Island that Dared

by Dervla Murphy

  As we lay under a palm drinking pints of water I told the girls about another Trio, Santiago sisters aged eight, nine and ten, whose ordeal is still remembered because Graham Greene recorded it. One night in 1957, soon after their father had joined Fidel’s guerrillas in the nearby mountains, they were lifted from their beds by Batista’s soldiers and, still wearing pyjamas, carried off to a military barracks to be held as hostages. In Greene’s words:

  Next morning I saw the revolution of the children. The news had reached the schools. In the secondary schools the children made their own decision – they left their schools and went on the streets. The news spread. To the infants’ schools the parents came and took away their children. The streets were full of them. The shops began to put up their shutters in expectation of the worst. The army gave way and released the three little girls. They could not turn fire hoses on the children in the streets as they had turned them on their mothers, or hang them from lamp posts as they would have hanged their fathers. What seems strange to me was that no report of the children’s revolt ever appeared in Time – yet their correspondent was there in the city with me. But perhaps Henry Luce had not yet made up his mind between Castro and Batista.

  Some of Greene’s Santiago contacts – including Armand Hart, later to become Fidel’s Minister of Education – were outraged by an arms deal then being negotiated: the sale of British fighter jets to Batista’s air force. Back in England, Greene prompted a Labour MP to ask a question which brought from Selwyn Lloyd, the Foreign Secretary, an assurance that no weapon of any grade was being sold to Cuba. Months later, shortly before Batista’s defeat, Lloyd was cornered and forced to admit that he had indeed sanctioned the sale of several ‘almost-obsolete’ planes. Allegedly, when this deal went through Britain’s Foreign Secretary hadn’t yet heard about Cuba’s then two-year-long civil war, though all foreign visitors were being confined to Havana province because everywhere else was ‘insecure’. Our Man in Havana is not entirely a work of fiction.

  Rachel was soon back, having been thwarted by one of Cuba’s legendary power-cuts; the Cambio couldn’t open that day. What did I say earlier about the Computer Age? Previously, currency exchanges could take place with the aid of pen and paper.

  When the noon heat forced the Trio and me back to our fan-cooled rooms, for many games of rummy, Rachel visited Cuba’s most famous Casa de la Trova on Calle Heredia, a few minutes walk from No. 197.

  Later, we went shopping and at first were baffled. As tourists it seemed we couldn’t buy bread (easy in Havana) and two tiendas denied us water – visible in both fridges. That evening Irma explained; when items are in short supply (delivery problems because of petrol problems) regular customers get preference. Fair enough!

  Outside one tienda a middle-aged mulatta – diminutive, worried-looking – whispered a request to Rachel for CP 0.45 to buy soap. (The monthly ration is rarely adequate.) Because a policeman stood nearby, and begging from tourists is strictly forbidden, Rachel shook her head and moved on – followed by the woman’s angry younger companion (daughter?) whose loud abuse included repetitions of ‘Puta!’ (whore). That sound greatly appealed to the Trio who only reluctantly excluded it from their rapidly expanding Spanish vocabulary.

  After sunset, during our Happy (childfree) Hour, Rachel and I agreed that Santiago’s blacks being so numerous gives the city a special sort of animation while, for both of us, awakening happy memories of African journeys. It seems Cuba’s blacks have preserved their cultural identity more successfully than their US cousins; in general their enslavement happened more recently and they form a much higher percentage of the population. Cuba abolished slavery only in 1886 – the last country to do so.

  Before Rachel took off for a night of song, salsa and conga we planned an early morning departure for an undeveloped beach – Playa Siboney, twelve miles east of the city.

  In the warehouse-like provincial bus terminus hundreds of passengers sat on rows of metal chairs with their bundles by their feet. We were lucky: behind the building a Siboney bus – a vehicle at the other end of the scale from our Viazul coach – was about to depart. Rushing towards it, we found the doorway blocked by a rotund woman brusquely demanding ‘chits’. We assumed she meant tickets – but no, one paid on the bus, chits simply entitled one to board it and were issued free from a distant kiosk. Such Soviet-type procedures are now exposing Castroism to ridicule as Cuban youngsters note, and replicate, foreigners’ scorn for bureaucracy gone mad. Anxiously the Trio and I watched the bus loading up: would it disappear before Rachel’s return? The rotund one seemed not on our side but the black driver, seeing us peering through the door, waved reassuringly and shouted. ‘OK!’ Relaxing, Zea commented in a discreet whisper on the fascinating (to her) tyre of bronze flesh protruding between the jacket and trousers of the door-blocker’s uniform.

