[The Cuba in the following description originates in A Tour of the City]
Though the route to Choopamenanga from Angel City is not well known, the fact that it is part of an interface-linked chain of islands known simply as the Archipelago is fairly common knowledge.
Each island in the chain is what is known in Nexus vernacular as a "bleeding chunk": a place completely cut off from its home reality and totally surrounded with Nexus interfaces. In the case of the Archipelago, the interfaces ring the islands at varying distances from their shores. Not all of the interfaces lead to another island, but at least one does in every case.
And the next island down the chain from Choopamenanga is Cuba Nueva.
*****
In at least one reality, the ascension of Fidel Castro to the dictatorship of Cuba did not occur with the sudden resignation and flight of Fulgencio Batista in 1959. Instead, the government fought to the very last until only Havana remained to it. And that city's fall was imminent, the government and its supporters fled however they could. Because shelling had rendered most of José Martí International Airport unusable, that meant escape by sea.
Military vessels, yachts, sail boats, fishing boats, even rowboats and rafts -- all set sail from besieged Havana's harbor. The objective of La Gran Migración -- the "Great Migration", as it would come to be known -- was Florida. Fate and Nexus had other ideas.
A particularly vicious storm overtook the flotilla about 50 miles out from Havana. Many ships were lost. Those that survived broke through to find blue skies, calm waters, and large, mountainous island before them -- an island not on their charts. All around this island, a ring of storms raged. It was as if they had found themselves in the cyclopean eye of the largest hurricane ever known. In truth, they had crossed into a small chunk of some other reality, and that chunk was in the process of coming fully into phase with Nexus.
Many members of the Migración, not understanding their true plight and fearing pursuit from a vengeful Castro, chose to leave the island behind and press on for Florida. None of them were ever seen again.
Those who stayed found an unspoiled tropical paradise not unlike that discovered by Columbus in their own lost Cuba, inhabited by a peaceful agricultural tribe. The Cuban exiles called these people the Taino, after the original inhabitants of Cuba.
The exiles, now castaways as well for all practical purposes, made do as best they could -- which, thanks to the island's bounty and the Taino's generosity, meant a primitive but relatively pleasant existence. That existence changed drastically four months later, when the ring of storms finally broke to reveal their island as one of many in a vast ocean. As they soon discovered, this was not truly one ocean but many, and there was an infinite mainland to be found for those who knew the paths to the proper gates. The island had become part of Nexus at last.
The sizable community of alternate-reality Cuban Nexans learned of their newly arrived brethren and welcomed both them and their island. Funds from rich Cubans flowed like ocean tides onto the island's shores, and resorts and casinos began to rise from the jungle like the awakened ghosts of Havana. The refugees chose to call their sultry little paradise, appropriately enough, Cuba Nueva -- New Cuba.
Now roulette wheels and craps dice rattle in time to sultry salsa horns late into the night while the air fills with the earthy tang of fine cigar smoke and the spicy-sweet sizzle of picadillo and platanos dulce fritos. Rain puddles on concrete reflect the Taino fires on the mountainside and the neon flash of tropical-pink casinos. In back rooms, lovers' cries drown out clandestine Santeria prayers to the Orishas and the snick-snick of Taino knives at work on sacred zemi carvings.
And from beach to jungle, alley to mountainside, the island speaks with one voice:
"Bienvenidos a Cuba Nueva."
"Welcome to New Cuba."
*****
"What the HELL is goin' ON here??" demands an outraged, gravelly tenor voice. It issued forth from a man in his late 30s, tall, tanned, his shaggy blond hair artfully and deliberately styled to look unkempt. He looks as though he might have been travelling long and hard, judging by the holey bluejeans and t-shirt and three-day growth of stubble on his chin. But the huarachas on his sockless feet could not have taken him far. He stands in the middle of the sidewalk, having just turned a corner, and looks about him in amazement and suspicion.
"I told you we shouldn't have left the Ferarri," comments a tall black man to his left. This man is dressed casually, but there is no sign of decline in him. He stands proudly, if alert, and surveys the area.
"Listen," says the blond, "I know EVERY part of Miami. And THIS ain't IT!"
"You know how Calle Ocho can be, man. They just moved some stuff around. Let's just keep going. Izzy's got to be down here somewhere."
But the blond is adamant. "I know this place like the back of my hand. And I'm here to tell you there AIN'T no casinos in Little Havana!" He points across the street to a building proclaiming itself as "La Vida Loca!" with neon dice, now switched off in the brightness of the afternoon, and a roulette wheel that most likely appeared to move when it was lit.
The black man nodds thoughtfully. "Yeah," he agrees. "I think you might be right." He steps out into the deserted street. "And where are all the cars?"
"And the people," chimes in his partner. "This place is as dead as Raoul's on Sunday morning!" He looks around, joining the other in the middle of the intersection. "Strange!" Instinctively, perhaps because he felt something he couldn't name, he reaches under his left arm-pit for something.
Something that is no longer there.
"Damn." He'd apparently forgotten. "Damned if this place ain't peggin' the old weirdness meter, Rico. I say we go back to the car."
Rico nods. "Yeah, Sonny...I think you're right."
Together, back to back so as to cover each other, they side-step up onto the sidewalk and go back the way they had come...
...Only to find it was gone.
"What the hell is goin' on here?" repeats the blond, but softly now, with an edge of worry in his voice.
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