Headline: JEB BUSH APPEALS TO VENTURA OVER CUBA TRIP
TALLAHASSEE, Florida—Citing a lack of “basic freedoms” in Cuba, Gov. Jeb Bush urged Minnesota Gov. Jesse Ventura to reconsider his plans to attend a trade exposition there next month. . . .
But a spokesman for Ventura said the Minnesota governor did not agree with Bush’s “isolationist approach” and would not alter his plans.
—CNN.com, August 30, 2002
Then the feds restricted the First Lady’s passport. The only way Terry could have come would have been to sneak in and meet me there. That’s when my antennae went sky-high: Wait a minute, aren’t we home of the brave, land of the free? We’re not at war with Cuba. As members of what’s supposed to be a free society, my wife and I should be able to go there without repercussions from my own country—economic boycott or not.
Here’s the part that really got to me. Bush’s top man for the Western Hemisphere in the State Department, Otto Reich, came out publicly with the statement that he certainly hoped my group and I were not going to Cuba to sample the sex trade. Because, according to him, Cuba has a high prostitution rate. I demanded an apology from George Bush to myself and every citizen of Minnesota, for one of his underlings making such a reckless statement. I never got a response from anyone in his administration.
After the trip, when the press asked me about it, I said: “Well, in our week in Cuba, I didn’t see any of this sex trade. And if we go back again, I would enjoy for Otto Reich to come along, because obviously he knows where it’s at! Clearly he’s an expert, so I can only assume he’s partaken of it.”
Our party on the trip was very large, people from Minnesota agriculture, and others. The Cubans had a big expo-type fair, and Castro came to that. A family from Rochester, Minnesota, had brought some cattle down and Fidel ended up befriending these two cute little kids. Castro is brilliant in that he plays his publicity like a conductor of a fine symphony. He ended up bringing the kids as his personal guests to some big function, where they got to sit with him in his private box.
I found the Cuban people exceptionally friendly, and you could tell it was genuine. Not a whole lot different from other Latino countries I’ve visited. They’re all kind of out of the same melting pot, in their own ways of tradition. Being there reaffirmed my position that the American sanctions are wrong. You realize that these are only hurting the Cuban people. I guess the hope is that then the people will rise up and throw Fidel out. Except what I saw is that the Cuban people are also exceptionally patriotic. They’re stubborn. They’re not going to let us win with our embargo. They’re going to stick with Fidel until he dies. Yet, by the same token, I saw amongst them a great love for America. Not America’s government, but the American people.
I went to the fair for several days, and spoke at numerous press conferences, and even did my weekly radio broadcast live from Havana back to Minnesota. I also spoke at the University of Havana. That’s when I realized how much respect the people have for authority. I suppose it’s that way in all dictatorships, but it’s a funny story. We were walking onto the campus and I was accompanied by my two regular security guys from Minnesota, an interpreter, and three of Castro’s personal bodyguards. That’s a total of six people around me at all times. As we approached the auditorium where I was to speak, a large group of people were congregated out on the sidewalk, not necessarily waiting for us, but just there. One of Castro’s bodyguards reminded me a lot of Teofilo Stevenson, the former heavyweight boxer from Cuba—same massive body, wearing the white Panama shirt. As we reached the crowd, I saw his hand simply come up waist high, and he made a half-moon circle with his fingertips.
It was like Moses parting the Red Sea. Those people instantly separated and we passed right through the center of the crowd. I turned to my own security guys and gave ’em the burn, saying, “How come you guys can’t do that? Maybe I’ll bring these guys home with me and leave you here!” They turned a bit red in the face, and more or less had to apologize that in a free country, the people don’t always act that way. In fact, back home we got pies thrown at us more times than any parting of the Red Sea. Anyway, I was impressed.
It was a full house at the university. I just talked from my heart. About what I had seen in Cuba, things that had been made known to me about their advancements in education and medicine, and what they should be proud of. Also, I spoke of how the boycott should end, and our two countries should become friends rather than adversaries. The students went wild.
