"THE YANKEES ARE INVADING, OOPS IT'S JUST A DRUNK TOURISTA FROM THE DISCO" PT 2 Sep 14 '01    Write an essay on this topic. Tweet The Bottom Line Originally presented in "How To Deal With Trigger Happy Border Guards" in Member Advice.... NOTE: I originally intended to post this much earlier this week as I had promised to. The tragic events of September 11, 2001, however changed my plans. I felt it would be most inappropriate to post a frivolous humour piece on the very day that so many lost their lives and the world for the rest of us changed irrevocably. Now perhaps as the realities of that day slowly begin to sink in, perhaps a little light entertainment may be of some use. I know I could really use a reason to laugh right about now. As the title denotes this is Part 2 , and as with most sequels, it might be easier to understand if you've read Part 1 first. I awoke early the next day. Perhaps it was the excitement of being in Cuba, or maybe it was just the events of the night before. The dawn was barely creeping over the horizon as I stepped out onto the room's balcony. I could see the sea a couple of hundred yards away over the tree tops. The green blue waters and the sharp white of the surf as it crashed against the coral reef just off shore. Between the tree line that we'd blundered through the night before and my room was a large open space. It's colour was as striking as the rest of the scene laid out before me. It was pink. The field was completely covered with literally hundreds of flamingos. They were silent almost immobile in the still morning air. I stood there for several moments, barely breathing, just watching them. Then almost as if by some unspoken command they all took off as one. There was a massive flurry of rose tipped feathers and then the area was silent again. Standing there on the balcony I became aware of three things. One, I was naked. I hadn't bothered to dress after getting out of bed. Two, there were people on the balcony next to mine. Three, they weren't watching the flamingos anymore. I smiled, waved, and beat a hasty retreat back into my room. Later after a shower, and a quick stop to pull on a pair of pants I went down to breakfast. I appeared to have been the first one up. I had the dining room all to myself. There were very few guests staying at the hotel that week. The dozen or so of us that came in the night before made up almost half the total. This in a property with 120 rooms. Mind it was low season. In the true spirit of socialism the hotel did not lay off any staff due to this shortage of guests and incidentally income. There were the same numbers of maids, bartenders, reception staff, cooks, grounds keepers, and waitress there to serve the two dozen odd guests as were employed to serve 240-250. This caused a bit of a spectacle as no less than five waitress rushed towards me in an effort to fill my water glass. The winner then remained hovering over my table for the duration of my meal. The pitcher of water grasped in her pretty little fist. Ready to top off my glass should the level ever drop my so much as a millimetre, or to bash in the skull of one of her rivals dare they come too close and usurp her hard won position. I was just glad that the meal was serve yourself buffet. There could have been some serious injuries otherwise. Eventually my fellow guests drifted into the dining room and the waitress congestion around my table was alleviated somewhat as they all went off in search of new prey. After breakfast I changed into a bathing suit and took a stroll on the beach. There were actually two beaches. Directly in front of the resort, and the resort to the west the area was actually private and restricted to guests only. Walking farther east, past a security guard one entered the public section of Baccanao Beach. This morning there were no AKM toting Cubans to interrupt my constitutional. There was however something else. Within minutes of stepping off of the private property I met my first jintero or hustler. I was walking along and minding my own business, when out of the bushes a kid no more than nine or ten appeared. He was probably only about three feet tall, and two and a half feet of that was made up of an enormous oversized green T-shirt. The T-shirt incidentally advertised some ill begotten bar in NYC. I have no idea how or where the kid got it from. "Friend, friend, you have one dollar for me please!" "Nope, sorry." I replied. "OK you give me one cigarette?" "No, you're too young to smoke." "How about Chiclet, cheeclet? Hey friend. Just one for me." Again I shook my head no. This time honestly. I'd been told to stock up on chiclets, but they were still in my bag. "Hey friend you want caracol, sea shell?" "Nope." "How about cigars? I get for you real good." "Sorry not now." "I know what you want, friend. You want chica, chica negro (black girl). "No certainly not!" "Chico?" That last question came without him missing a beat. I quickly assured him that no I didn't want a boy either and beat a hasty and rather flustered retreat back to the sanctity of the hotel grounds. That is after picking my jaw up off of the beach. Something told me that if and whenever Cuba once more became a democratic nation, and one that had