When I was growing up, my family struggled a lot. We lived in a one-bedroom flat in Los Pinos, on the outskirts of Havana. My mother, two sisters and I shared a bedroom; my father, who was a truck driver and 30 years older than my mother, slept in the living room. My parents were divorced, but continued to live with each other — they had no other option but to get on with it.
We had a living room, a small bathroom and a small kitchen. There was no running water, so we would carry up buckets from our neighbours downstairs and store the water in a tank in the kitchen. We did, however, have two televisions — one American and the other Russian. It was only ever the Russian one that worked, although we watched American movies and saw this other life, this strange world of contradictions.
I had a difficult family life, but, on the whole, a happy childhood. We would play street games, baseball and football — I was desperate to be a footballer. The area was semirural, with lots of mango and guava trees, so my friends and I would skip school and go stealing fruit.
I was a troublesome child: my father had a lot of problems with me. Over time, our relationship became like a neighbourhood show, with everyone turning out in the streets to watch us fight. I was a keen breakdancer, and a neighbour who had seen me in action suggested my father send me to ballet classes, thinking it might tame me.
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I was nine when I went to the Alejo Carpentier ballet school in Havana — and it was a total shock. I thought everybody would think I was gay, which seemed an awful thing then. And the clothes and dance belt that men have to wear? Oh, my God. The classes were long. The work was hard and extremely monotonous. I just wanted to rock!
It was ballet that saved me, though.
I hung in there, then, when I was 13, studying at the Pinar del Rio boarding ballet school, I saw a proper ballet for the first time. I saw this guy jumping high, doing all the tricks and lifting the girls by one hand, and I thought, wow, this thing is cool. I was still learning the basics, but I realised that before me was this world of beauty, where there were no problems. It was complete escapism, and who wouldn’t want to live in that world? From that moment, everything changed for me. I became much more enthusiastic in classes, and I began to stand out.
The first time I went abroad was in 1990, on a trip to Italy with one of my teachers, and I was blown away by it. I couldn’t believe the people, the motorbikes and the carpet of autumn leaves. It was all so different. During the 1980s, our world in Cuba felt innocent and humble. Our currency — the peso — was sufficient, and there was no class system. We were uncontaminated.
When the Iron Curtain came down and Cuba remained alone, tourism arrived. The money started flowing in and, suddenly, some people had a lot more than others. Before this, the community was strong and there was no such thing as individualism.
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As Cuba has changed, it has become a world I can never return to. I think of England as my home now, but I often get nostalgic and think about what my life would have been like if I had stayed. I know I would have been wild, because I was from the wrong side of the tracks.
I am still close to my family — my father is in his nineties, and is now the light of my life. Despite the trouble I gave him, he never stopped believing in me. My parents have their own homes now — and I have my own place in Havana, too. When I walk through my old streets, I am treated like a king. It’s amazing. I used to be the clown.
Carlos Acosta dances in Premieres at the Coliseum, London WC2, from July 28 to August 7; 0844 412 4310, sadlerswells.com