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Cuba-correct Corvette

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Interior isn't all stock, but retains flavour of a '50s sports car.

   More of the story of Esterio Segura's 1954 Chevrolet Corvette has emerged. The car's previous owner, we learn from the Spanish language magazine Excelencias Del Motor, was Andreas Winkler, a Swiss national who lives in Havana.
   Winkler owned the Corvette – serial No. E54S001747 – from about 2000 until a year ago. He bought it after a chance sighting. He and a visiting Swiss friend were on the Malecón, Havana's famous seawall boulevard, when the black two-seater drove by. His companion recognized the American-made sports car as rare and potentially valuable. At the friend's urging, they followed the Corvette to the home of its owner, who, it turned out, was planning to leave Cuba and yes, was willing to sell.
   Of the car's history, the owner could supply just one interesting item. Early in its life, it was said to have been raced in Europe. (Whether it was Cuban-owned at the time is unknown, but given Cuba's active car racing scene in the 1950s, it's certainly possible.) After crashing at a track in the Netherlands, the Corvette was sent – or sent back – to Cuba, where new metal parts were substituted for its damaged fibreglass front end.
   There are interesting similarities here to the story of Portuguese rally driver Horácio Macedo's 1955 Corvette, right to the replacement metal front clip, but then, race cars do tend to crash.

Current owner Esterio Segura takes a guest for a ride.
   Winkler enjoyed the Corvette, but not the challenge of keeping a 50-year-old machine running. "The car was mechanically in rather good shape (always worked)," he told me in an email exchange, "but the problems were all the details and the impossibility to get parts."
   Plus, at 191 centimetres (six-foot-three), Winkler had trouble squeezing in when the top was up.
   "The best hint I can give you is that John Wayne owned a '54 Corvette and changed/resold it after 30 days because the car is too small for big guys."
   Winkler believes the Corvette's gasoline engine is the original Blue Flame six, or at least a correct General Motors six-cylinder of the type that still powers many Chevies in Cuba. And while Rob Simons' photos of the car show a chrome shift console that obviously was a later addition (the original shifter protruded from the side of the transmission tunnel), Winkler remembers that the automatic gearbox itself had two speeds, indicating it could be the original Powerglide.
   The photos show other substitutions – a different steering wheel and radio, updated gauges, quilted upholstery in place of carpeting. The car wouldn't be up to a purist's standards, but still, this survivor is certainly Cuba-correct.
   Andreas Winkler remains an admirer, even after trading it to his friend Esterio Segura. The payment in return? A bronze sculpture by the artist. Or, in Winkler's words, "another fantastic piece of art," and fair value for the fiberglass-and-metal sculpture he drove for a decade.

Havana Corvette is said to have been raced, and crashed, in Europe.


Photos by Rob Simons, who travelled to Cuba with the Entrepreneurs' Organization. Used by permission.



Continental drift: Mark II mysteries

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Mark II No. 2784 in Havana. Photo courtesy CubanClassics.
 Of just 3,000 Continental Mark IIs produced, at least four are believed to have gone to Cuba – a measure of the wealth enjoyed by a privileged few on the island in the 1950s.
   But to really understand the extent to which that wealth was concentrated, consider this. Of those Cuban Continentals, two – and perhaps even three – were owned by the ruling Batista family.
   A Mark II bearing serial number 3105 belonged to Francisco "Panchin" Batista, governor of Havana Province and brother of President Fulgencio Batista. According to a database maintained by the Mark II Forum, the Internet's gathering spot for owners and fans of the rare luxury cars, Panchin bought the car from Fort Lauderdale Lincoln-Mercury in Florida. An invoice dated April 30, 1956, reveals that the Continental was off-white with mid-grey leather interior and air conditioning.
   Panchin's Continental went to Cuba but stayed only briefly, according to information on the Mark II Forum. By 1957 it was back in the United States, where it was purchased by a doctor. It was last spotted in 2006 in an auction listing on eBay. Panchin himself would also settle in Florida after fleeing Cuba with other Batistas and their supporters on Jan. 1, 1959.
   No. 3105 is the only Cuban Continental known to have been repatriated to the United States.
   The Mark II shown above – and the subject of a recent post– is No. 2784. Now a lustrous red, it was originally black, with deep red broadcloth upholstery. The story attached to this car is that it was owned by the president's wife, Marta Batista. After the Batistas' ouster it was supposedly handed over to Marta's maid, and remained with her family until acquired by its current owner in 2004.
   Ford Motor Co. records cited on the forum show that No. 2784 was built on Feb. 20, 1956, and put aboard a steam freighter called the Bahia de Nipe 14 days later at Pier 27 on New York's East River. Havana's El Relámpago was named on the invoice as the destination dealership, and Carlos Alonso as the customer. Alonso, it should be noted, was the owner of El Relámpago, which that year had become a Ford agency after selling General Motors products since 1927, so he may well have been an intermediary rather than the final buyer.
   Still, there is no official mention of the president's wife in No. 2784's paperwork. She is named, however, in documents for another black Mark II, No. 3359, which came off the production line on Sept. 10 of that year. That car was shipped on Sept. 12, again from Pier 27 but on the S.S. Bahia de Mariel, and the customer was listed as "Martha Fernandez de Batista."
   Did she indeed own two Continentals, purchased in quick succession? Or was the first car owned by someone else in the family, or perhaps never by a Batista at all? Someone must know, just as someone must know what happened to No. 3359 with its dark grey leather interior, though the forum database has no record of it after 1959.
   Ralphee of CubanClassics saw No. 2784 when it was still black, and later came across it in its new red paint, above. It's not the only Continental he's found in Cuba. In the island's central countryside he spotted a battered example wearing a Volga grille and painted an unlikely shade of green.
   Perhaps this was No. 3359. Or perhaps it was another Continental, No. 3793, that the forum shows as also exported to Cuba. Little is known about that car except that it too was black, with white leather seats.
   Or perhaps this was yet another Mark II, unknown to the forum, one more fine car that found its way to an island so ready to welcome such cars in the 1950s, and so reluctant today to give up its secrets.


