|
|
THE FIRST RULE OF TRAVEL, KEEP BOTH HANDS ON YOUR BAGAug 28 '01 Write an essay on this topic.The Bottom Line How to almost start a riot in the Hero City. One of the constants in the thirty odd articles on or about Cuba I've written here is the topic of safety. I have continually pointed out that compared to other similar destinations Cuba is relatively free of the minor petty crimes directed at tourists. That is not to say that they don't exist, but rather that in comparison to other nations in the region there are fewer instances. This observation is based on my numerous trips there in the past eight years. It is also the considered opinion of most other travel writers, at least based on what they have put in their guide books and/or columns. Sure there are minor annoyances, dangers and scams to part you and your money, including some that are particular to the island. That said and done the odds of spending the night wandering the streets of Havana and coming out with your wallet, among other things, intact are better than say a night in Guatemala City. I'm not going to get into a discussion of why this is so. That's better left for other articles and reviews both already written here and some to come. I guess there are some advantages to a brutal Communist police state though. At least from the visitors standpoint. For every rule though, there must be an exception that proves it. That is something that we learned long ago. Therefore if Cuba is "safe" for tourists in general, some poor schmuck, must have been mugged, swindled, or robbed at sometime right. Care to guess who? During my second visit to Santiago de Cuba such an incident took place. Yes this is the trip where I stayed at the Buccanero Resort and had the taxi ride from hell so ably narrated in my last piece on this on this misbegotten island, and yes there is a taxi in this story too, although a legal one. There are no speedos though, so those who turned in expecting one are now excused. About midweek through that trip I decided to head into the city of Santiago de Cuba for a day of exploring and sight seeing. To get from my hotel to the city that morning required I take an official Government Tourist Taxi. As I already noted in "Taxi Senor?" the hotel was rather isolated and hard to get to or from (yes that is a less than subtle attempt to get you to read that article if you already haven't) .There was also another reason I needed a taxi early that morning. Almost everyone who is familiar with Cuba is aware of the famous Tropicana Night club in Havana. Its spectacular Las Vegas style floor show is a throw back to the old decadent days prior to the revolution. What you might not be aware of is that there is also one in Santiago too. Realising the income potential from tourists in the region, a second was established in the second largest city in the country. In addition to this one which offers a similar if only slightly less spectacular show, the Cubans have developed a unique marketing tool to promote it. Small mini-shows of a couple of dozen dancers and a group of musicians are sent out to visit the various all inclusive resorts scattered for a hundred kilometres along the coast on either side of the city. They put on a small mini show which entertains and entices the tourists. Like the dancers themselves this is meant to tease the audience into wanting to see more. Naturally after this titbit, the ever helpful tour desks are more than willing to help one book an evenings entertainment in the city. The night before this little adventure took place one such travelling troupe had performed at our resort. After the show ended around midnight, the dancers and musicians joined us in the resort's "disco" for a couple of drinks. To be honest that was probably the only night that particular room got lively all that week. The rest of the time it was just someplace to go after the all inclusive pool bar shut down and have a quiet night cap. As this little tale takes place many years ago, you'll have to use your imagination and presume that I was much better looking than the ugly mug that peers down at you from my profile picture. This and the fact at I spoke slightly better Spanish than any other hotel guest, which meant that I'd mastered por favor and gracias, barely, meant that I was soon chatting up one of the dancers. Well one thing lead to another and when it was time for them to depart on their bus. She declined to go. Actually I think we'd gone for a stroll on the beach and she missed it. Well that was our story and we're sticking to it. I won't bore you with details of the remainder of that evening, but the next morning came all too soon and brought with it a little problem. The hotel had a strict policy regarding non registered guests. Fidel Castro had (has) an even stricter rule regarding Cubans, especially pretty young female Cubans, being in tourist hotels. After smuggling breakfast from the dining room to her, I arranged to sneak her out of the hotel. This well thought out and professionally executed operation resembled the final act of a Marx Brother's movie. Actually it wasn't that well done. It was more akin to something the Three Stooges would have thought up. I arranged with the head of security to have the taxi I ordered to pick me up at the building my room was located in rather than at the lobby where one normally caught their taxis. This little deception cost me one pair of mirrored Ray Ban sunglasses that he'd been admiring for the past couple of days. I guess he thought they were an essential part of his uniform. Jokes on him, they were a pair of knock offs that I'd paid $2.00 Canadian for on Yonge Street before leaving Toronto. Soon we were safely in the taxi and tooling through the mountains on our way to the big city, the meter happily ticking away dollar after dollar. I planned to drop the young lady off at her house and then do a little sight seeing. We'd meet up later in the day and she was going to