Spain and Cuba;
A 500-year-old Affair
"The old Spanish empire is
no longer capable of dominating the lands of young America." - José
Marti, 1890
Ivan, a Cuban philosophy student,
still remembers the scene vividly: It was January 2001 and the Spaniards had
descended on central Havana, draped in robes like royalty from the 1500s. In
the lead, three men in a horse-drawn carriage rolled leisurely along the tree-lined
Paseo del Prado to the clattering rhythm of hooves. Behind
them, a troop of Spaniards fanned out along the street, throwing candy to Cuban
children. With the kids in fast pursuit, the entourage glided past crumbling
colonial homes and emerged in front of the Spanish Cultural Center's newly
refurbished seafront mansion. There the crowd thickened and the candy supply
ran low. People began to push and grab excitedly, trampling some children in
the midst of the confusion. One of the costumed Spaniards was especially rude.
When the gifts ran out, he
told the kids to get lost. Meanwhile, Cuban television crews captured the images.
The Spaniards - modern day diplomats
and executives dressed up as the biblical Wise Men for a traditional Spanish
Epiphany parade - barely made it back to their offices before the eruption.
Local press called the Spaniards "undignified clowns" and "imported
monarchs" whose dangerous show encouraged Cuban children to fight over
material objects. In response to the affront, Cuban officials held a conference
called "Neither Kings, Nor Wise Men" and Fidel Castro warned: "We
don't want to add fuel to the fire in our relations with Spain, but let
no one doubt that any rudeness, provocation, or insult will receive an appropriate
response." His threat is no joke. The original Epiphany parade was banned
40 years ago after Castro's revolution reinvented Cuba and emphasized national
pride over historical ties. By resurfacing now, the Spanish-sponsored religious
celebration has sparked resentment. Spain, for its part, pleads innocence. "Our
presence is not some kind of re-colonization of Cuba," says José
María Coso, director of the Spanish Cultural Center in Havana and the
parade organizer. He lifts a Cuban cigar lovingly to his lips and gently exhales
smoke. "We're just trying to preserve our place here."
If most divorced couples married
for 20 years complain about emotional baggage, imagine the unresolved issues
shared by two countries with a 500-year old relationship. During many of those
years, they fought. Then in 1898 after a long, bloody war, Spain finally picked
up its belongings and sailed home. But it left behind 50,000 soldiers who changed
the face of the island; today their descendants populate Havana's boardwalk
among the silhouetted fishermen and young couples stealing kisses at sunset.
If the Cuban government has gone through several changes of heart toward Spain
since 1898, developments in the past ten years also demonstrate the nations'
enduring connections; how a former colonizer has become a necessary ally; how
in the era of globalization, blood proves thicker than water and makes for some
odd couples. Yet the emotional baggage remains.
Unlike young love, the two nations
are embroiled in a complicated affair. The Spanish lost the island a century
ago, but are now returning to Cuba as business executives and benefactors. They
began arriving in 1991, when Cuba hit an economic wall after the fall of the
Soviet Union. Spain's socialist government, led by Felipe Gonzalez, rushed
to the rescue with millions of dollars in aid. Gonzalez also encouraged Spaniards
to invest. One of the early arrivals was Carlos Pereda, who opened Cuba's
first tourist hotel in what used to be the sleepy coastal village of Varadero.
The town – a two-hour ride from Havana along sleek highways – has
thrived on the bitter-sweet fruits of tourism. Today pricey Spanish and international
hotels hug the coastline, shaded by thousands of perfectly cloned palm trees.
From a windowless office just steps away from warm Caribbean waters, Pereda
is working after hours on a steamy Saturday evening. His telephone rings constantly,
and the grandfatherly Spaniard jokes amiably with the callers. Fluorescent ceiling
lights glint off a dozen wall plaques that mark a decade of success. "It
was like night and day when I came to Cuba," he says in an accent still
thick with the lisping zeta of Spain. "Imagine arriving in a country where
75 percent of your work force is university educated, and the other 25 percent
is highly educated. Here when it comes time to pitch in to help with a government
project, everyone contributes."
