Island that Dared

by Dervla Murphy

  Gustavo smiled wryly. ‘It’s the age-group, my grandson talks like that – a clever fellow, starting university. He and his compañeros are fiercely anti-Communist, which doesn’t have to mean counter-revolutionary. That might confuse some people but by now you must be used to our paradoxes. Those kids don’t understand how things were in ’59. Aside from Batista’s gangs, nobody was “hunted out”. The Revolution didn’t want to lose the educated class – needed them! And the barbudos didn’t yet seem like Communists though there were rumours about Raúl and Che. People jeer that Fidel didn’t reform the real Cuba, had to tailor a demographically different country to fit his ideology. That’s a favourite Yanqui line. Stuff about expelling all the “intelligent democrats”, clearing the way to bully the morons who couldn’t afford to leave! It’s neurotic, denying that most of us backed the Revolution. Remember Playa Giron? Where were the thousands supposed to rise up all over the island to join the “liberating invaders”? They were in the CIA’s imagination!’

  Gustavo broke off to brew another pot of coffee, then continued. ‘I’m sorry your young friend has felt discrimination – could it be more than racism in her case? I suppose she’s at ELAM?’ (Escuela Latinoamericana de Medicina, opened in 1999.)

  I nodded. ‘So she’s lucky,’ said Gustavo. ‘One of thousands trained for free, only having to promise to work in their own countries among the poor. A Fidel pet project, and some youngsters don’t approve of spending so much on foreigners. I’ve heard about their resentment showing. Cuban racism is still around – Raúl and others admit we should have more mulattos and blacks as Party and government leaders. Legislation can only gradually dilute racism. Think of the time-scale – many of our oldest citizens are the grandchildren of slaves, men and women who were seen as commodities, not human beings. I’m one such. A few decades of legal equality can’t always compensate for centuries of desperate poverty and ignorance. Certain families aren’t able to benefit from equal opportunities – and they don’t come more equal than we have them in Cuba! I’m not talking only about blacks, we’ve mulatto and campesiño families in the same sort of trap. When the Revolution threw them a lifeline they couldn’t reach it – which I’m told makes Fidel very sad, in his old age.’

  My host escorted me back to the Historic Centre where he had an afternoon appointment. We rode in a high four-wheeled carriage with a tasselled canopy, drawn by a well-groomed chestnut mare. I was invited to supper on the following evening to meet Gustavo’s son and daughter-in-law – and possibly the ‘clever fellow’, depending on transport from Santa Clara.

  Studying my inadequate map (nothing detailed is available), I wondered if it would be possible to trek ‘off-road’ through the eastern Escambray to Sancti Spiritus. At dawn I set out to do a recce, taking a long, steep street past two-hundred-year-old dwellings, their thick walls and handsome shutters designed for coolness. Near this hilltop several mulattos were milking the family cow while minute piglets squeaked with excitement on being released from their shed. Here, as throughout the town, most homes had one or two bird-cages hanging from the façade at head-height. For generations the Trinitarios have been fixated on their song-birds – black, swallow-sized, with white-flecked wings. In many streets, between January and June, scores compete in singing competitions; public appraisal determines the winners, judged by the frequency, duration and intensity of their trill. Champions are worth their weight in pesos; Gustavo knew several men who had paid three or four months’ salary for an outstanding diva.

  On the wide, flat summit of this limestone hill stands a solitary neglected little church, Trinidad’s oldest (1740), now permanently locked. An unusual three-arch bell tower was added in 1812 and the bells remain in place though long since silent. On my return journey a few endearing juvenile jineteros were hanging around with a pony, offering to pose as mini-cowboys for the unpackaged tourists who get this far. One enterprising lad, seeing I had no camera, offered to teach me how to pronounce Ermita de Nuestra Senora de la Candelaria de la Popa for fifty centavos – which sounded like a bargain.

