Leaving hotel calafornix

Cue the roosters, add some barking rooftop dogs, and kill the screaming pig. Enjoy an egg and cheese sandwich, salsa verde, and café. Head out past the schoolhouse, gorgeous smiling kids in their uniforms, like Japan, catch a cab, blue sedan, down to the Malecon, stroll around, and go swimming. Now you gotta see these Cuban fishermen. I saw two guys in one boat, a ponga with a 20 horse engine, the rest of the “fleet” typically used a home built craft made out of a big inner tube with wooden planks or a cooler to sit on. The more advanced fellows had swim fins and actual fishing poles to go with their craft, but these were not necessary. They’d face astern on the edge of their ship and kick out. Another method was to use condoms to catch an offshore breeze getting your bait out further. Anyway you looked at it they didn’t seem very successful, this may have been a “ghost” fish trap problem. In places where people use enormous chain link or plastic traps the traps can be lost, trapping fish for a long time, they’re like fish cemeteries. It’s the doom of the reef fish.

Walking around Havana, you get the picture, everyone is a hustler. I guess you have to be to survive in this town. I walked through old Havana and intercepted a loosely grouped bunch of what looked like tourists. One of them was a Japanese girl in her school uniform, these Japanese tourists are worldwide but this was interesting to see a schoolgirl. I waved, Ohio gonziemasu! This tripped her out, saying good morning in Japanese. I headed out of town and checked out Havana harbor, which is not a tourist destination. For such a big port there wasn’t much going on and it looked slow. Telephone poles were the shipment of the day and I headed back towards town stopping and having the worst sandwich of my life at one spot. I was begging for some mayo, pickles, or hot sauce but they didn’t have any.

While I sat there what looked like the entire Cuban police force drove by in their Ladas and they did not look happy at all. Sometimes I think the unhappy police in the world actually attract and farm the negative stuff they’re supposedly protecting us all from. After lunch I watched a guy disassemble his starter motor from his motorcycle and make a roadside repair, these guys in Cuba are incredible, if you own an engine you are a mechanic. I walked towards town checking out hookers and hustlers until I reached the bus station. Bus travel is huge in Cuba and the old beasts were packed everywhere I saw them, not one more person could get on them. I never rode one, missing out on this Cuban experience. “Catch 22” said it was just as well as I’d gotten my pockets picked clean if I had.

As the sun set I stopped at a corner bar I’d been to a couple of times and had a Mojito. A hooker was doing her best to look attractive. I ended up talking in my broken Spanish to a local guy at the bar and convinced the bartendress to serve us the leftovers from the blender drinks that wouldn’t fit in the glass instead of pouring them out. The local cat I was hanging out with thought this was pretty slick. I headed up the hill to home base fully intending to catch a local taxi. As I cruised along the main drag heading into Marianao I came upon a couple of fellows sitting in the back of a Lada that had a flat tire parked on the side of the road. They had the doors locked and the windows rolled up. They had business suits on and were obviously from the States so out of curiosity I knocked on their window and solicited a conversation, I was just curious.

They turned out to be a couple of guys on a business trip from somewhere in the Midwest, they were hustling a chicken deal or something. The driver of the cab had rolled the tire off into the neighborhood performing his “Cubanisimo” trick of getting someone he knew nearby to fix the thing, these local guys have a serious spider web network of ways to solve problems. The traveling salesmen were locked up in the back of the cab like they were in Mogadishu.

I convinced them to roll the window down and talk to me. I asked them what they were doing in there, and told them they should go across the street and get a drink. It seemed like the logical thing to do and I hadn’t spoken any English in over a week, plus I was thinking the driver would take me up the way too when he got back. The one guy who looked about my age said, “Are you nuts? This is Havana, Cuba! We’re just trying to get back to the hotel”. This place is much safer than Kansas. Don’t you know if you’re a local and do something wrong in this town they’ll throw you in jail for 30 years? Forget about being Bubba’s girlfriend they’ll eat your ass in there! This deters criminals pal. He goes, “Really”? I said sure, I’ve been walking around the barrio at night with no problem for weeks. He couldn’t believe it, and did not get out of the cab. See later buddy. I continued on up the hill whistling the tune from the “Andy Griffith Show”. I couldn’t get a cab though, they must have been eating dinner or watching the baseball game or something.