Pereda isn't the only one impressed
by the Cuban work force. The tide of incoming Spanish investors has flowed so
swiftly in recent years that they founded the Association of Spanish Business
Executives in Havana. Its president, Rafael García Arnal, is a friendly
Barcelonan with a taste for Habanos cigars. His optimism is clear as he runs
through the statistics; membership is up, with some 100 Spaniards representing
everything from banks to food services to hotels; there are nearly 200 Spanish
businesses on the island compared to just 36 in 1994; and Spanish firms make
up 25 percent of total foreign investment and 40 percent of all European Union
trade with the island. "We're not just thinking about the distant
future – we're making money now," García Arnal says, his
affable face red from too much Caribbean sun. Like him, other Spaniards are
beginning to call the lush island home. But the club president still looks forward
to his yearly vacations in Spain. "I go there to refresh myself,"
he jokes, alluding to Cuba's harsh political and economic landscape.
Even with the challenges, Spaniards
are reveling in their new connection with Cuba and it seems that all they touch
turns to gold. In 1995, the Cuban government relaxed strict guidelines and allowed
foreigners to own more than a 50 percent share in a joint business venture.
Spanish money poured in. By 1996, Spanish hotel chains had invested $75 million
in the island's tourism sector alone. But no matter how smoothly business
deals unfold, Spanish executives have learned caution at the bargaining table.
"Cubans complain of Spanish arrogance, something other countries don't
have to worry about because they don't have the same historical baggage,"
says Mark Entwistle, Canada's ex-ambassador to Cuba and now a business
consultant. And arrogance is just one stereotype the old colonizer must transcend
in its evolving relationship with Cubans. Spanish hotel companies have also
come under fire for discriminatory hiring practices. In 1995, the Spanish-owned
Habana Libre hotel in downtown Havana was accused of trying to "whiten"
its staff. "They were firing blacks to appeal to mostly light-skinned foreign
tourists," says Alejandro de la Fuente, a Cuban professor at the University
of Pittsburgh who writes about race in Cuba. "It became a scandal."
The incident, he says, reinforced Cuban stereotypes about Spanish racism. More
complaints have surfaced at other luxury hotels, yet de la Fuente says the conflict
runs deeper than simple Spanish prejudice. "Cubans themselves also accept
the false narrative of buena presencia, the idea that being white is more attractive."
As with any family linked by bloodlines,
language and a turbulent history, this ambiguity is par for the course in the
Spanish-Cuban relationship. In the 1800s, when American colonies began to revolt
against the mother country, Spain dubbed sugar-rich Cuba the "ever-faithful
island" and trusted she alone would never stray. Losing this favorite daughter
to the United States in the 1898 independence war was a psychological disaster
for Spain. "Like losing a limb," explains Coso at the Spanish Cultural
Center. Even today, Spaniards recognize the historical impact of Cuba's
liberation. "Don't worry about it, more was lost in Cuba," they
are likely to remark when something goes wrong. Cubans, who study Spain's
violent war campaign in history class, enjoy their own humor about Spanish business
people relocating to the island; they joke that Spaniards are back to get what
they lost in 1898.
But today's Spaniards are arriving
by airplane - not ocean vessel - and importing cash, new ideas, and high hopes
of becoming Cuba's most trusted business partner. It wasn't always this way.
In colonial days, Spaniards who emigrated to Cuba had little to offer. María
del Carmen Molina, the Cuban granddaughter of Spanish immigrants, shakes with
laughter remembering a television show she watched as a child during the early
days of Cuba's Revolution. The program poked fun at those early Spanish immigrants
who - fleeing Spain's economic depression - arrived in Cuba penniless and had
to prove themselves. But time has turned the tables and today all that is Spanish
is the ticket to success. "Now everyone wants to be Spanish," Molina
laughs.
