Restricted Realms: Những địa điểm kỳ lạ và cấm kỵ nhất thế giới
Trong một thế giới đầy rẫy những điểm đến du lịch nổi tiếng, một số địa điểm tuyệt vời vẫn còn là bí mật và hầu hết mọi người không thể tiếp cận. Đối với những người đủ mạo hiểm để…
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.
Mục lục
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.
Những nét kỳ quặc về kinh tế của Cuba cũng phản ánh lịch sử hiện đại của đất nước này. Cho đến tận gần đây, Cuba vẫn áp dụng hệ thống tiền tệ kép: Peso Cuba (CUP) cho người dân địa phương và Peso chuyển đổi Cuba (CUC) cho người nước ngoài (được neo giá khoảng 1:1 với đô la Mỹ). Khách du lịch trả bằng CUC tại các khách sạn và cửa hàng, trong khi người Cuba kiếm được bằng CUP (khoảng 24 CUP đổi 1 CUC). Thiết lập kỳ quặc này – một loại “chế độ phân biệt chủng tộc” về tiền tệ – xuất hiện vào những năm 1990 để thu hút ngoại tệ mạnh trong khi bảo vệ người lao động khỏi lạm phát. Điều này có nghĩa là có hai mức giá trên thực đơn, hai tỷ giá trên máy ATM và một màn tung hứng căng thẳng đối với người dân Cuba bình thường.
Vào tháng 1 năm 2021, Cuba bắt đầu thống nhất tiền tệ “Ngày số 0”: CUC đã bị bãi bỏ và tất cả các tài khoản được chuyển đổi sang CUP. Ngày nay, Cuba có một loại tiền tệ (CUP) và tỷ giá hối đoái thả nổi. Trên thực tế, khách du lịch hiện sử dụng thẻ (Visa/Mastercard được phép sử dụng tại Cuba) hoặc mang theo tiền mặt (USD hoặc euro, đổi thành CUP). Tuy nhiên, giá cả vẫn ở mức thấp theo giá địa phương – một món ăn vặt đường phố có thể có giá 1 đô la Mỹ, nhưng một người Cuba làm việc cho nhà nước chỉ kiếm được trung bình khoảng 20 đô la mỗi tháng.
Những điều kỳ lạ của nền kinh tế vẫn tồn tại: rất ít thương hiệu tiêu dùng tồn tại, các cửa hàng "đô la" do nhà nước điều hành bán hàng nhập khẩu và các dự án kinh doanh mới như Airbnb vẫn còn hiếm. Tiền kiều hối từ nước ngoài (tiền gia đình) đóng vai trò lớn trong nhiều hộ gia đình và một khu vực tư nhân đang phát triển mạnh mẽ của paladares và casa particulares (nhà nghỉ) là một bước đi táo bạo vào lãnh thổ thị trường. Theo một số cách, du lịch ở Cuba có nghĩa là phải đối mặt với hai thế giới cùng một lúc: các trang trại tập thể đã phai nhạt và các quán cà phê hipster.
Ẩm thực Cuba thịnh soạn và giản dị. Các món chính là cơm, đậu đen (frijoles negros), chuối chiên (tostones và sweet maduros), thịt lợn quay (lechón) và nước sốt cam chanh tươi gọi là mojos. Những thứ này kết hợp với nhau trong các món ăn được yêu thích như arroz con pollo (gà và cơm), ropa vieja (thịt bò xé nhỏ trong nước sốt cà chua) và yuca con mojo (rễ sắn rưới dầu tỏi-cam quýt). Những người bán hàng rong bán pastelitos (bánh ngọt nhân thịt hoặc ổi) và sinh tố nhiệt đới đặc (“batidos” gồm xoài, đu đủ, guanábana). Mặc dù sữa và trứng có thể hết sạch trên kệ, nhưng các đầu bếp Cuba vẫn thay thế trong phạm vi nhất định, và trái cây nhiệt đới thì có quanh năm.
Một thể chế đặc biệt là paladar. Đây là những nhà hàng nhỏ, riêng tư do các gia đình điều hành bên ngoài nhà của họ, ra đời vào Thời kỳ đặc biệt những năm 1990 khi chính phủ hợp pháp hóa việc tự kinh doanh có giới hạn. Một paladar có thể chỉ phục vụ tám thực khách trong một phòng khách được trang bị đồ mây, nhưng dịch vụ và hương vị có thể rất tinh tế. Vì họ hoạt động bên ngoài hệ thống khẩu phần chính, nên chủ sở hữu thường lấy nguyên liệu từ thị trường không chính thức (đôi khi từ Brazil hoặc thông qua chợ đen địa phương) và thay đổi thực đơn hàng đêm. Kết quả là một sự khó đoán đầy thú vị: một đêm bạn có thể tìm thấy cá mú tươi trong nước sốt tỏi hoặc tôm hùm nếu ai đó mang nó ra chợ; một đêm khác có thể là sườn heo khiêm tốn và cây sắn.
Không có quảng cáo chính thức, paladares phát triển mạnh nhờ truyền miệng. Các đầu bếp trẻ người Cuba hiện đang mở rộng phạm vi ở những nơi như Vedado và Old Havana, cung cấp các món ăn kết hợp kiểu Cuba tapas, cocktail thủ công (tất nhiên là rượu rum Havana Club) và ăn uống từ nông trại đến bàn ăn trong các khu vườn sân trong.