Colour coincidence?

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Reposted from secretoscuba.cultureforum.net. Photographer unknown.

   Could the 1950 Buick Super convertible above, overflowing with merrymakers in the time when Havana still celebrated Carnaval, be the same Super convertible I came upon not far from Havana in 2012?
   Granted, Buick built 12,259 Super convertible coupes for the 1950 model year. We can be pretty sure that more than one went to Cuba.
   Still, there was no shade in Buick's colour catalogue for 1950 that came close to the hue – Tangerine Sunrise? – that looks to be the carnival car's original paint. It could only have been a special order. And while the car I saw had obviously been resprayed, no doubt many times over, its colour is remarkably similar to the car in the earlier photo.
   I like to think it is the same car.

You won't find this colour on Buick's 1950 paint chart.

Rich relics

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A Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost? Reposted from secretoscuba.cultureforum.net

   Also from the then-and-now file, how about this Rolls-Royce photographed many decades ago in Havana's Cathedral Square?
   Could it be the same Rolls-Royce now on display in the Depósito del Automóvil just a few blocks south of the cathedral?
   Certainly, there are differences. The car in the square has low-mounted, drum-shaped headlamps. The depository car's lamps are higher and cone-shaped. One car has louvred engine side covers; the other does not. Still, such items could have been changed over the years.
   Closer examination, however, leads me to suspect the Rolls above is a late model from the 1906-to-1926 Silver Ghost series. (And, perhaps a Pall Mall Tourer from the Springfield, Massachusetts, factory operated by Rolls-Royce from 1921 to 1931 – though given the variations between bodies supplied by the various coachbuilders working with Rolls-Royce in that era, such precise identifications may be better left to the experts.)
   The depository Rolls, said to have been abandoned in Cuba by a fleeing owner after the revolution, has been identified, by experts, as a 1926 New Phantom (also called the Phantom I) from the series that followed the Silver Ghost. Its coachwork has been recognized as the handiwork of Letourneur and Marchand of Paris.
   This means the cathedral car, photographed with its crew of uniformed servants, is not the car at the depository.
  It also means that somewhere on the island, a grand Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost may yet exist as one more relic from Cuba's rich past.

The pride of Havana's Depósito del Automóvil.









Defeat, delayed

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   Even in Cuba, it is evident that metal is mortal, and that vehicles have finite lives, albeit, on this island, probably much longer lives than their designers and assemblers could ever have imagined.
  In sagging testament to this inevitability is this British-built Ford Consul. Its tailpipe hangs by a cord. Its fenders, its hood and trunk lid, even its roof show rust that will not be deterred by a buttering of body filler.




  But it is the sad droop of its doors that betrays the extent of the inner corrosion and metal fatigue that seek to return this five-plus-decades-old sedan to the base elements from which it was formed.
Later I see the Consul labouring along the street, blue smoke drifting in its wake, a death clatter coming from its Soviet tractor engine. How long could it last? Who could bother trying to repair it?
   In Havana I come across a 1955 Chevrolet four-door, its oxidized fender speaking of a restoration abandoned. But the Chevrolet's body lines are straight; its doors fit snugly. Perhaps the repairs are merely delayed, because there is life here yet.




Gullwing and a prayer

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The 300SL years ago. What does it look like now? Photo: Michael E. Ware
   In the brave tradition of Spanish adventurers, Miguel Llorente decided to set course for the New World.
   Already, he has conquered America, and now, at the helm of a 30-year-old Mercedes-Benz 300 TD station wagon bearing Kansas licence plates – Miguel apparently being the first Spanish explorer to settle in Wichita – he`s pressing south to Mexico, Cuba, Guatemala and beyond. His ultimate destination: Tierra del Fuega, at the tip of South America.
   But unlike his forebears, Miguel Llorente`s quest is not gold, or a passage to the Pacific, or even the Fountain of Youth (unlikely to be a priority for a man who appears to be younger than his car). Instead, this explorer seeks scenes he can photograph and experiences he can write about. And because of his keen curiosity, he`s never short of subjects.
   Miguel has, however, at least one additional goal. He wants to see for himself the famous Mercedes 300SL Gullwing that hides somewhere in Cuba. CARISTAS readers will know this car (or cars – some people suspect there could be as many as three Gullwings secreted on the island) from the photographs that have appeared here since 2009.
   Miguel spent two weeks on his Cuban quest and now has started to describe his adventure in This European Life, his witty and entertaining blog. And yes, he confides, he did locate a Gullwing, and soon will provide the particulars on where and how. (If you can`t wait for the entry, he has already posted a photo of his discovery on Facebook.)
   Given his success finding a car that many have written off as more myth than metal, perhaps Miguel now should consider seeking out that Fountain of Youth. He might have more success than Ponce de León.



See also:

Discovered in Cuba, a rare Mercedes-Benz

Gullwing bits and pieces

Elvis in a Gullwing in Havana

The young man and the 300SL

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All photos courtesy of Miguel Llorente, This European Life.

   Miguel Llorente, as already noted here, has determined that least one of Cuba's rumoured Gullwings is metal, not myth.
   But not a lot of metal, it turns out.
   In the years-old photos that helped spur his search, a Mercedes-Benz 300SL, engine-less, rust creeping up its sides, lies beached amidst debris in a yard said to be in or near Havana.
   In the photos Miguel took of that very car last month, in or near Havana, the rust has spread everywhere: door sills, window frames, the roof. Worse, the car bends up at either end, its trademark doors jammed open. Because it was transported and stored poorly, Miguel writes at This European Life, "it's almost broken in half."
   Too little remains for it to be revived. This "fractured carcass," as our writer calls it, might at best provide a serial number and a few scraps to allow some monied collector to turn a Gullwing replica into an original.