Maybe some people reading this book will think I’m a traitor to the United States. But I don’t think I am. I always felt, in looking at this situation, that it was wrong. And I now know why. It came to me one night in Mexico. China is communist, the same as Cuba, and yet we have no problem trading with China. In fact, today we can’t get over there quick enough. The difference is simple: China welcomes our corporations. Cuba threw them out. It’s a basic decision of corporate America: We will punish Cuba because Castro stuck it to us by nationalizing everything after he came to power. What other reason could there be? China is far more powerful but we now welcome them into global trade with open arms—as we should—while we continue this bitter, hostile policy towards Cuba. It must be because there are still people alive in the corporate world who got hammered by Fidel’s revolution.
We spent two days in a row at the big trade fair, and that’s where I was introduced to Fidel. It’s amazing, but the common people on the street all call him Fidel. When I met him, I called him Mr. President. He’s not really an elected president, but I didn’t know what else to say. You can’t really call him Mr. Dictator.
I’ve never known a handshake like Castro’s. He comes up to me, winds up, pulls back his hand all the way to his shoulder, and thrusts it out with great excitement. I’d never seen anyone shake hands so enthusiastically—and I’ve shaken hands with a lot of people. That’s what I’ll always remember. And, of course, our conversation.
Our meeting was set up in a room at the trade fair. It was on a Friday, our last day, around noon. Fidel was there waiting for me. We sat in two chairs right across from each other. He had his interpreter along, and some of his security people. My chief of staff and my security were in the room, too. The entire time we were in Cuba, my security was allowed to stay armed, except for those roughly two hours with Castro. About a half hour beforehand, they had to turn their weapons in to Castro’s people. Then a half hour after Fidel was out of the room, the weapons were returned to them. I understood.
The first words out of his mouth were, “You are a man of great courage.”
I was puzzled by this and said, “Well, Mr. President, how can you say that? You don’t know me.”
He looked back at me and said, “Because you defied your president to come here.” I guess he has pretty good “intel.”
And I looked right back at him and said, “Well, Mr. President, you’ll find that I defy most everything.”
Castro laughed. Who knows, maybe he felt this was something we had in common.
The whole conversation, on my part, was in English and was interpreted for him in Spanish by a lady. But I don’t think he really needs her. Because now and then, I’d say something that was funny and he’d laugh before the interpretation happened. As good as Castro is at masking the fact, I think he understands English very well. Let’s put it this way: I’m sure he does English far, far better than I do Spanish.
Our conversation consisted of a great deal of Castro—for lack of a better phrase—bragging about his country. I don’t use the term bragging negatively; I don’t think it’s any different from what I would do. Just as I have great pride in Minnesota, he has the same for Cuba. He was extremely proud of the fact that they have the highest literacy rate of any Latin country in the hemisphere. He’s also proud that they have the best medical care. I found him very engaging. He’s a master of hyperbole.
I told him the same thing I’d told the students—that I felt the boycott was wrong. It did n
othing positive for either of our countries, and it was time for America to get over it. His questions of me were mainly about my political future. He was interested in the fact that I was an independent and didn’t belong to either of the two major parties—a kind of rogue element being the governor of a state.
Time passes very quickly when it’s only an hour and you’re sitting with Fidel Castro. He’s so perceptive. I’ll never forget that at one point I glanced at my watch and immediately Castro said, “I’m sorry, do you have to be somewhere?”
I said, “No, sir. But I’m only here a short time with you, and there are some personal questions I wanted to ask you before our hour is up. So I was just checking my watch to see how much more time I had. So—can I ask you one?”
His answer was, “Ask me anything you’d like.”
Maybe that meant, “It doesn’t mean I’ll answer it, but I’m giving you free rein to ask.” I told him about how I was only twelve years old when John F. Kennedy was killed. And how later, as an adult, I started studying the murder. I told him that I came not to believe the Warren Commission, or what my country has portrayed as being officially what happened.
