After a very short night I get myself together and head downstairs. Jack is there, hale, hearty and excited, and proudly shows me the substantial pile of boxes. Paul and Frank are there as well, and we're joined by two new members of the group, Earl Kellogg and Stephen Ayres.

Earl is pleasant-looking man in his late forties or early fifties, I'd guess, who is vice president of Winrock International, an Arkansas foundation started by Winthrop Rockefeller that works with problems of hunger and poverty through teaching sustainable agriculture, rural development and management of natural resources. A PhD., Earl was a specialist in agricultural economics on the faculty of the University of Illinois for years and has worked all over the world through the good offices of many governmental and non-governmental programs. He's on the Advisory Council of the Christian Children's Fund.

Also on the CCR Advisory Council, Stephen Ayres is an MD who was, among other things, Dean of the Virginia Commonwealth University's Medical College. He has a shock of white hair and a young face, so it's hard to tell his age, but I'd guess mid-to-late fifties. He has also traveled, taught and worked all over the world and is a specialist in Public Health. He just returned, Paul says, from Byelorussia, where he was working with child victims of the Chernobyl disaster.

Fast company, I'm thinking. What the hell am I doing here?

The six of us hustle our baggage through the airport lobby to the desk where we check in. It's a charter airline that does the round trip only once a week.  No other U.S. or U.S. owned airlines may fly in or out of Cuba.) There is a large crowd gathered, not surprisingly most of them Hispanic. As we gather with the rest of our group and pile up our bags, the travel guy Paul has arranged for gives us a bunch of documents to fill out. Before dealing with them we're introduced to our last three fellow travelers, which allows me to say hello to an old friend.

Janet Shenk is director of the Arca Foundation in Washington (she took over when Margie Tabankin came out West to run the HWPC) and we were on delegations together to El Salvador and Nicaragua in the early '80s and to the Middle East in '88.  Probably in her late '30s, Janet's flashing dark eyes and youthful manner disguise the fact that she knows more about U.S. relationships with Latin America than any three people in Washington. She speaks Spanish like a native, has written at least one book (on El Salvador), is hugely respected and has zero tolerance for the patronizing nonsense that comes out of most Washington policy makers. She's also a new mom and is going through separation anxiety about being away from her Olivia.

Mary Estrin is another Californian. An attractive blonde, probably in her early forties, she is vice president of the General Service Foundation, which works on peace and human rights issues in Central America and the Caribbean. We've met at a couple of times at Human Rights Watch and Hollywood Women's Political Committee events and once at a dinner for Vassar College, where my daughter now goes and Mary was a student.

Walter Russell Mead is a political economist whose writing I have enjoyed. A surprisingly young, or young-looking, man (looks to be in his thirties), he is Senior Policy Advisor at the World Policy Institute in New York and is a contributing editor at Harper's and the Los Angeles Times. He has traveled all over the world and is a much-sought-after writer and speaker.

Introductions over, we try to figure out what to do. The fellow from the travel agency is very nice but not particularly helpful in that he indicates the problems with the Customs people seem to be a matter of whim and thus can't be predicted.  Sometimes they search you, sometimes they don't. Last week, he says, they were doing strip searches.  (There's an exciting thought.) It's a question of their mood.  Great! One of the forms we're asked to fill out wants to know how much money each of us is taking into the country. The gentleman says they will only allow us each to take in $100 cash for every day we're to be in country (for hotel and meals), and an additional $100 to spend above that. "You mean an additional $100 per day?" I ask.  Nope. $100 a day for hotel and meals (if you can do it for that) and a total of $100 for spending money. Whoop de doo! Obviously, they don't want to take any chance of our personally bailing out the Cuban economy. Janet is already pissed.

So what do we do?  Jack has a lot of cash that he wants to spend (for the very reason the US Government doesn't want us to have it), Paul has a good deal of money to cover expenses, like an internal flight we're scheduled to take, and to cover the tour arrangements, translators, etc. I certainly intend to take more than a total of $800. In fact, I have $2500 on me, just in case. Do we put down the amount we're actually carrying and make the argument if they put up a fuss, do we give what we have over the allowed limit to our man from the travel agency and ask him to hold it for us, do we send it home, do we lie and hide the cash on us and hope they don't search us? What? Frank has a diplomatic passport, maybe they won't search him.  Should we give it all to him? (Frank grows a little pale at the thought of the headline, "Congressional Aide Arrested Smuggling Thousands of $$ into Communist Cuba!!")

