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"TAXI SENOR?"Aug 27 '01 Write an essay on this topic.The Bottom Line Or how I almost became the first and only tourist to die of hypothermia in a tropical country. I've noted in a past article or two, my preference for using black market or gypsy taxis to travel around Cuba as opposed to the regular Tourist Taxis run by the state. Now to be honest I've used both regularly, but my main reason for using the private ones is a financial one. First of all in every instance that I can think of they're cheaper. On my last trip there we contracted with a guy to drive us from Cienfuegos to Havana and back, about a three-four hour run each way. He also agreed to wait for us while we went sight seeing and shopping and take us back that evening. For the two of us, the price he quoted was $70.00. Later we found two others to join us and he raised the price to $90.00. Even with a well deserved tip of $10.00 this came out to only $25.00 per person. In comparison we asked an official driver and he quoted us $60.00-$70.00 each way. Knowing that he'd be using the meter this would more likely have been $90.00-$100.00. The fast first class bus would have cost us $25.00 each way and you have to add taxis too and from the bus depot at each end on top of that. We later recommended our driver to another couple from Florida staying at our hotel. They needed a one way run to Havana, and he took them. I think he charged them $50.00-$60.00 which was still a bargain. The last time I stayed in Havana, a year ago, I and a few travelling companions made the acquaintance of a driver. He worked for the Government and had a car assigned to him, a fairly new Hyundai. For $20.00 - $25.00 a day he was ours. We used his services for a couple of days and then recommended him to some other guests at the hotel. I'm not sure if he was phoning in sick, or had a couple of days off and was using it to make some badly needed hard currency. I never thought it my business to enquire to be honest. That price included his invaluable services as a local guide. His English was quite good, not a factor for me, but more so for some of the others who were using his services later that week I'm sure. The fact that the car was air-conditioned, and had official government plates which enabled us to breeze past police check points etc. in extreme comfort was an added bonus. We rather enjoyed sitting in the back doing our best imitations of Fidel and waving at the local cops from behind tinted glass. The second point regarding finances is that all the money we paid these guys went into their pockets. I'm not quite sure how much if any an official taxi driver gets to keep. They're all salaried employees and as anyone who has ever been in one their cabs will agree, they always seem to be recording distances travelled and moneys received. I'm sure that this bureaucratic bit of bookkeeping is to ensure that the state gets the Dollars and the driver a small sum in Pesos at the ends of the week or month. My proof regarding this is both the fact that they really seem to appreciate tips no matter how small. Even a "keep the change" is greeted with a smile. The other side of the coin is that more than a few of them are willing to quote you a price and then forget to turn on the meter. This is especially so for short hauls, say under $5.00, and especially so at night. Not that I haven't had some bad experiences in black market cabs mind. It stands to reason that when you're travelling in cars that for the most part rolled off the assembly lines in Detroit in the late 1940's and early 1950's and have been denied spare parts since 1959, that some troubles will arise. Even those that use the relatively "newer" Ladas from the Soviet era are having problems. These too are suffering from a lack of spare parts and old age these days. To be honest the Ladas seem to suffer more despite the fact they are twenty to thirty years younger and have only been without a source of spare parts since 1989. I guess that could be a testament to the power of Western industry or to the reliability of the products churned out by the motor city. I always thought that Lee Iacoca would probably enjoy a trip to Cuba. I've been in some real clunkers during my various sojourns there. Usually late at night or in the wee hours of the morning after a night's debauchery. Despite the condition of the car, I never failed to get where I was going. In fact as the following little tale illustrates, the worse shape the car was in, the better the driver appeared to be. That is at least in regards to his being a decent human being. About seven years back I grabbed a last minute sell off to Santiago de Cuba. It was early in January and there's always a small two week window there where one can get a good deal. I was booked into the Buccanero resort, about forty kilometres (24 miles) from the outskirts of the city of Santiago de Cuba proper. The hotel itself was nothing spectacular, but it was cheap. I was mainly using it as a base to explore the surrounding area. It's location wasn't really ideal for this though. The hotel was rather isolated. It was located at the base of a cliff, right on the sea front, and about seven kilometres (4 miles) from the main road. This access road, aside from one small village right where it turned off from the main highway, was quite desolate. The nearest town, Siboney, was only about three and a half kilometres (2 miles) further west along the coast. However