“typically cavernous Eastern European dining hall” is full of happy diners this morning, but not, it seems, of food.
Outside, my school friend Louis and I run into a woman from Aruba who is here to find her grandmother. The grandmother, unfortunately, is lost, but the Aruban has decided in the meantime to smuggle out a ’56 Chevy. “Here the people have no salt, no sugar, only one piece of bread a day,” she informs us as she gets into our car, “but this is a paradise compared with Aruba.” Where are we from? England. “Ah,” she sighs, “like Margaret Snatcher, the crime minister.” Louis, a Thatcher devotee, accelerates. We drop her off at the airport and head for Santiago. Only four hours as the Nissan flies.
Driving along the one-lane roads, past sunlit fields of sugarcane, we pass billboards honoring the great revolutionary heroes (Martí, Guevara, O’Higgins), signs declaring SPEED IS THE ALLY OF DEATH , lonely ceiba trees, and goat-drawn carts. Flying Pigeon bicycles are everywhere, and vintage Plymouths, and hissing, rusted buses. Sometimes we stop to pick up hitchhikers, and Louis serenades them with passages from
The Waste Land
, ditties from the Grateful Dead, and—his latest attraction—manically pantomimed scenes from
The Jerk.
Bicycles, chickens, children swarm and swerve across the roads. I remember the time in Morocco when, on our way to the airport, he hit a dog. The dog bounded off unhindered; our Citroën limped to a halt.
Then, suddenly, out of nowhere, a bicycle swerves in front of us, there is a sickening thud, and our windshield shatters, splattering us with glass. I cannot bear to get out to see whathas happened. But somehow, miraculously, the boy on the bicycle has been thrown out of the path of the car and gets up, only shaken.
A crowd forms, and, a few minutes later, a policeman appears.
“We’re so sorry,” I tell him. “If there’s anything we can do …”
“No problem,” he says, patting me on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. These things happen. We’re sorry if this has spoiled your holiday in Cuba.”
Spoiled our holiday? We’ve almost spoiled the poor boy’s life!
“Don’t worry,” he assures me with a smile. “There is just some paperwork. Then you can go on.”
A car comes up, and two more imposing cops get out. They take some notes, then barrel up towards us. “These boys,” says one. “No, no. It was entirely our fault.” “These young boys,” he goes on. “You will just have to fill out some forms, and then you can be on your way.”
Soon we are taken to a hospital, where a young nurse hits me on the wrist. Then she asks me to extend my arms, to touch my nose, to touch my nose with my eyes closed. Luckily, it is a big target: I pass with flying colors.
Then we are taken to the local police station, a bare, pink-walled shack in the town’s main plaza. Inside, a few locals are diligently observing a solitary sign which requests them to SPEAK IN A LOUD VOICE .
Across from us sits our hapless victim, next to a middle-aged man. Sizing up the situation, we go over to him. “Look, we can’t apologize enough for what we did to your son. It was all our fault. If there is any …”
“No, no, my friends.” He smiles. “Is nothing. Please enjoy your time in Cuba.” Louis, overwhelmed, presents the familywith a box of Dundee Shortbread, purchased, for just such occasions, at the Heathrow Duty-Free Lounge. A festive air breaks out.
Then we are ushered into an inner office. A black man motions me to sit before his desk and hand him my passport. “So, Señor Pico.” “My surname, actually, is Iyer.” “So your father’s name is Pico.” “No, my father’s name is Iyer.” “But here it says Iyer, Pico.” “Yes. My family’s name is Iyer.” “So your mother’s name is Pico.” “No. My father’s name is Iyer.” “So your mother’s name is …” This goes on for a while, and then a baby-faced cop with an Irish look comes in.
Outside, my school friend Louis and I run into a woman from Aruba who is here to find her grandmother. The grandmother, unfortunately, is lost, but the Aruban has decided in the meantime to smuggle out a ’56 Chevy. “Here the people have no salt, no sugar, only one piece of bread a day,” she informs us as she gets into our car, “but this is a paradise compared with Aruba.” Where are we from? England. “Ah,” she sighs, “like Margaret Snatcher, the crime minister.” Louis, a Thatcher devotee, accelerates. We drop her off at the airport and head for Santiago. Only four hours as the Nissan flies.
Driving along the one-lane roads, past sunlit fields of sugarcane, we pass billboards honoring the great revolutionary heroes (Martí, Guevara, O’Higgins), signs declaring SPEED IS THE ALLY OF DEATH , lonely ceiba trees, and goat-drawn carts. Flying Pigeon bicycles are everywhere, and vintage Plymouths, and hissing, rusted buses. Sometimes we stop to pick up hitchhikers, and Louis serenades them with passages from
The Waste Land
, ditties from the Grateful Dead, and—his latest attraction—manically pantomimed scenes from
The Jerk.
Bicycles, chickens, children swarm and swerve across the roads. I remember the time in Morocco when, on our way to the airport, he hit a dog. The dog bounded off unhindered; our Citroën limped to a halt.
Then, suddenly, out of nowhere, a bicycle swerves in front of us, there is a sickening thud, and our windshield shatters, splattering us with glass. I cannot bear to get out to see whathas happened. But somehow, miraculously, the boy on the bicycle has been thrown out of the path of the car and gets up, only shaken.
A crowd forms, and, a few minutes later, a policeman appears.
“We’re so sorry,” I tell him. “If there’s anything we can do …”
“No problem,” he says, patting me on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. These things happen. We’re sorry if this has spoiled your holiday in Cuba.”
Spoiled our holiday? We’ve almost spoiled the poor boy’s life!
“Don’t worry,” he assures me with a smile. “There is just some paperwork. Then you can go on.”
A car comes up, and two more imposing cops get out. They take some notes, then barrel up towards us. “These boys,” says one. “No, no. It was entirely our fault.” “These young boys,” he goes on. “You will just have to fill out some forms, and then you can be on your way.”
Soon we are taken to a hospital, where a young nurse hits me on the wrist. Then she asks me to extend my arms, to touch my nose, to touch my nose with my eyes closed. Luckily, it is a big target: I pass with flying colors.
Then we are taken to the local police station, a bare, pink-walled shack in the town’s main plaza. Inside, a few locals are diligently observing a solitary sign which requests them to SPEAK IN A LOUD VOICE .
Across from us sits our hapless victim, next to a middle-aged man. Sizing up the situation, we go over to him. “Look, we can’t apologize enough for what we did to your son. It was all our fault. If there is any …”
“No, no, my friends.” He smiles. “Is nothing. Please enjoy your time in Cuba.” Louis, overwhelmed, presents the familywith a box of Dundee Shortbread, purchased, for just such occasions, at the Heathrow Duty-Free Lounge. A festive air breaks out.
Then we are ushered into an inner office. A black man motions me to sit before his desk and hand him my passport. “So, Señor Pico.” “My surname, actually, is Iyer.” “So your father’s name is Pico.” “No, my father’s name is Iyer.” “But here it says Iyer, Pico.” “Yes. My family’s name is Iyer.” “So your mother’s name is Pico.” “No. My father’s name is Iyer.” “So your mother’s name is …” This goes on for a while, and then a baby-faced cop with an Irish look comes in.
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