As we're each wrestling with our decisions and figuring out the forms (I decide that, confusing as it is, I'm going to declare $800. If they search me and find the rest - or if I fall apart under the pressure and turn myself in - I'll say that I only put down what I intended to spend and the rest is just in the event of an emergency - and by the way, have you ever seen the TV series MASH?), we're also trying to work out the puzzle of the luggage and our boxes of medicine. It is decided that we won't open the boxes and stash the contents in our bags, but will just put it all up there and act like we do it every day. So we form a line and pass up bags and boxes and stack things up and watch warily as the woman behind the counter weighs and tags everything. Without so much as the blink of an eye, she puts it all over onto the conveyor belt and off it goes. Well, so much for that drama.  Of course, the possibility exists that we'll never see it again. Or worse, we'll be confronted with it when we're all hanging in irons from the walls of the secret torture chamber down the hall.

We move through the rest of the process (each person has to pay an "airport tax" of $41) and then decide to have a bite of breakfast before confronting the lions in their den. After a snack, a rest and some nervous small talk we make our collective way to the gate. Nobody there but the crowd of passengers and a couple of harmless looking ticket agents. Maybe we're going to skate through without a problem after all! Maybe it was all hype. Do you think?

Well, since no one is going anywhere at this point anyway, we wait. Sure enough, after a half hour or so, down the way come four guys who look like a Swat Team. Very military looking, complete with muscles and tee shirts that say "CUSTOMS" on them and black pants and black suspenders and guns and things, they pass by and head over to the gate area. Oh, my. 

After a bit, names are called. None of ours for quite a while, then a voice over the loudspeaker says, "WALTER RUSSELL MEAD." (In fact, it sounded just like that. All in capital letters.) Walter makes a joke and heads over to the gate and out of sight and we all look at each other and wait some more.

After what seems like 20 minutes, but probably isn't, Walter reappears, looking very harried, decidedly unhappy and surrounded by the Swat Team. They all go over to a corner of the room and a phone appears. A call is made. No one knows what to do, so I decide to amble over in that direction, wondering if the Swats are going to object, but they don't. Walter breaks away, apparently not under arrest (I note, cleverly), and comes over to me. Since I don't yet know him well and he appears to be a pleasant, soft-spoken Southern gentleman it's hard to tell for sure, but I think he's fit to be tied. He says, "They want to take my $300." After we go over it a few times for the group, which has now gathered around, it seems that he decided to tell the truth ("I'm not going to lie," he declares firmly.) and declare on the form that he was carrying $1100. They said he could only take $800, so they were going to confiscate the difference. (This, of course, does not bode well for the rest of us.) He told them, in apparently no uncertain terms, that he was an American citizen, that they had no right to take his money or tell him what he could or could not do with it. He believed it reasonable, he said, to have a cushion in case of an emergency. Further, he offered to sign a statement, if they so desired, that he would spend no more than the prescribed limit, barring emergencies, and he offered to produce the $300 upon his return. But they could not take his money. They, in turn, said they could indeed take his money if he wanted to get on the plane, and said further that if he had a return ticket he had no reason to be concerned about an emergency ("What if I'm robbed?" he had asked in response.). So it was a stand-off. He said he had asked them how he would get his money back in the event they did take it and they had responded that he could "petition" for it; an idea, he told them sarcastically, that filled him with confidence. The phone call, it turned out, was at Walter's request (demand, actually), and it was to their superiors in Washington. No help however, was forthcoming.

As we were considering our various options (a choice between giving our extra money to the young man from the travel agency to hold until we returned or storming the plane and defecting), Janet went over to talk to the Customs Agents. Before long she was back with an embarrassed grin saying "I cried" and indicating that she might be making progress. She had talked about her daughter and said that she wasn't going to go anywhere without enough cash to get home in the event of an emergency and, she said, she had the feeling that at least one of these guys seemed to be human.

She returned to the corner where the Swat Team had situated themselves, for further discussions. Soon Paul and Mary joined them and the discussion was going hot and heavy. The rest of us stood by hopefully, counting the number of times the phone was used and trying to figure the odds. Was it too late to hide the extra money in our shoes, isn't that the first place they'd look, and if they do, how do you explain?  ("Gee, how did that get in there?")