There is more truth than irony to
her remark. If Afro-Cuban dance and music have captivated the world in recent
years, there are still more practical advantages to having Spanish heritage
than African roots in today's Cuba. It all began in the early 1990s, when
Spain's socialist government pledged generous humanitarian aid to the struggling
island. In Cuba's most desperate hour, Spain also recalled its shared blood
lines with the island. Prime Minister Felipe Gonzalez made more Spanish passports
available to Cubans of Spanish descent, and with that move old bonds re-awakened.
Across the island, light-skinned Cubans rushed to sift through family documents,
searching for birth certificates and letters - anything to prove a direct family
connection to Spain. Ramona Alvarez, Molina's mother, was one of them.
The Cuban-born daughter of Spaniards applied for a Spanish passport in 1994,
when food was scarce and the future looked bleak. Little did she realize her
quest would span five years and be overshadowed by another bitter fight between
the two nations.
As Alvarez began her application
procedure in Havana, Spain was undergoing a dramatic political shift that came
to a head in 1996 when the conservative José María Aznar took
power. With his election, Spain withdrew most of its financial assistance from
Cuba and called for political reform on the island. Things heated up even more
when Aznar named José Coderch as his new Ambassador to Cuba. While still
in Madrid, Coderch informed Spanish newspapers that the minute he arrived he
would "throw open the doors" of the Spanish Embassy to Cuban political
dissidents. Furious, the Cuban government refused to let him set foot on the
island. But rumors spread quickly, and hundreds of Cubans stormed the Spanish
Embassy in hopes of getting a visa. Cuban officials had to send police-backed
construction workers to cordon off the building. Political ties snapped.
For more than a year afterwards, the Spanish ambassador's office in Havana stood empty. But ultimately business sense prevailed. With millions of dollars already sunk into the Cuban economy, Spanish investors upped the pressure on Aznar and his conservative pro-business party, Partido Popular. For their part, island officials maneuvered to protect the fragile economy by making overtures to Spanish executives. It worked. In 1998, a 100-member contingent of Spanish business executives arrived in Cuba. At the same time, Aznar announced Spain would loosen its purse strings and increase humanitarian aid.
Meanwhile, Spanish-owned Iberia
airline stepped up its weekly flights to Cuba in anticipation of increased tourism
and business travel. Finally, Spain's new ambassador, Eduardo Junco, arrived
on the island amidst talk of "a new era in Spanish-Cuban relations".
This tentative reconciliation directly
benefited Cubans like Alvarez. After five years of waiting, she finally received
the cherished passport – and with it some perks. One of them is status.
"Now she's Doña Alvarez, instead of compañera,"
the lively Molina says playfully. She shoots a glance at her mother, who obliges
by lifting her head with a little nod. At age 75, Alvarez has no illusions of
actually setting foot in the land of her ancestors. "If I could travel
to Spain I probably would, but it's unlikely now," she muses, settling
back into her rocking chair after disappearing into the bedroom to retrieve
her passport. "But I wanted this for sentimental reasons," she says,
caressing the small yet valuable booklet.
Sentiment aside, the pocket-sized object also represents a better standard of living. In the last few years, Spain has begun offering pension money to its foreign citizens over age 65 in Cuba. "The announcement was like an explosion in Havana," says Molina, who waited - with about 1,000 other people - to apply for her mother's pension money last year. On average the pensions range from $500-800, which is equivalent to winning the lottery in a country where the average income is $12 a month. As a direct result of the pension offer, the number of people applying for Spanish passports has nearly tripled since 1998, to 6,000 in 2000. But while the money provides welcome financial relief, it only highlights the deep economic divide between Cubans and Spaniards.
"It broke my heart to see doctors
and teachers - educated people -waiting there for Spanish charity," Molina
says, watching her mother's aged face, serene under a halo of white hair.
Still, measured by the number of people who line up outside the Embassy, Cubans
are eager to accept Spain's offer.