a similar economic value system to ours, that kid would do well. For all I knew I'd just met the future President of Cuba. Either that or the CEO of it's largest company. A quick word about my fellow guests is in order. As I noted most were Canadians, which often means they came from somewhere elsewhere originally. That was the case here, with original countries of origins from Hong Kong to Poland and many places in between. Most of us had arrived on the same flight and endured the same bus ride through hell the night before. There were a couple of other Canadian guests who'd been there the week previous and they quickly showed us the ropes. There were also a few Germans and a scattering of other Europeans. Later in the week some British, Irish, and Dutch guests joined our motley crew. For the most part we were a good group and everyone got along. There was one idiot who was expecting "Club Med" style accommodations and amenities, and this at $500.00 Canadian a week, including airfare. His constant whining and complaining soon earned him the scorn of the rest of us. When not ignoring him completely, we amused ourselves with sharp rebuttals to his incessant complaints. One of the things several of us had in common in turned out was that we were die hard hockey fans. Better yet we were die hard Leafs (Toronto Maple Leafs) fans. This was like I said May 1993, and true Leaf fans remember that was a Cinderella playoff year. They were not supposed to even make the playoffs. This team of over aged has beens, and rookies advanced to the semi finals losing, in the seventh and final game to Los Angeles, the right to face Montreal in the Stanley Cup finals. They won two rounds of play offs against teams they weren't supposed to be able to beat. The week I was in Cuba, they were midway through the second round against the St. Louis Blues. They shouldn't have been there but they were, having knocked out the favoured Detroit Red Wings in seven hard fought games. The St. Louis series would also go the distance, seven games. It was duel between goal tenders, with the first two games marked by lengthy overtime battles. I flew to Cuba just before the third game. Now most Cuban hotels pride themselves on having all the amenities, including Satellite TV. Back then they didn't.There was no way for us to get the scores, let alone watch or listen to the games. No one had a short wave and the one TV in the hotel lobby and the AM radios in our rooms didn't carry it. Desperate situations often require desperate measures, and there is nothing more desperate than a Leafs fan. All travellers are advised if in need to call their Embassy, so we did. Let's just say that their response is not what I expected as a tax paying citizen. I wrote a nasty letter about their behaviour to my Member of Parliament when I got home. Later someone phoned their parents in Toronto and got the scores for games three to six. Every morning after receiving this news, we'd gather at the pool bar and either celebrate or drown our sorrows as required. The pool actually became a focal point for all of us during the week. The hotel was rather isolated and with a couple of exceptions the only things to see were with organised tours. Therefore we seemed to spend a lot of time in or around it. Hey it beat avoiding the sales pitches on the beach. One afternoon several of us were engaged in a spirited game of water polo, or at least our version of it. This involved throwing the ball at some poor sod and then trying to drown him or her by all piling on them. After a couple of days of this the Europeans and Cubans refused to play with us for some reason. It started to rain so the "game" came to a quick end and we all took refuge under the thatched roof of the pool bar. The pool was the focal part of the resort. It was large and free form shaped with a covered circular swim up bar at one end. In addition to the stools in the pool there were several regular seats on "dry land" on the other side. This is where we sat down for a drink. The bartender in the centre of the circular bar could serve both sides easily. At the other end of the pool was a small man made waterfall. It was fed by a small fountain and pond above the pool area, part of the elegant landscaping. There was a small recess behind the waterfall, just big enough for a couple of people to squeeze into. There had been one other couple on the bus that brought us all to the resort. Nobody had really seen much of them for the week though. They seemed to keep to themselves a lot, and usually in their room. Mind they appeared to have a good reason. Someone stated that they were on their honeymoon. This was confirmed by someone who was staying in the same building as they were. He'd seen the "do not disturb" sign on the door knob, all the time. Suddenly the two of them appeared at the pool. Because of the sun shower the area was deserted of both guests and staff. That is aside from the six or seven of us and the bartender. We were in shadow under the roof and not easily seen or heard for that matter. The newlyweds slipped into the pool and began to enjoy a little swim. As in most hotel pools there were several inflatable toys and such scattered about. Included in these was one of