Along this west coast only Chivirico caters for tourists yet despite those hotels we saw no other foreigners in the town, nor any shops selling beach equipment and souvenirs. Here we have serious ‘tourist apartheid’. The hotels run their own shops, control the best local beaches and charge nonresidents (ordinary Cubans) a daily CP10 admission fee – a humiliating exclusion device. On hearing this I winced, remembering the pride with which, in January 1959, the Revolutionary leaders opened Cuba’s beaches, clubs, parks, race courses, golf links and other public spaces to all citizens free of charge – the easiest and one of the most popular reforms, soon to be followed by fifty per cent reductions in rent, electricity and telephone charges.
With Buccanero in mind, I had already investigated the bungalow-style tienda, newly painted white and standing alone on a grassy rise opposite the park: opening hours, 11.00–1.00 and 4.00–6.00. At 11.05 we were on the doorstep, planning to buy emergency rations for our trek. But alas! This tienda’s edibles were limited to maize crisps (dyed orange and red), packets of six sweet biscuits from Argentina, chewing-gum from Brazil (does that count as an edible?) and toffees sold singly at half a convertible peso apiece. Glass-topped cabinets displayed imported plastic toys, children’s garments, two boxed sets of tin cutlery and a few enamel dinner plates. Behind the counter a high shelf held five dusty bottles of Scotch and two of London Dry Gin.
‘There’s nothing for us to eat!’ lamented Rose. ‘But Nyanya’s OK,’ said Clodagh, indicating a tall fridge amply stocked with Buccanero. I stuffed ten tins into my rucksack and we followed Rachel to the agromercado, not far up a side road. Too late, alas, too late! Beside a few palm-roofed trestle-stalls a notice nailed to a fence listed prices and hours of business: 8.00-10.00 a.m.
Back on the main road we paused beside a very old woman squatting under a ceiba tree, her posture oddly grasshopper-like, her black skin hanging loose as a garment, her bright eyes lively, a basket between her feet. She was selling another unfamiliar fruit – four inches long, oval-shaped, with a kiwi’s skin, sweet red flesh, a huge shiny brown stone and an acrid smell. ‘Like a dirty stable,’ commented Clodagh, declining to sample one. The others promptly spat out their first bites, to the old lady’s amusement. I nevertheless bought ten, not an extravagance at a fifth of a national peso each.
Even in Cuba swimming sharpens the appetite and a hunger mutiny threatened. Rose looked gloomy, Clodagh peevish, Zea rebellious. ‘There must be a restaurant,’ said I. ‘You speak without conviction,’ said Rachel. But there was one, separated from the road by another mud-lake and opening at noon. Rose looked at her watch and proposed twenty minutes of rummy to take minds off grumbling stomachs. I excused myself, by then reduced to a sweat-producing zombie.
Soon after I noticed a girl leaving the bakery with an armful of saucer-sized ‘ship’s biscuits’ – flat, hard, golden-brown. In Havana I had been able to buy their like and, because the instinct of child-protection overcomes even heat-lassitude, I now hastened hopefully across the duck-boards. An anxious Rose accompanied me; being at a rapid growth stage food was pivotal to her thinking. Happily no libreta was required and, exercising restraint on behalf of the locals, I bought fifteen for NP30. ‘Five each!’ exclaimed Rose though I had been mentally calculating ‘Three each’.
In the lean-to restaurant – built against a co-op store missing half its roof – local electricity rationing had stilled the ceiling fan and the dumpy, grumpy waitress wore a sweat-band. Wide spaces separated the eight four-person tables, their oil-cloths frayed but clean. (In Fidel’s Cuba cleanliness comes a long way before godliness, and is almost obsessionally emphasised as part of the national health-care programme.) We were the first arrivals, soon followed by two urban-looking men carrying briefcases and three svelte young women clutching thick files: touring government officials, we surmised. The waitress served them first, perhaps by way of reminding us that, strictly speaking, foreigners should be ejected from a subsidised national-peso food outlet. But for the Trio, we might well have been ejected; our proper place was in one of the tourist hotels.
