Importing Ebola?

Tuesday, November 04, 2014
Havana, Cuba
Tuesday, November 4, 2014   The second in a series of seven entries; all delayed by one week.

We arrive at Miami International Airport at 5:30am on departure day, November 4, 2014. We enter Door "G" on the departure level and proceed past the World Atlantic Charter Airlines ticket counter where there is a long line of people, many with their baggage wrapped in plastic. These appear to be Cubans or relatives of Cubans who are not subject to same travel embargo as are we. They are returning to the island with “gifts” for relatives.

Our flight is K8 426 Xael Charter. It takes about 1.5 hours to check in which involves close inspection of passports, visas and travel licenses issued by the U.S. Department of State. There is a $20 fee to check a bag. The checked bag and a carry-on must together weigh 44 pounds or less. The flight time is scheduled for only 45 minutes. However, during the boarding process, one of our flight attendants becomes ill on board the aircraft so we are deplaned and told to wait until a replacement can be found. Ninety minutes later, we board again and we're off.

During the flight we complete a health card asking if we have a cold or fever or have been exposed to someone with H1N1. They don’t ask about Ebola. We also complete an immigration card where, under the question about the purpose of our trip, we check “other.”

Upon arrival, we proceed to the arrival hall at Havana’s Jose Marti International Airport. (Cuba observes Eastern time) We line up at the immigration booths with passports, airline tickets and visas in hand. Immigration officers ask a strange question: “Have you been to Dallas, Texas?” BR, who owns a home there answers truthfully and is pulled out of line. The Cubans have heard about Ebola in Dallas and she is suspect.

After much ado, she clarifies the situation by explaining that she lives in Kansas City and they lose interest for the moment. BR clears immigration only to find an official on the other with a doctor in a white coat behind him, asking people where the person from Dallas is. BR just remains silent. I am following her and am asked about Dallas. I have not been there is a very long time and I tell them that. Then, while leafing through my passport, the officer asks, “Have you been to Africa?” I am stuck on this answer. She holds my passport which holds stamps from Namibia, Botswana, Zambia, Zimbabwe, South Africa, Kenya and Tanzania. “I have been to Africa,” I say, “but not for a very long time.” She looks at the dates. Higher ranking officials are summoned. A doctor in a white coat arrives. I don’t speak Spanish beyond being able to order a cerveza and to ask “Como esta?” For reasons unknown to me, the whole mess subsides and I scurry past to claim my checked bag. My list of countries visited has now officially grown to 115. Other than Canada and Mexico, Cuba is our nearest neighbor but it has taken me a very long time to get here.

After that we turn in our medical cards and collect our checked luggage. When customs or immigration officials ask if we are bringing any donations, we are directed to answer “No.” If we say “Yes,” they take the donations and turn them over to the State. If they press, we are to say we are bringing “Gifts.” We are told to volunteer no information if questions are not asked. We are clearly reminded that, if asked, we are to truthfully say that our trip is of a humanitarian nature to be with members of the Jewish Community.

All arriving luggage is X-rayed. We were advised to not put electrical appliances in our luggage to include hair dryers, curling irons, phones, charging cords or electrical adapters. Those should be in our carry-on luggage. I am careful to pack in exactly that way. Once all checked luggage is delivered to all members of our group, we walk out together in the Green Sign Lane which means we have nothing to declare upon which a duty might be levied or that would be prohibited inside the country. We are told to not go to the lines of Cubans waiting to exit. All their luggage must be weighed and inspected before they are allowed back into their homeland.

We are headed for the Meliã Cohiba Hotel, Vedado, Habana, Cuba. We are escorted by Miriam Levinson who was born in Cuba and left as a pre-teenager in 1958 to live in the United States. Since travel restrictions were loosened, Miriam has been to Cuba 140 times. Vicky Prince, a Cuban resident, is to be our guide.

Upon arrival at the hotel, a very nice and modern high rise, we are immediately summoned to lunch on the second floor where everyone looks at BR and me wondering if, in fact, we are Ebola carriers. The hotel asks Miriam if there is someone with the group from Dallas. BR’s luggage tags have her Dallas address which the hotel noticed when delivering our luggage to our room. Soon, they get over it and we are given room keys and told to relax for 45 minutes before meeting again in the hotel lobby. We never again say the word 'Dallas’.

Our luggage has been delivered to our room—a two room suite—and as I unpack it becomes clear that my luggage has been closely inspected. My toiletries are not as I packed them, zippers are awry and neatly folded items are refolded in a manner not to my normal practice. But, everything is there.

