CUBA LIBRE – But Only Just….
Cubana Airline’s 50 kilogram baggage limit seemed a mere curiosity until we reached the check-in counter. More to the point, until we reached within an football field length of it. In contrast to the dawn languor of the rest of Mexico City’s departure lounge, our hall was crammed with mountainous stacks of bags, boxes and parcels, all wrapped mummy-like in layers of plastic film. Oversized flat-screen TV boxes leaned against industrial sized air conditioning units, and truck tyres perched precariously on cocoon shaped packages like eagle nests atop of granite boulders. Doubt gnawed at my stomach like a bag full of rats as we jostled for position, wondering seriously whether any team could possibly process so much cargo before the flight should close.
Thus, it was with more than a little relief that we squeezed into the cramped cloth seats of the Russian built jet bound for Havana. The Cubans, as I later learned, are not a group to exaggerate their approach to health and safety, so I was left mercifully alone to flout the usual ban on mobile devices as we taxied down to the runway and took shuddering to the sky. We were also spared the monotonous routine of seldom-watched emergency landing instructions. Clearly, both staff and passengers knew what happens when a 300 tonne airliner hits the deck, and that it takes more than a plastic mask or whistle to save your butt if that should ever occur.
I have heard of flat bed seating in classier regions of the jet, but still I was surprised when, moments after take off, the guy in front pushed his little button and launched his headrest towards me like a gigantic mouse trap, stopping millimetres above my lap. Likewise, I was taken aback to notice that our friendly check-in clerk was also the one steering the coffee cart when the time came for refreshments. We speculated whether he may well be the pilot too, having popped the jet into automatic while he did his rounds.
Despite the distressing fact that the full plane was obviously loaded with far more than the normal quota of luggage, we hit the Havana tarmac with only a mild thump, a fact which was celebrated with a hearty round of applause from all on board.
The immigration guy seemed more intent on offering a warm welcome than ensuring that his rubber stamp actually left some kind of impression on my passport, and was surprised that I should insist that he replace his ink to ensure no dramas when checking back out of this emerald island. By the time my bag tumbled belatedly onto the choked conveyor, a veritable caravan had amassed before the something to declare channel, some people controlling three trolleys full of goods at a time. We frisked our way to the green gate, eyeing off a gaggle of taxi drivers who were shouting for our attention a stone’s throw away behind the glass sliding doors.
Whoever designed the uniforms for the female customs officials clearly had a flair for Salsa. Although the tight blouse and short, body-hugging skirts were standard, it seemed that the women were allowed their own discretion when it came to shoes and stockings. The guardian of our escape route had chosen stilettos and fishnets for her day at work which must have indicated that she meant business. One look at the felt pen marking scrawled on my luggage tag and she pointed to the end of the caravan, presumably ordering me to line join that red channel queue with a machine gun round of Cuban Espanol. By this time, Aniko had passed through to the other side and stood staring in disbelief as I was ushered back into the sprawling warehouse by two subordinate men.
My first impulse was to use my relatively lithe disposition and tourist status to cut the queue. I figured I could allow them to inspect my bag to ascertain that I was in fact an innocent victim of some x-ray misunderstanding, thereby escaping a fate that would take hours at best to resolve. After all, I only had one suitcase and a guitar – surely they could see I was not part of the smuggler brigade. However, no such opportunity was there to be had. Every entrance to the inspection area was clogged beyond hope, and the processing was taking place at glacial speed. After half an hour trapped behind tonnes of clothing and electronics without seeing a single person make it through to the outside, I embarked on my first attempt to change my plight. The commandant of operations was woman in her forties with formidable boots and a Coco Channel stance to whom I pleaded my case in the best Spanish I could muster. I appealed to her sense of decency given my status as a humble visitor, and the fact that my companion was waiting outside with no clue of what was going on. For all she knew, I was already on my way back to Mexico, and we were by now both tired and dehydrated. I think it would be fair to say that the boss lady did not give a shit about my woes, simply pointing again to the scrawl on my bag and shouting the words “special equipment,” before racing off to attend to other duties.
I searched the room for an alternative escape, advocated my freedom with various other workers, and racked my mind for another way to ease the pain. I noticed that only one of the Cuban importers had made it through the arcane registration system, while the hulking queue had increased depressingly in length. Finally, I spotted a little-used X-ray machine lounging at the back of the hall and resolved to use it to prove my innocence. I found the boss lady again and dogged her with such persistence that she relented and agreed to the test.
The result was damning – one microphone, a suspicious box, and thirty compact discs. How could a bona fide tourist possibly be lugging such unusual gear? I explained as best I could that I am a musician and a song writer. I need the mic to record my ideas as soon as they come up, and the CDs – well they are presents for my friends and hosts. Surely a country which boasts the highest concentration of musicians in the world can’t begrudge that?
Seems that they do.
In any case, I did manage to oil the wheels of bureaucracy, and I before long, I was shown to a cluster of chairs by a desk nearby, staffed by yet another Salsa-attired official. I pushed the protruding corner of my yet undiscovered laptop back into the pocket my guitar case and lay my suitcase on the ground before the desk. My imminent incarceration was interesting enough to attract the attention of several idle officers, so by the time I had begun rummaging through my suitcase to find the offending items, a chorus of exceptionally pretty young immigrasis had arrived to watch the fun. As I crouched by my bag, they perched themselves on chairs surrounding me, such that their stockinged legs were exactly within my line of sight. I felt my cheeks redden as I tried to keep my eyes on the scrambled contents of my hastily packed belongings. Eventually I located enough of the strange gadgets to satisfy her bureaucratic zeal and tried to explain just how innocuous and inexpensive they really were. The situation seemed hopeless until suddenly she realised that being a musician was the key to my problems.
“You sing?” she asked with a faint blink, eyeing off the phallic shaped microphone in my hand.
“Claro que si!” I responded, and we both paused in a moment of pregnant silence.
Cuba I thought. If there has ever been a time to do it then this is it. I heaved a deep breath.
“Besarme,” I crooned to her in the best baritone I could muster, ensuring good contact with her deep brown eyes.
Kiss me.
“Besarme mucho.”
Kiss me a lot.
Five pairs of mascara eyes stared open as the hall echoed with the rabble of post-flight din.
“…..Como se fuera esta noche la ultima ves,” she responded in a voice so sweet that it brought tears to my eyes.
Like tonight may be the very last time.
The watching women broke into peals of girlish mirth, and I knew that my problem had been resolved.
Aniko, beside herself with concern, was bemused to see my smirk as I finally emerged through the entrance to that magical land of Cuba, and we resolved to find something refreshing to drink. How pleased we were to see that the cafeteria fridge was stocked with only two products – cans of beer and bottles of the same. With a toast and a clink, we readied ourselves for exciting times ahead.
Long live Cuba!
