Forbidden Fruit

Here’s the irony of it. I was inspired to leave communist Cuba by the wealth of the Soviets.

My hometown of Cienfuegos is a port city. In my childhood, Russian freighters came into port to load up with brown sugar, processed there in town, and stored in a warehouse so big that it’s celebrated on Cuban currency as a symbol of the success of Castro’s revolution. The Russian crews of the ships would wander through town on shore leave. There wasn’t anything especially fascinating going on in Cienfuegos. Except the people.

And our visitors from far away seemed to take a special interest in me. I was the typical, smiling, barefoot island boy. I would climb trees and throw coconuts down to the Russians. I picked mangos and papayas for them. I couldn’t understand a word they were saying, and they didn’t understand me, but we communicated with smiles, sign language, and commerce. If I put on the little native boy act and tossed them coconuts, then showed them how to open them, I got something in trade. They gave me candy and bubble gum and toys. Whether Castro would have admitted it or approved, that was free market capitalism in its most basic and, to me, most beautiful form. And I was hooked on it.

The Russians might have thought Cuba was exotic, but to me everything they had was new and strange and wonderful. They must have thought mangos were an amazing fruit. I felt the same way about the grapes they gave me. I had no idea what to call them, but I knew they were delicious. What else did I need to know? Years later, in America, I ate grapes again, and I recognized them by the taste before I remembered the appearance. Uva in Spanish. Grape in English. I still don’t know how to say it in Russian. And I still don’t care.

Castro might have been proud of the grand brown sugar warehouse he’d built and of what it said to the world about Cuba’s wealth. All I knew was the scarcity his revolution had imposed upon the island.

When I finally left Cuba in the Mariel boatlift, that scarcity was still all around me. As I said in an earlier post, in the camp where my friend Chamizo and I were waiting to be assigned to a boat, there wasn’t enough for everyone to eat. I had to sneak out of the camp to get us some food, then sneak back in. By the time we got on the Alba Junior, we were once again starving. And that old rusted shrimp boat didn’t make it all the way to Key West. The captain radioed a distress call and all of the passengers had to be rescued.

A Navy helicopter came rumbling toward us. They had to move quickly, so instead of carrying us one by one, or two by two, they lowered a huge cargo net and loaded up about a dozen or more of us at a time. Then the helicopter lifted us off the Alba Junior. There were kids and old people and prisoners all squished together in the net as we whipped through the air above the whitecaps of the Caribbean. Minutes later they set us gently on the deck of the USS Saipan, an aircraft carrier.

After they made sure we were okay, a sailor gave me an apple. I’d never seen an apple before, but I knew it was food, and I was starving. I bit into it and was amazed at how crisp and sweet and juicy it was. I ate the whole thing—seeds, core, even the stem probably. And the sailor asked me if I wanted another. I said I did. I ate the whole thing again, then licked the juice off my fingers and the palm of my hand.

I may not have been on American soil, but on the enormous deck of that aircraft carrier I knew I was in America—a vast nation of crisp, sweet fruit. A consumer driven country, as Castro had told us. And I was ready to consume it.

Purity

I said in a previous post that I never encountered any problems when making deliveries of cocaine for Fabio, my boss. That’s true, but one event—let’s say—made me wonder.

I delivered to a number of groups in a few organizations from Miami to New Orleans, all with established relationships with Fabio. One group was in Kissimmee, Florida, just south of Orlando. It’s near Disney World, but these guys had nothing to do with kid stuff. After the Mariel boatlift in 1980, established coke dealing operations throughout the state of Florida were replaced by Cubans. They called us the “fearless Marielitos” because we would take on anybody. And if somebody tried to stand in our way, he was in big trouble. I have to say I’m thankful that I never got into the really heavy stuff—the killings. Most of the fearless Marielitos were that way because they were molded into that form by Castro’s prison system. They’d been turned into the most angry, violent men you’d ever want to meet.