Now, I’ll tell ya, walking around the streets of Cuba at night is extremely dangerous as all the manhole covers and sewer grates have disappeared, probably for raw materials, mash strainers? Fall in one of these and you’ll break your leg. Plus, just like in South Florida there’s a bunch of stupid ficus trees planted along the roadside buckling the pavement and sidewalks to hell, be careful or you’ll stub your toes on these. I stubbed my toe pretty good on a root induced buckled piece of concrete and a small pool of blood formed in my flip flop as I approached the transvestite hookers. A fellow with a different taste in life was picking one up. I crossed the road and limped into Pillar’s house having walked nearly 50 miles for the day! I just about had blisters on my calves that had red splotches and were hot to the touch. She had dinner waiting for me and I watched the rest of the baseball game with “Catch 22”, Cuba was hanging in there, as was Japan.

Cockadoodledoo! I had been imagining that bird roasted, boiled, or fried for weeks, and couldn’t understand why the neighbors didn’t eat him for crying out loud! Maybe he was the cock of the walk, the neighborhood stud, a prized bird or something but I’d heard enough. There was nothing I could do about it though. I didn’t eat as much this morning as the day before. I’d drank so much refrescas (sugar water and orange juice) in the streets of Havana that my stomach and bowels were sad. Perhaps I was just in shock from walking 50 miles.

“Catch 22” and I went to the commissary, this was an interesting part of Cuban life to see. We headed over the river bridge with a large sack, walked a few blocks to a government building with a single window and slid Jesus and Pillar’s government food book in the window. The woman inside checked to make sure we weren’t double dipping and filled our sack up mostly with rice, unrefined sugar, beans, pasta, a couple packs of smokes and a small pack of coffee. It was a month’s supply of staples and “Catch 22” was matter of fact about the whole transaction. He was matter of fact about everything. The only real similarity between Youseffe and Yossarian from Heller’s “Catch 22” was that they both appeared to be in a raft with one paddle not going anywhere and relatively comfortable about it. I know all about this idea, except I was fortunate to have read the book and chose a canoe and took along an extra paddle. Youseffe didn’t want anything and this is admirable. The food was heavy, perhaps 40 lbs. worth of stuff, but he’d accept no help preferring to carry the stuff himself. He let me carry the coffee.

I stayed in Marinao and played chess in the street on this day. These fellows have some neat makeshift homemade chess sets, slapstick chairs and tables included. A first rate game played in a dog shit dusty street. The way some of these Cubans played the game was strange, Carlitos however was good, a master. I went 2 to1 with him. Overall in the barrio I was 11 and 1, it ain’t dominoes guys, look out. “Catch 22” was pretty good at this game as well and we played into the evening.

If you go to Havana you’ve certainly got to visit the castle that guards the harbor. They shoot one of the cannons off after sunset and it is something to see. When we pulled up to the castle parking lot it looked like an antique car show, unbelievably nice 40′s and 50′s automobiles, all different colors. It makes one wonder at the consumerism in the States that drives us to toss vehicles after they’re 10 years old. Somehow I snuck in for the local rate. My friends gave me a history lesson when we crossed the bridge over the dry moat. There’s what looks like rust stains along one wall of the moat. They said that was the blood stains from a bunch of guys who shouted “Viva Cuba libre” as they were shot by the revolutionaries, very impressive.

There used to be a chain stretching across the channel that would keep ships from entering or leaving the harbor. This is the harbor the USS Maine mysteriously blew up in. Add that to our long list of mysterious naval hokey stuff we’ve been involved in. Bay of Pigs is another one. Viva Cuba libre? How about we train you, give you a ride, drop you off in the water off the beach, and then withdraw naval and air support at the last minute. That wasn’t very nice. Of course the Cuban army appreciated it.