   But there is rich value in Miguel's tale of the hunt, for which he dons a guayabera shirt and "my most convincing Cuban accent" (his own Spanish is native Castilian) to duck the touts who throng to tourists like sharks to a wounded swimmer. He asks car owners and mechanics if they know of the Gullwing, and soon he is being steered by radiobemba along one tangent after another. He hears fine stories, he sees remarkable sights – a late 1950s Mercedes 220S Coupe, gleaming in the corner of a garage – but he feels no closer to his quarry.
   He hires a driver with a '55 Plymouth, and the search takes him farther into the outskirts. He speaks to elders, some of Spanish parents – "an unintentionally emotional connection to my roots," he confides. Many recall seeing in their youth a car with doors that opened up, like a sea gull's wings, but they don't know where it is now.
   He drops and resumes his pursuit and finally ... success. At a rough house in a potholed neighbourhood a man answers the door and says yes, he has some Mercedes.
   Mercedes and more, Miguel discovers. Rare cars are strewn about the property, some under cover, others open to the sun and rain. Most, like the Gullwing, appear beyond repair. The owner, it becomes clear, is that old car guy we all know (and perhaps, if we admit it, are). He won't sell. He'll get to the needed repairs. But instead of a Pontiac Tempest or Triumph TR6 mouldering in his yard, awaiting that dream day when it will emerge better than new, this man's trophies are a Hispano-Suiza race car, a Fiat Abarth 750 Zagato "Double Bubble" coupe, even a Chrysler Special by Ghia show car.
   And, of course, that Gullwing, by now little more than the marlin skeleton brought home by old Santiago of the Hemingway story, that completes Miguel's quest.
   It is a tragic ending, and thus, so much more memorable. Miguel, though like all of us wishing he could have found the car in better condition, would not take back a moment of a Havana adventure he calls "one of the most rewarding experiences of my entire life."
   Rewarding for him, and still inspiring for readers who believe that other fine cars remain hidden away in Cuba, and who continue to dream – like car guys everywhere – that they one day will emerge, better than new.



Miguel tries, without success, to push the doors back in place.


Starsky, Papa and Hutch

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  David Soul has had success as pop singer and stage actor. But it's as police detective Kenneth Hutchinson in the cheesy 1970s television drama Starsky and Hutch that he will forever be best known.
   Cheesy 1970s television? OK, redundant. Yet even for that era, Starsky and Hutch was especially ripe fromage.
   Each episode, Hutch and partner David Starsky (Paul Michael Glaser) would skid and slide through the streets of the California town of "Bay City" in a jacked-up 1974 Ford Gran Torino, tomato red with great white side slashes (or sometimes a '75 or '76 Gran Torino – the show went through a lot of cars).
   Often they seemed to just slither about at random. But really they were hunting down crooks who apparently were unaware that the flashiest vehicle in three states was occupied by a pair of undercover cops.
   Guess those crooks weren't getting the word on the street. Unlike Messrs. S. and H., plugged in to all goings-on courtesy of informant Huggy Bear (Antonio Fargas), a jive-spouting bar owner with a keen sense of civic responsibility.
  Ouno Design photo, used by permission.
   Now, David Soul has four-wheel-drifted back into the public eye with a new project. A long-time fan of both Cuba and Ernest Hemingway, he's working on a documentary series that follows the restoration of Papa Hemingway's 1955 Chrysler New Yorker DeLuxe convertible. You may recall that the writer and sportsman's ragtop resurfaced a year or so back after being "lost" – or maybe just misplaced – for 50 years.
   We learn of this development from, no, not Huggy Bear but travel writer Christopher P. Baker, who at his Moon Handbooks blog describes being drawn into the project at Soul's invitation.
   Baker provides some interesting tidbits about the restoration but sadly, no photographs. Looks like the plan is to keep the car under wraps until the annual Hemingway academic (and drinking) gathering in Havana in June.
   CARISTAS, however, is pleased to share with you this recently obtained spy shot of Papa's rebuilt ride. Where'd we get it? Let's just say from a confidential source.

Wikipedia photo (with apologies).



For more than you thought could ever possibly be written about Starsky and Hutch, see the Wikipedia entry.



And to see the Torino in action (you know you want to) watch this YouTube video.







NB: Yes, the New Yorker above is a '56, not a '55. So sue me.




Batista's fleet, and a doomed airliner

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From the collection of the Biblioteca Nacional José Marti.

   A while back, I challenged readers to name the cars lined up behind the 1956 Chevrolet Corvette occupied by Fulgencio Batista and his son Rubén in this August 1957 photo.
   Rashly, I did this before identifying the makes and models myself. And when I sat down to do this, I found myself stymied by the second car from the left. It's clearly recognizable as a late-1950s General Motors product, but while the hood badge looks vaguely like a Chevrolet crest, its grille seems more Oldsmobile or Buick.
   A closer look, however, revealed that the emblem, though obscured by the sun's reflection, is indeed the ringed-globe badge that adorned Oldsmobiles through much of the 1950s. That and the grille shape make this a 1957 Olds, though it is impossible from this angle to know whether it's a Super 88 or the longer-wheelbase 98. Its two-tone paint doesn't narrow it down, since that was available across the line.
   The others were easier. That's a 1955 Oldsmobile four-door sedan on the left, though again, it's difficult to specify model. Odds are, however, that it's a Super 88, which in four-door sedan trim was the best-selling Oldsmobile for 1955 (Oldsmobile's new four-door hardtops also enjoyed strong sales).
GM sales literature example of Olds badge in 1957.
   The third car over is, of course, a Cadillac – in this case a 75 series limousine from 1954 with the panoramic windshield that debuted that year. This is either the eight-passenger sedan, of which just 889 were produced that year, or the even scarcer (611 built) eight-passenger Imperial sedan, which had a power glass partition separating driver and passengers. These cars carried Fleetwood insignia in honour of Cadillac's coach-building arm, but were not Fleetwood models per se.
   Last, and also readily identifiable, is a 1955 Chevrolet station wagon. It could be a Bel Air, though its blackwall tires suggest it's more likely the 210 Townsman model.
   From the context – and the low-number "official" licence plates – it's a safe bet that these cars formed the presidential motorcade. The Oldsmobiles appear to hold security officers, and the Chevy might have been a support vehicle. The limo, of course, would carry the senior Batista in grand comfort.
   Ah, you say, but what about the airplane in the background? What's its make and model?
I can tell you that – and about the significant place it holds in history. Watch for the next post.




