Aztec Treasures

Never before and never since have I been as anxious to get home as I was in the summer of 1987. That was the year I travelled to Nicaragua determined to play my part in the Sandinista revolution (I say this with tongue in cheek, of course). My anxiety then had much to do with my failure to adapt to the tough living conditions in Nicaragua as well as my childhood trauma. The combination of anxiety, insomnia, and constant exposure to poverty, often bordering on misery, challenged me to the very core of my being. It was difficult and I relate this tale in another chronicle. But this story took place just after I’d left Nicaragua, when I was in Havana, on the night that Cubana Aviation was supposed to fly me back to Europe.

 On that night, I arrived in the airport about three hours before my flight was due to depart. This was my final hurdle before I could return home, have a hot shower, sleep in an insect-free bed, and wear a clean set of clothes. My mouth almost watered at the prospect. The usual chaos at José Martí airport in Havana did not trouble me at all because I was first in the queue. I parked my luggage right in front of the check-in desk and sat on it. As soon as it opened, I jumped up with my passport and ticket. The moment for me to say goodbye to Central America had finally arrived and I was more than ready to embrace it.

That was why I was aghast and more than a little angry when the rep asked me to move to one side and allow other passengers to check in. Every time I insisted that I was a passenger on this flight I was quite brusquely told to step aside. One after another passenger took their place at the desk, checked in their luggage and, boarding pass in hand, drifted off in the direction of the departure gates without a backward glance. This scenario was repeated multiple times … until three hours later when the flight was full. By this stage the diminutive departure lounge was almost empty.

Something had gone seriously wrong and I could not understand what it was because no explanation was given. Only me and nine other passengers were left behind and none of us knew why. The roar of jet engines from our departing flight was fading in the distance when I looked from my worthless Cubana ticket, wilting in my hand, to the stunned expressions of the other abandoned passengers. No denying it at all. We’d been dumped, taken off the passenger list and had the door with the bright red boarding sign, closed in our faces. All of this without knowing why. Why us?

 At the end of that very long evening, we would find out why. By then we had been transported back into the Vedado area of Havana, into the parking area of the Habana Libre, the hotel where we were going to spend the night. At a very late dinner, around midnight, a sympathetic Spanish tour manager explained to us what was happening. According to her, ten French diplomats had been expelled from Cuba that day and due to government insistence, they were put on our flight, and we were taken off. Apparently, also due to government insistence, we were booked into the Habana Libre hotel, probably the best hotel in the country, to atone for the inconvenience. Tomorrow, there was going to be more government insistence that we leave the country… even though there were no flights to Madrid.

Over dinner at the end of that long day, the man to my right initiated casual conversation with me. He, Antonio, was a Spanish diver who had been employed on a six-month contract to the Cuban government. Those six months had just expired, so he was heading back to Madrid. He seemed to be a lot more stressed about the uncertainty of our situation than any of the other passengers and, for me, this was a relief because my own nerves had been tested and found wanting too by all this palaver. The conversation drifted on and it was only when there were no other passengers at the table, did I become aware of the time. We had to be up and ready by 9.00 the following morning. I was saying goodbye to Antonio when he told me that he had done something very foolish that could get him into a lot of trouble, a long gaol sentence for sure. His contract with the Cuban government had involved overseeing and making dives into the sea around the coast of Cuba at specific locations. These were locations that the wealthy emigres, fleeing the revolution in 1959, concealed their riches; they hid them in the sea. It was Antonio’s job to recover them. 

Curious, I followed Antonio to his room. Two large open suitcases sat in the centre and both were full of clothes that had been stuffed into all the available space. I sat on the edge of one of the two twin beds in the room staring down at the mess in Antonio’s suitcases while he dug out two bundles. Both bundles were wrapped in towels, which he began to open. From the first one he extricated a thick spikey round shape, apparently made of silver, which he handed to me. It was heavier than I anticipated and it probably weighed almost two kilos. What I was looking at was a kind of medallion that displayed a turquoise-stone in the centre. Emanating from the centre were spikes which I supposed represented the sun’s rays, and all of this was in silver, evidently put together by a skilled craftsman. The size roughly matched my outstretched palm. Antonio believed it was at least 500 years old. A highly valuable object, given its origins and history.

The next bundle of towels contained an exquisite ancient teapot, or what I believed to be a teapot. Like the pendant, it was made of silver and was covered in intricate designs, tiny etchings all over its surface. It had a lid and a spout to pour whatever brew had been made in it, very unlikely to be tea as we know it now. I handed the teapot back to Antonio and asked him what he planned to do with these treasures. For a moment he looked scared. He was going to try to smuggle them out of Cuba in his suitcase, wrapped in towels. I pointed out that all luggage is x-rayed and he countered that he already knew that, but he was prepared to take that risk.

On the following morning, our little group of ten boarded the minibus again and we were driven to the airport. There was a throng of passengers already there who were booked on the flight, presumably our flight, leaving for east Berlin and Moscow. There was no mention of Madrid. The ten of us sat in a corner feeling quite dejected as once again we watched the line of passengers form and deplete. None of us had boarding passes and nobody had asked us to check-in our luggage. Suddenly the word went round that this flight was going to make an unscheduled stopover in Madrid and there was a shout from behind the check-in desks that the “ten from yesterday” could now board.

Somehow or other we managed to drag and carry our luggage over the tarmac to the cargo section of the flight. This was the first time I’d noticed Antonio that morning. He was just behind me in the race to board the flight and when I turned round to look at him, he was smirking with delight. His luggage had gone straight from his hands into the hold, with no x-ray machine in between. Presumably, he was now a rich man. I didn’t know where he was seated on the flight and I didn’t seek him out. The thought that I had allowed him to steal national treasures has weighed on me since then. But I doubt that things would be different second time around. Irish people hate, above all else, a tout.