Elvis Mendoza's eyes are glazed
over by the time he reaches the shady gardens of the Spanish Embassy. He is
squeezed uncomfortably onto a narrow wooden bench next to a sunken old woman
nodding off in the stifling heat. Nearly 300 miles separate the capital from
Mendoza's rural home in the tobacco-growing region of Sancti Spiritus.
This time his journey spanned 24 hours. The adventure included a delayed train,
a broken down bus, and a communal taxi crammed to capacity. Now inside the gates
of the elegant mansion – one of Havana's few restored colonial buildings
- the shy man is giddy with nervous energy and entirely out of his element.
Still, his mission lends him strength; Mendoza's aging mother has a Spanish
passport and needs money. The Spanish Embassy's humanitarian aid program
is her last hope. "My mother sent me instead of my brother," Mendoza
jokes, "because he's even more guajiro than I am," he says, using
the affectionate name reserved for country folks from the provinces.
Mendoza is the living legacy of
Spain's roots in Cuba. His Spanish-born grandfather immigrated to Cuba
in 1917, among the last wave of Spanish immigrants destined for the island after
Spain lost the war. Like him, one-third of the 3.5 million Spaniards who left
Spain between the late 1800s and 1930 were destined for Cuba. "They were
attracted to a place where there are still family connections," explains
Joaquín Roy, a professor of Spanish-Cuban relations. On the island, Mendoza's
grandfather raised his family with Spain in his heart. He told stories to his
grandson about peasants working the dry earth in Extremadura, of Arab palaces
among olive trees in the south, and of gruff fishermen in northern Galicia.
Mendoza has never been to Spain, but says he has imagined it all his life. "Because
of my grandfather, I've always felt very Spanish." But this journey
to the capital is for practical rather than nostalgic reasons. Mendoza's
family has heard about the pension money and he is in Havana to claim his mother's
birthright.
Mendoza has a lot of company. In
2000 alone, 3,200 Cubans were registered to collect the Spanish pension money.
Most days, long lines of people snake down the sidewalk outside the Spanish
Embassy a block from the Malecón waterfront boulevard. Some pace to break
the monotony. Others animatedly compare family histories and commiserate about
the wait. A 17-year old named Fernando shows a generous smile as he reclines
against the building, ducking out of the slant of mid-morning sun already threatening
to boil the pavement. He says his family has been to the Embassy several times
in the past seven months. "Here we go again," he grins. Nearby, Fernando's
mother holds their place in line, patient in her bright flowered dress that
pulls a bit too tight in the arms. She clutches faded documents - a birth certificate
and letters - that could pave the way to Spanish citizenship. For those around
her – whose other option is the dangerous 90-mile water passage to the
United States – a Spanish passport offers a legitimate way out of Cuba
provided they can somehow afford the airfare.
It's a legitimate path, but
often long-delayed. Most business requires much bureaucratic paper pushing and
shifting feet in line. Still, Cubans arrive and wait – something to which
they are long accustomed. Just around the corner from where Fernando and his
mother stand winds another line of people. This one is reserved for married
couples trying to get a travel visa for the Cuban spouse. In line are all types;
middle-aged couples who have been married for years in Cuba and simply want
to visit family in Spain together; fresh-faced newlyweds; and older Spaniards
with young, dark-skinned Cuban women – an increasingly common image in
Havana's dollar-run tourist bars and nightclubs.
For Cubans like these with no Spanish
bloodlines, the doorway out is often through marriage – a process that
can be just as frustrating as applying for Spanish citizenship. Couples schedule
numerous interviews at the Embassy, often waiting for hours. Even with the hassles,
Spain remains a popular destination for love matches these days, in part because
of language and historical ties. Beginning in the early 1990s when the economy
plummeted, Cuban wives and lovers began turning up in Spain. Today, some 3,000
Cubans who are married to Spaniards apply for visas each year. This compared
to just 15 yearly applicants a decade ago, says María Cruz Arias of the
Spanish Consulate in Havana. The dramatic rise, Arias says, has coincided directly
with the tourist boom. Some marry for love; some marry to escape the island.
