The Glorified Gypsy
The travel writings of a vagabundo
It was a prime time to be in Cuba. There was talk – as there had been for years – that it was important to see the country before “the Americans took over again”; it was important, most of all, to see it before Castro died.
Little was I to know that in a few weeks I’d play a part in the bearded one’s downfall.
Read MoreTony punched his own thigh in frustration and Raul began shouting. I unclenched my fists and relaxed. I could tell from the amount of spittle erupting from his mouth that Tony Montana was the recipient of his diatribe. Tony leaned back on his milk crate in an effort to dodge the shower. Eventually Raul finished. He slammed the lid down on the wooden chest and stood up, kicking his milk crate with his heel and sending it skittering into the wall. I stood up cautiously and kicked mine into the wall too.
Read MoreHe broke off our gaze to thump at the door again.
“Maria!” he bellowed. “Abre la puerte!”
A loud but indecipherable female voice barked back. A chain lock jangled inside and the door swung open. A thin woman stood in the doorway, her hand on her hip. She was barefoot, wore a pink faux-leather miniskirt and green vest which she had rolled up above her small pot belly. A trail of thin black hair stretched from the waistband of her skirt to her exposed navel.
Read More