The castle show included a bunch of guys dressed up like the colonial Spanish marching in and setting off a small canon. This was a good show. After the short cannonade I decided to walk up the ramparts and check out the castle. I walked all over the place, the view was fine and the breezy night made for great strolling. After a while I ran into a couple of guards kind of catching them by surprise. “What are you doing up here?” they asked. Just looking around I replied nonchalantly. “You’re not supposed to be up here.” I’m not? I didn’t know. “Who are you?” They probably thought I was Camilo’s ghost come to get them. They were like “Family visa? You’re not Cuban!” Uhhh, play stupid here, uhhh, me companero de casa Jorge Mayorga’s hermana’s espouso’s Carlito’s padre’s guest. Es mi familia, si? Where? Marianao. “All right pal.” They walked me back down to the main grounds and let me go. On the way out we checked out the armory. I thought the Japanese samurai sword was certainly the highlight of the stuff. It was placed in the best viewing location. They actually threw me out of the armory when I started eyeballing it, said the place was closing. Heck, it was the only interesting thing in there. They said the place was closing.

There was a big party going on in one of the main rooms of the castle. It looked like a rich Cuban girl was having her “quinceria” or 15^th birthday party. Wow, she was gorgeous. It looked like she and the rest of the party were having the time of their lives. It actually looked like they were very wealthy. I didn’t think they had any of these types in Cuba. The rest of the castle grounds we looked at as we departed were covered in exotic Southeast Asian ficus trees, roots tearing up the castle walls. They should remove these immediately.

If you visit Havana make sure you visit the Castile, the mini castle turned restaurant at the extreme west end of the Malecon as well. This spot is sweet and a good place to hang out, and check out real Cuba, people without a lot of money hanging out, fishing, having intercourse, and fun. I spent many cool breezy evenings just kicking back along the seawall and people watching. I started to hang out with the skinheaded, shaved chest too, boyfriend of Eliana’s, he was a real clean cut fellow. We played chess together and talked about life. He was very interested in my travels and the experiences I’ve had while doing them. He spoke English well in addition to some French and German. He worked at a Chinese restaurant and got tips making him one of the higher paid guys in town. This was a valuable job and he had a hard time justifying turning all his tips in. I would to, and gave him my spin on it coming from the service capitol of the world, South Florida.

Determine what’s fair in your own mind. Are you getting an equal split? Basically, do the math and figure out if you’re getting back close to what you put in, or the share they said you’d get when they hired you. If not, and he wasn’t, this is what I did, always carry folded money in your left back pocket to work, when getting tipped look at it, stuff it haphazardly in your back right pocket and when you get a chance right your own wrongs. I told him when I worked for a Greek guy, John Kavekos, or with guy’s I knew I always got a fair split but when I worked for the cocaine MOB they shafted me so I gave them the shaft too. I also told him they caught on to that and fired me. I just went and got another job. Who knows what happens in Cuba if you get caught taking the tips at the Chinese restaurant.

Cue the roosters, my Cuban alarm clock set 3 hours early. Scrambled egg and cheese sandwich, black lightning café, cigarette, café, one more cigarette, dodge the electrical current in the shower and I’m ready to go. This morning I was intent on checking out the beach to the west so I put a bottle of water in my backpack and off I went. A couple of cars drive by honking and yelling “Camilo”, not as cool as a bunch of hot chicks leaning out the window at the high school but it looked like my disguise worked on this side of town too. Walking around Cuba in 2006, take a right on directions from a local, please show me the way, past some incredible homes, eat your heart out Palm Beach! Man, these places are nice, I thought there wasn’t any rich Cubans. Is the beast still here? Really?

So I get down to the water and the shoreline is completely covered in plastic trash. I’m standing there trying to light a cigarette watching a fellow cast net some fish from a bunch of rocks about 200’ from shore. The flint in my Tokyo lighter had worn out and the spring shot out the last bit. This took me 6 or 7 seconds to figure out. Cubans have lighter repair fellows in every market place and I figured I needed to see one. I had looked away from the cast netter out on the rocks while fooling around with my lighter and when I looked back up he was gone. He had disappeared! A thin air trick. Nightcrawler from X-Men? Well, I didn’t see a puff of smoke. This was a first time experience for me, so naturally not afraid of the once unknown, I saw an opportunity for investigation. There was a likely spot obscured from view by an outcropping of rock that looked like the obvious straight line path for a guy on foot to disappear to, I just couldn’t see how he could have done it in the time allotted. It was impossible considering he’d just thrown the cast net when my attention was diverted and the distance he had to cover to hide behind the only rocks available. I studied the area for a minute and could reach no other conclusion. The guy had disappeared, like magic. I was intrigued, not spooked and figured to try and get to the bottom of this mystery.

