eusebio Leal, Merceditas Valdés, cantante afrocubana, el profesor Dandy Crawdford de
bailes de carácter brasileño, y uno de los grandes musicólogos que recientemente murió, el
Charangón de Elio Revé. En este barrio surgió el feeling desde la década del cuarenta con
Ángel Díaz en la casa de su padre, Tirso Díaz, y con Omara Portuondo, siempre ella estaba
en este barrio, iba a los solares, por ejemplo a "La Cristina", a bailar rumba. Este es un
barrio donde existe la comparsa de "Los Componedores de Bateas", que surgió de un hecho
cotidiano, en 1937. Es un comparsa popular, tradicional, y es de este barrio. En este barrio,
por ejemplo, esta el Palacio de los Tabaqueros, que es un centro de promoción sociocultural.
Ahí en este lugar, Paco Alfonso, uno de los grandes dramaturgos, teatrólogos cubanos,
ensayaba y estrenaba sus obras."
6
Lyrics in Spanish of a song titled "Guaguancó a Calixto Callava" and sung by the rumba
musicians, Clave y Guaguancó in Solar Madrid on 6/26/99
(Solo)
Volvió la muerte impia
A llevarse otro rumbero
Rompió la melodía
Que causó gran conmoción
Y esta vez se llevó
A Calixto Callava
Y ha dejado en la rumba
Y en los rumberos
Un gran dolor

(Coro)
Calixto Callava, en memoria a ti
te cantaremos y tocaremos un buen rumbon

(Solo)
Porque tú era nuestro amigo
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Y con nosotros tu rumbeaba

(Coro)
Nunca te olvidaremos, Calixto Callava

(Solo)
Con nosotros tu tocabas en la solar de la Madrid

(Coro)
Nunca te olvidaremos Calixto Callava

(Solo)
En el Callejon de Hamel con nosotros tu bailabas

(Coro)
Nunca te olvidaremos Calixto Callava

(Solo)
Fuiste para mi, Calixto
Un hombre de gran valía
Por eso insisto en repito
No morirá tu melodía

(Coro)
Callava no se murió

7
Interview with Mercedes, 07/17/99. "El guaguanco es otro de los estilos de rumba. Es un
baile de pareja, de carácter urbano, de aquí de los solares, de las ciudadelas, pero es un baile
donde la destreza del bailarín se demuestra, en él, tratando de "vacunarla", y en ella en ella
en no dejarse "vacunar", que es un movimiento de carga erótica, un choque de pelvis".
8
Interview with Mercedes, 07/17/99. "La rumba en Cayo Hueso, por el gusto que tiene este
barrio por este género, se utiliza en función educativa, en función social, en función cultural
y en función preventiva… Desde edades muy tempranas..., porque cuando tenemos a estos
adolescentes integrados en módulos culturales de rumba, estos jóvenes no están pensando
en..., en otras cosas, en delinquir."
9
Mercedes makes an announcement to the crowd that had gathered at Solar Madrid on
6/26/99. "Fijanse que en la parte de la Columbia cuando Rene le da el pie, puede entrar de
forma expontanea a la valla algun Columbiano que se siente de verdad aqui a nivel de esta
grabacion."
10
Interview with Mercedes, 07/17/99. "Es porque dentro de los estilos de rumba, uno de los
que el bailarín puede mostrar mayor virtuosismo técnico es precisamente en la columbia,
donde puede demostrar si es estilista o no. Porque la improvisación es infinita. Se puede
entregar completamente, y ahí es donde le da la libertad al bailarín de que pueda improvisar
y que pueda crear."
384

11
Interview with Santiago Nani Rodriguez, 7/31/99. "Fue un homenaje al difunto Calixto
Callava, que él vivió en ese solar, y en ese solar fue donde el dió su caida, murió de una
enfermedad bastante grave, maligna, maligna, maligna, murió de cáncer... Una gente que
siempre todo el mundo quiso, porque por su forma de ser..., él era una gente muy bien
tratable, era una gente de buen trato social, una gente de mucho respeto, que para mí... hay
como tres o cuatro rumbas que mencionan a Calixto Callava, era para él todo el homenaje,
un homenaje a él, a todos su talento musical, que era muy buen músico, un arreglista, ahí hay
un compositor muy bueno..."
12
Interview with Santiago Nani Rodriguez, 7/31/99. "La segunda rumba que Ud. oyó ahí,
que hizo el tema de… que fue un poco más tradicional, más típica, fue porque
verdaderamente al pasar esas agrupaciones… al acabarse el espectáculo que estaba
programado… que trae guaguancó… que fue un grupo muy bueno ya se te mete en la sangre
la rumba, la gente no se iba, la gente quería más rumba y más rumba y llega ese momento…
ven pa' cá, fulano bueno, empezó de nuevo la rumba, le metemos los tambores pa' dentro ahí
del cuarto y estaba la rumba buenísima y todo el mundo bailando y ya la gente que estaba
con los aficionados que fueron quienes dejaron los instrumentos ahí, que quisieron un poco
tocar otro rato más. La gente rumbeando: 'sales tú a bailar, sale a bailar el otro, el que está
cantando canta, y le pide permiso al que está cantando para cantar otro, el que está tocando
coge una vuelta en el quinto'. Esa es la parte de la rumba bien tradicional, la parte negra, la
parte negra de la rumba que es la que me gusta... Esa es la rumba que me gusta a mí!"
13
Interview with Santiago Nani Rodriguez, 7/31/99. "Ese espectáculo que usted vió allí es
una cosa muy bien tradicional, que es verdaderamente la parte bien, bien, bien, bien, bien
fundamental de la rumba. Todo nació de un solar, toda la parte musical de la rumba, todo
nació en un solar... Los antiguos, los antecesores de nosotros los negros no tenían el nivel de
vida de la parte blanca, de la parte blanca del sistema de vida que se vivía en aquel tiempo.
No había instrumentos, no había nada... se rumbeaba..., la rumba era con cajones, cojían un
tanque, el fondo de un cubo... El vecino que vive en un cuarto, el otro vecino del otro cuarto
lo llamaba, sale con una botella de ron, tómate dos o tres tragos, cuando está “el pico
caliente”, saca los cubos, las cucharas, y empezaba la rumba ahí."
14
Interview with Mercedes, 07/17/99. "No fueron rumbas diferentes. Viste rumba,
digamos… una rumba de invocación, que se le hizo a un eggun, un muerto rumbero que fue
Calixto Callava, que vivió en ese lugar. Usted vio una forma solemne de invocar a ese
eggun. Y después fue el grupo como tal, con su estilo, porque la rumba es una sola, pero
cada grupo va a tener su propio estilo, como cada bailarín va a tener su propio estilo, como
cada cantante va a tener su propio estilo. Y por último ya era una rumba pero rumba de
cajón al muerto, que es una de las formas de invocar a los muertos con la rumba. Porque la
rumba, fuera del ámbito de la religión, la rumba se hizo como un medio de divertimento,
pero los ritos religiosos no brillan por su ausencia. Está en el hombre cubano, los mitos
están en la base del folklore como ecos de supervivencia de tradiciones pasadas, y es por eso
que estos eggun…., se ha rescatado esta rumba de cajón al muerto, quiere decir, una rumba
donde se va a invocar de forma muy espontánea a esos muertos, y ya eso está dentro de un
ceremonial, espontáneo también, pero con carácter funerario, con carácter ritualístico.
Aunque no fue en el surgimiento de la rumba su propósito religioso, pero es la cultura, en
sentido amplio, todo lo que rodea, todo lo que afecta al hombre, está presente y todas
385

