Bad Trip Silver Winner: The Ride to Las Palmas
by Margaret Ford Rogers
Matt insisted. “They’re Cuban and know the roads.”
Hmmm. This might have been true, but naïve Matt didn’t really understand what he was saying in giving the OK for Jordan and Fermin to drive. Regardless, I should have been against it. Mickie and I had two strict rules for driving in Cuba. Never drive in the country after dark and never, ever, let an unlicensed, eager Cuban drive the rental car.
We had been innocents, road virgins the first time we drove in the countryside after dark. We had no idea what it meant to be behind the wheel of a car at that time of day. Silly us! For some reason we had assumed there would be street lights, bicyclists would have reflectors, pedestrians wouldn’t be wearing all black and other cars would have head lights and tail lights. Also in our naiveté, we didn’t know about the randomly crossing chickens, cattle or pigs that might be in the road, or giant craters, ox and horse carts, and of course the broken-down-in-the-middle-of-the-dark-road-Cuban cars. It was a smorgasbord of disasters all waiting to strip away the innocence of carefree, American women behind the wheel.
Of course the road risks were the same during the day but at least then the odds were even. You had a better chance of seeing your hazards. At least most of the time. You could swerve around that crater or meandering cow, or slam on the brakes for that suddenly-in-front-of-you horse cart or flailing-wildly and jumping-into-the-road-cheese vendor. Day time was a level playing field but at night the odds were stacked against you. You were on a suicide mission after dark, and it only took that first trip to Nuevitis with Jordan and Kenya, for Mickie and me to come to the conclusion, you do not drive at night!
So, no driving at night was our number one rule. Even the Cubans understood that one. Rule number two was a constant ordeal. It was an ongoing challenge to keep a Cuban from behind the wheel of a new car. Any Cuban was a palm sweating, salivating mess when it came to the prospect of driving a shiny, factory fresh car, because it was almost impossible for a Cuban to own a new car. You not only had to have the money but you had to fall into the ‘earned the right’ category. The bottom line was that this was another of those quirky, doesn’t-make-any-sense rules that I was going to have to discuss with Fidel. How threatening can a new car be to the population We were going to have to have a serious chat about that one.
Just about everybody who had a car in Cuba drove an old one. As a journalist I had met ambassadors, bank directors, and central committee members who drove ancient autos. It was only the foreign diplomats and business execs, and a few Cubans who had worked overseas and ‘earned the right’, that got to own new cars. Of course the rental car companies were swimming in them.
For a red blooded Cuban to perchance get his hands on a car still reeking of fresh Naugahyde and clean oil was akin to a man in a desert getting a big glass of cold water. Mickie and I didn’t particularly care about the parched Cuban driver syndrome. Our rental contract was very specific as to who was covered, and it didn’t include Cubans who may or may not have a driver’s license. Up to this point we had been law abiding visitors, always obeying Cuban rules and using common sense.
The problem was this time Matt was traveling with us. He was without a doubt an incredible cinematographer but an innocent when it came to Cuba. He was a male, and a male thrown into the mix can upset the rules. This was evident when in a secret meeting with Jordan, Joel, and Fermin, Matt succumbed to male pressure, and in a rare moment of bravado, announced Jordan and Fermin would share the driving back to Nuevitis. Not only would Cubans be illegally driving the car, but they would also be driving it at night.
Perhaps it was the lingering sweat and euphoria of our day at Carnival that separated us from reality, or perhaps we were exhausted from filming in the hot sun and therefore delusional and near insanity. We were about to embark on a five-hour drive, on roads without lights and unpredictable hazards, squished in a car packed with three Cubans, three Americans, suitcases, wrapped bundles of Cuban mystery items, film equipment, plastic bags of bottled water, smelly lobsters, and bad cookies, all of which normally would have filled up a medium sized truck. The icing on the cake was that we were embarking on this journey with two Cubans who were electrified at the idea of driving a car that was not made before 1960, or held together with coat hangers and Styrofoam plugs; Cuban men who may or may not have drivers licenses, who were hopped up on Cuban coffee and adrenalin, and hyper-ventilating in anticipation.