  Again, perfect walking weather: half cloudy, a strong cool breeze off the nearby turquoise sea. Ahead lay low hills, one almost concealing a motel, another – much the highest – defaced by a gigantic radio mast; but it might give me some idea of the lie of the land towards Sancti Spiritus. A gravelly path climbed around slopes where coarse yellowish grass surrounded huge lumps of limestone. Half way up I saw two men in the distance, perhaps fifty yards apart, creeping slowly through low bushes, bent in two, then suddenly lying down, completely disappearing – then moments later leaping up, gesturing wildly and yelling. Drawing closer, I passed two occupied bird-cages hanging on bushes and the centavo began to drop. Sure enough, this erratic behaviour had an avian explanation; it was an attempt to capture birds without injuring them. The men hurried to the path, curious about me, then earnestly explained that singers needed to be taken for a walk at least three times a week, hung on bushes providing their favourite leaves, so that they themselves could pluck them from the twigs, and left alone for some time to commune with relatives and friends. Unless treated thus, their trilling deteriorated.

  This hilltop, protected by its gradient, has escaped becoming a ‘Viewing Point’, complete with coach park and ‘amenities’. In truth the view is heart-stopping. Suddenly one is overlooking the whole length of the Valley of the Sugar Mills, previously hidden, and beyond rise the Escambray’s many royal blue ridges – subtly changing colour that morning as the high clouds slowly shifted. For a time I sat with my back to the radio mast, pretending it didn’t exist, then I had to circumvent its fenced base to suss out the terrain to the east.

  My footsteps alerted a border collie (sort of) bitch, who jumped a wooden gate to greet the intruder, then rolled over to have her tummy tickled. The solitary unarmed guard seemed equally pleased to have this break in the monotony of his twelve-hour shift and vigorously shook my hand. He spoke basic English and was yet another of those strikingly handsome Amharic types – though what struck me as an Amharic type could be the result of Taino genes.

  As Jorge led me around the fence I saw why this mast looked so shiny new: it was a replacement for one knocked flat by Hurricane Dennis. Only when you see a prone mast, extending halfway down a mountainside, and then have to clamber through its complex innards, do you realise a) how gigantic these things are and b) how mighty is a minor hurricane.

  Jorge fetched his powerful binoculars so that I could view some of the buildings on the valley floor. It was a friendly gesture, with no hint of peso-seeking. Several palatial haciendas have been restored – no wonder the slaves burnt so many canefields up and down this valley, eventually reducing their owners to bankruptcy and leaving the way clear for US corporations to move in.

  I accepted Jorge’s invitation to drink coffee in the guard’s hut, then changed my mind on seeing that he had no cooking appliance, only a thermos of coffee to last him all day. When consulted about trekking to Sancti Spiritus he said there was no continuous track. I would have to follow the motor road – not a pleasing prospect.

  Back in the Historic bit I refuelled on the terrace of a little bar in a narrow street near Parque Cespedes; there Trinitarios and unpackaged tourists gather, leaving the Plaza Mayor to the coachloads. Only four tables were occupied, one by one of the Swedes from my casa (who pretended not to notice my arrival) and two black schoolgirls – early teens, breasts budding, both conspicuously underclad and perhaps soon to be unclad.

  An angry shout and a shrill yelp made me look up from my diary to see a burly, shaven-headed young man dragging one girl away, gripping her by the forearm and shouting abuse over his shoulder at the Swede. The other girl then stood up to go, looking rattled, but her ‘patron’ persuaded her to stay, stroking her silky bare shoulders and nuzzling her hair. I was about to leave when a slim mulatta emerged from the bar – fortyish, formally dressed in a grey pleated skirt and ruby-red shirt-blouse, carrying a worn leather briefcase and
a camera. Few Cubans then used cameras, yet she didn’t look like a tourist.

  Approaching my table, Beatriz asked in English if she might sit with me and introduced herself as a Cienfuegos doctor, a founder member of a small NGO dedicated to pressurising the police into enforcing the laws against child prostitution. Sotto voce she requested, ‘Please may I photo you like you’re my friend? Two or three quick shots – for my report.’ I nodded and played my part, smirking as I posed, holding up beer glass and notebook, the Swede and his acquisition in the immediate background but indifferent to the camera. Beatriz was in a rush just then but we met later, by which time she had detected that the burly young man was, as I’d guessed, the girl’s brother.

  ‘Why,’ I asked, ‘do you have to pressurise the police? And how come these foreigners are so blatant? They surely know they’re breaking the law – but those questions must be related.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Beatriz, ‘closely related. It seems cruel our reputation as almost AIDS-free attracts certain men. It’s like a punishment for being good! What about Ireland, you also have problems?’

