Cigars Saved My Life!
I was in Cuba when Fidel Castro resigned. I nearly didn't get out of the country - not because of any exciting political reason, but because I couldn't plan my way out of an open hessian sack.
I calculated my finances to get out of Cuba down to the last 2 bucks, which I saved for a sandwich and a cigar cutter. Somehow, I got it exactly right and spent my last buck on the latter at the airport, only to trip on the final hurdle - departure tax. Unfortunately for me, I found out about it just after I'd checked in for my flight and with 45 minutes to go before the gates closed. I also found out that my bank card doesn't work in Cuba because it's Cirrus. I ran around increasingly frantically, throwing myself on the mercy of the customs officers, booking clerks, information desk lady, and my airline. No dice. Bear in mind that it's the last flight that will get me to Mexico City in time for my main ticket (I had to book a separate one to get to Cuba because only a couple of airlines go there), and if I miss it I lose my ticket, no question, and I'm suddenly a couple of grand further away from sweet Australian shores.
And miss it is exactly what I did. So I'm in this weird "If I was a woman I'd be crying right now and I'm a bit scared and I can't speak Spanish and OH GOD SOMEONE PLEASE HELP ME OR I'M FUCKED" sort of mood, and I'm holding nothing but my satchel, my jackets, my caseless guitar and a box of 20 Cohibas Esplendidos.
Cohibas are the world's finest cigars. They were the personal choice of Fidel Castro, both for smoking and gifts to other stylish dictators. The cigars that the CIA tried to poison in one of their many assassination attempts (source sketchy). And you do feel a little bit like 'el hombre' when you've got one of these babies hanging out of your face - all seven inches. Apparently they go for upwards of $500 on the black market in the States. On the Cuban black market, where they're commonly stolen by workers obviously lacking in revolutionary zeal, they go for $2.
Suddenly the previously really unhelpful airline clerk tells me that the real Office is next door. Turns out there's one more flight to Mexico City today, and we can put you on it, but it flies in 40 minutes and you really do need to pay the departure tax and no we can't help you. Good luck. So I dump my guitar on the desk and practically run out of the office. I've hatched a plan.
I get into my best 'kinda desperate but not gonna stab you' character and approach the long line of shock-tanned, shorts-clad tourists.
"Uh, G'day. I'm in kind of a spot. See, I didn't realise you had to pay a departure tax, and I ran out of money cos my card doesn't work. I've got this box of Cigars and apparently they're the best in the world. (brandish cigars) they're twelve bucks in the store over there - you can check. All I need is twenty five to get me out of the country and I'll give you five of em."
I'm feeling like one of the thousands of people who have approached me and tried to sell me something in the last few years, and I'm getting the same range of 'no's that I've given out. From the '"leave me alone, I'm already bothered and quite pissed off that you approached me" no to the no of the "I really don't speak your language, but I'm sure it's a fine product you're selling" variety. It sucks, and makes you feel low as hell. Finally, young Russian males. I figure this has got to be my best shot and I give them the pitch.
"Ve kan do betir on bllek myarkit" is the reply. Shit. I'm running out of options with 15 minutes until the gate closes and I'm stuck in Cuba.
"All right - I'll give you the whole top row. That's eight for 25 bucks"
He gives me a big Russian smile. It's a done deal - and at a profit of 9 bucks (ignoring the value of the cigars the second they leave Cuba). What followed were the most satisfying instances in my entire life of slapping down on a counter an adequate amount of money for a purchase, and sliding into the seat of an airliner.
Remaining cigars to be smoked on the back patio of a Bendigo residence with one Bill Burns, one Nathan Demoel and one Lyndon Wheeler.
I calculated my finances to get out of Cuba down to the last 2 bucks, which I saved for a sandwich and a cigar cutter. Somehow, I got it exactly right and spent my last buck on the latter at the airport, only to trip on the final hurdle - departure tax. Unfortunately for me, I found out about it just after I'd checked in for my flight and with 45 minutes to go before the gates closed. I also found out that my bank card doesn't work in Cuba because it's Cirrus. I ran around increasingly frantically, throwing myself on the mercy of the customs officers, booking clerks, information desk lady, and my airline. No dice. Bear in mind that it's the last flight that will get me to Mexico City in time for my main ticket (I had to book a separate one to get to Cuba because only a couple of airlines go there), and if I miss it I lose my ticket, no question, and I'm suddenly a couple of grand further away from sweet Australian shores.
And miss it is exactly what I did. So I'm in this weird "If I was a woman I'd be crying right now and I'm a bit scared and I can't speak Spanish and OH GOD SOMEONE PLEASE HELP ME OR I'M FUCKED" sort of mood, and I'm holding nothing but my satchel, my jackets, my caseless guitar and a box of 20 Cohibas Esplendidos.
Cohibas are the world's finest cigars. They were the personal choice of Fidel Castro, both for smoking and gifts to other stylish dictators. The cigars that the CIA tried to poison in one of their many assassination attempts (source sketchy). And you do feel a little bit like 'el hombre' when you've got one of these babies hanging out of your face - all seven inches. Apparently they go for upwards of $500 on the black market in the States. On the Cuban black market, where they're commonly stolen by workers obviously lacking in revolutionary zeal, they go for $2.
Suddenly the previously really unhelpful airline clerk tells me that the real Office is next door. Turns out there's one more flight to Mexico City today, and we can put you on it, but it flies in 40 minutes and you really do need to pay the departure tax and no we can't help you. Good luck. So I dump my guitar on the desk and practically run out of the office. I've hatched a plan.
I get into my best 'kinda desperate but not gonna stab you' character and approach the long line of shock-tanned, shorts-clad tourists.
"Uh, G'day. I'm in kind of a spot. See, I didn't realise you had to pay a departure tax, and I ran out of money cos my card doesn't work. I've got this box of Cigars and apparently they're the best in the world. (brandish cigars) they're twelve bucks in the store over there - you can check. All I need is twenty five to get me out of the country and I'll give you five of em."
I'm feeling like one of the thousands of people who have approached me and tried to sell me something in the last few years, and I'm getting the same range of 'no's that I've given out. From the '"leave me alone, I'm already bothered and quite pissed off that you approached me" no to the no of the "I really don't speak your language, but I'm sure it's a fine product you're selling" variety. It sucks, and makes you feel low as hell. Finally, young Russian males. I figure this has got to be my best shot and I give them the pitch.
"Ve kan do betir on bllek myarkit" is the reply. Shit. I'm running out of options with 15 minutes until the gate closes and I'm stuck in Cuba.
"All right - I'll give you the whole top row. That's eight for 25 bucks"
He gives me a big Russian smile. It's a done deal - and at a profit of 9 bucks (ignoring the value of the cigars the second they leave Cuba). What followed were the most satisfying instances in my entire life of slapping down on a counter an adequate amount of money for a purchase, and sliding into the seat of an airliner.
Remaining cigars to be smoked on the back patio of a Bendigo residence with one Bill Burns, one Nathan Demoel and one Lyndon Wheeler.
posted by Simon | 2:36 AM
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