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| Carretera Central, La Gomera-Santa Clara/ By ricalo |
- McClatchy Newspapers/
ON THE CARRETERA CENTRAL, Cuba -- "Subanse," climb aboard, I said repeatedly, pulling the right wheels of my eight-seat van off the dangerous two-lane highway that snakes hundreds of miles across an island considered off limits to most Americans.
Ostensibly, I was in Cuba to cover Pope Benedict XVI's visit. But over the week and across the length of the Ohio-sized country, I gave more than five dozen Cubans a "botella" - in Cuban slang, a ride.
My riders gave an unvarnished view of the country. They were farmers, housewives and doctors. They were school kids, half a baseball team, an economist and even a judge, who proclaimed herself to be a huge fan of Jack Bauer in the American TV thriller series "24."
Ostensibly, I was in Cuba to cover Pope Benedict XVI's visit. But over the week and across the length of the Ohio-sized country, I gave more than five dozen Cubans a "botella" - in Cuban slang, a ride.
My riders gave an unvarnished view of the country. They were farmers, housewives and doctors. They were school kids, half a baseball team, an economist and even a judge, who proclaimed herself to be a huge fan of Jack Bauer in the American TV thriller series "24."
The van was a lark. Waiting for my small rental car at the Havana airport for two hours - described to me as five Cuban minutes - the overworked rental agent finally offered me the huge diesel-powered vehicle if I'd get on my way.
If life gives you lemons, make lemonade. I spent most of the following week offering ordinary Cubans a ride in my gray Hyundai van - which often carried more passengers than it was designed to.
I don't speak with a gringo accent. Some riders thought I was Argentine, most were baffled and many were wide-eyed to discover their driver was American and a reporter to boot.
"I have an aunt in Florida," said Angela, who got in before Camaguey, a central Cuban city. Many others said the same, citing family members in Miami, Orlando and Houston.
A few passengers were nervous - perhaps because of my driving - and sat silently. Most were expressive but guarded, quieter when others were in the car. As the number of riders thinned, the conversation generally opened up.
To break the ice, I played Latin music on my iPod through the van's speaker system. In an early, surreal moment, four Cuban women belted out "Amame," a love song by Colombian rocker Juanes. It put to rest any notion that Cubans in the interior lacked knowledge of the outside world.
I left Havana at 5 a.m. sharp on a Sunday, a good day to travel because people are trying to hitch rides home after weekend visits. I was led out of Havana by a cab driver I paid to get me to the Carretera Nacional, the national highway that is the first stretch of the Carretera Central, or Central Highway.
At the start, the drive looked promising enough, four lanes of completely empty highway. About 20 minutes in, however, the four lanes became two with no advance warning. The only indication of roadwork was the metal barriers - not visible in darkness - that I nearly hit skidding at 70 mph.
If life gives you lemons, make lemonade. I spent most of the following week offering ordinary Cubans a ride in my gray Hyundai van - which often carried more passengers than it was designed to.
I don't speak with a gringo accent. Some riders thought I was Argentine, most were baffled and many were wide-eyed to discover their driver was American and a reporter to boot.
"I have an aunt in Florida," said Angela, who got in before Camaguey, a central Cuban city. Many others said the same, citing family members in Miami, Orlando and Houston.
A few passengers were nervous - perhaps because of my driving - and sat silently. Most were expressive but guarded, quieter when others were in the car. As the number of riders thinned, the conversation generally opened up.
To break the ice, I played Latin music on my iPod through the van's speaker system. In an early, surreal moment, four Cuban women belted out "Amame," a love song by Colombian rocker Juanes. It put to rest any notion that Cubans in the interior lacked knowledge of the outside world.
I left Havana at 5 a.m. sharp on a Sunday, a good day to travel because people are trying to hitch rides home after weekend visits. I was led out of Havana by a cab driver I paid to get me to the Carretera Nacional, the national highway that is the first stretch of the Carretera Central, or Central Highway.
At the start, the drive looked promising enough, four lanes of completely empty highway. About 20 minutes in, however, the four lanes became two with no advance warning. The only indication of roadwork was the metal barriers - not visible in darkness - that I nearly hit skidding at 70 mph.
Read more here: http://www.myrtlebeachonline.com/2012/04/12/2770215/in-cuba-hitchhikers-bemoan-a-host.html#storylink=cpy
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