The thing I noticed first about Fidel Castro, as he came into a room at the Cuban White House at 11pm for a TV interview, was how much taller he was than almost every other Cuban we had met in a two-week visit around the country and how stylish (and tailored) his fatigue uniform appeared. The interview went well -- in Spanish, of course -- and I thought a high point was when, in a discussion of the Middle East, he commented on the unpopularity and isolation of Palestinians by the surrounding countries. "The Palestinians," he concluded, "have serious values. They place a high regard on hard work, devotion to the family and education -- and yet they are virtual outcasts in their own Arab part of the world. You might say they are the Jews of the Middle East." I'd never heard it put just that way before -- or since.
After three nights -- each interview lasting roughly three hours -- of intense discussions about American foreign policy, his insistence on the great future for a socialist Cuba, major league baseball (about which he was extremely well-informed), the rise of China and, of course, the unfairness of the U.S. blockade and isolation of Cuba, we thought the sessions were over. Instead, he asked if we would like to tour Havana the next day in his jeep, with a cameraman in the back seat so the interview could continue. We accepted eagerly, and were astounded to see, at the appointed time the next morning, a rather routine ex-Army jeep pull up in front of the hotel with Castro himself driving, and no security personnel either on board or even visible -- no other vehicles.
And so began the strangest tourist day I've ever encountered. Here we were, for almost eight hours, driving around the teeming capita of what our journals of opinion all told us was a ruthless dictatorship under the grinding heel of Castro, among a people yearning to be free. And yet, he was driving as all the other drivers, stopping at the few traffic signals, keeping to his lane, and was everywhere cheered and waved to. We drove to the beach, where he parked the jeep, and went on the sand to greet the astonished sunbathers. And when his presence became known, hundreds of Cubans came out of the surf to cheer and surround him. Later, back in the jeep, I asked him how, after (this was 1974) more than 15 years, he retained his popularity, he replied, "It helps if you're three or four inches taller than anyone else in the country."
It was quite a day, and apparently not an isolated one. When we talked more about what seemed a genuine enthusiasm of the people for him, he said, "unlike your politicians, I go back to visit even after the campaign is over." I was too polite to note that in 15 years he had hardly gone through any campaigns, but it was still true he could drive easily around town with no danger, despite having issued every citizen a rifle, so as to repel, the government said, any repetition of the Bay of Pigs, a new U.S. invasion with which Cubans were regularly threatened.
We returned later in the year, after Nixon had resigned -- one jump ahead of impeachment -- and CBS had agreed to buy our documentary/interview, provided we could get an additional interview -- this time by Dan Rather, on the subject of what Castro expected from President Gerald Ford -- and that Castro would grant no other interviews prior to its appearance. Castro agreed, and the Rather interview (with me as an interpreter) went ahead. But at the same time, a horde of U.S. journalists appeared, accompanying Senators Jacob Javits (facing a tough reelection battle) of New York and Claiborne Pell of Rhode Island, the chairman of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee. I was afraid we'd lose the sale if any of these journalists got even a short interview, and was wondering how to broach this subject to the Comandante, when there was a knock on the door of my hotel room, interrupting me in the midst of shaving. I went to the door, and there was His Nibs himself, fatigue cap in hand. He explained he had come to me for advice on how to deal with the U.S. press, since he'd "never been involved in a Senate campaign before."
I explained our predicament -- that if another TV interview appeared before ours, CBS would cancel the deal and we would be -- in Spanish -- "arruinado. (ruined)," and I hoped he might refrain from talking to any of them on the record. He thanked me and left, returning briefly for his hat. He went straight to a group of the journalists, anxious for something like a press conference, before escorting the Senators to a special private meeting, where he explained he could not grant any interviews, because he had an agreement with "another group" to preserve their exclusivity, and they would be, if anyone preceded them, "arruinado. "Is that the Mankiewicz group?" inquired one of the reporters, "it is," answered Castro. "But they are amateurs," the American continued, "and we are professionals." "Yes, I know," Castro replied, "but they have the exclusive interview." And with that, he swept into the meeting room, with the Senators in tow, and preserved our exclusivity. Javits, as I recall, easily won reelection.