As we waited, another drama erupted. A woman with an infant in arms began wailing and crying in obvious distress and went to one of the pay phones on a wall behind us. One of the Swat Team joined her for a moment, then left her to her own devices. (It turned out, Janet told us later, she had completed all the necessary legal documentation to make the trip in - they make it just as complicated as they can in order to discourage travel - only to get here and be told that she can't go because she hasn't done all the documentation and gotten all the necessary clearances for the baby!)

After a hell of a session, Janet comes back and says, "Listen carefully" and explains that she feels the head customs guy is trying to be reasonable, but there is another, very military looking guy there who seems to be the final authority.  (He's from a different government branch, one known to be particularly hard-nosed on Cuba.) The one guy had admitted to her that he hated all this, that he understood it was purely political, but he had no choice. He further said that he understands (and Janet got confirmation on this from Washington) that the law allows us to buy art and educational materials over the imposed spending limit, but that there seems to be a gray area about how much you can take into Cuba in order to do that and his neck was on the chopping block. What was clear to him was that they were saying $100 was the limit. Janet's read of it all was that she thought he was saying that if we didn't rub his nose in it, he wouldn't look too hard. Further, if anyone was caught with extra dollars they should clearly state that it was for the purchase of art or educational materials. If we were cool, she said, she had the feeling there wouldn't be a problem.

Somehow all the qualifiers made it not that comforting, but suddenly our names were being called and we had to grab our bags and get moving. As we headed toward the gate and the phalanx of Swat-types I began to sweat that I had out-smarted myself.  The amount on my declaration didn't jive with what I had in my pocket and, I felt, they could use that as a pretext to give me a lot of grief. I called out to Janet, who was just ahead, and asked what she thought, knowing that a quick change on the amount of the declaration would certainly call unwanted attention. Her advice, given on the run, was "Don't worry about it." Hmm. Well, I'm an actor. Maybe I can just act like I'm not worried about it.

And suddenly there we were, bunched up in the little corridor before the door to the loading ramp. All of a sudden it seemed as though there were seventy people in CUSTOMS-Swat-Team attire asking for passports and declarations and Janet and Paul were handing documents around and saying "Yes, this is all the same group" and we were being stopped, had our heads counted, then moved on through as the Swat guys were hassling some unfortunate man who wasn't one of us. As Walter, who was right ahead of me, passed the fellow who seemed to be in charge, I saw the guy look up and apparently say something. I couldn't hear what it was, but it looked as though he said, "Say a prayer for me."

Taking our seats aboard the plane we all make eye contact and breathe a collective sigh of relief, not yet sure if we're still liable to be approached by someone with a German accent and a monocle, saying, "Come vis me." All this and we're not even out of the country yet.

Doors closed, smiles all around and off we go!

The flight is short and uneventful. The only other obvious American in our compartment is a woman with a kind of sour expression. It turns out she's from the U.S. State Department and is assigned to the Cuban Interests Section in Havana.  It's a shame how some people fit the stereotype.

Approaching the Havana Airport we're told to set our watches back. Cuba is already on Daylight Savings Time, so is an hour earlier than Miami. First impressions from the air are of a very green, tropical-looking country which appears to be surprisingly well developed.

The pilot brings us in very fast with the nose up and we hit the strip with a hell of a bang. Scared the devil out of me. Welcome to Cuba! Coming down the ladder it's bright, not too hot and only a bit muggy. As we get in line for passport check Mary has to run back to the plane, having left her camera on the seat. The processing goes smoothly, with the control officer stamping our visas instead of the passports (as in the Middle East, having the stamp of one country of your passport can cause you trouble in another - only here a Cuba stamp can cause one grief at the US border). Jack, true to form, requests that the man make a point of stamping his passport.

Luggage collection is a bit of a zoo. People are all over the place and those who have come seem to have brought everything but the kitchen sink. In fact, many of those on our flight were wearing two or three hats and more than one set of clothing. A woman in front of me had on an obviously too-large pair of man's shoes. The shortages here are critical and, whether for family use or for sale on the black market, these people are trying to do something about it. A curious aspect of the situation that comes to my attention as we wait for our bags and (hopefully) Jack's boxes, is the number of pieces of luggage that come along the conveyor belt wrapped in plastic, looking as though they've been shrink-wrapped. A curiosity. I never did get clear whether that was done for protection by the person who checked it in or if it was an indication of particular attention on the part of the U.S. authorities.

