By Tyrone Brown

Adventure (as defined by Marriam-Webster):
An undertaking usually involving danger and unknown risks
An exciting or remarkable experience
An enterprise involving financial risk

Some people travel to relax. Others travel for business. Me, I travel for pure adventure, and to remind myself that I am really alive. I’ve done a lot of traveling, but by definition, my restricted trip to Cuba was by far the most adventurous. Extremely risky? Absolutely. But I made it out – and more importantly – I made it out alive…just barely.
In November 2002, I had the bright idea to take a 5-day trip to Cuba knowing full well that it is a communist country and that is it illegal to travel there as an American. Still, my friend Dave thought it would be a good idea and he would never steer me wrong…besides, in so many words he did call me “chicken”. I had a reputation to uphold.
The first order of business was to find out a way to enter the country. Just saying the phrase to myself “I need to find a way to get into the country”, should have put up a red flag, but it didn’t. I had 2 major obstacles to overcome. First, I needed to book a flight. A series of internet searches led me to a guy who said that he could get me a flight from Cancun to Havana for $180 round trip on Air Cubana. At the time, I had no idea they had the worst aviation safety record in the world. (http://www.fiu.edu/~fcf/unsafe99.html). That may have explained why the guy only wanted $20 up front. I would pay the balance when I got my ticket in Cancun. Worst case scenario, I’m out $20 and stuck in Cancun for 5 days. It was a win-win so I went for it.

My second obstacle was to get in and out with no Cuban stamps in my passport or I would be in serious trouble. After doing some research, I found out that I could get a Cuban tourist travel visa from the Swiss embassy and the Cuban customs officials would stamp that instead of my passport. I sent them $50, they sent me the visa, prefect.

After receiving my travel Visa, my friend Dave “The Brit” made a reservation at a hostel in downtown Havana. As seasoned travelers, we were both comfortable staying in less than glamorous accommodations.

After flying to Cancun and staying a day in the city, I went back to the airport to pick up my ticket for Cuba. As you can imagine, when you reserve a shady ticket with $20, it doesn’t come with a confirmation code. In order to pay for and get my ticket I had to go to the “Terra Ferma” ticket counter at the Cancun airport.

In horrible Spanish I asked someone for directions to the ticker counter. She told me that is doesn’t exist, but I should just go out into the parking lot and find them and explained they are wearing blue shirts. Hmmmm … very interesting. I wandered out to the parking lot and after ten minutes a man in a blue shirt came approached me and asked if I was Tyrone Brown. I said yes and he whistled for his briefcase-toting buddy to come over. We make small talk before he asked me for the remaining $160. I gave it to him. They were complete strangers who I met in a parking lot of an airport in a foreign country. They seem like trustworthy sources, right?

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One guy left with my money in hand. He returned shortly with a hand written ticket for my trip. It lacked the legitimacy of a normal airline ticket, but I was flying to Cuba. Sure enough, I take the freshly penned ticket to the gate and they allowed me to board.

As I strolled onto a small, ancient commuter plane, I noticed that everything is still written in Russian. Nothing beats flying in a Pre-Cold War Russian plane. I try and relax and ignore the fact that someone is smoking a cigar in the plane. All of a sudden if gets a lot cooler and there seems to be more and more smoke; more than a cigar alone can produce. The air conditioning came on and clouded the cabin with a foggy mist so thick that I could barely see the person next to me. Knowing that it was not actual smoke provided little comfort. It scared the shit out of me.

The flight to Havana, Cuba proved to be the longest hour of my life. Despite the plane’s imperfections, we landed safely. I thanked God that the worst of my trip is over, or so I thought. Little did I know I was going to get much, much worse.

I got off of the plane and headed toward customs, smiling at the gun toting Cuban guards in their green jump suits. I got to the window and the clerk asked where I am staying. I made it a point to pack triplicates of everything (number, documents, etc.), but I totally forgot the hostel’s address and my friends flight number when asked by the customs officer. Normally I could tell you the secondary fax number for the British Embassy’s 3rd floor cafeteria, but, for the life of me, couldn’t remember where I was staying and meeting Dave. I argued in poor Spanish with the officer until finally, she became frustrated and decided to just let me in.

This airport was about the size of a typical, big American grocery store. I couldn’t find a working phone or even a place to eat anything other than a bag of chips. With a few hours to kill until Dave arrived, I decided to walk around for a while. The people there were very friendly and I met a guy and his sister who knew some English so we chatted for a while. The guy eventually breaks out a bottle of Rum and we started doing shots.

After a nice buzz from the Run, I noticed it was getting late and I still didn’t see my friend yet. Concerned, I ask a counter attendant to find out when my friend flight in coming. She tells me that his flight has been delayed. What she doesn’t me is that he is coming to the other airport terminal, which is about a mile away. It was getting dark and I was becoming worried.

Four hours and 12 shots later, I was still at the airport. At this point, I was drunk and the airport was closing. I was alone. I had no place to stay. I couldn’t find my friend, and to top things off, I had about $60 cash to my name. I had American Traveler’s Checks, but they are as useless down there as my debit and credit cards.

Meanwhile, Dave arrived at the “other terminal”, which looks more like a normal airport with stores, food, and phones. He was quite aware that I was at the other airport on the verge of losing my mind from worry and boredom. He did the logical thing: went to town, checked into the room and got drunk.

Tyrone Brown was born in York, Pennsylvania but current resides in Philadelphia, which he considers his adopted home town. He is a self described computer nerd, but his real passion is traveling to far away lands, some pleasant… others, not so much. Tyrone is also a 220 average bowler with 5 perfect games and currently bowls on the Amateur Bowler Tour in his “spare” time.