Airport Adventure
You haven't really entered Cuba until you have cleared the exacting routines in the airport. In the newly remodeled, but still old terminal that US passengers use, you walk in from the apron where the planes stop, enter the building, and stop at a red line to wait for the next available immigration clerk. But the authorities are good and have provided plenty of clerks to move us opn through. My clerk was a nice young woman, who asked me to step back a pace for a camera to take my picture. As soon as that was finished, and with practically no questions, I was buzzed through to the security check and baggage area. The man waved me through the metal detector, and my sport jacket went through the x-ray in a plastic tub.
Again, there were no questions until I was suddenly free to find my two checked bags. I've always admired the way the British cue up for for lines at ticket counters, but I don't think they do it at baggage carrousels. There, and everywhere else, people get up next to the carrousel, and even if you are lucky enough to see your bag, you can't penetrate the forest of people crowded against the moving belt. Eventually through you get there, grab your bag, and turn to face more of the crowd to try to get out. There must be a better way.
And while there were plenty of immigration clerks in their little kiosks, there weren't enough baggage handlers. When the first truckload of bags from our flight was exhausted, there was a long wait while the crew went back to the plane and off-loaded more bags. As luck would have it, my second bag made the second truck with 10 minutes waiting between trucks.
You finally arrive in Cuba when your bags piled on a push cart pass by another clerk collecting baggage tags, and you're through the doors to the outside. The four of us traveling together had 14 bags on two carts, and we scanned the crowd of people meeting travelers for Nora, but could not find her. We progressed slowly to the curbside where the taxis stop without seeing her, and then it happened.
I lifted the front end of one cart and then the other in a little space at sidewalk level and turned to look back at the crowd, searching for Nora. I moved back toward most of the people. No Nora. I stepped down into a little wheelchair ramp, while looking at faces for Nora's. The next step did me in as my left foot swung forward and struck a rough spot in the pavement, pitching me forward in an uncontrolled fall toward the curb in front of me. My head hit the sidewalk and curb with a violent blow, and I felt sure I would not be able to get up again. But now the many people around was an advantage. Several grabbed my arms and body and righted me, and I felt a dizzying pain as I began to gather my bearings. Many asked if I was OK, and I said, "I think so."
An airport worker called the medics, and I was guided toward the building again, bleeding from my forehead, nose and lip. We went into a little nurse's office. Bob was with me, so I didn't worry about the bags or the others in my party. There in the nurses quarters, began 45 minutes of exams and treatment of my wounds. The pain subsided, my handkerchief was soaked with blood, and they convinced me to stop dabbing at the wounds so they could keep them sterile. The dizziness and disorientation subsided, and I eventually made my way back with a nurse guiding me to my fellow travelers. Bob was with me, and the others were still with the bags. Finally, Nora apparently had seen me but couldn't make her way through the crowd or make enough noise to catch our attention. We connected, and I was soon seated in her borrowed van, the bags were loaded, and we were off, hardly comprehending what had happened to me. I was wearing a bandage on the bridge of my nose to remind me of my airport adventure.
Les Inglis
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
I'll Stand By You
I'll Stand By You
It was 1996, and we were in Washington DC on the Mall in front of the Capitol taking part in the second national March for Animals. That event and another in 1990 was put on by the National Alliance for Animals. Washington DC is a long way to go for most Americans, but this was a very special cause for Charlene and me. It was all about moving the nation toward a more respectful attitude toward all animals. The assembled marchers were promoting the rights of animals and the protection of animals.
We were somewhat disappointed with the turnout for the march. Six years earlier the crowds were larger, their spirits a little higher. Estimating how many actually show up for a demonstration at the Capitol is a political game. If it's your demonstration, you see the attendance as higher, and if it's a group you don't like, your estimates are a little lower, so I didn't play the numbers for either march, but the first was clearly larger.
We were also concerned that another group had chosen the same day for a demonstration at the Capitol. It was a gay and lesbian group, although I can't remember the group's name. But I'll always remember what they did. It was one of those insufferably hot summer days with the temperature over 90, and humidity to match. The sun beat down on all the demonstrators as we milled around at the foot of the huge flights of Capitol steps on the west side of the building. The only drinking water around was a running garden hose laying in one of the closed off streets. I finally decided it couldn't be too dirty, having been running for more than an hour. I drank from it after a number of others had done so.