  My knowledge of Ireland’s problems in this area is limited, but a reference to our drugs/prostitution link apparently cheered Beatriz, obliquely, by making Cuba seem not so bad after all.

  In Pleasure Island Rosalie Schwartz reviews the situation:

  Another galling fact of [post-Soviet] life is increased prostitution, mostly amateurs who trade sexual favours for a restaurant meal, an evening in a nightclub, a shopping spree, or a weekend at a beach resort. Although foreign men arrive every day to be with Cuban women, the practice has little in common with Cuba’s pre-revolutionary institutionalised sex shows and brothels. Nor does the market begin to compare in scope or intent with the chartered flights of men who buy their tickets for ‘sex without guilt’ in Asia and Africa. Nevertheless, purchased sex is troublesome for a government that has spent decades inculcating the values of nonexploitation of fellow humans and gender parity. After the government legalised the possession of dollars [in 1993], prostitution acquired a structure, that is, networks among those selling sex and procurers (taxi drivers, bartenders) … Clearly, Castro confronts a conflict. His country needs hard currency. Tourism is flourishing and is more profitable than sugar. Travellers from capitalist countries do generate expectations among Cubans, but the government cannot risk the internal upheavals that unavoidably diminish the number of visitors. It must be flexible to avoid negative publicity and disaffection but strict to sustain socialist ideals.

  Evidently many police officers are being ‘flexible’ while crusaders like Beatriz are being ‘strict’. Her loyalty to el comandante was unmistakable when we discussed ‘internationalism’, and she obviously saw her boldly independent NGO as a tool for the defence of the Revolution’s integrity.

  That evening I tentatively quizzed Gustavo and family about the government’s attitude to NGOs – was it true some were discouraged?

  Damian replied; he was a career bureaucrat notably less open-minded than his father. ‘Cuba needs no small groups here and there. All citizens have their own big groups, with power. And with independence, not always doing what Party says. It’s true some groups, NGOs, are discouraged, like you say, or suppressed if CIA gives them money and gifts.’

  I would have liked to follow that scent but Gustavo said, ‘For outsiders, even if they love Cuba, it’s hard to understand our Communist Party. It can’t suggest or enforce legislation – doesn’t that surprise you? It can’t nominate candidates for municipal, provincial or national assemblies. It doesn’t administer the state. The people have maximum administrative authority.’

  When I asked, ‘Who nominates candidates?’ Gustavo looked at his mulatto son (of a Canadian mother) and said, ‘Damian has it all in his official head.’

  Damian was being a New Man, slicing cucumber for the salad while his wife, Lucia, steamed rice. He finished his task before answering my question in such detail that his explanations belong to a later chapter.

  Lucia placed the rice-steamer on the table as I asked, ‘How long are election campaigns?’

  Everyone looked shocked. ‘We don’t have them!’ said Gustavo. ‘Here is not the US – no cash needed! Now eat some food. You like Hatuey to drink?’

  As we helped ourselves to rice, salad and stewed chicken Camillo the dachshund caused a diversion by hurling himself towards a window, barking shrilly. Gustavo chuckled. ‘A turkey buzzard flew by – he hates them!’

  When I quoted Fidel on the dangerous defects of Western ‘democracy’ Damian became perceptibly more genial, then offered me a lift to Cienfuegos on the morrow. His 1953 Chrysler, parked nearby, was astonishing – it had received so much t.l.c. it looked brand new. On ad hoc journeys one goes where the flow of chance contacts takes one and Gustavo had scribbled a note of introduction to his old Cienfuegos friend, Alberto, another retired academic well qualified to lecture me on crime and punishment in Cuba.

  Chapter 11

  When Damian met me by the bus station, as arranged, he was on foot. Trinidad’s petrol ration had been delayed en route; the broken-down tanker was miles away awaiting a spare part. The search had begun for a sufficiently skilled blacksmith. Damian advised me to hitch-hike.

