Out of Cuba Part Two

Chamizo and I sat together on the military bus going to Havana for the boatlift. We thought it was going to be smooth sailing to America, but we didn’t understand all that we’d have to pass through to arrive there. We had our first indication before the bus had even left our hometown of Cienfuegos when it pulled up outside of Ariza Prison. The doors opened and the bus filled with the kind of men we’d never been around before. They had prison tattoos and bore scars that looked like they might have come from being stabbed. These were hard guys—murders, rapists, all kinds of violent criminals—sitting among the good people of Cienfuegos who only wanted something better for themselves. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that to Castro, we were all the same—bad Cubans who were not serving La Revolución.

At 4:00 a.m. we arrived at a sports arena in the capitol. This, we were told, would be our home until we were assigned to a boat. Of course, with so many criminals among us, our encampment had to be guarded by soldiers with AK-47s and German Shepherds. Chamizo and I didn’t care about that. We didn’t want to go anywhere in Cuba except Mariel Harbor. But it soon became apparent that the Cuban government lacked either the ability, or the desire to feed us all. For three days we didn’t eat so much as a snack. My military training had taught me how to survive on little or no food for long periods. But Chamizo, my good friend, was younger than me, and had no such training. He was getting weak.

Someone up above must have been looking out for us, because on the forth day, I found forty Cuban pesos on the ground. I don’t want to calculate the chances of that happening in such a den of murderers and thieves, but it did. Now the problem was how to spend it. Not what to spend it on, but literally how to do it. One more thing the military taught me was how to move about undetected, stay hidden, evade enemy soldiers—American soldiers. And even though the men who guarded us at that time were Cubans, they were my enemy in my quest to get myself and my friend to America alive.

I went to Chamizo, who by this time was listless. I told him I was going to escape from the camp, buy food for both of us, and sneak back in with it. To my dear friend, it was a suicide mission. Even if the guards didn’t see me, the dogs would smell me. And even if they didn’t smell me on the way out, they would surely smell the food I intended to have with me when I came back. He begged me not to go.

I didn’t hesitate. I might make it a few more days without food, but Chamizo would soon fall terribly ill. As soon as I was out of sight of the guards, I started running. I didn’t know my way around Havana, but I simply followed my nose. There was food somewhere, and I would find it. After about six blocks I found myself at the baseball stadium. There was a game in progress and the concession stands were open. In another time, I would have loved to come to Havana to see a baseball game, but now I had no time for diversions.

I looked at the menu on the wall. Ham and cheese sandwiches seemed nutritious and cheap. When I asked how many of them I could get for forty pesos, the lady behind the counter looked at me like I was crazy. Impatient, I slapped the money down on the counter and insisted she give me as many sandwiches as she could. A couple of minutes later, I was running back to my prison with a bag full of thirty sandwiches. I snuck back in, pulled Chamizo into as private a corner as we could find, and we ate a few sandwiches each, determined to hide the rest and ration them for as long as we could.

Four days later, having survived only on our sandwiches, we climbed aboard an old, rusted shrimp boat named the Alba Junior with as many other souls as she could hold. We were pressed together with the old and the young, men and women, kids, babies, and the bad guys with all their tattoos and scars. But even at such close quarters, as we left Mariel Harbor I felt alone in my thoughts, watching the only land I’d ever known disappear in the wake of the boat.

I came to America thirty years ago to make a bigger, better life for myself. And after all I’ve been through, my roots are still there in Cienfuegos, Cuba with my father and my sisters, and beside my mother’s grave.

Out of Cuba Part One

[Look below to see the Spanish translation]

I’m guessing few Americans understand the reaction of pro-Castro Cubans to the Mariel boatlift. They had no problem with their leader filling the streets of Miami with Cuban prisoners and misfits. Murderers and other violent criminals, prostitutes, the mentally ill, the mentally handicapped weren’t serving La Revolución. But I was not one of those. I was a good kid, well known and well respected around my neighborhood in the quiet, lovely colonial town of Cienfuegos, the place we called “The Pearl of the South.” I’d never been in any kind of trouble, I’d done well in my military service, and on the eve of the boatlift, I had been chosen to travel to East Berlin to learn how to use wheat processing machinery that would help produce food for Cuba. My neighbors loved me. I was a fine, upstanding young man, an example to the community. I was going places. But when my friend, Chamizo, and I learned about the boatlift, there was only one place we wanted to go.

Chamizo came to my house on April 20, 1980 and asked me if I was aware of what was happening in Havana. Yes, I was aware. But I told him to say nothing in my house, and that we should go to the park where it would be easier for us to talk. It was a sensitive topic.

When we got to the park, we agreed that we would go to Havana and try to get into the Peruvian embassy, the place where those leaving in the boatlift had gathered. We did go, but we didn’t have much luck. They had closed the doors and were not admitting anyone.

That was bad enough, but when I got back to Cienfugos, things took a turn for the worse. I was walking in the square when I ran into my girlfriend. She had heard that I’d gone to Havana, and she new the reason for my trip. She let me know that she was not happy. She began to call everyone in the neighborhood and tell them what had happened. Immediately everyone came out of their homes and cornered me in my house. They began something that had become commonplace in Cuba as the boatlift took shape.

They were called acts of repudiation. Pro-Castro people sought to punish those who wanted to turn their backs on Cuba. The neighbors who had once seen me as such a good kid and great example, now saw me in a different light. They began to shout at me and insult me in any way they could. But these acts of repudiation frequently didn’t stop at verbal insults. I’d seen people beaten, sometimes very badly.

