10 divnih gradova u Evropi koje turisti zanemaruju
Док су многи величанствени европски градови и даље засјењени својим познатијим колегама, то је ризница зачараних градова. Од уметничке привлачности…
In the early morning light of Havana’s Old Town, a pastel-colored Spanish colonial arcade still stands as if frozen in time. Laundry hangs from its wrought-iron balconies and a 1950s Chevrolet squeaks into view along the cobblestone street. This is Cuba: the only place where American cars older than some of their drivers amble alongside new Chinese taxis, vintage colonial facades face off with Soviet‐era apartment blocks, and music from African‐derived Rumba beats drifts past gray‐market shops. Here the ash-and‐smoke of a revolutionary past still stains architecture, schools and hospitals built on socialist ideals still hum with life, and a nation beats on under a punishing embargo – yet produces virtuoso artists, doctors and athletes in equal measure. Cuba is a country of vibrant contradictions and singular heritage, “a very particular country,” as one historian puts it – not merely Caribbean or Latin American but bearing its own imprint on the globe.
Cuba’s modern identity was forged in fire and idealism. After decades as a Spanish colony and a brief troubled independence under U.S. influence, Cuba’s national narrative pivoted on the Revolución Cubana of 1959. The guerrilla movement led by Fidel Castro – a young lawyer turned insurgent – stormed barracks and mountain strongholds beginning in 1953, chipping away at the dictatorship of Fulgencio Batista. After six years of struggle through the Sierra Maestra and beyond, Castro’s rebel forces triumphed: on New Year’s Day 1959 Batista fled the island, and the revolutionary government took power in Havana. “The Cuban Revolution was an armed uprising… that eventually toppled the brutal dictatorship of Batista”. Che Guevara, Camilo Cienfuegos and countless others became folk heroes and their images still adorn billboards and bandanas; heroes and martyrs of the Revolution (from José Martí to Camilo) are enshrined in every city plaza and school classroom.
From the outset, the new regime radically remade Cuban society. In the 1960s the revolutionary government nationalized private industry, divided large sugar and cattle estates into co-operatives, and created state-run factories. Cuban alignment with the Soviet Union brought economic aid and military backing, but also Cold War confrontation (the failed Bay of Pigs invasion in 1961 and the Cuban Missile Crisis in 1962). Under successive Castro brothers, Cuba declared itself a socialist state. By 1965 the separate rebel movements were merged into a single Communist Party. The 1976 constitution enshrined that party as the vanguard of the nation, the only legal political organization – a status reaffirmed in 1992. Revolution became a perpetual project: Cuba boasts martyrs’ monuments, youth brigades wear uniforms, and even children learn Revolution songs. Fidel Castro remained at the helm until 2008; his brother Raúl (himself a guerrilla commander) took over and oversaw gradual market openings. In 2018 Cuba finally saw its first post-Castro president: Miguel Díaz-Canel (born 1960) – who, remarkably, became the first person since 1959 not named Castro to lead Cuba. As Britannica recounts, Diaz-Canel was the handpicked successor to Raúl Castro as both President and First Secretary of the Communist Party, marking the first handover of power outside the Castro family in six decades. Yet even today, Fidel’s image remains ubiquitous; Revolution anniversaries are national holidays; and ¡Hasta la victoria siempre! (“Until victory always!”) still rings in sports stadiums and schools alike.
Cuba’s constitution and institutions are the legacies of that single-party revolution. Officially a “socialist republic,” Cuba’s state is headed by a president and prime minister, but it is the Communist Party of Cuba (Partido Comunista de Cuba, PCC) that rules the roost. Under the 1976 constitution, the PCC was affirmed as the only permitted political party, “organized vanguard of the Cuban nation”. In practice this means elections without opposition: candidates are vetted by the party, civic organizations, and mass unions, and only PCC-sanctioned ‘nominees’ appear on ballots. The government maintains tight control over media, assembly and religion (a legacy of Cold War secularism and security concerns). Dissent – whether journalism, art or protest – is often suppressed, leading to a chronic undercurrent of frustration among younger generations. Even so, the Party frames itself as the embodiment of the Revolution’s promise, and it enjoys genuine support among many citizens proud of Cuba’s independence and social gains.
