Gabriel Solomons is a graphic designer and senior lecturer at the Bristol School of Art and Design at the University of the West of England, UK. He is the editor of the film magazine Beneficial Shock!

Havana Street Style

Intellect Ltd

Contents

Havana Street Style

by Conner Gory

Havana is an anomaly, an enigma, a conundrum.

The place is so confusing, in fact, Cubans say even they can't figure it out. Comedians quip that Cuba is also an onion: The more layers you peel back, the harder you cry. Complex, confusing, frustrating, and fascinating – the island has long been all this, but the rhythm and vibe are becoming even more intense as Cuba undergoes profound economic changes. As you might imagine, the shifting sands are especially noticeable in Havana, the financial, cultural, and political capital of the country. So swift and novel are these changes, impressions from even a handful of years ago are already dated. This is what makes a book like this so valuable: Shot at the tail end of 2013 and written over several months thereafter, it opens the doors to a culture in (r)evolution.

What makes this city so complex? Why are those born and bred here shaking their heads, perplexed by this place? To answer this, we should start at the very beginning, a very good place to start, as Maria instructed the Von Trapp brood in The Sound of Music (Robert Wise, 1965).

San Cristóbal de la Habana was formally established in 1519, where El Templete church stands today. Guarded by a sacred ceiba tree (an important symbol in Afro-Cuban religions; more on that later), the first Mass was held on this spot by intrepid Spanish explorers and the Catholic missionaries who accompanied them on their round the world journey. While the tree here today is a replacement, it holds a symbolic place in the heart of Habaneros who make a pilgrimage here each 16 November – the day the city was founded – to make three wishes, one hand on the trunk, walking counterclockwise around the ceiba. It makes a remarkable sight, hundreds of Cubans, dressed for the occasion, waiting patiently, pensively to beseech whoever grants wishes.

These first settlers from Spain were rugged, determined folk; a bit hard-headed they must have been to survive the long, harrowing ocean voyage. Upon arrival, they found a tropical idyll inhabited by indigenous tribes including the Taíno and Siboney. The new arrivals decimated Cuba's original inhabitants, literally working many of them to death; the rest were almost entirely wiped out by imported diseases like smallpox. Just a couple of decades after the first Spaniards arrived, the indigenous population had dwindled to 5,000 and before long, these people would disappear completely. If you observe closely and know what to look for, you can discern traces of these long-gone people in some Cubans' facial characteristics, stature, and customs – especially in the Oriente (eastern) region.

What's strikingly evident, even to casual observers, is Cuba's refreshingly diverse racial spectrum. Some readers may be surprised to find green-eyed, blond Cubans living, working, and playing alongside compatriots as dark as our morning espresso. This is the result of over 300 years of a massive slave trade (Cuba didn't abolish slavery until 1886; the penultimate country in the hemisphere to do so); immigration waves from Spain, France, Haiti, China, and elsewhere; and miscegenation between these groups. This healthy mixture of races, cultures, and traits has resulted in a good-looking, head-turning populace spanning all shades. Centuries of racial intermingling, accompanied by constitutional protections, have – palpably, enviably – tempered racism on the island.

Ask any Cuban about the African influence in Cuba and they'll likely quote the popular aphorism 'quien no tiene de Congo, tiene de Carabalí' ('who doesn't have the Congo in their blood has Carabalí'). This saying refers to the hundreds of thousands of slaves forced to the island from Congo, southern Nigeria, and elsewhere in Africa, and the racial mixture that ensued. To this day, many words and customs transported across the raging seas in slave ships, adapted and kept alive by people desperate for home and freedom, permeate Cuban life. For instance, ¿qué bolá, asere?' is part of Havana's daily vernacular and comes from another continent, another time.

The wellspring of these traditions are the pantheistic, syncretic belief systems known as Afro-Cuban religions, which are autochthonous African beliefs and practices overlaid with Catholic saints and symbols. The most widely observed of these religions is known as the Regla de Ocha (or Regla de Lucumí), more commonly referred to as Santería, and is enthusiastically practiced the length and breadth of the island. According to estimates, around 3 million Cubans on the island practice some form of Afro-Cuban religion – including Fidel Castro if the story about him being inducted into the Regla de Ocha religion in Nigeria is to be believed. Everywhere you turn in Havana, you'll see people – adults, children, even infants – wearing the green-and-yellow bracelet known as the 'mano de Orula', which signals they've begun initiation into the religion. Let your eyes roam from wrist upwards and you'll see necks draped with colour-coded beads corresponding to the wearer's patron saints, known as orishas – black and red for Elegguá, red and white for Changó, blue and white for Yemayá and other combinations representing the two dozen or so saints in the Afro-Cuban pantheon. Another common sight is people dressed head-to-toe in white, toting white handbags and umbrellas. These folks are dressed for lwayó – a one-year initiation period for those entering the ranks of Afro-Cuban religions.