arrange for me to take a tour of the school where they trained the Tropicana dancers. Just before we hit the city, we almost hit something else, another car. Actually a whole line of cars, and trucks too. Just outside of Santiago is the half completed multilane highway the Cubans were building with Soviet help. When the Soviets left, they literally pulled out overnight. One of the things they stopped working on was the highway, or in this particular case a major overpass. There it stood half completed complete with cranes and other heavy machinery standing immobile and rusting for the last six years. A truck, the driver probably distracted by the sight of the crane, had run off the road and into a river. A major recovery operation was now in progress. All the traffic had stopped to watch this and created the only traffic jam in Cuba I'd ever seen and probably the only one in the country outside of Havana where they're the norm. Well that is another advantage of a country with strict gas rationing. Our driver got out to watch the festivities. Well what else was there to do, as we weren't going anywhere. He however left the engine on and the meter running. I got out and pointed this out to him, which resulted in a typical Cubano shrug. Eventually though it clicked in that he too was restricted in his gas ration and he reached in and shut it off. Then the three of us stood there with the rest, watching the truck being slowly pulled out of the ooze. Eventually the local cops realised that they should be doing something besides rubbernecking, and began screaming and shouting for everyone to get back in their vehicles and move along. Shortly after that we arrived in the city and my lady friend directed the driver to her neighbourhood. We dropped her off and he then dropped me off in the centre of town. I spent the remainder of the morning strolling around. I found an old flea market and picked up a couple of battered volumes on the guerrilla war in the mountains complete with some very detailed maps. Later I bought a couple of cigars and a bottle of rum off of another "vendor." I also discreetly attached myself to a bus tour of a local cigar factory and then followed them next door to a rum factory. Mostly though I just strolled around enjoying myself. Back then the Government was still trying to control the movements of tourists. For the most part tours of the city were conducted in air conditioned buses and with loyal indoctrinated guides. You got to see all the sights and historical and cultural things but no more. Castro frowned on busloads of tourists dragged through some of the less than triumphs of the revolution that were some of the more run down residential neighbourhoods. The presence of a solitary tourist strolling around and snapping pictures of whatever he wanted was still a bit of a novelty. By late in the morning I was in the south end of the city in a fairly run down residential neighbourhood. I had just climbed up a rather steep hill from the harbour and stopped to catch my breath and admire the view. The sight in front of me just screamed for a picture, so I slid my small day pack off and laid it on the ground while I pulled my camera out of my waist pouch. Normally I have my pack and my camera waste pouch attached by a length of cord to my body for security reasons. This time however I'd forgotten. Hey after all I was in Cuba not Colombia. I noticed the two kids a few metres away out of the corner of my eye, but really wasn't paying attention to them. Just as I had the camera to my eye and was concentrating on framing the shot I wanted, I became aware of a flash of movement near my feet out of the corner of my eye. By the time I'd turned and was aware of what was going on, both kids were about fifty metres up the road and running like a bat out of hell, my day pack carried between them. I hesitated a second before tearing off up the street after them, frantically stuffing my camera back in its case. The kids were going to be awfully disappointed when they checked their loot. Like I said all that was in the almost empty sack was a couple of used books, a bottle of Rum wrapped in old T-Shirt that I'd intended to give away, and an empty water bottle. There may also have been a couple of packs of gum and soap. My camera and other gear including a small first aid bag was around my waist. My Passport credit cards, money etc. was of course secured and hidden on me. The bag itself was more important than the contents. I'd need it to transport stuff home as I had only another small duffel back at the hotel. That, sentimental reasons, I'd had that pack a long time, and just reflex had sent me running after the kids. They rounded a corner with me close behind and gaining and we entered a main street. I think they were rather surprised that the tourist was actually chasing them. I doubt that they were the most accomplished thieves in the country. They were probably under fifteen, and probably expected me to just stand there dumb struck. There were plenty of people on this street and we caused quite a stir as we raced up it. My Spanish, imperfect now, was really bad then, and I couldn't think of the word for thief. It's ladron by the way, for those who really care about that sort of thing. It really didn't seem like an apt time to yank out my Spanish/English phrase book, so I stuck with the English equivalent, and a few choice Anglo Saxon obscenities thrown in for good measure. It had the desired effect. The crowd was galvanised into action. Now in any other city in any other country I'm sure they would have sided with the thieves. People would have attempted to block or impede my progress while aiding and abetting them in their escape. After all it was their home and I was the dumb tourist who'd wandered into it and therefore deserved whatever befell him, right. Not in this case however. The whole street was up in arms and it was all against the dynamic duo who were still beating feet