aquellas cosas quedan plasmadas, se ponen a tiempo de guaguancó, y se le pone rumba. Y
es por eso que es rumba de cajón al eggun, al muerto. Y el muerto lo recibe contento, con
beneplácito, porque estos eggun fueron rumberos."
15
Interview with Zaira, 12/26/01. "Resulta ser que Mercedes es la coordinadora de…
porque eso fue con unos extranjeros, también. Y ellos querían saber un solar famoso que,
que naciera la rumba en ese… en ese solar y Mercedes vino a verme a mí. Y ellos
coordinaron e hicimos la… vaya… y entonces era para Calixto Callava, ellos querían… y le
tocaron a él. Clave y Guaguancó le tocó a Calixto Callava."
16
Interview with La Prieta, 12/26/01. "Ese día se hace un homenaje a él, cumplía años de
rumba, de algo, que ella vino con un grupo llamado Clave y Guaguancó en el cual se le da
eso a él. Tú sabes… tú llegaste… y después nosotros aquí en la casa seguimos la fiesta. (Se
ríe) No sé lo que quería hacer ella, no sé su proyecto de ella con el grupo, no… hasta allí no
tenemos nosotros conocimiento. Clave y guaguancó vino aquí a tocar porque es un lugar
famosísimo, que hubieron muchos músicos aquí en este solar. Y vino con Mercedes, una
representante muy buena. Y sí, estuvo aquí y muy bueno que quedó el reportaje ese, muy
bueno."
17
Interview with Mercedes, 07/17/99. "Pudiste observar como los habitantes de ese solar se
integran a preparar una caldosa, a brindarlo, a participar... Porque ya después, es una
actividad que yo aseguro, pero le he dado participación a todo el mundo que es de allí del
solar. Todo el mundo participa, pero participa ac-ti-va-men-te, no como espectadores viendo
un grupo... Y queriendo todo el mundo integrarse, con todas las características sociales... Esa
cosa espontánea, esa característica, esa idiosincrasia que tiene el cubano de querer brindar lo
que tiene. Aún en momentos como este, que estamos en período especial de escasez,
queremos brindar al que esté ahí una caldosa, y prepararla ellos mismos."
18
Interview with Imelda, 12/29/01. "Bueno, la rumba aquí se daba principalmente en este
cuarto de al lado y el otro que le sigue ahí vivían dos rumberos: padre y madre, marido y
mujer que eran los que propiciaban todo lo que es la rumba. Ponían un cubo con unos huesos
a la candela pa hacer una sopa, dos botellas de ron y empezaban a tocar con un cajoncito, y
el otro vino con dos cucharas, y el otro vino con una latica y un palo, y así empezaban y eran
las doce de la noche y todavía, todavía aquí estaba la rumba andando. Muchas personas que
ya no existen por ley de la vida, que eran los que propiciaban la rumba. Aquí siempre,
siempre, siempre desde que yo era muy niña hubo rumba. En toda… de aquí para allá…
principalmente de esta acera."
19
Interview with Imelda, 12/29/01. "Aquí ya prácticamente no hay rumba. A cómo era
cuando yo era muchacha, ya aquí no hay rumba. Porque los rumberos ya no existen. Ya ellos
no existen. Ahora sí, yo puedo coger un palo, un cajón y una lata y batir. Pero no es lo
mismo a como se hacía el fin de semana aquí. El fin de semana aquí siempre había rumba.
Pero ya al no estar ninguno de ellos… Tiene que ser que venga alguien… y empiecen a tocar
ahí y entonces sí, se forma una rumbita pero no como antes. No era como antes."
20
Interview with Mercedes, 07/17/99. "para desarrollar la cultura popular tradicional de
forma masiva."
386

21
Interview with Mercedes, 07/17/99. "El baile juega un papel importante en el desarrollo
integral de ese hombre nuevo a que aspiramos para el siglo XXI, principalmente porque
cuando bailamos, se desarrolla una mente y un cuerpo sano, cuando bailamos se establece
una interrelación entre los hombres y una intercomunicación desde el punto de vista social."
22
Interview with Mercedes, 07/17/99. "Cada uno de nosotros, como dice la UNESCO,
desde nuestras comunidades, tenemos que poner nuestro granito de arena, e intercambiar
nuestra diversidad de culturas. Hay que desarrollar el pluralismo en la cultura, no se puede
homogeneizar la cultura, ni monopolizar la cultura."
23
Adrian H. Hearn (2003) comes to a similar conclusion in his article "Transformation:
Transcendence or Transculturation? The Many Faces of Cuban Santeria" (Humanities
Research Vol. 10, No. 3). By examining religious commercialization through a transcultural
lens, he emphasizes a "convergence of distinct cultural and economic values in collaborative
activities" (p.57) such that a priest in Old Havana can skillfully orchestrate religious
presentations "to accommodate the diverse needs of foreign film makers, percussion
students, aspiring initiates, and his local religious following" (p.58) showing an
"interpenetration of commercial, community, and personal objectives." He further states that
"The convergence of these objectives in common activities shows transculturation in
motion" (p.58). He concludes saying that the "folkloric performances" of the priest in Old
Havana "cannot be explained simply in terms of religious breakdown or religious continuity.
Instead, they reveal cultural mutations of a new kind that play out according to overlapping
local and global scripts" (p.62).
24
Interview with La Prieta, 04/26/2004. " El muerto como Eggun como se le dice, la estaba
molestando, no quería hombre aquí en su casa, no quería ningún esposo en su vida y la
perturbaba y la molestaba y le dio eso y se le dijo que él ya estaba muerto, que la dejara
aunque sea hacer su vida, que como espíritu ella lo iba a atender a él con sus flores, su velita,
con todas las cosas que él quería o que él hacía en el ayer. Zaira lo necesitaba para su salud
y era su esposo y era un muerto, como se dice, de mucha popularidad."
25
For an in depth examination of illness, diagnosis, and treatment in Santeria, see Santeria
Healing by Johan Wedel (2004).
26
The history of the Yoruba Andabo band was told to me by the director, Giovanni del Pino
Rodriguez, during an interview on 03/20/2000 and by one of their lead singers, Juan
Campos, better known by his nickname "Chan", during an interview on 01/03/2002.
27
Zaira spoke to Chan, Chappottín, Marino and Giovani on 3/11/2000.
28
The relationship between the Catholic Church, Santeria, and Spiritism in Cuba has a long
and complex history. A detailed outline of all African religions and their encounter with the
Roman Catholic Church in Cuba from the colonial times to present can be found in Ayorinde
(2004). She proposes that in revolutionary Cuba, Afro-Cuban religions are an essential part
of Cuban identity and form a national religion. From within the island, the wide variety of
African-based religions (such as La Regla de Ocha-Ifá (Santeria), Palo Monte, Abakuá, La
Regla Arará, and Vodú) are often considered so intermixed and syncretized that they are
387

