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Such contradictions are not uncommon on Castro's island, as I discovered when I lived in Havana for almost a year. What I found, to my surprise, is that Cuba's essentially totalitarian regime is in the process of engineering something inherently democratic: the integration of low-cost botanicals and other natural medicines into its public health care system.

My story begins on a hot May afternoon walking my bicycle down crowded Obispo Street in Old Havana. The bicycle pedal scraping against my leg is only a trivial annoyance as I pass by Hemingway haunts, art vendors and 17th century architecture under repair -- until three days later a nasty infection from an earlier injury blossoms on my left calf.

Far from being a worry, the infection is my opportunity to test my faith in Cuban alternatives to mainstream medicine. In what amounts to a revolution in health care delivery, the Cuban government has been actively promoting low-cost botanical medicines instead of drugs. It's also encouraged doctors to reeducate themselves in "natural" medicine techniques.

Much of the credit goes to the continuing U.S. trade embargo. The economic disaster following withdrawal of Soviet aid in the early '90s made it impossible to access many medicines and pharmaceuticals. So the Cuban health care system was forced to search for alternatives. It didn't have to look far, because medicine verde, or "green medicine," has been part of Cuba's culture for centuries.

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I'm in the home of Enrequito Hernandez Armenteros, at 81 one of Cuba's better-known priests of Palo Montes and Santeria. As a practitioner of Afro-Cuban religion, Enrequito knows the country's thousands of healing plants and herbs. A shrine to San Lazaro, surrounded by floral offerings, graces his front yard. A prized memento in his private consulting room is a photo of himself with Fidel Castro taken last year at a reception for the country's senior babalaos. The photo shows the tall Cuban leader with his arm draped around the diminutive Enrequito.

I have it on reasonably good authority that Fidel, far from being a heartless atheist, is an "hijo" (son) of Babalu-Aye, the orisha in the Santeria pantheon who causes and cures illnesses. I've also been initiated as an "hijo" of Babalu-Aye in a Santeria ceremony as part of my exploration of Cuban archetypes. And I made the 50-mile pilgrimage on my bicycle to El Rincon to the church of San Lazaro, the Catholic saint paired with Babalu-Aye. This act of devotion on my part should certainly protect me against some trifling leg infection -- shouldn't it?

I'm visiting Enrequito to introduce Tracey Spack, a Canadian Ph.D. student in medical anthropology. She's conducting research on how Cuba is introducing natural medicine into its public health care system. She says that before Castro the use of plants and herbs was relatively common and accepted in Cuba. The revolution brought in modern medicine, vaccinations and antibiotics, so natural medicine faded into the background. Cubans who grew up in the Soviet-backed economy of the '60s through '80s didn't exactly embrace natural medicine with open arms. "But," she says, "they found out to their surprise that it actually works."

She adds, "In Cuba there's more of a sense of community around medical care, and patients are seen more holistically. There's more consideration of the person's life situation: marriage, work, etc." The contrast in North America is that we tend to want to "kill an infection, deal with a specific pathology in isolation. In North America it's more difficult because people want a quick fix."

Speaking of which, as I sit around Enrequito's Arthurian round table, sipping aguardiente rum, I'm starting to panic. The infection is making the sore on my leg start to weep. For Enrequito, my problem is a no-brainer. The solution is to simply apply leaves of the caisimon tree, hojas de caisimon, which are readily available at the four corners market in Havana. But wait. Today is Sunday and the market is closed. No problem, says one of Enrequito's sons. He dashes off, returning in 20 minutes with a couple of dozen large, dark green, heart-shaped caisimon leaves.

"And if that doesn't work," jokes one of Enrequito's followers, "we'll do an amputation."

As I gratefully depart clutching the caisimon leaves in a plastic shopping bag, Enrequito advises me to rest the leg for two days.

That evening my Cuban girlfriend lights a red candle and takes one of my cigars as an offering to San Lazaro. I go to bed with a caisimon leaf wrapped around my leg, and in the morning it looks as though I'm on the mend. The episode with my leg is giving me a direct experience of medicine verde. Still, I have some fear. Maybe I should go to Cira Garcia, the hospital for foreign visitors, and get antibiotics. But I don't like antibiotics, and I want to test the herbal treatment.

Next page | I sacrifice my belief in natural medicine for a quick fix