Leaving hotel calafornix

Riding in a Lada with Jesus, Pillar, Jorge de la Mayorga para Nicaragua, and Camillo is an experience all by itself. The car was not cooperating as we climbed the only overpass, it was losing power and smelled of every fluid under the hood. The Lada completely gave out at the top of the overpass. Jesus opened the hood and we all got out to take a look. The engine compartment was a complete rig, Rube Goldberg. Apparently the radiator was out of fluid. Fortunately, Jesus and Pillar had anticipated this and had more water. It was interesting that they had run the car until it completely stopped. I’d have stopped sooner as it was obvious the engine was failing. I thought the engine compartment was a marvelous third world rig. After adding water the engine fired right up and we continued the 3 to 4 miles to host family’s casa in Marianao.

You can be sure the entire block was excited to see us. Rich foreigners Jorge and I were. An opportunity for everyone on the block, the black marketers dream come true. Mostly men who knew where to get stuff, anything. Cigars, lobsters, chicas, you name it they’d get for you. This was all hush hush, very secretive stuff. Most were concerned the neighbors would rat them out. The jealous rats. Incidentally, all the black marketers loved the Camillo look.

The house itself wasn’t too shabby. By the looks of it, this concrete block structure was built back in the 50′s. It was in good condition, having a porch with a wrought iron enclosure and various houseplants. An iron stairway led up the side to the tiled flat roof that we ended up calling “Playa de la Pillar” because you could see the beach from there. The roof also had a room with a shower, toilet, bed, and mini kitchen. The inside of the house was furnished tastefully yet meagerly. A plastic strapped rocking chair was the most comfortable seat and was usually occupied by Pillar. It was a two bedroom house with one tub/shower. The shower had an interesting water heating device on the head that plugged directly into the wall outlet. This unusual water heater worked well but I got a mild shock a few times. I am a tall guy and apparently you had to let the electrified water break up into droplets before it hit you, touch the water where it streamed and look out!

Jorge and I slept together in the master bedroom and the owners moved upstairs needlessly but graciously. The first person we met in the neighborhood was an extremely cute woman, Eliana. She was taken aback by the size of the cosmetics bag I brought. She couldn’t believe it! I offered her whatever she wanted giving her first dibs but she wouldn’t take the first razor or bottle of nail polish saying something about, “Give it to Pillar”. I basically insisted but she refused so I let up. You should have seen her eyes light up though when she saw the loot in my bag. Kid in a candy store. Eliana didn’t need makeup anyway, kind of like my wife, naturally gorgeous.

The next person we met came about an hour after we’d arrived. Yossefe came riding up on his bike. The grandson of Jesus and Pillar, the guy was a “Catch 22” Youserian type of fellow about 25 years old. He worked at an all night laundry second shift. He rode a typical Cuban Chinese bicycle, there is no brakes, lack of parts and money to buy them I guess. He rode slowly and stopped with his feet. Also that night we met a neighborhood lady about Pillars age and the retired guy from Switzerland who lived across the street. These two, Jesus, and Pillar played dominoes most every night, drinking café from a thermos. I’ve never seen people more enthusiastic to have visitors. Cuban’s average $10 a month in wages. It’s illegal to work more than 40 hours a week. I basically had a lifetime’s wages in my pocket, which I gave to Jorge to spend, as it was illegal for me to trade in Cuba. Jorge is a Nicaraguan national so it was OK for him to spend apparently. We were just trying to play by the rules. I think the Cubans caught on to this and understood. Two buccaneers in the Caribbean, I wouldn’t find out until later the unusual hilarity of this.

When everyone heard of my desire to travel across Cuba by bicycle they all said no way could I do it. I think they were extremely afraid of possible legal entanglements for them if I ran afoul of trouble on their family visa. I wasn’t worried about that but ran into problems buying a used bicycle. It was illegal. This apparently checked out, there was no way to buy a used bike in town. I tried a few sources my own self. I could have bought a new bike at the department store for $150 but the thought of riding across this poor country on a new bike didn’t appeal to me. I wanted to ride across in disguise as a Cuban in used clothes and everything. It was a better idea if you asked me. I didn’t want to draw any attention in this place and figured if I looked like a local I could avoid most problems, answering “no sabe” if questioned and just riding on.

So here I was, not wanting to draw attention to myself, appearing as Camillo their absolute favorite hero. I was on the twenty dollar convertibale bill, the twenty peso bill, and the quarter! I just couldn’t get a break. It was worse, or better, than landing in Japan as the spitting image of Tom Cruise’s last Samurai, a week after the movie hit the theaters. I’ve got an interesting fortune, and I made myself this way on purpose so that I could pull this whole thing off. I can’t get away from this stuff. Incidentally, I’ve been writing this story about fighting the Chicago Mob, now I’m in Chicago, trying to hook back up with my wife, just off of Jose Marti Way, a block down from the Marianao Café and Camilo Blvd. It blows my mind. It’s like trying to check out of a hotel and not being able to leave. I’m actually writing this in Cuba Town, Chicago.

Jorge and I slept together using a typical put a pillow between us technique to avoid any embarrassing wakeups. At about 3 in the morning the roosters in the neighborhood started going off. Now to me this means they are ready to eat! If you can sleep through this the pig butchering at 6 AM will certainly get you up. Waking up to a pig screaming bloody murder is life in Cuba. The first thing we did is meet our chauffeur, “Seville”, who drove an awesome 1948 Dodge sedan, ocean blue. Now a car in Cuba is basically akin to having an airplane in the states. We were certainly flying high and “Seville” was a real black cowboy who seemed to know everything about Havana, everything.

Our first stop of course was the “bank” or actually the exchange shed. For some reason all of these transactions seemed real serious. We parked across the street and walked across to the shed while “Seville” filled the tank. Pillar kept watch as Jorge traded a few Franklin’s for some Cuban convertibales. Dollars get 10% less than other world currencies, Americans get penalized for their constricting trade embargo. U.S. credit cards don’t work here even if you’re from another country. The best bet would be to trade your dollars for Canadian or European Union currency, or even better put them in a foreign bank. As an American you probably should do this even if you’re not going to Cuba!

The first thing the next morning, before the pig was slaughtered, our blue dodge sedan showed up and Jorge and I were on a cross island trip to pick up Carlitos, Jorge’s brother in laws Carlos’s child from his first marriage. After waiting at a gas station for 15 minutes for it to get power so the pumps would run we filled up and we were off. The island was shrouded in fog as we left Havana and remained so for the next few hours. It was spooky. There are two highways across Cuba and we took the southernmost.

I’d brought my buddy along as interpreter and was curious about his inability to understand what these Cubans were talking about. Each “village” here uses different words and as a whole they’ve omitted consonants almost entirely so the spoken word is hard to decipher. They must do this on purpose, perhaps to avoid the firing squad, perhaps to easily identify anyone alien to the area. There are practically no road signs in Cuba, the people may have borrowed them for their own purposes, who knows. Even though our route was pretty much plain enough, take the main highway 2/3 across the island and get off at a major crossroads, we stopped and inquired directions every 2 miles.

