The first ornaments that one sees upon entering some Cuban homes are a tongue pierced by a sword and an eye that looks straight at you. These amulets are intended to frustrate the ill will of visitors, although they also serve as a warning for gossips and for those who want to see or know too much.

Other disturbing charms may also be found in a number of Cuban homes: a cactus stem nailed to the door brings advancement; a doll sitting on a sofa is not for little girls to play, for it represents a powerful ancestor; and the rock with conch eyes you see at the entrance hall is the dwelling of Eleguá, the African deity that paves the way.

According to the creed professed in each particular household, one might see pictures of bearded Fidel Castro, images of the Sacred Heart, or photographs of relatives who now live in Miami. Anything goes.

In the posh neighbourhood of Miramar, there is a mansion turned tenement house where 10 families live at present. The formerly stately home, which once belonged to a well-known doctor who left the country in 1959 after the triumph of the Revolution, has been subdivided again and again, and its dwellers are quite normal people. Most of them are workers at state-owned companies, but there’s even a jinetero(1) and also a university professor, whose son is a fourth-year medical student.

Like in many other homes in the Cuban capital, old mahogany tables and rocking chairs stand beside the kitschiest objects you can imagine: a plaster Indian painted red, green and blue; an acrylic tapestry in which a lion is on the verge of eating its prey; and an antique couch with a nylon cover so that it may last longer. Over the front door, the broken, once-magnificent stained glass has been replaced by a piece of cardboard. Next to a screen with interwoven hieroglyphs, you find plaster-of-Paris figures of nymphs and dwarves. And last but not least, plastic flowers adorn a vase.

In Cuba, the street is a sort of extension to the house. As traffic is usually light, kids play on the sidewalk from early ages, and at nightfall, adults take advantage of the cool and play endless domino matches, which are almost always rum-soaked.

They say that what the people who left for Miami miss the most is that in this island you can live with your front door open.

One neighbour says to another neighbour, “Try this boniatillo.”(2) Previous to this, the second neighbour has lent the first one a pound of beans, or a bit of vegetable oil, or a sprinkling of salt. Despite the crisis, Cuban hospitality has not disappeared. People help each other when things get rough and there’s no need to let anyone know that you’re planning on paying them a visit.

Another interesting thing in Cuba is that even the humblest of homes radiates dignity. It doesn’t matter if the paint on the wall has chipped away, or that the silver cutlery has long been sold, or that the General Electric fridge has been working for 45 straight years. Cubans are survivors. No matter how great the level of hardship may be, their pride is greater.

In the eastern city of Baracoa, 1,000 km away from Havana, an old woman is wearing three-dollar sport shoes, which contrast with the polished tiled floor of incredible design and colours, a testimony of better days. A housecoat wraps her shrivelled, but very clean body. It is difficult to know exactly how they do it, but Cubans always seem to be clean and tidy, although soap may be scarce or good-quality clothes are beyond the majority’s means.

In two out of every three homes in Havana and the provinces, young and old people share the same roof. The younger generations take care of their elders, they do not abandon them. You can see the old people fixing a bike in the middle of the living room, or helping out in the kitchen or letting the family know when the soap opera on TV begins.

The homes of the privileged are always made of brick and have porcelains and gilt ornaments. The homes of the very poor are sometimes made of wood, and the males go about the house with bare chests and some with tattoos. At whatever time you come to visit, somebody will offer you a cup of coffee, which will always be preceded by a glass of water to clean the palate and appreciate the coffee better. In many homes there are cups for everyday use and cups--which could very well be museum pieces--for guests.

While the coffee is brewing, if you ask them to let you see the family album, they’ll readily do so. You’ll probably see pictures of social clubs where the grandparents used to go and dance to the tune of a danzón(3) or a cha-cha-cha. Or maybe you’ll see an old sepia print with a mulata(4) seated in a wicker rocking chair holding the hand of her Spanish husband.

You’ll also see pictures of relatives who have gone to live to the United States. You’ll see them posing beside a luxury car, or seated around a table full of food, and gold chains hanging round their necks.

Your host may be overcome by emotion and will play a bolero by Descemer Bueno for you:

Si una herida leve enferma la ilusión, lo siento mucho, no quise hacerte daño. Un haz de luz que alumbra mis deseos miles de caras vio enamoradas. Enciéndele una vela a tu primer amor, que se ha marchado sin decir adiós.

If a slight wound sickens the heart, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you. A beam of light that shines on my wishes, Saw a thousand enamoured faces. Light a candle to your first love, Who has left without so much as a goodbye.

I’ve been told that the name Descemer is an anagram of Mercedes, his mom’s name.