See also:

Young Batista's 1956 Corvette

When terror took wing, I

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   Fulgencio Batista seemed relaxed, even carefree, as he posed in his son's sports car for the August 1957 photograph that appears in the previous entry here.
   But the watchful presence of his bodyguards – you can see their sunglasses glinting from the cars arrayed behind the Batista Corvette – tells a different story.
Batista knew that threats could come from any direction, at any time. Across Cuba and across the political spectrum were opponents dedicated to his removal – some by any means.
   Just five months before, the dictator had barely escaped a student-led attack on the presidential palace in Havana. Gunfire echoed in the streets for two hours, and when it ended 42 people were dead.
   In the Sierra Maestra Mountains to the east, Fidel Castro's 26th of July Movement was gaining power by the day.
   And looming behind Batista in that photograph was an aircraft that would become an instrument of his enemies and open a new and sorry era in aviation.

Photo by Brian Stainer via the Peter Upton collection, courtesy of vickersviscount.net

   CU-T603, shown above in another photo taken during its short life, was the first of three Vickers Viscount Series 70 models bought by Cubana de Aviación in 1956. The British-built passenger planes replaced Douglas DC-4s on Cubana routes between Havana, Miami and Nassau.
   The Viscount was a landmark airliner. Developed after the Second World War by Vickers-Armstrongs Ltd., it pioneered the use of gas-turbine propeller engines for passenger service. The Rolls Royce turboprops were much quieter and smoother than the piston engines of competing planes, winning sales for the Viscount to airlines around the world.
   A comfortable, pressurized cabin with large windows was another attribute, as was the lower operating cost that would help keep the Viscount in service for half a century even as smoother, faster jetliners emerged.

*


   Late in the afternoon of Nov. 1, 1958, CU-T603 left Miami for the Varadero beach resort and Havana. It was a quiet day for Flight 495, with fewer than one-third of its 53 seats filled as stewardess Ana Reina, a classic Cuban beauty, walked down the aisle handing out customs declaration forms.
   But as the plane neared the island, four or five men stood and produced guns. According to some accounts they drew pistols concealed in their clothing; others said they armed themselves with machine guns from a floor compartment from which they also drew helmets, uniforms and boots.
Reina, photo source unknown.
   What is clear is that the hijackers identified themselves as members of the 26th of July Movement – and they intended their actions that day to resound both within and without Cuba.
   A general election was scheduled for Nov. 3, just two days after the flight,  following months of delays. Batista wasn't running for president – he claimed he was retiring – but his hand-picked successor, Andrés Rivero Agüero, was expected to win. Batista's opponents called the vote a sham, and Castro's rebels were seizing every chance to disrupt it.
  "This will be in all the newspapers of the world, for no one ever has tried to kidnap an aircraft of such size and importance," a gunman reportedly declared.
   The men pushed into the cabin and ordered Capt. Ruskin Medrano and co-pilot José Combarro to change course for the east. One attacker may have taken the controls, though Medrano, a gun to his head, would later be in the captain's seat.
   The hijackers wanted to put down at a dirt airstrip in the Sierra Cristal, where Raul Castro was operating a second front. But after circling the strip the hijackers conceded that it was inadequate for an aircraft weighing more than 20 tons and ordered Medrano to instead land at the paved runway at the Preston sugar mill east of Holguín.
Medrano, photo source unknown.
   Medrano protested that this strip was also too small, and not equipped for night landings. But with the Viscount running out of fuel, the pilot had no choice but to set up an approach. Two miles short of the unlit runway. the big airplane dropped into the dark waters of Bahia de Nipe, a vast and shallow bay that had sheltered Christopher Columbus's ships in 1492.
   CU-T603 was one of three Cubana aircraft commandeered by rebels in the days surrounding the election. The others were DC-3s on Cuban domestic flights, and both those hijackings ended with no loss of life.
But the Viscount episode would indeed make the world's newspapers. The accounts of the following days said 17 people had died – among them the hijackers, all four aircrew, three children and a pregnant woman. Villagers who rushed out on the bay in boats could find just three survivors.
   The election took place. Agüero won handily but would never take office,  instead fleeing Cuba with Batista on Jan. 1, 1959, as the rebel victory seemed certain.
   Castro denied ordering the hijacking of CU-T603, and later would have no scruples about travelling in one of its sister ships. "A Cubana Airlines Viscount plane was readied early today to fly to Santiago and bring Mr. Castro and provisional president Manuel Urritia to this capital," the Associated Press reported from Havana on Jan. 3.
  Today, the events of Nov. 1, 1958, are remembered as the first ever international hijacking to originate on U.S. soil.
   But they were much more than that.

When terror took wing, II

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Salvage efforts at the crash scene: photo source unknown.