I went back to the street around the outcropping of rock and found a trail that lead back toward the spot I suspected he’d disappeared to. As I walked down the sandy path towards a low dune up and over the dune the fellow comes, but it looked like he’d changed his clothes. Buena dia tenga fueferra? He looked at me with a scowl, no verbal response and shot invisible daggers at me. He was not happy. I thought this was odd, maybe he thought I’d caught him in the act of something illegal, I don’t know. This was a weird experience for me, as I’d never seen anyone do a disappearing trick before.

THE COLORED PENCILMAN

I continued on down the road past what looked like unoccupied beach front houses, condos under slow construction, armed guards, and good looking girls. I walked past the Mariel marina that hosted the Cuban P T boat Navy, all the while cars honking the people in them waiving and calling out “Camilo!” to which I’d smile and wave back, obviously friendly, time traveling, shining, doppelganger that I am, when a black Lada drove by. I immediately recognized the driver. My captain, the similarly looking bearded fellow with similar maritime job and handyman work or so he said, when I first met him flying into Cuba, which was interesting as he was from California and the Mexican route seemed more logical. He pulled into a turnabout I’d just walked through, stopped next to me and asked if I remembered him. I responded with a silly grin. Sure I remember you. I was thinking boy things are really getting interesting now. He asked “Why didn’t you call me”? as he’d given Jorge and I his phone number and address. I just didn’t feel the need to. This obviously irked him somewhat, he had an interesting “head twitch dual eye blink thing” that he did periodically when talking to me, the things we talked about that brought on this response were classic, he was always smiling when he did it. “You wanna go for a ride?” Sure. I stepped around the back of the car and jumped in the well maintained Lada.

I immediately noticed he was sweating profusely. As if he could read my mind he brushed it off saying he’d just gotten out of a dance class. He continued through the turn around and went back the way he’d come towards the casa particulares he was staying at, Casa de Miguelito. It seemed pretty obvious that he’d gone out of his way to pick me up. As I was thinking about that he did his “grinning head twitch dual eye blink thing” again. I kinda waived it off with my right hand, smiling, thinking I wasn’t worried about it and he did his “thing” again. Communicating without words, too easy!

We parked across the street from his pad, met senor Miguelito, extremely good fellow he appeared to be, checked out the place, nice with exquisite terrazzo floors and beautiful antique furniture, and walked upstairs to Captain Roberts studio. I sat down on the sofa and he offered me some pear juice and a cigar, delicious. I picked up a diving magazine on the table and Robert said he was an avid diver. I responded that my dad was basically the Jacques Cousteau of South Florida. Robert didn’t say another word about diving. He took a shower and I did the same. A nice looking gal came in, apparently a girlfriend of Roberts. She was selling underwear and he bought some for another girl. The underwear saleswoman left and Robert told me she was Fidel’s cleaning ladies daughter. Boy this is getting rich now I thought! We took the underwear and went to another girlfriend of Robert’s about my age and traded for the best bowl of chicken soup I’d ever eaten. At this point I’d figured out that these rangy Cuban chickens are perfect stewed, delicious.

While apparently Robert was this girl’s sugar daddy, she lived with her boyfriend, her daughter and another girl about 30 with one leg. A nice make do Cuban family. The neighborhood had a somewhat famous local Cuban who specialized in fabulously unique decorated concrete walls. He used broken and leftover bits of tiles as his medium and I’d say they were most beautiful walls in place of fences I’d ever seen even though I can’t stand non productive fences and walls (they could have installed beehive walls and quit the ditch and drain colonial sugar plantations). Robert dropped me off back at Pillar’s after making plans to go golfing at Havana Municipal the next day.

Now, Pillar was astounded that I’d made plans to go golfing with a guy I’d met on the plane to Cuba who drove a black Lada (there might have been something to this) and chauffeured me around for free, plus he looked like he was CIA, all while nonchalantly walking down to the beach. To her this was fantastically unusual and very suspicious. Don’t worry honey I agree, it is suspicious, I’m just not afraid of it. I just row with it. I was thinking more about the disappearing fisherman trick anyway but didn’t mention it to them.

