Cuba and the New Global Digital Scams
By Angry GenXer
HAVANA TIMES – Bitcoin and other cryptocurrencies have been known in Cuba for ten years now, and even before the pandemic I had heard about a restaurant owner in Old Havana who traded stocks on the New York Stock Exchange. So, this kind of “personal insertion” into the global financial market is not something new for Cuba today, although it obviously affects only a small part of those of us living on this archipelago. Nevertheless, an alternative digital outlet like El Toque publishes daily cryptocurrency exchange rates, alongside those for local MLC, USD, and Euro currencies.
Despite everything, Cuba is now a country open to the world, as Pope John Paul II wished for some decades ago.
Then suddenly, while browsing Telegram, I receive a message from a young Chinese woman (from China)—let’s call her Xin—whose profile includes somewhat modest photos of herself in tourist spots, along with a self-reflective post (perhaps a list of New Year’s resolutions?) that mentions her dream to someday swim naked in a lagoon of the Indian Ocean.
In her message, Xin addresses me by a name that isn’t mine. I respond briefly to explain the mistake and ask her to check the number she’s writing to. She apologizes and asks my age. I tell her. She replies in a rather odd way: it turns out I’m exactly the age she thinks is ideal for a romantic connection. “It’s a great idea to connect with a mature man,” she writes.
In her messages, she tells me about her successes and a recent trip to Berlin. I write back very little—just basic information, like my occupation, and of course, that I live in Cuba. Xin is a financial advisor in new markets, including crypto. She just helped a “friend” make A LOT of money—basically made her a millionaire.
My timid attempts to steer the conversation in a different direction send us on elliptical orbits, where Xin, after a few erotic hints (“Did you like my last photo in the forest?”), circles back to the topic of money.
Since I truly don’t have the funds to invest internationally—and also because it’s starting to feel way too much like those pyramid scheme scams that circulated across the web during the pandemic (“Want to be your own boss? If you’re poor, it’s because you want to be!”)—I lose all interest in Xin. I have better things to do. But I still remember her “style.”
Now I’ll contradict myself a little: even though Cuba has opened to the world, it’s still not easy to operate in the financial realm from here, at least not like in other parts of the world. That’s especially true for anyone who doesn’t have a counterpart abroad to send the supposed “profits” from these operations back to Cuba. Cuba hasn’t opened that much to the world (also due to US embargo/blockade measures), and those trying to run scams from abroad should be aware of that.
On Facebook, a woman—let’s call her Cindy—sends me a friend request (and starts a conversation). She works for a Private Military Company. She’s from the US (where she says she served a stint in airborne assault troops) and is based in Syria (this conversation happened before the recent change of government). In her profile picture, the officer is decked out in full combat gear, wearing pixelated camouflage. “I have to head out on patrol right now. Wish me luck.”
Without my asking, Cindy starts sending short stories about her latest patrols in the field, riding an armored vehicle. Then she asks where I live. “Cuba,” I reply. She doesn’t seem fazed by the fact that she’s talking to someone from a territory not exactly seen as friendly by the US. Two days later, Cindy sends me a worried message on Messenger: her Netflix account ran out of funds, she has nothing to do during the early morning hours, and she urgently needs a recharge. The request is to add money to a card, apparently for Netflix.
I calmly explain to Cindy that this kind of operation isn’t possible from Cuba (even if I wanted to), precisely because of US sanctions. “You’re lying!” Cindy replies. “You can do it!” She then sends me a map via Messenger showing places where money can be added to Netflix cards, and sure enough, there’s a red dot over Cuba—curiously aligned with the US Naval base at Guantánamo.
The so-called “Nigerian scams” (of which I’ve known at least two would-be victims in Cuba), which used to circulate via email, have now evolved into these curious scams or quasi-scams. Unlike the earlier ones, these no longer rely on pity or compassion (or simple sexual interest) as the primary trigger for activating the lure of financial gain—but rather on a strange blend of adventure, eroticism, financial intrigue, and, possibly, Netflix.
They say it’s now trendy for characters to claim they work in “remote” parts of the world for various humanitarian NGOs (Doctors Without Borders, perhaps?). Recently, a woman named Layla—allegedly a dentist, graduated in Ottawa and working in Damascus—sent me a friend request on Facebook. Facebook users post memes about conversations with these “new economic actors”: it seems the trend is now well known to most people.
In Cuba, some of us laugh at how naïve these attempts are to trap people so easily in a country that is open (still somewhat open) to international communications, but quite closed to financial flows. Yet surely there are also those who cry, after taking the bait (perhaps people with foreign bank accounts who can operate from within Cuba).
All that’s left is for Artificial Intelligence agents to emerge—capable of learning and adapting to the way “Cubans online” think and act—and start extracting transfers via Transfermóvil and ETECSA phone balances, by crafting adventurous fictional scripts just like these.