So when Matt said Jordan was going to drive and Fermin would be his relief, even though some little voice somewhere in my saner self should have screamed, No! Mickie and I glanced at each other, shrugged our shoulders, and said, “Sure,” and hopped in.
Leaving Santiago de Cuba, the Autopista takes you west, a nice six lane highway, with few holes and little traffic. It is a modern road, smooth and reassuring. You can make good time. That is you can make good time for about 50 kilometers. That’s when the Autopista ends. It’s a great super short highway that eventually propels you into the abyss, where you are then at the mercy of whatever happens to be under your tires.
Never the less we were a merry band of travelers. Cuban jokes were flying, Matt was crooning Sinatra, Mickie and I were chatting and laughing. We were all running on post Carnival euphoria, brains sated with the colors and textures of sensory overload. Jordan was hurling us confidently through the darkness on smooth asphalt, our new car headlights pointing slightly upward, but still splashing in front of us like a light house beacon.
And then the Autopista ended.
It was a subtle transformation. It began with a small bump here and there, gradually increasing to larger bumps here and there. There was also a palpable change in interior car climate, shifting us from heady camaraderie and trust in our fellow man behind the wheel, to a more guarded posture. It didn’t take us long to be absolutely certain that Jordan couldn’t see a damn thing. The blackness enveloping us was too encompassing and pervasive for even our new, upwardly shooting Daewoo headlights to make a difference. We were hurling through a Cuban twilight zone of eerie nothingness.
“Are you sure you can see okay, Jordan “ I asked tentatively.
“No problem,” Jordan said, lying through his teeth.
“Maybe you should slow down,” Mickie said.
“It’s good,” Jordan reassured her.
“We’re used to this,” Fermin said, trying to solidify his next-to-drive position, and not caring what the hell the road was like.
“Yeah, he’s used to this.” Matt was doing the support my bro, thing.
Mickie and I looked at each other. We squinted trying to see out the windows. The road was undefined and pitch black. I noticed Jordan grip the steering wheel a little more tightly. Fermin grabbed the back of Matt’s seat, Joel checked his seat belt. Matt seemed to be the only one who was buying into the everything’s fine, line.
Then the car left the roadway.
It was too dark to know what was happening but we could feel we were no longer on terra firma. The car hurtled through the air like a misguided arrow, jerking and thudding down an incline before we came to a hard stop. That’s when our cohesive Cuban driver support group turned on Jordan like a pack of rabid dogs.
We poured out of the car, breathing hard and scared. Everyone but Jordan. He remained behind the wheel in a semi-fugue state, not yet aware he was the impending target of mob violence.
“Fuck!” I said, trying to see through the spreading headlights. “This car better not be wrecked!”
Mickie was running her hand along the side of the door. “I knew we shouldn’t have let Jordan drive.”
“I’ll say I was driving, if the cops come.” Matt was trying to save our future Cuban driving privileges.
Mickie and I circled the car like hawks. It was hard to see. I heard the car door slam as Jordan climbed out, still unsure of what had happened, but knowing we all blamed him.
I heard the voices before I could see them, and swung my head. Silhouettes floated, Jordan, Fermin, and Joel, were talking with four or five guys who appeared out of nowhere. They were a little chattering crowd of men, covering the car like flies on a sick dog. Rapid Spanish, laughter, a few sucks on the inside cheek, some slaps on the back.
Jordan was suddenly in front of us. “It’s wasn’t my fault. The road sign is missing.” Jordan stood proudly, vindicated.
“That could happen anywhere.” Matt said, sympathetically.
Are you nuts I thought. How’s that male-camaraderie going to sound when we sail off a cliff
“Maybe Jordan shouldn’t drive,” I said. The rabid dogs turned on me. I felt their eyes, their hot breath.
“Why not ” Mickie challenged.
“What do you mean ” Joel sounded confused.