  The Special Period’s transport problem produced a new ‘citizens’ force’, men and women wearing mustard uniforms with ‘TRANSPORTE’ arm-bands. (I thought of them as ‘the Mustards’.) Standing at suburban junctions they ask hitch-hikers who wants to go where, stop vehicles which might not otherwise stop, organise queues when necessary and determine how many can safely board each vehicle. Drivers genuinely expect no payment and the Mustards’ services are also free in theory though some seek a peso or two. Outside tourist-conscious Trinidad, NP3 were firmly demanded of me – hardly excessive for a forty-mile lift in a Second World War military jeep with no windows, no discernible springs and a patched canvas roof.

  Quite often we stopped to let people off and take on replacements but there were never more than six on board this four-seater vehicle: a reasonable load, by Cuban standards. Everyone had to hug their luggage – my rucksack by far the most awkward item, two hens in a nylon sack the noisiest. Our youthful soldier driver sought advice from his passengers about vegetable growing. Cuba’s army is expected to feed itself and devotes as much time to digging as to target practice.

  For some twenty miles this ill-maintained road, built in 1952, runs level between the Escambray’s forested flanks and a flat shore piled with hurricane debris. Then it swings inland, crossing slopes of dense green scrub with occasional inhabited areas where palms draw attention to mud-coloured bohios. There was little movement; a few horses grazed, being deticked by egrets, a few oxen ploughed, a few carts were being loaded with machete-cut cane. Three narrow deep-set rivers were spanned by drearily utilitarian bridges; it’s sad that modern technology has killed bridge-building as an art.

  Eight miles from Cienfuegos our driver apologetically ejected me, with a big smile and an affectionate handshake. Traffic was sparse (perhaps extra-sparse because of Trinidad’s problem?) and the dusty cacti hedges offered no shade. It made sense to walk on, despite the 10.00 a.m. heat. Quarter of an hour later a rice-loaded lorry, its passenger seats surprisingly empty, stopped voluntarily to pick me up and was going all the way. Its grey-haired, vivacious mulatto driver (Carlos) associated Ireland with Christians killing each other and thought Cuba fortunate to have no such conflicts. After we had parted, as I was strolling towards the central Parque Martí, the lorry pulled up beside me: my purse had been jolted out of my pocket. It held more than CP100 – a small fortune, for Carlos. Yet he had turned his vehicle – not easy in the centre – to follow me. Had I been put down near a bar he could never have found me and his virtue would have been rewarded. In Cuba one doesn’t take lost property to the police.

  Cienfuegos is the only Cuban city founded by French settlers, migrants from Louisiana attracted by a safe, capacious harbour with a fertile, virgin hinterland.
Led by Lieutenant-Colonel Louis Clouet (Rtd), they were a dogged lot. In the very year of Cienfuegos’s foundation (1819) a hurricane destroyed most of the new structures and their replacements were repeatedly ravaged: in 1825, 1832, 1837. On 10 June 1832 Lieutenant Governor Manuel de Mediavilla reported to Havana: ‘This newly reborn port that was recovering in its agriculture, the certain base of prosperity and the principal source of its happiness, has for the foreseeable future returned virtually back to its primitive condition …’

  Hurricanes destroyed everything: growing crops, domestic animals and poultry, all the coffee, sugar and tobacco packed in warehouses ready for export, the flimsy homes of the poor and their few possessions. Wagon trails and railways became impassable. The coastal merchant ships, until recently more important than roads, were smashed to bits. Sugar mills suffered massive damage. Salt water killed vegetation over huge areas and rendered wells and streams, cisterns and vats undrinkable – sources of cholera. Yet Madrid was consistently unsympathetic and anyway too distant to provide emergency aid, even had the monarch been so inclined.

  One notorious royal decision highlights imperial greed. News of the October 1844 hurricane took two months to reach Spain; meanwhile, the Havana authorities had decided to alleviate extreme hardship by suspending import duties on essential goods coming from the US – food, clothing, tools, building materials. But the royal exchequer mattered more than destitute Cubans. On 29 December word came from Madrid:

  I have given the Queen a full account of the contents of the letters of Your Excellency … in which you describe the hurricane experienced on October 4–5. The measures of October 7 in which absolute exemption from duties is given … have not met with the approval of Her Majesty. She thereby orders a return of all things to the state in which they were found prior to the aforementioned hurricane.