Jorge couldn’t understand a single word our driver or those questioned were saying. Nothing, I asked him cause even I can understand directions in Spanish. Jorge, sitting up front with the driver, which made me look somewhat important I thought, turned around when I asked what they were saying and incredulously said he had no idea what the brief conversations were about. Here’s how it went, on the main highway bordered by agriculture amidst the fog stood groups of people waiting, for what Jorge and I didn’t know, perhaps a bus or work truck, who knows. We’d pull up slowly almost trolling for a sign of something and then our driver would stop at I guess what he thought was a likely source of info. “Seville” would casually ask for what seemed like directions and the woman or man would reply with something which included some uttering and sometimes movement, almost as if they were showing us the way even though I thought it was plainly obvious where we were going. Sometimes “Seville” would approach a group and hit it up twice, perhaps asking someone something on the near side and then asking someone else something after slowly cruising past the group of people. He may have been actually “showing off” as we were certainly cruising in style, come to think of it he may have been showing Jorge and I the people of Cuba or even vice versa.

Interestingly enough there was a billboard practically every two miles with what amounted to a silhouette or picture of me, a man with long hair, a beard, and a straw hat exactly like the one I bought in Arizona and was wearing. It was surreal. Jorge and I were laughing our asses off, although he wanted me to ditch the hat and shave my beard. To the Cuban people across the country who have certainly got their eyes peeled for some kind of sign, the sight of an ocean blue dodge sedan carrying “Seville”, Jorge de la Mayorga covered in gold, and myself, apparently an apparition of their most dear hero, Camilo, must have been spellbinding. We certainly turned some heads.

Most people along the side of the road looked like they’d seen a ghost or at least something. I’m sure they went home and gave a report to their friends. The highway was 10 lanes and in relative good repair, absolutely no traffic at all. It was dotted every half mile with a “campisino” who jumped out in the road hawking cigars. We didn’t buy any, “Seville” said they were most likely stale. We stopped and had ham sandwiches and café con leche for breakfast, some tourists on a bus took pictures of us and the dodge, “Seville” said we should have charged them.

We got off the main highway exactly where we should have and took a country road towards Carlito’s hood. Agriculture remained the sight to behold and almost every inch of usable land was plowed under. The whole way across Cuba was so. The fences they constructed were very efficient using mostly gumbo limbo trees that when a branch is cut off an existing tree and stuck in the ground will easily establish themselves. Typically one barbed wire was located about 4’ off the ground while the area below was filled in with prickly pineapples. Cactus was also used for these “living fences”. We stopped in a town and had mayonnaise pizza (I hadn’t eaten these since Japan) and refrescas for lunch.

A few miles from Carlito’s village we stopped and bought some bananas from a woman who had a bunch on her front porch. We gave these to the relatives of Carlito’s when we arrived at his place. The very first thing the man of the house did when we arrived was demand a $100 from me. I honestly told him Jorge had all the money. Jorge wouldn’t give him any. The man didn’t seem to mind anyway, I guess he just had to ask. The very next thing this man did was take Jorge and I around back and show us the blue Dodge sedan he had parked under a carport. Then he took us inside and showed me by placing in my hand the freshly fabricated hood ornament for a 40’s era Dodge vehicle. It’s a silver airplane shaped ornament and this fellow had done a superb job of constructing it, it was even better than the old one lying on the table. This says something in Cuba. DODGE MF! Whatever it was these fellows were trying to tell me I most certainly got the picture. Crisis, Chrysler Damer, U.S. and Germany, LA, spaceships, something for sure!

The antique wooden furniture in the house was gorgeous and they still had Jorge’s brother in laws science books in the living room. Knowledge is priceless in Cuba. Across the street from the house was some kind of government distribution center site or something. There wasn’t much going on there, so while “Seville” worked on the carburetor of the Dodge, which was burning rich lending to an exhaust in the cab problem (fortunately the fellow with the airplane wing had just enough gasket material to reseat the carburetor), Jorge and I went and had guarpas (sugarcane juice) at a roadside stand nearby. This was certainly the place to be in town around 2 PM. The small shack, which afforded some protection from the sun with a plywood overhang, served cane juice squeezed on site and served in a green glass with a chipped rim and included a small piece of ice. We enjoyed many glasses, this might be the most sinfully delicious thing I ever drank in my life. Americans have money and can afford to drink much cane. Our driver didn’t feel the need for sugar water however as he fixed our carbon monoxide problem. While he reseated the carburetor I checked out a few of the large bushes making up the fence around the house. They looked like a cousin to the coral bean bush in Florida and the Cubans called them pinons. Apparently, Florida, Cuba, and Belize used to be connected together during Pangea or before Atlantis fell into the sea.

Carlitos was a fine looking young man about 18 or 19. Jorge presented him with a gift of two pairs of white American sneakers, this must have been a big score for him, as he smiled from ear to ear. He was of course happy to see us although a bit nervous about the adventure we were going to take. Cuba is a classic example of Voltaire’s advice in “Candide” that a person is much better off staying at home and tending to one’s garden with friends and family than searching around the world for adventure and the answer to life’s many riddles. The whole place is a “case in point”.

The carburetor repair was made good and we proceeded a few blocks away to Carlito’s mom’s place, which was another concrete and stucco house. They actually had a well (dammed spring) out back that I drank from against Jorge’s advice. Heck, what does he know? He was just out in the street drinking squeezed vegetation out of a dirty glass with the rest of town. The well water was delicious, cool, and refreshing although it was a dammed spring head. Carlito’s mom was apologizing for the condition of her home which I actually thought was nice except it was just another shed. The hill behind the house was beautifully covered in trees and the many fellows in the back yard were busily putting a wood roof on a concrete block home they were apparently building on the sly. It appeared that they were hustling timber from the hill and cutting it up on a large table saw for construction. The wood was pretty and it looked like a nice home. In the back of these modest homes were chickens and a pig run. Amongst the animals grew plantains and shade grown coffee under all kinds of trees. These cats looked like they’d read “Candide”. They wouldn’t let me take any pictures of them and their tools.

It certainly is an emotional scene for the women when visitors show up, the men were just curious and cautious. When we left we handed Carlos’s first wife a bottle of rum, cosmetics, and razors. I took a shot with an old man and we were off, literally in a cloud of dust. They must have wondered who we were.

Driving out a different way towards the northern coast hugging highway we drove through the town next to Carlito’s. Now you’d think Carlito’s would show off and wave to some friends but he didn’t, actually kind of sinking down low in the back next to me. He claimed he didn’t know anyone in the next town. This isn’t unusual, I’ve seen the same thing in the States, but noteworthy. I think it’s strange not to know a soul in the town 2 miles away.

We stopped to fill up the car with fuel and I used the restroom. Someone had nearly destroyed the commode. I was just walking the lizard but noticed there was no toilet paper. In Cuba they use the state’s daily rag for this chore and deposit the small pieces of paper in a box next to the toilet. There are flies everywhere! It’s pretty disgusting, they need Japanese toilets bad, composting no flush toilets etc. with a squirt gun. The whole world does. No paper needed! Your ass? Clean as a whistle. No dam water for flushing. Your MOJO? Clean as a whistle. We stopped in a town that looked like it fell out of a spaghetti western and had pollo y congri con tomatoes, which was satisfying. The waitress was kinda cute and we each had a buccaneero beer.

