Wrongly Accused

I started arguing the idea of me been a C.I.A. agent. Colonel Martinez told me that they found “communist-opposing” pamphlets all over Cuba and that the reason I was circling the island, was because I was instigating some sort of anti-Castro propaganda—from my aircraft.

At the end he just laughed and said that he lied because he wanted to see my reaction. What a sick bastard I thought. His behavior was so unbecoming that it contradicted his rank.

Anyhow, a few more days had gone by before we were informed that we would leave the island. Johnny and I were thrilled but a small part of me was nervous. I thought that it might be a sick hoax from the Colonel who loved to indulge in pathetic trickery just to get a kick out of watching us squirm.

We were escorted to the lobby and then to the cashier. He told us that we’d have to pay for the 18 days of room service we rendered. The lady behind the desk started to add vouchers. One after the other she penciled the sums onto a piece of paper, adding the figures with meticulous precision—so it seemed. There were too many I thought, but I didn’t care just as long as we were able to get out safely.

After tallying the room costs, the cashier told me that the 20,000 dollars I had in my account was the exact amount of my stay. I could not believe the rip-off. It was the most audacious non-sense I’ve ever heard. I figured that the repugnant and shameful scheme was the norm in Cuba. The people would bear the burden of having the government do with them as they pleased, and heaven help them if they refuted those burdens by any means.

We rode in a Russian jeep to the airport and on the way there, passed through the main square in the city. People were walking peacefully by, running their errands and tending to their pressing matters. It dawned on me that the Colonel was just trying to impress us by saying that in the city, there were no beggars. I secretly agreed, but it was equally true that the store-fronts were naked, having nothing to display in their windows and consequently nothing to provide its public.

This was heart-breaking for me. My beloved country, one I remembered fondly, one that nurtured my childhood from its fertile bosoms, had succumbed to immeasurable devastation. This was what the Castro regime brought to Cuba.

We finally made it to our aircraft and we found it exactly how we left it. When allowed to inspect it, I realized that the fuel tanks were contaminated with water because of the condensation. Non-the-less, they were still functional.

My desperation to leave was so great that I didn’t argue or complain the issue. Johnny and I immediately entered the aircraft, strapped ourselves in, and readied ourselves for take-off.

We got clearance to fly to Maisi (the eastern part of Guantanamo Province) by V.F.R. (visual fly rule) and then to Haiti, only 45 miles away.

The panoramic view over the green mountainous land and its surrounding breathtaking beaches was so mesmerizing that I became nostalgic and reborn again in that brief moment.

From Haiti the next day, we traveled to Colombia. Our horrific nightmare wasn’t over yet. The journey only got nastier and far more dangerous as soon as we entered the terrain of Barranquilla.

Terror In Cuba

When we arrived at a hotel in the city of Holguin, they took me in a hurry to an empty office. A guy in civilian clothes sat adjacent to an empty chair—this one waiting for me—while a dim lamp hung over the wooden table that stood between us. I remember it being unforgivably hot and the fan with metal blades that swayed from side to side did nothing to alleviate the intense suffocating air.

A few feet away, a lady sat behind an old Olivetti typewriter who would jot down the testimony I would supposedly give. The man looked at me with a serious poker face and introduced himself as Colonel Lopez from the Department of State. His bitty eyes told me he was a ruthless man. He began to talk and the lady started to press the typewriter buttons with her semi-pudgy fingers.

Colonel Lopez was naturally relaxed—like he had done this a million times before—while exhaling an unfiltered cigarette that made the room much more unbearable and increasingly hazy to see. He scratched his eyes and yawned, looked at his watch, and asked me the same question over and over again.

“What were you doing in Cuban territory?”

“I got lost.” I replied every single time.

After about an hour of this pathetic inquisition, I believe he grew tired. He stood up, got in my face, and expressed his annoyance.

“I don’t believe you!” I didn’t say a word. I just kept quiet.

