Cocaine With The Castros

Luxury Beliefs In Havana

“You know what we call a gram of coke here in Cuba?”

In the humid outskirts of Havana, I felt like I’d drifted into a sepia-tinted parallel timeline.

“A ‘Fidel’.”

My laughter wasn’t forthcoming. Not that it wasn’t funny. I was paralysed by the surrealism. It was the last week of six decades of Castro rule and the final week of Raúl Castro’s presidency, yet here I was with his granddaughter Gabriella. And her boyfriend was selling me drugs.

Hadn’t her grandparents put people to death for selling drugs? Yes. Four high-ranking officials were executed by firing squad in 1989 for drug-smuggling. Despite this, her presence gave me an odd sense of safety. Some farm animals are more equal than others. And these, surely, were the most equal of all.

“And half a gram?”

He eyed me.

“…a ‘Raul’.”

A ‘Fidel’

Try as they might, Marxists can’t escape hierarchies. I wondered if they’d caught the irony. At least this one had a sense of humour. I turned to see if Gabriella was amused. The Castro name is quite a burden to carry. New World nobility. Her face remained stoic as a Castilian queen. She was more interested in the music.

If this was their way of welcoming me to their country, they went overboard with the midnight Lada racing through the capital. Cuba’s cocaine communists really put North London’s champagne socialists to shame.