Our faithful now clean burning chariot carried us toward the north ocean coast. While the morning was fog shrouded the evening was cloaked in burning cane. This seemed appropriate. In some places the fire was actually roadside and we couldn’t see the airplane on the hood. We’d slow down which was important as many horse drawn wagons and bicycles traveled the road. At some point Jorge and I were advising “Seville” to slow down as he was speeding like crazy. Just then we got pulled over by a Cuban motorcycle cop and “Seville” was issued a ticket that swallowed up his day’s pay. Jorge and I couldn’t resist telling him, “I told you so”! He seemed like he wanted to get pulled over though. The motor cycle officer was a Cuban Homo sapiens and “Seville” may have been showing me this.

When we got to the coast we pulled up to a bar and commandeered a rascal who said he’d take us to a casa particularies for a shower and a place to sleep. After a few unsuccessful attempts at some unlikely spots we left him on the roadside. He wasn’t happy, shouting at us and gesturing insults as we sped away. Cruising through town we picked up a couple of young ladies hitchhiking looking honestly for a good time. This was quite apparent as they looked ready to go dancing and actually had a destination planned. As it turned out we were the ones getting taken for a ride. We got them in the car and the Cinderella girls quickly turned into the ugly stepsisters. This was hilarious to witness although Jorge didn’t think it was funny! I thought it was a riot. We pulled into the nicest hotel on the beach looking quite dapper, Jorge wearing more gold than everyone in the hotel combined and me in my fine linen. We were impolitely showed to the front door as if we were fourth or fifth class humans, this was odd. Heck with the shower, we decided to go dancing immediately. The stepsisters were all ours until we paid for their entry fee and then they gave us the coldest shoulder I’ve ever. It was actually quite rude but to me expected. Jorge was incensed, Carlitos just didn’t want to get in trouble.

The club was straight out of Miami and not the type of place I’m comfortable in. I left after one beer, went out in the lot and fell asleep in the Dodge with “Seville”. Boy those bench seats are handy dandy. I awoke at 2 AM to Jorge drunkenly arguing with the doorman just outside our car about our dates, which could be seen getting stuffed into a van with some German men behind them. Jorge, “Their whores I want them arrested”! Doorman, “You are correct, and we apologize having let scum as these women in the door”. Heck we brought them here and bought their tickets. I’m sure the doormen knew these local girls, they probably repeated the same thing every night.

As we drove off we had to stop and assist Carlitos who’d had way too much first word fun. Fortunately, he fertilized the grass and not the inside of our chariot. We tried to check ourselves into a succession of hotels but had no luck. One thing we figured out was that “Seville” and Carlitos would not be let into a hotel, absolutely no Cubans allowed! Wow. We parked next to an all night diner and had sandwiches. Jorge and I went and slept on the beach while “Seville” and Carlitos guarded the car.

In the morning we had breakfast at the same diner and hung out on the beach. I went for a long walk as Camilo freaking the Cubans out while going unnoticed by the tourist. The Cubans would actually stop what they were doing and exclaim, “Camilo!” or even better, “Camilo aqui Che!” to which I’d respond “Che aqui Camilo”! They were referring to famous point in their history, specifically a radio conversation between two of the revolutionary heroes when they’d had Batiste surrounded (the beast was cornered) and victory appeared sure.

We had lunch on the beach. I tried some fish that tasted like it had been frozen for years. There was a stray cat on the beach that wouldn’t eat my fish. Seville laughed as I ate my fish. I stuck to the asado y pollo henceforth. The 3 man band that serenaded us on the beach was genuine. It was beautiful, the combination of such great tunes and bad food brought tears to my eyes.

On our drive back to Havana we stopped pulling over and showing off/getting directions until we came to a hillside covered in my favorite palm tree Cocothrinax argentata, the silver palm. It was spectacular to see as I’ve never seen any mature even though they once covered areas of Florida. The foolish New Yorkers bulldozed all of them, every single one. Idiots, this is perhaps the slowest growing, finest palm tree in the world. The fools killed them all, I guess simply cause they weren’t green. A whole mountainside was covered in them, it was so beautiful. A man who must have been a goat herder ran out of the bushes and we bought two huge blocks of goat cheese for five bucks. Jorge was terrified to eat any, but I’ll tell you it was delicious silver palm goat cheese. I could see the goats munching the sparse grass underneath the great forest of silver palms and it looked perfect, the cheese tasted absolutely the way the scene appeared. What a trip! Silver palm goat cheese.

This whole goat cheese transaction was illegal and hurried. Just up the road on the other side was a police officer arresting what looked like another goat herder/cheese salesman. The intensity of the sale was apparent in the wild look in the eyes of our salesman. His desire for the five dollars, Jorge’s fear of the cheese, the hillside of silver palms, “Seville’s” steady cool, Carlitos passed out hungover, so wild it was. Three hunks of cheese, bartering for two, later after eating some cheese it was obvious we should have bought it all it was so fine. To see the fear and desire in our roadside salesman’s eyes, the whole story was told when he wrapped his fingers around the five convertibales bills, exited the passenger side window jumping the guard rail with the silver platter and remaining cheese block perfectly balanced while disappearing into the underbrush. I saw him turn around, finger the five bills, and take a knee, hiding from the law. How strange I felt as we sped off.

Back in Havana the smell of what seemed like sulfur laden fuel, Venezuelan perhaps, surrounds one. Up the hill we went to Marianao, where it seemed a party was in order. Fiesta! The food cooked by Pillar was superb. She is retired from a job where she cooked for children at a school. Her many years of experience showed when the food hit ones palette, it was expertly prepared. Rice and beans (congri) is the staple and it was always prepared perfectly. She was convinced that Jorge and I loved lettuce and it was usually served with sliced tomatoes. Chicken, rather rangy looking, but better tasting in comparison to the U.S. super fat birds was the meat of choice and she usually fried it to perfection. Yucca with garlic and lime and plantains with salt also accompanied the meal. Mmmmmmm, I love Cuban food anyway so authentic meals in Marianao were awesome! Pillars specialty was flan for desert and it was baked with peanuts and coconut on the bottom, talk about richness on a platter.

We had our chariot take us to the supermercado which is unvisited by regular Cubans. Here we bought stuff not found in the local grocery store which by the way I thought had superior food anyhow, fresh garden stuff. Jorge and I picked up a case of beer and some rum along with a large amount of plastic diapers for Pillar’s granddaughter. I wasn’t too happy about this. It was more of an environmental thing than cost related. I think plastic stuff sucks and a trip to the local river winding its way down the Marinao hill showed why. It was completely lined in plastic, terrible! Jorge gave some panhandlers a large handful of change as we exited the store, it must have been there lucky day.

