Tale #4 - To catch a thief, with great Cuban gusto

And on the fourth day, the posse got their man.

So, me and my posse – at least good chunk of the 45 amigas – went to Niquero to take in the carnival. This once-a-year hoopla draws a crowd, to put it mildly. When we arrived in the late afternoon, the parade was on and the streets were packed. We had to wriggle our way through the crowd, doing the odd limbo under ropes, to achieve sanctuary at the Niquero Hotel, where we were to dine that evening.

I looked around and saw some loonie-sized eyes. Culture shock in mild degrees. The crowd we were politely fighting our way through seemed somewhat surprised to see us slightly pink and white women passing among all the lovely brown people, in all their varying shades. This party was not being put on for the tourists; it was a genuine hometown hoe-down.

We'd been warned that such a crowd draws pickpockets, so I kept close watch on that purse of mine, as did the other amigas, all the way to the hotel. After a tasty and filling dinner, we turned about and headed back down the humanity-clogged street toward the open area where the bands were scheduled to play in a few hours. Some of us were very much looking forward to the live performances, although others were already tired from being in the hot sun.

[ASIDE: As a foretaste of music to come, we had the chance to meet Niquero's homegrown national star, Raul Lora. During dinner, Leticia, our quick-thinking tour guide, recognized him in the lobby, rushed out and invited  him to greet our group in the dining room. Cute as a puppy, he has a great smile and the camera loves him, as do most members of the female persuasion. We learned that his birthday was the following day, so the posse sang "Happy Birthday" to Raul. He grinned broadly but didn't return a tuneful note! Saving his voice for the concert, I guess.]

But, let's go back to the street. Following dinner and dessert (eye candy, that is!), we began wending our way through the crowd. One amiga, Karen, walked single file in front of her daughter, so Kaitlin could monitor her mother's backpack, which contained all their valuables. As I found out later, Kaitlin had smacked away the hand of a man who tried to reach into the backpack, and then felt her camera being yanked from its pouch, which was across her shoulder.

Kaitlin yelled "Help!" and dashed after the mugger, mother hot on her heels. However, by the time they charged past me, Karen was flagging. I saw her stop, panting and looking stricken. I followed her eyes and saw her beautiful blond daughter disappearing down a dark alley with about 20 men running along with her.

I did not know what had happened. Perhaps a purse or passport had been stolen. Was someone hurt? All I knew was that I could not let that child out of my sight – she was my amiga, part of my posse. I started running. (For those of you who know me, please pick your chins up off the floor and close your yaps.) Yes, I ran. After about 20 years of walking or skipping briefly, I ran. In my skirt and cheap, glittery thong sandals, I ran.

I caught up with Kaitlin as she was wearying. We held hands and kept running. The pursuing crowd had grown. Three dozen people, maybe more, were charging through the dark, muddy streets with us – or, by this point, mostly ahead of us. When we came to an intersection, some went this way and others went that way, leaping puddles in either direction.

Eventually, the perpetrator was cornered in a cement-block house that was under construction. He leaped through an unfinished window and darted into the bushes. I dug out my small but mighty Petzl headlamp and did my best to illuminate the shrubbery.

Within moments of the robber being trapped in the home's back yard, the police zoomed up in a trio of white Ladas . They had a much better spotlight. We had to leap out of their way as they sprang into action. Karen had caught up with us by then, so the three of us joined hands and stood, somewhat symbolically, beneath the sole street light.

Somewhere amid all this chaos, a woman from the madding crowd accosted me with agitated gestures. She kept saying "Dinero?! Dinero?!" Was I supposed to bribe the officers? It was not clear. Eventually, I ascertained that she was asking if money had been stolen – no, just the camera.

At one point, poor dear Kaitlin commented, "The camera is not worth it!" It was several years old, she said, and not in great shape. But, the crowd was eager to assist and the local constabulary had been having a slow night; once the wheels are rolling, there's no stopping until the mission is accomplished. And so, it was.

The bad guy was shipped off to the police station. We exhaled. Then, through vociferous hand signs, we were directed to get into the back a cop Lada. We complied. What else could we do? So, picture this: three normal-sized women with hips (we nicely filled the backseat) being asked to shove over so a large plain-clothes police officer could add his bulk to the rear payload. I think he must have been holding the door shut because, even with Kaitlin plunked on my and Karen's laps, I can't imagine how the guy closed the car's door. But, we were rolling.

Once at the police station, we quickly discovered that they spoke no English and we spoke no Spanish, to speak of. In my broken bits of sentences, I stated: "Un momento, por favor! El autobús. Translator." I dashed off down the street towards where our tour bus was parked, mentally calling to my friends to bring Leticia. They got the message; she and our bus driver, Jose Alberto, met me very near the bus.

The three of us hurried to the police station. By this time, mother and daughter had already identified the thief in a line-up. Pointing a finger is universal.