These guys I delivered to in Kissimmee were a group of Marielitos, but that wasn’t what made me think twice about them. By that time I’d reinvented myself as a bad ass in order to survive the streets of Little Havana. I was one of them. But all these guys in the Kissimmee group were also into Santeria. Santeria is a religion popular in Cuba, but it has a light side and a dark side, much as Voodoo does. After Castro seized power in 1959, during his victory speech a white dove landed on his shoulder. In Santeria that’s a very good sign, and many Cubans took it to mean that Castro had been chosen by divine power to be their leader. Was that a manifestation of the light side of the religion or the dark side? I guess people will form their own opinions about that one.

These Marielitos I delivered to in Kissimmee? They were definitely into the dark side. They took creepy to a whole new level. But even that didn’t bother me. I didn’t care what kind of stuff they believed in. They never messed with me. Not directly anyway.

But there was a girl with them. Her name was Blanca. In Spanish, Blanca means white. It’s a name popular among Catholics because it represents purity. But this girl had nothing to do with purity. She was a dark, delicious Cubanita, and after I made my delivery one night, she pulled me aside. She started flirting with me—and touching and smiling and whispering and laughing. She was like the devil himself, that girl. Smoldering hot. Hot enough to burn any man. And believe it or not, I’m no prude. Another time, another place, different circumstances, I’d have been all over her. But this girl was not natural. Her come on was not natural. I’d had my share of pretty girls, but Blanca was coming on to me like no girl I’d ever seen or heard about.

These people in the Kissimmee group wanted something. Not from me—from Fabio. I knew they were trying to get deeper into his business—the learn about his distribution, his supplier, his way of moving money—something. They were trying to find a way into Fabio, but these Santeria worshippers with their kilos and their white clothing and their pretty girl were going at the wrong guy. Fabio had saved me from the streets of Little Havana. He gave me a job. He paid me good money. He trusted me. There was no way I was ever going to betray him.

Ah, Blanca! She was so beautiful, but she was so bad.

Miami Freeze Video

Tom Wallace:

Moisés and I are in the process of building up our platform. In case you’re not familiar with the book publishing business, platform is the industry term for the ability of an author (or authors, in this case) to reach out to ready-made buyers of the book. Obviously, this blog is part of that, and we appreciate those of you who have contacted us—by leaving comments on the blog and our Facebook pages, and by personal email—to let us know that you’re interested in reading Miami Freeze, the book.

Videos are another plank in that platform. In this blog post, we present the first of several videos. In the weeks and months to come, you’ll get to see and hear Moisés, as he discusses the experiences that changed his life for those several years covered in the book, beginning in 1980. We also hope to travel to South Florida together to give you a tour of the places where much of the action in the book takes place.

Feel free to leave comments or send us emails to let us know how you like this first video. And stay tuned for more.

Pionero

My name is Moisés Alburquerque, but my friends in the Cuban military called me el pionero. It comes from the same root as the English word pioneer. It means someone who’s just beginning to explore or experience something new—just beginning to find his way. As my buddies used it, it might be roughly translated as school boy.

I guess it fit me back then. First of all, I was 5’5” and 125 pounds. A little guy. Second, I was a clean-cut kid who’d never done anything wrong, never been in trouble with the police, my teachers, or my parents. Third, I was drafted when I was just sixteen years old. That’s the way they do it in Cuba. They decide how you’re going to serve La Revolución. You go where they want you to go and do what they want you to do. If they want you in the military at the age of sixteen, you’re no longer a high school kid; you’re a soldier. And that’s that.

So to my buddies in the military, I was just a boy. I was just starting out in life, just learning, just beginning to explore. They didn’t mean it as an insult. It was all in fun. They knew how capable I was. The fact that I was just a “school boy” didn’t keep me from driving huge trucks loaded with long-range missiles. It didn’t stop me from using an AK-47. It didn’t stop me from being part of an elite group of five soldiers trained in survival and stealth.

