The sunbeds are empty at Varadero. The mojitos are unmixed in Havana’s old town bars. Cuba’s tourism industry, once the lifeblood of its economy, is collapsing at a pace that has shocked even seasoned observers. The trigger? A sudden withdrawal of American visitors, coupled with tightening US sanctions that have made travel to the island feel like a political statement rather than a holiday. But as the American presence fades, a new breed of opportunist is emerging: British investors, eyeing up beachfront properties and hotel chains with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for a Boxing Day sale.
For decades, Cuba relied on a steady stream of American tourists, lured by the promise of vintage cars and communist chic. The Obama-era thaw saw a surge in interest, but the Trump administration’s reversal and the current administration’s continued hardline have left a vacuum. The statistics are stark: arrivals from the US are down over 60% on pre-pandemic levels. Hotels that were once booked months in advance now have vacancy signs in every window. The human cost is written on the faces of the workers, many of whom have returned to farming or informal trading to make ends meet.
Yet amid the despair, there is a quiet gold rush. British firms, long kept at arm’s length by the US embargo’s extraterritorial reach, are now moving in. Thomas Cook’s successor, Hays Travel, is rumoured to be scouting for package deals. A consortium of London-based property developers has been spotted in Miramar, measuring up colonial mansions for boutique hotels. The logic is simple: with American capital blocked, Cuba needs someone to fill the gap, and the British, with their historic ties and pragmatic diplomacy, are the natural suitors.
But what does this mean for the ordinary Cuban? The cultural shift is palpable. In Havana’s Vedado district, where once Russian Ladas dominated the streets, you now see the occasional Range Rover with diplomatic plates. The new wave of British investment brings jobs, yes, but also a creeping gentrification that threatens to erase the very authenticity that tourists seek. Locals speak of a fear that Cuba will become another Cancun, sanitised and sold in all-inclusive packages. “We don’t want to be anyone’s playground,” a taxi driver told me, his face half-lit by the glow of a smuggled smartphone.
The bigger picture is a tale of geopolitical whiplash. For years, Cuba was a symbol of resistance, a thumb in the eye of American hegemony. Now it is a bargaining chip, a prize to be won in the new cold war. The British government, keen to strengthen ties with Latin America post-Brexit, sees this as a strategic opening. But there is a whiff of colonialism in the air, a sense that the island is once again being divided up by outside powers.
On the ground, the reality is more prosaic. The street vendors who once sang to tourists now hawk their wares in silence. The paladares, family-run restaurants that thrived during the Obama years, are boarded up. For the Cuban people, the collapse of tourism is not an abstract economic indicator; it is a daily struggle to put food on the table. The British interest offers a sliver of hope, but also a memory of past interventions. As one old man in Trinidad told me, “The Americans left us with nothing. The British came with promises. We’ll see which one is worse.”
The cultural shift, then, is not just about who invests, but about what Cuba becomes. Will it be a nostalgic relic, preserved in amber by its own poverty? Or a modern playground for the global elite, sanitised and safe? The answer lies in the hands of those who now circle like vultures, portfolios in hand. But the human element, the soul of the island, resists easy calculation.