commonly referred to as "Popular Religiosity" (Cutié Bressler 2001). For a more
government-sponsored view of religious practices in Cuba today see Ramírez Calzadilla
(2000). For Zaira, this was the only time she attended Catholic mass, during my year and a
half of fieldwork in Cuba. She claimed that mass was not very meaningful to her and likely
only attended on this occasion because Callava's name would be ceremoniously announced.
Using all means possible to honor the deceased was better than just using one. Zaira, along
with all of Imelda's children and most of her grandchildren, was baptized as an infant, but
this is frequently done because it is considered a requirement before becoming initiated in
Santeria, performing the 'hacer santo' ceremony, or performing other Afro-Cuban rituals. It
is also commonly thought in Cuba that "the more religions a person has, the more holiness",
contributing to the widespread practice of mixing religious traditions ("mientras más
religiones tenga una persona, más santidad", quote by Andrés Petit in Cabrera (1986:3),
translated in Ayorinde (2004:23).
29
Spiritism, founded by Allan Kardec, likely reached Cuba in the mid 19
th
century. The
practice focuses on communication with the dead, ritual cleansings, and healing. (Ayorinde
2004) In practice, spirits (usually African) appear to or posses spiritists and give advice to
the clients. Spiritists also throw coconut shells and answer questions that clients have.
Spiritists generally charge much less than santero(a)s for readings, and the altars and ritual
objects are also less expensive. Zaira and Imelda, like many believers of Santeria, have an
altar to the spirits in their house. This usually consists of 7 glasses of water, usually placed
on an elevated shelf in the house, with a crucifix in the front glass (See Figure 92 Below).
Offerings of candles or flowers are also placed on the shelf. For a misa espiritual (spiritual
mass), the altar would also contain cigars, perfume, rum or aguardiente (alcohol), coconut,
flower water, and green branches (See Figure 65-66).

Figure 92: Zaira in her room arranging flowers for her spirit altar, which is in the top right
corner of the photo (7 glasses of water, one with a crucifix, and flower offerings)
30
Interview with La Prieta, 12/26/01. "La misa son personas que bajan el espíritu, de ellos,
el muerto que lo acompaña a cada cual. A mí me acompaña Francisca. A Mercedes que fue
la que hizo la misa la acompaña la juglar y bajan cada cual el espíritu de ellos. Durante la
misa te dicen si puedes hacer o no la fiesta. Según como quiera el Eggun al que se le va a dar
el homenaje, al que se la va a dar la fiesta. Si él quiere fiesta, él va a la fiesta, si él quiere
388

comida: pollo, gallina, gallo, se le da gallo. Es lo que quiera el Eggun en general. Después le
dimos el gallo y después le dimos la rumba y el cajón."
31
For a discussion of the effects of the revolution on Santeria practices see Ayorinde
(2004:124-136).
32
Holbraad (2004:661) compares the speculator in Havana with the babalawo: "One might
go as far as to say that among many inner-city dwellers, Ifá initiation has come to acquire a
new kind of street-credibility as the kind of thing one can show off, not unlike a motorbike,
gold accessories, or cool Nike gear."
33
Orula is the saint of the Ifá divination system. All babalawos are considered to be sons of
Orula. Orula communicates to those on earth through the babalawos and their stone or
shell-throwing divination techniques. Orula never possesses the babalawos, unlike the
orishas who possess santero/as.
34
I was also allowed to witness and film this event. I stationed myself and my camera on the
barbacoa, or second floor of Zaira's apartment. Giovanni, the director of the Yoruba
Andabo band, said that I could film the event, as long as I didn't film anyone who was
possessed.
35
In an interview on 04/26/2004, La Prieta described the power of the dead by discussing
how much they "consume". By having a cajon for Callava, his spirit was fed. "Look, the
cajon for the dead, when Yoruba Andabo came to play, is a consecration that is done world-
wide. The dead eat before everyone else. The earth doesn't swallow everything? The
earth… just like that, the spirit consumes, the spirit… everything that you give to it,
everything you give the earth, the earth eats.
La Prieta: "Mira, el cajón para el muerto, cuando vino Yoruba Andabo a tocar, es una
consagración que se hace a nivel mundial. El muerto come ante que todo. ¿La tierra no se lo
traga todo? La tierra… así mismo, como Eggun, a Eggún… todo lo que tú le des, todo lo que
a la tierra tú le das, la tierra se come."
36
Although Callava's spirit never descended, people said that he was appeased.
37
Based on an interview with Alfredo R. Hernandez Goméz, son of Sara Goméz,
04/24/2004. " El Ambia is a friend of my father. Eloy Machado is my father's friend.
Obviously, as a friend of my father he would go to my father's house to drink rum with my
father. And my mother was there. But it was my mother who discovered his talents."
"El Ambia es amigo de mi papá. Eloy Machado es amigo de mi papá. Evidentemente como
es amigo de mi papá iba a casa de mi papá. A tomar ron con mi papá. Y mamá estaba ahí.
Pero es ella la que le descubre su talento"
38
The position of rumba as national vs. marginal dance was described to me by the director
of Yoruba Andabo, Giovanni del Pino Rodriguez, during an interview on 03/20/2000:
"According to history, rumba for many people is a music from the solar, and from black
389

people. However, it is not like that. Really it is not like that. Rumba is an expression of
Cubanity, simply and sincerely. An expression of Cubanity that is, it isn't less true, what the
marginalized people played.
"Por historia, por historia la rumba para mucha gente es una música de solar. Y de negros.
Sin embargo no es así. Realmente no es así. La rumba es una expresión de cubanía. Sencilla
y llanamente. Una expresión de cubanía que sí, no es menos cierto, que lo tocaban los
marginados."
39
Interview with Miguel Chappottin Beltran, 1/7/2002. "Coge más bomba en el solar…
porque el personal que va es más emotivo… ellos mismos empiezan a cantar, se ponen a
bailar y todo eso y entonces… ya se le da más emotividad a la rumba."
40
Interview with Juan Campos, better known as "Chan", on 01/03/2002. "El solar es la
rumba como es. Sales tú y bailas, sale ella y canta, sale el otro y qué sé yo, espérate,
espérate, dame un cachito a mí, espérate, dame una vuelta, oye fulano déjame coger la
tumbadora, déjame con la cuchara. Esa es la perfecta rumba. Vaya que se familiariza. Pero
ya en los teatros y en los cabarets, ya es muy distinto, tiene que ser otro formato. Es la
misma rumba pero con otras características. Ya hay luces, hay audio, hay organización. El
corazón es el solar."
41
During the cajon for Callava at least half a dozen tourists wandered into the solar and
stayed until the very end. Tourists are often told that if they wander through the streets of
Central Havana they will likely find Afro-Cuban music and religious ceremonies that they
can observe for free. Most residents don't mind tourists wandering into their homes,
especially for the birthdays of saints (cumleaños de santo) where visitors are required to
address the altar and donate money. Tourists are treated well, and in return, often buy rum
or beer for the residents.
42
Interview with Miguel Chapottín Beltrán on 01/07/2002. "Ese proceso funciona a base de
cantarle, cantarle al muerto pa que él se sienta bien. Eso es lo que estilamos nosotros. Se le
canta, un suponer, si él tiene tres o cuatro números de rumba se los cantamos ese día, pa
levantarle su espíritu. Así es como nosotros hacemos esas cosas. Se le canta siempre
números que tengan sacado el espíritu de sus números, se los cantamos ese día. Siempre
cantando y todos los números que le cantamos siempre congratulando el espíritu. Ese es el
estilo que se hace. Lo mismo nosotros que otros rumberos. Eso siempre es lo que se le hace.
Se le canta. Eso es estimulando el espíritu del muerto. Eso se estila."
43
Interview with Giovanni del Pino Rodríguez on 01/05/2002. "Bueno, nosotros estilamos,
ya en una forma profana, pues a darle una rumba a un rumbero. Por ejemplo cuando Callava
murió como que era rumbero en la funeraria se le tocó rumba. Eso… se estila bastante en
Cuba. Y después posteriormente a eso pasa el tiempo y como que… se supone que ese
espíritu está descansando… está en su… que ese espíritu es rumbero ¿entiendes? pues
entonces para… pa… para hacerle algo que a ese espíritu le gustaba en vida, pues se le toca
una rumba. Ya está, vamos a tocarle una rumba al eggun de Callava. Y le tocamos una
rumba al eggun de Callava. Y de ahí viene la misa espiritual… se hace una merienda
espiritual primero, se hacen sus preparativos, sus cosas como si fuera una musa, como si
390