The communal menu was an oblong of cardboard, handwritten in pencil. Impatiently Zea said, ‘Let’s look at the book’ – she’s not accustomed to eating out. The ‘book’ listed only arroz con frijoles and stewed or fried pork: heavy going when it’s 88°F in the shade. Observing the lavish helpings, Rachel rightly judged that three orders would suffice. Eventually plates heaped with white rice appeared, and bowls of soupy kidney beans to be poured over it, and large slabs of fried pork – fifty per cent fat with the bristles in situ. I never eat lunch and this fare did not tempt me to abandon the habit of a lifetime. Later I was to regret not stoking up; in rural Cuba the wise eat when they can. Meanwhile we were all absorbing pints of water; the waitress kept an eye on our glasses and topped them up repeatedly – for free, though in tiendas bottled water costs CP0.85 per litre. Our bill came to NP44, much less than two euros.
Back on the beach my bloated companions were only fit for rummy and, anyway, the heat dictated passivity until 3.00-ish.
Our plan to follow the sandy shoreline was soon thwarted by mangroves. A path led up to the treeless and heat-reflecting road; as we plodded along I felt like an egg in a frying-pan and Clodagh complained about the sea’s being invisible. ‘With luck,’ said Rachel, ‘we’ll soon get back to it.’
Where the terrain began to slope slightly up I fell behind to consult our map. Alarmingly, it showed the road swinging inland for several shadeless miles. Catching up with the others I remarked brightly, ‘At least there’s no traffic.’
Zea scowled, transcended her anti-motor conditioning and said, ‘I’d like traffic! We might get a lift. I’m too hot!’ Her sisters looked as though they rather agreed with her but made no comment, having a clearer concept of the purpose of this holiday.
Then came a long, high bridge spanning a river-bed some seventy yards wide. The drought had reduced this river (nameless on our map) to separate streams winding erratically between boulders and patches of scrub. Rachel paused, studied the cliff path leading down from the road and said, ‘Rivers lead to seas – let’s follow it.’
‘Yes!’ yelled the Trio in unison. At once they bounded down an almost perpendicular path like so many goats. Their mother, overloaded with bottled water, proceeded more cautiously. Their grandmother, overloaded with beer, and mindful of the friability of septuagenarian bones, sought a stout stick before descending. At the base of the cliff five little boys, building a mud fort, stared at us in silent astonishment. Then a horseman appeared from under the bridge, riding bareback, wearing only shorts and a sombrero, trying to lassoe herons. He ignored us.
Released from that hellish road, our spirits soared. The main stream glowed through deep pools between high boulders. ‘This is fun!’ shouted Rose, leaping from boulder to boulder. Clodagh and Zea each went their own way, Clodagh slipping often on slimy green stones in swift shallow water, Zea pausing, as is her wont, to examine various mosses and tiny rock plants. (Her paternal grandmother is a botanist.) The burdened adults sought the easiest way forward between streams – not all that easy, balancing on large loose stones. Where the streams converged the current strengthened and Zea tended to wobble while fording. So did I, despite my stick, and Zea, noticing this, waited for me and said, ‘I’m not very stable but I’ll try to help you.’ The sort of remark that sticks in a grand-maternal memory.
Hereabouts the challenges multiplied. Around a sharpish bend the river-bed abruptly narrowed to thirty yards or less and the water’s power and depth forced us into a thorny mangrove swamp. Undaunted, the Trio squelched ahead and were small enough to dodge the thorns that lacerated their elders. On half-slipping into the swamp I yelped for Rachel to rescue the Trio’s supper – those precious ship’s biscuits in my cloth shoulder-bag.
Soon, in the distance we could hear a rhythmical rattling roar. ‘That can’t be the sea!’ exclaimed Rachel. A few hours previously, in Chivirico’s sheltered bay, wa
velets had been gently hissing on to the sand. But since then a strong wind had arisen and along this exposed flat coast the Atlantic was turbulent. Emerging from the bushes we caught up with the Trio and stood in awe of towering white breakers crashing on to a natural causeway of big stones and small boulders.