We wondered where the gay group was and worried a little that they might upstage our efforts for the animals, but we needn't have. Soon, we heard strong familiar piano chords introducing a beautiful female voice. "That's Chrissie Hynde," someone said. "I think she's here for the gays." Well, she was here for us too. At the top of the stairs, they appeared marching to the music single file down both sides of the central stairway. Leading the left side was Dan Mathews, a 6' 5" animal rights hero and Vice President of People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals. There was no question both groups were united that day, as Chrissie Hynde was sitting on Dan's shoulders belting out her megahit, "I'll Stand ByYou." The animal rights demonstrators were stricken with the friendly gesture and so moved by the soulful rock music. I wasn't the only one wiping a tear away from my eye.
When the night falls on you
Don't know what to do…
I'll stand by you.
The gays filed down the stairs and mixed in with our crowd until no one knew who was from what group. We were suddenly one big family. The haunting music was repeated until all the people were on the mall level, when Chrissie and the band found shade under one of the huge trees. Rejuvenated, invigorated, everyone knew both demonstrations had become wildly successful. I walked over by the tree and saw Chrissie there stretched out on the cool grass. I wanted to tell her how much her music meant to all of us, but, being a little shy, I stayed silent and moved on. After all, the value of her contribution was obvious.
You're standing at the crossroads
Don't know which path to choose…
I'll stand by you.
Ever since that day, whenever we hear Chrissie sing that song, Charlene and I have an emotional moment. I think that's what inspired Charlene to use "I'll Stand ByYou" for the background music for our new The Aniplant Project slideshow. It's a really artistic tribute to suffering animals everywhere. It is dedicated to World Stray Animals Day, today, April 4, 2012. To see it, if you are on our mailing list, you'll get an emailing from Charlene with a link to the slideshow. Be sure your sound is on and click the link.
Les Inglis
It was 1996, and we were in Washington DC on the Mall in front of the Capitol taking part in the second national March for Animals. That event and another in 1990 was put on by the National Alliance for Animals. Washington DC is a long way to go for most Americans, but this was a very special cause for Charlene and me. It was all about moving the nation toward a more respectful attitude toward all animals. The assembled marchers were promoting the rights of animals and the protection of animals.
We were somewhat disappointed with the turnout for the march. Six years earlier the crowds were larger, their spirits a little higher. Estimating how many actually show up for a demonstration at the Capitol is a political game. If it's your demonstration, you see the attendance as higher, and if it's a group you don't like, your estimates are a little lower, so I didn't play the numbers for either march, but the first was clearly larger.
We were also concerned that another group had chosen the same day for a demonstration at the Capitol. It was a gay and lesbian group, although I can't remember the group's name. But I'll always remember what they did. It was one of those insufferably hot summer days with the temperature over 90, and humidity to match. The sun beat down on all the demonstrators as we milled around at the foot of the huge flights of Capitol steps on the west side of the building. The only drinking water around was a running garden hose laying in one of the closed off streets. I finally decided it couldn't be too dirty, having been running for more than an hour. I drank from it after a number of others had done so.
We wondered where the gay group was and worried a little that they might upstage our efforts for the animals, but we needn't have. Soon, we heard strong familiar piano chords introducing a beautiful female voice. "That's Chrissie Hynde," someone said. "I think she's here for the gays." Well, she was here for us too. At the top of the stairs, they appeared marching to the music single file down both sides of the central stairway. Leading the left side was Dan Mathews, a 6' 5" animal rights hero and Vice President of People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals. There was no question both groups were united that day, as Chrissie Hynde was sitting on Dan's shoulders belting out her megahit, "I'll Stand ByYou." The animal rights demonstrators were stricken with the friendly gesture and so moved by the soulful rock music. I wasn't the only one wiping a tear away from my eye.
When the night falls on you
Don't know what to do…
I'll stand by you.
The gays filed down the stairs and mixed in with our crowd until no one knew who was from what group. We were suddenly one big family. The haunting music was repeated until all the people were on the mall level, when Chrissie and the band found shade under one of the huge trees. Rejuvenated, invigorated, everyone knew both demonstrations had become wildly successful. I walked over by the tree and saw Chrissie there stretched out on the cool grass. I wanted to tell her how much her music meant to all of us, but, being a little shy, I stayed silent and moved on. After all, the value of her contribution was obvious.
You're standing at the crossroads
Don't know which path to choose…
I'll stand by you.
Ever since that day, whenever we hear Chrissie sing that song, Charlene and I have an emotional moment. I think that's what inspired Charlene to use "I'll Stand ByYou" for the background music for our new The Aniplant Project slideshow. It's a really artistic tribute to suffering animals everywhere. It is dedicated to World Stray Animals Day, today, April 4, 2012. To see it, if you are on our mailing list, you'll get an emailing from Charlene with a link to the slideshow. Be sure your sound is on and click the link.