because of the intervening mountains, cliffs, and roads through them, it was about fifteen kilometres (10 miles) by road to get there. It was a further twenty five kilometres (14 miles) from Siboney on to the outskirts of Santiago de Cuba on the main highway. This kind of limited my ability to go off anywhere on my own. To get to the town of Siboney, and access to buses and black market cabs I had to take an official taxi from the hotel. This of course had to be called by the front desk from Santiago de Cuba as I said 40 kilometres away. My second last night there I accepted an invitation from some of the Cuban staff to go with them to a party in the city. They snuck me aboard the crew bus that brought them to and from the city to work every day. That was quite easy to do and the one true party member who objected to my, and a couple of other foreigners presence, was soon silenced. The party was a good one. At least as far as I can remember. Eventually around two or three in the morning I realised that I should be getting home. In retrospect I probably should have imposed on my hosts, borrowed a blanket, and curled up on a spot on the floor until morning. Retrospect though is something I've noticed over the years is a curse with me. I wandered out in the dark night with a couple of friends in search of a taxi. We had no illusions about finding an official tourist taxi anywhere near where we were. We were in a residential area far from Santiago's downtown core. Back then, the few official taxis available at that hour would have been concentrated at cab stands near the major hotels downtown or up on Avienda las Americas where a couple of big hotels and most of the night clubs are. Even the Peso taxis which are technically for Cubans only and prohibited from picking up foreigners were nowhere to be seen. I was resigned to a couple of miles hike through dark streets until I reached the Hotel Santiago where there was a twenty four hour taxi stand. There I'd be milked of twenty to thirty bucks to get back to my hotel over the mountains. Suddenly one of my drinking companions came across an old clunker parked on the curb, with the driver still in it. Even more remarkable for a Saturday night in Santiago he was awake and sober. Not surprisingly he was more than willing to help out a tourista in distress and earn a couple of bucks at the same time. My intent was just to get him to take me to the hotel cab stand and then get a regular taxi from there. However my drinking companions told him my ultimate destination was the Hotel Buccanero. He wasn't quite sure where that was, but he did know where the town of Siboney was and when told it was only a couple of miles past that, offered to take me the whole way. Right then I should have said no, the Hotel Santiago was fine enough. Even if there were no cabs available, one could be called for me by the desk clerk. The hotel bar was open twenty four hours so I could grab a coffee or a beer while I was waiting. Mind I was tired and it was dark. Too dark to really get a good look at the car that I'd be in. It seemed to run and I was used to old Detroit cars patched up with spit and bailing wire by then. Besides I couldn't turn down the price. He was willing to take me all the way for $5.00 US. I had been willing to give him that much just to get me to a real cab. I should point out that at the time possession of US Dollars by ordinary Cubans was still a rare thing. The official exchange rate was still one for one. The more realistic black market rate had just fallen from the high of the last year of 100 to 1. It was now at a more reasonable 50 to 1. That meant that an average Cuban was making about $7.00 US a month (nowadays its closer to $20-25.00). I'd just offered him almost a months wages for a couple of hours work. Better yet it was in US currency which was actually useful. Oh yeah there was one more factor why I took him up on his offer. I was still drunk. I crawled into the back seat of his old 1948 Dodge and off we went. There wasn't much to see, as the streetlights were few and far between, so I stretched out on the seat and started to nod off. I told my new chauffeur to wake me when we got there or more likely when he needed directions to the turn off for the hotel. I used my leather jacket for a pillow and soon was fast asleep. It had been raining earlier in the evening when I left my hotel, and was still lightly sprinkling then, so I'd grabbed the heavy jacket I'd worn when I caught the plane in Toronto and dragged it along with me. It was probably the smartest thing I'd done all night. What seemed like hours later, but was probably only a half an hour or, the driver was shaking me awake. Great home already I thought as I began to wipe the sleep from my eyes. I looked outside the car and realised two things. One, the light drizzle had increased to a severe downpour. Two, we weren't "home." We appeared to be on a desolate stretch of the coastal highway with a mountain to our left and another to our right. Beyond that I had no idea where we were. Then the driver gave me the good news. We were out of gas. No problem my new buddy assured me. There was a village back down the road and he should be able to get some gas there. He had a "friend" there. Translated that meant the local black market, I mean who else would be open at that hour, in a rain storm, and have easy access to gas one of the most strictly rationed commodities in Cuba. Confirmation came a few seconds later when he asked he