Cuba’s political stance remains defined by its complex relationship with the United States. For over six decades, Cuba has been under an American trade embargo and travel ban (since 1962) – “the most punitive blockade the world has ever seen” in Cuban and some international eyes. US policymakers cite human-rights and democracy conditions; Cuba’s supporters decry the embargo as an attempt to starve out socialism. Regardless, the effect on Cuba’s politics and economy has been immense. Across Latin America and beyond, Cuba is known as a defiant one-party state that stands apart, honoring its revolutionary legacy even at the cost of isolation. Yet in recent years the picture has slightly shifted: in 2015 President Obama eased some travel curbs (then Trump tightened them again), and Cuba slowly opened to foreign investment. Still, every Cuban politician must navigate the ongoing shadows of Cold War geopolitics: from nuclear near-war to modern trade wars, “Diaz-Canel serves as president and first secretary of the Communist Party,” a first for a non-Castro, but he still governs under the one-party system his mentor put in place.
Cuba’s social fabric reflects both the ideals of its revolution and the practical struggles of life under sanctions. On one hand, the revolution delivered remarkable public goods: literacy and health rates rival those of much richer countries. UNESCO data show that Cuba’s youth literacy is effectively 100%, and a Pan-American health report notes life expectancy at birth of about 78.3 years (2024) – figures comparable to Western Europe. Indeed, before 1959 Cuba’s literacy was already high for the region (around 80%), and the revolution simply fortified that achievement. Today, doctor visits and university education remain free of charge for citizens. Every neighborhood has a clinic; cityscapes include many schools and libraries. The United Nations and WHO often cite Cuba as an exemplar of health outcomes (infant mortality is among the lowest in the hemisphere, one study notes).
Yet everyday life is shaped by scarcity. A ration card system (la libreta) still supplies each Cuban with monthly basics – rice, beans, sugar, oil and such – at heavily subsidized prices. The libreta basket barely scratches by: for a month’s allotment a Cuban pays only about $1–2 (around 12% of market cost) – an aid, but one that covers only minimal nutrition. Fuel, meat, toilet paper, toothpaste, car tires and other goods are short; when oil deliveries from Venezuela dwindled in the 2010s, Castro stepped off the podium to ride a bicycle to work, and Cubans learned to do without air conditioning or even regular electricity at times. Today, long lines for scarce goods are routine: as one recent account notes, “Cubans rising at 4am to get in line” for staples during periods of acute shortage. The state’s universal welfare means most Cubans do not pay for rent, education or healthcare, but it also keeps wages extremely low. Under socialism, the average monthly salary runs between $30–$50 (USD) – so low that some Cubans work multiple jobs or rely on remittances from abroad. Wealth and modernity peek through only cautiously: a new European car in Cuba can cost tens of thousands of dollars (well beyond most Cuban lifetimes), and many consumer goods are only sold in stores accepting dollars (or its prior equivalent, the CUC).
Thus everyday Cuban life is a jigsaw of paradoxes. On one street corner an elegantly uniformed doctor (salaried by the state) may pause to play dominoes on cobblestones; around the next block, television antennas crowd old rooftops but modems and 4G phones (now used by over 70% of the population) are spreading. One of Cuba’s grand axioms is “Yo no tengo lo que tu tienes, pero si lo que tu no tienes” (I don’t have what you have, but I do have what you don’t) – a saying that winks at creative resourcefulness amid material paucity. Tourists in Havana might marvel at vintage Fords and Buicks painted candy-bright, yet fail to see that for Cubans those gleaming relics are run on parts salvaged from Russian Ladas or homemade nickel-chrome mixes. Indeed, ingenuity is woven into daily survival: mechanics patch engines with scrap metal, black-market entrepreneurs sell wood-fired pizza, and even a taxi often turns out to be a horse-drawn cart filled with boxers. “Cuban ingenuity has kept these old American cars on the road,” notes one travel writer, as grease-stained mechanics weld and fabricate in the street. In any Havana nightspot, meanwhile, one may find a world-class jazz quartet jamming against a backdrop of ration-book stores – a reminder that Cuba’s cultural life runs rich and deep even when supermarket shelves run bare.
