First-Timers in Cuba

Wow! I've been married for three years. Me. Lecia-Gaye Taylor. No longer Gordon. Not long ago it was a struggle to recall my new name. Three years later, it's the other way around.

"Enjoy your stay in Cuba Mr Taylor and Miss Gordon!" The travel agent beamed at us.

“Huh?” Oh yeah, my passport still says Gordon. I still haven’t gotten around to changing that.

I didn't even bother to correct her. I was too busy relishing the idea that she may actually think I was sneaking off to Cuba with my man (not my husband because that’s totally boring).

I don't think she was fooled even for a minute though. We looked nothing like young lovers who were sneaking off to a getaway. We were both broken down and badly in need of rest. I was exhausted, having put in insane hours over the past few days in order to try to wrap things up at work. In fact, even as we bustled through the airport, we were still on our phones… working.

As we sat at the airport charging our phones, Garfield caught sight of the airplane in which we would be flying to Cuba.

“Why isn't the left propeller spinning?” He asked, as we watched the plane cruise to a landing.

“Dunno. Maybe it only needs one when landing?”  My reply was more of a question than an answer.

"Don't even think about it. We'll be fine. Look at the bright side; at least we’ll die together." I was never good at offering reassurance.

On our way to Cuba

Before our trip to Cuba, I’d never heard of our airline: Aerograviota.  The air hostess spoke Spanglish and we struggled to understand her. Thankfully, we didn’t need to speak Spanish in order to accept the strange brand of candy that was offered to us soon after lift off.

Having written advertising copy in a past life for the now defunct Air Jamaica, I thought that we’d be in Havana in less than an hour. Cuba is just right there, right?

Well, technically, it is. Our small plane took about ninety minutes to get to Santiago de Cuba. But we thought our stop in Santiago would be like a stopover in Montego Bay on your way to Kingston, where you don’t usually get off the plane.

We were wrong. We were all required to disembark in Santiago where the plane took about thirty to forty-five minutes to refuel and be on its way again.

Santiago de Cuba

As we cruised to a slightly bumpy landing, a brightly painted building announced that we were in Santiago de Cuba. Those of us who were heading to Havana were given laminated cards with the words "In Transit" boldly printed in red, and we were ushered through a small customs area before taking our seats to wait.

Then there was a low whistle of appreciation, which I later realized was coming from my hubby, directed at the lone customs officer on duty. I looked up and a sexy Spanish customs officer in a micro mini (it's what my mother would call a ski... because it was too short to be called a skirt) caught my attention. I guessed her age to be about 25 and even I couldn't keep my eyes off her sexy long legs hugged by fish net stockings.

“Get out! You can't be serious. That's not her uniform?!”  I gulped.

He was nodding in the affirmative. “Yes, it is.”

I was still amazed as I watched his (and all the other men) eyes bulging in approval as she bent over to scan a passenger with her hand-held scanner.

As we boarded the plane to Havana, I was still trying to rationalize the length of her skirt and the fish net stockings. Meanwhile, Garfield was all smiles, clearly he didn't give a damn what was the explanation for her uniform.

And then I recalled a former colleague laughing at me hysterically after reading the first draft of my advertising copy encouraging couples to getaway to Cuba.

“Lecia, my dear,” he said, trying to keep a straight face, “No man takes his wife to Cuba,” and with that he was practically rolling on the ground.

Now it all seemed to make sense.

"We will arrive in Havana in one hour and fifty minutes," the air hostess announced in what sounded a lot like Spanish.

“Did she say 50 or 15 minutes?” I asked. Neither of us could decipher her Spanglish.

Oh well, time will tell, I thought.

We landed in Havana in one hour and fifty minutes, disembarked and boarded a shuttle which took us to our terminal.

And then there we were, surrounded by scores of Latino women in super micro miniskirts and fish net stockings. They were customs officers, immigration officers, attendants, and they were everywhere!

"WTF! It's actually their uniform. How can miniskirts and fish net stockings be their uniform? How can it be everyone’s uniform?!” I was utterly amazed.

"Yoooooow!" That was my husband’s howl of appreciation. His eyes were darting from one micro mini to the next, too busy to even answer me.

“Wow! Just wow!” I was speechless.

Havana airport was pretty relaxed and the immigration process went smoothly. We presented our passports and visas (tourist cards) and in no time we were out and ready to get a cab.

Now is a good time to mention that you can opt not to have your passport stamped. I wasn’t aware of this since Garfield and I went to separate immigration officers, so I now walk around with proof (to Uncle Sam and the world) that I have been to Cuba (as if this post wouldn’t do it).