Leticia immediately availed herself and was closeted in the bowels of the building, along with Kaitlin and an assortment of officers, for the next two and a half hours. Meanwhile, Karen and I hung out on the front porch of the police station with Jose Alberto, intermittent officers, somebody's wife and a couple of random children. I passed out gum.

Somewhere along the timeline, an officer wandered in, carefully wiping a camera. Someone had found it in a puddle, where the thief had thrown it. Although the lens was shattered, Kaitlin was able to salvage her photo card, which was of most importance to her.

As the evening wore on, I hiked down the street a couple of times to check in the with posse occasionally. By about 11 p.m., they were getting understandably hot and restless. "Jose," I prompted, "el autobús – frio, por favor." Bright and handsome young man that he is, and unusually tall for Cuba, he got it. In short order, he'd moved the bus, parking it in front of the police station, and cranked up the air conditioner. Amigas were soon snoozing cooly.

The police paperwork was winding down. Later, Kaitlin told me, the interview time was protracted because the officer taking her statement typed with a slow form of the traditional international hunt-and-peck strategy. And, the official police printer got jammed as it was trying to burp up the proper sign-here documents.

By about 11:30 that night, we were finally underway back to the resort. It was later than we'd planned to return but nobody complained. En route, I passed my newly acquired cowboy hat among the amigas who were still awake and split the tips evenly between our dear driver and equally dear tour guide. All's well that ends well.

Yes, it ended well for us. The thief will likely do jail time. The thugs, hopefully, have learned not to mess with my posse!

For anyone reading this tale, I hope you will learn the same lesson as the members of my posse. Muggings can happen anywhere, we agreed. But, where in North America would you have dozens of people who don't know you dash off after a criminal? Where would you have so many people immediately mobilized to assist you? Not in Toronto, or even Huntsville!

People in Cuba are willing to help, no questions asked. They will help strangers as readily as locals. They will go out of their way to help. This was demonstrated to me, time and again, during my most resent stay at Club Amigo Marea del Portillo. Do I need any more reason to love this country, these people?

Tale #3 - Picking up friends on the Cuban byways

When in the rural region of Granma, where I love to travel in Cuba, if you rent a car, you frequently find yourself picking up friends on any roadtrip. In fact, it seems almost rude to roll with an empty car. However, Harvey, I play it safe – when I'm driving alone, I only pick up people I recognize, and women.

One afternoon, I stopped for a young man I remembered from a previous trip, and he remembered me too. At that time, he had wanted to practice his English, and he proved quite pleasant to chat with. Since returning home to Canada, we have become virtual penpals, and I am helping him with his written English. He's got a good head on his shoulders, even though he's never lived anywhere but Pilon in his 22 years, and doesn't particularly want to live elsewhere.

On another day while returning from Pilon, heading back to the resort, I invited a woman to sit in the front passenger seat. As I drove, I glanced over at her and saw that she was holding a dark blue cloth bag in her lap. Emblazoned upon it was my store logo: "reVIBE! ~ reclaimed clothing and eco-eclectics." I had taken about three bags there in April. What are the odds that I'd come across a woman I didn't know, happily using one?

Turned out, we had an amigo in common – Agustin! She pointed to her shirt and pants, explaining that he had also given her some clothing...from my store. Instead of going directly to the resort, I drove all the way into the village of Marea del Portillo, so that this new amiga and I could pay a quick visit to Agustin's  home. A delightful encounter!

It can prove quite intersting to pick up hitch-hikers and discover how frequently they become friends. And, you haven't truly lived unless you've dodged endless potholes and random goats with a full carload of sweaty bodies in a tin box with no shocks and wonky air-conditioning. Woo-hoo!

Tale #2 - More reasons to take Frisbees to Cuba

After a delayed departure from the Manzanillo airport, due to my temporarilly A.W.O.L. bicycle, the All-Girl Posse was finally on the road to Club Amigo Marea del Portillo, Cuba, where we expected to hang out, have fun and perhaps enjoy a few benign adventures.

Less than an hour into our journey, however, the bus broke down. So, there we were, more than half way to the resort but too far away to walk, and it's not advisable to hitch-hike, en masse, with a pile of suitcases. We were, for all practical purposes, in the middle of nowhere, on a scorching hot afternoon, completely unacclimatized and exhausted from flying out of Toronto at some too-early hour.

Most of us had had little sleep the night before, and we'd missed lunch. Tired, hungry tourists quickly get restless, then grumpy, when they have to stand by the side of a road, even if the scenery is lovely.

In the shade of a nearby tree, a small collection of children watched us with mild curiosity. They must have been thinking: why the heck are these white folks standing in sun? We observed each other stagnantly, shuffling our feet on our own sides of the road. Then – click! – I thought of Frisbees.

