Yanqui Imperialistas Wanted?

(This is the third in a series about a first visit to Cuba, and US / Cuban relations.
It begins with "Say My Name:  Cuba!")


"This plane is going to Havana." ...

I've got a window seat out of Mexico City.    Looks like pretty solid cloud cover over the Caribbean ... not much to see.   But just as I hear the plane throttle down and begin its descent, I see the clouds are breaking up.    And a few minutes later, I catch my first glimpse of Cuba.

My first view of Cuba, northwest edge

Enticing down there below the evocative white clouds.   As a fly fisherman and diver, my eye is immediately surveying the islands, reefs, and expanses of white sand flats, said to have some of the best saltwater light tackle fishing in the world, unspoiled by overdevelopment.

That's a word that came to mind frequently on this trip to Cuba:   "unspoiled".

As we descend towards Havana's José Marti airport, I wonder about Cuban immigration control: will they be happy to see Americans (the slang term in Cuba is "Yanqui", not "Gringo")?   I suspected the Cuban people would be, but what about the government employees I'd have to get by first?   I'd read that they could be grumpy and particular about paperwork.  Would they still be holding a grudge about that little Bay of Pigs misunderstanding?   Come on, fellas, 50 years would be too long to hold a grudge.

Would I understand their Cuban-dialect Spanish?   Or would I be embarrassed into switching to English, as happens often in Europe, where officials reply in English to even halfway decent attempts to use the local language, with a look that says "My English is better than your French, American." Always true, but not very welcoming.

I had pictured older Cuban men in jobs handed out by the Castro government scrutinizing my paperwork.  I had barely stepped into the airport when I realized that was off base!

Immigration control was staffed mostly by young, attractive people.   They were very friendly and slightly bewildered, as if they'd not been in the job too long.   If Cuba is trying to put its most attractive face on the greeting committee ... good job.    It's working.

I handed my passport across to a pretty, young cubana.   When she saw my nationality, a big smile broke across her face.   Because I'd begun in Spanish and she was not completely comfortable in English, she stayed with Spanish.  Stamper poised over my passport, she asked:  "Estampar o no estampar?"

I'd already thought about this decision:  whether or not to get the Cuba stamp in my passport.   Many thousands of Americans visit Cuba each year illegally, simply by flying to any other country before booking a flight to Cuba.   Cuba appreciates the foreign exchange and welcomes American tourists, stamping their entrance document on a separate piece of paper as a favor to the traveller and, I suppose, a poke in the eye to US laws.

But I'd worked hard to make my trip legal under US law.   I wanted that stamp.  I was looking forward to showing that stamp to US Customs in San Francisco.   THUMP!   There it is.   I'm proud of that stamp!

Stamp it!  Cuba stamp in my passport.

I left immigration control, and as I turned away ... ah, now this is more like what I expected to see: I had to walk past a gauntlet of distinguished-looking ladies all dressed in white, and all approximately ... oh ... Raúl Castro's age.   Maybe this was the socialist scrubbing committee, there to scrutinize visitors.   I greeted them with a big smile.   But not as big as theirs:   they had already seen the US passport in my hand.  "Ahhh!!!! You're from the United States!   ¡Bienvenido! WELCOME!   We've been waiting for these changes for so long."  

You and me both, ladies.     I left with the warmth of their greeting matching the weather at midday in Havana in May.


(Next post:   a quick photo tour of Cuba)