Daniel Cano
From LAX to Jose Marti Airport, Direct
August 2000. It was difficult boarding one of the first authorized flights direct from Los Angeles to Havana. Hours of waiting in long lines, standing, sitting, leaning on walls, U.S. customs officers’ interrogations, rummaging through my bags and suitcases, questioning my friends about extra towels or too many clothes, then the x-ray machines, and the agents’ suspicious eyes. Even the balding Cuban grandfather on his way to visit his family shook his head and whispered to me over his shoulder, “Absolutamente absurdo.”
Finally, we made our way up the ramp and onto the plane, twelve in my group on a cultural excursion, including teachers, counselors, and an independent book store owner. A few weeks before, a colleague at work, upon hearing the U.S. government was allowing direct flights to Cuba, asked me if I wanted to join him and his friends. How could I refuse?
The people from the travel agency told us we couldn’t visit for pleasure or even as tourists, so we had to claim some type of cultural-educational mission to appease the U.S. Treasury Department, so my friend coordinated a full calendar of lectures and tours.
“Save your documents, in case the U.S. government questions your trip later,” the travel agent had advised after we received approval for our trip. “I know Americans who travelled illegally from Vera Cruz, Mexico, just for the fishing. When they returned, the feds hit each of them with a $20,000 fine.”
I walked alongside the Cuban grandfather and asked why he was going to Cuba if he was so anti-Castro. He said he was taking clothes and money to his wife and children. He also hoped the family would be reunited within a year, before the newly elected Republican president clamped down even harder on Cuba. He told me the U.S. current law allowed him to visit his wife and child once every three years.
I said, “I thought Americans couldn’t visit Cuba or take anything to the island.”
“No, no. People don’t know the laws. They just believe what the television tells them.”
As we waited to board our flight, he told me how he had left Cuba because of trouble with the government. He didn’t elaborate. They let him take his two oldest children but made his wife and youngest child to stay behind. He spoke bitterly, accusing both Cuba and the U.S., especially the Miami Cuban-American lobby, of cold-hearted political tactics. “Now that things are getting better,” he said, “this new president could ruin everything for us.”
“So, you want the U.S. to normalize relations with Cuba?”
“No, no. Castro is a beast. I still want the Americans to punish him, make him pay for his sins. But, they could make it easier for us to visit our relatives.”
And there was the contradiction. I didn’t know how to answer. “Good luck,” I said, “and have a nice visit with your family.”
After passing through Customs, we gathered outside Havana’s Jose Marti terminal. Lines of vintage Chevrolets, Fords, Chryslers, and Pontiacs filled the parking spaces along the sidewalk. At first, I thought it was a promotion for tourism, as if Cuba knew tourists expected to see old American cars, so the Cuban Department of Tourism hired drivers to show off the classic autos. But no, the old American cars were everywhere, picking up family and friends. Between them came the sputtering, drab compact cars from Russia and Eastern Europe, like exotic metal insects, cutting through traffic.
An hour later, a van pulled to the curb. We loaded our suitcases in the back and onto the roof. I perspired heavily, yet, the evening tropical air invigorated me. In Southern California, there was no equivalent except, maybe, the dry, warm Santa Anas, but they aren’t sultry like the Caribbean breezes.
Our van moved onto a lone highway. I wasn’t sure what I expected to see, perhaps, a land under siege, military barracks, and checkpoints along the way. But no, nothing like that, only our van’s headlights lighting the road, and an occasional building with a marker Escuela or a sign Hasta La Victoria Socialismo.
Weeds and tall grass grew along the roadside. A few scattered lights dotted the landscape, random settlements, mostly in darkness. I looked for signs of torture or brutality, a dead body hanging from a lamp post, an official whipping some poor soul, or hungry people tearing at a fallen animal? Instead, I heard the laughter of our driver as he made jokes about my companions’ sad attempts at Spanish. He corrected them, patiently, like a teacher. Someone pulled me from my reverie and asked me to translate.
The driver dropped us off in front at our hotel, the ultra-modern Habana Libre. After checking into our rooms, we met outside, and hit the streets. It was Carnival.
Cubans danced and sang, crowding the streets. Youngsters lined up to get onto the rides. Young men shared plastic half-gallon containers filled with beer. I might have been in Africa or Brazil. I saw some light-skin and white Cubans but most were black. How could this be? In the U.S., the Cuban actors, musicians, and business people who railed against Castro were white. Castro himself, of Spanish lineage, is white. So, had a white man led a revolution of blacks over whites? Was the Cuban revolution about race?
We walked along the famed Malecon, the ocean waves surging against the ancient concrete wall. Young Cuban men approached us and offered us beer. They placed their arms over our shoulders and asked from where we’d come. Unsure of my U.S. standing in Cuba I said, “The United States” but quickly added, “My grandparents were born in Mexico.” To the Cubans, it didn’t seem to matter.
They asked about rock music and American movies, baseball players and hip hop. They asked if we wanted to buy Cuban cigars or eat a traditional Cuban meal in one of their homes. They followed us along the Malecon until we excused ourselves and told them we’d just arrived and wanted to move on before it got too late. “It’s already too late,” said one laughing, his white teeth gleaming in the night.
It was after midnight. I studied them through my writer’s lenses, a hard-to-break habit. Though dressed mostly in simple tank tops, t-shirts, and shorts, they all appeared healthy and vibrant, thin but not skinny.
We entered a bakery, young Cubans crowded in. The shelves behind the counter were near-empty, but the waiters served plenty of coffee and cool drinks. Salsa blared through the speakers. Many of the Cuban women, caramel skin and light eyes, a mix of European and African features, were stunningly beautiful. I looked at one. She saw me and confidently held my gaze until I uncomfortably turned away.
Around 4:00 A.M. and tiring, I excused myself and headed back to our hotel, the streets still bulging with life. Men sat on benches under lamplights and played guitars as couples danced around them. I passed a jazz club, La Vela, a line of people, speaking German, Dutch, and Italian, waited outside for the next show. I saw a policeman, a baby-faced young man, leaning against a building, a lowered carbine strapped over his shoulder. He was talking to two young women. They stood in the shadows. I moved close to eavesdrop. Their Spanish way too fast for me to understand. They nodded as I walked up the sidewalk. I made my way to the room. I undressed and showered. I fell into bed. Outside, the carnival showed no signs of letting up soon.
What I would see and experience in the next week confirmed the adage that, as always, the truth lay somewhere in between.
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