   When did the airplane first become the tool of terrorists? Some put the date as early as Feb. 21, 1931, when armed Peruvian revolutionaries attempted to force the pilot of a Ford Tri-Motor to carry them aloft to drop leaflets. But the pilot refused and the flight never took place, so it's hard to assign great significance to this event.
   Others could point out that warring nations have long employed aircraft to instill fear in civilian populations. Certainly the airborne destruction of Rotterdam ordered by Hermann Göring in 1940, to cite a single example, could be nothing but terrorism.
   Jangir Arasly, in a paper for the Partnership for Peace Consortium, suggests the era of "modern aviation terrorism" began as late as 1968 with the hijacking of an El Al jet by gunmen seeking to spotlight the Palestinian cause.
   But to Cuban-born historian Manuel Márquez-Sterling, it was the seizure of the Cubana de Aviación Viscount bearing tail number CU-T603 on Nov. 1, 1958, that introduced "a terrorist tactic that would endure."
   From this came all the other hijackings for attention and political gain, a bloody trail leading to the day in September 2001 when four captured airliners would slam into the World Trade Center and the Pentagon and a field in Pennsylvania, killing nearly 2,800 people.
   In the years since, few topics have so gripped the world as the struggle with extremism and the ever-present fear of future attacks.
   Yet in 1958, for the American authorities confronted with the armed takeover and subsequent crash of a flight from Miami. there was not even a vocabulary with which to describe such an event. Hijackings were something that happened to truckloads of whiskey, and as journalist Geraldo Reyes has observed, "the closest word (to) terrorism was sabotage."
   As the U.S. sought to make sense of the hijacking, telegrams flew between the State Department and the American Embassy in Havana, and  Ambassador Earl T. Smith dispatched a vice-consul to eastern Cuba to interview the three passengers who were the only known survivors.
   It soon emerged, however, that three additional people aboard the flight, all hijackers, had also lived through the crash. Passenger Osiris Martinez, who was rescued by a villager in a canoe, remembered seeing two men crawling along a wing that protruded from the water.
   One of the surviving gunmen was identified as Edmundo Ponce de León, a Cuban-American who had served in the U.S. Air Force and was said to have been the ringleader of the Viscount attack.
   In the end, however, the U.S. would not pursue Ponce de León or the others involved in stashing weapons on the plane and commandeering it. The State Department reportedly asked the Department of Justice to launch an investigation, but federal prosecutors in Miami were said to have determined that the case was outside their jurisdiction – this despite the Florida origin of the flight and the U.S. citizenship held by several of the passengers, and despite even the apparent planning of the crime on U.S. soil.
   Would the decision have been different had the hijacking involved, say, one of Pan Am's new jet flights between New York and London? Certainly there's a sense that the seizure of CU-T603 was regarded more as an example of Latin America's near-constant strife than a crime touching the United States. News accounts invariably referred to the U.S. citizens on the flight as "naturalized Americans" (which wasn't even true: Osiris Martinez's wife and three small children, all killed in the crash, were American-born).
   But there was more at play than attitudes. The U.S., watching the mounting instability in its island neighbour, had been quietly working through 1958 to find a "middle way" between dictator Batista and the Marxist-oriented Castro movement. Any overt attempt to intercede in Cuban affairs could derail these efforts.
   As it turned out, there was no middle ground. Just two months after the hijacking, Batista was gone, boarding an airplane in the night for the Dominican Republic with his family and friends and a fortune said to be in the hundreds of millions.
   As the world watched Castro make his triumphant entrance into Havana and begin to set in place his communist government, the events of Nov. 1, 1958, receded into the past.
   But they were not forgotten.

*

   Half a century after the takeover of the Viscount, a startling report began to circulate among South Florida's Cuban community. Edmundo Ponce de León, alleged organizer of the hijacking of CU-T603, was said to be living in Miami – living, in fact, not far from relatives of victims of the crash.
   Ponce de León, now going by the first name of "Freddy," had slipped back into Florida in 1994, apparently no longer enamoured with communism and by then anxious to escape the hard times that descended on Cuba after the Soviet collapse. Whether the U.S. authorities knew the details of his past is unknown, but he was able to live quietly in Miami until 2008. Then he became involved in a property dispute with his sister, and her lawyer contacted survivors of the crash.
Ponce de León, 2011: NBC image
   With the scars of 9-11 still fresh and the Cuban-American community pressing for action, U.S. officials would not drop the cast so quickly this time. Ponce de León, however, denied any role in the hijacking, claiming he had been merely a passenger and after the crash was taken prisoner by the rebel forces.
   Without Cuba's co-operation and with only the 50-year-old recollections of witnesses with which to refute his claims, the U.S. Attorney's Office announced that Ponce de León would not be prosecuted.
   That did not mollify members of the Cuban community. Denied satisfaction from the government, they turned to the press. NBC Miami began an investigation, even filming Ponce de León in his small apartment, where his wife revealed that he had terminal cancer and the accused hijacker himself would say only: "It was 50 years ago."
   On Oct. 3, 2011, just hours before NBC was to air the first installment of its report, Ponce de León died in a Miami hospital. He was buried in a U.S. veterans' ceremony with military honours.
   Perhaps to avoid embarrassment, the government had reopened its investigation as the television report was being prepared. Now, their suspect dead, the authorities said Ponce de León had confessed to his part in the hijacking."We were in the process of seeking justice," a FBI spokesman told the television network.
   The survivors, and the descendants of the passengers and air crew who died in the crash, said the confession was not all they had wanted, but it was enough. Five decades after the shining airliner fell into the Bahia de Nipe, taking 14 lives and introducing a new and ferocious weapon of fear, the story of CU-T603 was over.