Cuba’s cultural heritage is a mosaic of Spanish, African, and indigenous threads. The largest foreign influence came from the slave trade: from the 16th through 19th centuries, hundreds of thousands of Africans (primarily Yoruba, Congo, and Dahomey peoples) were brought to work sugarcane and tobacco plantations. Their spiritual traditions mingled with imposed Roman Catholicism, giving rise to syncretic religions that thrive to this day. Chief among these is Santería (often called Regla de Ocha). Santería fuses Yoruba orishas (deities) with Catholic saints (for example, Saint Barbara is venerated as the orisha Chango). Though taboo under Spanish rule, Santería long persisted in secret and today is openly practiced by millions. A U.S. policy report estimates that roughly 70% of Cubans participate in Santería or related African‐derived rituals in some form. Shrines and altars abound in homes, neighborhoods hold toques (drumming ceremonies), and elders conduct divinations with cowrie shells. Even many nominally Catholic Cubans will wear a “guardian angel” amulet that actually represents a babalawo or iyalocha (Santería priest/priestess).
Santería’s influence permeates Cuban music, dance and festivals. UNESCO notes that rumba – itself recognized as intangible heritage – is a Congolese‐derived drum/dance tradition that expresses community bonds and resistance. On Havana street corners late at night, small rumbas break out: drummers squatting by wooden barrels, women swiveling hips in clave rhythm, singers ululating praise for Oya or Yemayá. The UNESCO nomination bluntly observes that “rumba in Cuba is associated with African culture” and is “an expression of resistance and self-esteem, evoking grace, sensuality and joy”. Cigar factory camaraderie, Santería divination, cocktail-sipping at a smoking-friendly bar – all coexist with old revolutionary lore. Another Afro-Cuban religion, Palo Monte (rooted in Congolese ndoki sorcery), adds secretive spirit worship and herbal magic to the mix.
At a Sunday street festival in Santiago de Cuba or Matanzas, one can observe Catholic processions alongside street altars to Yemayá (a sea‐orisha figure), Candomblé dancers in African print, and perhaps an apparition of San Lázaro (the patron of the sick, revered as Babalu-Ayé). The result is a spiritual vibrancy rarely seen elsewhere. Even the Cuban state, originally atheist and anti-religion, now officially acknowledges this cultural reality: Santería candles are sold in pharmacies, musicians are tutored with tambores, and the Council of State hosts gatherings for annual Día de la Cultura Cubana. Thus Cuba’s religion is a living microcosm of its history – a Catholic cathedral might stand next to a small temple to Changó, its choirs might share rhythm with a rumba drum, and both exist because Cuba’s past was unlike any other’s.
Geographically and ecologically, Cuba is unique in the Caribbean. The island spans about 110,860 km² (roughly 42,800 sq mi), making it the largest island in the region. Its shape is long and serrated, with three main mountain chains (eastern Sierra Maestra, central Escambray, western Guaniguanico) cutting across flat savannas and coastal plains. The climate ranges from tropical rainforest to dry scrub, enabling astonishing biodiversity. One biodiversity study counts 19,631 known plant and animal species in Cuba, of which a remarkable 42.7% are endemic – found nowhere else on Earth. By area and variety, scientists say Cuba’s vegetation and fauna are more diverse than those of many entire nations in Asia or Africa.
Across six UNESCO Biosphere Reserves, Cuba’s ecological riches are preserved. In the east, the Cuchillas del Toa – Alejandro de Humboldt Biosphere (Guantánamo province) is a UNESCO site and hotspot: mountain rainforests there harbor over 900 endemic plant species. It is home to the Cuban solenodon (Solenodon cubanus), a rare venomous insectivore nicknamed “almiquí”, and the elusive Cuban kite (a raptor). Far west, the Guanahacabibes Peninsula Biosphere juts like a thumb of mangroves and palms. Here biologists have discovered the famous zunzuncito or bee hummingbird – the world’s smallest bird – as well as iguanas, flamingos, and dense ceiba forests. And dominating the south coast is the Ciénaga de Zapata Biosphere, a vast 450 km² brackish swamp (the largest wetland in the Antilles). Zapata’s mosquito-haunted marshes support over a thousand plant species (130 endemic) and dozens of reptiles and birds found nowhere else. Here lurks the Cuban crocodile (Crocodylus rhombifer), endemic and critically endangered, adapted to swamp life with unusually long legs for roaming out of water. Two tiny flightless rails – the Zapata rail and the Zapata wren – exist only on these islets and reeds, making Cuba as geographically isolated as an island can be.