It took us some moments to realise we were in a trap of sorts. Contradicting Rachel’s reasonable assumption that rivers flow into seas, this depleted river here became a murky lagoon, some eighty yards long and sixty wide, separated from the sea by the causeway. On either side sandy beaches were visible but mangrove swamps intervened. I glanced at the sun: not enough daylight remained for us to retrace our steps to a grassy campsite by the bridge. And being put to bed on a muddy path might overtax the Trio’s adaptability. They of course could swim across the lagoon to one of the beaches – but what about the laden adults? Luckily my stick was long. I waded in, having first prudently undone my rucksack’s waistband, and before each step tested the depth. The bed was unnervingly uneven, yet Rachel and I were able to wade through, circuitously, while the Trio swam to the eastern beach, Rose pulling Zea on to the six-foot-high causeway. From there they watched us slowly zig-zagging across, rarely more than crotch-deep though two waist-deep spots saturated my moneybelt. ‘You are silly!’ chided Rachel. ‘You should’ve put it in your rucksack.’ As she helped me on to the causeway we heard the Trio rejoicing about another swim.
‘No!’ I shouted – they were already scampering towards the waves and this sloping beach had an undertow threatening even to adults. Rachel however looked sceptical about my diktat and I recognised the dawn of her ‘I’m on the girls’ side’ expression. She hates to disappoint her offspring and also has strong views (possibly inherited) against over-protectionism. When planning for Cuba I had stipulated that she must be the sole leader and decisionmaker but on this one occasion I went into reverse gear and ordered – ‘No child is to go near those waves until Mummy has tested them!’
At once Mummy dumped her rucksack and approached the high water mark, a ridge of sand and stones now being washed over by this full moon tide. Momentarily she viewed the breakers as they advanced, crashed, seethed – then withdrew, dragging the shale with them, making a rasping rumble. Happily she felt no need to immerse herself before supporting my embargo.
I sat down, opened a Buccanero and drank to this momentous initiation ceremony, the Trio’s first night camping without a tent, under the stars. We had chanced upon a magnificent site, overlooked by the Sierra Maestra’s intricate arrangement of wooded spurs and peaks, never far from this coast. No dwellings were visible. Dense groves of sea-grapes and dwarf palms hid the swamp and bleached tree skeletons, carried here by who knows which hurricane, decorated the long shore, its eastern extremity marked by a grassy promontory. Nearby, to the west, three-hundred-foot limestone cliffs jutted ruggedly into the sea, now tinted by a flaring sunset.
‘This is blissful!’ I exulted. ‘Clever Mummy, leading us down the river-bed!’
The Trio, however, had practical concerns. ‘Where are we sleeping?’ asked Clodagh.
‘Right here,’ I replied, patting the coarse sand beside me.
‘But there’s stones everywhere!’ protested Zea.
‘There are stones everywhere,’ said I with Pavlovian pedantry.
‘We can clear them away,’ said Rose, looking consciously virtuous as she set about that task.
Clodagh followed suit and observed – resignedly, not complaining – ‘They’re heavy.’
Zea moved closer to her mother – busily unpacking – and said craftily, ‘I’m too small for heavy stones.’
‘They’re not that heavy,’ I argued. (Zea, being abnormally muscular for her age, can cope with huge weights when it suits her.) I added, ‘Poor Mummy! All afternoon she’s been carrying a really heavy load!’ But of course Mummy cleared Zea’s space. You can’t lose if you’re the youngest.
We decided to save the ship’s biscuits for breakfast and while the Trio dined off emergency ration organic raisins, imported from California via Ireland (shameful food miles!), the adults drew sustenance from Buccaneros. Only then did we notice that we were not alone on the beach. A distant bonfire glowed through the dusk and a figure was approaching, walking close to the waves. He stopped a few yards away, greeted us shyly, then expressed concern: he had come to warn us against the ravenous swamp-based mosquitoes. We were invited to join his fishermen’s camp, they would be keeping an anti-mosquito fire smoking all night. Thanking him effusively, Rachel explained that the niños were too tired to move on, then showed him our homeopathic insect repellent. He nodded, looking unimpressed, but said no more. He seemed very shy.
Half-an-hour later we were all asleep, our lullaby the tumultuous Atlantic, no more than ten yards from where we lay.
When my bladder roused me a full moon stood overhead and the world seemed brighter than at noon in Ireland on a rainy November day. For some time I walked to and fro by the foaming, gleaming waves, adding to my collection of those memories that enrich one forever. As Nicolas Bouvier noted of such moments, in his classic The Way of the World, ‘Life dispenses them parsimoniously; our feeble hearts could not stand more.’