We spent the day drinking beer with Yosseffee and Carlitos on what we called “Playa de la Pillar”, the rooftop. An interesting event occurred up here, some neighborhood children had gathered below on the dusty street, I imagined the dust was a hundred years of dusty dog shit. Anyway, Jorge had a pack of chewing gum and was about to throw it down to the kids. I told him not to. He couldn’t understand why. I said go ahead and find out. So he did shouting, “Chickletas”! The quickest most agile fellow got the gum, and within minutes he was getting pummeled by another boy in the head with a stick who wanted the gum. I said I told you so as the wealth was unhappily distributed to the meanest kid. He got it all while several kids cried. Keep in mind they were happily playing Cuban stickball before we tossed them the gum.

“Seville” showed up with our 48 Dodge chariot and Pillar, Carlitos, Jorge, the too cute Eliana, “Catch 22”, and I went into Havana. We did some street fair shopping while sucking on a few Cohibas. Hopping back in the sedan we cruised the Malecon stopping near the American interest section to fill up the infernal machine. After filling up we were pulling back onto the Malecon when “Seville” put our car in reverse. Jorge and I naturally looked behind and saw a relatively new silver Lada or Russian can. Both of us said, “Look out, alto, stop”! “Seville” ignored us and hit the gas, backing into the silver Lada, hitting the passenger rear corner panel and denting it pretty good. Turns out a German couple was in the Lada. I thought it was a strange “accident”, as it seemed deliberate. While “Seville” worked out a no police necessary $20 payment, here he was losing his days’ pay again, I took advantage of the opportunity (that’s what I do) and “strolled” the Malecon for the first time. Pillar was extremely concerned as I left, “typical scared woman!”, or not?

Nowadays the American interest is the Swiss or Swedish building just west of a triangular shaped plaza which includes a statue of Jose Marti the original Cuban mustached poet. More people in Cuba sported the mustached look than any other facial hair growth including the “Fidel, Che, or Camilo”. I called this look the “Jose Marti” obviously! This is the look most Cubans who dared facial hair, assumed. You had to see this, men trying to maintain an “I’m on top of it” look or “I’m not with the Barbados (the bearded ones)” in a country with hardly any razors. Somehow they managed with lots of nicks and very bloody cuts. It was strange to see.

As I strolled the Florida straits in front of Havana harbor and the castle I came upon a series of billboards being photographed by a young, shirtless, black bag wearing New York fellow. The billboards showed a picture of apparently the highjacking bomber who blew up a plane load of Cuban Americans back in the 90′s on their way to Havana + a picture of President Bush = a picture of Hitler. This was unusual. The New Yorker was excited about the idea and it did seem kind of powerful. He was taking pictures timing them so an early model car driving past would appear in them. Jorge and Pillar were in hot pursuit as we crossed the Malecon into the plaza where some automatic toting Guardia not so nicely explained to the New Yorker that he must wear a shirt. The black bag wearing New Yorker told us there was a Reggae show the following night in the plaza of the American interest section. This was a good tip.

Cue the roosters, followed by the screaming pig, wake up! Down at the end of the street was a stall that sold some miserable looking vegetables and slabs of pig. This shack which appeared to double as sleeping quarters for Jesus and Pillars cousin or some kind of relative had a garden plot in the back guarded and debugged by a chicken who was doing a fair job of eating pests. Hey, it’s organic farming! This guy was hilarious when we met him and said, “Mi commandante (Fidel) had not bought him a house”. I laughed and said, “Mi commandante (Bush) had not bought me a house either”. We laughed together at the obvious hilarity of life. Jorge didn’t think this was as funny as the vegetable stand old man and I did. I never bought anything from these guys but stopped and talked to them every day when I walked into Havana every day after Jorge left. They always wanted me to drink with them.

We set out one day to get some clothes for me, I was still trying to get some local looking stuff with a bicycle trip in mind. Pillar would hear nothing of it, however insisting it would lead to death or worse. I could never tell if she was referring to hers or mine but had to accept it because I was on their family’s visa. We searched the local stalls for flip flops but couldn’t find any of the $1 variety that fit. I guess there are no Cubans with size 13 feet. We ended up at the Hemingway marina with Pillar to buy shoes of all places and I noticed some “male” Brazilian peppers (no seeds) forming a hedge. These were the only Brazilian peppers I saw in Cuba. I bought some Fila flip flops that fit with the most beautiful thatch palms out front that I’ve ever seen. Apparently the Venezuelans bought the Hemmingway marina as most of it is off limits and protected by guards.

We went to another place and bought a shirt, a typical style shirt you’d think of a person with money in Cuba wearing. It was a “La Mason” shirt and was purchased at a colonial style mansion converted into a store. It was 50 bucks and probably the nicest shirt I’ve ever owned. Jorge said I should buy two of them they were so nice. He had a point but I was not that rich, plus I didn’t want to be to capitalistic and only needed one. I bought another used shirt at the flea market, the Cubans couldn’t believe it. We stopped and visited “Seville’s” house located on the main blvd. leading from Marianao into Havana. He owned it and the house next to it. His daughter and son in law lived in the corner structure and his son in law was painting the inside. It was the nicest home I’d go into in Cuba and was gaily painted orange and purple on the outside. Jorge and I estimated it would cost $3.5 million in S. Florida. Wow, to imagine the guy driving us around lived here was incredible, the marble staircase was flawless and perhaps the nicest I’ve ever seen. Next door in the car garage a fellow was completely rebuilding a Lada. Cubanisimo, how these guys pull this stuff off I’ll never know. Patience I’d have to guess.

Want to see an island in a stream? Go to a Cuban reggae show. If you head west along the Malecon the Americans have set up a huge red light moving propaganda spewing billboard on the top floor of the Swiss or Swedish consulate building. This would be the main thing you’d see except the Cubans have set up roughly 50 huge poles with black flags and white stars blocking its view. This by itself is peculiar in the American interest/Jose Marti square, but to have a nighttime reggae show here certainly added to the political scene. Surround the place with happily poor people, old condos, and new ones waiting to be built (it looked like they were waiting for something to happen) people selling popcorn and peanuts, and the general menagerie of the Malecon and you’ve got a show. Oh yeah, don’t forget to add plenty of armed guards with German shepherds. This is the only reggae show I’ve ever been to without a single spliff getting burned. Ha ha, it actually was a pretty good show considering you can’t sing about most reggae style stuff in Cuba, the crowd was on its best behavior here. Lots of German shepherds, one of the guards actually looked at me and said, “You know you look a lot like Camilo”. Si! Yo sabe. It was a nice night on the Malecon, kinda breezy.

The next night we didn’t take out Jesus and Pillar. Jorge wanted to sample some of the local fare, chicas! I was not really into this at all as I don’t like to pay to have sex, unless you count getting married. “Seville” knew exactly what to do and where to go, back to the American interest section, one block south. It seemed the girls traveled in pairs, the first couple we ran into was one really hot babe in a yellow dress and her not so good looking friend. This naturally caused some confusion between Jorge and I. It didn’t matter anyway cause the girls were terrified of me, they said so. They thought I was with the Cuban secrete police. This is typical for me, women are very scared of me including my wife. This goes to show you how smart women are as I’m most likely the nicest guy they’ll ever meet. The babes took off in a hurry, and Jorge and I went back to the chariot like two dogs with no bone for reinforcements. Perhaps we needed a bigger pack, and “Seville” and Carlitos were happy to accompany us back down the block to the Las Vegas.