Les Inglis
Sunday, April 1, 2012
Taxi Ride on a Dark Night
Taxi Ride on a Dark Night
One night on my last trip to Havana, our little group decided to take in some Cuban music at a show at the Havana Club. We made a reservation and took a taxi to Old Havana where the Havana Club puts on nightly shows. One reason I like Cuban music events is because Nora is so well connected with the entertainers. She had been adopted as a girl by María Alvarez Rios, a famous author, singer, and songwriter. The other reason is I just like Cuban music.
I was a little worried about how we would get back to the hotel, as the shows end very late in a dark, older part of town. But I needn't have worried. It turned out the Havana Club is only two short blocks from the Central Park area where the cabs are plentiful at all hours.
When the show ended, we walked out, and right away we encountered an old taxi big enough for the five of us. The cabbie said it would be 10CUC, and I agreed, even though getting to the show had only cost 6CUC. I rationalized the difference because of the late hour.
When you get in an old cab in Cuba, you are dealing with a private businessman, not a cab company. Checking the fare ahead of time saves misunderstandings and swindles, although to be fair, I think swindles are no more common in Cuba than in the US. Anyway, we piled in and started off.
In a few blocks we were in unfamiliar territory, but I still had a sense we were going in the right direction. The cab driver turned into a gas station that almost looked unattended. The driver asked me to pay the 10CUC's now so he could use it for gas. Normally I like to pay for a taxi when I get where I'm going, but judging by the condition of the car I understood how he could have started out across town without enough gas to get there, and anyway we needed gas to get back. He took the money, pumped the gas, and we got on our way again.
We got to the hotel without further incident, and I gave the driver a tip, realizing his budget was a lot tighter than mine. On reflecting about our ride later, this was a private enterprise, budding and trying to grow in the midst of one of the last bastions of Communism. Here was a guy piloting an old wreck he had probably fixed while it was up on blocks in front of his house. And there he sat on a dark, deserted street, hoping to get the jump on some of the newer fleet cabs a couple of blocks away by being right there when the show let out. Competition,—one of the bugaboos of communism—was alive and well that night in Old Havana.
Our driver was a capitalist, an entrepreneur—living by his wits and managing his resources, in this case gas and money, as tightly as he could.
I had to admire his venturesome spirit.
Les Inglis
One night on my last trip to Havana, our little group decided to take in some Cuban music at a show at the Havana Club. We made a reservation and took a taxi to Old Havana where the Havana Club puts on nightly shows. One reason I like Cuban music events is because Nora is so well connected with the entertainers. She had been adopted as a girl by María Alvarez Rios, a famous author, singer, and songwriter. The other reason is I just like Cuban music.
I was a little worried about how we would get back to the hotel, as the shows end very late in a dark, older part of town. But I needn't have worried. It turned out the Havana Club is only two short blocks from the Central Park area where the cabs are plentiful at all hours.
When the show ended, we walked out, and right away we encountered an old taxi big enough for the five of us. The cabbie said it would be 10CUC, and I agreed, even though getting to the show had only cost 6CUC. I rationalized the difference because of the late hour.
When you get in an old cab in Cuba, you are dealing with a private businessman, not a cab company. Checking the fare ahead of time saves misunderstandings and swindles, although to be fair, I think swindles are no more common in Cuba than in the US. Anyway, we piled in and started off.
In a few blocks we were in unfamiliar territory, but I still had a sense we were going in the right direction. The cab driver turned into a gas station that almost looked unattended. The driver asked me to pay the 10CUC's now so he could use it for gas. Normally I like to pay for a taxi when I get where I'm going, but judging by the condition of the car I understood how he could have started out across town without enough gas to get there, and anyway we needed gas to get back. He took the money, pumped the gas, and we got on our way again.
We got to the hotel without further incident, and I gave the driver a tip, realizing his budget was a lot tighter than mine. On reflecting about our ride later, this was a private enterprise, budding and trying to grow in the midst of one of the last bastions of Communism. Here was a guy piloting an old wreck he had probably fixed while it was up on blocks in front of his house. And there he sat on a dark, deserted street, hoping to get the jump on some of the newer fleet cabs a couple of blocks away by being right there when the show let out. Competition,—one of the bugaboos of communism—was alive and well that night in Old Havana.
Our driver was a capitalist, an entrepreneur—living by his wits and managing his resources, in this case gas and money, as tightly as he could.
I had to admire his venturesome spirit.
Les Inglis
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