“It wasn’t his fault,” Fermin said. I sensed disappointment in his voice. Was he secretly hoping Jordan had screwed up Had he envisioned himself clutching that steering wheel, commanding the Daewoo Living the dream
“Jordan’s driving,” Matt said fraternally.
“Just wondering,” I mumbled glaring at Mickie. Why wasn’t she with me on this one Jordan stood tall. The pack was behind him. He was safe.
We all piled back into the cramped Daewoo relieved our car had withstood a jolt of Cuban road trauma, happy no one was hurt. Quickly, it’s not my fault I get to keep driving Jordan, slid behind the wheel. Fermin looked downcast as he wedged between Joel and Mickie, and knapsacks and bags. The crowd of Cubans who had appeared out of nowhere was still watching us, eyeing the new car, proud and jealous that one of their own was behind the wheel. Jordan all puffed up like a strutting peacock, waved to them, grinning and showing lots of teeth, as he slowly made his way back to the road.
Maybe I was wrong. Everybody else seemed hunky-dory with the driving arrangements. So what if we were still riding on a pitch back road, and I ran us off an embankment, Jordan, was still in command. Maybe I was being pessimistic. I guess it could have been worse. Look on the bright side, Margaret. Heck, what’s a little road mishap an hour into the journey. The cops hadn’t shownup. We were all in one piece. I needed to have more faith! Yes sir, more faith!
Then the rains came.
Blinding sheets of rain. The windshield wipers were impotent against the intense flow of water pounding the glass. The pitch black road suddenly became a pitch black road flooded beneath a river of water. The accelerator never eased, Jordan never sensing he was over his head, out of his league, not wanting to pry his fingers from the wheel, admit defeat, and pass on the torch. Testosterone pumping, he was ready to kill us all!
We were hydroplaning in the dark. One skid from death or disfigurement. By this time Matt had had enough. Forget male camaraderie, the brotherhood, hanging with the bro’s. Self preservation took over and in a voice an octave above an opera diva, he shrilled from the front seat, “Stop! We are all going to die!”
It was so out of character for Matt, the man of only a few facial expressions, the man of calmness and easy going manner, to be shrilling frantically. We all panicked then, rapidly talking over each other. Who knows what we were saying The Spanish and English merged and crescendoed into one big blob of hysteria. Jordan slammed the brakes. The car skidded to a stop.
Matt threw open his door, lurched from his seat and in the pouring rain ran around the car to the driver’s side. Jordan knew there was no use arguing. He left the drivers seat defeated, rain washing over him in torrents as he lethargically circled to the passenger’s side door and opened it. From the back seat we heard Fermin say, “Want me to drive ” We ignored him.
We crept up the road with Matt in command, not too sure of anything, including our collective life expectancy. The rain pounded us for at least an hour and then just as it had suddenly begun, it suddenly stopped. It was close to midnight by now and we weren’t even a quarter of the way to Nuevitis. Exhausted, edgy, our camaraderie in shreds, we hardly heard Joel mumble “Las Palmas.” By the time it registered we could see the town’s lights and hear music.
“We’re spending the night,” Matt said emphatically. Relieved, we all exhaled in unison, comforted by the knowledge that our trip into hell was nearing an end. We were alive and ready for a hotel where we could sleep, and wait for the morning light to lead us onward. Once again our spirits lifted.
Matt maneuvered the Daewoo down tiny streets packed with Friday night revelers. Jordan said it was the Founders Day party. The town reeled with energy, excitement, and drunkards. We were soaking up the festive vibes, laughing again, feeling good. Onward to the hotel! Jordan yelled out his window to some teenage Cuban boys lounging on a doorstep, passing around a Crystal beer bottle. I heard the quick fire exchange and one of the guys pointed up the street. We were so close to bedtime bliss.
“Stop here,” Jordan said eagerly after driving a few blocks, and we pulled to the curb. Jordan and Fermin and Joel scrambled out of the car. Matt rushed after them as they disappeared into a building that looked like every other building on the block.
“That’s it!” Mickie said. “We are never driving at night again.”
“I didn’t want to leave tonight,” I said dropping the blame on her well toned shoulders with a thump.
