The Miraflores Missile Crisis

Roosevelt High School was a great institution for encouraging creativity. The strongest element in the American education system is the environment fostered to nurture the imagination of young minds. For that, I will always be grateful to my North American neighbours. My passion throughout my early scholastic development was history. I always wanted to find out more about everything. Wrapping up my final year in Lima, I was excited that our IB History teacher, Mr. Cotner, give us the chance to decide what we wanted to do as our final project for the year. It was a true blessing that imagination and history came together in this instance. I acted quickly to rally my troops, enlisting the services of my usual suspects, Alejandro, Crack, Glen and William (the other one, not myself) and picked up some free agents to complete the roster.

The creative process can be frustrating

There was no doubt in my mind that the topic should be The Cuban Revolution. It had been the conflict that had by far raised the most interest in my history career in school, and I was also fresh off the Cuban boat – of course as a tourist, which is completely different than being a citizen from the island that knows the REAL Cuba. We were convinced that the best way to present the subject was through visualization. Most people tend to be more engaged through tangible images rather than just words on a sheet of paper, or an abstract lecture standing in front of the entire class. Nobody likes that. The words “this person loves the sound of their own voice” come to mind. This style of presentation eventually became overshadowed by the avant garde PowerPoint presentations. Images and graphs make a difference. Now, if that is true, it is even more so when we are talking about teenagers. At that age, we think we already know everything we need to, so it is tough to impress us. We have all been there, enough to agree on this generalization. We opted for a high impact home video.

This project generated my first experience in the world of script writing. I could have gone all the way to Hollywood for sure. I would go further and still say it was an admirable script for someone whose training was primarily based on Cable Mágico TV channels - mostly HBO Olé, Cinemax and MTV Latino. Well some classic South American football dives too. I was hardly forced to take on this role as director, scriptwriter, producer, casting, etc. My passion fuelled my enterprise and I was open to critique and input from my colleagues. I guess it was also my first experience in project management and leadership. The story began with Fidel Castro (yours truly), Che Guevara (William Erickson) and Camilo Cienfuegos (Alejandro Alves) storming the Cuban National Capitol in Havana (our IB History classroom) to kick out the evil dictator, Fulgencio Batista (our teacher Mr. Cotner) and take over government. Of course, the entire production was absolutely impeccable and worthy of a High School Oscar.

Those of us involved in the project were so enthused and having such a great time, I remember we managed to get volunteers to play extra roles in the film. The best scene we shot was down in the Larcomar shopping centre in Miraflores, where Fidel, Che and Camilo were going to catch some rays at Playa Girón – actually the beach on the Miraflores coast – and we were supposed to have gotten lost trying to get there. That is so unlike Fidel, don’t you think? We filmed the three amigos walking in to Hard Rock Café in Larcomar, where we coached the Maitre D’ to give us directions to the beach on camera. He was a good sport. Upon reaching Playa Girón – a settlement in the Bay of Pigs – the not-so-barbudos hung out at the entrance of Fidel’s beach house – a public outhouse – where a rag tag CIA trained army – our High School student extras – came for a battle royal to take over Cuba. Of course, like history dictates, they failed. In our case, not a single shot was fired.

Camilo, Fidel and Che digging the Hard Rock

The key ingredient in making the education process valuable, especially when dealing with high school kids, is to give students space to grow. If they demonstrate enthusiasm and stay on task, do anything you can to support their passion, or stand back if need be. Mr. Cotner was just that kind of teacher. In my entire time in that school, not a single person had complained about his teaching method or his attitude. I like to think he led by example. He was just one of those teachers that stand out. He gave us the tools to become independent decision makers and taught us to be aware of consequences. He really prepared us, without us even knowing, for the world after Roosevelt. In most North American schools, you are dumped into a “sink or swim” scenario. Thanks to the discipline acquired in my IB History class, I have always kept my head above water. My only regret is not having this video on VHS anymore. It was a classic of epic proportions.

Peru – First Blood

Prior to arriving in the great land of the Inca, I had ample time to picture Lima, Peru. This was before the golden age of Internet where access to information was slightly more limited. How did we ever manage back then? Even as I sat on the edge of my seat in the airplane carefully listening to the crew’s announcement about our descent to Jorge Chavez International Airport, I thought the city could resemble a blend between Santiago and Caracas. Memories of these two places were still somewhat fresh. As the aircraft continued its approach to land, I was not even able to see city lights in the dark. I always adored night flights as there were lights indicating a sign of life and civilization. A deep fog enveloped our plane, hiding everything as if keeping some kind of secret or hoping to surprise me. I impatiently kept gazing through the window hoping to catch a glance of a skyline, challenging the thick fog with a determined stare that met an even more determined contender. Neither of us gave up until eventually the plane touched down on the tarmac inching me closer to my new home for the next two years.