Sources and further reading:

Vickers Viscount Network

Daytona Beach Morning Journal, Nov. 3, 1958:"Rebel Seized Plane Crashes"

Toledo Blade, Jan. 2, 1959: "Castro Forces in Complete Control in Cuba"

Jules Dubois, Fidel Castro: Rebel: Liberator or Dictator? Bobbs-Merrill, 1959.

Confidential U.S. State Department Central Files: Cuba Internal and Foreign Affairs 1955-1959

Diplomatic History, January 1996: "The Caribbean Triangle: Betancourt, Castro and Trujillo and U.S. Foreign Policy, 1958-1963," by Stephen G. Rabe

Partnership for Peace Consortium, 2005: "Terrorism and Civil Aviation Security: Problems and Trends," paper by Jangir Arasly

Miami Herald, Oct. 26, 2008, "Cuban Hijacking Survivor's Grief Tinged with Regret"

Washington Post, Nov. 19, 2008: "Was 'Passenger' on Downed Flight a Hijacker?"

NBC 6 South Florida, Oct. 13, 2011: "Alleged Cubana Hijacker Dies"

NBC 6 South Florida, Nov. 2, 2012: "Ponce de Leon Admitted Role in Cubana Hijacking: FBI"

Cuba 1952-1959

Cuba Y La Masoneria





Singer or Ringer?

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   "Runs like a sewing machine" is a phrase you don't come across often now, but once was common in the car world. It's a compliment, meaning that an engine is smooth and reliable ... though maybe a bit buzzy.
   Owners of Singer cars no doubt heard it regularly, although when directed at their vehicles, it was probably intended more as a gentle jibe. And they, no doubt, responded that Singer Motors Ltd., founded by George Singer as a bicycle manufacturer in Coventry, England, in 1874, had nothing to do with the sewing machine company Isaac Merritt Singer and partner Edward Clark launched in New York in 1851.
   Singer – George, that is – first built motorized three-wheelers in 1901. A four-wheeler followed in 1905, and in 1912, the company achieved significant success with its Singer Ten, a sturdy two-seat roadster that was good on gas.
   Singer Motors was quick to adopt mechanical innovations, from steel frames to fluid-coupling transmissions, but while its cars were smart looking and lauded for their reliability, the company could never match the sales of rivals Austin, Morris and Ford.
   In 1956 Singer was absorbed by the Rootes Group, which was headed by William (Billy) Rootes, a one-time Singer apprentice, and already owned Hillman, Sunbeam and other British brands. Rootes maintained the Singer nameplate, but the Singer models – the Gazelle, the Vogue and finally, the Chamois – all were rebadged Hillmans. In 1967 Rootes was absorbed by Chrysler, and in 1970 the Singer brand was dropped.
   And speaking of rebadged – I'm puzzled by this apparent Singer, spotted in a Havana Harbour parking lot overseen by the author of Cuba's agrarian reform laws.
   It might be a Gazelle, or it might be a Austin or other British marque that somehow acquired a Singer emblem – and a strange, tombstone-like emblem it is.
   The owner wasn't around, or I would have asked about this car's pedigree. Naturally, I would also have asked if it ran like a sewing machine.

The Singer Chamois, a rebadged Hillman Imp.


Cuba car rental guide: The facts

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Mazda? No, Changan Alsvin.
     Much of what you read on the Internet about renting a car in Cuba is confusing. Some of it is wrong.
  And some things – like the supposed "Chana Alfwin" – are confusingly wrong.
   Several Cuban rental sites (well, they're mostly not Cuban – see below), list the Chana Alfwin sedan among available cars. Never having heard of the Alfwin, I was curious about who makes it and how it is regarded. Yet for all my digging, I couldn't find any mention of this car elsewhere.
   A unique-to-Cuba vehicle?
   Nope. The "Alfwin," I finally discovered, is actually the Alsvin, produced by Chinese manufacturer Changan Automobile Co. Formerly known in English as Chana, the automaker is a division of the state-owned Chinese Weaponry Equipment.
   Considered a midsize model in Cuba, the Alsvin would be regarded as a compact in most other places. It bears a more-than-passing resemblance to the first series Mazda 3, though with a 99-inch (2515 millimetres) wheelbase, it's considerably shorter than the Mazda (103.9 in./2,639 mm).
   Is it a good car? Who – apart from many thousands of Chinese drivers – can say? It appears to have scored three of a possible five stars in Chinese crash-testing, not wonderful but several constellations above the Geely CK that is another Cuban rental choice.
   I'll be in Cuba soon. I'll watch for the Alsvin/Alfwin.

   If you're thinking about renting a car in Cuba, check these posts:

1. How it works


Renting a car in Cuba: So many, so few
Don't be fooled by all those sites. Most are middlemen for the handful of Cuba's state-owned rental companies.

There will be paperwork
Written before I realized I was renting through an intermediary. Still, you'll find useful information here about the process.

You won't drive a bargain
What it costs to rent a car in Cuba. (Hint: Plenty.)

Keep the lead out
For you, special gasoline. Yes, really.


2. What you'll get


Spicy little number
The Kia Picanto subcompact has tons of tang.

Geely. Prounced Jee-lee. Or in Cuba, Heely
Cuba's rental car of choice. Not your choice. Cuba's. But model by model, Geely is getting better.

It's a Geely – really
Any resemblance between the Emgrand EC8 and a Cadillac XTS is you-betcha intentional.

Another rental choice
They want to give you something called a Samsung SM3? Relax. It's a Nissan.

3. Behind the wheel


Leave the driving to them
Hiring a car and driver can be cheaper – and calmer.

Driving in Cuba reconsidered
A countryman's plight prompts some second thoughts.

10 tips for driving in Cuba
Where there's always a cop around when you need one – and often, when you don't.


Samsung (Nissan) SM3, left, and Geely CK. Take the Samsung.

