By Stephanie Shapiro

                    HAVANA, Cuba - The gaunt bicycle taxi driver in ragged clothes who
                    wheeled a travel companion and me over Havana's pocked side streets
                    said he earned $7 a month plus tips and could not afford shoes for his
                    daughter.

                    He would move to the United States if he could. But he didn't blame Fidel
                    Castro, whom he still revered. How could the leader give to his people,
                    he asked, if he has nothing to give?

                    Patriotism and acute need make strange bedfellows, but for many
                    Cubans, it's all of a piece. Such paradoxes seem to define life in the island
                    nation.

                    Not everyone in Cuba is pro-Castro, of course. His sweeping crackdown
                    on dissidents occurred largely during our stay.

                    But Cubans of all stripes can point to any number of reasons for their
                    hardships - the U.S. trade embargo, a faltering economy and their
                    government's archaic restrictions. At this point in the convoluted history of
                    Cuban-American relations, no one cause and no one government can be
                    singled out for blame. They are of a piece as well.

                    And whether they side with Mr. Castro or with the dissidents he threw in
                    jail, average Cubans have a more pressing concern than ideology: survival.

                    When the dollar was made legal tender along with the peso by Mr. Castro
                    in 1993 after the collapse of the Soviet bloc, he helped to create a class
                    system as a crutch for limping socialism - yet another mind-bending twist.
                    As our van driver intoned with a mock air of sage wisdom: "Dollars are
                    the hope of the world."

                    Those who have access to U.S. dollars, through work in the tourism
                    industry or the largesse of exile family members, are at the top of the
                    ladder. The U.S. government recently increased the amount of cash
                    travelers are allowed to carry to friends and family in Cuba even as it
                    severely curtailed educational tours to the country. Such contradictory
                    moves send mixed messages while widening the gulf between Cuba's
                    haves and have-nots.

                    Clearly, the striking woman who alighted from a car at the trendy El Aljibe
                    restaurant in Havana was living a dollar-enhanced life that most Cubans
                    can only imagine. Dressed all in white, she made a dramatic entrance,
                    air-kissing friends and staff with movie-star élan.

                    In Old Havana, we visited a crowded "dollar store," where those with
                    dollars buy electronics, washing machines and Cokes at prices above
                    those in the United States.

                    But most Cubans we met were not profiting from policy loopholes. In
                    Havana, we also saw Cubans waiting patiently in long lines to receive
                    monthly rations of meat, flour and other staples. Our bicycle taxi driver
                    told us these provisions often ran out before his appointed time to collect
                    them.

                    While Cuba trades with other countries and the United States has relaxed
                    the embargo to permit the sale of food and medicines to the country, it still
                    lacks necessities. As a result, everyone, it seemed, has honed a strategy
                    for asking, whether for money or books or toothpaste.

                    For example, we encountered ingratiating sorts on the street who offered
                    guidance - for a price. When I took a photo of a young man carrying a
                    spectacular cake, he automatically asked for a dollar. When we snapped
                    leap-frogging children, adults demanded candy for them.

                    In more official settings, asking took on a genteel guise. Students at an arts
                    school performed for visitors who came with donations, including art
                    materials, guitar strings, a violin and cash. At an AIDS clinic in Matanzas,
                    the grateful staff reminded us of all that their American benefactors had
                    done for them. The need for more assistance was implicit.

                    In Havana, the vice president of a synagogue said she spent much of her
                    time soliciting everything from matzo to medical supplies from Jewish
                    communities around the world.

                    My travel companion's mugging in a desolate Havana neighborhood
                    summed up Cuba's plight. A boy, perhaps 13, had tried to snatch her
                    money belt. He failed, but she was badly bruised and scraped.

                    At a hospital, she received immediate attention. The visit was free, of
                    course.

                    But it took stops at two pharmacies to fill prescriptions for an antibiotic
                    and ibuprofen. Even with its own biotechnology industry, Cuba still suffers
                    from shortfalls of basic drugs.

                    The next day, as we waited for a cab, a man idling on a corner befriended
                    us and asked my friend about her injuries. His concern seemed genuine.
                    But when we got into a cab, he hopped in, too. He insisted on staying
                    with us to make sure there would be no more trouble. It wouldn't cost
                    much, he said.

                    When we declined his offer, he shrugged and exited the cab. It was worth
                    a try.

                    Such constant asking must take a toll on the collective soul of Cubans. As
                    neighbors of the United States, they are also reminded ad nauseam of
                    Americans' voracious consumption of the luxuries they are denied by the
                    embargo.

                    After years of this, an ever-present sense of deprivation has set in,
                    determining Cubans' national character as much as socialism.

                    Again, it's all of a piece.

                    Stephanie Shapiro is a reporter for The Sun.

                    Copyright © 2003