The Cuba Experience – Prepare To Be Surprised


I’m fixated. I can’t quit thinking about Cuba. It fills my considerations during the day and my fantasies around evening time. They’re confounding considerations, as murky as the brown haze that looms over Havana. This dichotomous culture discreetly rests 90 miles from our southern boundary. Lively urban areas brimming with melody and dance. Each with the presentation of a ghetto. Exceptionally proficient and articulate individuals in western dress scarcely scraping by.


There’s just something single I’m certain of. I’m returning.




You need to sneak in.




I’m hunched inside a Cubana Air Yak 42 that slants on the runway like an injured duck. We’re trusting that a tempest will pass. Fat pellets of downpour splat against the scratched surface of the window then obscure against the obscuring sky. The visa in my front pocket says “The Bahamas” yet we as a whole know better. My neck hurts from where the airline steward pushed my head down when I entered. The regretful grin attempted to make up for the 4-foot high opening clearly intended for a yak. It’s boiling inside. The worn out inside seems as though it was dug from a lake base. We sweat peacefully before the pilot switches on the air. A thick mist quickly fills the lodge. The fume consolidates in the breaks covering the roof and thuds down on our generally sweat-splashed heads.


The tempest habitats itself over the air terminal fractionating the withdrawing light. At its level the pilot takes off. We shoot into the dark mists. The motors wail as lightning bolts gleam off of the spinning fog and detonate around us. I peer outside at one of the motors. It’s encased in rust.


An older lady is slouched close to me consumed in fingering her rosary. She

Street Lights

gazes upward and fixes her arguing eyes on mine. I dismiss and gauge my breath, trusting the pilot will move over the wrath. He won’t ever do.


We go through the following hour crisscrossing through the whirlwind. The elderly person gets my leg each time we hit an air pocket. I gaze at the dim shroud of mists twirling outside. There I evoke the vision of a small plastic yak stuck on the control center of the cockpit. Its plastic head sways fiercely as the lunatics flying this piece of poo scan the obscured skies for their country.




I hope to see the military. Tanks, jeeps, something. The main article in sight is an obsolete DC-3. It’s unloaded in certain weeds missing a wing. Close to it a low substantial structure gravely stands watch. I step out onto the downpour doused landing area. The smell of gas and oil pervades the sodden air. The scent follows me into the structure where a person in a treated uniform frowns at my identification, then me. He stamps my entrance visa and shoos me away. I select my pack and stroll between two cafeteria tables. In front of me an authority visits with a person in a guyabera shirt. He looks at my travel bag and waves me through without ending his discussion. Furthermore, that is all there is to it.


My aide welcomes me to his home my most memorable hour there. His mom benevolently offers me some espresso yet finds she has no matches to light the oven. She’s really disheartened. What I realize later is that she remembered to purchase matches. She was unable to purchase matches. I’m hazy whether she didn’t have the cash or that they basically weren’t accessible. It’s a quiet point. No matches, no espresso, no hot food. Not that day.


One more tropical storm has recently blown through the island. This one hit the eastern end, the tobacco-developing locale. It was the third tempest in as numerous months and the yield has been obliterated. Cuba’s principal income source lies destroyed in the field. I expect everybody knows they’re in for more than their standard portion of difficulty this year. However you don’t hear a lot of about it. Individuals rise up out of the hurricane and forge ahead similarly as they have throughout the previous 500 years.


It’s Saturday evening in Old Havana. Rest time. I’m stayed in my room looking for salsa music on the radio. This ought to be simple yet Fidel is on. I curve the handle. His voice blurs then returns. In the long run I hit on some music. Yet, his discourse stays behind the scenes. I like it. I don’t comprehend a word he’s truism yet his voice sounds charming. I understand I might be the only one in the city tuning in. Furthermore, that is simply because he’s seeping into my station. Whenever I get some information about Fidel, their eyes roll up towards the roof. Hanna Montana is much more well known here. However, I comprehend Lil’ Wayne is making up for lost time quick.


Our aide calls and proposes we beat the intensity at one of the European lodging’s pool. It’s $8USD to get in. That is significant cash here. In any case, they give it back to you in food credit. I heavy hitter it in my chaise relax with a grower punch and a BLT. A gathering of English children play chicken in the shallow end. A warm breeze gets and washes through the palm fronds that enclose the porch. Something streaks by the edge of my eye followed by a dull crash. An enormous green coconut turns on the substantial two feet left of my sanctuary. Looking up, I see a pack seriously hanging in the treetop grouped like bowling balls. No other individual has seen a thing. I haul my seat far removed and finish my feast.