Beyond these reserves, national parks like Viñales Valley (with its karst mogotes and tobacco farms) and Alto de Cotilla (Pico Turquino) preserve other treasures. Even coral reefs fringing Cuba’s northern coasts hold sharks and gorgonians more typical of the Sea of Cortez or Florida Keys. Such diversity partly explains the proliferation of protected areas; in fact, Cuba “supports 19,631 known plant and animal species, of which 42.7% are endemic” – far above the global island average. Conservation in Cuba intertwines with tourism: nature lodges, cave tours, and birdwatching draw visitors, yet also fund parks. In short, when a European traveler praises Cuba’s beaches or forests, locals often quip that “the island gives more natural heritage than your entire continent”. The line is only half in jest; Cuba’s ecosystems truly are singular, a microcosm of evolutionary history crammed into one Caribbean nation.
Architecturally, Cuba is a collage of eras and styles – sometimes on the same block. The legacy of Spanish colonial rule is most visible in Havana’s Old Town (Habana Vieja), a UNESCO World Heritage site. Founded in 1519, Old Havana was a shipbuilding hub by the 1600s, and its historic center still “retains an interesting mix of Baroque and neoclassical monuments”. The Cathedral of Havana (Baroque), the Plaza de Armas (arcaded mansions), and the Castillo de la Real Fuerza (red stone fortress) conjure a European sensibility with Caribbean air. In the Plaza Vieja one finds portals and colonnades drenched in pastel ochres and salmon pinks, their cast-iron balconies festooned with flowers and faded Cuban flags. A 2015 UNESCO evaluation notes that although modern Havana now houses two million people, “its old centre retains… a homogeneous ensemble of private houses with arcades, balconies, wrought-iron gates and internal courtyards” – a walking museum of 18th-19th-century urban life.
Further afield stand Cuba’s other colonial gems. Cienfuegos, founded in 1819 by French settlers on a natural bay, showcases a Neoclassical grid of clean streets. UNESCO writes that Cienfuegos is “an outstanding example of an architectural ensemble representing the new ideas of modernity, hygiene and order in urban planning” from the 19th century. Wide boulevards lead to the ornate Government Palace and a domed cathedral; wrought-iron cafés line the serene waterfront (Paseo del Prado) under the inscrutable gaze of a José Martí statue. Trinidad, on Cuba’s southern coast, is perhaps the most evocative time capsule. Founded in the 1500s, it boomed on 18th-19th-century sugar plantations. Today Trinidad’s cobblestone core is a living museum of colonial Cuba: tiled courtyards, tiled roofs, and plazas framed by pastel Baroque and Moorish-influenced houses. UNESCO notes that Trinidad’s edifices “blend Andalusian and Moorish influences… with European neoclassical forms”, especially around Plaza Mayor, where the 1813 Palacio Cantero stands opposite the rustic Palacio Brunet. In Trinidad the air still seems sweet with cane smoke – it is as if the slaves and merchants of the 1830s have returned for a century-long fiesta.
Another UNESCO site, Camagüey, offers a different surprise: an irregular, almost maze-like plan. One of Cuba’s oldest towns (settled 1528), Camagüey was built inland to escape pirate raids and developed medieval-style winding streets and plazas. The historic 54-hectare center is “an exceptional example of a traditional urban settlement” with serpentine alleys, hidden courtyards and a patchwork of neoclassical, Art Deco, Neo-colonial, and even Art Nouveau facades. This snarl of lanes protected treasures from colonial conflicts; today it charms tourists who lose themselves finding the next church or plaza.
Cuba also has well-preserved (if often decaying) modernist architecture of its 20th century. The pre-revolutionary development of Havana’s Vedado district produced some Latin American classics: in the late 1940s-50s, young local architects embraced the International Style alongside Latin American flair. Buildings like the radiocentro city hall or the bloc-like Edificio del Seguro Médico in Havana were part of a Brazilian‐and-Mexican-tinged modernism. The most famous is perhaps the Habana Hilton hotel (1958), which Cuban state media note hosted Fidel’s Revolution Council after January 1959. Remarkably, many such modern buildings remain “relatively unchanged since their initial construction,” observes architectural historians. Decades of embargo and economic hardship meant there was simply no foreign capital to demolish or remake them. An article in Harvard’s ReVista notes: “the economic forces of real estate development… have been denied access to Havana”, an “ironically fortuitous” preservation policy. Thus La Rampa (the glitzy former casino strip of Vedado) still sports mid-century neon signs and a grid of modernist hotels and cinemas – ripe now for historians to champion as worthy of heritage.