those rafts you can lie on and lazily float about. This one was big enough for two. The couple soon discovered it and climbed aboard. The shower had stopped and the sun was slowly starting to peek out from beyond the clouds. Not paying too much attention to them we didn't notice when the raft drifted to the far end of the pool and under the waterfall. Shortly after it drifted out again from the waterfall and into the middle of the pool. About this time one of our group did notice them. Mind they didn't notice us this time. They were rather preoccupied at the time. Like I said they were newlyweds. The first of our group elbowed the next and so on until all of us were staring with rapt attention. That is all of us except the bartender who was facing us and oblivious to what was transpiring behind him and actually drifting closer and closer. Someone at the end of the bar started the wave and it spread down the line, with all of us trying to stifle our giggles. This brought puzzled looks from the bartender. Up until then he had thought he'd seen just about every stupid act drunk crazy tourists got up to. That changed in another minute. Someone grabbed his pen and a supply of cocktail napkins and hurriedly scribbled 9.5 on one. The pen and napkins went down the bar and soon we all had score cards. As one we all held up our scores and this finally got the bartender to turn around. In the interim the raft had floated to within a few feet of the bar. The occupants of it, being rather preoccupied had failed to notice this. The bartender's cry of surprise when he turned around, though did break their concentration. They looked up at our grinning faces and the score cards. We burst into a round of hearty and encouraging applause. I guess they weren't sports fans. They quickly dived off the raft, swam to the edge of the pool, pulled themselves out, and made a dash for their room. Nobody saw them again for the rest of the week. They also seemed rather subdued when the bus came to take us all back to the airport. I'd like to point out we were not completely without compassion. One of us retrieved their bathing suits from the bottom of the pool and left them draped on the door knob of their room. You'd think they could have at least said thank you for that. As a group we did most things together. We took one of the few day trips tours available into the city with our trusty and indoctrinated guide. Here in Cespedes Parque he pulled a fast one to get rid of the hordes of kids who quickly surrounded us demanding dollars and chiclets. He pointed to myself and another guy standing off to one side, and admiring the architecture of the surrounding buildings from behind our dark sun glasses. He then said something to the kids and in a flash they all disappeared. We later asked him what it was he had said to get rid of them so quickly. Obviously whatever it was it was very effective. By now we were reduced to wearing the "do not disturb" signs in Spanish from the rooms whenever we dared to venture onto the beach. This had to be an improvement. Simple, he said pointing to the two of us, the only two single guys on the tour, and who also happened to look Latin. I told them you two were DGI, Cuban Secret Police, protecting the tourists. No wonder they disappeared so fast. The days passed all too quickly, as is the case with most vacations. There wasn't much to do by day except laze around. Eventually sheer boredom drove us once more outside the resort's perimeter to brave the gauntlet of hustlers on the beach. There was a small grotto across the highway where several statues and other pieces of artwork from the original Indians who inhabited the island. The original artwork was in a museum somewhere, but plaster reproductions had been made and placed at the site. It was interesting to look at and worth a half hour visit. There was also the crocodiles. About a half hour walk east of the resort was a small lagoon. Here was located a crocodile farm that was technically open to the public. Two of us wandered down one afternoon just to see what was there. What we found were several pens full of the most apathetic looking reptiles in the world. While I realise that crocs are not the most animated members of the animal kingdom, but these were pathetic. They just lay there and didn't even acknowledge us. Sensing our dilemma, and obviously hunting for a tip the sole employee came to our aid. He scaled the fence, jumped into the pen and began to whack the crocs on the head with a stick. This had the desired effect as they all began to open their rather massive mouths and scurry about. It was obvious that this was not the first time that he had done this either. The crocs were all scurrying toward him with a rather nasty look on their collective faces. Just before they got him he jumped for the fence and scurried over it to safety. What impressed me was the fact that he was wearing the typical Cuban made Government issued cheap plastic zip up disco boots. They have no tread what so ever and it was obvious he was slipping and sliding about inside the pen. Some day his luck is going to run out and he's going to lose his footing. Mind that will probably be a better show than normally is put on there. Besides