Cuban transportation is famously old-fashioned
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By
Michelle
Kehm
It's
5:45
a.m.
Cuba-time,
which
means
it's
the
dead
of
night,
my
time.
I'm
standing
in
the
Havana
national
airport,
backpack
in
tow,
trying
to
figure
out
why
my
plane
to
La
Isla
de
la
Juventud,
a
Cuban
island
60
miles
south
of
the
mainland,
has
left
15
minutes
early,
and
without
me.
The
man
behind
the
Cubana
Air
counter
is
trying
to
explain,
but
he's
talking
in
Spanish;
and
although
I
took
Spanish
all
through
college,
he's
talking
ten
times
too
fast
and
with
a
Cuban
accent,
which
I've
heard
is
difficult
even
for
Spanish
folks
to
understand.
From
what
I
can
figure,
he's
explaining
how
he
can't
physically
grab
the
airplane
out
of
the
air
with
his
fist
and
bring
it
back
to
the
airport
so
that
I
can
get
on.
He's
laughing
at
his
analogy,
but
I'm
not-I'm
supposed
to
go
scuba
diving
that
afternoon!
I
need
to
get
to
La
Isla,
Cuba's
scuba
diving
paradise!
Bienvenidos
a
Cuba,
chicos.
Land
of
colorful
cabarets,
chilled
daiquiris,
chromed
old
cars;
and
the
rumba,
mambo,
salsa
and
chachacha.
The
capitol,
Havana,
is
a
world-class
cultural
center
with
more
museums,
galleries
and
churches
than
you
can
shake
a
cigar
at;
then
there's
Fidel,
arguably
the
most
misrepresented
and
misunderstood
politician
who
ever
dared
stand
up
to
imperialism.
But
I
have
to
admit,
the
reason
I
went
to
Cuba
was
not
for
the
nightlife,
the
history
or
the
Hemingway
tours,
it
was
for
the
world-class
scuba
diving.
But
my
first
day
in
Cuba
wasn't
spent
diving
the
Caribbean
blue,
but
sleeping
outside
the
airport
under
a
palm
tree,
waiting
to
see
if
I
could
squeeze
on
the
afternoon
plane
to
La
Isla.
And
while
I
did
manage
to
get
a
seat,
I
almost
gave
it
up
when
I
saw
the
plane.
A
Russian-built
Cubana
Air
AN-24,
with
a
few
extra
parts
stolen
from
a
motorcycle
here,
a
tractor
there.
The
plane
was
beefy
but
sketchy;
and
the
stories
I
had
heard
about
Cubana
Air
weren't
helping
my
confidence
any-like
how
they
use
dry
ice
under
the
floorboards
as
air
conditioning,
which
hopefully
explained
why
the
floor
smoked
while
we
were
taking
off.
At
about
6:00
that
evening,
I
finally
arrived
at
Hotel
Colony,
a
hotel
frequented
mostly
by
divers
on
the
Isla
de
La
Juventud.
Since
I
had
missed
the
afternoon
dive,
I
had
a
chance
to
chat
with
Tonya,
the
hotel's
publicity
representative.
She
explained
that
I
would
be
diving
along
'Punta
Frances',
where
there
were
56
diving
sites
featuring
everything
from
underwater
tunnels
and
valleys
to
shipwrecks
(the
island
is
reputed
to
have
been
the
inspiration
for
"Treasure
Island"
because
ships
would
always
wreck
in
the
shallow
reefs.)
Tonya
asked
for
my
'diving
license',
my
certification
card,
and
I
told
her
that
I
hadn't
been
diving
in
over
6
years
and
was
a
little
nervous
about
plunging
in.
She
said
she
would
assign
me
to
a
team
of
other
divers
who
had
just
arrived,
and
our
Dive
Master
would
monitor
us
the
first
day
and
then
proceed
based
on
our
ability
level
as
a
group.
Sounded
safe
enough,
but
I
was
still
nervous.
At
8:00
the
next
morning,
I
was
on
a
28-foot
cabin
cruiser
with
five
other
divers,
headed
into
glassy,
turquoise
Cuban
waters.
