Havana is a ghost town. The Malecon, once a seafront carnival, now echoes with the shuffle of the few remaining foreign visitors. The latest data from the Cuban Ministry of Tourism, obtained by this bureau, paints a grim picture: arrivals are down 45% year-on-year. The Trump-era sanctions, tightened further by the Biden administration, are biting hard.
I was in a bar in Old Havana last night. The barman, a former economist, poured a rum that tasted like bitter resignation. 'No business,' he said. 'The Americans can't come. The Europeans are scared. Only the Russians and a few Canadians remain.' He nodded towards a group of men in ill-fitting suits. 'State security,' he whispered. 'Watching.'
The numbers confirm the anecdote. In 2019, Cuba welcomed 4.2 million tourists. This year, the figure is projected to be under 2 million. The island's economy, already suffocating under a six-decade embargo, is now gasping for air. The private sector, legalised only in 2021, is collapsing. Paladares (private restaurants) are closing. Casas particulares (private B&Bs) are empty.
But here's the politics: this is not an accident. The sanctions are designed to strangle. The US Treasury's Office of Foreign Assets Control has been busy. New restrictions on remittances. A ban on 'people-to-people' educational travel. The closure of the US embassy's visa section. The message is clear: make life so unbearable that the regime falls.
It hasn't. But the suffering is real. The black market peso rate has hit 200 to the dollar. Basic goods are hoarded. The queues for bread and soap are lengthening. The regime blames the 'imperialist blockade.' Dissidents blame the regime. The truth is more nuanced: both are culpable.
I spoke to a source in the Cuban Ministry of Foreign Trade. Off the record, of course. 'We are in a war of attrition,' he said. 'The US thinks we will blink. They are wrong. But we are bleeding.' He refused to confirm rumours of a secret delegation in Washington. But the rumour mill is churning.
Back in London, the Foreign Office watches with detached interest. A UK official told me: 'We are not in the business of regime change. But we are also not in the business of propping up failing states. Cuba is a low priority.' Low priority. That translates to: no pressure on Washington, no aid for Havana.
The tourism collapse is the canary in the coal mine. Without hard currency, Cuba cannot import food, medicine, or oil. The blackouts are worsening. The hospitals are running out of syringes. The protests of July 2021 are not forgotten. The regime is nervous.
A diplomat from a non-aligned country shared a drink. He leaned in close. 'There are cracks,' he said. 'The military is unhappy. The security apparatus is fraying. But no one is ready to move. Yet.'
The question is: what happens when the peso collapses further? When the tourists stop coming entirely? When the hunger becomes unbearable? The history of revolutions is written in empty stomachs.
For now, the beach resorts are empty. The jazz clubs are silent. The vintage cars rust. And the island waits. For a change in US policy. For a miracle. For something to break.