After quite a wait, our luggage comes through. There are two belts operating simultaneously, so it's hard to keep an eye on everything. If something gets by and to the end of the process, some men take it off and place it on the floor, so growing numbers of bags are stacked haphazardly around the place. One has to keep checking these piles as well as the two belts and the whole process is complicated by the large number of people doing the same thing. Finally, Jack, Paul and I are able to collect all of the boxes of medicine, which are apparently unmolested (!), get our bags and head for Customs.

At customs, we're introduced to Gail Reed, an American journalist who has lived here for 15 years. Paul has arranged for her to be the liaison for the Christian Children's Fund in terms of this feasibility study and she has both prepared the materials we've received prior to coming and arranged our meetings and set up the itinerary. Probably in her forties, Gail was once married to a Cuban diplomat and has a son here who is, I think, a teenager. She's got a big smile and helps us cruise through Customs without a hitch. 

Outside, we get into a bus from Havanatur, which is to be ours for the duration, and meet our guide, Ivonne, who is also to be with us right through. For those of you who have been to the Soviet Union (when it was there), the system seems to have been modeled after their Intourist set-up. Ivonne is a sturdily-built, pretty young woman, I'd guess in her twenties, who speaks good English (and, we find out later, Russian as well). Also with us is Lola, a quiet, attractive woman with a lovely smile and what looks to be prematurely graying hair. She's evidently connected with the Ministry of Foreign Investment and Economic Cooperation.

Driving into and through the streets of Havana, one notices a number of things. The area we see, at least, is very well developed and neatly kept. This in spite of the fact that everything looks a bit shabby and is badly in need of paint and a cosmetic touch-up. Jack says he's heard that France offered to send in a shipment of paint but that the U.S. quashed it. (Later, Janet says she thinks it's more a function of economic priorities than embargoed materials.) Whatever the case, there is clearly a sense that certain amenities are lacking. Aside from the need for a coat of paint, automobiles, for example, are not the constant presence that one experiences in most major cities in the world. The reason, we're told, is a shortage of gasoline. The government supplies a limited amount to each person ( 2 liters , or something like that) per month, and buying more, when possible, is evidently quite expensive - at least on the average Cuban's budget. Thhe result is that there are bicycles everywhere on the streets, which is actually quite a pretty sight, though I suppose the pedalers might have less of an appreciation of the esthetics of it. There are also a large number of motorbikes and motorcycles (more motorcycles with side-cars than I've ever seen in one place).

The design of many of the buildings we're passing seems a bit unusual, at least as compared to those I've seen in Central America. A lot of square block construction with a quaintly ornate block design over the doors and around many of the windows, it strikes me as a kind of cross between Latin style and Soviet utilitarianism. In response to a question, Lola says they are all of Cuban design and Cuban construction, and all post-Revolution. (Later, looking at pre-Revolutionary buildings, I find that she's right. They're the same.)

We arrive at the Copacabana Hotel, which Ivonne says is not named after the famous one in Rio de Janeiro, but is named after a large, cup-shaped (copa) monument on 5th Avenue, the main street we came down. And, she says, cabana stands for Havana. Or rhymes with it. Or something.

This Copacabana is a modern hotel (about the level of quality of a big motel) right on the ocean. If you could see far enough straight out (north) you'd see the Florida Keys. Beautiful blue-green water rises and falls just beyond a sea-wall off the deck, upon which there is a large swimming pool.  The lobby is a fairly large, open, tiled affair, and we go through the usual check-in drill with passport numbers and are assigned rooms. 

Having arrived late (due to our duel with the American Government forces in Miami), we only have a few minutes to drop our stuff in our rooms and wash up before a quick briefing and then we have to head out for our first meeting.

The room is pretty straight-forward. Certainly not plush, but clean and containing all the necessaries. My room overlooks the ocean, which is a real plus. God, the water is beautiful!

