The old bus bobbed along the pockmarked highway, the rough diesel engine gasping up the inclines. Outside, green blurred past. Every so often someone would point out a herd of goats or a clump of hitchhikers, thumbs lazily outstretched. This far out of Havana, there were no cars, there were no lights. Soon, it would be dark.
“What happens if we break down?” asked Joan.
“Call AAA,” answered Roger as he popped up and down in the back.
“No, seriously.”
“Don’t worry,” said Steve. “I’m sure someone will come find us.”
“That’s right Joan,” said Roger. “Don’t you know what a ‘bandido’ is?”
Steve turned to me. “Did you know that Joan’s mother is Icelandic?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes. Joan actually speaks a little Icelandic. In fact she was telling me that it’s a very old language.”
“Really?”
“Oh yes. Apparently, it’s so old that, if you can read Icelandic, you can understand Beowulf in the original language.”
“A useful skill,” said Roger on an upward bounce.
“Someone should really take a picture of this,” Joan whispered.
“Of what?” asked Steve. “There’s nothing there.”
“Exactly. It’s so … unAmerican. There’s no farms, no houses, no signs, no lights, no nothing. It’s completely undeveloped.”
“There’s a sign,” I said pointing.
In the distance, a small rectangle glistened feebly in the van’s yellow head light. It got bigger until we could all see in large red letters: PUNTO DE CONTROL. 1000m.
We were all silent for a moment, then Roger said “Hmmm. Sounds friendly.”
Joan giggled nervously.
“I’m sure it’s just routine,” said Steve. “Just remember what we were told before we left Havana. If we’re stopped, let the driver do the talking.”
I looked at the driver. He looked young to me. This is the guy who’s supposed to talk me out of police trouble in the quiet night of the empty Cuban countryside.
Another sign: PUNTO DE CONTROL. 500m. Then, 200m.
Two policias were leaning on their motorcycles under a large umbrella. One of them perked up when he saw the bus.
He walked to the edge of the street and raised his hand. The driver slowed, but did not stop. He looked at the driver for a moment and then he glanced at the rest of the bus. As the bus edged by, the policia waved the driver on. The driver waved back and coaxed the bus up to speed.
“That wasn’t so bad,” said Steve. “They didn’t even stop us.”
“Still,” said Joan. “It’s a little off-putting. Just stopping people at random. Imagine if they did that in the States? That would be terrible.”
“It’s true,” said Roger. “It’s amazing the things you take for granted. I know the government’s gone a little bit nuts with the borders recently, but at least we can still move around freely within the country.”
We all agreed that that was one thing we appreciated very much about our country.
Sadly, I learned today that we were being a little bit too hard on the Cubans.