My
dive
team
consisted
of
an
older
Dutch
couple
(who
dived
with
a
rope
tied
around
their
wrists,
how
cute!),
and
a
young
threesome
from
Venezuela.
They
were
all
avid
divers
with
the
trick
equipment,
electronic
gauges,
cushy
boots
and
peripheral
vision
masks;
while
I
just
had
my
Cuban
rental
hand-me-downs.
My
assigned
Dive
Master
was
a
handsome
Cuban
fellow
named
Henri
(pronounced
on-ree')
and
oh-how
ornery
he
was!
He
spoke
almost
no
English,
and
while
I
tried
to
explain
in
Spanish
how
I
hadn't
been
diving
in
6
years
and
was
a
little
rusty
on
the
equipment
how-to,
I
didn't
know
how
much
of
my
broken
Spanish
he
actually
understood.
Let's
just
say
I
was
a
little
weary
of
the
situation.
Our
boat
stopped
over
our
first
dive
site,
a
lush,
shallow
reef.
Everybody
started
scrambling
to
get
equipment
together;
but
I
couldn't
remember
how
to
set
up,
so
I
just
squeezed
into
my
wet
suit
and
tried
to
stay
out
of
the
way.
Ornery
Henri
saw
me
standing
there
and
came
over
to
help.
He
attached
my
respirator,
octopus
and
analog
gauge
onto
a
full
tank
and
turned
the
air
on.
He
checked
my
pressure
gauge
and
it
showed
a
healthy
3000
psi
(pounds
per
square
inch)
in
the
tank.
He
then
attached
the
tank
with
all
the
hoses
onto
my
buoyancy
compensator
vest
(BC),
and
I
was
good
to
go.
Right.
Now
what
do
I
do?
I
grabbed
a
weight
belt
with
what
felt
like
30
pounds
of
weights
and
strapped
it
around
my
waist.
Henri
helped
me
into
my
BC,
and
oh!
I
had
forgotten
how
heavy
all
the
equipment
was!
There
I
was,
a
ton
of
lead
around
my
waist,
about
50
more
pounds
on
my
back,
hoses
dangling
off
my
vest,
and
I
still
had
to
bend
down,
pick
up
my
fins,
somehow
slip
them
on
and
walk
to
the
edge
of
the
slippery
boat
without
falling
and
taking
someone
out
on
this
overcrowded
boat?
Yikes.
I
carefully
hobbled
to
the
boat's
edge
and
looked
down.
I
could
see
the
reef,
20
feet
down
in
the
translucent
water.
I
was
nervous.
I
didn't
feel
confident
in
what
I
was
supposed
to
do
once
I
got
wet,
but
the
weight
and
awkwardness
of
my
gear
overshadowed
my
fears
and
doubts.
I
jumped.
Feet
first.
Ah,
the
warm
water,
I'm
floating...what!
What's
that
noise?
I
heard
air
gushing
out
of
my
tank!
Bubbles
were
hissing
everywhere
and
I
was
trying
to
grab
my
gauges
and
hoses;
but
with
all
that
equipment,
I
was
as
agile
as
a
turtle
on
its
back.
I
figured
out
it
was
my
octopus
spitting
air,
which
is
not
good
because
you
want
that
air,
but
I
couldn't
grab
my
octo,
it
was
in
my
vest
pocket
too
deep
to
get
a
good
grip
on
it.
As
I
was
flailing
and
fumbling
around,
the
whole
ship
watched
as
Henri
jumped
in,
grabbed
me
by
the
BC,
turned
me
around,
grabbed
my
octo
and
spanked
it
until
it
shut
up.
Situation
under
control,
Henri
held
his
BC
hose
above
his
head,
signaling
that
we
were
all
to
start
deflating
our
BCs
and
descending.
Here
goes,
I
thought,
as
I
felt
myself
go
under.
I
went
down
slowly,
and
at
first
I
was
having
a
little
anxiety
about
the
entire
breathe-through-a-hose-in-your-mouth-while-you're-20
feet-under
thing.
But
then
I
relaxed,
my
breathing
slowed
down,
I
kept
deflating
and
pressurizing
to
relieve
the
pain
in
my
ears;
and
before
I
knew
it,
coral,
fish
and
translucent
azure
seawater
surrounded
me.