In short, Cuban cityscapes mix epochs. A colonial plaza, a decayed artillery redoubt, a Soviet‐built apartment block and a pastel neo-gothic church can all stand shoulder to shoulder. On the same street where a red Buick rattles, one may glimpse a skeletal Stalinist statue of Che Guevara in the distance. Even Havana’s newest buildings – like the glossy Casa de la Cultura or tiny Embassy hotels – often imitate pre-1959 styles, acknowledging nostalgia. This architectural collage is unmistakably Cuban: it tells the story of a nation that absorbed Spanish Empire, French ambition, American influence, communist ideology, and its own island ingenuity, all physically imprinted in brick and concrete.
Cuba’s uniqueness is best felt in its daily rhythms and contradictions. Consider transportation: nearly everywhere, Havanans encounter an eye-catching parade of vehicles that exists “only in Cuba.” Yes, there are gleaming classic Cadillacs and Buicks from the 1950s, maintained with astonishing craftsmanship. (One observer notes “there are around 60,000 classic American cars in Cuba,” many kept running by replacing parts with Russian or Chinese bits.) The tourism market supports that: these vintage cars double as taxis for sunburnt holidaymakers. Yet in the very same lane a modest three-wheeled bicycle taxi (bicitaxi) may trundle by, one gear and one passenger, its driver pedaling like his life depended on it. Elsewhere in Havana one can rent a modern electric scooter, or navigate on foot because sidewalks are crowded with people speaking on smartphones (according to 2023 data, over 7.9 million Cubans – roughly 71% of the population – now use the internet). In one city block the socialist reality sings and the capitalist trap clangs: for instance, at a government-run clinic under a towering Bust of Martí, a sign upstairs reads “No Smoking” in Cyrillic (a Sputnik-era holdover), while down the street a private bar advertises Cuba Libre cocktails.
The economics are striking: tourism dollars abound for visitors, but supply lags for locals. Tourists in Havana’s cigar shops can pay in euros and receive their tropical souvenirs a la carte; just blocks away, Cubans must join government lines to buy their monthly 10 kg of rice (the same year’s crew of foreign intourists consumes 100× that in a week). Cuba once had two currencies – the old peso (CUP) for locals and the “convertible peso” (CUC) for tourists and imported goods – reflecting how one economy bowed to dollars while the other struggled on rations. Though the CUC was phased out in 2021, vestiges remain: high-end stores still charge the equivalent of 1000 pesos for shirts, and many pharmacies accept only hard currency. A telling statistic from before unification was that a new Chevrolet might cost $70,000 USD while the median Cuban earned about $20 per month. Almost nothing official costs that little now, and inflation makes queuing even longer – much like what an LSE blogger noted in 2020, describing Cubans rising before dawn to stand hours in bread lines, their fortunes entangled with foreign exchange and oil tanker schedules.
Meanwhile, urban change and decay happen side by side. Revitalized plazas in Old Havana sparkle with fresh paint and live timba music each evening, as tourists sip mojitos under restored colonnades. Just beyond those areas, one-floor colonial houses crumble, decrepit roofless buildings collapsing onto electric lines. Across town, the steps of Revolution Square host mass parades with marching bands and uniformed schoolchildren, the scene unchanged since the 1960s. But a block away, the university labs are getting new Chinese microscopes and an underground artist space sketches avant-garde street-art murals. It is said that “in Cuba, plenty and poverty coexist on the same street.” For every emblazoned Cuban flag or new skyline tourism project, the average person still encounters supply cuts and flickering power.
Cuba’s daily life features official austerity and informal abundance. The state subsidizes health and education (no bill for dental visits, state scholarships for thousands of students), but the market supplies almost everything else. On a bright corner you might find a privately run paladar (restaurant) blasting Buena Vista Social Club tunes and serving lobster to foreigners, while locals haggle in Spanish for a half-litre of cooking oil hidden in a rum bottle. Craftiness thrives: an elderly man selling grilled chicken uses vinegar for sauce and a splintered crate for a table. Pharmacy shelves are nearly empty, yet artists queue overnight to submit hand-painted posters to the weekly “poster factory” run by the Communist Party (and get paid a token stipend). The internet is allowed but censored; a promising Cuban lyricist can upload music on a portable hard drive called “el paquete” to sidestep the state network. In short, living in Cuba is like juggling two worlds: one of chronic shortage and one of boundless culture. The need to improvise fosters both hardship and a sense of collective solidarity – and also a general embrace of irony and humor that is uniquely Cuban.