The panoply of influences swirling about the island has also forged standards of beauty and fashions particular to its melting pot status. For example, the ideal Cuban woman is pear-shaped, like a Spanish guitar, full-bodied, buxom, and with carnita (a little bit of meat) on her bones – diametrically opposed to the wispy waifs glorified by the global movie and modeling industry. Traditional traits including long, dark hair and chocolate-brown eyes are held in high esteem here, as evidenced by the widely reproduced image of the 'Gitana Tropical' (Tropical Gypsy), painted by Victor Manuel in 1929. In Havana, it's not uncommon for women and girls to sport long tresses to their waist. Though bottle blonds (and to a lesser extent, colored contact lenses) are becoming more popular here, it's telling that women dyeing their hair jet black and refusing to cut it into adulthood are customs still followed with gusto.

It would be folly to suggest that Cuba is 'stuck in time' or 'frozen in amber' when it comes to fashion and trends. While it's true that Lycra dies hard, jeans with jean jackets is the unfortunate combo favored during cold fronts, and the lamentable 1980s haircut known as a mullet can still be seen on some men here, Cubans are on the whole, creative innovators and enthusiastic adopters of global styles. Trends seen in music videos and Hollywood – even Bollywood – movies are reproduced and tweaked to suit Cuban tastes and climate. One extravagant appropriation which is steamrolling across the country is the 'yonki', popularized by a regguetón singer of the same name who topped the charts with his song and dance dedicated to the hairstyle. Essentially an adaptation of the high top fade popularized by rappers like Doug E. Fresh and Big Daddy Kane back in the day, you can't walk two blocks without seeing a passel of young men sporting this gravity-defying 'do'. The yonki is keeping many a barber in business, though they'll be the first to admit it's a ridiculous cut.

One undeniable – unstoppable – influence on all facets of life here, including fashion, comes from the United States. Despite the political and financial isolation the US embargo places on Cuba, the powerful neighbor to the north is seen everywhere, from Ed Hardy to wildly popular Converse sneakers – often cheap imitations, the emblematic star logos sewn on to generic tennis shoes in living rooms from Centro Habana to Cerro. Indeed, Cuba is well-flavored with US elements. This isn't surprising given the centuries of shared scientific, cultural, and educational ties between the two countries. Prior to the triumph of the revolution, people – well-to-do people, let there be no doubt – passed seamlessly between the United States and the island. Back then, Cubans who could afford it went north for university and professional degrees. Dr Carlos Finlay, the scientist who discovered the cause of yellow fever (saving innumerable lives in the process), received his medical training in the United States; musicians like Nat King Cole, Cab Calloway, and Sarah Vaughan played regularly in Havana's hottest clubs and cabarets; and US architectural firms designed the Hotel Nacional and ironically, the bully of a building housing the US Interests Section. Of course, policies between the two – especially during the Cold War – curtailed this synergy, but more progressive travel legislation on both sides of the straits, coupled with the digital explosion which is facilitating the transfer of media and news to the island, is fueling a new, invigorated interchange.

While there are no Coke billboards, beer ads or TV spots peddling soap (an unexpected delight for first-time visitors) the freer flow of information and people – particularly family members visiting from Miami, Madrid, and other foreign latitudes – means Cubans are savvier about, and in tune with, global trends and tendencies than you might expect. Considering there's no MTV or YouTube, Spotify or iTunes in Cuba, it can be startling just how plugged in many people are here. To wit, during their semi-stealth visit to Havana in April 2013, Beyoncé and Jay-Z were so thronged by adoring fans they required bodyguards and a police presence. Give these pages a brief leaf through and you'll appreciate this contemporaneity: Rihanna, Chris Brown, 50 Cent, and Marc Anthony were among the fashion inspirations cited by people interviewed and photographed for this book. Cubans keep on top of the global cultural Zeitgeist through digital media passed hand-to-hand like a bottle of rum on the Malecón; pirated TV shows, movies, and concerts sold everywhere for 1 CUC$ (complemented by those shown on state television); and people bringing in magazines and other media in their luggage.

Historically, the flow of Cuban culture from here to everywhere else has been less robust, the massively reproduced image of Che Guevara (who wasn't Cuban and only lived for about a decade on the island) looking intensely into the middle distance notwithstanding. This changed dramatically in 1998 when Ry Cooder's Buena Vista Social Club project garnered a Grammy award. This was followed by the Oscar-nominated Wim Wenders documentary about the musical convergence between Cooder and this group of Cuban son elders. The recording and film took the world by storm, introducing Cuba's traditional music to listeners around the globe. More importantly, the Buena Vista Social Club phenomenon pulled back the curtain on the 'forbidden island' where large-scale international tourism wasn't officially sanctioned until the mid-1990s; under the US embargo, people from the United States still can't travel freely to Cuba – another pleasant surprise for many visitors. Suddenly, the intoxicating cocktail known as a mojito, was exhausting bartenders from LA to Lisbon (this iconic Cuban drink made from rum, crushed mint, sparkling water, lemon, and Angostura bitters is time consuming and labor intensive to mix) and young hipsters began sporting guayaberas – Cuba's classic dress shirt.