could have the five dollars in advance. I offered to go myself, or at least go with him, but he insisted I stay in the car where it was warm and dry. I gave him the money and he set off into the night and the rain which was really starting to pick up. I crawled back into the car and tried to go back to sleep. That was harder to do than I thought. the wind had picked up and I soon discovered just how solid the car body was as it whipped through various gaps and holes and whistled around me. As I lay there shivering I found out another deficiency in the car. The roof leaked. Laying there in the foetal position on the back seat with my jacket wrapped around me, cold and wet, one thought crossed my mind. Well actually two. First never again would I try to save a couple of bucks and take the cheap cab. Second, if the driver didn't come back soon, I'd have the embarrassing honour of being the first and only tourist to ever die of hypothermia in Cuba. I tried to nod off, but couldn't, which was probably a good thing. On the down side I didn't even have a damn cigar to smoke. By that point I'd have settled for a cigarette, and I'd given those up in 1979. Eventually to avoid drowning, I crawled into the front seat. The wind was actually less severe huddled down under the dash I found out. I also discovered why he didn't fix the leaky roof, or even notice it. It didn't leak in the front seat. My third discovery came after about an hour. The sun came up, and although he rain and wind didn't diminish, I could at least make out where I was. To my surprise I'd been asleep longer than I thought. I could see a small village less than a mile up the road, and I recognised it. We were a little less than a mile away from the turn off for the hotel. I was less than five miles from a warm dry bed and hot food. I could probably walk it in under an hour, less if I jogged. The driver had probably gone back to Siboney which was almost ten miles there and back. It would take him a couple of hours at least , and more like three, to cover that distance carrying a gas can in this weather. That didn't include the time it would take to find someone with gas and then wake them up. He'd been gone over an hour by my watch, so I had probably another two hours of shivering there waiting for him, or one hour of discomfort and then the warmth of my hotel room. I considered abandoning him, but realised that was not the proper thing to do. What would he think when he came back and found me gone. He had no idea how close we were. He'd probably spend all morning hunting around for me. After all I was just a dumb tourista wasn't I. Leaving a note was out of the question. I didn't have any paper or pen with me. Resigned to my fate I crawled down onto the seat again and tried to stay warm and dry. Miserable as I was I figured he was a lot worse off, walking out in the rain storm. Then again for all I knew he'd been picked up by another car or truck and was sitting someplace warm and dry and drinking hot coffee and rum, bought with my gas money. I was cursing him vehemently and about to abandon Dodge when I realised I hadn't seen any traffic going in either direction. No he was out there struggling along with the sodden five dollar bill grasped in his sodden fingers. Then again I'd been asleep. Half the population of Cuba could have driven by and I'd never have seen them in the dark, or heard them above the rain and wind. These fun little games of alternatively cursing and feeling sorry for the driver helped passed the time away. After about an hour I was starting to nod off again. Just as my eyes closed, I heard a sharp banging that immediately brought me awake and bolt upright in the seat. There standing outside the car was the driver. He had a garbage bag or some other piece of plastic wrapped around him as a makeshift poncho. One hand was holding onto a small decrepit children's bike. The other was clutching a plastic jug which he held up to the window. His grin was spread from ear to ear as he waved the jug at me. In a flash I was out of the car and seconds later we were siphoning gas into the tank. He explained that he'd borrowed the bike form the guy he'd bought the gas from. He'd return it and the empty jug after he dropped me off. It took a few more minutes to wedge the bike into the trunk, which meant that we were both thoroughly soaked, but I didn't care. A couple of minutes later we were both in the front seat and he turned the ignition. Nothing, the car refused to start. We both then completed the standard male reaction for this. We cursed and tried again, and again. Still nothing. Eventually we reluctantly climbed back outside and popped the hood. I had no idea what we were looking for, but the hood did provide some cover from the elements so that was ok. I don't think he knew either, but he puttered around in there for a half hour or so before giving up. Ok Plan "B" we decided, both back in the front seat. We could sit here until someone came to rescue us, or we could head back to Siboney and find a tow. Finally I came up with the best option. We'd both walk to the hotel, it was closer. From there he could call someone to come and get him and the car. We crawled out into the wet again and pushed the car off the road as far as we could. Then I zipped my jacket up as far as I could, not that it made a difference by then, and began to march down the road. I'd gotten about twenty feet when I realised I was alone. He'd gone to the rear of the car and was taking out