fuera una misa espiritual y dentro de esa misa se le toca una rumba. A es eggun que era
rumbero se le toca la música que a él le gustaba."
44
Interview with La Prieta, 04/26/2004. "[Yoruba Andabo] vinieron a tocar en un homenaje
a un compositor muy famoso que fue Calixto Callaba en el cual se le vino a hacer, su
homenaje muy bueno y eso significa un don de gracia, y un rayo de luz que aunque esté en el
otro mundo esa música de cajón es muy buena y lo alcanza… eso lo alcanza y eso nos da a
nosotros en la tierra ayuda, salud, prosperidad y todo nos marcha muy bien…"
45
Interview with Zaira and La Prieta on 12/26/2001.
La Prieta: Los cambios… tiene un esposo estable, tiene otro… es decir otro cambio, de
bienestar, de salud, de progreso y de… de desenvolvimiento, tiene un esposo. Y las cosas no
le han marchado, vamos a poner como antes, vamos a decir así. Ella ha cambiado
muchísimo…
Zaira: Sí. Hasta ahora yo gracias a él me van las cosas… la verdad
La Prieta: La casa la arregló con su esposo. La ayudó mucho y le compró todo para
empezar… En la casa hizo el baño, hizo cocina, hizo todos los arreglos de la casa. Ella no
tenía televisor, tiene televisor, otros cambios más…
Zaira: Él como espíritu existe.
La Prieta: y el cajón sirvió. Mi casa arreglada, alegre y bonita. Y feliz (se ríe) mi baño, mi
cocina, mi plaquita, mis arreglos, mis muebles…
Zaira: Él ayud… me ha dado muchas pruebas de eso. Él me ayuda mucho. Él me ayuda
mucho. Yo hablo con él na más, le digo “oye no tengo dinero para nada” y salgo pa la calle
¡de verdad! Él… y hasta ahora me duele la muela na más.
La Prieta: Que de verdad ellos existen
46
Interview with La Prieta, 04/26/04. "Antes del 21 hicimos todos los preparativos, yo que
tengo… voy a cumplir tres años de santo, fuimos encargamos los dulces, mandamos a hacer
el cake precioso ese que se ve ahí, y… compramos las frutas, que llama La Plaza.
Compramos el azúcar, pusimos todos los dulces de cada santo: arroz con leche, dulce de
coco, todo. Mandamos a hacer el trono y empezamos a hacer la fiesta. Después se contrató a
Michel Maza, dijo que estaba de acuerdo. Aunque aquí siempre en este pasillo, en este solar
siempre se han hecho fiestas muy grandes…"
47
Although $100 may not seem like a lot of money for a cake, at the time of this event, a
large flat cake cost 20 pesos, approximately $1.
48
Interview with La Prieta, 04/26/04. "En el trono estaban todos los santicos de él, estaba
Elegguá que es el abre y cierra y los caminos. Estaba Oggún que es el dueño del hierro, el
dueño de todos los hierros que se puedan hacer. Estaba Ochosi, Ochosi es el dueño de la
391

cárcel. Estaba Obbatalá que es el dueño de la paz y la tranquilidad. Estaba Yemayá que es la
dueña del mar porque las cuartas partes de este país estamos rodeados de agua. Estaba
Oshún que es la dueña de la dulzura, de los amoríos, la dueña del oro… estaba Aggayú que
es el dueño del volcán y estaba Shangó que es el dueño del trueno, del rayo, de la candela,
que dicen que en un momento en la vida, él llegó a soltar candela por la boca. Sus piedras las
vencía con candela. Con la boca, sólo de hablar, enfurecido, soltaba candela. Todos los
jimagüas que fueron los que vencieron al diablo y la plaza de frutas que uno ve allí, es Oyá,
que esa es la plaza… esa es… adonde va el Iabbó cuando uno… termina los siete días. Es
adonde primero uno va a hacer Eccbó. A botar ya todo lo último malo que uno pueda tener y
después va a la iglesia de Las Mercedes que es la iglesia de Obbatalá y… el trono significa
el trono bonito como decir su casa, donde se adornan los santos, donde se ponen bonitos el
día de la fiesta."
49
Interview with Michel Maza, 04/26/2004. "Ricardo trabaja conmigo. Sí, lo conocí así, por
los barrios marginales. “Oye, amigo, ¿qué hay? Vamos a tomarnos un trago” Coño, me caes
bien, vamos conmigo a trabajar… y así empezamos y ahí estamos."
50
La Prieta approached the microphone at Mateo's first birthday party for Chango on April
21
st
, 2004 and announced, "Muy Buenos tardes para todo. Solo quiero tranquilidad y paz".
51
Interview with La Prieta, 04/26/04. "Él nace. Es como un bebito… es como un baby… y
al año a todos los muchachos, a todos los babys se les celebra el… el año. Viene como el
nacimiento de otra vida. Debido a que vuelve a nacer. Se le ponen cosas de niño, se hace
canastilla, se hace ropa de salir, ropa de salir a los siete días, como cuando sales del hospital
a los cinco días. Es casi parecido a cuando uno vuelve a nacer. Tienen que estar tres meses
en su casa, hasta las seis de la tarde. No puedes salir más hasta el otro día, tienen que… hasta
el año a las doce en su casa. Tiene que vestir de blanco durante el año, tiene que ponerse
pijama, tiene que ponerse medias, todo blanco. [Las ropas blancas significan] la pureza,
significan también la paz y la tranquilidad y todo, en fin… Y así… es como un muchacho
chiquito, es como un baby. Tienen… cómo se dice? Tiene un camino a seguir."
52
Interview with La Prieta, 04/26/04. "La fiesta de Mateo era tan grande porque tuvo mucho
desenvolvimiento y… lo quiso, lo sintió hacerla tan grande."
53
Interview with Mateo, 04/26/04. "¿Esa gran fiesta? Eso fue tremendo sacrificio. Para que
todo estuviera bien… Mucho sacrificio… mucha guerra… Como todo es en dólares. Todo
en dólares… ¿Y con 10 dólares al mes? … Hay que hacer muchas cosas… ilegales, por
supuesto. …Por suerte hay personas que lo quieren a uno y eso. Mucho trabajo la fiesta,
muchos preparativos, mucho… mucho movimiento… Michel Maza. El antiguo cantante de
La Charanga Habanera. Bastante caro. Todo carísimo. Mucho, mucho, mucho, mucho
dinero. Ningún cubano haría lo que hice yo."
54
Mateo had one son with his wife who accompanied the Baro family on each of the allowed
prison visits (every 21 days). His wife was over 10 years older than him and had been his
grade school teacher. Shortly after his release, they separated and he began dating a series of
other girls. However, this ex-wife and their son who lives with her, are always at Solar
Madrid visiting the Baro family. They both attended his cumpleaños de santo ceremony.
392

