It is 2 a.m. Sunday in the Havana Club, but Juan Antonio isn't dancing. Madonna's disco beat befuddles his salsa-savvy feet. It's just as well. A young woman in a white micro-mini has claimed his attention -- when he's not distracted by a cold, imported Heineken and the $1.2 million club layout with its wall of cascading water. Juan Antonio, 19, has gone to heaven in Fidel Castro's Cuba. He may never be unhappy again.
He may also never be inside the Havana Club again: tickets can be bought only with dollars, and by law he is allowed to hold no more than $5 in U.S. currency, half the price of admission. A visiting tourist pays Juan Antonio's way, but he is worried his friends will label him a jinetero, or gigolo. He is also worried that the police will arrest him for consorting with foreigners, so he asks that his real name not be used. His paranoia is so pervasive that he finds it hard to believe he can wander the club floor without being stopped.
Cuba is a nation of young people. Nearly 60% of the island's 10.7 million people were born after Castro came to power in 1959. They have known only socialism. They are the healthiest and best-educated younger class in Latin America, but they are greedy for more. They yearn for capitalist fare like jeans and jogging shoes, rap records and videocassettes. They have had their fill of rhetoric and bureaucracy, of long lines for buses and hamburguesas, the Cuban version of an American favorite, made with pork. The most visible rebels, known as los freekiss (freakies), hang out in the park around Coppelia ice-cream parlor, flaunting long hair and T shirts splashed with the logos of heavy-metal bands. But even government-approved bands like Carlos Varela sing openly of Cuba's woes. "The inequities in society frustrate the young. I couldn't make a popular song about how great things are here now," admits American-born Cuban rock singer Pablo Menendez, a Castro supporter. "The young have created pressure for change."
The dissatisfaction is particularly acute today. Last August, Cuba tightened its rationing measures because of Soviet aid cutbacks and the long-standing U.S. embargo. Every Cuban is entitled to only two rolls a day and less than a pound of meat every nine days. Particularly painful to the fashion-conscious young is rationing that limits them to just one new dress, a pair of pants and a pair of dress shoes a year. Grandmothers hand over their yearly ration of textile coupons to the young; mothers sell their gold jewelry for consumer goods like TVs and radios. "Those under 30 are bored with the story of the revolution and are cynical about the government," says a European diplomat. "They want jobs, dollars and consumer goods."
The Pan American Games, which began in Havana last week, have instilled a renewed sense of pride, but the headlong rush to develop tourist hotels that are barred to most Cubans has caused resentment. "We were born into socialism, but sometimes we feel we have nothing. We can't eat where tourists eat. We can't drink where tourists drink," says an angry 26-year-old at Havana's La Playita beach. "What would Marx and Engels say to that?"