I’m crouched in a bar off one of the Plazas. I’m the main supporter. You can see it was initially the porch of a fine frontier house. Purple blossoms and what resemble limes however I realize aren’t lie weaved in that frame of mind over my head. To one side, seven men sit in a circle playing probably the most gorgeous music I’ve heard. The barkeep turns upward from his paper and raises his head. I gesture and he presents to me another lager. Across the square, the hints of the ‘El Discoteca’ resonate off the old church wall. Shadows bobble among the throbbing blue lights that pop on and off to the mood of the bass.


Our artists quit playing. The circle structures into two lines. The pioneer takes a gander at me and presents the band. They send off into an all out organization that muffles the beat from the other club. What I’d been paying attention to was just a practice. Presently it’s the ideal opportunity for the show.




There’s a board in Havana that peruses, “2,000,000 youngsters will rest in the roads this evening. Not one of them will be in Cuba.” What it doesn’t say is that with the exception of a spot to rest the children don’t here have anything. That likewise goes for every other person.


The island’s an agrarian desert garden. When you leave the blockage of Havana, endless supply of ripe farmland loosens up to the skyline. Yet, the economy’s frantic for cash. So the bountiful assortment of produce is completely sent out. That leaves rice and plantains and perhaps a couple of beans for the Cubans.


A companion from the States has organized a prologue to a notable Cuban essayist. I show up at his location. The squat, rectangular structure seems to be the remaining parts of an air-strike cover after a weighty siege. We welcome one another and do a concise visit through the condo. He’s particularly pleased with the windows “that are in each room”! He educates me concerning when he and his significant other got hitched.


“It was soon after the Soviet Union vanished and we didn’t have anything. There was no food or alcohol for any visitors. So it was only both of us. Be that as it may, we dealt with a toast. My significant other had saved a little sugar that we put in two glasses of water.” Which carries me to the ban.




It’s presence resists any sensible clarification. Actually, I believe its resentment. However long the US betrays the Cuban public, they’re left with the Castro siblings. Those two have been in a petty rivalry with Uncle Sam throughout the previous 50 years. Also, think about who it’s been coming down on? Not Fidel. He wears custom-made suits and cruises all over in a Mercedes. Three of them to be precise. In the mean time the type of being Cuban cuts into the attractive highlights of every other person like streams.


My aide asks me, “For what reason does America do this? I love America.” I attempt to consider a sensible response. At the point when that bombs I shrug my shoulders and say, “We’re a major country. We commit a ton of errors. It’s basically your move”.


I’ve heard the contention that in the event that we lift the ban it won’t have any effect. All things considered, the Government doesn’t have money to purchase anything. Maybe. I think once American vacationers rediscover the excellence of the island and its kin, they’ll come. (Try not to think this is lost on different islands. They implore each night that we’ll keep the ban set up. Cuba used to be the #1 Caribbean traveler objective.)


Assuming the vacationers attack, that extraordinary uniqueness that is Cuba might be lost. I’d prefer not to see one more culture contaminated for the travel industry. Be that as it may, I’d pour the primary bucketful of cement on one of their unblemished sea shores on the off chance that I thought it’d help.




Joaquin is my aide. Tall, attractive and transparently gay, he’s simply turned thirty. He’s been imprisoned multiple times. The first was for standing up against the Government’s approach towards gay people. Upon discharge, he took a truck tire, eliminated the cylinder and hit the ocean side. He was 18 miles out when they got him. That got him #2. The last time was for doing what he does now, directing travelers without a permit. The police struck his home, seized his PC and removed him.


“How long did they confine you?” I inquire.


“Not long,” he replies. “Just a half year.”


I’m wary. “What about different times?” Part of me would rather not have the foggiest idea about the response.


“Two years the initial time and year and a half the second. My beau’s in jail now. It’s difficult to say how long they’ll keep him.”


This is matter-of-truth. Like the police makes sure that can happen anyplace. It’s all essential for being a Cuban. Joaquin served in the Army and prepared in Russia. He battled momentarily in Angola. What’s more, we think our Vietnam Vets got a terrible arrangement. Still bewildered, I leave him at an espresso stand and flag down a taxi. “For what reason do the police stop its residents?” I ask the taxi driver as we skim down the Malecon.


“Since they’re the police!” he counters.


He attempts to cheat me when we arrive at my condo. I think he assumes if I can ask something that moronic I may simply be a complete nitwit.


Judith is 19. She has a slight form and a brilliant face delegated with a weave of

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