I said, “Naturally, in studying this, there are a few scenarios where you come up very strongly as being a part of it; that Oswald was somehow linked to you. You were around back then, and much older than I was, and more involved. I would like to know your perception of what happened to John F. Kennedy.”
For the next twenty minutes, I couldn’t stop him from talking. The things I recall are impressed in my head and will remain with me forever. First of all, he said it was an “inside job,” meaning that the assassination was orchestrated from within the United States. He stared at me very intently and said—which also told me that he was aware of my military background—“You know as well as I do, Oswald couldn’t make the shots.”
Then he went on to explain the reason he knew that. During the Cuban revolution, he was the main guy who taught and carried out sniper work. Knowing all he did about this, he knew Oswald couldn’t have accomplished the job with the antiquated Mannlicher-Carcano rifle that he used.
Then Fidel described why it was an inside job. First of all, he said, he was very close to the Soviet Union at that time. “The Soviets didn’t do it,” he stated emphatically. In fact, the Kremlin leaders had told him about Kennedy: “You can talk to this man.” Apparently the Russians were pleased that Kennedy had enough of an open mind to at least consider their side’s position, on Cuba and other matters. Besides, neither country wanted another nuclear confrontation like the Cuban Missile Crisis.
Secondly, Castro said, “I didn’t do it.” Again his gaze was penetrating. He went on, “I’m not suicidal crazy. Why would I destroy my Cuba, the country I love so much? If I would have ordered Kennedy killed, and the United States found out, we wouldn’t exist anymore. They would have unleashed everything they had on us, and basically blown us off the face of the earth. Why would I take that risk?”
It made sense to me. Unless you truly believe in David and Goliath. Not only that, but look who was waiting in the wings—Lyndon Baines Johnson. I didn’t see his becoming president as a positive for Fidel Castro.
He also recalled for me how, at the moment Kennedy was killed, he was meeting in Havana with a French journalist named Jean Daniel, whom Kennedy had personally sent to see him. Castro felt very strongly that Kennedy was considering a change in policy towards Cuba. I could tell that he felt Cuba was worse off without Kennedy alive.
He said again, “It was completely an inside job. It was done by people within the United States of America.”
I wanted to ask for specifics—it felt like he knew some—but our time was up.
I believed what Castro said to me that day. I won’t go so far as to say I trusted him, after a single meeting. He’s a dictator, and dictators are a strange breed. In my opinion, they tend to become victims of their own power. They can never be fully honest. I don’t think they dare to be, because there is always paranoia about someone waiting in the wings to take over. Maybe after he decided to retire, and put his brother Raul in place for good, and headed for the beach—without the pressures of being a dictator—then you could truly trust him. As it is, he needs to have informants everywhere. He has no choice.
Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to talk with Fidel about Che Guevara. I’d have wanted to get to know him a bit better anyway, to bring up something as politically sensitive as Che might be to him. I’ve read different accounts that they had fallen out somewhat, before Che was killed in 1967. I don’t believe that, because if Fidel did have a problem with Che, why has he allowed Che to become such a figure in Cuba? You don’t see Fidel’s picture on the side of the most massive building in downtown Havana. You see Che Guevara’s.
Che is a very interesting individual to read about. I respect him because, as much as I oppose communism, Che believed in it with the same fervor that I have for capitalism. I respect the fact that he would die for his convictions. How did a man as bright as Che develop the hatred for the United States and all that we stood for? I’ve eliminated jealousy as a reason. He was a medical doctor, a healer. It clearly had to be that he saw the results of what we did to other countries, in the name of freedom and capitalism. Which, in many ways, was not pretty if you were on the wrong end of it.
So, a mirror of Che Guevara has a profound place in my house. I’m not the least ashamed to say that. When I go to wash my hands, I look at Che.
Whenever I did a trade mission, I’d try to stay up late the last night so that I could sleep on the plane ride home. I love to get on the plane bright and early in the morning, conk out, and only wake up as the wheels were touching down. It’s not that I fear flying, it’s just that sleeping on flights is more entertaining.