Out in the arrival lounge we were greeted enthusiastically by a few taxi drivers. The one problem is they were all speaking Spanish. We headed over to the tour desk and a Spanglish speaking lady enthusiastically helped us to secure a taxi. After much confusion and deciphering of her Spanglish, we agreed on taxi fare of about USD$80 or GBP$50 pounds from the airport to our hotel.

In that moment, I wished we hadn't partly ignored my girlfriend’s warning. She had advised us to take Euro, Pounds or Canadian dollars as Cuba penalizes the United States dollar. Not having converted all our United States dollars prior to arriving in Cuba, we discovered that the exchange rate was One United States dollar to 80 CUC cents (Convertible Pesos, distinct from the Pesos Cubanos used by Cubans).

Having settled on what we considered reasonable taxi fare, we hustled our way out of the airport. It was raining. The first sign that we hadn't taken an official tourist taxi was the fact that we had to haul our luggage in the rain all the way to the visitor’s parking lot, passing all the yellow cabs parked right outside the terminal. To make it worst, there was no offer of assistance from our cab driver. But who wants to ruin a great vacation by complaining about our taxi.

Our driver turned his key in the ignition. Nothing. I glanced at Garfield.

He tried once again and it sputtered to a start. We are not off to a good start, I thought. But what the heck! We are in Cuba and I am Happy!

To my utter annoyance, the driver was constantly on his phone. A few chains down the road, he switched on the hazard lights and slowed to a stop. By now, the rain was pouring. In fact, it was like a mini thunderstorm.

Uh oh.

“Omg, I think the van has shut off! Remember it could barely start?” I was more amused than shocked.

We sat there, blinkers on in the pouring rain as we waited patiently for our driver to make a move.  After a few minutes, he turned the van around.

"Wait, Bucka, we're heading back to the airport?" I have a bad habit of asking questions that are really statements.

“Well there is no use in asking,” he replied "It's not like he understands us, so let's just wait and see.”

A few minutes later, our driver pulled up at a bus stop and in hopped two passengers into the front seat beside him.

Wtf?

He spun the van around with ease and everything seemed fine as we went on our way again. Meanwhile, not a word in English or Spanish from our driver.

By now, it was starting to get dark. Suddenly, our driver made a sharp right turn onto a narrow off-road. We came to a complete stop and the driver and his two passengers seemed to be arguing about what was the best route or perhaps they were deciding where to hide our bodies. Either one we couldn't tell.

Now, if I were traveling alone, this would be the part where I would start screaming for bloody murder and bolt from the van in the pouring rain, but, I was with Garfield and so I was unusually calm.

After about a minute (may have really been about twenty seconds), an obviously annoyed Garfield demanded, "Chief a wah you up to?"

I'm sure he didn't understand a word Garfield said, but body language and tone are easy to understand in any language, and I think it was pretty clear that Garfield wasn't trying to engage him in friendly chatter. He immediately started the engine and we were on our were way again.

We headed into a heavily populated square (I would later discover this was old Havana), and once again we came to a stop. This time our driver ran out and popped open our door for two women, one of whom he greeted with a kiss before they climbed in.

This time I couldn’t contain myself. I was laughing hysterically. Garfield was not amused.

“Wait, is what you really up to? You know where we going?” He demanded.

Realizing that Garfield was clearly upset, the driver answered anxiously,“Varadero, three hours.”

Never mind that this was about thirty minutes later, and we were told that the ride would be three hours from the airport.

"You know say mi think is like we charter a taxi from Norman Manley Airport to Ochi and the driver carry we to St. Thomas go pick up him brethren them and just a go back now,” reasoned Garfield.

“Yep, I think he just took us on a round trip to pick up all his family,” I agreed.

But under the circumstances, what could we do but laugh and keep our butts quiet. I leaned in for a kiss and rested on his shoulder.

“You know this is a ruse though and this man can really speak English? How you must drive taxi at airport and don't know one word of English?” Garfield asked.

“You may have a point” I was still laughing.

“You know what, just wait man, I going to pay him forty pounds when we reach the hotel (remember we had agreed on fifty) and I bet you him learn English fast, fast.”

I was laughing so hard, I'm sure they must have thought I was crazy.

Actually, I was deliriously happy to be in Cuba. I was on my way to the fabulous all-inclusive Breezes Varadero hotel for an entire week. Nothing. Not even this taxi from hell could steal my joy.

Stay tuned… our adventure continues.