Victor and his Polish Fiat
Marina Hemingway.
Friday, Feb. 27, 1999
We meet the Cuban fixer, Victor Pina.
Sandra Levinson, director at the Cuba Studies Center in Manhattan, gave me the name and contact information of a Cuba fixer, one Victor Piña. Anna and I met “this fixer” in the hotel lobby this morning. A short, handsome, late-middle-aged man. The man, with his clean-shaven face and neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper hair; a real professional. He presents his business card proudly: “Your Man in Havana,” it reads. In our short interview we learn he speaks fluent Russian, English, and Spanish and has been working as a freelance “fixer” for American organizations since he resigned his post with the government over something I learned later. He knows his way around, is connected with many of Cuba’s artists and filmmakers, and he likes Americans. We negotiate his daily fee, which includes his small Polish Fiat. He admits with a laugh that he occasionally needs a push to get started.
After we finished discussing his availability, he gets right to the point: "What would you like to see today?"
“I’d like to look at the marina, the Hemingway Marina.”
“That’s about a half-hour drive. Why a marina?" he asks. “You have a boat?
“Yes. If we can establish this program, I’d bring the boat down and live on her.
“You come when we are in what we call our special period. With the collapse of the Soviet Union, in less than 3 months, we lost more than 75% of our trade. We have problems with fuel, electricity, transportation, and even food. But we live.”
The Malecón winds along the coast for two miles; ocean swells crash on the riprap below the four-foot-high wall. Victor informs us that during a winter storm or a hurricane, the waves breach the wall, resulting in the closure of the road. We leave the older buildings of Central Havana and enter Vedado, an even newer section of the city. Victor points out landmarks such as the Hotel Nationale, which sits atop a knoll with its two massive towers facing the sea, and a park that cascades down to the Malecón. Next, a monument commemorates the US Battleship Maine's sinking, which ignited the Spanish-American War in 1898. Next, Victor pointsa out a spacious open park, frequently serves as a venue for celebrations or political rallies, as the US Embassy, now known as the US Interest Section, sits right next to the park. There is no US ambassador in Cuba, but there is a US Consulate here with a staff to process visas for Cubans who wish to visit relatives in the US. It operates under the protection of the Embassy of Switzerland, Victor tells us.
More and more high-rise hotels and apartment buildings appear. Victor explains that these buildings bear a striking resemblance to Miami, constructed during Cuba's peak in the 1940s and 50s, a time when American tourists frequented the island for its sun, beaches, and casinos. While Havana may have been competing with Las Vegas in the construction of gambling casinos, it possessed a unique style that was foreign and more exotic, characterized by its own brand of music, dance, and hospitality.
The Malecón disappears into a tunnel under a river that feeds into the sea. When we emerged (it wasn’t long), we were in a different part of Havana.
“This is Miramar,” Victor told us. “This is where the wealthy used to reside.” We passed stately mansions, one after another. Many of the mansions were abandoned, had missing windows, and had overgrown lawns, all in need of paint and care. “Victor continued, "After the Revolution, the wealthy departed, transferring many of these properties to Party members. However, this decision did not sit well with the remaining Cubans, who had just fought to overthrow the privileged class." So, many were converted into tenements, where four or five families lived, but they didn’t know how to maintain the buildings, or even care to, so they fell into disuse.” And there they sit, perhaps as a reminder that all wealth is transitory or that one should not aspire to it. However, in Central Havana, the government has meticulously maintained the public buildings.
I saw a well-kept mansion, then noticed the sign in front. The building first housed a foreign embassy, then another, and now it serves as the headquarters of an international corporation.
We passed an inlet from the sea, a small harbor, that would not have been out of place in the smaller Caribbean islands. Crammed in among the mangroves were small fishing smacks, tied to rickety docks. No yachts. Right next door, facing the sea, was the entrance to Club Havana, once the grand yacht club for the wealthy, now a hotel.
The entrance to the Marina Hemingway was right next door. The guard lounging in his shack didn’t even bother to look up as we drove in. The large clubhouse, along with the large, sprawling, Florida-like marine development, had fallen into disrepair. It was vacant.
The inlet from the sea was a narrow cut in the beach. There was no breakwater to mark the entrance, just a series of buoys. Good luck finding this place in the dark. There are docking facilities for hundreds of yachts along concrete finger piers—only three yachts were there, all from Europe. Grass grows in the cracks in the concrete walkways between the slips. Discarded and deflated fenders have established roots due to their prolonged presence. No one cares.
The only activity in the entire complex is a cigar and rum shop and a small open-air bar and cafe by the harbor entrance. The place would be a great destination for American yachts if the Cubans in Miami would let go of their hatred of Castro and allow the lifting of the embargo. It’s only 100 miles from the Keys in Florida. The marina would be filled with US boats every weekend. The place would come alive, and money would exchange hands.
“Where to next?" asks Victor.
- CHAPTER 6 -
Your Man in Havana