Still other Cubans find their way to Spain each year through study exchanges,
training programs, and business connections. In 2000, nearly 300 Cuban students
were awarded study grants to travel to Spain. Once there, many never return
to the island.
Beatriz Ávila is not going
back any time soon. She arrived in Spain with a four-year study grant from the
Spanish government and quickly found a well-paid job in a private clinic. Though
she now calls Spain home and has applied for residency, she admits frustration
over Spanish stereotypes of Cubans. "Most Spaniards only think of Cuba
for its famous sexual tourism," she says by phone from Madrid. "Sometimes
when I meet people here in Spain, they make offensive comments about Cuban women."
Still, Ávila says she doesn't see herself fitting back into the
pattern of Cuban society after having been away so long. For her, Spain is the
next best thing, given the two nations' intimate relationship. Many Cubans
apparently agree. The community grew quietly after the fall of the Soviet Union,
and by 1996 there were 7,000 Cubans living in Spain. Today, there are about
16,000, making Spain home to the largest Cuban community outside the island
after Miami. There is no doubt the European nation has a nostalgic pull. Castro
himself is the son of Spanish immigrants, and in 1984 he made a historic visit
to the remote northern region of Galicia where his father was born. Castro's
ex-wife and daughter both live in Spain, as do an ever-increasing number of
artists, writers, athletes and political dissidents.
But leaving the island is not the
only desire fueling the relationship between Cuba and Spain in recent years.
There is no denying each has something the other wants. No one knows that better
than Eusebio Leal, who as Historian of the City of Havana is one of the most
powerful men on the island. On a humid afternoon in his Old Havana office, he
faces a dozen wide-eyed visiting student architects and poses the question:
"Which is more important: food or beauty?". With no hesitation, he
answers himself: Beauty. Yet Havana's beauty is ravaged by time; those
early Spaniards would barely recognize the Caribbean gem they so loved. Its
splendor is tarnished by peeling paint and gaping cracks. The ocean knocks relentlessly
against the Malecón's rocky sea wall, its salty spray licking buildings
and warping facades. If the sad image tugs on proud Cuban hearts, it has an
equally strong effect on Spanish sensibilities. After all, Spain's history
lives in the island's architecture. "For all our projects we need
money, lots and lots of money," says the beige-clad Leal, his voice resonating
through the corridor of a room. Spain is one of his biggest collaborators. In
addition to the newly-restored colonial Spanish Cultural Center, money from
Spanish regions is being used to restore sea front homes all along the Malecón.
Cuban men and boys mix cement under the glaring sun at construction sites as
vintage Plymouths speed by, pausing only to pick up pretty young women hitching
rides. The projects are collaborative; Spain provides the funds and Cuba provides
the manpower. But like most joint ventures, there are bumps in the road. Leal
says frictions occasionally arise when Spain tries to exert too much control.
Still, Cubans know to tread lightly where cash is concerned. "We have to
pursue money where we can get it," Leal states matter-of-factly.
Spanish generosity extends beyond
architecture. By late 2001, a long-awaited Spanish-funded water project –
restoring the century-old Albear aqueduct - will provide 16 percent of Havana's
residents with purified drinking water. Spain is also Cuba's most enthusiastic
partner in cinematography. The European nation funds half the films made each
year on the island and finances extensive archival restoration.
This new level of collaboration
between the old colonizer and her dearest colony is sparking some unusual partnerships.
In one of Havana's restored colonial jewels, Cuca Llagostera now holds
court. Wearing a stylish linen suit, the petite blonde looks dressed for a chic
downtown venue in Madrid rather than a quaint hole in the wall in Old Havana.
