The only way to settle a debate on life in Cuba is
From the early 60’s I hadn’t thought much, if any, about Cuba. Nor had any of my friends, neither my acquaintances. Certainly this was because of the incredible amount of other news and happenings in the world, and in retrospect was aided by the politically-motivated press of the times, which had no motive for reporting on anything so close and so communist. So it was quite a surprise to be introduced to the “idea” of Cuba by the very force commissioned to keep American Citizens OUT of the place.
On a day in May, in 1994, returning from a visit to my daughter, in Belize, where I’d lived for 12 years some time in the past, and now, divorced and living alone in the mid-west, and escaping each winter for a month or two, I was arriving at Houston International Airport. Upon reaching US Customs, and expecting the usual non-friendly search of my luggage, I was greeted by the agent, instead, with a serious, professional glare, and this strange question: “Did you go to CUBA?…” Taken aback, I answered: “What?… why?… how…?… NO, of course not!” And that was that! But, over the next year, I have to admit thinking about that question more than once, yet didn’t pursue any action or thought of actually making that “probably strange” sort of journey.
My next year’s vacation, however, took me through the town of Cancun on the west coast of Quintanaroo in Mexico, where I grabbed a bus to Belize, and thereby saved $500 from my direct flight down the year before. While over-nighting in the coastal resort town, I couldn’t help but notice the signs in the windows of travel-agencies announcing the cheap, and “legal” vacations from there to the island of Cuba. This did whet my imagination a bit, and I silently thanked that customs man for the knowledge of this possibility existing, but, I STILL had no inclination to take the trip.
What finally did convince me to go was my surprise encounter with Carlos. He was a jewelry maker and vendor on the streets of San Pedro Sula, in Honduras. This is the largest city in the country, and loud, and polluted. Carlos, a Cuban, hadn’t been home for 14 years and was eager to talk about his native country. The discussion quickly turned into a debate between us about the life under Castro, which he believed to be sub-human and repressive and I, who of course knew very little of what I was talking about, took the angle of “how good” life must be under an equalitarian life-style.
For three days we argued, and one afternoon my friend delivered the “coup de grace”: “You know, Antomio, the only way you’re going to understand what I’m talking about is… to GO. See for yourself, man!” The statement hit home with a reality-bang; I was on the first flight next morning for Mexico.
Russian Aircraft
I sat on the Russian plane on the tarmac of Cancun International airport, waiting to take off. This sucker was huge; when we finally began the trip down the runway I found myself straining to hear the wheels over the sound of the engine, like you can in an American liner. Nothing. Just the roar of the motor. I couldn’t even feel the movement. And the plane wouldn’t lift off! We kept rolling on and on until I thought we’d be on the beach any second.
I still couldn’t feel or hear anything from the wheels, but, looking down continuously, I saw that we had lifted off, but only a foot or two off the ground. We kept that altitude for what seemed like another 10 minutes! Then, at that moment, the cabin filled with smoke and half the ladies began to squeal and look petrified. The “smoke” finally cleared and we could see for sure, two things: that we were now 20 feet or so off the planet’s surface, and that the air-conditioner was finally sucking back up it’s “steam” like it was supposed to.
We stayed at that same height, seemingly, for another 10 minutes ’til we were well out over the Caribbean, where, finally, we seemed to rise to the level of air-space that was “normal”. In 15 minutes the land of Cuba was visible below, and 20 minutes later our plane began to slowly descend.
Read all six parts of Iowa Yankee in King Castro’s Court
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
Part Six