Spring 1994

My first venture into Latin culture was during the production of a documentary I shot in Central America in the early 1990s. The production’s itinerary took us to Costa Rica, Nicaragua and Panama.  Almost immediately I resonated with the people, the music, the food and of course hot Latino women.

Several months after the show was wrapped, I was sitting in our production offices on Wilshire Blvd. when the set designer stopped by for a chat. Glenn recognized that I had connected with Latin culture and suggested I add Cuba to my bucket list.

Naturally, my immediate response was “Cuba? We can’t go to Cuba.”  “Sure, you can,” said Glenn. “You can’t fly direct from the states but you can depart and return from Mexico.”  I didn’t know much about Cuba other than it still had a Communist government and considering the longstanding trade embargo the US had on Cuba, the travel ban for US citizens remained in full force and would remain so as long Fidel Castro ran the show

But the seed that Glenn had planted that day piqued my curiosity and adventurous spirit. For weeks it had me thinking seriously about making the trip to the mysterious, forbidden island.  At that time, I had never known anyone who had been to Cuba or anyone who had even considered going there because of the stigma.

There was an unjustified belief that Americans were hated by the Cuban population and there was even a strong possibility that it could actually be dangerous for U.S. citizens to travel there. Regardless, I had made my decision and for better or for worse, I was going to Cuba.

I submitted my Visa applications to the embassy of Switzerland in Washington, D.C. After a two-week turnaround, it finally showed up and I immediately drove down to Tijuana, Mexico to purchase my airline tickets.  I found the Viajes Montfort SA agency on Revolution Blvd. and booked my trip for March 20, 1994.

When the day finally arrived, I departed from Los Angeles and landed in Mexico City four hours later for an overnight stay. The Sheridan Hotel was across the street from the city’s international airport. The following morning, I boarded a 10:30 am flight on AeroMexico Airlines for my 3-hour flight to Havana.

The majority of passengers on the flight were Cuban exiles returning home with food and medicine for family members. Landing in the Cuban capital was a unique experience. Jose Marti International Airport was a two-story structure that was painted in a drab gray and green and looked like something that was Soviet-inspired.

I disembarked the plane down a portable staircase, past two Cuban airport personnel dressed in green army fatiques and brandishing automatic weapons. Passengers scampered across the tarmac to the immigration and customs building. Not speaking a word of Spanish made my interrogation to enter the country an interesting experience.

Immigration was a slow, cautious process on behalf of the military staff. They ran a background check on me and finally after ten minutes or so, I heard a heavy stamp hit my passport and visa. They left a weird stamp in my passport that looked like a smoking jenie lamp. The door buzzed open and the jefe motioned with his head for me to go through it to the baggage claim area.

After my carry-on bags were x-rayed and I was body scanned, I continued to the baggage carousel to retrieve my suitcases. It’s usually takes a few minutes for the bags to come out because every suitcase entering Cuba is x-rayed for anything that could disrupt the revolution. When my bags finally spilled out, I grabbed them, showed a customs agent my declaration form and went out the tinted sliding door.  I jumped into the first taxi I saw and said, “Hotel Nacional por favor.”

Jose Marti airport is located about 15 km from the center of town in an area called Rancho Boyeros. Driving into town we passed fields and farmland and what seemed to stretch for miles in every direction.  My taxi driver was beside himself when I told him I was from the U.S. He stared at me through his rear mirror as if I were a green Martian from outer space.

The Hotel Nacional de Cuba was about a 30-minute drive from the airport and sat on a bluff overlooking the famous seaside Malecon Boulevard. It’s located in the business district of the city called Vedado. The hotel was built in 1930 and is considered the crown jewel of hotels in Havana.

We pulled up in front and walked up the red-carpeted steps and checked into the hotel.  They put me on the seventh floor. (It wasn’t until much later that I discovered all Americans who visit Havana are put on the seventh floor where their phone calls are monitored).

From my window, I had a nice view of the Malecon that runs from Old Havana to Miramar.  After a quick shower, I went downstairs and began to explore the grounds of the hotel. The back patio area with its finely manicured yard was one of the best features of the place.  There were comfortable couches and coffee tables and the sounds of a trio singing Latin love songs.

I ordered Cuba Libre, the popular Cuban drink of rum and coke and felt the balmy breezes blowing in off the gulf. After an hour or so and several more Libre’s, I ventured down the long driveway of the hotel for a walk around the block.

Growing up in a racially divided country, it was a little intimidating seeing mostly black guys hanging around the parameter of the hotel trying to make conversation with tourists. I tried to override my racist conditioning from the States and be as trusting and cordial as possible.

It was a good lesson about being judgmental. Still green, I wasn’t sure if the hotel was in a “bad” neighborhood so I proceeded with caution. (We would come to find out, there are no bad neighborhoods in communist Cuba. They’re all bad but very little violent crime. One of the goals of the Cuban Revolution was the creation of a classless sociality with equality for everyone, regardless of race).