Người Cuba cũng phải đối mặt với những điều kỳ lạ như El Rápido (“The Fast One”), chuỗi cửa hàng thức ăn nhanh do nhà nước điều hành ra mắt vào những năm 1990. Trớ trêu thay, nơi này nổi tiếng với dịch vụ chậm và khẩu phần ăn ít. Một câu nói ngắn gọn: “Aquí funciona el motor, lo que nunca el carro” (“Ở đây động cơ chạy, nhưng ô tô thì không bao giờ chạy”) – một trò đùa chế giễu tên của nơi này. Ngày nay, một số El Rápido vẫn còn tồn tại (phục vụ bánh mì kẹp thịt và khoai tây chiên), nhưng hầu hết người dân địa phương thích nấu ăn ở nhà hoặc ghé vào một paladar.
Quảng cáo trên thực đơn và tường gần như không tồn tại. Đối với bữa trưa, bạn có thể đến một căng tin khiêm tốn và không thấy áp phích đầy màu sắc: chỉ có một thực đơn được viết bằng phấn trên tường liệt kê súp, cơm và đậu, gà và moros - không có biển quảng cáo McDonald's hay tiếng nhạc hiệu Coca-Cola nào trong tầm mắt. Ngay cả các chương trình truyền hình trong các bộ phim truyền hình dài tập cũng không bao giờ chuyển sang quảng cáo. Sự vắng mặt của tiếp thị này khiến nhiều du khách ngạc nhiên: Cuba thực sự giống như một thế giới không có quảng cáo.
Đi lang thang khắp Cuba sẽ thấy nhiều lớp kết cấu: gạch thuộc địa Tây Ban Nha nứt dưới ánh nắng mặt trời Caribe, một ông già pha rượu rum mía lúc chạng vạng, một buổi lễ Santería gần đó kết hợp tiếng trống thiêng liêng với nghi lễ Công giáo, và một chiếc Plymouth màu xanh sáng bóng của thập niên 1950 đang chạy không tải trên lề đường. Mỗi trải nghiệm đều được lịch sử ghi nhận - từ niềm tự hào của người Creole José Martí đến tiếng vọng của thời đại xã hội chủ nghĩa trong các tập sách khẩu phần và các cuộc biểu tình Plaza de la Revolución. Những mâu thuẫn của Cuba - tự do trong sự hạn chế, màu sắc trong những bức tường phai màu - khiến nơi đây trở nên vô cùng hấp dẫn.
Cuba ngày nay không phải là huyền thoại bưu thiếp nguyên sơ của thập niên 1950 hay khuôn mẫu lỗi thời của thập niên 1980, mà là một tấm thảm đang phát triển. Các doanh nhân phục vụ mojito hảo hạng tại các quán bar trên tầng thượng, ngay cả khi tình trạng mất điện nhắc nhở bạn về sự khan hiếm trong quá khứ. 4G liền mạch ở Havana cùng tồn tại với những ngôi làng nơi internet gần nhất là một đài phát thanh nghiệp dư. Tuy nhiên, trong suốt thời gian đó, người dân Cuba vẫn giữ được cảm giác duyên dáng dưới áp lực: một nụ cười sau khi xếp hàng, một bàn tay đưa ra để giúp đỡ, một lời adiós vang vọng.
Đối với du khách, Cuba là đất nước của các giác quan và tâm hồn. Đó là cảm nhận tiếng nổ lách tách của đĩa than danzón cổ điển trên chuyến tàu dài, ngửi mùi lechón nướng vào Chủ Nhật, ngắm nhìn biểu tượng Che sáng đèn neon trong quảng trường hoàng hôn. Đó là biết rằng ở Cuba, mỗi góc phố đều là một phần lịch sử và mỗi người đều gặp một người kể chuyện về thời đại của họ. Cuối cùng, Cuba đòi hỏi sự chú ý đến sắc thái - hương vị, âm thanh, màu sắc và thậm chí là sự im lặng. Chiều sâu và sự phức tạp như vậy nằm đằng sau vẻ ngoài cổ điển và nhịp điệu nồng nhiệt của nó, mang đến một hành trình vang vọng rất lâu sau khi người ta trở về nhà.
Trong một thế giới đầy rẫy những điểm đến du lịch nổi tiếng, một số địa điểm tuyệt vời vẫn còn là bí mật và hầu hết mọi người không thể tiếp cận. Đối với những người đủ mạo hiểm để…
Lisbon là một thành phố trên bờ biển Bồ Đào Nha kết hợp khéo léo các ý tưởng hiện đại với sức hấp dẫn của thế giới cũ. Lisbon là trung tâm nghệ thuật đường phố thế giới mặc dù…
Từ màn trình diễn samba của Rio đến sự thanh lịch khi đeo mặt nạ của Venice, hãy khám phá 10 lễ hội độc đáo thể hiện sự sáng tạo của con người, sự đa dạng văn hóa và tinh thần lễ hội chung. Khám phá…
Nước Pháp được biết đến với di sản văn hóa quan trọng, ẩm thực đặc biệt và cảnh quan hấp dẫn, khiến nơi đây trở thành quốc gia được ghé thăm nhiều nhất trên thế giới. Từ việc ngắm nhìn những…
Xem xét ý nghĩa lịch sử, tác động văn hóa và sức hấp dẫn không thể cưỡng lại của chúng, bài viết khám phá những địa điểm tâm linh được tôn kính nhất trên thế giới. Từ những tòa nhà cổ đến những…