55
According to Colomer (2000), there are at least two "secret informers" on every street
block in Cuba. They must document the characteristics of every person living on the block
and keep a daily log of the activities on the block. They report all illegal, counter-
revolutionary, or black market activities to the police officer in charge of the block. This
information is used for a variety of things, including hiring of new employees, approval to
travel abroad, entrance to the university, and police arrests. The Baro family in solar Madrid
believed that Lupe Milena was a government agent. Her apartment door opened out onto the
central courtyard and she could see all of the semi-private activities occurring there.
56
Holbraad claims that, although there is a lack of reliable data, there was a dramatic
increase in Afro-Cuban practices starting at the mid-1980's and extending to the mid 1990's
(2004:653). It could also be argued that the numbers of devotees have remained constant
over the years, but that due to a relaxation on government restrictions, devotees practice
more openly and thus the practices are more visible.
57
Interview with La Prieta, 04/26/04. "Porque ese es el grupo que está en el momento, y es
un grupo muy bueno y se dio la oportunidad de encontrarlo. Que él no tenía actividades
grandes con el estado. Y lo trajo porque tenía las condiciones y las posibilidades. Y porque
quiso. No quiso rumba. No quiso cosas del folklore porque a lo mejor no lo necesitaba
ahora… contratar tambores, ni nada de esas cosas. Y en otro momento lo hará, le tocará a
Shangó tambor de fundamento. Que es casi lo mismo pero con tambores y… y escogió a
Michel porque entendió que su Shangó se merecía una fiesta muy grande. Y se la merecía y
se la dio."
58
These interpretations of the Latin roots of "religion" were found on Wikipedia at
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Religion on 7/28/06.
59
Interview with Michel Maza, 04/26/2004. "Desde niño siempre me gustó siempre estar en
el mundo de los barrios… siempre tuve amigos de barrios marginales. Y como de
costumbre… bueno de… soy un músico en Cuba muy reconocido que quiero mi carrera
gracias a el público… el pueblo, bueno de aquí de los barrios… ¿Sabes? La mayoría de los
seguidores míos, son de gente de barrio. Por eso el día de la fiesta te dije que tocaba y que
hacía todo lo que había que hacer por la gente mía de barrio. Y soy una persona así: sincera."
60
The history of Michel Maza and his singing career is taken from an interview with him on
04/26/2004.
61
Interview with Michel Maza, 04/26/2004. "Me gusta cantar lo que… lo que pasa… o sea,
lo que pasa en Centro Habana, lo que pasa en La Víbora… en los barrios marginales… con
la gente. Por eso es que te digo que… mi público seguidor siempre son de barrios
marginales. O sea, la mayoría de mi público son de barrios marginales porque canto
canciones reales. Como por ejemplo “Avísenle a los cantantes que ya salí del hospital, que se
vayan poniendo los guantes que ahora sí no hay quien me aguante”. Son cosas así… que le
encantan a la gente de barrio. Es música para gente de barrio. Mi salsa, mi timba es música
para gente de barrio."
393

