Dispatch from Cuba: Time ain't on our side

HAVANA - It's 4:57 on the Malecon, we're hot, we need to find the banos,and we have an appointment across town in three minutes.

We had spent the afternoon in Cojimar, the little fishing village that was the setting for "The Old Man and the Sea" and probably hasn't seen a coat of paint since Hemingway was last there. Nice folks, though. Back in the city, we stop to investigate El Floridita, the famous Hemingway haunt and allegedly the bar that created the daiquiri. Not too bad at all.

After a short stay, in which Papa's record of 16 daiquiris in a single day was not challenged (well, not today anyway) we walked through the free market that runs Wednesday through Saturday. We had been expecting charming and inexpensive seascapes, but it's no use. Apparently everyone in Old Habana thinks they are Pablo Picasso. What's in style right now are distorted images in bright reds and orange. Well, that and bad renderings of Morro Castle. And, now that we look, why are there numbers showing through the paint? We would have asked, but we were interrupted by 157 different gentlemen, each offering us good cigars - cheap!

About 4:15, we figure it's time to head for our meeting, after a brief stopover at the Hotel Nacional to put on appropriate clothing. And then we notice our bus is nowhere in sight.

We are in trouble.

If Cubans have taught us anything, however, it's that nothing is ever broken beyond repair, there is no problem that cannot be remedied. After searching the entire Malecon, and checking the numbers of about 350 buses, we give up on finding our man in Havana. But soon, Angelo, our savvy host, finds a new man. A nice guy, he does not hablas anglais, but he would be happy to drive us to our meeting. By this time, we have less than three minutes to get there - no problemo. Even though the traffic here is never too bad, we resign ourselves to skipping the hotel.

One of the most enduring icons of Cuba, the land where time stopped in 1959, is the abundance of old American cars that are improbably still cruising the streets. For some people, it is one of the neatest things about the city.

Apparently, those fools have never ridden in one.

Our new friend has a 1951 Chevy with bright red interior and some substance that looks very like twisty-ties holding the steering wheel together. To put this in perspective, the car is one year older than "The Old Man and the Sea."

It's a big car, like all old Chevys, but there are six of us plus the driver. By the time four of us cram into the back, lose circulation and contort our bodies into poses much like the market Picassos, we realize suddenly that we are getting to know one another better than we had expected on this trip. They say that what happens in Havana, stays in Havana - unless it later requires physical therapy.

Our friend's car, like any machine that old, has issues. There is at least one shock absorber missing, and the back seat bounces like those kid jumper seats they recalled a while back. And the Detroit Muscle under the hood has been replaced by some strange diesel engine. Still, we are soon flying through Havana as fast as the car can go.

Which is nearly 30 mph.

The city that's never busy is all of a sudden quite crowded. The car sputters, has trouble taking the hills, and we're not so sure that the next bump won't send us flying out the door. We're a little nervous, but I remember a story we heard just the other day, about a guy who used a refrigerator compressor to install air conditioning in his car. These guys can really keep these old cars running.

But Angelo picks this moment to start telling us about all the old cars he's caught rides from over the years. It seems all these stories end with a broken-down car or police involvement. See, that's another problem. Our friend is not a legal taxi driver, and if the law sees us crammed into his car, he could be in trouble--and so could we. Legal troubles in Cuba. Not even the Miami ambulance chasers would take that case.

A few times we're not sure the car will survive the drive - it gasps and pauses and moves like a car at least 50 years old. Angelo has been joking all week that if car-pushing were an Olympic sport, Cubans would have a lock on the gold. Again, nothing that's making us feel any better.

After a few starts and stops, literally, a wrong turn and a mid-road stop to get directions, the car arrives at a building across from the office of Presidente Raul Castro. It is 5:25. Even by the leisurely standards of island time, we are late.

When we finally walk into the meeting, we get a round of applause and everybody has a joke to make at our expense. But no one, it seems, can tell us where to find the banos.