a few yards ahead of me. As soon as everyone caught on to what was going on they began to join the chase or yell encouragement and/or directions to the pursuers. By this time we were weaving in and out of small narrow streets as they tried to lose me. I wasn't gaining on them anymore, but was still doggedly refusing to give up. Besides I wasn't alone now. We rolled into another main street, and now there were dozens of us chasing them up hill. All of a sudden an old motorcycle with a side car, a piece of Warsaw pact war surplus, went whizzing by. It was full of wildly gesturing bodies all in danger of doing a serious injury to themselves. To be honest the whole thing was starting to look like some surreal re enactment of Teddy Roosevelt and the Rough riders charging up San Juan Hill. That was kind of ironic because the real San Juan Hill was less than a mile away. Eventually we came around a corner and realised the street was a dead end. Great they were cornered I thought. One problem they weren't in the street. It was evident that they'd made good their escape down some ally or through a door. I'd just about given up when a shout caught my attention. A young man in his mid twenties came out of a doorway or ally up the street and began walking towards me. He was wearing a white medical coat, and most importantly he had my bag in his hand. He came over and handed me the bag and in impeccable English asked if I was ok. I guess he'd noted the Canadian flag stitched on the pack. Either that or he'd heard my curses, er cries for assistance up and down the street. He then apologised for not catching the kids. They'd ditched the bag and by then were probably half way to Guantanamo. A large and excited crowd had gathered and everyone was congratulating the young guy for getting the bag back, or apologising to me for the incident. There was a lot of milling around and newcomers were quickly given the whole story as they arrived. I seriously doubt that neighbourhood had seen that much excitement since Fidel, Che, and the boys came out of the nearby mountains and chased Batista and his cronies back to Miami. Someone handed me a glass of ice cold water which I greedily gulped down. It was quickly replaced by a second one. I don't mind saying that I really needed them. My legs were rubbery after the chase and my chest was heaving. I'd only left the army two years earlier, but boy had I fallen out of shape. My new friend quickly introduced himself. He was an Intern fresh out of medical school, hence the white coat. He and his girlfriend, who soon joined us, both worked a couple of hours a week in a small clinic in this rather impoverished neighbourhood. He had just finished his shift and was leaving for home when the two kids literally ran by and tried to dispose of the evidence. They were both heading back toward the centre of town as was I, so the three us of walked together. Along the way we exchanged small talk, along with several more profuse apologies about what had happened. As it was almost lunch time, I offered to buy them both lunch. It seemed the least I could do. We found a small hard currency place and they both ordered sandwiches and pops. After the meals were delivered I noticed they both discretely and somewhat ashamedly broke their sandwiches in half and wrapped up one half. I knew what this was immediately. Among other things there were ration shortages in the country. They were saving the food for later, or more than likely to share with other family members. I immediately told them to eat the whole sandwich and ordered a couple of more to go. They politely declined, but I just as politely insisted. After lunch we stopped at a hard currency store and I picked up a few more food items for them to take home. I was feeling more than just a little guilty by that point. Before we parted company we sat in Cespedes Park and exchanged addresses. On an impulse I decided to show them my medical kit. They were like kids at Christmas as I unpacked the small but complete pack. On another impulse I told them to help themselves to whatever they needed. I'd also bring some extra supplies on my next trip if possible I promised. I figured that they could use it more than me. I intended to spend the rest of the week lazing on a beach at a resort with a Doctor on call and an International Clinic nearby. Little did I know that a couple of days later I'd be sitting out a late season hurricane in the mountains. I killed the rest of the afternoon before meeting my friend at of all places a rifle range. I found it in an abandoned house. It was a small pellet gun range full of kids still in their school uniforms. I spent a pleasant hour or so plinking away at tin targets along with the kids. I was able to show them that at least one decadent capitalist was a decent shot. Mind it was a bit disconcerting. The tin targets were Yankee planes and paratroopers. The place charged in Pesos so my hour cost less than a dollar. I then became very popular with the budding Che Gueveras by treating them to a a couple of hundred rounds. that set me back a couple of more bucks. Eventually I got my tour of the Tropicana dancers school. It was a fun experience and I ran off a roll of film and copied down everyone's name and address and promised to forward the pictures. My lady friend was working that night so we parted company with promises to meet later in the week. I walked up to the North Eastern edge of the city past the zoo and San Juan Hill. All the way I kept a tight grip on my pack. Here the coast road back to my hotel started, and I stuck my thumb out for a lift home. I got one after a short wait. A cattle truck took me all the way to the turn off for the hotel. A family in a car on the way to the beach took me the rest of the way. Total cost for that ride was a pack of Marlboros, two bars of soap and a pack of chiclets.  |
| Read all comments (12)|Write your own comment |
|
Ads by Google
|
by artemis8
by knotheadusc