Apparently this is a joint that survived the revolution, go figure. This vulture just keeps diving. This place serves beverages on the veranda while charging $10 to get in to see the show. I had to use the restroom and was escorted inside where I got to peak at the show. It was a few hot Cuban chicks on stage pantomiming rolling themselves up into cigars. They were smoking, or more to the point ready to light up and smoke. I think this place was actually an old style bordello and one picked out a cigar and took it upstairs. How cool is that? The bathrooms were the cleanest most functional I’d seen in Cuba, an older woman was “taking care” of them. This country really has an awful bathroom problem, smart vandals.

Back on the front porch, Las Vegas talons underneath the bird, better than in its belly I’d say. We were sitting out their drinking Mojitos, Shirley Temple for Carlitos, and a sprite for “Seville” when we got in a conversation with the doorman. By the way he moved the conversation around this fellow was extremely intelligent it seemed. He was an ultra slick conversationalist and claimed to speak 6 or 7 languages and just about proved it. This coupled with the fact he was 6′ 5″ and 250 pounds (he was bigger than my bodyguard Jorge) made this man a force. He was possibly the most powerful doorman I’ve ever met and I’ve been around. The Las Vegas doorman, he looked at me after talking to us for a few minutes and said, “Well you’re obviously Camilo”. I smiled, then he pointed out Carlitos and “Seville” were Cubans. Next he looked at Jorge as if he were trying to solve a cosmic riddle and asked, “But who are you”? My buddy replied “Jorge Mayorga”. The doorman asked where he was from, and when Jorge told him Nicaragua the doorman raised his right hand to his jaw, stroked his chin, leaned back against the wall when a deep thought look over took him like when I do my Michigan library “Flapjack King” thing, the computer! Hmmm, boy he was intensely thinking, I think I learned how to do something here. “That name sounds awfully familiar”. I’ll bet it did pal! I wonder if that guy ever figured out Camilo was escorted back to Cuba by Jose de la Mayorca para Nicaragua covered in gold, the last free buccaneer in the Caribbean! Before the European pirates showed up Jose lived on Pine Island on the south side of Cuba, renamed Isle de la Juvenitudes. The doorman recognized us as I did him as something extremely beautiful, intriguing, and unusual. Time traveling doppelgangers, the Pink Panther was their buddy, I recognized it too! I’d say I’d met this guy before, a long, long, time ago.

On the porch we were approached by another tag team of chicas, same situation again, one chick really hot one not. The hot chick was all over me, we bought them a couple of orange sodas, I was getting excited when she told me to stop smoking, this was like my wife and I lost my mojo. “Seville” scolded her and asked how she could be so stupid, didn’t she realize her opportunity, didn’t she realize who I was? Man he was rough, I was laughing, and Jorge was confused. On the way back to home base “Seville” made one more stop along the road near the house to check out some hookers. We pulled up and stopped and one of a few cautiously approached our sedan, about the same time Jorge realized it, the “drag queen” figured out we weren’t gay. The funny thing was, he/she was the best looking whore we’d seen! I got a good laugh out of this, it was really funny.

Cue the roosters, add some barking rooftop dogs, and kill the screaming pig. Shit, I’d wake up drenched in sweat looking at the ceiling fan, straight out of “Apocalypse Now”. Hell, today a Cuban escapee returned from Hialeah, Florida to Marianao, another of Jorge’s extended family. I called this gal “Hialeah girl”. She was a princess in her own mind, running around overweight, covered in makeup, perfume, and dressed like a Miami Jewish woman, bad jewelry and all. She did lots of complaining and had a real sour look on her face, typical unhappy American woman, as if more money would solve it all! I wondered why she didn’t bring any. It was fun to compare the “Hialeah girl” with Eliana, the cute Cuban girl who spoke some English, one thinking, positive and enjoying life the other quite the opposite. Kinda like my wife before we got married and after. Ha ha, I think I’m getting smarter! It was Saturday and we took the two girls and “Catch 22” for a ride on the horse drawn wagon that was circling the neighborhood, giving free rides to children. When the kind fellow with his old wooden wagon and narrow horse brought us back to Pillar’s I gave him some money which he tried to refuse, but I stuffed it into a crack in his bench and told him to buy some apples for the horse, he smiled.

The girl from Hialeah demanded to go out on the town as if it was her right and our duty so we made plans to hit a club, agreeing to meet her and Eliana at 9 PM and leave from Pillar’s aboard the Dodge chariot. The girls were late, Jorge got pissed off and I suspected a plot to seduce/infuriate us by the Hialeah girl. It looked like there was a party down the street anyway and against Jorge’s advice I went down to check it out, plus they were calling to Camilo to come have some fun!

As it turns out the Marianao gangsters lived just a few houses down. The real Marianao domino gangsters and it was the headman’s son’s birthday party. They were drinking rum and playing dominoes on the front porch, music turned up real loud. These fellows were your typical gangster types it seemed the only difference was there size, Cuban fed gang, the congri posse, no big macs here. I had fun playing dominoes with these guys, they were easier to beat. What was the difference between playing in this house and Jesus and Pillar’s? Well, I kind of figured out Jesus, in the very least, could “read your mind”. Somehow he was very good at determining what it was a person was holding on to towards the end of play. We were playing to the “nines” and with a 4 man game this leaves a bunch of pieces that will never see the light of play. You’d never be able to prove it, but Jesus did things that were mathematically impossible, basically playing pieces that would cause the other team to get stuck holding their dominoes. After playing 20 games or so against him, and losing every one of them, I’d figured out what it was he was doing. He was reading my mind or else he could see the reflection of the #’s in my eyes, which was even more impossible considering the low illumination. The pieces were not marked, I checked for sure. I pointed out my suspicions to him and he smiled “big”. He really did, he was laughing hard, not denying it at all. I told him I was going to read his mind and scramble my thoughts in retaliation and he stopped laughing. I started winning. It was actually pretty easy, kind of like playing poker and not letting yourself get bluffed.

The Marianao gangsters were no good at this trick and I won a fair amount of games. It seemed there defense was to ply me with rum or scramble their own minds with the stuff. Jorge felt much trepidation and fear watching me play from the dusty street. He was certainly relieved and said so when the girls showed up and we left the gangsters abode. He said, “Man those guys are dangerous, what were you doing playing with them”? Learning something Jorge, this is how I do it. It’s a science, and I’m taking samples pal! I’m going to figure some stuff out that will elude you forever because you’re scared of your own shadow and I’m not cause I figured out what it is.

