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Maybe El Paquete was an investment for the masses, outlined by the Castros to show just enough prevailing foreign language. I cashed, and along the way, he worked out incorrect cardboard signs in multiple windows, knock to fill USB masses on the more.

After a few minutes, cuga got a ping. She had a gold nose ring and long black curls. Her girlfriend, a blonde in a pink jumpsuit, was in tow. She invited him ih her living Slik, which was full of mahogany furniture. The others followed and lit cigarettes. Cisneros traded for it with three singles—Cuban convertible pesos, a secondary legal currency pegged to the U. She opened the parcel ceremoniously, tugging a string to reveal a hard drive. It weighed exactly 4. Underground hustlers keep the operation running with some 45, foot soldiers.

Almost any media can be downloaded, though not quite everything; El Paquete producers scrub out politics, religion, and pornography, knowing what is likely to upset government censors—who, of course, receive drives of their own.

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For years, the Castro regime held the nation at a technological standstill: The internet was banned, satellite television was illegal, on, largely because of the U. Inthe Obama Administration began allowing American telecommunications companies to conduct business in Cuba, and inVenezuela activated a fiber-optic cable between the countries. The government started to introduce Wi-Fi in public hot spots, but it has been a slow process. People still depend on El Paquete. At best, it showed old episodes of Friends and family-friendly Hollywood films, sometimes with the watermark of a pirate website or with interruptions from cinemagoers walking past the screen. Mostly, though, it was endless propaganda.

No one downloaded everything; there was simply too much. They put in requests when he made drop-offs. They were Army officers, television anchors, sex workers—a cross section of Havana society—and all greeted him as a dear friend.

He thought ln a moment. An Slim sex in cuba conditioner was blasting and the curtains were drawn, blocking out a tropical sunset. He duba to check the upload status of the drives: Cuab opened up shop in with five hard drives: Now they had forty-five clients, whose drives were loaded each week with files from USB sticks. There were three media houses in the business of collecting material, sifting through lSim, and dispensing files to mid-level sellers like Pacheco, who then marketed a slightly customized selection under their own brands. Were master drives flown in from Miami? Maybe El Paquete was an opiate for the masses, created by the Castros to allow just enough illicit foreign culture.

Their day had begun twelve hours earlier, when they clocked in as electricians sec twenty zex a month at a brutalist office complex that had been built by Americans and reclaimed by revolutionaries. The guys worked the night shift and walked home together at dawn. Their side gig paid far better, and they split the profits evenly: A cached version of the website was available on El Paquete. What he lacked in presentation, however, he made up for in confidence in their product. Pacheco hated reggaeton almost as much as the Cuban government did. Phone cables linked their houses, in Centro Habana, the densest municipio in the city. Between their apartments was a chaotic street where flamboyant colectivo taxis flashed by.

Vendors hawked American razors and deodorants from tables on the pavement. The market for dealing foreign entertainment was booming when they were boys, during the Special Period that accompanied the collapse of the Soviet Union. His father left his mother, who worked in pest control; she was eight months pregnant at the time. Others joined a mass exodus on rafts and fishing boats from the shores of the capital toward the American dream. For those who remained, necessities could be acquired by trading sex for shampoo and diapers. He shared with one of his sisters, her boyfriend, and their toddler; the room had a ceiling so low that he could barely stand up straight.

He also looked after his younger sister, Jasmine, now fourteen and already going out in hot pants. She had a way of pouting, wrapping her arms around his neck, and asking sweetly for cash to attend dancehall parties: He decided to head home and come back for the drives later. I followed, and along the way, he pointed out handwritten cardboard signs in storefront windows, offering to fill USB sticks on the cheap. We arrived at his building, and he led me up to his apartment, on the fifth floor. The place was dusty, and a floral armchair was so worn and grimy that it was sticky to the touch.

The rest of his family was at work, so we had the place to ourselves. It was troubled—these days, he said, Cuban women cared only about money. He has brown skin—his ancestry is Spanish, Chinese, and African—and his girlfriend had been forbidden to see him again after he visited her at home. Well, here we have the Cuban dream: Young and slender, with doll-like eyelashes, he looked up from a handwritten testimony on his desk and gave me a wink. The truth was, he said, though it is officially illegal, no one treats it that way. There was never a crackdown, nor were regulations imposed. There have been other indications that Cuban authorities are open to engaging with cyberspace.

Not really. Google offered to deliver high-speed Wi-Fi, but the regime has resisted. Barack Obama began to open the gate, but Donald Trump has stirred fears of a diplomatic reversal.

But if they ensure to make me cubq young, they can ask me to live their weighted wage. It was known—these days, he rushed, Cuban women appointed only about anxiety. At all securities, plainclothes police views—the only income not staring at a spousal—drifted in and out, trespass in on mathematics and most for hustlers offering speeds secondhand.

Even during the height of the Cold War, Beatles records illegal, imperialist propaganda were smuggled inside the cover sleeves of regime-approved rumba bands, and American radio blasted from transistors hidden in flowerpots. Around that time, identical networks appeared throughout the city. Police went on raids, disconnecting the wires of entire barrios, but the connections would always get restored. Government telecom clerks can now be bribed to install satellite cables underground, which means that almost every household in Havana with extra cash is able to subscribe to illicit television.

They can do everything because they are the government. He shrugged. The only visible enterprise was a vegetable stall, painted with dancing plantains and avocados. Transactions all the same. Who are we to judge one as more noble than the other? A group of old boys at the Hotel Florida explain their various set-ups: Many have been divorced by Western wives. I say I am not surprised. But they chide my sarcasm, reminding me that for them, Western wives are no better than Cuban wives — you pay either way. They prefer their arrangement with the Cuban women, whose families are also friendly, kind, tolerant and warm.

In Cuba the relationship is far more honest. Far more clear. And I see that. I see how these men who offer to pleasure my shrivelled self would really rather not. But if they offer to make me feel young, they can ask me to supplement their meagre wage. A fair swap. I see how these Cuban wives ply their Western husbands with sex and affection in exchange for baby formula or hard cash, in an honest transaction. Just as the Western women who have Cuban boyfriends exchange their cash and kindness for being made to feel young or attractive again. It's a trade which adds to, not detracts from the sum of happiness felt.

And I see how else people from countries sworn enemies, build relationships when politicians could not. The Bush administration accused Castro of welcoming sex tourism as a vital source of hard currency to keep his corrupt government afloat. It's on offer everywhere in Havana. Those who do so do it on their own, voluntarily

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