In the Land of Castro and Cigars, Lycra Rules : Capitalism Turns Up the Tropic Heat as Locals Get Into the Business of Sexy Clothes

One of the first things a visitor to Havana notices is that Cuban women are beautiful. The second is their ubiquitous “sssst,” heard on the narrow Havana streets day and night, used to keep children under control or get someone’s attention from across the street.

Besides their beauty and Cuban hiss, the women demand attention with the clothing they wear: form-fitting dresses, sassy shorts and tops, and elegantly flared pants. What isn’t immediately clear is where these clothes come from. Except for tourist hotel shops, where Cubans are banned, most Havana clothing stores sell only serviceable pants, modest dresses and T-shirts.

Standing on Calle Obispo, a main thoroughfare in Havana, the Plana Montecina sisters Jamira, 21, and Marlena, 19, attempt to explain Cuban fashion. The tighter the better, but that isn’t the half of it. The art of spandex outfits, though a longtime staple of Latin American womanhood, has reached custom-made heights in Havana in the last three years. “Men love it; the tighter you use it, the better they love it,” says Marlena. “If a woman with an ugly figure walks by wearing Lycra, the Cuban men make fun of her. You have to have a good figure--like ours--to wear it.”

And you have to know where to buy it. Cuban street fashion originates in small, private businesses that make and sell clothing from homes. In fact, much of Cuba’s dollar-generating businesses are private restaurants run out of homes or cars used as taxis. After Castro legalized the U.S. dollar and allowed capitalist small enterprise, one of the most lucrative businesses is supplying clothing.

An epicenter of Cuban fashion is the second floor of a colonial apartment house on Calle Sol of Old Havana. In this apartment, the floor-to-ceiling balcony doors are thrown wide open, letting in sounds of music and children playing on the street. Inside the living room sit seven women, a few accompanied by children and one with a husband in tow. They are waiting for Lidia Dominguez, a diminutive woman in her early 50s, to finish making their new outfits. Here Dominguez custom-makes thousands of outfits out of bolts of Lycra.

Three years ago, bolts of Lycra (pronounced “lee-cra” by Cubans) were permitted to be imported into the country. Before then, only manufactured clothing--spandex shorts, leggings and bras--was available. But the raw fabric has inspired the “Lycra boom,” as Dominguez calls it, and has become the standard of fashion.

Only a year ago, the hot outfit was a sleeveless short catsuit with vertical strips of contrasting colors, usually black and red. “Everyone wore that,” Dominguez says. “And they were really easy to make.” Now, only older women wear the catsuit: “I think the girls give them to their mothers after a while,” Dominguez says.

Dominguez, a lifelong resident of Old Havana, was a lab technician and part-time seamstress until migraines made it too difficult for her to hold a steady job. She has been a seamstress in some capacity for the last 37 years, but only began working full time at sewing four years ago. Now she runs a workshop and is assisted by nephew Jesus. “There are many changes in Cuban fashion these days,” Dominguez says. “And many of them take place in my living room.”

From her living room, which doubles as a manufacturing plant, Dominguez produces up to 30 outfits a day. The bolts of Lycra come from Cuba or are imported from the United States (usually as gifts or brought through Mexico), Venezuela, Mexico and Europe. Recently customs has become stricter, and Dominguez relies on friends to bring her the material. The fabric costs from $6 to $9 a square meter, and from 1 meter, Dominguez can make either three pairs of shorts, three short skirts or a single shorts-and-top outfit. Her profit is usually $6 to $8 a meter.

When Dominguez has Lycra, business is brisk; she works 14-hour days until the fabric is used. During those periods, her apartment is full of customers. Recently, she worked through a migraine until 1 a.m., when the fabric ran out. She works fast and doesn’t waste time with fittings: “After all these years, I have no need to measure. I just look my customers up and down and I know.” She and Jesus have ancient Singer sewing machines, both dating back to before the 1959 revolution.

Today, the hot item is a halter top that fastens with strings winding multiple times around the waist. The halter is called a bomboleo, named after an all-girl band. A bomboleo with cortos calientes, or hot shorts, runs about $14. The bomboleo has been in vogue for the past six months, and Dominguez expects it to reign throughout the summer.