The Gullwing: Watch it and weep

Fuel for thought

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   Just flew in from Cuba, and boy, are my knees tired! Legroom, it`s clear, is not a priority on the Boeing 737s operated by CanJet (or is it Sardine-CanJet?). Still, the price was right.
   As was the Cuban experience.
   One thing I noticed. The smell of diesel fuel in Havana has never seemed so strong. It could have been the weather – hot, still days, and then rain.
   It could be a change – and not for the better – in the refining process.
   Or maybe it`s simply that after years of particulate filters and low-sulphur "clean" diesel in Europe and North America, some of us have forgotten the greasy, rotten-eggs odour of old-style diesel.
   One certainty. It is not the smell of progress.

Bright soldiers of the Revolution

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Batista opponents ferried weapons in this 1948 Pontiac Streamliner Deluxe sedan.
   Preserved under a thick gloss of paint, the vehicles arrayed at the Granma Memorial provide a full-fendered view of transportation in Cuba in the late 1950s.
   Of course, so do the cars and trucks chugging along the Havana streets outside the Museo de la Revolución, which is home to the memorial. And there's no admission charge to see them.
   Yet the collection is well worth the memorial's modest, 2-CUC (or so) admission fee, both for its direct connection to historic events – here, for example, are the trucks in which Fidel and Raúl Castro traversed the steep slopes of Oriente Province as they led their rebel forces – and for its lessons on how the revolutionaries embraced and adapted the technology of the day for their guerrilla warfare.
   You'll see a delivery van that became a troop carrier for an assault on Batista's palace, and a tractor transformed with thick plating into a tank that saw action in the Battle of Yaguajay. Nearby is a blue Pontiac sedan, its unremarkable exterior belying its role as weapons carrier between Havana and Las Villas Province.
   There are airplanes, bought for Batista's air force but used by Castro's new government to repel the Bay of Pigs invaders, and the engine of an American U-2 spy plane shot down in the Cuban Missile Crisis.
   The centrepiece is the Granma itself, the quaintly named cabin cruiser that in 1956 carried the Castros and 80 followers from Tuxpan, Mexico, to the remote corner of Cuba from which they would begin their campaign. The motor yacht, a Streamline Moderne melody of planes and curves, resides behind thick tinted glass, like Lenin in his tomb.
   For the cars and aircraft alongside, protection comes from the pavilion's tall, multi-level roof, its geometric shadows ensuring that these key players in the revolution will never fade under the tropical sun.

Among the exhibits is an American-built Vought OS2U-3 Kingfisher observation plane.


   In the next few posts, I'll provide a closer look at the collection.


Delivering a different history

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Ford COE (cab-over-engine) truck carried rebels to Batista's palace.
    In "11/22/63," novelist Stephen King explores – at length – the different course history might have taken had Lee Harvey Oswald failed to assassinate John F. Kennedy on that early afternoon in Dallas.
   When I look at the Ford truck at the Granma Memorial, I too think about history and assassinations. But here, I wonder how events might have unfolded had an attempt to kill a president not failed, but succeeded.
   It was Wednesday, March 13, 1957, when the red van, 20 years old and still bearing in Spanish and English the markings of the delivery company that once owned it, pulled up at the Presidential Palace in Havana. On this day it was delivering 42 armed men, part of a force intent on removing Fulgencio Batista and restoring Cuba's constitutional government.
   The attack was orchestrated by a young firebrand named José Antonio Echeverría, whose Directorio Revolucionario group was only loosely aligned with Fidel Castro's 26th of July Movement. Echeverría had not consulted the bearded guerrilla on his plan to kill Batista.
Bullets pierced every side.
   The rebels who spilled from the Ford van and two accompanying cars were Echeverría's fellow students from the University of Havana, joined by other opponents of the government. Most prominent among this second group was lawyer and former congressman Menelao Mora Morales, who had helped Echeverría devise the assault.
   The student leader himself was not at the palace but blocks away with another force outside the studios of Radio Reloj, which he intended to occupy so he could broadcast the news that Batista's regime was toppled.
   Had the gunmen found Batista in his second-floor office, they surely would have killed him. But the dictator had left the room not long before, taking a private elevator that was the only access to his family's quarters on the third floor. The palace guards, regrouping after the surprise assault, pushed back the attackers. Menelao Mora died on the palace's marble staircase and others fell in the gun battle that went on for hours outside.
   Echeverría seized the radio station and made his announcement, but whether anyone heard it is uncertain. One report suggests the feed was cut before he reached the microphone; another that the young rebel in his excitement spoke so loudly that the broadcast was muted by the station's automatic level controller.
   His failure would be complete. Leaving the station for the nearby university, the rebels were blocked by a police car. Echeverría, 24, began firing and was struck by a police bullet. He died in the street, just steps from the famous staircase that leads to the campus.
Plaque honours three of the fallen.
   The full toll that day: 35 rebels, five guards and one New Jersey tourist, Peter Korenda, 38, killed by a stray bullet as he watched the battle from a hotel blocks away. Castro, from his base at the far end of the island, would describe the attempt as a "useless spilling of blood."
   A bloodbath indeed, but one that would greatly advance Castro's own efforts, even if he had no part in the attack. Two of his Havana rivals were gone, and Batista, despite the bravura he would show in the following days, was shaken. The course for the dictator's eventual abdication, and Castro's takeover, was set.
   But what if Batista had been killed that day? Would a democratic government have resulted? And endured? Would Cuba today be another quiet nation of sunshine and commerce like Costa Rica or the Bahamas?
   Or would Castro, already a folk hero to many Cubans, have found a place in the new government and then, gradually or quickly, taken control? Would the socialist reforms that he and Che Guevara had so long planned have swept Cuba anyway, locking the island in a decades-long standoff with its huge neighbour to the north? Would history, as Stephen King might suggest, stubbornly resist taking any other path?
   Don't look for answers from the red truck, its flanks scarred by bullet holes. It speaks only of what happened that day, and not of what might have been.