I asked the bus driver to help me pull my bike box out of the cargo bay. I ripped open a corner and wormed my hand inside, eagerly retrieving a Frisbee. I marched up the hill to the children and tossed the bright disk towards them. With some hesitation, one of them picked it up and awkwardly threw it back to me. Game on! They quickly learned how to properly hold and pitch a Frisbee, and were soon whipping it back and forth, giggling with glee.

Some of my fellow passengers grabbed their cameras and recorded the action. Others dug into their suitcases and pulled out school supplies and other gifts. The ice had been broken. They now felt free to interact with the children and the other people at the two small, clean houses beside the road. The children brought us fruit and I shared my secret stash of granola bars. It wasn't loaves and fishes but it helped to tide us over and keep us entertained. People relaxed and smiled. Puppies were cuddled. A Frisbee found a new home.

As our replacement transportation arrived and we heaved ourselves aboard, one woman told me that she thought the bus break-down experience would be one of the highlights of our trip. We had yet to arrive at the resort.

Later on in our trip, I had another opportunity to introduce the fine art of Frisbee fetching to another group. During a very pleasant day trip known as the "River Tour," I pulled out a Frisbee and got some of the amigas to play while we waded in the water. Several of the women who were our hosts gamely joined in but, at one point, the Frisbee sailed past the intended catcher and landed in the current.

Since I was wearing my sturdy, toe-protecting Keen sport sandals, I unabashedly dashed after it, diving into the drink and body surfing in a vain attempt to overtake the free-floating Frisbee. When the river rounded a bend, however, I galloped through the shallows, cut off the corner and got ahead of the rogue toy. Then I jumped back into the deeper water and managed to grab the frisky disk at long last.

I tossed it, one last time, to the woman who lived there, at the little farm beside the river. She smiled and immediately began using it to serve fruit.

Tale #1 - My bike had an adventure of its own!

I'm still working on getting into the Great White groove. I've been back in Canada for a little over a week but part of my mind is still walking in sunshine in Cuba, where I spent the last half of October. I was welcomed back home warmly by my hubby and pets but coldly by the climate.

On my second day here, trying to wade through the virtual mountain of e-mail, the power went out, the temperature dropped and it began to snow briskly. I couldn't help but think that, in Cuba, when the power goes out (as it frequently does), at least you don't freeze to your chair. I lit a fire and coped. Praise be to the coffee gods or goddesses for thermal carafes.

My most recent trip to my second home, Marea del Portillo, in the Granma province of Cuba, was so full of adventures, activities and interesting encounters that it's hard to know where to begin. Perhaps I'll just follow the musical advice of Julie Andrews as Maria in "The Sound of Music" - to start at the very beginning because it's a very good place to start. (Everybody sing along!)

In the wee dark hours of Oct. 13, the posse gathered at Pearson, Toronto's international airport. Forty-two women boarded the Sunwing plane and jetted off to Cuba. Destination: Club Amigo Marea del Portillo. Goal: all-girl fun! (No rude remarks from the testosterone department, please.) This was the inaugural All-Girl Posse trip to Cuba, which I expect to become an annual October activity. By the time we'd arrived, our ranks had swelled to 45; we adopted a woman and her two daughters who were pals of another posse member and just happened to be booked into the same resort that week.

The flight itself was relatively uneventful, our arrival at the Manzanillo airport was filled with the usual humid chaos and, in short order, the first adventure began. This involved my bicycle going on a journey of its own. It got to go for a ride on top of a Lada and visit a Cuban home! Apparently, while I was indisposed (in the baño), my bike box had been spewed forth onto the luggage carousel and subsequently disappeared. In its stead, a bedraggled-looking box with another woman's name on it stood in the arrivals lobby, forlorn and unclaimed. The search was on!

While the security guards were looking around and shrugging, some of my posse rushed in and reported that they'd seen a box with my name on it being loaded onto a car that hastily drove off. Of course, I thought, my bike box - which had been neatly taped together by the Algonquin Outfitters bike shop lads - would look like more of a prize than that other ratty box with its peeling red duct tape.

We tracked down the woman whose name was on that unappealing box and she explained that she had brought it for her son's friend, whom she didn't really know. Since she would be staying at the same resort, we agreed that she would try to contact the intended recipient, via her son in Canada, and endeavor to arrange a swap. I would, in effect, hold her bike for ransom. In order to promote international peace and good will, we decided to believe that the gentlemen with the Lada had erroneously taken my bike box and, naturally, would want to set things right. (I was not feeling as optimistic as I sounded.)

However, that was indeed the case! Before the bus had gotten very far out of town, the box-bedecked Lada caught up and flagged us down. The bike owner-to-be was very keen to exchange - and he hadn't even opened the box! When he got home, he explained, he looked in through a handle hole and saw Frisbees. If there were Frisbees inside, he knew his "special things" would not be in that box, he said. (Note to self: always pack Frisbees with your bike...sort of like companion planting.)

Soon, we were on the road again, smiling broadly and clinking cans of cerveza. Then the bus broke down....