  This short juddery bus ride (adults NP1, children free) was the Trio’s introduction to how the other nine-tenths travel. Zea sat on Rachel, Clodagh sat on me, Rose stood in the tightly packed aisle unable to see out but as ever uncomplaining. Nor could I see much; the bulky man beside me was embracing a large sack of (judging by the rattle) empty bottles and Clodagh obscured the view ahead. Approaching a junction, our neighbours chorused, ‘Siboney! Siboney!’ – for our benefit. Out in the fresh air Zea asked, ‘Why doesn’t Cuba make more buses?’

  A mile-long tarred cul-de-sac led from the junction to the sea, winding between forested ridges and level scrubland where large piebald pigs rooted vigorously. Only two horse-buses broke the deep silence. Zea loitered to study tiny black crabs in a stagnant roadside creek, then trotted to catch up, tripped on loose gravel – and we all had to pause to commiserate about grazed knees.

  A garish new wayside notice briefly alarmed us: HOLIDAY VILLAGE – VILLA TOURISTICA. But this proved to be a local aspiration far from the agreeable reality of wonky wooden trestle tables and benches under a tattered awning overlooking a mile-long crescent of beach – half-stony, half-sandy, uncluttered by ‘amenities’, fringed by royal palms, sheltered to the east by sheer black cliffs.

  Grandmotherhood can induce character change. Although emphatically not a beach person, I thoroughly enjoyed that day. The Trio were ecstatic, emerging at frequent intervals from the clear green sea to report on the marine life seen through their goggles, then being constructive with sand, then underwater again, then shell collecting, then back to the sea, then climbing the low, strangely contorted sea-grape trees. These, scattered along the beach close to the wavelets, provided the only shade. (That evening I wrote in my journal: ‘For how much longer will Siboney survive in its simplicity as a naturally beautiful place of sea, sand, shells and silence?’)

  We had the playa to ourselves until two taxi-loads of university students arrived on an end-of-exams excursion, radiating joie de vivre, frolicking on the sand, playing waterpolo, swimming so far out that Zea almost panicked on their behalf. ‘Will they be able to swim back? Who can rescue them?’

  I was alone when two young English-speakers joined me, introducing themselves with an attractive mix of shyness (the age gap?) and that unbumptious self-confidence which I was beginning to recognise as a common Cuban trait. Rene was white, Luis black, both were medical students in their final year. First came the standard questions – ‘Which is your country? You like Cuba? You stay how long? You have self-drive car? You like our beer? Now in this month Ireland is all snow?’ Then followed, ‘Your grand-daughters are beautiful! Where is your daughter’s husband? She is beautiful too, why does he let her away to Cuba?’

  When it was my turn I asked, ‘Will you specialise? How will you choose your first job? Or does the government place you?’

  Yes, as graduates they would go where they were told to go. Both had already volunteered to serve abroad in the Henry Reeves Brigade – but that was away in the future, to qualify they must have ten years experience.

  ‘So we’ll be thirty-three,’ said Rene, ‘and probably married and sensible.’


  ‘That means,’ said Luis, ‘we must find wives also wanting to join the Brigade.’

  Rene laughed, slapped his friend on a powerful naked shoulder and said, ‘You’re lucky, you’ve found her already!’

  Luis looked bashful, then glanced around and pointed to a lithe mulatta doing her ti’ chi exercises with three friends. ‘There she is, a paediatrician by next year, very much wanting to work in Africa. We’ll have two babies, then leave them with our parents. Where we go won’t be healthy for children.’

  That slightly threw me: would Mum be as happy as Dad if separated from her young for so long? Well, maybe so – Cuba’s Revolution has bred people with unusual mind-sets.

  Rene and Luis boasted about Cuba’s contribution to healthcare in remote deprived regions. WHO, they asserted, sends fewer doctors to such areas. (I checked on that: it’s true.) Their expressions hardened as they recalled Hurricane Katrina and the US authorities’ ignoring of Cuba’s offer to send emergency medical teams to New Orleans. ‘But we got thanking messages from a few victims,’ said Rene. ‘Thanking us for wanting to help them.’ ‘Mostly from black victims,’ added Luis. ‘They suffered worst, like always in the States.’

