By Maykel Gonzalez, Miami Herald
Ignacio Valdés, better known as El Chicle, shocks people on the streets of Havana with his provocative pranks.
Valdés, dressed as his alter ego El Chicle, sneaks up on unsuspecting citizens as they wait for the bus or walk around the city with his signature scream. Some laugh, others cringe — but there’s always a reaction.
At 22, Valdés has amassed more than 290,000 followers on his new Instagram profile. He now devotes himself fully to creating content for social media. Like him, many Cubans are joining this trend — using social media not just to survive the crisis, but to express themselves creatively.
After years of restricted internet access, Cuba has seen a gradual digital opening. As a result, social media use is growing across the island, and a number of Cuban content creators are now making money promoting local businesses — including some based in Miami.
There were about 8 million active mobile lines in Cuba by 2025 — 95% of them with internet access, according to government sources. But these official figures are difficult to verify due to the country’s state-run telecommunications monopoly. Facebook and Instagram are the most popular platforms, while YouTube and WhatsApp are also widely used, according to authorities.
The rise of influencers hasn’t gone unnoticed by the government. In 2021, months before the July 11 protests, the state-run media published a dossier analyzing topics like “the impact of social media on communication, society, and politics.”
Still, most content creators in Cuba avoid directly confronting the government. Instead, they often reflect the absurdities and hardships of daily life — power outages, failing public services, food shortages and soaring prices — in subtle, often humorous ways.
A prankster in Havana
Speaking from Havana to el Nuevo Herald, Valdés describes El Chicle as a hybrid of various foreign and Cuban comedians. “He’s a kind of Frankenstein,” he says. “He has a bit of Alexis Valdés and Limay Blanco — mostly Alexis — and also the Argentine YouTuber Gaspi.”
Don’t think the nickname has to do with chewing gum. The name “El Chicle” comes from a physical trait: in Cuban slang, chiclano refers to someone with only one testicle.
But that’s not his only distinctive feature. Above his shaved eyebrows, Valdés has the female genitalia tattooed on his forehead. “It symbolizes the connection between the mind and sexual instinct,” he explains. “I wanted to synchronize them in my head.”
His look also includes colorful wigs, sunglasses, makeup, tight or eccentric clothes, and sometimes a wild Michael Jackson impersonation right on the street. What Valdés values most in his character is spontaneity.
“I don’t plan much. Other content creators organize their videos more, but I just hit the street and boom — I’m El Chicle,” he says. “Even how I edit is strange. I improvise.”
He films himself using both the front and rear cameras on his phone. Sometimes, a friend helps. Many people, he says, end up in his videos and enjoy the experience — though their initial reaction is usually shock or tension.
One of his worst moments was during a prank in which he grabbed a man’s backpack to simulate a robbery. The man didn’t find it funny: he chased Valdés down, pinned him to the ground, and remained visibly angry — even after learning it was a joke.
Although the incident didn’t escalate further, the video became one of the most-watched clips on his old page, drawing more than 1,500 comments. Some scolded him for being reckless, others cheered the “deserved” response — and many praised his boldness.
“In the end, people laugh, even if that doesn’t always show up in the posts,” says Valdés. “It’s true some of the jokes have gone too far.” He admits he needs to “refine” his character.
El Chicle’s popularity isn’t limited to street pranks. He’s released catchy reggaeton tracks like “El Pasillongo,” which racked up nearly one million views on YouTube in just four months.
“I want to keep improving my music and dancing,” he says. “Maybe I’ll pick up an instrument. Humor can always evolve a little more.”
Recipe for a Cuban Tortilla (Omelet)
In 2020, Leonardo del Valle Pino saw the internet as a way to make his dream come true. That year, the Cuban government imposed one of the strictest COVID-19 lockdowns in the Americas, confining people to their homes with threats of heavy fines and other penalties.
Del Valle turned to humor as a way to cope. He began uploading short videos to his WhatsApp status, and his contacts quickly took notice — encouraging him to keep going.
Around that time, the slang term tortillero — literally, “omelet maker” — began circulating in Cuba to describe someone who was constantly joking around. “People would say, ‘You’re a tortillero’ to mean you made a joke out of everything,” Del Valle told El Nuevo Herald.
“My friends saw the videos and started calling me La Tortilla. Eventually, I decided to embrace the name,” says the 25-year-old, who lives in Havana’s Playa municipality.
He acknowledges the name of his page is “a bit extravagant.” Of course, tortilla refers to the classic egg dish, but it also has a sexual connotation in Cuban slang, referring to women who are romantically involved with other women. “That part never even crossed my mind,” he adds.
His content leans heavily into anime. His followers often see wild, over-the-top videos influenced by Japanese animated series — like an epic battle with his parents over housework. Maybe it’s a cleaning session that ends with a mother who has special powers to throw flip-flops, or a showdown sparked by who has to take out the trash.
“I’ve been watching anime since I was a kid. I’ve seen so many shows,” he says. “Each frame inspires me — and then I try to recreate it.”
‘I trusted myself’
Despite initially having a “negative mindset” about the future of his page, Del Valle believed that content creators in Cuba could find ways to earn money if their posts gained traction.
On the island, direct monetization through platforms like Instagram or YouTube is limited by restrictions tied to U.S. sanctions. Still, many Cuban influencers have found workarounds — often partnering with brands and small businesses, according to official media reports.
