Marie-Louise Gay - Travels in Cuba

I was riding a giant roller coaster. It went shooting up hills and hurtled down into valleys at breakneck speed. It lurched from side to side and whizzed around corners.

People were screaming. Their mouths were open so wide I could see their tonsils. Their hair stood on end.

I was screaming, too, when a tremendous thunderclap woke me up.

Our airplane was diving through the clouds. The cabin lights flickered. The seatbelt sign was flashing like the lights on a police car. The doors to some of the overhead bins fell open, and jackets, sun hats, backpacks and a teddy bear flew out.

Some people were crying. Others were gasping for air.

Even the flight attendants looked worried.

I peeked out the window. Lightning flashed from cloud to cloud.

Had we flown into a hurricane? Was I going to die on the first day of my vacation?

Through the uproar, the pilots voice came on.

Seoras y seores, ladies and gentlemen, we are flying through some uncomfortable air. Please excuse the small turbulence.

Small turbulence? She must be kidding.

I looked across the aisle at my father. He was as white as a mushroom. He was gripping the armrests of his seat, his eyes shut tight. My mothers face was all wrinkled up, like she was trying to imagine she was somewhere else.

Next to me, Max began to pull everything out of his backpack. His stuffed penguin, his comic books, his flashlight, a banana, his underwear you name it.

At the very bottom of his pack, he found what he was looking for.

His Batman mask. He put it on and smiled.

Batman to the rescue! he yelled.

My little brother can get the weirdest ideas. He probably thought he could save the plane by looking like a superhero. Max is always very helpful in dangerous situations.

All of a sudden, like night and day, the sky outside changed. And the plane stopped shaking. The flight attendants went up and down the aisles, picking up the luggage that had fallen from the bins. They gathered up the burp bags from the passengers who had used them.

I looked out the window again. The black clouds had disappeared, and the sun was shining on a green island shaped like a crocodile floating on a turquoise sea.

We had survived. Our vacation was about to begin.

The pilots voice came on the speakers.

Thank you for your patience. We will be landing shortly at the Jos Mart International Airport in La Habana. Bienvenidos a Cuba!

After picking up our bags, we walked to the passport control. The officer looked at our passports. Then he looked at us. Then he looked at the pictures on the passports again.

He pointed at Max, his black eyebrows bunching up in a frown under his official cap.

Quin es? he barked. Who is this?

Max hid behind my mother.

This is our son Max, said my mother.

He doesnt look like a Max. He looks like a Batman! The customs man burst out laughing.

Batman en Cuba, increble! I think maybe we need him here.

Everyone in the line was staring at us.

Sometimes Max can be so embarrassing that I pretend he isnt my brother.

We hurried out of the airport terminal and stood on the sidewalk. Every few seconds, a man would come up to us and shout Taxi! very loudly in our faces.

We did not need a taxi. Someone was supposed to be waiting to drive us to where we were staying. But how would we recognize the person?

Then I caught sight of a tall brown man with a huge mustache that hung like a pair of curtains on both sides of his mouth. He was leaning against a car, holding up a sign with our names on it. His car was older than he was, and you could practically see through it, it had so many holes from rust.

My father saw him, too.

Buenos das, he said to him.

The man grabbed my fathers hand and shook it really hard.

Soy Ledesma, buenos das.

Buenos das, my father repeated, as Ledesma went on squishing his hand. Buenos das, buenos das.

My father was stuck on repeat.

Finally, he turned around to me.

Uh Charlie?

I was learning Spanish in school, and I had a few classmates from Mexico.

The first thing you find out when you try to learn a foreign language is that you cant be afraid to make mistakes. I made one mistake for every word I said, but that didnt matter. I found out what I needed to know.

This man named Ledesma with the walrus mustache was going to drive us to Seora Glorias house, where we would be staying.

Yes, Seora Gloria, thats it, thats where were going! my mother said, very excited, as if we had all just been saved from drowning.

Ledesma took the suitcase out of my fathers hand. He might have been older than my father, but he had hands of steel. He held the heavy bag with just two fingers.

Okay, muchachos, he said to us. Then he bowed to my mother. And the seora, too.

My father patted the car delicately, so it would not collapse into a heap of rusty metal flakes.

Its a Lada, he said. A Russian car.

I had never been in a Russian car before. I wondered how this one had ended up on an island in the middle of the Caribbean Sea.

We all piled in. Ledesma insisted that my mother sit in front. That must have been the most comfortable spot. In the back, the seat was so low I felt like I was sitting on the street.

My mother patted the orange fur that covered the dashboard, just the way she does with our cat, Miro.

Lion, said Ledesma, stroking it.

He gave a great big laugh. Then he looked at Max in the rearview mirror and shouted, Hey, Batman in Cuba!

Before we drove away, Ledesma reached out, grabbed hold of the small black statue that was hanging from the mirror and kissed it. Maybe that was what you did when you drove a Russian car, or a Russian car with holes in the side.

Then he pulled into the traffic behind a dump truck that was shooting out so much black smoke it looked like it was on fire.

Maybe Max had the right idea with his mask.

My mother was staring at the spider web of cracks in the windshield. She was probably wondering if it was going to end up in her lap.

Meanwhile, Ledesma was talking to her at a hundred miles an hour. I could not hear what he was saying, since we were sitting in back with the windows open. My mother smiled and nodded, which is what you do when you dont understand what someone is saying.

After a while, Ledesma must have gotten tired of the one-way conversation. He turned on the radio, and loud music poured out. It was dance music, but the only thing dancing was the car, jumping up and down over the bumps and rolling from side to side like a ship in a storm.

He talked very fast, but Ledesma was the most relaxed driver I had ever seen. In Montreal, where I live, everyone is always in a rush. Our drivers will go through red lights if they think they can get away with it, and they cut off other cars for sport.

Not Ledesma. He sang along with the radio, one hand on the steering wheel, the other hanging out the window, tapping the side of the door to the beat.

It looked like Cuba was frozen in the past. The other cars on the road were pretty much like Ledesmas: rusty Russian Ladas or old-time models like the ones you see in black-and-white movies. You know, with big grills in front like sharks teeth, and pointy fins in the back. They were painted bright colors pink and turquoise and lime green. The city of Havana was like an old-car museum.