Ironically, life under these constraints has fueled some of Cuba’s greatest strengths. Nationwide literacy (along with supportive arts programs) helped launch Cuba’s international literary stars like Leonardo Padura and Alejo Carpentier. Community music schools churn out symphony players; dancers rise through ballet schools. Because street life is the theater of the everyday, Cuba’s musical output is legendary. The Afro-Cuban trumpet riff in jazz and salsa, the fervent choruses of sones, the repurposed melodies of santería chants – all grew from neighborhoods and barrios into major cultural movements. In architecture too, the revolutionary need gave birth to unique styles. Consider communist memorial architecture: Eusebio Leal, Havana’s former City Historian, designed giant abstract murals on Ministry buildings, and the pyramid-topped monument at Santa Clara. Even ruins are cultural sites: the rusting spherical radar installations of Playa Girón (Bay of Pigs) are now a counter-revolutionary museum. The island’s isolation has also given space for experimentation – for example, literacy campaigns mobilized art for propaganda (villagers painting wall murals instructing reading) in a way seldom seen elsewhere.
Cuban society prizes artistry as much as survival. Street artists draw vibrant graffiti murals of Che and Celia Cruz; breakdancers battle in alleys; poets recite in La Habana Vieja plazas. The globalization of Cuban culture is ironic: while the island’s embassies shudder under U.S. restrictions, its citizens are many of the world’s most traveled scientists and performers (think of the Cuban doctors assisting in global pandemics, the ballet dancers joining international troupes, or athletes like Alberto Juantorena and Mijaín López winning Olympic gold). All have Latin American roots yet speak with a Spanish tinged by Caribbean patois – a linguistic creativity that mirrors social fusion.
Daily paradoxes extend to mores and freedoms. Homosexuality was once stigmatized by the regime, but in recent decades Cuba declared itself gay-friendly (despite occasional backsliding). In Havana a chic drag show might fill the same nightclub whose owner once wore military camo to parties in the 1970s. The revolutionary ideal of igualdad (equality) remains a public virtue – everyone gets a free education – even while private remittances silently create a new middle class. Such contradictions animate heated debates in Cuba today: reformers argue for more market latitude and private ownership, old-guard hardliners warn of imperialist threats. But through it all, Cubans manage with a sort of pragmatic poetry. It is not uncommon to hear, after a comical episode of ration lines or power outages, a shrug and the phrase “Así es la vida” (such is life) followed by a smile or a laugh. That blend of resilience and artistry, perseverance and humor, seems woven into Cuban DNA.
As Cuba navigates the 21st century, it does so on its own eccentric map. The acute scarcity of yesterday is now challenged by modest openness: private business licenses are slowly expanding, internet cafes have spread, and even cryptocurrency farmers now till virtual fields in Havana. Yet any infusion of normalcy remains edged by the island’s special circumstances – from its planned economy to the half-century embargo, from its single-party rule to its revolutionary mythology. When a foreign observer asks “What is special about Cuba?” there is no simple answer, because practically everything is special here. One might point to Havana’s vintage autos, but those are as much a necessity of embargo as a curiosity. One might mention “patient, friendly people,” but also witness frustration in young eyes desperate to leave. One might note “free health and arts,” but also see lines at bakeries. In Cuba, abundance and paucity, openness and isolation, past and present are squeezed together into every street, every revolution museum, every Negro spiritual on the radio.
Yet despite all these contradictions, Cuba’s spirit is coherent. Whether in vibrant cultural neighborhoods or in the classrooms of the Barrio Pesquero, Cubans articulate a proud national narrative – one of resistance against bigger powers, of cultural fusion, of defiant endurance. The country’s ecological, cultural and historical singularities are all sides of the same gem: an island that carried African spirits, European churches, Asia-mined nickel, and Soviet tanks into a tropical stew. The end of every American tour and NGO report often reads as a lament on how Cuba is stuck in the past; but the truth is subtler. Cuba’s “stuckness” is also its very aliveness: an unlost utopia on a Caribbean isle, at once backward and strangely futuristic. To know Cuba one must see its old cars and its new solar panels, its jingling ration card and its high-tech biotech labs (yes, Cuba developed a COVID-19 vaccine), its traditional rumba and its hip-hop that condemns poverty. No other place marries all these contradictions. Therein lies the truth of the phrase “Only in Cuba…”: it is a place that cannot fully be transferred, only deeply experienced.
