Today’s New York Times has an interesting article on the belief that Cubans are in love with American cars from the 1950s. A number of recent books and movies such as Yank Tanks have left this impression, but the Times offers a different view: “Nothing could be further from the truth. Cubans love new American cars, not old ones, but the newest ones that they can get their hands on are 45 years old.” An excerpt from the story:
The first thing the passengers noticed when they opened the trunk was five five-gallon cans of gas sloshing around where a spare tire should have rested. The car had no gas tank, and Ricardo had rigged a plastic siphon from a smaller tank under the dashboard. The four doors shared one outside handle, which was dutifully passed from door to door so each could be opened. Still, happy and optimistic, they poured a ceremonial splash of rum on the car’s floorboard for good fortune, and lurched away.
After a couple of miles, Leonardo nonchalantly asked about oil. “I don’t know,” Ricardo replied. “I’ve never put in any in.” The Chevy peaked at about 35 miles an hour. They stopped every five miles to suck gas into the siphon and feed the engine.
Famished by late afternoon, they pulled over to a field and cut stalks of sugar cane to chew on. Then the most shredded of the four tires suddenly exploded, and the seven passengers roamed the nearest small town looking for a replacement. The best they could do was a tractor tire they whittled to size, then, with borrowed equipment, soldered in place.
Back on the road, a side window fell into the lap of a startled Juan Carlos. The car lacked windshield wipers, rear lights and bumpers, and none of the dashboard dials worked. Ricardo himself lacked a driver’s license. The clutch pedal fell through what was left of the floor. Often they had to push-start the car after a stop. (The car did have a fully functioning theft-alarm system.) The ’56 Chevy belched into Cienfuegos late that evening.
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