But then she throws on an apron, casually snuffs out the cigarette dangling
from between her lips, and heads for the kitchen. There she whips up Spanish
tortillas and fried garbanzos in one of two restaurants that she manages with
a Spanish partner in the heart of Havana's tourist zone. At the Mesón
de la Flota restaurant, Spanish wines are stacked along the wall: Merlots from
Barcelona, Solmayor from La Mancha, and the occasional local wine from Pinar
del Rio province. Two Cuban waitresses gossip at the bar, their curls twisted
up inside identical flower wreaths.
Though she is one of an estimated 10,000 Spanish citizens who have recently immigrated to the island, Llagostera's story differs from that of the typical entrepreneur. She ended up in Cuba with her husband, who works in a joint business venture in shipping. That water theme is everywhere. A miniature ship model rests above the bar, and fishing nets drape gracefully next to filmy black and red flamenco shawls on the pale walls. A sign outside advertises the restaurant as "4,000 nautical miles from the point of departure," playing off the image of the Spanish conquistadores who reached Cuba by ship in the 1500s.
"The sea here reminds me of
Spain," says the Barcelona native, at home in her new surroundings. A slow
smile creeps across her calm, sun-tanned face at the suggestion that she is
setting a new trend for Spanish women in Cuba. "We're definitely pioneers
of a sort, my partner and I. There are very few others doing what we've
done here with the restaurants." Downtown regulars, businessmen, and tourists
keep the kitchen staff busy, and Llagostera greets local patrons warmly, joking
with her young, attractive Cuban staff. Still, Llagostera's point of reference
is always Spain. "Most of my friends here are Spanish," she says.
"We usually get together at each others' homes or at restaurants and
form our own social groups." Many of her compatriots feel the same way.
Pereda from the hotel in Varadero maintains his loyalty to Spain, even after
11 years in Cuba's tourist industry. He vacations in the cool green hills
of his native land in northern Castille and León, and prefers Spanish
matadors to Cuban baseball stars. As part of a new generation of Spanish expats
mainly focused on business activities, it benefits them all to remain connected
to the powerful Spanish business community.
And their children follow suit.
Even as Spaniards mingle with Cubans on a day-to-day basis, they still maintain
distinct separations. Across town from Llagostera's restaurant, in the
peaceful, tree-lined Miramar neighborhood, is the Spanish School. "It's
just as if the students were in Spain," explains Javier Rivera, the school's
charismatic young Cuban director. Here among foreign embassies and diplomats'
homes students study a strict Spanish curriculum. Exams are sent to Spain to
be corrected, and students must wait weeks to get their results back by mail.
"It's not the best system for the students," Rivera concedes,
"but the instruction is excellent."
While the basics of math and science
vary little, Rivera says Spanish and Cuban education systems part ways where
philosophy and history are concerned. Greek philosophers like Aristotle and
Plato reign in the Spanish School, while Cuban kids study Stalinist theory.
And while Cuban students, in their tidy yellow and red school uniforms, memorize
the island's history, the Spanish curriculum focuses on world history.
"Unfortunately, they don't have time to study the history of Cuba,
the country in which they reside," Rivera says. The majority of the Spanish
students – who comprise nearly half of the entirely international student
body - are the children of business executives. "If the business goes well,
they don't leave," Rivera says. Things are going well. The school
opened with 16 students in 1986; it now boasts 140. In a country where education
is free, the Spanish School's price tag is far beyond the average Cuban
family's reach. The two groups, for the most part, remain separate. "Spanish
kids only integrate into Cuban society if their parents do," says Rivera,
whose own daughter cannot attend the Spanish School because she is Cuban. Smiling
through cigarette haze at her restaurant, Llagostera puts it more bluntly: "When
you are very far from Spain, it's natural that you would want to spend
time with other Spaniards."
Although that comment would make
him flinch, Jesus Barros Lopez, president of the Galician Association in Havana,
also knows it's true. Part of the problem is economics, but part is that
the Cubans who strongly identify with their Spanish roots are an older generation
than the fast-paced peninsulares. Only a few miles across town from Llagostera's
restaurant - but eons away - is the Galician Cultural Center, one of more than
100 Spanish cultural associations that still exist in Havana. "The Spanish
business people in Cuba aren't interested in cultural associations,"
laments Barros Lopez. "It's like we live in two separate worlds."