It took a few days to get acclimated to the culture shock of even being in a Communist country that hadn’t changed much in almost 40 years. Fidel Castro and his brother Raul have been in power since 1959. I knew intuitively politics was something you didn’t want to openly discuss in Cuba.

One block east of the hotel is 23^rd Street, known as La Rampa (the ramp). It descends in a downward slant from the famous Cappelia ice cream park and spills out on the Malecon Blvd. Just a casual walk down La Rampa drew the attention of several girls who approached me trying to initiate conversation but I ignored them.

After a day or two of wandering around Vedado, I felt comfortable enough to venture in a taxi to old Havana to have dinner. I went to one of Ernest Hemingway’s favorite watering holes the El Floridita, home of the daiquiri. After dinner, still hesitant to explore on foot, I cabbed it back to the hotel.

There were chica’s everywhere in Havana. Girls took to the streets when the government made it legal for Cubans to possess American dollars. Before 1993, if a Cuban got caught with American currency, they went to jail for as many years as the demonination they were caught with. Having dollars makes it easy for me.

When I arrived at the Nacional. I saw a couple of girls sitting on shaded steps that leads to the hotel pool. They stared at me as we passed and smiled and as I casually waved the girls giggled.

Once I got inside the hotel, I thought to myself, what the fuck. I’m going back outside to see if I can somehow get one or both girls up to our room. Sure enough, I sat down beside them and tried my best to initiate some kind of conversation.

We chatted for a few minutes and quickly realized they were willing to sell themselves.  They claimed to be sisters, but were shabbily dressed and obviously not pros.  This particular time, the early 1990s in Cuba called the “Special Period.” It was the best of times for tourists and the worse of times, economically, for the Cuban people since the Castro revolution began thirty-five years earlier.

Once they agreed to come up to my room, I hatched a plan. I went into the hotel and I found “my guy” with a bright smile named German who worked the night shift at the front desk.  I told him I had a couple of girls outside and I’d like to bring them upstairs. He told us to go to my room and he would arrange to get them there.  “But there are three of us on the shift,” he said.  So it’s going to cost you $20 each.

Sixty bucks to have these young lovelies delivered to my room? Let’s do it!  I jumped in the elevator and went back up to 714 took a quick shower and waited patiently for a knock on my door.  About fifteen minutes later, I heard voices outside my door and opened it slowly Mr. German was standing in the hall with my two seniorities.  As the girls slipped inside the room German whispered, he would come back at the end of his shirt and get the girls out.

The girls sat nonchalantly on the bed and I offered them a drink to break the ice. “Un Cuba Libre?”  They giggled and got up and went into the bathroom together. I made a drink for myself, sat in a large chair and looked out into the night at the street lights running along the Malecon.

The lights were off when they came out of the bathroom with towels wrapped around themselves and climbed into bed. I walked over to the bed and climbed in between them and sat with my back against the backboard of the bed.  They pointed back and forth to each other and said that they were hermanas. (sisters). The older one was Marta and I couldn’t’ understand the younger one’s name. Did it matter?

Marta was quite beautiful with striking dark features, a light olive skin tone and deep dark eyes. His sister was every bit as pretty as Marta. She had luscious, thick black hair that fell to her shoulders. But it was her heavy, black eyebrows that had my attention. I was lost in another world that I never wanted to leave.

In a natural motion, Marta put her head between my legs and began sucking my cock as I put my arms around her sister, pulled her close and we began kissing like a couple of teenagers. It put me in a blissful, indescribable state that seemed to last for hours. Before long, Marta was sitting in my lap, her soft legs wrapped around me, her hard ass rising in an up and down motion that griped me in heavenly waves of pleasure.

When I laid on my back there was just enough light coming through the window that we could see each other’s eyes and have a silent conversation. The hermana just sat there watching us with a detached look on her face like another day on the job.

With my big hands holding her hard round ass, Marta rose up and down on my cock, soft moans emanating from her gentle lips. I thought it would have been a faux pas to move on her younger sister so I let it pass. But this was Havana in the early 90s, maybe this was Havana anytime and here in the tropics right or wrong, good and bad is often forgiven and muddled into the need for survival.

When Marta and I finished, we lay there, all three of us watching the blades of the Casablanca fan hum and whirl about our heads. Where was I? Was this happening to me I thought. It was early morning now and the night shift was about to end. This dream had to end sometime.

I gave Marta 20 dollars and little sis ten bucks for getting into bed with me and letting me kiss her and play with her pussy.  As they got up and walked to the bathroom and I picked up the phone and called the front desk.  “OK German, get these little bitches the fuck out of here. Mañana es otro dia.

A few minutes later I heard a soft knock and I could see dark shadows swirling under my door. German was waiting on the other side and whispered Vamos! As the girls walked out of my room, they kissed me on the cheek and followed German down the hallway never looking back. I went over to the table and poured myself a Cuba Libre and looked out on the Malecon. As the morning workers peddled their bicycles along the ocean boulevard, I watched the sky transition from deep blue and indigo to orange, pink and gold. I raised my glass. “Buenos Dias Havana!”