The string of police checkpoints outside Havana was punctuated by hitchhikers hopefully extending folded peso notes to passing cars. Our 1954 Pontiac was – for four residents of New York City, at least – at capacity, a state interpreted by waiting Cubans as having adequate space for two or three more passengers.
On the road to Trinidad, a small coastal town in the south, we watched horseshoes being coarsely changed by the roadside and full families...
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