Jorge, dressed in his Miami Hurricanes outfit covered in gold and cologne was scolding the Hialeah girl for her tardiness while Eliana and I flirted with each other stumbling through our language barriers avoiding problems with understanding eye contact. “Catch 22” had his best, whitest shirt on, the Hialeah girl was way over done. Get out of the oven girl you’re cooked plenty! Eliana had quite obviously spent her time curling her luscious hair and appeared to have gotten into someone’s cosmetic bag. I was in my La Mason shirt with straw jacket and trousers while steady “Seville” had on a polo shirt, jeans, and well worn but fashionable square toed tan leather shoes. We loaded up in the chariot with “Catch 22” and I bookcasing the two girls, which I appreciated, putting an arm around the back of “Miss. Curly Q” deftly stroking her hand resting along the back of the front seat. The interior of the super sedan was immaculate thanks off course to “Seville”.

At 10 PM the first place we showed up to was not yet open so we went with club “B” a Cuban improv comedy club. I got sat in the worst seat in the house which was cool cause I needed a pillar between me and the stage as the comedian found plenty of material in me. When I walked into the small place he really lit into me with rapid fire cubish one and two liners, the place was riotous. I had no idea what he was saying but the crowd looked at me like I should be extremely embarrassed. There was nothing I could do to defend myself in lightning Cuban improv. Completely defenseless the comedian took full advantage avoiding all “Camilo” jokes interestingly enough. The only joke I got was one seemingly unrelated to me about the starving for meat campisinos and the unfortunate animals in the jungle. After a while though I figured this was the “joke” that actually was aimed at my ear.

While this was all going on in the first few minutes Jorge was ironing out the bill before we even consumed anything. Now Jorge knows all about this stuff, as he is a major bar room player club guy. I just realize the inevitable, me paying for more than I can afford, while Jorge fights it from the get go. I know the only defense to this club highway robbery fueled by Hialeah desire is to bring your own drinks up to the Malecon, relax, create your own comedy while listening to the sea, wandering minstrels, and eating peanuts. We all moved up to the bar for better seats and drank rum by the bottle. Jorge is smart and had given implicate instructions to the staff to let him do all the ordering. They took his demands and threw them in the trash letting the Hialeah girl order what she obviously wanted but surely did not need. She was very rude to me as well, which was odd, considering everything was on me. Also the bouncer insisted on walking past me every couple of minutes and pushing me with his shoulder. After a half dozen times of this I told him to stop pushing me around get to work and go outside and give my chauffeur a bottle of water. He got the picture. “Seville” never separated himself from the ride or got more than ten paces away from it, ever.

We did some dancing when the comedy routine was over, and I learned I was extremely lacking in Cuban dance techniques. It would take me years to get the fundamental “swivel hips” thing learned. I danced with the gracious Eliana but had more fun watching “Catch 22” spin her around. Those two looked like they had been dancing together for eternity. Beautiful, it brought tears to my eyes, I actually had to go pull myself together in the restroom. I think I realized my wife was humping the busboy in Chicago.

When the check arrived we realized we didn’t have enough money to cover the check which was scrutinized by all involved except me which was funny cause I was footing the bill and knew why we couldn’t afford it. The Hialeah girl had been ordering food and her own personal drinks on the side. To really get the picture here one had to see “Catch 22” examining the bill and realizing he’d have to work over a year to pay for it. It was actually worth the price to see the look on his face. Don’t worry Youseffe, I don’t go to these types of places as I learned my lesson before I was even old enough to drink.

We sent Jorge and “Seville” on a chariot mission to exchange another Franklin at a hotel down by the American interest section. Jorge was afraid to carry too much cash around which was a joke. Havana Cuba is probably the safest place in the world, besides Kumamoto Japan (it’s too shameful to steal there). They’ll put a first offence Cuban bandito in jail for 40 years here. A real jail, possible cannibalism, and everyone knows it. I’d already figured that out, which was why I had plenty of money to cover anything and wasn’t worried. I’ll never figure out why Jorge is afraid to carry cash yet flaunts $3000 dollars worth of gold on his neck and wrists! Strange bird, yet a good pal. Jorge is a good guy to travel with, as he is big and fast. These are good qualities to have in a traveling partner, I’ve always traveled with top notch sidekicks.

When we returned to our pad, a good sized man was unhappily waiting on the corner. I spotted him as Eliana’s boyfriend immediately. One could tell he’d like to have gone out with us, but I think he was working or something. The neighborhood may have actually been conspiring against him, as it felt like everyone was trying to hook Eliana and I up together. Heck, I’d already been on a green card ride. Perhaps they were just setting me up with the best dancing partner in the neighborhood, thanks I needed that.

Cue the roosters add some barking dogs, boy if I had a slingshot. For breakfast this morning Mrs. Pillar served us egg and goat cheese sandwiches with the perfect cup of café percolated over a gas flame, the most efficient way to make coffee. As far as I’m concerned Cuba has the best café and tobacco in the world. The fruits and vegetables are perhaps the best I’ve eaten too. I think it has something to do with the soil on the island. What else can I say it’s the best food, drink and smoke I’ve ever had.

We went down to the main river and watched a few guys catching fish with a cast net. There was a nice park next to the river and we bought handfuls of sugar cookies and cotton candy for a penny, such a deal. They had a restroom that charged foreigners for the privilege. This was odd considering the guy taking the tips wasn’t cleaning up the place or anything. The one funny story about the park was there was a fish pond with carp in it in the past but some locals came down and caught all the carp for dinner, now it was a swimming hole for the kids. With all the sugar in this country if the Cubans ever ran out of bread Fidel could actually step out on the balcony like Marie Antoinette and say let them eat cake or sugar cookies and not be kidding around.

We cruised the Malecon and stopped at a bazaar along the sea next to a hopeful condo in very slow progress site. Jorge bought a very nice cigar box to go along with his many boxes of cigars, mostly Cohibas bought on the black market but also a dozen Churchills in Romeo and Juliet single cigar tubes. We had also gone to a cigar rolling factory and bought 50 or so Coronas. The next day Jorge got up early to leave as planned. We were standing out in the dog shit dusty road of Marianao as he loaded up his loot after an all expense paid trip as my translator, when he told me I needed to learn how to compromise. I thought this was a riot as we’d done everything exactly as he wanted to up to this point and I’d paid for everything including the 4 or 5 boxes of cigars he was smuggling back with him. What more could I compromise? I only had four hundred more dollars left and was planning on staying another three weeks. Compromise? My whole mission to bicycle around Cuba incognito was compromised with a family visa and the fact that I looked like their hero Camilo, my own fortune of course. How much if any more could I do? I decided right there in the dusty dog shit streets never to compromise again! What for? I think he might have been telling me not to ride a bike around the island. Gotcha pal, certainly not on a new bicycle as Camilo. I’d already learned by traveling across the U.S. by canoe to go with the flow.

I wouldn’t figure it out until later but when Jorge flew out of Havana the New York black bag wearing guy was sitting right behind him and the wheelchair fellow sat next to Jorge. I ended up spotting the wheelchair guy twice while walking around Havana over the next two weeks, he was driving around in a new Asian car. I thought this was interesting in a town of 1.2 million people.

