After my girlfriend left a few days earlier I, as well , started making my way back from Cuba to Mexico.
Hi Sugartits,
I had my fair share of eventful happenings whilst making my way back to the shit stained paradise called Mexico city.
My last day in Cuba was a reality and I was sitting at Jardin del Oriental. as I finish my last mojito – the last of at least 10 dozen Mojitos guzzled down in the last 2 weeks- I tip my hat to the kind waitress, she miles, waves back as she keeps waving her hips back and forth.
I make my way to the big road and off the bat, something happened. Something exceeding my wildest dreams. As I entered the cab of a driver that strongly resembled the most renowned of beatboxers:Biz Markie. It took me a while to realize, probably because it just seemed too good to be true. My brain refused to process it. Initially the song 'confident'' came on, followed by 'backpack' and then the peoples favorite: 'what's hat'nin. all sung by that all too familiar voice. There was no denying it: this was Justin Bieber's latest album my cuban driver had blasting through his speakers. Since Cuba has been cut off from the rest of the world for decades now, hearing Justin Bieber music in a cab is similar to witnessing a flying pig. It' s unexpected to say the least.
I have trouble verbalizing the joy I am feeling to Cuban Biz. He looks at me slightly insecure: “Music good?”.
“Muy bueno” I reply.
The combination of the eargasms of Justin Biebers latest hits and the visuals of Biz Markie driving me through the bright colors of Havana were mind blowing. All was good so far but as the Sicilians say: "When there's a clear horizon in winter, there'll be the devil to pay".
We reach our destination. I ask Cuban Biz if it' s Ok if I stay seated for the final 3 songs. Biz was elated, screaming: “Claro!” “Claro!” while he turns the stereo up to it's maximum. So there we are. Me and Cuban Biz markie, in front of the Jose Marti airport in Havana, sitting in an 1958 purple dodge, dancing and bumping our heads. Even though we had no language in common, our love for Justin Bieber had us singing the lyrics to each other from the top of lungs, and I have probably never felt more connected to a fellow human being. As Bieber finishes his album's outro, time comes to say goodbye.
We share a hug.
I tip my hat to the kind driver. He smiles, waves back as he keep waving his shoulders back and forth. I enter the Jose Marti International Airport. As I make my way to the immigration offices, I brace myself for the customary harassment that goes along with being an Iranian con barba. Not having you, and your white privileged clout circling around me, left me looking very Iranian. Turns out, they don't quite get the concept 'immigration' at the immigration offices. It was tricky explaining to the Cuban officers why I was so excessively tanned for a Dutch guy. About 20 minutes into the interrogation, images from the movie Rendition flashed before my eyes and I realized: they don't need a good reason to keep me locked up forever. It seemed inevitable. Guantanamo bay was right around the corner so I made my peace, took one last deep breath, closed my eyes, opened my mouth and awaited for the water-boarding to commence. This is when I heard the magic words of salvation: "se puede ir".
There I was, standing in line, hearting beating uncontrollably, getting ready to board. Rather than on my knees in a orange jumpsuit, getting pee'd on by G.I Joe. That's going to be one hell of a trip back to Amsterdam, via the U.S. Customs. The Cuban stamps in my passport indicate that I am a communist, the stamps from Mexico on the other hand seem to suggest that I am illegal immigrant attempting to cross the border, and last but not least, I am born in Iran, which makes me a terrorist as well. A perfect tri-fecta of aerial red flags. On top of all that, imagine explaining to the U.S. Customs how a communist, illegal alien, terrorist got his hands on a Dutch passport.
The last few days alone in Cuba we're unforgettable, I befriended a nice Israeli fellow, and we solved all the current major diplomatic conundrums over a bottle of rum and a cigar. How fitting, that an Iranian and an Israeli would create the blueprint for peace in Fidel' s land. I liked being alone, meeting minstrels from all around the globe, but it goes without saying that it wasn't the same fairytale place without you. All of a sudden watching a Cuban guy dragging an older, nervous white women of her seat to awkwardly force a round of salsa was just getting redundant, or clich , if you will.
I also had an encounter with an obese yet frail eggroll, fish head, chink, gook, whatever they call these slanted eyed fucks these days. At the Mexico D.F. airport, he just finished filling in his immigration form. I asked whether I could lend his pen for a second and he responded as if I just told him I had canceled his dance - dance revolution subscription. Complete and utter panic took over his face and limbs, semi – paralyzed, he started mumbling aggressively, it was as if he experienced a spontaneous epileptic attack and fled the scene before he started foaming from the mouth. All I could think of as he slumped away from me was: I asked him for a pen. Good luck in Mexico City chopsticks.
I loved sharing Cuba with you, I meant a lot to me as well. It was truly blissful experience. Like the mustache wearing 'vato' from in training day once said: "Life's a trip. ey"