For the next few days the interrogations were conducted religiously. We were met with barrages of accusations and criticism three to four times a night.

Soon, it was New Year’s Eve and I remember that I still had the 100 dollar bill in my tennis shoe. Johnny and I wanted to celebrate so I slowly opened the door of our room and caught the attention of the guards who approached me. I told one of them to bring us a bottle of Russian vodka but he flat-out refused. I knew then that I’d have to be more persuasive if I wanted anything to break the monotony of our days in captivity. So in my usual flirtatious way, showed him the 100 dollar bill and explained all the things he could do with that amount of money. It didn’t work. He stood his ground and firmly rejected my offer.

In a way I was stunned. I thought that his loyalty to Castro’s cause was deeply embedded since money—the most popular form of “buying” people—didn’t lure him in the least.

But, minutes later, the guard showed up with a bottle of Russian vodka and a small grin on his lips. Johnny and I got stupid drunk. We just didn’t give a fuck about the condition they’d find us in.

Sure enough, when they entered our room, we started to laugh and they became infuriated. They saw the empty bottle on the nightstand and asked us where we had gotten it from. We didn’t budge or peep a word.

However, they figured it out and the next day there were two new officers guarding our door.

Interrogation: Part 2

So far the drive ran smoothly for us. It was around 1:30 in the morning when we arrived at the lobby of one of the best hotels in town called Pernik. We had spent at least 3 hours at the airport terminal and now we were to settle in for the night. It was the end of November and some people who looked like foreigners were having fun at the bar a few feet away from the reception area. The coronel told us to go ahead and deposit all the money we had with the cashier who would give us a room. My friend and I couldn’t believe how hospitable they were. I guess since I was from the same country, they took this into consideration, so I thought.

Our room had two single beds. The coronel told us to rest and that the next day he would return to pay us a visit. Two armed guards with assault rifles and pistols, and the strictest of orders, were placed at the foot of our door to ensure that we didn’t leave under any circumstances.

That night we hardly slept. I asked Johnny about his interrogation and he told me that it was conducted the same way as mine, vague and unsubstantiated.

I finally fell asleep—about 2 hours’ worth—and got up around 7 in the morning to a hungry stomach. There was no menu anywhere in the room to call for service, and the telephone on the night stand between the two beds was old with no buttons to push. I grabbed the receiver and waited for someone to answer on the other end. Suddenly, a lady appeared and spoke to me in a rude and raspy voice. I informed her that we wanted to have breakfast but she replied that the only thing available was “bocaditos,” (miniature sandwich made of soft roll with spam ham inside it) and Hatuey beer. Frustrated, annoyed, and a bit appalled, I hung up. There was no way I was going to have beer that early in the morning.

Ten minutes later the lady rang the room again asking if we were the gentlemen who arrived from the United States the night before. I confirmed her inquiry and she immediately raised the embargo by first apologizing and then saying that we could have whatever we wanted. I remember we ordered steak and eggs and freshly squeezed orange juice. An hour later they brought in a small mini bar with all kinds of goodies inside. Much to my surprise, I found out that local tourists were treated poorly as opposed to “posh” guests. There were no house menus for them only a few bad items from a meager list. The hotel menus were reserved for international tourists with dollars to spend.

As time went on, we grew increasingly bored but most of all, we worried about the situation. Right around 2 p.m., I heard some noise outside. I opened the window to see what the ruckus was about and saw several rows of youngsters marching while praising Fidel with accolades that they sang from the tips of their vocal chords. They were the “Pioneros” (pioneers: young Cubans who are immersed in politics and patriotism to keep the revolution alive).

The scene made me remember my own childhood when school professors tried to brain-wash me. They infested my head with stories about Fidel and his revolution and they would place a red and blue bandana around my neck like the ones that the marchers wore to convert me into a little soldier. One day, my mom had had enough so she raced to the school to confront Ms. Raquel, the school principal, and threw the garment at her saying that her son was no communist.