Wow.
I
had
forgotten
how
awesome
diving
was.
I
played
with
my
BC
and
found
the
pleasure
of
pure
weightlessness,
like
I
was
floating
in
space.
I
skimmed
above
reefs
riddled
with
soft
coral
plumes,
purple
sea
fans,
yellow
tube
sponges,
red
vase
sponges,
and
other
marine
invertebrate
that
I'd
never
seen
before.
Schools
of
snappers,
spadefish
and
fairy
basslets
did
a
feeding
dance
to
my
left,
lobsters
peeked
out
of
crevices
on
my
right.
I
kept
one
eye
on
the
lush
Caribbean
garden
I
was
passing
through,
and
one
eye
on
Henri,
who
would
flash
the
big
'OK'
hand
signal
every
10
minutes
or
so,
and
if
all
was
well,
oxygen
levels,
nerves
and
ears,
we
would
flash
the
'OK'
signal
back.
We
were
down
for
about
30
minutes
that
first
dive,
and
all
went
well.
We
then
went
ashore
for
lunch,
which
was
a
good
thing
because
all
those
lobsters
were
making
me
hungry!
We
did
two
dives
a
day
over
the
course
of
three
days,
and
I
have
to
say,
it
was
all
absolutely
amazing.
I
wandered
along
crevices
and
over
vibrant
reefs.
I
saw
a
stingray,
a
small
school
of
barracudas,
and
my
favorite,
jellyfish
with
mysterious
opalescent
life
lights.
I
swam
with
schools
and
schools
of
tropical
fish,
admired
starfish,
and
was
awed
by
the
many
colors
and
types
of
sea
sponges.
One
of
the
guys
even
took
out
his
respirator
and
blew
huge
oxygen
rings
to
the
surface!
I
didn't
know
you
could
do
that!
At
the
end
of
every
hot,
wet,
salty
day,
my
diving
posse
and
I
would
boat
it
back
to
Hotel
Colony,
desalinize,
and
then
walk
out
on
the
long,
private
dock
to
the
little
cabana
bar
that
sat
so
perfectly
at
the
tip,
overlooking
the
sea.
There,
we
would
sip
icy
mojitos
,
watch
the
sun
sink
into
the
sea,
and
of
course,
discuss
the
dives
we
wanted
to
do
the
following
day.
We
were
hooked,
and
by
the
time
we
got
done
discussing
the
shipwrecks
we
wanted
to
find
and
the
night
dives
we
wanted
to
do,
we
were
also
a
bit
drunk.
But
after
all
the
fun
was
done,
reality
sank
back
in
and
I
found
myself
once
again
sitting
at
the
airport,
waiting
for
the
plane
to
fill
up
with
enough
passengers
to
warrant
a
ride
back
to
the
mainland.
This
time
around,
the
plane
was
an
old
Russian
military
plane,
the
type
people
generally
jump
out
of,
so
there
were
no
seats
in
the
middle,
the
passengers
sat
with
their
backs
to
the
walls,
facing
each
other!
As
the
stewardess
walked
down
the
empty
bowels
of
the
plane,
offering
passengers
their
choice
of
three,
stale
candies
on
a
stainless
steel
plate,
I
looked
around
at
the
faces
of
the
other
9
passengers,
and
it
was
then
that
I
realized
I
didn't
have
it
so
bad.
While
the
locals
were
clutching
their
loved
ones
and
praying
even
before
the
plane
left
the
ground,
I,
the
lone
tourist,
had
been
through
this
before.
I
was
relaxed,
excited
even.
And
as
I
reflected
on
my
wonderful
week
of
diving,
the
things
I
saw,
the
people
I
met,
I
even
asked
the
stewardess
if
I
could
sit
in
the
one
lone
seat
in
the
back
by
the
door,
the
jump
door,
locked
only
with
a
single,
thin
metal
latch
that
I
would
learn
jiggled
around
precariously
while
the
plane
was
in
flight.
I
asked
her,
and
she
let
me.
The
locals
all
thought
I
was
crazy,
but
I
smiled
all
the
way
back
to
Havana.
Te
amo,
Cuba.
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