About the time Jorge left the World Baseball Series started up and of course Cuba was in it. They weren’t picked to go far as they had no home games and had to play Puerto Rico and the Dominican Republic at their place twice. PR and DR were stacked with major leaguers and it looked bleak for Cuba. Japan was playing in the other group and it didn’t look too good for them, as Korea and the U.S. were strong. During the first game shown on Cuban television, which normally only aired for a few hours a day, I made a prediction, sticking my neck out real far, and said it would be Cuba vs. Japan in the finales. Ha, everyone laughed and said no way, but I stuck to my guns the rest of my stay.

Usually I’d go to the snack shack and get a few beers and split them with Jesus and “Catch 22” over the ball game. This was a big treat for them as was watching the game from above Havana for me. I like watching international play and not so secretly enjoy watching U.S. teams and their grandisized players get knocked down. What can I say, I’m a big fan of underdogs. There is no smaller dog than Cuba in international games. Their style of play is somewhat American without all the heavy hitters and big muscle pitching. I’d also watch many games from the barrios of Havana as I’d stroll around at night in the ghetto. Most ground floor apartments in the city would prop open their doors and move the TV so folks with no access could watch from the street. This was a bunch of fun and I met a lot of interesting characters this way.

I was intent on at least seeing Havana from the eyes of a Cuban and after Jorge left didn’t use the chariot services of “Seville”. I know he enjoyed tooling us around but I really couldn’t afford it. Plus, I really got a feel for this town walking around. I had a hard time getting the local taxis to stop for me and asked “Catch 22” to help me out. Carlitos wouldn’t step out of our little neighborhood with me, I guess he was afraid of getting in trouble. “Catch 22” didn’t really want to be seen with me either but roused enough courage to show me the way to the Jose Marti Librioteca. Along the way he showed me how to catch a local cab, not the tourist variety which charged an arm and a leg. Casually walk towards your destination like a local and toss your two fingers out at passing vehicles. I tried this without much success, but Youseffe immediately got picked up by a Lada and we both squeezed into the back next to another passenger. It cost us a dollar or actually a Cuban Camilo (20 pesos) to get to the cemetery.

He walked me down to the library where I found out I couldn’t get in with flip flops on. We walked through the empty Jose Marti radio tower parking lot to the Theatro Internationales and he explained to me the prices and show times. He was nervous about traveling around with me and told me for the second or third time how he was a communist. I couldn’t see what the problem was as he was just showing me how to take a local taxi to the library and explained to him how I was a socialist or something and not capitalistic. He told me there were people with the communists on every block watching everything and he just might be the fellow on his block. I got the picture before he told me anyway, strolling around the town I’d already figured this out.

The next morning I left the hill and picked up a taxi to the cemetery, it was an old American classic and I could never get a local Lada taxi, only the antique American cars would stop for me over the next couple of weeks. I walked the half mile to the library and got in. It was the nicest library I’ve ever been in, immaculate marble floors, real hardwood furniture and card catalogs. I like card catalogs and never appreciated computers in the states. I’m a big library freak and was steamed when the American libraries yanked the catalogs. I always was suspicious of the reason they did this! They just ripped them out and threw them in the dump.

When I told the lady who stored the backpacks in cubbyholes that I wanted a library card she sent me down to the children’s book section. This was odd I thought and walked back to the desk and she just told me to go back to the children’s section. Finally a very nice woman just happened to walk by and was sympathetic and showed me how to get one, it cost me two dollars and I was on my way. The guard made me remove my camera from my pocket and put it in my stored bag, gee this library didn’t want anyone to get info out of it. The hall leading to the books was filled with the most interesting books and newspaper articles I’d ever seen. They were behind glass which sucked cause one couldn’t turn the pages, but they were open to some neat pictures and history.

The library attendants were some of the most beautiful women you’ll ever see, it’s worth a trip to Cuba just to get into the library and check out these girls! One of them helped me find what I was looking for in the most fabulously beautiful card catalog I’ve ever touched. I came up with 15 or so selections about plants, birds and butterflies and wrote them down on scraps of paper, next I handed these three at a time to the sweet attendants.

What happened next was extremely interesting to me. After about 15 minutes the girl brought down to me basically a child’s coloring book about birds and butterflies that must have been 40 years old. I spent a few minutes looking it over and returned it back to the desk asking for another. The next book was more advanced, still not the book I’d requested but it had words. I returned this selection after having read it too and requested a third. The third selection was a real book about plants, actually detailing the plants at a tropical garden on what seemed like Pine Island on the south side of Cuba, maybe it was a Wales curator maintaining an alien garden, it was all in the names. They told me what was going on. I got the picture and read the entire book, it was actually in English. I returned this interesting selection not having been giving any of the books I requested and went below into the basement/cafeteria and had croquettes y refrescas for a nickel. As I was eating lunch I found another interesting clue, along the walls were framed photos of Japanese castles. I considered this peculiar and it really sparked my curiosity. The Kumamoto castle was not represented below Jose Marti library. In my life I’ve coined a term “the Cuban library” which is when you find exactly the information or things you’re looking for, and there is nothing you can do about it, I just accept it for whatever it is.

I left the mysterious library and walked past the tremendous phallic Jose Marti radio concrete symbol to the sky gods that was patrolled by armed guards that wouldn’t let anyone near it or even photograph it as if it was under imminent attack, this was strange. Across the parking lot on a huge building was the likeness of Che and the actual words Che, just in case one didn’t get the picture. How’d you like that crusade to Bolivia pal? Might as well been a crusade to Oblivia, guy couldn’t read obviously. He’d have been better off hanging out with those cute girls at the Cuban library who’ll show you everything you could want to know.

Across the street is the Theatro de la Naccionales and what lies below is a dance bar that opens at 4 PM and cost $4 to get in for tourists. Cubans pay much less to get in and by 5 PM the place is packed and really jumping. The first night I went there was a huge band, must have been over a dozen guys and gals up there with all kinds of instruments, it was a Cuban sound machine. When I walked in nobody was drinking so I bought a bunch of Buccaneero beer and sat down giving out beers to the guy sitting down next to me and a couple of hot chicks on the other side. I ended up dancing with the two girls for the next few hours. They literally dragged me out on the floor, even though I was willing and made a sandwich out of me. I actually had an orgasm on the dance floor when the chicks started doing the “Brazilian”, too easy. If the girls knew this they probably would have been disappointed.

I bought a couple of pizzas and shared them with my new friends who thought dancing with Camilo was way cool. I actually had the balls to go back to these two ladies place in the hood for some coffee. They couldn’t believe how brave I was and said so. Before we went back to one chick’s house, they led me through a maze of back alleys into dark Cuban never never land where I hung out with a few big guys who immediately sized me up and tried to chuck some fear into me. I know this stuff when I see it. I’d “caught” em carrying water up 3 storys to a top floor flush toilet. Here’s how you extricate yourself from never never land, first of all you have to be a hustler, control your heart rate, you can’t fake this as the possible spooks are watching your jugular for real. Smile, and mean it, show them your teeth! This is the most aggressive thing you can do, in the very least it will force them to wonder and then you’ve got them. Next, reach out and shake their hand as this literally disarms them. Don’t ever drink too much, and lastly or firstly, know fear, perhaps you’ll be reborn, be good, live a clean life, have no regrets, and tell the truth cause you’re not fooling anyone but yourself.

