"THE YANKEES ARE INVADING, OOPS ITS JUST A DRUNK TOURISTA FROM THE DISCO" PT.1
Sep 06 '01
The Bottom Line Originally presented in "How To Deal With Trigger Happy Border Guards" in Member Advice.
Note: When I started writing this it soon became apparent that it was becoming a lengthy epic even by my standards. When the word count advised me that I was approaching 2000 words and the end nowhere in sight I knew I had to make a decision. I decided to split this in half, hence the part 1 tacked on the end of the title. I concentrated on editing and posting this section today. The conclusion will follow (hopefully) in a couple of days.
For those of you who think that this is nothing more than a cheap ploy on my part to milk an extra cent out of you, well I have only thing to say. You're absolutely right. With the Canadian dollar once more going through the toilet, that extra American penny will allow me to retire in the lap of luxury I so deserve that much earlier.
Anyone who thinks that they can sabotage this blatant attempt at money grabbing by refusing to read the second instalment, be my guest. I'd just like to point out that the rather striking title that caught your eye in the "just in box" will not be explained until part 2. So you just try and stay away, and wonder. Ok enough of that, put the kids to bed, kick back, grab an adult beverage, and enjoy.
After seven consecutive "straight" travel pieces posted in the past week here I decided it was time to have a little fun for a change. That's right boys and girls, it's time again for another episode of "Just how much trouble can one poor idiot get into when he's stupid enough to leave the security of his apartment." In tonight's episode we take a trip down memory lane to Spring 1993 and James's first visit to Cuba.
May 1993, and I was ready for a real vacation. To be honest I hadn't left the country, cross border shopping aside, since I got back from serving in Europe twelve years earlier. Hard as it is to believe I was not the seasoned (sic) traveller you all love and adore. That was about to change. Like the repressed spinster I was about to take my first quaff from the forbidden goblet.
Things were going well with my new job and I had both the funds and built up vacation days for a trip down south for some fun and sun. Most of my vacation time until then had been spent fulfilling the Army Reserve obligations I had fallen into four years earlier.
Back then after I'd relocated to Toronto, I'd gone back on my word never to put a green uniform on again, and was wearing one two nights a week, two weekends a month and two weeks each summer. I'd been wearing the same uniform for thirteen years prior to that on an almost continual basis it seemed. By then I was quite sick of it all.
Weekend warrior duty and I were not really compatible, so we were about to part company, and this time for good. Actually it was a rather bitter divorce as I recall. The Defence Department got custody of the combat boots.
Based on what a friend suggested I chose Cuba for my first foreign sojourn in over a decade. It sounded exotic and besides it was, and still is, dirt cheap. That was important as it would leave me more money for the essentials, like my bar tab. My travel agent found me a nice package at a beach resort in the south east of the country near the city of Santiago de Cuba. It was a nice little secluded property, which I've already reviewed in depth here, LTI Los Corales.
It was a late afternoon flight that I grabbed out of Toronto, bound for Santiago de Cuba. On the flight down I found that I was more than a little excited. It was my first visit to a "foreign," I really couldn't count the "States" as foreign, in over a dozen years. Not only that I was going to Cuba, a communist regime, and the so called "Cold War" was still in it's death throes.
Wait a minute, Cuba, I was still technically a serving member of the Canadian Army. Was I allowed to be doing this? I'd never thought to ask.
My final paperwork to separate me from the "Queen's loyal service" was even now being processed, or more likely sitting gathering dust in somebody's in basket. Naturally I hadn't even mentioned where I was going to the powers that be, let alone checked into getting and filling in the appropriate forms for visiting a communist country.
Worse yet, with rising paranoia, I quickly realised that I still had my ID discs around my neck and my photo military ID card in my wallet. Quickly and as subtly as possible I whipped off the tags and clipped them to my key ring. Then rather sheepishly I slipped my ID card into the top of my boot.
Quickly was of course a relative term in this case. The proverbial Murphy's law of airline travel that always seems to apply to me was in full force on this flight. I had the window seat and was wedged into it beside a pair of metabolically challenged ladies who were too absorbed in crossword puzzle magazines to notice I was turning blue from lack of oxygen.