At the briefing Gail welcomes us officially, gives us a few changes in the schedule and apologizes for the pace at which we'll be going. It's not new, of course, and one assumes we've all come to learn what we can in the time allotted so won't expect to be in a leisure mode, but it's kind of her to make apologetic noises about it all the same. Paul takes over to pose the basic question, "This is not the Third World." (As opposed to what many of us have seen in other parts of the world, this is a developed country with sophisticated systems and a working social/government arrangement.) "Is it appropriate for non-governmental organizations such as ours to get involved here, and, if so, how?" After batting this around for a bit everyone expresses their pleasure at the successful arrival of the medicines and their appreciation to Jack for having made it possible. In his uniquely shy manner, Jack shrugs off the praise and blusters a bit to change the subject.

Next, we're treated to a cocktail by the hotel management on the deck by the sea-wall. Musicians (we come to find it's usually a trio, with guitars and some sort of percussion, and always nice voices) serenade us and the hotel representatives make a gracious welcoming statement. Then, we're off.

Back in the bus, we head for our first meeting. This is with Raul Taladrid, Vice Minister of Foreign Investment and Economic Cooperation. The Ministry is in a rather dilapidated building not far from the center of Old Havana, and getting there entails driving east down 5th Avenue, the main drag, through a tunnel and along the coast for a while.  It is a gorgeous city in serious need of a face-lift. Again, many people, many bicycles, many motorcycles, few cars.

The steps into the Ministry building are badly chipped and the building itself looks to be pretty seedy. The interior is dark, due to what we come to discover is a serious shortage of light bulbs in the country. The elevator, which is said to be cranky and a bit erratic (not a pleasant thought by my lights) is out of order this day, so we climb the three flights to Taladrid's office. Negotiating the narrow stairway is a bit tricky in the relative darkness, but we make it without casualties and are ushered into a conference room and take seats around the table.

This room is air conditioned, though the windows remain open so it's more of an air cooler effect than true air conditioning, but as the temperature and humidity aren't overwhelming so far, it's not a problem. After a few minutes, Taladrid enters, along with a Senor Roqueta, who seems to be a subordinate. Raul Taladrid is a nice looking man, probably in his fifties, with gray hair, a pleasant, open face and a winning smile.  Wearing a guayabara, the open-collared shirt that serves as formal wear in many Latin American countries, he speaks excellent English as he welcomes us, indicates he knows Paul and Gail, and explains that he is responsible for all international cooperation granted by Cuba. Sr. Roqueta is identified as being in charge of relationships with all developed countries.

Paul suggests that for our host's benefit we go around the room and have each of our group introduce him-or-herself, so we take a few minutes to do so. I'm reminded , in listening, that it's a pretty impressive group he's put together. (Not at all sure what I bring to the mix, I make a point of mentioning my focus on human rights so that it's a factor in the discussion.)

Taladrid then begins with a long overview, saying "The last year of normality in Cuba was 1989" from the economic point of view, and adds, "our problems are mainly economic." Cuba, he tells us, is highly dependent on trade relationships. It is "not a self-sufficient country."  In 1989, the Socialist Bloc, "our main partners," disappeared. At that point, Cuba's combined yearly budget, including trade and domestic production, was $8.9 billion. By 1993, with the collapse of the Eastern Bloc and the tightening of the economic screws by the U.S. embargo, it was reduced to $1.7 billion. (!) This era, the period since the end of the Soviet Union, is referred to here as the "Special Period," which is, I guess, a euphemism for crisis.

This "Special Period" has required cut-backs. Cuba has no oil, for example, and was sustained in its need for fuel by regular shipments from the USSR, which are no longer forthcoming. New arrangements, at less friendly prices, have had to be made and the result has been the cancellation or postponement of all programs of social development. The Public Health and Education programs, which have been the gems of the Revolution, have been seriously impacted. They have had to cancel or postpone most programs of economic development and have chosen to concentrate on development of two areas that, they feel, are promising: tourism and biotechnology.

Tourism is important because Cuba's natural resources are plentiful and exploitable and the expansion of this industry will bring in hard currency, which is in short supply.

Biotechnology is relatively inexpensive to get into and is primarily dependent on people and training, which are plentiful here, and less dependent on the expenditure of fuel, for example, to operate.