the bike. Catching up to me he then explained that it would be faster if we rode the bike. One look at it told me no way. It was like I said a kid's bike and a pretty old and beat up one at that. There is no arguing with Cuban logic or Latino pride for that matter. He just stood there with that grin on his face and insisted it would be better, so we took the bike. He climbed on and I perched on the back and way we went. We went all of thirty feet. After picking our selves off of the ground we repositioned ourselves and tried again. This time it was much better. We made almost a hundred feet. I was all for pitching the damn thing into the jungle on the side of the road, and if he objected he'd be joining it there. However we tried a third time, and a fourth and a fifth. Eventually we got the hang off it and by the time we reached the turn off were actually able to stay on for a couple of hundred yards at a time. We rolled through the little village which was still all boarded up and asleep, aside from the damn chickens. I think we killed a couple, I know for a fact we hit them. We almost added a pig, but he dodged us at the last second. Good thing too, as I'm sure he would have caused severe damage to our fragile machine. Past the village, the access road sloped down to the coast and we actually made good time. Actually too much good time, we were going so fast we spilled into a ditch. Hey what was a little dirt, mud and ripped jeans by that time. Come to think of it what matter scraped and bleeding legs and arms either. A couple of spills later we reached the bottom and the sea. Now it was a simple one mile stroll along the coast and home free. We probably looked like the last survivors coming out of Fort Zinderhoff as we approached the main gate of the hotel and the security guard's shack there. Mind we were a lot less dry than those Legionnaires of P.C. Wren's ever dreamed of being. Pushing the bike, or rather what was left of it between us, and leaning on each other for support, we staggered through the gate. We were drenched, tired, bloody, muddy, on our last legs, and laughing our heads off. For the last hour we'd been telling each other jokes, teaching one another how to speak the other's language and generally forming a friendship. The kind of bond that can only be formed by those who've gone through that kind of ordeal. An ordeal caused by our own stupidity. I mean he could have said he didn't have enough gas back in the city. Mind every time I mentioned that during that last mile we both broke down laughing. It's a friendship I'm ashamed to admit I've let slide in the intervening years. I told the security guards that he was my guest and that he was coming to my room to use the phone and to watch our bike. They were too dumbfounded to object. The rule about non Cubans in the resort went out the window, or at least by the time they remembered it we were well past them and in my room. There he used the phone to arrange for a friend to come pick him up and then go and try and salvage his car. I opened the room safe grabbed a pile of dollars and handed them to him, about $40.00 if I remember. He didn't want to accept it, but I figured it was tip well earned. Sure it was his fault we'd run out of gas, but now warm and dry, all I could think of was it had been one hell of a night, and he'd got me home as promised. I loaded him up with dry clothes to wear and some spares that I'd been intending to give to the maid for her family. I also filled a bag with soap, shampoo, razor blades, and other little luxury items that I'd brought with me. Then I walked him down to the main gate where the guards gave him a coffee and a warm place to sit while he waited for his ride. We'd exchanged addresses and I'd promised that next time I came to Santiago I'd look him up and use him as a taxi driver. Mind I made a mental note to check the gas tank first. As I headed back to my room and a warm shower, I saw him sitting there with his bag of clothes and goodies. He was telling the security guards about the night's adventures. He still had that wide grin on his face. Nothing shook it off. Surprisingly I wasn't tired and they were starting to serve breakfast, so after a hot shower I changed into dry clothes, grabbed a rain coat and went to the dining room. It was still blowing and raining but not as severe as a couple of hours earlier. There were a couple of guests up and around and as I tucked into my eggs I eavesdropped on their conversation. It appears that the TV, radio and hotel manager, had all broadcast a severe storm warning for the night before. The hotel, sheltered by the cliff, had not been hit too hard, but it had streaked inland and caused havoc on a couple of towns before crossing into the mountains. The big discussion was whether it had petered out inland or crossed the island and hit Florida or the Bahamas to the north. The other big breakfast topic was how late in the season it was for such a large storm, and do you think it might have been upgraded to a hurricane. A couple of the early risers were commenting on how they'd taken some good advice and cancelled plans to go into town the night before. They'd been safe in their rooms while the wind and rain lashed against the buildings all night long. Only an idiot would have been out in that, was the general opinion in the buffet line that morning. About then I lost my appetite and went back to my room.  |
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by artemis8
by knotheadusc