“You didn’t say anything! You should have said something.”
“Me “ I yelled. “What about you You should have said something!”
“Oh, so this is my fault “
I didn’t get to yap something back because too many car doors opened up at once as everyone climbed back inside.
“What ” I said, feeling the problem before anyone spoke.
“No rooms until midnight. We can wait if you want.” Jordan sounded indifferent.
“I’m not staying here,” Matt started the car.
Fermin picked up on our confused look. “It’s a peso hotel.”
“Huh ‘
“You pay by the hour.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Mickie said. “Who only wants a room for an hour “ Then she caught herself. We locked eyes and giggled, our anger with each other dissipated by this new amusement.
“That’s disgusting!” she added as we pulled from the curb.
We drove around for another half hour. Periodically Jordan would hang out the window and ask someone about a place to sleep. We had gone from looking for a hotel to a casa-particulara nice clean legal room in someone’s house.
No vacancy We are aware it’s the Founders Day fiesta! What do you mean there’s nothing
We were getting irritable. Every available room in Las Palmas was taken.
“Maybe we should go back to that hotel,” I said. I didn’t care that the sheets were stained at this point.
“No way!” Mickie said.
“Stop the car!” Jordan suddenly yelled.
Matt pulled over without asking why. We were all tingling with expectancy. Jordan hopped out of the car, Fermin and Joel scrambled after him. This time Matt didn’t follow. We watched as Jordan pushed open the door of a Servi gas station and they all piled in.
A few minutes later they returned. Jordan looked tired. Joel, impassive, and Fermin concerned. My money was on Jordan.
“We can sleep on the floor of the Servi,” he said when they had returned. We had obviously sunk to an all time low.
“Great!” I said.
“Sounds good to me,” Matt said.
“I don’t think so,” Fermin said.
Matt and I swung our heads in unison, snarling, foaming at the mouth. We were ready to pull him apart, rip out his guts, stomp his head.
“Why not ” It was Mickie.
“I don’t trust them.”
“I think Fermin’s right,” It was Joel.
“We should do it,” I said. “I’m sure it’s fine.”
“I’m with Margaret,” Matt said.
I saw Mickie thinking. No Mickie, I thought…no time for rational thinking now. We need solidarity. American solidarity on this one. Think of the nice hard filthy cement floor we could be sleeping on in just a few short moments. Please! Keep your mouth shut!
“What do you really think Jordan “ she said.
“I think it’s too dangerous.”
“We’re not staying here!” Mickie said.
“Fine!” I said petulantly as I watched Matt’s shoulders droop. Back into the car we piled. A dejected lot. Sleep deprived, defeated.
“We’ll find something.” Jordan was trying to be consoling.
I wanted to poke his eyes out but I kept my mouth shut. Instead I sulked loudly, making little harrumph noises while shifting angrily in the four-inch space allotted me in the backseat.
Onward!
We came to a corner across from a plaza. Jordan signaled for Matt to pull over. It was past one o’clock in the morning and dissipation seemed pervasive in the streets. Four men rested on the wide stone steps leading to the plaza. Stained shirts, glassy eyes, rubbery faces. They were passing a plastic water jug that I knew was the container de rigor for homemade rum. They looked drunk, disheveled, and barely awake. Jordan hopped out of the car. Had it come to this Were we so desperate, that we would eagerly await the recommendations of four drunks on a corner You bet!
Moments later Jordan returned, accompanied by one of the men from the steps. The stranger leaned unsteadily into the car window to survey our pathetic group. I thought my head would explode. The combination of bad breath, stinky body and rancid alcohol sucked every bit of clean air from the car. The Cuban grinned widely in approval, exposing gray gums and cigarette-stained teeth. He slurred something in Jordan’s direction. Jordan pointed to a small windowless building across the plaza.
“This is Renaldo. He thinks someone in the bar might be able to help.”
“In the bar “ I was doubtful.
Jordan shrugged. “Maybe.”