The country, since the Revolution, has made great strides in the area of education. At the time of the Triumph of the Revolution (a point in time that is referred to in that way so often during our time here that it almost takes on the form of a mantra) there was a 47% illiteracy rate in the country. Today almost everyone is literate. The average Cuban's level of educational attainment is the 10th grade, while in the rest of Latin America the average is the 5th grade. Cuba comprises only 2% of the population of Latin America and now makes up 9% of its specialists.

An early study (pre-Revolution) done in the US indicated that there was no education on the research level being done in Cuba. The Revolution and its attendant changes in the area of education have been responsible for large strides for its people which now make possible this focus on tourism and biotechnology.

In the 1950s, 56% of the homes in the country had electricity. Now, over 90%.  That, of course, brings with it a requirement for more oil.

Cuba is not a member of the International Monetary Fund or the World Bank because of antagonism on the part of the United States, so they are currently using other means of outreach to seek foreign investment. Today, for example, there are over 150 joint ventures in place with foreign governments and/or entities to further develop the country's economy, but still, because of the small amount of dollars available to them, all other areas of investment have had to be temporarily curtailed.

In order for the government to gain access to the foreign currency that does come into the economy - through tips, for example, or through the other ways in which foreigners use their own currency - Cuba has legalized ownership of foreign currency and opened foreign currency stores (dollar stores), where one does not have to trade in Cuban pesos.

The dilemma presented the government by the increasing numbers of dollars in the hands of the population was that there were not, because of the embargo, sufficient goods and services to sell to them. The economy was thus suffering from the rise of a second (black market) economy.  (For example, the exchange rate published at the hotel was 1 Cuban peso for $1. On the street, you can exchange dollars for pesos at a rate that has fluctuated, Gail tells us, up to as high as 100 pesos to $1. The current rate, she says, is about 50 to $1.) In order to gain control of this economy, and to get hold of some dollars, the government has had to resort to taxation, which was heretofore unknown (since the Revolution), and is also having to begin to charge for some services which have been free to the people since the Triumph, such as meals in school cafeterias and sporting events. They are now even being forced to consider the possibility of charging for some medical services. (All medical services to all Cubans have been free of charge since the T of the R. Tell that to the U.S. Congress!)

Before the revolution, Cuba's was primarily an agricultural economy, but there was about 30% unemployment, which increased to 40% during non-harvest periods. The economy continues to be based upon agriculture, but since the Triumph, free services (schooling, etc.) have pulled many people away from the fields, which created a problem. This was solved by the mechanization of the agricultural industry, which worked brilliantly for a time, but that solution has been undermined today by the lack of fuel and parts for the machines. The result is a diminished ability to successfully harvest the crops, which, of course, redoubles the problem.

The frustration associated with all of this is evident in listening to Taladrid. He is proud of the fact that "we have developed human resources like no other country in the developing world" with programs that are "very costly, very long term," but during this "Special Period" they are fighting to keep all their prized results from unraveling. 

One way they have tried to deal with the crisis is to find ways to lure people, people who have been trained as professionals in some cases, back to the fields. They have collectivized some of the publicly held lands and have opened "free market" availabilities for the small farmer/producer. But it is a struggle.

It's aggravating, obviously, to see these problems result from the government's commitment to the principle that "we won't let any Cuban citizen be abandoned to himself." He admits, upon reflection, that "in the '60s, we overdid it." It's one thing, he says, to nationalize big companies, but "nationalizing snow cone salesmen went too far."

In some cases, they're doing OK. Generally speaking, he says, "sports are self financing."  (Cubans are passionate athletes. Some say they are the world's best baseball players. Paul is involved in an effort to promote a baseball game, or series of games, between North American professionals and the Cuban national team.)

In another area of concern, Taladrid says that with the free market experiments and with the special opportunities given certain segments of the population during this "Special Period," "some express concern that we are creating privilege" (anathema in an avowedly egalitarian society). Shrugging a bit, he says, "We have no choice."

As far as the question of people's continued loyalty to the regime is concerned, he says, "we vote every day. If I wake up and there's no electricity or water and I go on, I'm voting." And, "Every step we are taking has to be agreed upon by the people. That happens through (the paying of) taxes." "Meetings were held," he says, where all these decisions were discussed and debated. 

He says the decision to raise money for the treasury through the imposition of taxes was not met with joy, but it was supported by the people in the meetings. They opposed (as an example of the power of the popular will) a tax on salary, which the government wanted. Since the opposition was so strong, it was not levied.