By night fall we were hungry again. There was nothing else we could do but order room service. We were literally trapped within those four walls and the uncertainty of things just kept mounting and picking at our nerves.

We had hamburgers and fries with a few beers from the mini-bar before we retired for the night. Even though we were fidgety and restless, the hunger had gotten the best of us. Our famished condition had become too unbearable to tame.

Around 2:00 in the morning armed guards swarmed into our room and aggressively woke us up ordering Johnny and I to follow them in a hurry. This is when our nightmare began.

Interrogation: Part 1

No more than 10 minutes had gone by when we were already surrounded by army trucks carrying soldiers. Johnny and I exited the plane with our hands in the air and they immediately dismounted and ordered us to lie on the tarmac. One of them frisked us for weapons. They didn’t find anything except a bag that contained my passport, wallet, and $20,000 dollars in $100.00 bills held tightly together with a rubber-band.

The main guy gave us the order to get up from the ground and then asked me how much money was in the bag. He observed it with his flash light and didn’t even bat an eyelid when I answered. We were ordered to board the plane again and follow them to the main terminal as he flipped the bag back at me. One jeep escorted us up front while another trailed us from behind until we reached the Holguin City terminal where two big portraits rested on top of the roof overlooking the facade with lights on either side of them. One was of Calixto Garcia, a hero from the region when the War of Independence took place, and the other was of Fidel Castro.

Right away, while in the privacy of the aircraft, I decided to take a one hundred dollar bill and slip it inside the sole of my right tennis shoe, just for good measure.

Moments later we made it into the terminal’s lobby and they sat us in separate areas. We didn’t even have time—in the cockpit—to concoct a plan that coincided with each other’s story once the interrogation got under way. We knew that that was coming. We weren’t told we were under arrest but we knew that the siege was just the same.

The Coronel in charge sat across me and with a stone cold look, stared me right in the face. Before long he started asking questions.

“Why were you flying over Cuba?”

“We got lost.” I could tell by his expression that he didn’t believe me.

“Where were you headed?”

“Great Inagua…”

“You have a Cuban accent. What part of Cuba were you born?”

“In Havana…” I kept my answers short. I didn’t want to lead him on. Concealing my identity was of crucial importance.

He then asked me for my passport and I proceeded to open my bag extracting the little booklet. I handed it to him and he observed it, browsing the pages meticulously and with inquisitive eyes. He fixed his stare on me holding it while rising from his chair, and then directed his attention to the other group of policemen that were interrogating my friend Johnny.

Minutes later we abandoned the airport in a Russian car that was followed by two jeeps full of armed guards. I could tell we were heading towards the city. The increasing traffic clearly indicated that we were entering the metropolis.

Devil In The Sky

Mikoyan-Gurevich MiG-21 (Photo credit: Armchair Aviator)

It was around 6:00 p.m. when I took off from Tamiami Airport. The day was beginning to fall and Johnny and I were in a hurry to make it to Great Inagua, one of the southeastern Bahamian islands to refuel before continuing route to La Guajira, Colombia.

The strategic plan consisted of the following: Johnny, a good friend of mine, would travel with me across Atlantic waters and board another plane once we got to La Guajira that would have a “load” ([kilos of] cocaine) ready to bring back to the U.S.

The “Aztec” (aircraft) was flying smoothly when all of the sudden and only 120 miles from our destination; I started to experience problems with the left engine. It was overheating so I reduced the velocity. For a second there I thought I was in control but nothing prepared me for what came next. A ferocious thunderstorm was moving west towards us and the A.D.F. (automatic direction finder) decided to pull and submerge the aircraft into the demonic vortex of lightning, rain and wind, like a magnetic force in its most powerful mode. Deeper and deeper we were being rendered, taken over by a vicious beast without yield or mercy. In between lightning strikes, strong winds would shake the plane from side to side moving us in our seats like limp puppets even though we were strapped to them. The air bumps gave the impression that we were driving over rocky terrain at 100 miles per hour and the metal seemed to not withstand the power of the rain, it being maneuvered like a pathetic ragged toy that was being stomped and thrown around without forgiveness. It was an experience that possessed us with inescapable and unfathomable terror.

