By Laurie Goering, Chicago Tribune.
The Sun-Sentinel. Web-posted: 11:08 a.m.
Jan. 8, 2001
HAVANA -- I never used to be overcome with joy at the sight of black plastic
trashcans in a store window, but that was before I started shopping in Havana.
Here the windows of the city's glitzy dollar stores are jammed with
wonders, from late-model computers to big-screen Sony televisions. Cuba's
state-managed socialist economy, flattened by the fall of the Soviet Union, has
made its peace with U.S. dollars and the commercialism that comes with them.
But despite all the changes, finding the more mundane necessities of
life in Cuba is another matter, and actually carrying a substantial purchase out
the door can be a trial that would try the patience of Job.
Cuba, you must understand, does not have advertising. There are no
circulars in the Sunday paper. There are no television ads. There are no yellow
pages. Finding the store that sells refrigerators, for instance, requires
cunning detective skills.
Generally, the process starts with asking some Cuban in the know where
they would go to buy a refrigerator. Inevitably, when I pull up at the address
they've given me, the store is closed. Occasionally there is a note on the door
directing customers to another store, which inevitably no longer sells
refrigerators.
Once in a while I think I've hit the jackpot. A month ago, on a tip, I
pulled into the parking lot of what looked like a Cuban version of the Sam's
Club. Boxes of extension cords and enormous jars of pickles and office supplies
crammed shelves that towered overhead. The place sold furniture and paint and
coffee makers, everything I needed to open the Tribune's new office in Havana.
Flush with excitement, I rushed to the checkout stand, eager to turn
over a stack of U.S. dollars. The manager just shook his head.
"You need a check," he said. "And we only sell to Cuban
government agencies. You don't work for the Cuban government, do you?"
I walked out the door, hands empty once again. Cuba may desperately
want dollars, but state control of the economy remains a hard habit to break.
It's the same story all over town. The computer store could sell me
computers, but only if I had a Cuban bank check. So far I don't. The office safe
store can't sell office safes to foreigners at all. Ditto for black plastic
trash cans, though an apologetic clerk promised that would change soon.
And of course U.S. credit cards aren't accepted anywhere, thanks to
U.S. rules governing the 40-year economic embargo against the island.
Here it's pay cash or go without. Mostly I've gone without.
I did manage to buy a car. The company, a joint venture between the
Cuban government and a Panamanian firm, agreed to take my cash provided it was
deposited in their account in a local bank. No worries, they told me.
Of course when I showed up a half-hour later at the bank, my purse
stuffed with $100 bills, the cashier couldn't accept my money. I'd need a letter
from the CEO of the auto company--a man living in Panama--giving me permission
to make such a deposit, she said.
I sighed deeply. I gritted my teeth and smiled.
Eventually, the Panamanian faxed the necessary letter, the cash changed
hands and the car arrived. Then the real hunt began.
License plates are in abundant supply in Cuba, it turns out, but screws
to put them on the car are items rarer than Cubs playoff victories.
Gas stations don't have them. Neither do hardware stores. A Fiat
dealership managed to find one pair to install the car's rear license plates but
nobody in town had the screws with nuts needed to secure the front plate.
Every few blocks, over the next days, Havana traffic cops pulled me
over and demanded that I install my plates immediately. I explained my plight.
They pointed at gas stations. I explained again. Eventually I asked them for
screws. I joked about trying chewing gum. They just frowned and insisted that
next time I passed them without my plates there'd be a ticket in it for me.
In desperation I drove to taxi row near Havana's Central Park, where
the city's most creative auto mechanics lounge besides their aging '50s Buicks
and Plymouths, awaiting work. Surely here, I thought, someone could help me.
The mechanics searched and pondered. They plundered glove compartments
and scrutinized trunks and even the ground nearby. Nothing.
Finally, one of them pulled out some used electrical wire. In moments
the car had its front plate, flopping in the breeze.
This satisfied the police but not me. So a few days later, when a
fellow in the Tribune's office building offered to screw the plate on properly,
I gave him the green light. He had a source, he told me.
Hours later, I stopped by the car to find he had indeed found some
screws--large plastic-ended things apparently plundered from an office chair
somewhere.
I imagined some poor worker sitting down at his desk the next morning
and collapsing to the ground. But I didn't ask. I just got in the car and drove
away.
Copyright 2000, Sun-Sentinel Co. & South Florida
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