We went back to one girls apartment had some coffee and were necking out in the street when one of her girlfriends came by and was like, “How did you get Camilo back to your place girl”? I actually had to go next door to use the restroom where I met the gal’s mother, they move fast in this town. We agreed to meet again at the basement dance bar underneath the national theater and she showed me the way home by taxi. I figured on walking home but she was like no way you’ll never make it out of this neighborhood alive. Ha! I say. We waited as a few local taxis cruised by and she finally stuck her fingers out as a blue sedan pulled into sight. A blue sedan, this must have been some kind of sign to this girl. I asked her why she trusted this car full of potential hoodlums I as got in back of a loaded with big guys Cuban sedan and she just smiled and said, “See you tomorrow night”.

They dropped me off after midnight in front of Pillars house where she was extremely anxiously waiting with “Catch 22” wondering if I’d disappeared forever. She was all over the cab driver as if they charged too much, $5. “Catch 22” assured her I’d gotten off easy. He said I was more fortunate than he had ever seen anybody, and I reminded him that I had initially set out to ride an old bike around the country. We watched a late night American movie packed with guns, drugs, violence, and crooked cops in LA, go figure. They were both interested in the girl I’d hung out with that night, including the fact she was black. I had her name and address and they just couldn’t believe I’d gotten out of that place alive. I just pointed to the movie we were watching. Do you know where I’m from, the city of angels? Shit I’m from Boytown. On cue some gangster opened fire on some innocent people and I commented that Havana is really a nice town, no guns. They reminded me of cuchillios and I didn’t have the mastery of the language to explain to them that I had plenty of experience with knives.

I’d moved up to the rooftop “studio” when Jorge left. I liked it up there as the place really caught the March breeze. Cue the roosters! Enjoy another cup of Cuba’s finest, several actually, and have an egg and cheese sandwich with salsa verde and a mamey milkshake. Mmmm, good, shower up and hit the streets. There was one spot where I always caught a cab and nowhere else. It was just past the high school and when I walked past this two story high school every day the windows would fly open and the most beautiful girls and boys would all cheer “Camilo” and wave. This was funny to me and I ate it up as usual having experienced this kind of stuff before. It was good for me and the Cubans really seemed to appreciate it. I couldn’t go anywhere in this town without people “recognizing” me. I sure am glad they liked this character so much. I picked a good one to accidentally impersonate, it didn’t seem like they were too thrilled with Fidel and while Che’s motorcycle diaries seemed nice I didn’t see any one sporting berets in town.

They couldn’t figure out how or why this down to earth, charismatic, great with the ladies hero of theirs just up and disappeared without a trace. It broke their hearts and according to some of them the revolution went to hell after he was gone. It was like a miracle to see me actually walking around in the streets, smiling, skipping along, and eating pizza with them. I can’t explain how “real” I was to them, it blew their mind. Now, I’d already been “The Last Samurai” in Japan, “Mississippi” on the same river, sawed off shotgun and everything, “Billy the Kid” going down the Yellowstone and a whole cast of characters in my many adventures. My life reads like a “how to win revenue and influence people” novel. I actually had a couple of “communist block watchers” I’d guess, cross the street, run up to me and demand to know if I was a “counter revolutionary” in an intimidating fashion. This is a death sentence in Cuba so I can’t imagine what possible response they expected. I’d smile and casually reply, no I’m a revolutionary bird and butterfly gardener and laugh, they had no idea what to think.

I decided to go to Chinatown in Havana. A blue sedan on cue as I raised a couple of fingers and looked over my shoulder pulled over at my usual spot just past the waving and cheering high school kids. When I got in the back there was a Chinese guy (the first I’d seen in Cuba) in the back seat manically laughing. I asked the driver how much to Barrio de Chino. The driver said twenty and I was like convertibles o pesos? The way he said convertibales as he held out his hand for payment and subtly motioned to the Chinese guy behind him with his thumb made this the most noteworthy event in Cuba, as if the Chinese guy needed to be converted. I got out. Twenty convertibales was way too much for a cab ride to Chinatown, maybe 20 pesos. As I thought about it this may have been a Camilo joke also considering he’s on both bills and the Chinese sure was laughing madly, ass backed up into the extreme corner of the bench seat though. I took the next taxi and just handed him the equivalent to $1 when it got close enough to walk the rest of the way.

As I walked around Barrio de Chino, not a Chino in sight I came upon a group of guys making their own concrete. It was kind of like I’d seen them doing in Japan except these guys had their own sifters, were busting up rocks, sifting the sand and aggregate into separate piles and adding cement that they had gotten from the cement plant. In Japan they had mixing machine but in Cuba its shovel and wheelbarrow work. I’ve never seen anyone do this in States, ever. The only problem was these guys were using way too much water and I pointed this out to them. The guys doing the mixing laughed, handed me the shovel and said if you’re so smart than mix it yourself! I did, mixing the stuff up and continuing to point out that there was way too much water. These guys were laughing it up when the foreman came out of the building, sees these guys laughing at me as I explain how too much water makes the concrete weak and he jumped all over them, siding with me and scolded them for putting too much water in the mix. I gave them their shovels back and got the last laugh as the foreman and I rolled our eyes and went back to what we were doing.

Once again I didn’t see any Chinese people in Barrio de Chino, this must be the only China town in the whole world with no Chinese people. I did see a partially Chinese looking girl a few days later in Havana. I ate lunch in Chinatown and it was good. I walked into the old part of town, Havana Viejo, and met a couple of hustlers across from the Catholic Church who went from trying to sell me cigars, to mary jane, to coke. No thanks pal, they were disappointed. I hung with them for a few minutes, they must have thought I wanted something, but I’m just one of the slickest river hustlers in the world and was just checking to see if they had any tricks I didn’t know about. This was a likely spot to run into some real pros and they were. Strolled past the Capitol, hookers eyeing me, taxi drivers trying to figure out why a guy like me was walking around (it’s more fun). Had some pizza and basically went in and out of a bunch of local stores. This was neat stuff seeing how the Cubans accomplished the basic stuff. I treat antique stores like libraries.

I started heading to the basement dance spot for my 4 o’clock date when I got waylaid by a guy in an old Dodgers baseball outfit. He said he used to live in Brooklyn but robbed a bank and got sent back to Cuba. I’ve heard this romanticized bank robber story a few times. He wanted to sell me some ganja, sorry buddy. He was bemoaning his fate when I left for the dance hall. I was an hour late and my date was compromised as she’d already set herself up with another sugar daddy who’d one upped me and had a bottle of rum he was sharing at the table. My date actually seemed disappointed in her move, but the fellow didn’t care and let me dance with her all evening on his nickel, thanks pal! Real gentleman that guy was. Instead of a live band it was DJ Americana night and I was disappointed to find this out, but the crowd was three times as large so you could tell what young Cubans like. Hotel California was