it's not as if he doesn't have it coming now. Beating on those defenceless crocs and interrupting their siesta. Naturally he wanted a tip for his feats of daring do. The problem was we'd come directly from the resort. I was wearing a bathing suit and a T-Shirt. Between the two of us we came up with fifty cents and a couple of American cigarettes. Surprisingly he accepted this gratefully. Later that night I found out why. At the time the official exchange rate for US Dollars to Cuban Pesos was 1 to 1. Cubans were also prohibited from keeping US currency. Tip a waiter a buck and he was supposed to exchange it at the front desk for a Peso at the end of the day. Care to guess how many actually did that. The black market exchange rate was 50 to 1. Six months later on my second trip it had risen to 100 to 1. For comparison at present it has settled down to a more reasonable 20/25 to 1. This meant the average Cuban's wages in 1993 was about $7.00 US. Now it stands at about $20.00 to $30.00 US. Fifty cents must have seemed more than reasonable to Crocodile Che. In addition to not being able to possess dollars, they couldn't even spend them. The hard currency stores were strictly for tourists and other foreign nationals. As the whole country was on a strict wartime rationed economy all the "good" stuff was in these special stores. By good stuff I of course mean, food, clothes and toiletries in addition to duty free goods. One of the bartender that evening explained this all to me then asked me for a special favour. Checking to make sure no one was watching, he leaned forward and in a whisper asked me if I would go into the hotel's store and buy him a bar of soap. He then palmed a one dollar bill into my hand, a tip from some other guest. Now bear in mind all he wanted was a bar of soap and he couldn't even go into the shop in the place he worked, in his own country, and buy one with his own money. I slipped the dollar back to him and strolled into the store off the lobby. Inside I grabbed a couple of bars of soap, paid for them and went back to the bar. I slipped these to the bartender and refused his repeated attempts to slip me the dollar bill. Ever since then I began taking a suitcase full of toiletries with me on subsequent trips to Cuba. I'm happy to report that seven years later, I don't really need to as they can now possess and even spend dollars. Mind I still take the stuff, and a lot more down with me. Nights were similar to the days. There was of course the normal resort shows. These mostly consisted of song and dance routines performed by the staff, coupled with the occasional let's embarrass the guest by getting them to do something stupid after they've been at the all inclusive bar all day long. For the most part I passed on this. Sitting around the bar all night long chatting wears thin after a couple of nights. Especially so when that's how you spent the day too. I usually found myself in bed rather early. Like I noted there was no TV, but each room did have a built in radio. Depending on the atmospherics, I found I quite a selection of radio stations. Reggae stations from Jamaica to the south competed with BBC world service and a station from the Dutch Antilles. For the most part though it was local broadcasts. Salsa music and communist propaganda and censored news in Spanish. Every now and then we could pick up Voice of America and Radio Marti, the Cuban émigré radio station from Miami. It didn't last long as the Government spent considerable time and effort jamming it. I don't know if it was the jamming, the atmospherics, or the general poor reception but the broadcasts sounded a little odd to me. In between the music and news reports it almost sounded as if there were cryptic messages being delivered. That and the blatant WW2 style of propaganda in the news was nostalgic. More than one evening I dozed off feeling as if I was stuck in the first reel of The Longest Day. To mark the end of the day I usually strolled down to the beach to watch the sunset. Here I renewed the acquaintance of my old friends from the first night. It was usually the same quartet of MINIT troops, although every now and then a fresh face was there. They were polite and restrained as well as professional, but as I said just kids. A couple of us tried to bribe them with gum, pop, beer and smokes but they wouldn't touch it. Eventually towards the end of the trip, one admitted to having a wife and a couple of kids. He looked to be about fifteen to be honest but said he was in his twenties. He finally broke down and accepted a pack of gum for his kids. Furtively slipping it into the pocket of his uniform. Now I'm an ex professional soldier and was a Senior NCO to boot. I took the opportunity to discretely check these troops out. You can tell a lot about a soldier just by looking at him if you know what to look for. That's why they have inspections after all, or at least that's what I remember. These guys were probably pretty good. Their uniforms and equipment was clean and in good repair. Boots were cleaned and polished. They were alert and their body language suggested a high degree of self confidence. The weapons, AKMs, slung across their chest, looked clean and well maintained as far as