Cuba: It's Illegal Just to Be There, or, Talk About Temptation, Part I
Too Late to Worry Now, or, Strapped to a Yak-42
by Sub-commandante X
What can I say? Cuba’s got it’s own problems. Word is they confiscate packages from folks who bring more than some official deems is normal.
Trying to nip the Black Market in the bud, or to earn a little on the side, who knows? What’s the difference?
Huge packages destined for family members in Cuba might not be allowed in. That was the word from passengers as they were deplaning from Havana. And it made my fellow travelers very upset.
Entering Cuba-time serious now. People tell me I’ll have no problem. “You’re a first Class tourist, you’ll just be waved in,” they say.
But I am concerned. One of my bags is loaded with books and clothing I intend to give as gifts. What if the uniformed guards decide that what I have is destined for the Black Market?
It’s too late to worry now. “Trust the universe,” I’ve heard. Fine, still I wonder about it anyway.
The officials at the final checkpoint looked bored. They don’t even have a feel for what might be called ‘good customer service.’ But if addressed as a person, they usually responded as such.
They let me on thru without a peep. I was almost disappointed. Well, I’m in Havana now. Where’s my lift to the hotel? There’s supposed to be a ride and a drink waittng. All I gotta do now is find it.
Both Henry and Wilfredo showed up at the Havana airport to say goodbye. We exchanged addresses and promised to write. They each gave me their father’s and mother’s names and birthdays. Henry also gave me his 4-year-old daughter’s birthday.
They were really a joy and comfort to me at the airport. It feels real good to have friends (& maybe kin) in Cuba. And now, decompression thru Nassau.
Oh my god, strapped to a Yak-42 with a motor mouth talker next to me. She’s a tour guide returning her charges to the Bahamas.
Rapping so contentedly, incessantly, about the meals, hotels, and the prices of every lunch and dinner they had encountered on their journey.
The New York couple in the row behind me thought this was quality time, Vacation kibitzing.
I wished I was someplace else. “Fucking fascinating,” I thought, “and, we ain’t even left the runway yet.”
A seasoned traveler told me there would be “no sweat” with American customs. Just look ‘em in the eye and tell them,
“No, nothing to declare.”
I told him I was carrying a box of Cuban cigars. “Oh,” he said, “if they find them, they’ll keep ‘em.”
“Thanks for the encouragement,” I thought to myself. To get out of Cuba costs $20. Now, I may not have enough to pay the exit fee to get out of the Bahamas.
Hope they take Visa in the Bahamas. I found an ATM in front of the Royal Bank of Montreal.
The machine spit out a $20 Bahamian bill. The exit fee from Nassau was $15. The agent gave me $5 U.S. in change. Yes!!
A young fellow with hair in long braids helped me immensely. He not only told me I was in the wrong terminal, but he said, “follow me.”
Leading the way, he carried my heaviest bag to the Continental ticket counter in the next terminal for me. And this sweet soul split before I could give him a tip.
“Thanks, man,” was all I could shout as he sped away.
U.S. Customs came on tough as nails. On the Customs form, I marked that I had only visited the Bahamas. But, the agent looked at me straight in the eye and asked me, “How long were you in Cuba?”
Big Brother knows alles! “Oh well, here it comes,” I thought. “One week,” I answered sheepishly.
The next agent read me the riot act. I saw my whole life pass in front of my eyes. What I had just done was “illegal and punishable by a $50,000 fine. On appeal, 1st time offenders who were not involved in commercial enterprises might get it reduced to $5,000.”
“If you were a writer...” he said. “I am a writer,” I replied, “I’m published on the net, and in a local poetry journal in West Palm Beach.”
The agent shook his head and said,
“No, a real writer, you know, one who writes for ABC or Time.”
“I’m working on it,” I said.
The customs agent suggested “next time apply to the proper authorities in Miami, they might give you permission.”
“Yeah, sure, Miami. Why didn’t I think of that?” I wondered.
Well, I saw the curtain go up on the:
“Sub-commandante X’s ‘Fair Play for Cuba’ follies and jug band.”
But, no such luck. The agent pulled himself up very straight and tall and said,
“This time I’ll be a nice guy, and not fill out the forms to burn your ass.”
You mean, you’ll let me go? And not search my things? You mean,
“I’m home free!!??”
I acted so fucking humble, and thankful I almost got sick. But hey, I do have the cigars, and I’m relatively FREE! (Make me an offer.)
Any cigar money is going to Henry’s VCR fund for his 29th birthday. Henry’s a proud son of the Revolution. He loves his life as a student.
And he loves his President. And, y’know, that’s more than I can say.
Sub-X is a survivor of the radical '60s. These days he's attempting to get beyond the 'Them' and 'Us' duality of Conflict Consciousness. Trying to eliminate conflict from one's reality is a lot like dealing with alcohol. It's an on-going process. Currently, Sub-X seeks solutions and asks, "Why not more beauty, love, and joy?" We know we can do so much better. OK, so why not?