And they do. While Llagostera and her contemporaries enjoy going to clubs and
socializing at private parties, the 83-year-old Barros Lopez spends his Saturday
evenings at cultural presentations in the stately mansion that houses the Center
on the corner of the Parque Central.
Up a sweeping stairway, in a cool,
cavernous room far removed from the bustle outside, a few older men are gathered
at a table talking club business; dues, gaeta music workshops, and the weekend
event in the great salon. Galician historians, poets and politicians peer out
from wall paintings. Two flags – one Galician, the other Spanish - stand
at attention. "Gallego!" one of the men suddenly shouts. From a raised
platform at the back of the room, a rumbling voice calls back, "Hold on,
I'm busy." Barros Lopez smiles. "They call me Gallego, but I'm
Cuban born of course. None of us is really from Spain anymore. We're just
the sons of Gallegos."
Wiry and gently bent with age, Barros
Lopez presides over a desk in danger of collapse. His hand taps a pile of history
books and board games, punctuating each word: "There is less and less Spanish
cultural presence in Cuba." Not so in the old days. In its heyday, the
thriving Galician Center boasted 60,000 active members. But following the Cuban
Revolution in 1959, cultural centers all but died out as the Cuban government
aggressively promoted unity through nationalism. The situation shifted again
during the financial crisis of the early 1990s. In the ensuing years, Spanish
associations resurfaced as important funnels for monetary aid to Cubans. Consequently,
association membership began to grow. "We've been locating Spanish
descendants all over the island," says Bruno Leyva at the Andalusian Center,
a short walk down the Paseo del Prado from the Galician Center. "Many don't
even know they have a right to be a member." These efforts seem to be paying
off. The Andalusian Center's membership jumped from 400 in 1997 to 650
today. But the members belong to a younger generation with little direct connection
to Spain. To maintain ties, a small number of older Cubans travel each year
to Galicia, funded by the Galician government. But people are dying off. "Each
year the assistance packages are a little smaller," Barros Lopez says,
referring to the packages of soap, food and presents that used to arrive from
Spain. In the midst of the Spanish investment boom on the island, Barros Lopez
confides, "I don't see a bright future for the cultural associations."
Most Cuban schoolgirls, however,
would be devastated if the centers closed. Of the many aspects of Spanish culture,
traditional dance is thriving on the island. After-school flamenco class is
the latest rage. Thirty pony-tailed little girls whirl like dervishes on and
off a narrow wooden stage at the Andalusian Cultural Center. The mad clacking
of castanets combines with the feverish pounding of high-heel dance shoes and
the swish swoosh of multi-colored ruffled skirts. A soloist steps to center
stage, her face as proud and pained as any flamenco diva in Spain. The harried
instructor in her matching vest and mini skirt, barks, "Arms! Watch the
arms!" while rotating her wrists like fans, her fingers painting the air.
The older girls imitate her, faces pinched in concentration, while the younger
ones tickle each other in the wings. "Silence!" the teacher shouts,
mouthing around her fifth cigarette. Attempts at another remonstration fail
along with her voice. "Next time somebody bring me a microphone,"
she rasps.
No one is listening anyway; the
Cuban mothers watching from the street through open windows are as swept up
as their daughters in the haunting boleros and playful Sevillanas crackling
over the loud speakers. Eleven-year old Johanna takes breaks every five minutes
to pose and wave to her mom. "I've been taking classes since I was
six," she says proudly during one of her visits to the window. Johanna
is Afro-Cuban, and lured - as are her companions – by the novelty of Spanish
dance.
But no Spanish girls are dancing with the Cubans on stage. "They don't go to flamenco dance classes," says principal Rivera from the Spanish School. "Their parents are more interested in practical activities – like English classes."
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