I could tell. All this suggested to me well trained and well lead troops. The kind we would just as soon as not had to fight back in my younger days. About the second last night there, one of the Cubans asked a couple of us if we wanted to go to the disco. As the resort had no disco we were curious. No one really liked disco, I mean who does, but as the alternative was watching another chug a lug contest on the stage we jumped at the chance. The disco he pointed out was at the resort next door and we could all go over later on. Later on it turned out was after the chug a lug contest. We fortified ourselves for the walk with a couple of cold ones and strolled over the field separating the two resorts. Now there's a path, then it was construction site for an upcoming addition to the complex. The other resort was similar to ours in most respects. Now a German firm LTI runs both resorts and guests are free to use the facilities at both. Then that was not the case, but no one seemed to mind us slipping in. I'd come over earlier in the week to check the place out. All I'd seen was the two large ladies who'd sat beside me on the plane. They were under an umbrella pool side still working diligently on their cross word puzzle books. I beat another hasty retreat. The good news that night was the disco bar was all inclusive. The really good news was that the armbands worn by the inmates, excuse me guests, there were the same colour as ours. The Cuban bartender either didn't know we weren't guest or didn't care. Mind he also had a tip glass discretely on the bar. I guess he too needed soap. We got served all night, well almost. Eventually someone finked on us and we had to pay up and leave. The bar tab was a ludicrous $10.00 total for about five of us for a couple of hours. The person who turned us in, was another guest, and a Canadian to boot. Hey no one told us it was his wife we were dancing with. The others decided to navigate the obstacle course between the resorts to get back to our own bar. I decided to take the long way around and headed for the beach. When I got there I noticed the four amigos weren't around but really didn't pay much attention to it. One of the daily activities available had been beach volleyball. Well what's a beach resort without volleyball right. I guess someone forgot to put the net away that night because it was just laying there on the sand. Naturally I walked over it, and naturally I tripped on it and fell flat on my face. Laying there in the sand, trying to untangle myself from the net, I heard a sound that froze my blood. It was a sound I'd heard before. The clack clack of a weapon being cocked. An AKM Soviet made assault rifle to be exact. There was some small bushes directly to my front. It was from there that the sounds came from. I made out the silhouette of a man crouched in the bushes. A man with a rifle. A rifle pointed directly at me. A rifle barrel literally inches from my face. It appears that the normal four MINIT guys had been relieved or something. For whatever reason this particular stretch of beach was now guarded by the Cuban version of Rambo. Rather than patrolling up and down where everyone could see him like the others, this good little defender of socialism was crouched in the woods waiting for the Marines to storm ashore. Reflexes kicked in on both sides. His first reaction was to realise that the person laying in front of him was not a US Navy SEAL who'd crept ashore to steal Fidel's personal stash of Cohibas. That was quickly followed by the thought of just how much sh!t he'd be in if he killed a dollar spending tourist. His finger came off the trigger. For my part I guess I reverted from a thirty something drunken tourist to what I'd been ten years earlier. Instinctively, my left arm shot out and grabbed the barrel of the rifle. I yanked it away from me and also from his grasp and sent it flying off into the bushes. Adrenaline pumping, my right hand drove forward. It came really close to driving into his face before I caught myself. Both of us then just lay there on the beach catching our breath and slowly gaining back control. I guess he knew just how close he came to killing me. I know how close I'd been to doing the same. After a minute I walked off and retrieved his rifle. I didn't want to but I checked. The safety was off and he had one up the spout. I left him sitting on the beach probably in need of the drinks we'd tried to slip his companeros earlier. For my part I was now stone cold sober and really didn't want to be. Besides I had to stop off at my room before hitting the bar. I had to change my underwear. The next night, my last there I declined to leave the resort for some strange reason. I spent a subdued day and evening by the pool or later in my room. I was lost in quiet reflection. Up to then it had been for the most part a fun trip. The next day we flew back to Toronto. The plane's pilot brought the news of Toronto's victory over St. Louis in the seventh and final game. There was much celebrating in the transit lounge and on the flight home. Oh yeah I got the window seat with the two fat ladies again. They were still working on their cross word puzzles.

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