Word was Pillar’s brother in law or something and another man, a professor of drama at University de Havana wanted to chauffer me around. I was just about out of money but these guys, a third younger hustler was the driver, really appeared to want to cruise around with me. They made this very obvious, they were insistent, as if they weren’t just interested in the money exchange, which was about the standard dirty dollars per day, 3 men though (local intelligentsia), such a deal.

The automobile was an antique red American car, I forget which make and model, well maintained. The first thing they did was take me to their place where they were collecting that which falls from the heavens, the water from their super, into a “Cuban fish tank”. In the early evening we went for a cruise, destination their choice. These characters were trying to communicate as much of vast importance as they could in an indeterminable short period.

From the far SW of Marianao we rolled through the main part of town to just the NE side of Havana. As we were motoring up a slight hill “supposedly” the car ran out of gas. It didn’t seem like it though to me. The 3 wanted to push the vehicle up the hill with me in it. I wouldn’t let them push the vehicle up the hill without my assistance. They insisted. I made them know I got their point, still pushing though, but I get what you are saying. They took me to the finest or most ostentatious show in town, as if to drop me off for the show. I wasn’t interested, in particular, if they wouldn’t be accompanying me. It looked like some kind of “Versilles” façade drama/performance house. We left this place and motored toward another nearby area.

I was aware of the area we were going towards. Over the last couple of weeks of “wandering” around Havana taking notes whenever I deliberately “got lost” and let my consciousness direct, just “freely” going someplace, I ended up at one particular dead end location. I’d already been to the spot they were taking me to 3 or 4 times and just about there, redirecting myself a couple of times around the “other” ways of the spot. It was the spot I’d been “casing out” in Havana.

The mood in the cab changing perceptively as we neared the intersection of the route that led to “the spot”, we turned towards it. No, don’t go that way it’s a dead end. “What did you say?” asked the English speaking professor. Don’t go this way. “No, what did you say about this way?” It’s a dead end. “Uh huh.” We got to the dead end and did a 3 point turn. The buildings looked like what could best be described as the “Ministry of the Rue”, “NIMH” (the place where one might imagine the “Rats of NIMH” were spawned), and/or an Albert Speer “Sweeny Todd” facility.

Outside the building and in the streets the place was heavily patrolled with what seemed like “Venizualiens” but acted more like the stupid robots from “Star Wars II” or the precursor to the replicants in “Blade Runner”. It was as if our presence in the car and even mine as a pedestrian were ignored, like we were invisible. They weren’t even aware we were there is about what it looked like. The “cops” looked soul free.

It was an ominous 3 point turn. Fortunately, I was already cognizant of the existence of this place. I’d scoped it out 6 ways from Sunday. I think the 3 were overwhelmingly relieved I was aware of what was behind the façade. The mood was of the upmost seariousness, which fit the time and location, considering what was taking place, a full Shanghai, as ominous as one could imagine. All 4 of us looked at each other as if “check”.

SANTERIA

CADDY FOR THE CIA AND A CALIFORNIA DOCTOR

As I prepared to leave the house in Marianao a few of the neighborhood women showed up with a simple rubber puzzle with large pieces (2’x2’) textured on one side smooth on the other. I was minutes away from leaving. The puzzle was the simplest possible. The women appeared to struggle and couldn’t put the puzzle together. This was the last thing the Cuban women showed me, that they were deliberately “playing stupid” and pretending not to be able to solve the simplest puzzle. I appreciate them showing me at least. I went back up to the second floor. My Captain Robert and the California Doctor showed up on time. I exited the structure from the roof and if the car door had been open would have landed in the seat. Puzzle this.

THE HEMMINGWAY MARINA

When I got in the ticket check (or whatever) line at the Jose Marti International Airport two dissimilar looking men claiming to be father and son wearing new straw hats immediately got in line behind me. Where ya from? The two men responded, “Pittsburg”. P.I.T.T.S.B.U.R.G. = (possibly) “public or private investigator” “tt ” “is” “be” “you” “are” “god”. Oh yeah, in Pittsburg if one was at 3 rivers and they looked across the river and up on the hill there is a sign like the one in Hollywood. What’s the sign say? They feigned like they didn’t know. I told them it said PITTSBURG. The two men appeared more bashful than subdued, causious though