Not waiting for a response he, Fermin, Joel, and of course maybe-I-can-get-a-free
drink Renaldo headed across the plaza in single file. Mickie, Matt, and I were not optimistic. We didn’t have a lot of confidence in a reeking drunk, heading into a sleazy bar at one o’clock in the morning. We expected the Cuban trio to return defeated but perhaps refreshed from a round of Crystals.
We were wrong. The boys were back with yet another alcohol-sated, word-slurring Cuban.
“This is Guillermo. He knows a place,” Jordan said as he opened the rear car door and folded himself into a pretzel to fit between Joel’s short legs. Our pungent host-to-be slid awkwardly into the luxurious space of the front seat. Matt frantically rearranged camera equipment so our new best friend’s big drunken feet wouldn’t damage anything.
Every time the man opened his mouth to give directions we all died a little. Every available window was quickly rolled down. The lucky ones pushed their heads through the open space to gulp fresh air. Joel and Jordan looked like Siamese twins from my vantage point. Two heads on one body as they desperately competed for the eight inch available window space. Fermin looked like he was puking he was leaning so far out the window. Mickie and I were wedged next to each other in the middle of the back seat. Miles from fresh air, gasping. Not sure how much longer we could hang on. Then the car stopped in front of a low chain link fence.
Guillermo spilled out, opened the gate and beckoned us in with a shaky finger. Matt expertly pulled the car into the driveway and out we tumbled. A few minutes later we were in the upstairs bedroom of a stranger’s house where we had sealed our deal for the night with twenty American dollars. We had one room with a double mattress and box spring, a 1930’s vanity covered in cigarette burns, and a faded pink tiled floor that looked like it hadn’t seen a broom since before the revolution. It was perfect! The only problem was that even if we took the box spring and mattress apart there was no way they would sleep all six of us.
This could become a dog eat dog situation! We all looked at each other. No one spoke, but we all knew it wouldn’t be the Americans who had to go. It was the gringos’ collective good old Uncle Sam greenbacks that had secured these plush accommodations. Therefore everyone knew the unspoken. The Americans had first dibs, squatter’s rights. We were the landed gentry in this eight-foot by eight-foot room.
Before it got ugly Jordan volunteered. “Joel and I will sleep in the car.”
Fine with me, bud. No argument here. I was glad the whole awkward mess was resolved without bloodshed. Joel and Jordan trotted off for a questionable night’s slumber, prepared to twist their bodies into God knows what kind of positions, so they could sleep in a four foot wide, Korean luxury car, with bucket seats and hard Naugahyde.
“Good night,” Mickie and I said cheerily, waving them goodbye.
Matt and Fermin began taking the bed apart. It looked old and lumpy but we didn’t care. We were exhausted. The box spring scrapped as it dragged across the tile floor. Then the paper thin mattress was positioned next to it, eating up the remaining floor space. I lay down on the box spring. Matt and Fermin threw themselves on the mattress. I saw Mickie contort, her head swung. Her eyes bore into me.
“What are you doing ” She looked horrified.
“I’m going to sleep.”
“We are not sleeping on the box spring!”
“Why “
“Are you crazy We’re taking the mattress.”
“Matt and Fermin have the mattress. What does it matter “
“Absolutely not! I have a bad back! We’re taking the mattress!’
Matt and Fermin were already standing.
Fine, you old witch! I said to myself as I moved. Matt and Fermin repositioned themselves on the box spring. They never said a word. I threw them our knapsacks to use as pillows. We took the two pillow-like objects that were on the mattress. Little squares filled with an unidentified semi-solid substance, covered in matching stained pillowcases.
Mickie winced as she watched Fermin reshaping the knapsack, pushing his face into the canvas trying to get comfortable. I could tell she was tense.
“What now ” I said.
She leaned in and whispered in my ear. “My knapsack. It’s full of dirty underwear.”
We giggled. Anger dissipated. The room was dark. We heard a few more soft thuds as Femin punched the backpack. Finally we heard snoring, and were relieved that Fermin fell asleep unaware of the contents of the knapsack only inches from his head. We all slept like babies that night. Grateful for a place to sleep in Las Palmas.