So, that last night, I turned to my Cuban bodyguards and said, “Well, take me for a night on Havana.” They didn’t seem to understand quite what I meant. “Well, where would you like to go?” they asked.
I said, “I don’t know, it’s your town. I’ll leave it to you.”
They took me to the infamous Club Havana. It’s a beautiful nightclub, maybe the biggest one in Cuba. It’s not a strip club; I would classify it more as a Las Vegas type of entertainment show. In a way—and I’ll date myself here—like the Spanish version of Ed Sullivan. They bring out Latino comedians, a variety of different musical acts, and have beautiful Cuban girls who dance in their feathered native costumes.
It’s also a unique place, in that, in a corner, they had a vintage Knucklehead Harley Davidson motorcycle. I went over and looked at it. If you look down at where the V-twins are on the opposite side, the first two numbers are the year, stamped into the serial number of the motorcycle. All bikers know that. This was either a 1936 or 1937. It was original Marlon Brando, with the big headlight, the handlebars out to the side, vintage. I told my Cuban bodyguards that, in America, it would sell like hotcakes. I said, “Guys, if we can smuggle that out, I can guarantee you $60,000 to $70,000 U.S. without an argument.” I think they were considering it.
While we were there, the MC set up a contest. First they went table to table finding out where everyone was from. Of course, there was our table from Minnesota, as well as a table from Canada; one from, I think, Israel; a table from Australia; and a table from California. What the Californians were doing there, apparently illegally, I didn’t bother to ask. Anyway, every table then had to designate someone to participate. I didn’t think either of my own bodyguards, or Fidel’s three, or my interpreter would be too keen on that. So I volunteered. I figured, somebody has to represent Minnesota here, why not me?
We get up on stage and find out that it’s a salsa dance contest. Well, I barely know what the salsa is, I just know it’s Latino. But this is my last night in Havana, Cuba, what do I care if I get laughed off the stage? I went ahead and salsa’d. In the contest, I made it to the final three. All of a sudden they were talking in Spanish and holding their hands over the other tw
o people, and my interpreter came up saying, “Oh, don’t worry, that’s for second and third, you’ve already won.”
I was trying to determine, did Castro’s people ensure that I won? Or did they just let me win because I was so bad and yet having fun doing it? They actually gave me prizes—a CD and a towel. How honorable the Cubans were, to pick someone from the United States as a winner at salsa dancing! That had to be a rarity in Havana. In light of what President Bush’s people had done to me before I went to Cuba, I contemplated sending a communication to Mr. Bush when I got back, asking if he’d okay my passport to return and defend my title a year from now. Wouldn’t that bring great honor to the United States?
The night wore on. As I said, Castro apparently has informants everywhere. One of them came up and whispered something to one of my Cuban bodyguards, who then whispered to my bodyguard, who then told me. It seems that some CIA operatives were tailing me. I thought to myself—is that for my benefit, or for theirs? Am I in some type of danger that they need to be following me around? I don’t think so. I doubt that Fidel Castro would want an American governor coming to harm on his island, when I’m there on a mission of good will. So, I ruled out that somehow the CIA were hanging around to protect me, especially considering I had my own armed bodyguards, plus Fidel’s three.
The Cubans had only one question: Did I want to lose them? If this made me uncomfortable, they would help me get rid of these guys and we could go on about our business.
I said, “No, we’re not going to even acknowledge that they’re here. Who cares? We’re not doing anything wrong. There’s nothing they’ll be able to blackmail me with, or take back to the U.S. about any misbehavior on my part. Let’s ignore them. They’re not going to ruin our night.”
So we ended up going to another club, and I don’t know if we were followed there or not. The subject was never brought up again. It could be the Cuban security team decided a means to lose them on the way, I never inquired. What I did do was put this incident on file in the back of my mind.
Don't Start the Revolution Without Me! Page 12