I was terrified. When I heard the anger in the voices of the neighbors who had once loved me, I knew they wouldn’t hesitate to hurt me. But I was scared, too, for my father—a hard working man who did his best to teach me, even though he wasn’t home much—and my four sisters—maternal figures in my life since my mother died when I was twelve. I couldn’t let anything happen to my family.

The only sort of weapon I could put my hands on in the house was a machete. I told my father that I didn’t want to hurt anyone, but if people broke into the house, I would do what I had to do.

The neighbors yelled and threw things at the house for six days. I hadn't cut my hair since I'd gotten out of the Army several months earlier. My neighbors began to chant:

“Moisés, you long-hair you!
Get yourself to Peru!”

If I was no longer a good Cuban, they wanted me gone, but before I left, they wanted to hurt me, to punish me for betraying La Revolución.

Finally a military bus came through the neighborhood to collect people for the boatlift. But it didn’t come to my front door. To get to it, I had to run. I had to run as fast as I could and be as nimble as possible, to slip past my neighbors.

So, when I left home, I left running. Had you asked me at that time, I would have said—happily, foolishly—that it was the last time I’d be running in fear.

Fuera de Cuba Primera Parte

[Busca arriba para ver la traducción en Inglés]

Supongo que pocos estadounidenses entienden la reacción que tenian los que soportaban a Castro al éxodo del Mariel. No tenían ningún problema con la idéa de depositar en las calles de Miami los presos Cubanos e inadaptados. Asesinos y otros delincuentes violentos, las prostitutas, los enfermos mentales, los discapacitados mentales no servían a La Revolución. Pero yo no era uno de esos. Yo era un muchacho bueno, muy conocido y respetado por mi vecendario en Cienfuegos, la ciudad colonial mas tranquila y hermosa de Cuba, el lugar que llamamos “La Perla del Sur.” Yo nunca había estado en ningún tipo de problemas, me hizo bien en mi servicio militar, y aun cuando se acercaba el éxodo, yo había sido elegido para viajar a Berlín Oriental para aprender a utilizar una máquina de procesamiento de trigo que ayudaria a producir alimentos para Cuba. Mis vecinos me amaban. Yo era un bueno, honrado joven, un ejemplo para la comunidad. Yo era en mi camino. Pero cuando mi amigo, Chamizo, y yo oimos del éxodo, sólo había un camino que queriamos seguir.

Chamizo vinó a mi casa el 20 de Abril de 1980, y me preguntó si ya me enteré de lo que estaba pasando en La Habana. Si, lo sabia, pero le respondí que no dijera nada y que fueramos al parque, y alli podiamos hablar con mas tranquilidad. Era un tema delicado.

Al llegar al parque nos pusimos de acuerdo para ir a La Habana y tratar de meternos en la Embajada del Peru, donde se habian reunidos todos los que deseaban participar en el éxodo del Mariel. Pero aunque si, fuimos, no tuvimos mucha suerte porque ya habian serrado las puertas y no habia permiso de entrar para nadie.

Lo considero algo malo, pero ya de regreso a Cienfuegos mi situación se puso mas fuerte. Empesaba a caminar en la cuadra donde vivia, y la primera que me vio fue la novia mia. Ella ya sabia que yo me habia ido a La Habana y tambien los motivos del viaje. Ella me dejó a entender que no era felíz. Empezó a llamar a todos en el vecindario y todos salian de sus hogares y me gritaban todo lo que me pudiera ofender. Me vi acorralado y no tuve mas remedio que refujiarme en mi casa por 6 dias. Me hizo a mi algo que ya era común en Cuba desde noticias del éxodo que ya habian salido.

Lo llamaramos actos de repudio. Los que soportaban a Castro tratarban de castigar a los que querían dar la espalda a Cuba. Los vecinos, que una vez me había visto como un buen chico y gran ejemplo a la comunidad, ahora me consideraban en una manera diferente. Me gritaban todo lo que me pudiera ofender. Pero estos actos de repudio con frecuencia no se detuvo en insultos verbales. Había visto golpeos, algunos muy malos.

Yo tenia miedo. Cuando me enteré de la ira en las voces de los vecinos que una vez me amaban, yo sabía que no dudaría en hacerme daño. Pero yo estaba asustado, porque mi padre—un hombre muy trabajador que hizo todo lo posible para enseñarme, a pesar de que no estaba en casa mucho, y mis seis hermanas, las cifras materna en mi vida desde que mi madre murió cuando yo tenía doce años. No podía dejar que pasara nada a mi familia.

El único tipo de arma que podría encontrar en la casa era un machete. Le dije a mi padre que yo no quería hacerle daño a nadie, pero si alguien entra en la casa, yo haría lo que deberia de hacer.

Mis vecinos gritaban y arrojaban cosas en la casa durante seis días. Habían pasado varios meses desde que salí del Ejército y no me había cortado el pelo desde entonces. Mis vecinos comenzaron a gritar:

“Moisés, pelu,
véte a Perú!”

Si ya no era un buen Cubano, ellos querían que me fuera, pero antes de irme, querían hacerme daño, y castigarme por haber traicionado a La Revolución.

Finalmente llegó un autobús militar por el barrio para recoger las personas para el éxodo. Pero no llegó a mi puerta misma. Para alcanzar a ella, tuve que correr. Tuve que correr tan rápido como pude y ser tan ágil como sea posible, para deslizarse más allá de mis vecinos.

Por eso, cuando me fui de casa, me fui corriendo. Si alguien me pregunta en ese momento, yo hubiera dicho—en felicidad, en tonteria—que seria la última vez que iba a correr en el miedo.

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.