62
Interview with Michel Maza, 04/26/2004. "Estamos en su cumpleaños y… decidí…
“Bueno, vamos a hacer una gran fiesta y vamos a tocar”… y dónde mejor que aquí…
porque yo me siento realmente mejor aquí que en un palacio. Vaya, si te soy sincero. Soy
más feliz con mi gente gozan conmigo, yo gozo con ellos. Es todo entre familia y por eso
decidimos hacer esa fiesta. Y como esa vendrán más. Verdaderamente, me siento más feliz
haciendo esto por mi pueblo que tocando en otro lado… cuantas veces quiera la gente de mi
pueblo… pueden contar conmigo para eso sin problemas… pueden llamarme… en un
rincón, aquí en el cuarto… sin problemas pueden contar conmigo para hacer ese trabajo."
63
The CDR could be considered a liminal organization, lying somewhere between the
interests of the state and the people. These centers were originally established by Fidel
Castro in 1960 as surveillance headquarters designed to document personal information
about every citizen and their activities so that counter revolutionary actions (loosely defined)
could be sequestered. Today, there are more than 121,000 CDRs spread throughout Cuba
with a membership of over 8 million Cubans, nearly 80% of the population (Garcia-Zarza
2000). Although these organizations had a repressive purpose, they gradually became co-
opted by the people through the creation of hybrid networks. Once thousands of CDR's were
in place across the country, the government could not control them as tightly, and they began
to act more like an NGO. CDR activities advocated a mix of goals of the State and society,
ranging from street clean-up and apartment repairs to documenting unemployed workers and
semi-legal activities on the block.
64
Quote taken from an on line article by Joyce Corbett, " La Charanga Unstrung" at
http://www.thelivemusicreport.com/clubs/lulaLounge/charangaHabanera/charangaHabanera.
html.
65
Afro-Cubans are certainly accustomed to situations in which they are required to show a
façade of support to an enterprise to which they are indifferent. African slaves attended
church and prayed to Catholic Saints even though they believed in the orishas. And, from
the opposite stance, the churches today sell their saints and the priests are quite pleased when
thousands of people go to church on the birthdays of the various saints like Saint Lazarus
and Saint Barbara even though the devotees are really praying to their orishas, Babaluayé
and Chango.
66
Originally, each solar was a large house with a central courtyard filled with trees and
plants that served as natural air conditioning. As the city developed, the owners moved to
the suburbs and sold the homes to developers who divided the house into small apartments
and thus solved a housing crisis. These divided homes which became known as solares
were ideally located in the center of the city and grew in popularity. Today, in spite of
increased incomes, the families that live in solares rarely move out. Manuel Baro is a prime
example. He lives in a tiny room in the back of the solar courtyard. He has the finances to
move out, but chooses to stay, even though self-placed under 'house arrest'. He needs his
solar-based networks to prosper. He needs his mother and half-sisters who cook for him and
his neighbors who protect him and his black market transactions. His sister Odelia is
another example. She moved from the solar to a posh apartment high rise in Alamar, but
after several years, returned. A woman who had lived in Apartment #3 moved to Italy to
live with her daughter, but after one year returned as she could not deal with the isolation.
394
CHAPTER 7: CONCLUSION
This dissertation has attempted to explain how people living in
Havana at the margins of society have been able to survive and thrive at the turn of
the new century. Before the economic crisis of the early 1990's, the Cuban
government was a very efficient, centralized, hierarchical system. Each connection
in the top-down system focused on power and surveillance such that the state had
tight control over housing, health, education, and social activities. Informal,
horizontal connections existed during this time, such as black market exchanges of
food and underground religious practices, but they were not viewed positively and
were often officially declared as illegal. In the 1990's, with a dramatic cut in money,
food, and supplies from the Soviet Union, the government could no longer provide
food and employment for each citizen. This inability to support the people brought
about a loss of power. In order to regain control, the government embraced and tried
to formalize informal links. Community participation was encouraged and the state
began to indirectly reinforce horizontal networks. To a great extent, what had been
done during the early years of the revolution among marginal groups semi-legally
and illegally, became legalized and supported by the state. There was a clear
convergence of grass roots and state practices to the extent that today, almost all
activities could be said to belong to both civil society and the state. The lines
between these traditionally distinct entities became blurred as actors on both sides
have co-opted the spaces of the other.
395
This transition occurring in Cuba has been discussed endlessly, both inside
and outside the country. From the right, conservatives who oppose the Cuban
government claim that the Cuban state has become fragile because of the loss of
support from the Soviet Union and the presence of the United States embargo. Thus,
vertical forms of domination have been weakened and the Cuban people have
become empowered and have taken over State spaces. Where previously absent, a
civil society has emerged and thrived and horizontal networks have expanded. The
opinion from the left is that all along the purpose of the Cuban state has been to
reinforce horizontal networks and give power to the people to build and grow.
In this dissertation I have tried to propose that the transition that is occurring
today, throughout the 1990's and at the turn of the century, is a hybrid version of the
above two ends of the spectrum. During the Special Period, a social revolution
occurred and horizontal networks strengthened for two reasons. First, Cubans
discovered that they needed horizontal networks to survive because the State could
no longer provide for them. Through their own agency, Cubans redirected their
efforts from a focus on vertical to horizontal networking. Second, the State
unintentionally encouraged horizontal networking by lifting some of its repressive
mechanisms, such as the suppression of religion and ritual gatherings. With acts
such as the legalization of the dollar, a large portion of black market transactions
became legal. The government gained some control over the informal sectors of
society, but those at the margins gained more customers. In sum, the unintended
consequences of the revolution and State policies were far more important than the
396
intended ones. The creation of elaborate networks during the Special Period has
enriched the social and cultural lives of all Cubans, from marginalized to more
privileged middle class sectors.
The lifestyles of people living at the margins of society became in vogue in
the early 1990's. Regular visits to friends, neighbors, and healers for black market
exchanges, bartering, or just chatting, such as the Baro family engaged in, became a
survival strategy for everyone in Cuba. As things like formal education and state
employment became less desirable because they were less available and less
effective, informal family-run enterprises and local activities flourished. The poor,
who were always quite adept at small-scale exchanges, were able to expand their
networks and prosper financially. It was not coincidental that in the year 2001,
during the economic crisis of the Special Period, the Baro family was able to add
bathrooms and showers to two apartments in Solar Madrid. Their connections
allowed them to gather together bricks, toilets, pipes, tools, and food for the
construction team. At a moment when most Cubans were focused on survival, they
were able to save money and thrive. This was due in part to their own connections
and ingenuity and in part to a reduction of government control over physical
resources and human capital.
I have tried to demonstrate the areas involved in the rapid hybridization of
Cuban society during the past fifteen years since the demise of the Soviet Union and
loss of its support. From my observations in the solar there was an intense
intermingling of spheres of influence that included medical care, education, Santeria,
397
parties, and activities formerly seen as illegal which were now legal and the value of
the structure - physical and emotional - of the solar system itself. It seems clear that
what had appeared to be a random set of activities practiced on the margins just to
"get by" on a daily basis, coalesced into a true network that is no longer just for
survival. It has become a potent way of moving around in society and a valuable
support to individuals and families in advancing socially and economically.
The caldosa seems to be an interesting metaphor for the hybridization of
revolutionary Cuba. Similar to the concept of ajiaco, this brothy soup has become
quite popular in the past two decades. Fernando Ortiz used the term ajiaco or Cuban
Creole Stew, as a metaphor to describe the complex mixture of cultures throughout
Cuban history (1940). The dish contained ingredients from different ethnic groups.
It contained corn, potatoes, yucca, and taro root from the native Indians, pumpkin
and turnip from Spain, African yams, Chinese spices, and a variety of dried meat,
flank steak, and ribs. The stew would simmer until the broth thickened, yet each
ingredient kept its distinct flavor. Unlike the 'melting pot' analogy where immigrants
'acculturate' by losing the old culture and gaining a new homogenous one, this stew
contained the history of Cuba, which was one of "intermeshed transculturations"
with "extremely complex transmutations of culture" (Ortiz 1940). The stew was
constantly simmering and thus always in a state of flux as new cultural elements
were added, but each ingredient could still be identified, creating a hybrid dish.
Ajiaco, as defined in cookbooks from the early 1950's, is no longer consumed
in Cuba today. It is nearly impossible to find the variety of meats and vegetables in
398
the market on any given day to make this rich stew. What has replaced it is the
caldosa, a soup with a very thin broth that contains primarily roots and a few pieces
of meat for flavor. Some argue that it is just a watered down version of the ajiaco, a
soup for the poor (Aguila 2005). Others praise it as a socialist version of ajiaco,
something that everyone can afford, evidence of true equality in revolutionary Cuba.
I would argue that the caldosa is a good example of a hybrid project of revolutionary
Cuba. The poor quality of the caldosa is not what is important, what is significant is
its mode of production. Caldosa is made collectively, with various family members
and friends gathering the ingredients together. By its very nature, the act of making
a caldosa requires a high degree of networking. Caldosa is thus a hybrid dish, not
for its ingredients, but because it is the result of an articulation of agents and forces
with varied goals.
Caldosa could be considered a cross between the ajiaco, a family-made dish
and the national Cuban cuisine of the pre-revolutionary period, and a socialist soup
kitchen. In early 1990's, the government began to indirectly support parties and the
production of caldosa much as they started to change their views on what was legal
and illegal in the society. The consumption of caldosa was promoted through the
wide broadcast of the song, "La Caldosa de Kiki and Marina". The lyrics of the song
relate the story of an old man who wants to dance at a party, but can't stand up. After
he drinks a bowl of caldosa, his legs are cured and he dances. With its miraculous
powers and cheap production, caldosa became a national dish during the Special
Period, much like the ajiaco. Caldosa was widely distributed at political
399
celebrations such as the annual anniversary party celebrating the inauguration of the
Committee for the Defense of the Revolution (CDR). Once again, the state had co-
opted what had been a dish for the poor, highlighting a general societal shift from a
reliance on vertical formal systems to horizontal popular networks. But nonetheless,
actors involved in the production of a caldosa, whether it is made for a CDR party or
a religious festival, create and foster networks, turning a mundane cooking chore into
a complex and enriching process. At a time of economic hardship and great
decreases in imports and food production for exports, Cuba manages to produce
large amounts of social capital, created in part, through the production of caldosa.
In this dissertation, I have attempted to show that, everything from soup and
parties to housing and health care have become joint ventures between the desires of
the Cuban State and the People to such an extent that it is often difficult to
differentiate between State and People. Members of the Baro family and those living
in Solar Madrid who primarily work in the household and popular economic sector
venture into State institutions and private entrepreneurial systems as well such that
most of their activities have become a hybrid mixture of goals and interests.
Although occurring in other sectors of society and in other countries, hybridized
networks have become prominent in Havana because of the societal reorganization
that occurred during the Special Period.
The solar in Cayo Hueso is a good place to begin a study of hybridized
networks as the place itself is hybrid, a mixture of private and public, apartment and
house, poor residents in the middle of a large city of predominantly middle class
400
citizens and tourists. Solar residents, the Baro family in particular, have become
adept at using the solar space and their extended family networks to earn a living,
solve housing problems, and make home improvements. By expanding networks
beyond the family, to include religious fictive kin and employees of a state hospital,
the Baro family can solve health problems using a complex interchange of formal
and informal systems. The syncretic nature of Santeria in combination with the
hybrid nature of Cuba's public health system, using traditional and modern
approaches, shows the ultimate value of hybrid networks. The Baro family also uses
informal networks to co-opt spaces traditionally considered to belong to the realm of
the State, namely the educational and judicial institutions. Through participation in
both a "court" of Santeria priests and State legal systems, punishment is meted out.
Intensive learning in religious homes and Cuban universities provides occupations
for members of the Baro family. The resulting hybrid "systems" are designed not
through assimilation or separation, but rather through a network of ideas and
practices, emerging from both the "dominant" and "oppressed" groups. Moving to
the extreme fringes of the Baro networks, family members party with famous
musicians, dead spirits, and visiting anthropologists, and organize grand celebrations
that highlight the value and density of their social networks. Through this study
based on experiences with the Baro family in Solar Madrid, I have tried to show the
value of hybridized social networks during this Special Period in contemporary
Cuba. Cuba's future, whether the new government claims to be socialist or capitalist,
multicultural or universal, local or global, will no doubt reflect a complex mixture of
401
these dualities, a society of "intermeshed transculturations," a hybrid blend of formal
(state) and informal (popular) practices that can only be described as Sara Gómez
does, De Cierta Manera, "in a certain way."
402
GLOSSARY