All male readers should take a moment here to give thanks for the guayabera: Invented over two centuries ago in Cuba (or so the legend goes), it negates the need to ever wear a necktie in the tropics. Indeed, spotting a Cuban in a jacket and tie is as rare as walking through Havana Vieja without being offered black market cigars. The guayabera is the perfect solution for our climate and context; it's light, it's loose, and it camouflages pot bellies beautifully. It's also simple: Either short-sleeved or long, it's made of cotton or linen, and has a boxy cut adorned by four pockets and two bands of horizontal pleats running from collarbone to waist. The guayabera has completely supplanted the need for a suit and tie and is considered formal wear for even the most elegant and official affairs, including those at the highest levels of government. The current president, Raúl Castro, is often seen in aguayabera, for instance, and City Historian Dr Eusebio Leal Spengler – the man behind Havana Vieja's gorgeously ambitious restoration – is nearly always seen in public sporting his characteristic grey guayabera. There's even aguayabera museum in Sanctí Spíritus with 200 or so examples, including one from Gabriel García Marquez's personal collection. Like a fine Cohiba cigar, a sky-scraping royal palm, or a pristine white-sand beach dotted with the most beautiful women (and men) eyes have ever seen, the guayabera is an enduring Cuban symbol and one of the few endemic fashions gone global.

For all the outside influences and scant domestic manufacturing, Cubans are not fashion copycats – they appreciate, appropriate, and then adapt, rather than simply adopt. Master seamstresses and tailors pepper Havana from El Cerro to Marianao, Miramar to Regla. These men and women do more than just sew: They combine design, tailoring, and problem-solving skills to render their finished products more art than service, more innovation than alteration. A survival strategy honed over decades of scarcity, sewing and repurposing (of everything, including clothing), were taken to new heights during Cuba's economic crash known as the Special Period.

Beginning in the early 1990s, the dissolution of the Soviet Union and Socialist Bloc hit everyone – men, women, children, the state – hard, as Cuba lost close to 85 per cent of its aid and trade faster than you can say 'perestroika'. The effects on daily life were sweeping and traumatic: Sixteen-hour blackouts meant no ice, cold water, fans, or air conditioning – a real challenge in Cuba's blistering heat; public transport ground to a halt, motivating the importation of 1 million Chinese bicycles and rapid improvisation of bike lanes; and adults' daily caloric intake fell by 33 per cent. Such economic hardship reinforced and invigorated the culture of re-using, recycling and repurposing anything and everything that may have a future use. Granma, the daily newspaper, was cut into toilet paper-sized squares to be used for that express purpose; wine was fashioned out of anything fermentable including guava, pineapple, and rice; and cats were called 'rooftop rabbits' since they tasted similar. Cubans, who seem to feel solidarity in their bones, stepped up for friends, family, and neighbors, sharing everything from socks and shoes, to sheets and underwear.

These harrowing years left their mark, however, sticking in the Cuban psyche like a shred of meat in a molar. Bike riding, for example, carries heavy stigma still, enduring as a symbol of hard times. 'Ride a bike? ¡Hombre no!' folks will say. 'Do you know how far and long I had to ride a bike to get to work during the Special Period? Never again' (personal communication). And the stories of food insecurity (i.e. hunger) are legendary. Ask any Cuban old enough to remember the Very Special Period as we sometimes call it, and they'll have tales of eating 'pasta de oca', a mystery meat containing more mystery than meat; raising government-distributed chicks on their balcony with the hopes they would survive to see them on a dinner plate; and if/when that failed, frying up breaded grapefruit peels. This last may be urban myth, (as the tales of shredded condoms standing in for pizza cheese surely are), but you get the picture: Nothing was easy and the privation of those years isn't easy to forget. 'Many times it's not actual hunger people are feeling these days: It's psychological hunger, carried over from when there was so little to eat,' observes historian Fernando Martínez Heredia (personal communication). If you've ever seen Cubans enjoying themselves at a resort buffet, you've witnessed this psychological hunger first hand. Although times have improved, things are still hard for (too) many people and the custom of altering clothes, swapping outfits and accessories among friends, and repairing shoes which otherwise would be sent to the trash can, remains strong.

Taking a look through this book begs the question: Where do Cubans get their clothes, after all? How can they be as fashion forward as they are when there isn't an Abercrombie, H&M, or El Corte Inglés to be found on the island? True, there are government-run clothing stores, private boutiques, and name-brand outlets including Mango and Adidas, but the limited selection and high prices put these out of reach of most. This doesn't prevent Cubans from striving to look good and well put together whenever they step out, however – a powerful cultural trait many a chagrined tourist in shorts has discovered. The main source of fashions, of course, is the same as the main source of hard currency: Family living abroad. They know better than most how hard things are on the island and how difficult it is to procure new, stylish clothes. As a result, they'll send or bring back bags bursting with Lacoste shirts, Crocs (still all the rage here), jeans, and Lycra. What doesn't fit or isn't to the recipient's liking will be altered, traded, or sold.