Then, gazing down at the sleeping quartet, I had another of my vivid flashbacks – to a tentless, full moon night on a mountain-top in Cameroon in 1987 (exactly half Rachel’s lifetime ago, our last long trek together). Waking to re-tether our pack-horse, I spent moments gazing down at my daughter, wondering what the future held for her. And now I wondered what it held for the Trio. Given this century’s problems, maybe it’s best that I’ll never know the answer.
My itchy bites kept me awake and soon I heard diverse whimperings. Clodagh had also been mosquito-ravaged, was too hot and very thirsty. Zea was equally thirsty and much troubled by sand in her bag. Patiently Rachel provided water, applied more repellent, shook out sand, made soothing noises. Looking back, I don’t recall myself being so calm and tolerant when travelling with only one small child. Those humane genes must come from somewhere else.
At sunrise, as we broke camp, Zea announced, ‘I don’t think I like living without a house.’ Rose threw her a sympathetic look and predicted, ‘You’ll get used to it.’
‘I do like it,’ said Clodagh. ‘It’s nice staring up at the sky. The mozzies are nasty but they come into houses too. They were in our room in Havana.’
I had begun to feel twitchy about Rachel’s plan to seek a path on the western beach. A high tide was pouring powerfully across the causeway into the lagoon: how could we keep our balance in that current on a surface of shifting stones? I was about to suggest returning to the road by another route when two fishermen, smelling strongly of wood smoke, overtook us. They knew precisely where to step – and when, in relation to the ebb and flow. Having greeted us briefly they summed up the situation, carried the Trio across, then offered me a supporting arm – without which I would certainly have been swept into the lagoon. Only Rachel, with the aid of my stick, made it alone. Our silent rescuers showed no curiosity about this daft family. Muttering ‘adios’ they hurried ahead and were soon scrambling on to a ledge at the base of that limestone cliff and casting lines from their reels. Already we could see that the cliff presented an insuperable obstacle: we were doomed to turn inland.
Here the backdrop of trees concealed another long lagoon, this one algae-lidded and of unguessable depth. Searching for an upward path we wandered along its edge, through thickets of leafless thorny bushes. Then Rose found faint footprints leading up a sand-dune to scrubland dotted with cowpats.
‘We can try to buy milk from the cows’ owners,’ said Rose.
‘Listen!’ exclaimed Clodagh. ‘Cocks are crowing, maybe we can buy eggs!’
Firmly I dampened such hopes. ‘These Cubans have nothing to spare for foreigners.’
‘Why haven’t they?’ demanded Zea. ‘In Italy we’re foreigners but our friends next door give us milk and eggs and cheese.’
For a few moments
Rachel struggled bravely with comparative economics in simple language – until the Trio raced off in pursuit of a spectacular butterfly.
Soon we were ascending on a rough winding track, its hedges of tall green weeds sprouting minute pink blossoms, delicately scented. We passed several bohios, set back from the track – simple dwellings, tiled or frond-roofed, almost invisible among the royal palms and giant banana plants. No one appeared though salsa was pulsing from several radios, activating Rachel’s hips. Pigs, poultry and lurchers abounded, the dogs nervous of strangers, not bred to guard property.
Clodagh asked, ‘Can we stay all day on paths like this?’ Her mother replied, ‘We’ll try to.’ But I felt pessimistic and my future solo ventures into the high Sierra Maestra proved that continuous paths are indeed quite rare.
Within an hour we were back on the road, a few miles beyond and above the bridge. In the comparative cool of the morning, with a strong breeze off the sea, we enjoyed that corniche climb below high, multi-coloured cliffs – beige, pink, yellow, rust-red. On our left small bushy trees hid the ocean and a wide grassy verge allowed comfortable walking.
All the traffic was equine, as many mules as horses, most in splendid condition, glossy and happy, unlike their overworked Santiago cousins. Briskly trotting pairs drew canopied carriages (homemade, no two alike), rarely overloaded. Youths cantered on sprightly ponies, slow open carts were piled with sacks, a woman astride her horse’s rump balanced a wicker basket of bananas on the saddle, pack-mules were almost invisible beneath their burdens of firewood and charcoal, a family sang as they went – father in the saddle, mother and toddler behind, Zea-sized son clutching their horse’s mane. A cowboy, complete with lasso on pommel and shiny spurs, outpaced the rest. Some saddles and bridles were elaborately beautiful, the status symbols of a motor-free world.
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