The issue of privilege, which has been raised by some, has to be balanced by "equity." They are banking, he says, on the good will of the citizenry that has been generated over the years as a result of the early attention that was paid to providing the kinds of services that have been so valuable to the people

A discussion of human rights ensues, in which he dismisses the notion of repression as a "superficial concern." He insists that people are free to express their views, to agree or disagree with government opinions, in the various discussions in the workplace that were referred to earlier. He also goes into an approach I've heard before, which is the argument that the right to an education and the right to health care are also human rights and his country is far ahead of many, ours included, on those fronts. (While I think the positive argument, for the inclusion of those rights, is an important one to make, I don't think it's persuasive if it's being used as a deflection from discussion of other areas where basic rights are not honored, as seems to me to be the way it's being used here.)

On another subject, one of his responsibilities is to provide entertainment to the people - and since he has no access to product or opportunity to enter into the marketplace for television and film, he records things (probably off satellite) and arranges for them to be broadcast. He says, with a grin, "I don't like to think of myself as a pirate..." (unable to resist, I offer, "Blackbeard didn't like to think of himself as a pirate either." Fortunately, he has the grace to laugh.)

Taladrid brings the session to a close with a gracious expression of appreciation for our visit, for our interest, and for the intentions of the Christian Children's Fund and like organizations.

As we're walking out, he comments on my being an actor and says my face is familiar. I ask if he knows of MASH, which he doesn't, so then I suggest he may have seen my face on one of the films he's pirated. We share a laugh.

The bus takes us back to the hotel, where we have a little while to rest and/or freshen up before going out to dinner. The dinner scheduled tonight with the President of the National Assembly has been put off until tomorrow, so we're being taken out to a historic spot for dinner.

Into the bus and back down toward the city center, then into a tunnel which takes us under the entrance to Havana harbor and out onto the other side. There is a famous Spanish fort guarding the mouth of the harbor here, but I didn't get its name.

Going through the city after dark has a certain poignancy because what becomes clear is that significant sections of this beautiful city haven't enough fuel to power the lights - that or it's the shortage of light bulbs. Whatever the case, there is a curiously sad aspect to it, this beautiful, historic city with the appearance of "nobody home."

The restaurant is an historic building, as well. La Divina Pastora restaurant is in a terrific old Spanish building - sort of the perfect example of the two sides of the Cuban experience: a lovely place with a religious name and half a dozen ancient cannons in the front yard pointed toward the bay. We seem to be the only customers and are shown out onto a porch overlooking the harbor to have a drink before dinner. Again, what is striking is the lonely and deserted feeling that comes from the lack of traffic and the dearth of lights.

Dinner, once we're seated at a long table on the front patio, is slow in coming and not particularly impressive. Lack of refrigeration, and a simple lack of food, makes itself apparent. The drink I always associate with the country, of course, is the Cuba Libre, but the one that is most often - and almost automatically - served to our crew is the Mojita (MO-HE-TAA). In spite of the confusion as to who ordered what and/or what the fish actually is, the group is patient and congenial and seems willing to relax and have a good time. The lone vegetarian, I figure I'm in good shape here as I love rice and beans, which one might assume would be a staple. Wrong. Or, if it is, it isn't what they serve to Norteamericano visitors in this restaurant. Cubans are big meat eaters, it seems. And fish. So vegetables and salads seem to be their way of coping with my strange dietary habits. I'm a bit leery of the salads, being of the school that when in the Third World you don't eat anything uncooked unless you can peel it, but no one else seems concerned. It's the question of where this country fits in the chart, I guess. A lot of bread seems to me to be the answer. Along with dinner, we're serenaded by three guitar-playing men with nice voices. It's Janet, I think, who later observes that it must be a law that all Cubans are born with beautiful singing voices. 

A nice evening, then back into the bus and on to the Copacabana. We're to leave by 8:30AM for our first meeting.

During the night another body is added to the group. Pauline Loney is a Canadian, President of the Christian Children's Fund of Canada. Born in Angola, the daughter of missionaries, Pauline is a pleasant, straightforward woman, probably in her forties, who brings a slightly different perspective to the delegation because her country has been dealing with Cuba for some time in spite of U.S. pressure to the contrary.

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