Ahijados Godchildren either in Santeria or Catholicism. In Santeria,
after a santera performs the ‘hacer santo’ ceremony to initiate
someone into the status of ‘santera’ or ‘santero,’ they become
her ‘ahijado’.

Babalawo Priest of Ifá, a divination tradition associated with Santeria.
All babalawos are considered to be sons of Orula. Only men
can become babalawos. These men are in charge of
consulting the oracle of Ifá.

Babalú Ayé The orisha of illness, protector of the infirm. Identified with
the Catholic Saint Lazarus or San Lazaro. Offerings to Babalú
Ayé can help cure all illnesses, in particular skin ailments,
infections, and epidemics.

Barbacoa Second floor balcony built into the first floor of a house.
Usually, the four of five foot tall space contains beds and is
used only for sleeping.

Beca Boarding school for grades 6-12.

Brujeria Literally translated as 'witchcraft', this term is not associated
with the 15
th
century witch hunts. In Cuba, brujeria is
integrally connected to several Afro-Cuban religious
traditions. A bruja can perform ritual offerings to the orishas
and ancestors in order to harm a person or remove them from
the path of the follower.

Cajon A spiritual drumming. A ceremony where musicians play the
cajones (wood box drums) and sing to the ancestors/spirits.
This homage is expected to pacify the dead or bring their
spirits down to earth so the living can amend disagreeable
relations.

Cajones Wood boxes used as drums. Held between the knees and hit
with either the hands or spoons.

Caldosa A Cuban-style soup that usually contains meat from a pigs
head, corn, potatoes, sweet potatoes, pumpkin, plantains, taro
root or other tubers or roots and seasoned with onions, garlic,
peppers, and cumin.

403
Casa de Santo Home of the Orisha, a temple or cabildo association, ile ocha
in the Yoruba language.
Chango The orisha of fire, thunder, lightening, aggression and passion.
He also rules over prisons. Identified with the Catholic Saint
Barbara, or Santa Barbara.
CDR Comité de la Defensa de la Revolucion. Committee for the
defense of the revolution.
Eggun Yoruba term for deceased ancestors
Eleggua The orisha of the crossroads who opens and closes paths,
opportunities, and ways of life for humans. He is also a
messenger and trickster, and is associated with children and
child-like behaviors. He is represented by a cement or stone
statue with a human like face. The statue is usually kept
behind the door of the house and he protects the home and its
owner. Offerings to Eleggua can help cure illnesses due to
misfortune or accidents. Identified with the Catholic Saint
Anthony of Padua, Niño de Atocha, and Ánima Sola
Gusano Literally translated as "worm". Originally coined to identify
the bourgeois enemies of the revolutionary government, those
who left Cuba for Miami during the early years of the
revolution, this derogatory term was eventually applied to
anyone who resisted or opposed its programs. The term is
now also used for Cubans within Cuba who do not show
support for the revolution, are traitors to the socialist ideals,
and do not contribute to the good of society – usually because
they do not work (all official jobs in Cuba are State jobs,
therefore, not working equates with against the state or
counterrevolutionary), do not vote, do not join their local
CDR, etc. Thus, the word became associated with poor
Cubans who work in the black market and live at the margins
of the system.
Hacer Santo Literally, “To make saint”. To perform the weeklong
initiation ceremony to become a santera(o), or religious healer.
Iyabo A novice initiate in Santeria. Initiates in Cuba are clearly
visible due to their obligation to wear white for an entire year.

404
Jinetera Literally translated as "horseback riding" although often
equated with hustling or "street work". Name given to those
who associate with tourists and provide a wide spectrum of
services such as city tours, cigars, apartments for rent, taxi
rides in old cars, home cooked meals, dance expertise, love,
sex, drugs, etc.
Madrina Godmother, name given to an initiate’s patroness or spiritual
counselor in Santeria
Mano de Orula One of the first stages of several initiation rituals in Santeria.
A three day ceremony where one performs a series of rituals
and receives a blessed yellow and green beaded necklace, a
stone or cement statue representing Eleggua, and the
"warriors", statues and representations of three saints which
protect the initiate (See Figure 36). The three warriors
received are: Oggun, Ochosi, and Osun. The ceremony
solidifies a devotees membership in a temple house and
signifies the beginning of acquisition of ritual knowledge.
Mestizo Of mixed descent
Misa Espiritual A spiritual mass following the religious tradition of Spiritism,
founded by Allan Kardec, which likely reached Cuba in the
mid 19
th
century. The mass focuses on communication with
the dead, ritual cleansings, and healing. (Ayorinde 2004)
Obbá A sacrificial priest. A babalawo trained to perform animal
sacrifices. A man who has gone through the initiation
ceremonies to become an Obbá has been given a special knife
that will enable him to sacrifice animals.
Ochosi Orisha of hunting, forests and prisons. One of the "warriors"
received during the mano de orula ceremony, represented by a
small metal bow and arrow. Offerings to ochosi can help
anyone in trouble with the law and can reduce prison
sentences. Identified with the Catholic Saint Norbert and Saint
Isidor.
Oggun The blacksmith, orisha of iron, war, and hard work. One of
the "warriors" received during the mano de orula ceremony,
represented by a small hammer or other tools. Offerings to
oggun can heal limb wounds or injuries involving iron.
Identified with the Catholic Saint Peter and Paul. See also
Figure 32.
405

Orishas The deities, gods/goddesses, or saints in the Yoruba Dahomey
Cuban religion of Santeria
Orula Orula is the saint or ruler of the Ifá divination system. All
babalawos are considered to be sons of Orula. Orula
communicates to those on earth through the babalawos and
their stone or shell-throwing divination techniques. Orula
never possesses the babalawos, unlike the orishas who
possess santero/as.
Oshun The orisha of love, marriage, honey, gold, rivers. Offerings to
Oshun can help solve problems with the womb and genitals.
Identified with the Catholic saint La Virgen de la Caridad del
Cobre. (Our Lady of Charity), considered the "patroness of the
Cuban nation" (Díaz 2000:1) See also Figure 33.
Osun One of the "warriors" received during the mano de orula
ceremony, represented by a statue of a small iron rooster or
bird sitting on top of a tall-stemmed wine-glass shaped cup. It
is debated whether or not Osun is in fact an orisha. Offerings
to Osun balance the life and spirituality of a devotee.
Padrino Godfather, name given to an initiate’s patroness or spiritual
counselor in Santeria. Also used for person sponsoring a
Catholic baptism.