Inspiration comes from the customers, but other influences include 1995 editions of Frederick’s of Hollywood and Victoria’s Secret catalogs, sent to Dominguez from a friend in the U.S. She has re-bound both in hard cover. She points out the popular and not-so-popular designs. One sleeveless dress, cut deep below the model’s cleavage, makes her laugh: “We made three dresses like this one, but they didn’t work out. The breasts kept falling out to the side, and no one wanted them.” Jesus comes in with other items that didn’t sell, including a velour zebra-striped dress (“Too hot,” he explains, “sweaty.”), a leopard-skin bodysuit and a neon green dress with Versace-inspired holes cut out of the side.

Since Cuba began importing fabric, fashions have changed quickly. Last winter, la saya de capana, or bell bottoms, were hip. Today, the pants are still flared but are not true bell bottoms. One perennially popular ensemble is the paratur, or tourist taxi stopper, worn--as the name implies--to cause a tourist to halt his taxi and get out. The outfit is simple: micro-mini, halter and thong underwear, all Lycra.

Black is the most popular color, Dominguez says, followed by red and white, with pale pink and brown as the least desired colors. “We also dye the Lycra,” she says, “but that is a lot of trouble.”

While Dominguez works, her customers talk, telling stories and tending to children.

“They drive me mad,” Dominguez says.

In the corner, a woman named Maria turns toward the wall, keeping her back to the crowd, and tries on the black bomboleo. As Dominguez expected, it fits, and a transaction is quickly completed. Maria looks at shoes displayed on top of the television, but the 5-inch-heeled black sandals are $30, and she departs with only the shirt and her husband.

Cubans earn an average of $10 to $20 a month, but a bomboleo and a pair of Cortos Calientes cost $14. Where does the extra income for the clothes come from? Dominguez and Jesus laugh. “You don’t want to know,” Jesus says.

Dominguez rushes to explain, “Some people have relations abroad who send money. Some work in the tourist industry and are paid in dollars, and others, the others are just good savers. It is all unofficial income.”

One source of this unofficial income is prostitution. Prostitutes are called jinateras, a word that comes from jinete, or jockey, which was used to describe young men who showed tourists around Cuba and procured cigars and girls. When prostitution took off in the early ‘90s, after Castro legalized the dollar, the word jinatera was used for women. Havana has become a destination for sex tourists, with some countries offering charter flights there for that reason.

Prostitution is casual in Havana; many men simply have a Cuban girlfriend during their stay and pay for all food, drink and dancing, even giving presents to her family. Others pay by the evening: $15 is the standard price. Jinateras are often married with children, and their families value their income. But in other cases, the family may not know.

The Castro government has declared war on prostitution, using a network of neighborhood party committees to create jobs, educational and other social programs to discourage women from becoming jinateras.

Still, the profession thrives, and jinateras, with other customers, pay enough for the Lycra clothing that Dominguez is able to support her husband, daughter, mother and Jesus. Only five people live in her apartment, far fewer people than in most Old Havana dwellings. The Dominguezes just built an addition to their apartment in a colonial building, which has 20-foot ceilings. They split the back sitting room in half vertically and added a bedroom and bathroom on top of an already existing room. Their daughter, an architecture graduate student, designed it and will live there alone for now. If she marries, her husband is expected to move in.

In contrast, Marlena and Jamira live in a crowded apartment around the corner on Calle Aguicate with their mother, grandmother, two aunts and their children.

Jamira has five pairs of cortos calientes, as well as bomboleos and other outfits from Dominguez. Marlena brings out her favorite outfits, a hot-pink Lycra miniskirt and halter, with 5-inch red patent leather heels. Their more modestly dressed friend, Damiana, sports platform tennis shoes and explains that a friend from Italy gave them to her.

“Even though most of the girls wear these outfits,” Jamira says, “I put on different platform shoes, jewelry, light pink or lilac nail polish and makeup, to make myself different.” Her favorite ensemble is black-flared pants and a cropped top with yellow, polka-dotted platform sandals.

Jamira is saving for her next bomboleo, but is coy about where the money will come from. She has a week to save, since Dominguez doesn’t expect more Lycra until a shipment arrives from Miami the following Monday.

Dominguez is grateful for the rest because her migraines have been bothering her. She says she never gives her customers advice, but often wants to.

“Sometimes I want to tell the girls to quit buying the miniskirts and settle down. I make maternity wear too, you know.”