Notebook: Stuck in Bay of Crabs
B A H I A D E C O C H I N O S, Cuba, March 22, 2001 -- The infamous Bay of Pigs is an easy two-hour drive south of Havana. That's if you're not here for the arrival of the Cuban spring.
ABCNEWS' cars (carrying producer, translator, fixer, drivers and, of course, camera crew) were just a few miles from the scene of the bungled invasion, when we were stopped by an entirely different and unexpected invasion.
As the two-lane road snaked along the seashore, the pavement was suddenly covered with a strange carpet of red.
For a moment I thought it was nothing more than fallen leaves, but palm trees don't behave like that. Then I noticed the entire surface moving.
I squinted in the bright sunshine as my ears caught a curious popping sound under the car. The red road moved mysteriously rhythmically, like a tropical chorus line from the Rockettes. It was a staggering sight. Not hundreds, not thousands, but tens of thousands of bright red crabs were scampering across the highway.
Theirs was an exotic dance, but a dance of death.
Who's Got the Last Laugh Now?
It was clear that the crabs were moving, in unison, from the beaches on our right, to the swamp on our left. Whoever put the road here didn't know this was crab migrating territory … or didn't care. We later learned that this is crab mating season: they bury their eggs in the sand in the morning, then scamper back to the shade of the swamp. If they make it across the road.
What was at first mildly entertaining, quickly became a horrifying scene from the most chilling of Alfred Hitchcock or Stephen King. Ours was not The Birds or The Shining; it was The Crabs. Crabs as far as the eye could see. By the time we realized what was happening there was no turning back. We were surrounded in all directions.
Then our colleagues in the car in front of us stopped. And so did we. The driver in front got out for what seemed like nothing more than a careful inspection. But when he kicked the tire we knew there was trouble.
The cars may have crushed the crabs, but the crabs had the last laugh … their claws puncturing the tire. Then he checked another tire. Flat. And then a third. Then we checked our car. The final count: seven of the eight tires on our two cars were hissing and wheezing as they collapsed into the stew of crushed crab shells that littered the highway.
Pinching Some Business
We had pictures to shoot and deadlines to meet, but we also had no choice. The drivers stayed with the cars, the rest of us abandoned them and went for help. On foot. Carefully picking our way past startled and menacing crabs that seemed as astonished by our presence as we were by theirs.
Fortunately, there was a gas station just a few hundred yards away. Even more fortunately, our camera crew had beaten the worst of the crab migration and was waiting for us there. All four tires on their van still plump and ready.
We made our way to the next little town where an eager tire salesman was delighted to assist. Clearly that's the profitable business in these parts at this time of year. We passed other cars and even a few bikes that had fallen victim to the surging migration of spawning crabs.
By the time we headed back to Havana in the hot afternoon sun, the crabs were out of sight and under cover. The coast was clear … and thankfully our conscience could be too. People in the area are aware of this curious spring phenomenon but there are no signs, there is no effort to block traffic.
Maybe the should simply have called this place Bay of Crabs.
Footnote: I related this tale to one of the Cuban-Americans who is here attending The Bay of Pigs 40th Anniversary conference. Alfred Duran was one of 1,500 Cuban exiles trained by the CIA in Guatemala. When their invasion unraveled after just three days, Duran and others tried to hide from Castro's troops. He told me he has two haunting memories of his 20 days on the run in the swamps of the Bay of Pigs. He remembers being desperate for drinking water and he remembers horrifying nights he spent fighting off crabs.