Cuba: As the Embargo Splinters

The old Russian Lada crawls in first gear up Prado Boulevard. A massive bullhorn strapped to the roof, rim mangled and straightened through the years. The woman's small brown knuckles tighten around the wheel, the other hand hoisting the mic to her mouth, crimson lips astir with Revolutionary fire in a fractionary delay with the snout of the tuba.

"Mañana! Todas para la Tribuna Abierta Antimperialista José Martí. For the victorious Pueblo Cubano, against the murderous Cuban Adjustment Act. Tomorrow unite!"

Past Hotel Sevilla she drifts, eyes scintillating, determined, possessed with purpose. Then onward, brushing by Hotel Inglaterra. Next Cine Yara and finally the Capitolio, where she spins a U-ee and begins the process over again. "Adelante!" she thinks. "I am a messenger. My mouth a Revolutionary tool. A small tool, perhaps, but one of importance and meaning."

A '53 Chevy darts around the Lada, nearly scraping fenders, and then a '44 Ford wagon, and a '51 Dodge coupe, people's taxis jammed panel to door panel. A steady stream of ancient iron. A melting pot of skin tones, faces and routine destinations. The woman in the Lada makes a point of stopping at Parque Central, where 100 men are engaged in the perpetual argument about who's better, the Cleveland Indians or the Cincinnati Reds, arms flailing hotly, hats torn off and slammed against knees; the eternal gesticulation; that special brand of Cuban machismo so vibrant you can see it floating in the air. The Lada rolls up to the curb.

"Tomorrow a march to the protest dome! Read today's Granma for details. We must show our Revolutionary strength in the battle for justice against the blockade. All are expected to attend!"

The men pause to absorb the woman's chant, mentally noting the news before launching back into the argument.

"Oye, Chicos! Did you hear me?" the bullhorn crackles. "Take some of that mouth energy and put it into your legs tomorrow, comprende?" A few men wave in acknowledgment as the woman floats off, banging a left on Calle Neptuno, thinking she'll probably stray down to San Lazaro and drop in on her grandmother to sip on a taza of cafe before heading over to Vedado to continue the mission. "But that might turn into a few hours," she reasons. "You know how grandmother likes to visit. Maybe I'll just stop at Jorge's to say hello. Or perhaps I should go to Angelita's cafeteria for a pork sandwich. Aí, mi madre, the possibilities are endless!"

Welcome to Cuba...

...combusting montage of the islandic hive, year 2000, forty-first anniversary of the Victory of the Revolution, fortieth anniversary of the decision of "Patria o Muerte," fortieth anniversary of the nationalization of all U.S.-owned Cuban property, thirty-ninth anniversary of both the Victory at Playa Giron (Bay of Pigs) and the emplacement of the total U.S. embargo: that all-out de facto economic blitzkrieg, still smashing impoverished Cuban bellies.

Every Castro hobbyist and newshound knows Fidel's #1 weapon is propaganda. A visionary with a Napoleonic complex and cursed to an island, el Maximo Jefe's genius lies in media strategy. Many elements have led to the current U.S. liberal sweep on Cuba. The Grammy-winning Buena Vista Social Club should be awarded the Cuban medal of honor for its roll. And naturally, Elian Gonzalez, who washed up in an innertube from the Florida Straits on Thanksgiving Day 1999, rated higher than even the JonBenet Ramsey media quagmire.

Castro's Revolution is racking the points from the overwhelming media splurge, while throngs of tourists visit the island to "see for themselves," coming away knowing that Cuban people are good-hearted whatever their political pedigree, and that the whole thing boils down to two political forces bashing it out in the final round of a tired and bitter 40 year-old bitch match.