Pattakí Narrative legends and fables concerning the orishas and their
paths with a moral, or which help define the orisha’s attributes
and natural gifts. Believers turn toward these stories in order
to clarify daily events or in order to understand their own
“letters” or destination. (Definition translated from Bolivar
1990: 186). Also called caminos, or paths.

Poder Popular Popular Power. An official body of the government.

Rumba A Cuban folkloric dance and musical genre with three rhythms
known as guaguancó, yambu, and columbia. Often exhibited
as a national cultural icon. (Daniel 1995)

Rumbero A musician or dancer of rumba.

Santera(o) A woman (or man) who has performed the necessary rites to
become a spiritual healer in the Santeria religion.
406

Santería A popular name for the religious tradition in Cuba known as
the "regla de ocha-Ifá". It is derived from the Yoruba orisha
cults of West Africa – Nigeria and neighboring countries and
is also known as the Lucumí religion, the name given to slaves
from Yorubaland (Ayorinde 2004).
Solar A low-income tenement building which consists of a semi-
private patio surrounded by 10-20 one-room apartments. They
often contain semi-public restrooms (out houses), shower
stalls, drains, and access to water. Also known as ciudadela.

Timba A Cuban version of salsa music.

Warriors In Santeria, the Warriors are the following three orishas:
Oggun, Ochosi, and Osun. These warriors are represented in
bowls and statues, which devotees receive after an initial
ceremony (called Mano de Orula) signifying their entrance
into the religion. See Figure 36.

Yemaya The maternal orisha (saint) of smooth or raging seas.
Corresponds to the Catholic saint Our Lady of Regla.
Represented by the colors blue and white. Offered ducks,
turtles, and goats. Yemaya's emblem is a fan or shell.
(Murphy 1988:42)

Yerbero Herbalists who occupy public stands throughout Havana,
selling herbs, coconuts, medicinal plants and roots, etc.

407
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APPENDIX: La Prieta’s List of Items to buy to “Hacer Santo”
Spanish English

Vino seco (5) 5 bottles of cooking wine
aguardiente(2) 2 bottles of alcohol (drunk in religious
ceremonies)
Miel de abeja (2) 2 jars of honey (from bees)
manteca de corojo oil/butter from ?
cascarilla white chalk
algodon cotton
peine comb
jarro grande large jar/container (metal, with handle)
jarro chiquito small jar/container (metal, with handle)
polvos de la pintura 4 paint dust (dried paint, needs to be
mixed w/water): yellow, red, blue, white
(use cascarailla for white paint)
4 telas de colores (paradas) 4 solid colored cloth
velas (20) 20 candles
las soperas (obbatala, llemaya, oya,
ochun)
(7?) clay containers for the santos
hacer el ide bracelette (hers is yellow, for Oshun)
La tela del medio (gioga: Tela del
trono)
cloth for the dress she needs to wear when
posessed -- can’t see until ceremony (satin
cloth for the throne)

“Atención”
Hasta aqui es todo lo que farta a usted para conpletar el cuarto de santo, todo lo
demas que sigue a continuación debe ser rectificado.

Pescado ahumado, jutia, smoked fish, white beans
mais tostado toasted corn
melao like honey
manteca de cacao cocoa butter
2 peines 2 combs (for the santeras)
1 Escoba broom
1 frasada cloth for mopping the floor
2 cubos 2 buckets
8 palanganas 8 plastic bowls to put the dead animals of
each of the saints
tarros de buey 2 horns of an ox
casuelas de lavatorio (4) 4 clay pots for human waste
442
casuelitas de la pintura (4) 4 tiny clay pots to mix the paint (used to
paint her face)
juego de ache del santo a 1-in packet which she can’t look at (only
a santera can)
Pimienta de guinea pepper of ?
Las plumas de loro (5) 5 parrot feathers
Los Platos (21) 21 ceramic plates, one for each santo
El Lebrillo de Algallu Clay pot (sopera) for Agallu
El pilon y batea de chango (210
pesos)
wood pot for Chango with his wooden
tools inside. (batea=trough, bowl.
pilon=large mortar for grinding grain)
Los collares (Oya, Elegua, Aggallu,
Oshun, Chango, Obatalla, y Yemaya)
7 sacred necklaces of plastic beads for
each santo she will enter into the
ceremony
Las herramientas 7 sets of objects for each santo which go
inside their container:
Oya: bronze crown, 9 bronze bracelettes
Oshun: 5 gold bracelettes, gold fan stick,
gold crown, gold bell
Obattala: 2 silver bracelettes, 3 silver
objects (1/2 moon, star, circle), silver bell
Agallu: 3 metal items (@Y, hook, cross)
Chango: similar objects that Agallu has,
but wood, plus two others
Yemaya: ?
Elegua: ?
Las bolsitas de cada santo 7 cloth bags, the color of the santos, filled
with 18 shells, (21 for Elegua)
Oya: all colors
Obatalla: white
Agallu: brown and white (necklace
spotted w/ green, blue, red, white, and
gold as well)
Yemaya: blue and white
Chango: red and white
Ochun: yellow
Eleggua: red and black
Caracoles de los santos (1mano) 18 small pink shells for each santo (21 for
Elegua)
sabanas cameras (4) 4 white king sized sheets
toallas (3) 3 white towels
guillas (7) 7 white handkerchief/head cover
ajustadores (3) 3 bras
443
blumes (7) 7 underwear
ojo - pantalonetas de pata (3) 3 cloth pants up to just below the knee
salluelas (2) 2 white slips
Nabaja Tijera ? scissors

1 par de chancletas 1 pair of flip flops/ slippers
2 corpiños 2 bras that cover your body (bodice)
3 batas de casa 3 night gowns (lounging robes)
2 sayas de cancan 2 skirts of ?
2 blusas 2 dress shirts
1 par de sapatos 1 pair of shoes
medias largas long socks
La ropa de los 7 dias clothes for the 7 day ceremony (she must
stay indoors for the 7 days)
1 chal shawl
1 pañuelo de encaje lace handkerchief
1 cepillo y pasta de diente tooth brush and tooth paste
papel sanitario toilet paper
1 libreta notebook
2 mudas de ropa vieja 2 sets/changes of old clothes (which she
will probably throw out during the
ceremony)
Elastico elastic (which the seamstress can use to
sew her white outfits)

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