Built in the late 1930s, the truck had been owned by a delivery service.



Don't even think about it

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Changing of the guard between the Granma Memorial and the Museo de la Revolución.

   The reverence in which Cuba's leaders hold the artifacts of their long-ago struggle – the cars, the planes, the boat that carried Fidel Castro and his followers from Mexico to Cuba – is evident in the number of soldiers at the Granma Memorial.
   They stand on the catwalk beside the glass case that encloses the yacht; they walk quietly among the displays below. They change the guard in red-bereted unison on Calle Colon, now a fenced square between the memorial's eternal flame and the Museo de la Revolución, but 55 years ago a Havana thoroughfare-turned-battle zone.
   You cannot touch the Granma yacht. You could, I suppose, touch the other items, but it doesn't seem advisable.
   The soldiers look away from visitors. They are not there to engage in conversation. But I manage to catch the eye of one young guard and mime spinning the two-bladed propeller of a Kingfisher observation plane seized by the rebel army in 1958.
   He gives me a tight, yeah-yeah-I-get-it smile. I guess he'd seen that one before.


Prop-plane probably wouldn't have started anyway.

The guards avoid eye contact. They are not guides.

Touching the vehicles is not recommended, but
touching fellow visitors would appear to be OK.




No wonder they won the war

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Baby blue: Fidel Castro's Land Rover Series 1 at the Granma Memorial.
   Sturdy four-wheel-drive trucks from three nations – and three continents – carried Cuba's revolutionary commanders in their battles with the government troops of Fulgencio Batista.
   From Britain came the Land Rover Series 1 station wagon that served Fidel Castro in the Sierra Maestra forests in 1958 as he directed raids on the towns below. Today that Land Rover rests on concrete pylons in Havana, on permanent display at the Granma Memorial.
   It still carries the marks of "several bullet impacts," as its placard observes, but it's been painted a cheerful light blue that might not have been its original colour. The curators have shown they are not slaves to historical accuracy – a nearby Pontiac, also blue, was industrial grey not so long ago.
   As a station wagon, the Land Rover would have come with a detachable, vented roof that ran the length of its long passenger compartment designed to seat up to 10. At some point, truck and roof must have gone in different directions; today Fidel's Land Rover is an open four-door (five-door, if you consider the side-hinged rear gate) that appears more phaeton than station wagon.
   The Series 1 wagon, with 107-inch wheelbase. 2.0-litre four-cylinder gasoline engine and selectable four-wheel-drive, was available from 1956 to 1958. Production never approached the numbers of the iconic, short-wheelbase Series 1 models. At least one website reports that the wagons today are prized by the Land Rover faithful.
   They won't be getting this one. But where did Fidel Castro get it? That, I'd like to know.
 
   Next: A U.S. entry.

Somewhere along the line, station wagon lost its roof.
Black bench set, big banjo wheel.
Birmabright aluminum alloy body holds rust at bay.


A poet soldier and a magic Jeep

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One of two CJ's identified as Juan Almeida Bosque's wartime Jeep.
   Jeeps, we know, can do pretty much anything, but until now, I didn't realize that a single Jeep could appear in two places at once.
   Such is apparently possible, however, if it's the 1950s Jeep CJ-6 of Juan Almeida Bosque. Not only is the stout four-wheeler on standing display at the Granma Memorial in Havana – literally, it stands on concrete posts – but it can also be seen in the newly opened Third Front Historical Complex, a Santiago del Cuba museum dedicated to the life and work of Fidel Castro's longtime lieutenant and friend.
   To be fair, the Havana Jeep may be described as the "type" or "brand" of vehicle that carried Almeida after its capture from Batista's troops on the eastern front. Its placard isn't clear. And the Jeep in Santiago is identified unequivocally as Almeida's command car in one report, but in another as a "replica."
   Hard to tell much about the Almeida museum's Jeep from the photo at the first link, other than it's a CJ-5 or a CJ-6 and would seem to have had a rather sloppy respray. The Jeep in Havana is unmistakably the longer, and far less common, CJ-6. With a wheelbase of 101 inches, the CJ-6 could carry 1,500 pounds or, with its optional side-mounted rear benches, up to eight passengers. Though bought for the Cuban army, this one is a civilian model and not the M38A1 supplied to the American military. Its round rear wheel openings identify it as built in the United States; the CJs that were issuing from the new Jeep factory in Brazil had square openings.
   Both the CJ-5 and 6 were introduced in 1955 by Willys Motor Co., a subsidiary of Kaiser, and would stay in production all the way until 1984. They were intended to replace the CJ-3B, but that model, unmistakable for its high hood (necessary to clear the tall F-head engine), also remained in production for years because of demand in export markets. The 3B remains a common sight on Cuban roads.
    Juan Almeida Bosque was one of Castro's earliest supporters. A descendant of African slaves, he was the only black leader among the revolutionaries fighting in the Oriente province. He also was a poet, author and composer, and his slow-tempoed bolero love songs can still be heard on Latin radio.
   Almeida held top posts in the Castro government, often appearing at the side of Fidel and then Raúl Castro. Good for optics, no doubt, in a nation that has yet to erase its hierarchy of skin tone; but also a measure of respect for a man officially designated a "Hero of the Republic of Cuba."
   He died in 2009 at age 82. His coffin, ringed by white flowers, was carried through Santiago streets lined with mourners by a Soviet-built military jeep – not a 1950s Jeep CJ, but fitting nonetheless.

Almeida, right, in 1959. Photo: www.juventudrebelde.cu
He appeared often with the Castro brothers.
 Photo: www.cadenagramonte.cubaweb.cu





See also:

CJ-3B outside, Lada inside

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