After a short while, the nightmare worsened. I realized we were running out of gas having only 20 minutes worth in our tip tanks, and the plane was pushed out of its course. There was no visual sign of land anywhere. The panic and relentless feeling of doom reached me. I was in hell and thought that my death had seduced me in the worst possible way.

Miraculously, the winds and rain gradually started to lessen. The sky cleared and we eased into gentle air in the subdued night. I could see ground but knew that this was not Bahamas or its sister islands. Still, I had to land no matter what so I lowered my altitude. There were lights in the distance indicating civilization so I progressed in that direction. However, once I got closer, I realized that I was in fact headed towards mountains. I quickly reacted and lifted the plane to avoid hitting the vehicles that were stopping for their safety. From all of the sudden I found an airstrip. Once again, I lowered the aircraft and zeroed in. Finally, we made it to dry land and I taxied the steal beast in a nook. I looked to my left and saw that there was a lit hangar which caused me to get kind of nervous. The anxiety was further heightened when I noticed Russian Mig-21’s (military combat aircrafts) under it with Cuban flags on its tails.

Now I knew I was in trouble and a lot of things raced through my head. What was I going to tell the authorities? Would they believe my story? If they found out I was a drug-smuggler, they’d probably put me in front of a wall and shoot me like an animal. Oh God, how was I going to get out of this one? How would I convey myself to be nothing but a traveling man who got wrapped up in the thresholds of an evil storm? This remained to be seen.

Dear John

After a month in Cuba—several miserable weeks of exhaustion, sleep deprivation, intense heat, and uncertainty—we finally made it back to Miami. My cousin’s stepfather, the person who hired me to help bring his daughter and husband back to America, received a note saying that they weren’t going to make the flee after all, opting and preferring to stay in their familiar habitat.

A few days later I embarked on another trip to Colombia. I landed as usual in the middle of the jungle where a small make-shift bump dirt road secluded from the rest of the country, served as the runway and where strip lights made of 55 gallon drums on either side of it, was utilized to guide planes in and out of the forest. Sometimes during take-off, the load was so heavy it was almost impossible to maneuver the plane over the trees.

On my return to Miami, I decided to pay a visit to my new friend John. I called him up and he gave me instructions to his house. I remember him telling me that he had a mansion on Palm Island, one of the best and exclusive areas in Miami Beach. As soon as I got there, I realized he wasn’t kidding. The place looked immaculate, more like a royal palace than an estate.

Two big husky guys, who held guns tightly around their waste and in plain view, met me at the front entrance and escorted me around the house and into the pool area towards the back. At this point in time, a lot of things raced through my head. First the nice boat, then the lucrative mansion with half-a-million dollar sport cars parked in the fore, and the two goons that were paid to ensure his protection, quickly gave me the impression that he was a “high roller.”

John waited for me in a plain white t-shirt and navy blue shorts. He was playing with Kyle and Ninja, his two trained Rottweiler’s while Led Zeppelins “Whole Lotta Love” seeped out of several miniature speakers tucked away in surrounding bushes and from a few nestled enclaves in the concrete ground. As soon as he saw me, he approached with a lit joint in hand, offering it and edging me to take a toke as if it were a welcoming ritual. After the typical greeting and brief chit-chat, he proceeded to take me to his game room where he’d entertain and talk business. This one I swear looked like a full decked out arcade with memorabilia hanging from the walls and art deco pieces and lava lamps neatly situated in their place. Even the lighting could be manipulated to enhance the mood and ambiance. It seemed that the several video games, slot machines, and two beautiful wooden carved pool tables that stretched across the floor, could be added to his other priced possessions. The man lived large; he liked to splurge and didn’t mind the expense as long as it made him feel good.