  Rene said, ‘As we’re talking here having fun in the sun, hundreds of Cubans are freezing up in the Himalayas where that earthquake hit. The Muslim women are pleased, we’ve so many women doctors – their men won’t let other men go near them. We know Pakistan’s government works for the Yanquis but you can’t blame poor people far up in high mountains for that!’

  I asked, ‘Why is this brigade named Henry Reeves?’

  ‘Because Fidel’s not anti-American,’ Rene swiftly replied. ‘He’s not hating ordinary people who must live under criminal governments.’

  Luis was more explicit. ‘Henry Reeves came from the States in 1869 with other young Americans, to fight with us against Spain. He fought for seven years, got many times badly wounded, kept on fighting, died in a battle. You can see his name on a monument in Havana. Fidel wants us to remember Americans like him. And we do. Tourists from the States all say they feel welcome. They see we don’t think they’re bad because their government punishes the Revolution. We pity them. And we like the way they trust us, not listening to propaganda saying “communist Cubans hate Americans!” Like Rene said, Fidel tells us people are different from governments. That day those twin towers were hit, before sunset thousands of Cubans donated blood for New Yorkers.’

  The young men offered to show us around the university next morning and suggested 10.00 a.m. But they broke our appointment. Elsewhere, I was to have a few similar experiences with young Cubans spontaneously eager to befriend the foreigner, then thinking better of it – perhaps because someone in authority would disapprove?

  By early afternoon the sun had become dangerous, especially for the fair-skinned Trio. On a bluff above the beach we found a friendly, simple convertible-peso restaurant, its half-dozen tables shaded by a towering mango tree. While I attended to my dehydration problem and Rachel sipped daiquiris the Trio stuffed themselves with rice, chicken and grated raw carrot.

  Just below us, across the narrow road, a licensed free-standing butcher’s stall was surrounded by stray dogs – all pathetically emaciated, to the Trio’s distress. Slowly a man cycled into view, towing a bullock’s skinned hindquarters and unskinned head in a homemade trailer, on six baby-buggy wheels. Post-Soviet necessity has mothered many inventions centred on the bicycle. The thud of the butcher’s cleaver brought men, women and children hastening to the stall, bearing dishes, bowls, pots or pans.

  ‘What will he do with the head?’ wondered Zea. ‘Hang it on a wall?’ suggested Clodagh. ‘There’s the tongue!’ exclaimed Rose, pointing over our balustrade. ‘He’s selling it all to our waiter friend here, for the restaurant.’

  On the way back, seeking to escape the heat-reflecting tarmac, we walked on the verge – a bad idea. Within that grass lurked vicious little thorny burrs which caused much grief when embedded in small feet.

  Transport-wise, we were having a lucky day: as the junction came in sight so did a Santiago-bound bus. The younger generations galloped towards it, Nyanya cantering in the rear and Rachel yelling – ‘Wait for the granny!’ Which it did.

  By day three, Rose and Clodagh were familiar enough with the city centre, and at ease enough with Cuba, to move around alone if need be – to return to the loo at No. 197, or be despatched to buy water or, in Rose’s case, to linger over the choosing of postcards. Not having to go everywhere as a pack was rather a relief. That evening Rachel and I realised that neither of us had thought for a moment of the ‘security’ factor. Later I heard about the Mexican wife of a retiring diplomat who pleased her Cuban friends by bursting into tears at a farewell party – because in Havana her children could be let loose to play all day with other children and they wouldn’t understand being imprisoned back home …

  A steep narrowish street of two- or three-storey colonial houses descends to the old market hall, a massive stone building with a wide, curving flight of steps and a high arched entrance, suggesting the approach to some grandee’s palace. Inside are two long halls with vaulted roofs, one dedicated to meat, fish, poultry and eggs, the other to fruit and vegetables. We found many counters bare – because of the drought, said Irma. Here were pyramids of oranges – small, green, dry – and good quality bananas, woody dwarf tomatoes, piles of pale brown dried beans, almost identical piles of coffee, ropes of onions and garlic, trays of huge papayas, some cut and sculpted with flies buzzing around their juicy crimson-gold flesh – but no greenery of any sort. The cheerful traders (as many men as women, unlike Africa) welcomed the foreigners, admired the Trio, poked friendly fun at Rachel’s Spanish, apologised for having no pineapples, carefully chose for us the least dry oranges and the ripened-to-perfection papayas and advised us to avoid the tomatoes. This was shopping as it should be, human beings relating to one another, ‘consumer choice’ limited by local circumstances.