Peruvian flag adopted in 1825.

Our plane taxied to the terminal but did not park in front of the usual sleeves transporting passengers from the aircraft into the building. The flight attendants opened the doors preparing the travellers for their exit and a heavy smell penetrated the aircraft. This smell is something hard to forget. To say it stunk would be an understatement. The foul stench originated from fishmeal, garbage and perhaps a pinch of guano all engulfed in the thick, humid fog. We learned that the thick fog was called garua and would be our constant companion day and night for the next 6 months. I figured we would have to tough it out until leaving the airport, as in several large cities these are built in industrial areas. Upon stepping down a ladder leaving the Aeroperu plane behind, we boarded a bus that would take us to the terminal where we would have to go through customs, the international bureaucratic procedure officially granting the right of entry to the country. At this point, an Embassy admin officer, Mr. Stuart Bale, who had been on posting with his lovely family in Caracas, Venezuela overlapping with our time there, met us to provide a briefing on Peru. It was a lovely surprise to start this adventure with a familiar face. We went through customs through a special diplomatic line without any trouble eventually getting to baggage claim followed by our departure on an embassy van. All of this accompanied with that awful smell. There were several hundred people gathered outside the airport, milling about waiting for their loved ones.

We met our driver, a hefty Peruvian named Wilbur, who would take us to our overnight accommodation. As the vehicle made its way through the crowd, some kids began throwing rocks to our car, apparently in an attempt to irritate passing drivers enough to stop the car and exit the vehicle. Those who were not experienced in this kind of confrontation would soon find their vehicle swarmed by several dozen kids - called pirañitas - releaving you of any contents of your car. Stuart was kind enough to fill us in on some of this useful local intelligence. This part of the city was called Callao, and the cityscape was quite striking. We travelled along a large avenue where the median was covered in all manners of garbage, as the city did not have an organized collection system and contributed to the smell. On the opposite side, buildings appeared to have been demolished in some sort of terrorist attack. This was actually a way to save on property taxes, as the owners did not have to pay the maximum taxable return if the building was not completed. As we moved along, much of the city seemed to be distributed in a similar manner, although upon our arrival to Miraflores – a downtown for foreigners as well as a business centre for the city – things seemed to improve.

Our first night in the city, we checked in to the Hotel Pardo where we had reservations. It was a perfect location as it was literally right across from the Embassy of Canada and it was in the heart of the entertainment district for the gringos. That night, Brian was still upset at having to leave Ottawa behind so he had decided to stay in the hotel room. Dad, Maman and I went to the famous Calle de las Pizzas (Pizza street to us foreigners) to enjoy a locally made pizza and their own brand of sangria – a drink tracing its origins in Spain made of red wine, bubbly water or citrus flavoured soda mixed in with some seasonal fruit. It was a delightful meal, the service was excellent and the price was reasonable. There were perhaps anywhere from 30 to 40 pubs serving their own pizzas with special deals for the Pisco Sour, their national drink. Although I had heard of this drink during my time in Chile, I had never had the chance to try it as it was an alcoholic beverage. Peruvians would always proudly state that it was their drink and their neighbours to the South had copied their idea. I never debated with my hosts out of respect. In the streets as we made our way back to the hotel, there were several Peruvian kids selling roses to passers-by, many vendors with their moveable kiosks, all catering to the busy Miraflores nightlife. We did not stick around as the next few days would be action packed having to start our lives again from scratch and this time, Brian and I were going to have to go school hunting.

View of Pizza Street from Parque Kennedy, Lima, Peru

We were determined to make the best out of this situation and continue our seasoned adventurous spirit developed during our previous South American adventures. Our first night, as we readied ourselves for a good night sleep on foreign soil once more, we watched some local television hoping to find news providing more insight on the country’s happenings. Unfortunately it was a little too late and we were only able to see an end of the day commercial with a patriotic tune. The video had this attractive woman dressed in typical Quechua attire running around fields and there were also images of different regions of the country and the soundtrack was a song repeating “Así me gusta mi país, Perú.” (This is how I like my country, Peru). After this cute uplifting video, we settled into our beds for a goodnight sleep, as we had to be early in the morning in the embassy for a meet and greet. Instead of the sandman coming to ensure our dreams were sweet, an earthquake woke us up from our slumber. It was quite a scare, especially as it was the first one I had experienced in my life.