Earnings vary widely depending on the terms of each collaboration. Del Valle says he’s charged up to $250 per promotion. When the offer comes from a U.S.-based company, the rate can sometimes double. One of his most notable partnerships has been with Aeroenvío, a shipping agency that delivers packages from Miami to Cuba.
“I started from scratch, took risks, posted older clips I’d made, and then new videos,” he said. “It took me a year to reach 1,000 followers, but then it all clicked once I figured out how Instagram’s algorithm works to boost reach.”
His strategy includes paying close attention to trends, viral content, and hashtags. Some of his most popular videos parody social media challenges — like dances to Kendrick Lamar’s “Not Like Us.” He learned it all on his own.
In just over two years, Tortilla Cubana surpassed 150,000 followers on Instagram.
Del Valle says his love for digital culture began when he discovered Spanish YouTubers like AuronPlay (Raúl Álvarez). But what truly sets his page apart is the starring role of his parents — Jesús del Valle and Irina Pino — who have supported his creative efforts from day one.
They appear in many of his sketches, turning Tortilla Cubana into a family project — not just for the income, but for the joy it brings.
“Something funny is that my dad has never said a word on camera, but he’s naturally funny,” Del Valle says. “The first video I ever made was with him. He worked for years as a singer and comedian and performed with big names in Cuba, including the late Carlos Ruiz de la Tejera. My mom, on the other hand, didn’t like being filmed. But eventually, we had so much fun recording together.”
He also prides himself on using visual effects in his videos. A family friend taught him the basics of Adobe Premiere Pro. From there, he dove into YouTube tutorials and eventually taught himself Adobe After Effects. “That one was more complex,” he says, “but it let me do more advanced editing.”
Del Valle always had a knack for technology. He once dreamed of studying computer science but never pursued it. Before becoming a full-time content creator, he worked in a cellphone repair shop.
“Since I started making videos, everything has changed. I used to be very introverted — I didn’t like talking to people outside my circle. But now, my life has completely shifted. I enjoy going out, meeting people, connecting,” he says.
One of his proudest moments came when Rubén Doblas — the massively popular Spanish YouTuber known as El Rubius — reacted to one of his videos.
“I’d followed him for a long time. Seeing his reaction was surreal,” Del Valle says. “It made me realize how far my content could go. I feel fulfilled because I’m doing what I love — and because people send messages full of love and support for my family and me.”
Laws in Cuba: Not everything viral is welcome
In 2024, the Cuban government enacted a Social Communication Law that allows influencers to promote content on their pages — but also holds them legally responsible for their ads and posts. So far, creators like El Chicle and Tortilla Cubana have not faced government pushback or consequences for their videos.
But that hasn’t been the case for others who directly criticize the regime.
One prominent example is Yoandi Montiel Hernández, better known as El Gato de Cuba (The Cat from Cuba), who spent nearly two years in prison on charges of “contempt” after posting a series of viral videos — including one in which he named a frog after Cuba’s leader Miguel Díaz-Canel.
Under Cuba’s penal code, insulting a public official can carry a penalty of six months to a year in prison. But when the insult targets the president, vice president, or other high-ranking authorities, the punishment can extend up to three years.
“The arrival of the internet in Cuba has radically changed how information circulates and has greatly weakened the traditional monopoly on state media,” said Theodore Henken, a researcher and professor at the City University of New York (CUNY) who has written extensively about Cuba’s digital landscape.
Lina Hernández, the grandmother who dances reparto
When Lina Hernández posts a video online, she often receives comments about her age — some admiring, others less kind.
CiberCuba, a popular independent news site, has shared her videos celebrating the vibrant energy of a grandmother dancing reparto, a Cuban reggaeton subgenre.
Hernández is 71 years old and lives in Havana. She worked in economics in the tourism sector before retiring. Today, she’s a homemaker — and an unexpected influencer.
What began as a hobby now earns her over 73,000 Instagram followers. Her first video on the platform appeared in December 2022.
Just a month later, she went viral with a humorous skit about Cubans trying to leave the island with the help of a coyote (a human smuggler) which racked up more than 60,000 reactions.
Her dance videos also gained traction. In January 2025, one of her reels earned 58,000 likes and waves of praise — though not without criticism from some viewers who said she was “too old” to be on social media.
“Honestly, I never thought my videos could go viral. I did it just for fun. I’m not shy,” Hernández told el Nuevo Herald. She’s sometimes joined on camera by friends her age.
She says the biggest hurdles to making content are Cuba’s “terrible internet” and constant power outages, especially because lighting is so important for her videos. She often films during daylight hours or rushes to shoot when the electricity briefly returns.
Unlike El Chicle’s raw improvisation or Tortilla Cubana’s digital wizardry, Hernández’s content is more curated: she pays attention to what’s trending and crafts posts based on Cuban humor, daily frustrations and relatable struggles. Still, she believes younger, conventionally attractive creators are more likely to go viral.
But that doesn’t stop her.
“I don’t give much weight to negative comments,” she says. “I just try to entertain.”
Hernández hopes that one day her content will generate enough income to support her — as it has for others.
In that spirit, Del Valle, the creator of Tortilla Cubana, encourages other Cubans to believe in their talents and the new horizons that digital tools can open, even in a country full of obstacles.
“It’s a very meaningful experience, and more Cubans should join in,” says Del Valle. “There are many limitations, no doubt — but if there’s will, it can be done.”
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