We didn't have a lot, just one small bag each —just a change of socks and a dozen bibles —and we wrestled the bags out past a female customs agent who seemed more interested in talking to the guard beside her than in catching us smuggling in weapons or stock portfolios.

She merely glanced at the bags and waved us through, without losing a syllable of her rapid-fire monologue. And then we were free, walking improbably out the door and into the sunshine outside. Chutsky whistled up a taxi, a grey Mercedes, and a man stepped out in grey livery and matching cap and grabbed our bags.

Chutsky said, “Hotel Nacional,” to the driver, he threw our bags in the trunk, and we all climbed in.

The highway into Havana was badly pock-marked, but it was very close to deserted. We saw only a few other cabs, a couple of motorcycles, and some army trucks moving slowly along, and that was it —all the way into the city. Then the streets suddenly exploded into life, with ancient cars, bicycles, crowds of people flowing over the sidewalks, and some very strange-looking buses that were pulled by diesel trucks. They were twice as long as an American bus, and shaped something like the letter “M” with the two ends going up like wings and then sloping down to a flat-roofed low spot in the middle.

They were all packed so full of people that it seemed impossible for anyone else to get on, but as I watched one of them stopped and sure enough, another clump of people crowded in.

“Camels” Chutsky said, and I stared at him curiously.

“Excuse me?” I said.