Spending the Day In a Cuban Jail With My Dad

August 16, 2007

 If you ever find yourself in Havana, don’t try to cheat the system.  My dad is the type of person who is always looking for deals, always looking for ways to beat the system.  He’s the type of guy who, as the saying goes, ‘goes broke saving money.’

 My family and I took a trip to Havana in the mid 1990’s.  It promised a new and exciting world that barely any Americans had seen since the Bay of Pigs.  I was about ten at the time, so a lot of the appeal and incredibleness of Cuba was lost on me.  The snorkeling was fun and the food was good.  The people, I thought, wore a little too much spandex and there were an extraordinary amount of old American cars farting around, but I’m sure that if I went back now, with more mature eyes, it would be a totally different place.  But my innocence and naivety probably helped immensely on one occasion that will forever live in infamy in family lore and Cuban criminal records.

      The day started out as innocently as any other.  We went down to the pool and got the continental breakfast.  I remember the croissants, one of the few things I would eat, were delicious.  After some swimming we went to the market by the hotel.  We went to various cigar shops, all of which were much nicer than any of the other tourist shops— they all had air-conditioning.  Despite being a steal of a price at the government shops, my dad was convinced that he could find yet a better deal.  After several stops at more or less the same shops, my mom, sisters and I all grew bored of the fruitless search and we eventually ditched our dad.

      He caught back up with us and beckoned one of us to come with him because he found a deal that ‘was almost too good to be true.’  He tried to get my oldest sister, who spoke the best Spanish, to come with him.  She refused.  My mom refused.  My other sister refused.  So, by process of elimination, I, being the youngest was the chosen partner and was not given the option to refuse.  I spoke no Spanish.  There was a curious man hanging on the periphery of our little family group.  Once he saw that my dad had chosen me, he beckoned us both to come with him.

      We went with the man to a small apartment safely hidden from view from the street.  After a few minutes, we walked out with two boxes of Romeo y Julieta Churchills, all unmarked and bought for the absurdly low price of $5 USD a box.  The deal had finally been had.  My dad and I left the apartment with a noticeable bounce in our step.  It quickly deflated as about a dozen armed, uniformed La Habana police officers surrounded us.  We suddenly found ourselves in the middle of a sting operation.  They took one look at the boxes of unmarked cigars in my dad’s hand, saw that they weren’t government sanctioned and promptly arrested us, no questions asked.  They pushed us into their squad car and we sped off through the streets of Havana.  The one officer who had some command of English kept reassuring us that we were only driving with the sirens blaring so we could get back to our families quicker.  I was having a great time.  I felt like I was in a movie!  My dad looked rather worried at this point.

      We then came to the central police station in the city.  There were holes across the floor and wall that my dad was quick to point out were from automatic gunfire.  There were all kinds of Havana ruffians there: underage prostitutes, pickpockets, and the occasional snarling, crazy-eyed person.  The head officer took us to a small room and spent twenty minutes breaking open cigars and explaining to us, in Spanish—a language that neither my dad or I could understand—that the cigars were cheap and contained pesticides and would probably kill us if we tried smoking them.  The elaborate hand gestures helped a lot. 

      Finally, an English-speaking officer came in (Where had he been the whole time?).  The first question he asked was where we were from.  My dad said we were from the USA and everything changed with the kind of rapidity that only a Communist regime can provide.  We were quickly taken to another room, with even more official looking officers and processed and released in less time it took us to buy the cigars.  After several apologies, we were even offered a full refund and our box (of supposedly pesticide ridden and poisonous) cigars back!  By way of explanation, the sergeant told us, quite simply, “We would never arrest Americans.”  And with that, we were released.  They were kind enough to give us a ride back to our hotel.  I’m sure after we left, the officers on duty all smoked my dad’s cigars and talked about how dumb the American looked with a box of illegal cigars in each hand.  My mom was furious. My dad was relieved.  I wanted to do it again the next day.