After getting the card safely into the top of my boot by simulating a couple of contortions that would not have looked out of place as illustrations in the kama sutra, I had a chance for some sober second thought. In the unlikely even that I was subjected to a body search, my attempts at concealing it may prove harder to explain to some steely eyed minion of Fidel than had they discovered it in my wallet.
Sheepishly and again with great difficulty I slipped the card back into my wallet. I figured it was safe there. I habitually can't find stuff in it's inner recesses. Good luck to any stalwart defender of world socialism looking for evidence of infiltration of his beloved island by the CIA.
The plane landed at the airport after dark which as I later discovered was a good thing. I've landed at Antonio Maceo Airport several times since, and in the daytime. The airport is located on a hilltop south of the city and Santiago Bay. Actually it's single runway runs parallel to a cliff face that overlooks the Caribbean Sea far, far below.
Coming in for a landing involves a severe banking turn after you come out of the Sierra Madres mountain range. Under most conditions it is shall we say breathtaking. In inclement weather it is, well lets just say I recommend a change of underwear in your carry on bag.
After landing we were shepherded into the immigration hall. Here I was first exposed to the bureaucracy one endures when entering Cuba. As it was the first time I had to use my Passport in over a decade it was a bit of a novelty. I'd like to note however that after seventeen subsequent visits the "novelty" has worn off just a tad.
Outside the terminal we were all met by a local rep from Hola Sun the tour operator who directed those who needed them to the various buses that would transport us to our hotels and resorts in and around the city. I was sent to a old city bus that was the pride of Eastern Block technology say circa 1954. Here another smiling Hola Sun employee checked my name off on his clipboard, handed me an envelope with my name on it and while the driver stored my bag, I boarded and grabbed a seat.
The envelope contained what I am still convinced was the most efficient method of checking in that I have ever come across. Inside was the registration form already filled out and needing only some details from my Passport and signature. There was also a room key and my very own all inclusive wristband. Long time readers of my stuff know how much I love this little item.
Our guide told us to complete the forms, drop our hotel vouchers and Passports back into the envelope and hand them to him. He'd drop them at the front desk while we were free to go directly to our rooms. Not to worry, luggage would be delivered there for us by willing porters. We could then pick up our Passports later at our leisure.
At least this was the deal at our resort As far as I can remember it also applied to the few others who were dropped off at other places enroute. It sure as hell beat lining up to register after a long flight and bus ride. I'm sorry to report that they no longer use this procedure in Cuba or anywhere else I've been. Sure you still get the envelope but all it contains is some worthless information on when the meals are served. Now you have to line up and register like the rest of the peasants.
The smiling rep told us it would be about an hour's drive to our hotel with a couple of stops at other places. Then off we sped into the night. Soon we were travelling down the coastal highway east of the city. Towering cliffs and mountains appeared, whizzing by the cracked windows, as we negotiated hairpin turns. Every now and then for a change of pace we found the dark black waters of the Caribbean Sea off our right side separated from the tires by only a few inches of crumbling asphalt.
Then there were the animals. First we were alarmed by a series of loud popping and cracking noises coming from under the bus. After checking with the driver the smiling rep told us not to worry. It seems we had just run over some crabs who were making their nightly pilgrimage to the sea. Several times during the trip we encountered this shell fish seppuku.
The crabs were not the only the only nocturnal creatures on the road that night. We almost bagged a couple of goats, a cow and I'm not sure what the third animal was. Fortunately it moved faster than the bus.
During all this swerving I found a slight deficiency in the construction of this particular product of socialist workmanship. It seems my seat wasn't actually bolted into place. After taking yet another hairpin curve in stride I found myself, and it, sailing across the aisle and becoming a lot more intimate with the elderly lady sitting across from me than either of us had envisioned.
There was one upside to all this. There were actually three Cubans on the bus. The smiling rep stayed at the front and prattled on and on about various trips we could take and recited by rote meaningless Government statistics on how happy and well off they were now that the Soviets had abandoned them to the diplomatic equivalency of leprosy.
