Cuba, America reach across 90 miles

It was not the warmest welcome. Arriving at Jose Marti International Airport in Havana back in 1978, the first thing I noticed were all the then-Soviet-era warplanes on the tarmac. The grim soldiers with guns in the customs area were hardly a lot of laughs.

Then on the bus to the hotel were the multitude of billboards featuring virulent anti-American sentiments foisting Cuba’s woes off on the United States. Not enough food? Blame the Yankees. No gasoline? America is the one you want. Painful hangnail? Washington’s fault.

Thirty minutes on the island’s soil and I had the sneaking suspicion I was about to get my head handed to me by royally ticked-off Cubans. With apologies to Graham Greene, I had visions of becoming Our Man in a Body Cast.

As the film critic for the Tampa Tribune at the time, I had been invited by the government to join a group of about a dozen journalists to write about the state of Cuban culture in the run-up to the 20th anniversary of Fidel Castro’s revolution.

But my anxieties were unfounded. Our Cuban hosts were friendly and forthcoming. I got to spend time over several mojitos with the great Cuban documentary filmmaker Santiago Alvarez and met Tomas Gutierrez Alea, the director of the hilarious satire Death of a Bureaucrat, which was a scathing commentary on the revolution’s inept government machinery.

Soon several members of the more radical journalists caucused and demanded to meet with some female artists, which our hosts agreed to. Then others caucused and demanded to meet with some black filmmakers, which our hosts, now growing a bit frustrated, agreed to. Then still others caucused and demanded to meet with some gay and lesbian filmmakers, which our hosts insisted there weren’t any.

Finally, John Huddy, then with the Miami Herald, Philip Terzian, then with the New Republic and myself caucused and demanded that we be able to meet with some left-handed filmmakers, at which point our hosts seemed relieved to discover at least someone in the group had a sense of humor.

While it was a wonderful trip, what I remember most about my time in Havana was a 20-minute cab ride.

One evening Huddy and I, in the spirit of journalism, decided to explore Havana’s nightlife — in great detail. Finally, we hailed a taxi to return to our hotel.

Upon hearing our accents, the driver started talking about the United States, how he could occasionally pick up radio signals from the north and if the night was just right and clear enough, sometimes he could see the faint glow of lights over the horizon 90 miles away. And he would dream.

As the taxi pulled up to the hotel, the driver steadfastly refused to take our money, even as two scribblers attempted to shove dollars at him. No, he would not take a cent. But why?

The driver explained the pride of simply having two Americans in his cab was payment enough. And off into the night he drove.

I’ve thought about that cabbie many times over the years and especially so in recent weeks as all the hand-wringing erupted in the wake of President Barack Obama’s announcement he intended to restore full diplomatic relations with Cuba, ease travel and remittance restrictions and perhaps begin the politically difficult process of eventually dismantling the absurd and failed 50-year-plus economic embargo of the island.

The dubious embargo has not brought Cuba to its knees. And obviously neither the Castro brothers, nor Cuba’s elites, have missed any meals or the perks of their status.

The only people who have suffered under the embargo’s onerous provisions have been the Cuban people, who despite nearly 60 years of relentless anti-American media still nevertheless admire the United States. You could probably make a case the Cuban propaganda campaign has been as big a debacle as the economic embargo.

You don’t need to be a foreign policy expert to know there are many corners of the globe where, fairly or not, the United States is loathed. And yet, America continues to have diplomatic relations with those countries and invest in their economies.

But less than a 100 miles off our shore, the United States has persisted in a delusional policy that only harms a population that largely actually likes and embraces America. This makes sense?

I don’t know whatever happened to my cabbie. But if he is still alive and ever made his way to the United States, I’d be happy to pick him up at the airport and be proud to have him in my car.

(From: Tampa Bay)