  Continuing downhill to the waterfront we were greeted by householders sitting on their doorsteps, some men mending shoes or spectacles or trying to heal ailing trannies, some women sewing children’s garments or cleaning rice, extracting tiny bits of foreign matter. (Very foreign, all the way from Vietnam.)

  The seafront promenade, laid out in the 1840s for the delectation of the local nobility, is low on the list of Santiago’s tourist attractions. For some two miles it runs wide and straight between the murky waters of a listless port and a row of tall, grim-looking commercial buildings. A pedestrian walkway bisects this thoroughfare, its line of straggly trees half-shading a few seats in urgent need of repair. At one end is the horse-bus ‘terminus’, under an ancient ceiba tree, and these long carriages far outnumber motor vehicles. The Trio’s suggesting a ride in one caused a slight contretemps between their elders. Horse-buses operate within the national-peso economy and are not licensed to carry tourists. (Havana’s tastefully decorated nineteenth-century two-wheelers have special licences.) However, one driver volunteered to break the law for CP5; his four-wheeled twelve-seater was drawn by a large mule and a small horse and had an insecure canvas awning. Rachel then argued that large groups were awaiting transport and it didn’t seem fair for us to jump that queue. I saw her point, but I also saw those three hopeful little faces. We compromised. I’d go with the girls, Zea could sit on my lap, we wouldn’t be hogging the bus, its driver could have our CP5 (big bucks for him) plus half a national peso from nine others. We waved goodbye to Rachel – still looking disapproving – and trotted off on the sandy equine lane that runs parallel to the tarmac.

  Soon it was the Trio’s turn to disapprove. Whenever the team’s pace slackened they were whipped – just a flick, nothing excessive, but Clodagh muttered, ‘He shouldn’t beat them!’ Rose concurred – ‘We’re a heavy load, they’re doing their best!’ Zea said, ‘It’s very hot, are they thirsty?’

  To take everyone’s mind off animal welfare I gave them a brief histo
ry lesson, pointing to the bay where something hugely important happened on 3 July 1898. As the Spanish fleet sailed out of the harbour it was immediately attacked and sunk by the US navy – and that marked the end of the Spanish Empire. A fortnight later the Stars and Stripes were hoisted above Santiago’s palace and General Leonard Wood took over as Velazquez’s latest successor.

  Three expressions conveyed supreme uninterest. Clodagh said, ‘I think the mule’s much too thin.’ Rose said, ‘When there’s a drought where can they get enough grazing?’ Zea asked, ‘Why is it a mule? It has the size of ponies.’

  That gave Rose an enjoyable opportunity to be the knowledgeable big sister, explaining the genesis of mules. Then Clodagh asked, ‘What happens the other way, when the horse is father?’ I explained that that rarely happens; when it does the offspring are known, in Ireland, as jennets. Rose frowned and wondered, ‘Why doesn’t it happen more? Isn’t it easier for a horse to get on a donkey than for a donkey to get on a horse?’

  I theorised that mules are a useful tough hybrid whereas jennets are rather feeble, therefore not deliberately bred to suit human needs.

  ‘I’d like to meet a jennet,’ said Zea.

  Owing to her encumbrances, Rachel had to burn the Santiago candle at both ends – home from the Casa de la Trova or the Casa de las Tradiciones at 2.00 or 3.00 a.m., up at 6.00 a.m. when the Trio swung into action. They and I ‘did music’ during the day, guided by handwritten notices posted each morning outside the Casa de la Trova, their timing not to be taken too seriously. One might arrive at 11.00 a.m., only to watch an hour-long technological struggle involving yards of flex, electric plugs, the testing of electric guitars and amplifying equipment, the tightening of drums, the tuning of the double-bass, the cleaning of flutes, the altering of music stands. The Trio revelled in all this, especially when invited on to the stage to study the scene in detail. For me (musically reared in an extremely narrow-minded way) overamplification in a smallish room marred an otherwise exhilarating introduction to Cuba’s richest heritage.