A few drinks later we negotiated a deal. I of course brought him cocaine to taste—it was customary for the client to try out the product, testing (it) for quality and substance—and even though he was already confident that my stuff was organic, he still needed to show face, to let me know he was a serious business man who wasn’t just going to take my word for it. Once again, he fell in love. After the first hit, he had succumbed to its intensity, alluring him more and more into its trenches with every passing second. It was the best in town he conceited, better than the supply he was getting from a Cuban girl in her 20’s. Hers was not the real thing whereas mine was pure and direct from the Andes Mountains.

Taking Flight

1979 was when I officially began flying drugs into the U.S. I was hired by a tight cartel organization in Colombia, whose operations were so massive and so diligent, that they became the only source big enough—monopolizing and claiming exclusivity—to handle the transportation and importation of large quantities of narcotics into American soil.

Even though I was making a lot of money, I wasn’t very happy. Having to watch my back all the time and living under suspicion of everyone, created a sense of neurosis and restlessness in me. Delivery was the most dangerous job of trafficking and I had to responsibly ensure my end of the bargain no matter what. The business of flying low, under radar detection and dumping the merchandise in the Atlantic Ocean along Bahamian waters where Cubans like my-self would retrieve them onto boats and take them into Miami, was a risky and often times, wreck-less one.

A year later in the summer of 1980, there was a huge change in the city of Miami with the “Mariel Boat Lift” move. More than 100,000 Cuban’s were given clemency by Castro and allowed to abandon the island on exodus boats headed for the city just 120 miles off the Mariel Harbor of Cuba. The beginning of an era of violence in South Florida took flight, when among families, were a wave of criminals released from Cuban jails.

By that time I had bought a small 32 footer boat from my uncle and was living with my wife on the outskirts of the city. At the crack of dawn one day my cousins and their step-father arrived at my doorstep to ask if I could help his daughter and her husband defect Cuba since Castro was allowing boats to pick-up family members from the harbor. He offered me $10,000 and the next thing I knew—because the challenge of the voyage was more exciting to me than the money, I didn’t need it, I was banking on my own—we were stocked to the gills with all kinds of provisions and left Key West towards the island. 12 hours later we were at the port of Mariel, west of Havana. It took us forever to get there because the engine broke down and we started to drift. Luckily, we managed to fix it and resumed our mission.

After 2 weeks in the port of Mariel along with hundreds of other exodus boats, I started to get anxious. We thought that as long as families in Cuba knew that we were there to pick them-up, everything would proceed quickly. A lot of us came to the conclusion that this was some kind of a set-up by Castro who had trapped us for ransom money. A tornado even came through the port and sank many boats forcing men to get into other vessels and head back to Miami. It was a real nightmare, a frustrating ordeal. The events of nature as well as the chaotic and unorganized dealings with the regime, made it hellish for many people to follow through.

A few days from the time I arrived, at around 3 a.m., I was fishing from my boat while drinking a beer. I guess I could not sleep because of my cocaine high. All of the sudden, from out of the dark, I heard a pounding noise that seemed to come from a powerful engine hitting the water. Before I could blink, I caught glimpse of this beautiful sleek Cigarette boat heading in my direction. I could tell that the long blond-haired American hippie-type behind the wheel, was trying to find a spot to “anchor.” In my perfectly half-dazed state I hollered at him to roll up next to me. He was so thankful that out of gratitude, invited me on-board and also to the best marijuana I had had in months, ending my involuntary sabbatical. He explained that he had just made it in from Key West less than 3 hours to fool around with some Cuban friends on the island. I knew I had to show off with something so I produced the ounce of cocaine I took for my personal use and shared it with him. As soon as he took a “hit,” he was enthralled. He asked to buy a kilo (from me) once we got back home and from that point on, we became the best of friends. His name was John.