The driver, well he concentrated on doing his bit to wipe out the flora and fauna of the entire Greater Antilles. The third guy, at the back near where I was sitting, had the most important job on the bus. He ran the bar.
From a large cooler he dispensed what appeared to be a never ending supply of cans of cold beer. Cans so cold they were covered in condensation, and wrapped in a napkin so mere mortals could grasp them. This was my first taste of Cuban beer.
One sip and we both knew it was match made in Heaven, or whatever the approved communist equivalent is. They were very refreshing, and also appeared to be free. Either that or I have an eight year old bar tab to settle.
Eventually we pulled into the elaborate grounds of the Los Corales complex. In one piece the dozen of us staying here alighted and made our way into the hotel. This involved crossing a small bridge over an gold fish pond and entering an elegantly appointed lobby.
Here despite the late hour and our paltry numbers a small band serenaded us into the building. A host of smiling waiters appeared with trays loaded with enough rum drinks to put Teddy Roosevelt and his Rough Riders under the table in a drunken stupor. Finally I knew I was on vacation.
As promised there was no check in and I was quickly shown to my room which I was assured overlooked the water, and reunited with my luggage. After unpacking and a quick shower and change, I strolled back down to the lobby. Here I recovered my Passport and booked a safety deposit box to store it, my wallet and tickets in.
After that I began to explore the main building. It was too dark to wander around the grounds. I got no farther than the lobby bar. Here I bumped into someone else from the shuttle bus. He was a nice guy also from Toronto, although originally Polish. He, his wife, and their little daughter were on their first real vacation in a couple of years.
His wife was busy putting the little girl to bed, so I joined him for a quick night cap. After a bit we decided that neither of us could wait until morning. We both wanted to check out the beach. We asked the bartender for directions and wandered out into the warm tropical night.
The beach was about a five minute walk from the main building. It was beyond a thick stand of jungle but there was a well marked path. There was no lights but the moon was out and we could hear the surf breaking against the coral reef to guide us. We strolled down the winding path, and eventually came around a corner and onto the beach. There we stopped dead in our tracks.
There were four men standing directly in front of us. Four men in olive drab uniforms. Four men in olive drab uniforms and carrying four AKM Soviet made assault rifles.
They seemed as surprised to see us as we them. The leader began to gesture with his hands that everything was ok. Then he realised he was still holding the AKM and this wasn't helping the situation. He slung it over his shoulder and again used the universal gestures for don't worry we aren't going to blow you away.
Eventually everything calmed down and we quickly apologised for being there and made to leave. They in turn in rather broken English told us no it was ok to come onto the beach at night. It was a public beach and open to anyone, locals and tourists alike.
They quickly explained that they were there to protect us. One then pointed further east down the coast where several lights could be seen off a distant headland. "Guantanamo" he said. "Yankees" another chimed in.
The lights must have been the US Naval Base at Guantanamo bay, or more likely the ring of Cuban military installations that surround it. The last vestige of the cold war was only a few miles away. Mind there was no road and the mountains, jungle and coral cliffs looked impenetrable even if I'd been so inclined.
Our four new friends went to great pains to point out that they were there only for our protection. I think they actually believed it, they were only kids barely old enough to almost shave. Had the Yanks decided to stage "Bay of Pigs Two the Sequel" then and there, they'd have lasted all of five seconds.
More than likely they were there to prevent some of their friends, relatives and neighbours from helping themselves to the hotel's jet skis, wind surfers, and paddle boats piled nearby, and making off for Jamaica less than a hundred miles due south.
They weren't even Cuban Army troops. I saw the uniforms later in better light and they were a slightly different cut and colour. The were "MINIT," (Ministry of the Interior) troops. The Cuban equivalent of KGB Border Guard Troops.
It had been a long and tiring day and this had been the last straw. We bid our new defenders adieu and headed back up the trail. I called it a night and turned in, secure in the knowledge that armed guards would ensure no nocturnal interruptions. Little did I know then that the MINIT boys and I would be meeting later that week on the beach. The circumstances that time would be a little more tense.
TBC in Part 2: Flamingos, crocodiles, pool sex, Cuban secret police, NHL play offs, calling the Canadian Embassy and the disco incident.
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Member: James Smith
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