In Cuba, history is not a distant heritage, but an ongoing conversation. Every battered colonial door opens to reveal stories of international intrigue, revolutionary zeal or creative improvisation. This nation has walked through fire more than once, yet still dances, still composes music, still debates ideology under the very palms that once hid guerrillas. Amid scarcity, Cubans sing, paint, and celebrate. Amid isolation, they share freely on the internet and classrooms. Amid everything that sets Cuba apart, there is a continuity: the Cuban people’s own identity and resilience.
When the Revolution turned sixty, a Cuban poet wrote that Havana is “a pocket of time where memory refuses to sleep.” Indeed, every stone wall, every flag-draped plaza, every rooftop vista over the Malecón speaks of an immense, contradictory journey. The country’s revolution, its syncretic spirituality, its forests and reefs, its ramshackle yet regal buildings – all of these converge to make Cuba sui generis. It is a journey still unfolding. One cannot fully predict how this island will change (US relations may thaw or freeze, the young and old will pressure the system to adapt, and climate change looms on the horizon). But whatever comes, these elements will endure: a revolutionary heart that set its own course, a culture of blending and survival, and an island ecology that nurtures the strange and beautiful. Only in Cuba does such a tapestry exist – a place where the world’s margins became the center of a very different story.
Kubanske ekonomske osobenosti takođe odražavaju njenu modernu istoriju. Donedavno, Kuba je funkcionisala po sistemu dvostruke valute: kubanski pezo (CUP) za lokalno stanovništvo i kubanski konvertibilni pezo (CUC) za strance (vezan za američki dolar u odnosu otprilike 1:1). Turisti su plaćali CUC-om u hotelima i prodavnicama, dok su Kubanci zarađivali u CUP-ovima (oko 24 CUP-a prema 1 CUC). Ova nezgodna struktura – neka vrsta „aparthejda“ novca – nastala je 1990-ih kako bi se privukla čvrsta valuta, a istovremeno zaštitili radnici od inflacije. To je značilo dve cene na menijima, dve stope na bankomatima i nervozno žongliranje za obične Kubance.
U januaru 2021. godine, Kuba je započela monetarno ujedinjenje „nultog dana“: CUC je ukinut, a svi računi konvertovani u CUP. Danas Kuba ima jednu valutu (CUP) i slobodno fluktuirajući devizni kurs. U praksi, turisti sada koriste kartice (Visa/Mastercard omogućene za Kubu) ili nose gotovinu (USD ili evre, zamenjene za CUP). Cene, međutim, ostaju niske u lokalnom smislu – ulična užina može koštati 1 USD, ali Kubanac zaposlen u državnoj službi zarađuje u proseku samo oko 20 dolara mesečno.
Čudnosti ekonomije i dalje postoje: postoji vrlo malo potrošačkih brendova, državne prodavnice „za dolar“ prodaju uvezenu robu, a novi poduhvati poput Airbnb-a su i dalje retki. Doznake iz inostranstva (porodični novac) igraju veliku ulogu u mnogim domaćinstvima, a rastući privatni sektor paladares i casa particulares (pansiona) je smeo korak na tržišnu teritoriju. U nekim aspektima, putovanje na Kubu znači suočavanje sa dva sveta istovremeno: izbledelim kolektivnim farmama i hipsterskim kafićima.
Kubanska kuhinja je obilna i nepretenciozna. Osnovne namirnice su pirinač, crni pasulj (friholes negros), pržene banane (tostones i slatki maduros), pečena svinjetina (lečon) i jarki citrusni sosovi zvani mojos. Oni se spajaju u omiljenim jelima kao što su aroz kon poljo (piletina i pirinač), ropa vijeha (iseckana govedina u paradajz sosu) i juka kon mojo (koren kasave preliven uljem od belog luka i citrusa). Ulični prodavci prodaju prhke pastelitose (peciva punjena mesom ili guavom) i guste tropske smutije („batidos“ od manga, papaje, gvanabane). Iako mlečni proizvodi i jaja mogu nestati sa polica, kubanski kuvari ih zamenjuju u ograničenim količinama, a tropskog voća ima u izobilju tokom cele godine.