Part of my job was to be ready to deal with an invasion by the US. I was to evade the enemy, move about undetected in the Cuban countryside, protect the secret missile locations, and follow any orders that might come from high above me. That stealth and survival training came in handy years later in the swamps of Florida as I ran for my life and tried, as I had many times before, to find la libertad—freedom.

This blog, and the book Tom Wallace and I are writing, is about the journey (or journeys) of one little pionero who wanted to be Columbus—to discover America again. It’s about the ninety miles from Cuba to Key West, the beloved country and family left behind, conversations with the CIA, homelessness on the streets of Little Havana among the murders and psychopaths Castro had dumped on an unsuspecting Miami, salvation from that hell by some people from Medellin, surviving in Glades Correctional Institution, and a desperate escape. It’s about a life measured in kilos, nautical speed, and dollar amounts. It’s about the American dream, and an American nightmare. And, yes, it’s about all the things people have heard about and read about and seen on TV and in the movies: shoot outs in the streets of Miami, drug rip offs, dirty cops, fast boats, fearless Marielitos, and an almost deadly addiction to adrenaline.


En Español

Me llamo Moisés Alburquerque, pero mis amigos en el Ejército Cubano me llamaban el pionero. Quiere decir una persona que apenas empieza a explorar tierra nueva, o una situación nueva, que esta a punto de encontrar un sendero. Con esa palabra, mis amigos me estaban llamando un muchacho que nunca salio de la escuela.

Supongo que era un sobrenombre apropriado en aquel entonces. En primer lugar, yo media 5’5” y pesaba 125 libras. Era chico. Secundo, yo era un chico bueno. Jamas me he encontrado en problemas con la policia, mis maestros, o mis padres. Tercero, el ejército me reclutó cuando tenia solo 16 años. Así es en Cuba. Las autoridades deciden comó vas a servir La Revolución. Tu debes ir a donde quieren y hacer lo que dicen. Si ellos quieren que entres al servicio militar a la edad de 16, ya no sigues en la escuala secondaria, ya eres soldado. Y asi será.

Entonces, para mis amigos en el ejercito, yo era un chico que estaba a punto de empezar mi vida, de aprender, de explorar. Aunque con el apodo, no expresaban ninguna ofensa. Era un chiste, no mas. Ellos sabian que yo era listo. El echo de que era un pionero no me impedia manajar un camion enorme llevando los misiles de largo alcance. No me impedia de usar un AK-47. No me impedia de ser parte de un grupo élite de cinco soldados entrenados en supervivencia y sigilo.

Una parte de mi trabajo era ser listo para tratar con una invasion do los Estados Unidos. Deberia evitar al enemigo, moverme atravez de la campiña, protejer los lugares secretos en que guardaban los misiles, y seguir las órdenes que venian del Estado Mayor. Ese entrenamiento en supervivencia y sigilo me servio años más tarde en los pantanos de la Florida cuando corrí por mi vida y traté, como habia hecho otras veces antes, de encontrar la libertad.

Pues, este blog, y el libro que Tom Wallace y yo estamos en proceso de escribir, tiene que ver con el viaje (o viajes) de un pionero quien queria ser Colon, y descrubrir America orta vez. Tiene que ver con los noventa millas entre Cuba y Cayo Hueso, el país amado que dejaba detras de mi, platicas con la CIA, vivir sin hogar en las calles de la Pequeña Habana entre los asesinos y psicópatas que Castro habia depositado en un Miami desprevenido, haberme salvado de ese infierno de la gente de Medellin, el haber sobrevivido en Glades Correctional Institution, y un escape desesperado. Tiene que ver con una vida corrupta y mesclada en kilos, velocidad náutica, y en dolares. Tiene que ver con el sueño Americano, y una pesadilla Americana. Y, si, tiene que ver con todo eso que la gente ha oído, leido, y ha visto en la televisión o en las películas: tiroteos en las calles de Miami, robos de drogas, policias sucios, lanchas velozes, Marielitos sin miedo, y una adicción casi letal a adrenalina.