Wi-Fi exists but Google insists on me providing a password that I do not know so it appears that email on my computer will not be happening. My iPhone won’t receive business email either but I say, “No problem.” The computer is mostly here for writing and downloading photos anyway. Who cares? Later, I decide that I care and I use my personal email account to request that Tom at the office see if he can fix my problem remotely.

We meet in the lobby and board a bus to take us along the boulevard known as the Malecόn which borders the seawall into the old city.

There are virtually no new automobiles in Cuba—again due to the embargo. American vehicles here were built in the 50’s and have been maintained because nobody can buy a new car. I quickly note that there are many cars of the late forties and fifties. I see lots of Chevys—55s, 56s, 57s, a few 58s and only one 59. By 1960, the embargo was on; so you see no American vehicle made after 1959; none. Therefore, there are many innovative modes of transportation in Cuba ranging from rick-bicycles, horse drawn carriages and “CoCo taxis” and motorcycles with sidecars. The vintage automobiles are magnificent and bring an ambiance to the place unlike anywhere I have ever been. Not all the cars are old; a brand new BMW 740 Li sits in the driveway of the Meliã Cohiba. There are new or newer Russian and Chinese vehicles and a smattering of other makes, particularly Reanault.

We disembark and walk. Many buildings are falling down. There is nearly no maintenance being done on any building—we see a few painters one time—and, as a result, the city is and has been crumbling. But, the streets are very clean. There are few very old people. But, the kids are all happy and smiling. We stroll past the Plaza de San Francisco to the most beautiful “Jewish Hotel,” The Roauel, I have ever seen. It boasts stunning stained glass, the most impressive of which reigns over the lobby atrium four stories over our heads. The ancient elevator lifts us to the rooftop where we gaze over a city that, were it not for the embargo, would be glistening with refurbished buildings and rooftop gardens. Sadly, those are not apparent. But, what we do see is sublime. A Kosher Deli, closed for some reason, sits across the street.

Back on the streets we walk and decide that we are anxious to return here on subsequent days for time to meander. There is a chocolate museum. There are cafés, restaurants, hotels but very few shops. Buildings are in various stages of renovation or crumbling. The streets are clean and there is no graffiti.

We are given the opportunity to stop and sit in a government owned and operated bar. BR has a glass of white wine and I order a cerveza as we avoid ice cubes. Both are cold and tasty. When the bill comes, it is for four CuCs: the equivalent of four U.S. dollars. Four. Our friends opted for mixed drinks at a nearby five-star hotel. Their drinks, they told us, were five CuCs each.

Back to the bus we return to the Meliã Cohiba Hotel for a couple of hours of rest before we meet the group at 7:00 to walk a couple of blocks to dinner. I write while BR catnaps. We are going on very little sleep and the adventure has taken its toll.

The group parades two blocks to our dinner in a “Private Home.” Essentially what has happened here is that the government has loosened its restrictions on capitalism and allowed individuals to start businesses. So, rather than dine in a government owned establishment similar to the place where we had our beer and wine this afternoon, we are patronizing an eatery owned by a private citizen. It occupies the second floor and roof of a large home because the law won’t allow a privately owned restaurant such as this to be located in what we would think of as a commercial space. There are no signs on the street to let us know that a restaurant exists here.

Our guide, Miriam, tells us that the meal costs the equivalent of about $45 per person and includes an appetizer, salad, an entrée (fish, meat, chicken, lobster, shrimp or vegetarian), dessert (flan, chocolate or cheesecake), one mixed drink, one glass of wine and one bottle of water and tip. That is about right for an American to pay for what we receive. However, when one considers that the salary for a doctor in Cuba is $40 per month, we quickly see that this “Private Home” dining experience is for tourists and the rich and not for regular Cubans to enjoy. The meal, by the way, was good but not great.

We walked back to the hotel on streets that all agree are amazingly safe (we hear several “Buenos Nochas” greetings from passersby) except for the condition of the sidewalks. I look down to steer us clear of cracks (similar to what we might find at home) and holes (pits, really, which would be guaranteed to deliver a lawsuit in the U.S.)

I am delighted with the day, ebullient about being Ebola free, satisfied that Big Brother is watching but not interfering and happy to be in a new place learning new things with BR at my side. Life is good for BR and me. Cubans might see it differently or they might agree. What is clear: our expectations are seemingly very different.

Comments

Jo Ann Connolly
2014-11-12

WOW! It's amazing how you guys handled all the issues with no drama. What an awesome experience!

2025-02-11

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