Posebna institucija je paladar. To su mali, privatni restorani koje vode porodice iz svojih domova, nastali tokom Specijalnog perioda 1990-ih kada je vlada legalizovala ograničeno samozapošljavanje. Paladar može da primi samo osam gostiju u dnevnoj sobi nameštenoj ratanom, ali usluga i ukus mogu biti izvrsni. Pošto posluju van glavnog sistema obroka, vlasnici često nabavljaju sastojke na neformalnom tržištu (ponekad iz Brazila ili preko lokalnog crnog tržišta) i menjaju menije svake večeri. Rezultat je uzbudljiva nepredvidivost: jedne večeri možete pronaći svežu škarpinu u sosu od belog luka ili jastoga ako ga je neko doneo na pijacu; druge večeri to mogu biti skromni svinjski kotleti i juka.
Bez zvaničnog oglašavanja, paladaresi napreduju usmenom predajom. Mladi kubanski kuvari sada pomeraju granice na mestima poput Vedada i Old Havane, nudeći kubansku fuziju u stilu tapasa, zanatske koktele (naravno, rum Havana Klab) i obroke sa proizvoda direktno na sto u baštama u dvorištima.
Kubanci se takođe bore sa neobičnostima poput El Rapidosa („Brzi“), državnog lanca brze hrane predstavljenog 1990-ih. Ironično, bio je poznat po sporoj usluzi i škrtim porcijama. Jedna rečenica je glasila: „Aquí funciona el motor, lo que nunca el carro“ („Ovde motor radi, ali auto nikad“) – šala koja se odnosi na njegovo ime. Danas neki El Rapidosi i dalje postoje (služe burgeri i pomfrit), ali većina meštana bi radije kuvala kod kuće ili posećivala paladar.
Reklame na menijima i zidovima gotovo da i ne postoje. Za ručak, možete otići u skromnu kafeteriju i ne videti šarene postere: samo meni ispisan kredom na zidu sa navedenim supama, pirinčem i pasuljem, piletinom i morosima – nema bilborda Mekdonaldsa ili džinglova Koka-Kole na vidiku. Čak ni TV programi tokom sapunica nikada ne prelaze na reklame. Ovo odsustvo marketinga je zapanjujuće za mnoge posetioce: Kuba se zaista oseća kao svet bez reklama.
Lutanje Kubom otkriva slojeve i slojeve teksture: španske kolonijalne pločice koje pucaju pod karipskim suncem, starac koji meša rum od šećerne trske u sumrak, obližnja ceremonija Santerija koja spaja sveto bubnjeve sa katoličkim ritualom i blistavi plavi Plimut iz 1950-ih koji stoji na ivičnjaku. Svako iskustvo je prožeto istorijom – od kreolskog ponosa Hosea Martija do odjeka socijalističke ere u knjižicama sa hranama i mitinzima na Plazi revolucije. Kubanske kontradikcije – sloboda pod ograničenjem, boje unutar izbledelih zidova – čine je beskrajno fascinantnom.
Današnja Kuba nije ni njen besprekorni mit sa razglednica iz 1950-ih niti njen stereotip iz 1980-ih koji je zastareo, već evoluirajuća tapiserija. Preduzetnici služe gurmanske mohitoe na krovnim barovima, čak i kada nestanci struje podsećaju na prošlu oskudicu. Besprekorni 4G u Havani koegzistira sa selima gde je najbliži internet radio-amater. Pa ipak, kubanski narod tokom celog života čuva osećaj gracioznosti pod pritiskom: osmeh nakon čekanja u redu, ruka pružena u pomoć, rezonantan oproštaj.
Za putnika, Kuba je zemlja čula i duše. To je osetiti pucketanje vintažnog vinil dansona tokom dugog putovanja vozom, osetiti miris pečenja lečona u nedelju, gledati u neonskim svetlom osvetljenu Čeovu ikonu koja svetli na sumračnom trgu. To je znati da je na Kubi svaki ulični ćošak deo istorije i da je svaka osoba srela pripovedača svog vremena. Na kraju krajeva, Kuba zahteva pažnju posvećenu nijansama – ukusa, zvuka, boja, pa čak i tišine. Takva dubina i složenost kriju se iza njenih retro fasada i vatrenih ritmova, nudeći putovanje koje odjekuje dugo nakon povratka kući.
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