Next day the family were at first amused, then impressed by my seven-hour TV marathon – 8.00 a.m. to 3.00 p.m. ‘You take your job very seriously,’ said Ed, not realising that I was riveted by this skilfully presented TV spectacular. It took all of those seven hours for one point four million Cubans to pass the US Special Interests ten-storey block. Every sort of Cuban processed cheerfully along the Malecón, waving little flags, chanting slogans, singing songs, blowing whistles, carrying toddlers on shoulders, linking arms with shuffling oldies, sharing bottles of water, munching peanuts, occasionally leaping in the air or performing an impromptu dance. The anti-Radio Marti chanting became strident as people approached its source – strident but not threatening. We saw several close-ups of groups grinning broadly while shaking clenched fists at ‘Special Interests’. If there were angry frowns, we weren’t shown them.
Thrice Fidel descended from his podium to walk with the crowd, holding himself erect, vigorously striding out for a hundred yards, not looking like a man who five months later would be in intensive care. As he spoke with those who chanced to be around him, nobody seemed in the least awed – as I most certainly would be, were we to meet. Is this a consequence of ‘no personality cult’?
As the hours passed I found myself wondering how to interpret such demos. Many would assert that I was looking at rigorously regimented Cubans doing what they had been ordered to do, fearful of staying at home. Or had they been conditioned to see these mass rallies-cum-fiestas as a fun day off work or school and a proud expression of cubania? If they weren’t enjoying themselves they deceived me – and surely the cameras could not have been manipulated to avoid all discontented faces? Then I thought, uneasily, ‘Perhaps Cuba really is a uniquely one-man show, Fidel still holding it together?’ – even after the Special Period hardships, after the dual currency revival of class divisions, after the birth of a generation to whom the Revolution is history, not perceived as their own achievement …
Was this demo’s message being heard across the Straits of Florida? Here were thousands of men and women, all trained to use guns, displaying their resentment of US interference in Cuban affairs. They may covet the tourists’ designer clothes, digital cameras, iPods, scuba-diving equipment – yet most remain protective of their Cuban identity. Military intruders, inhibited by world opinion from bombing a Caribbean island into submission, would find themselves up against ‘insurgents’ of a very different calibre from Iraq’s. The comparison is allowable; in both cases the name of the game, on Washington’s own admission, is ‘regime change’. And the united Cubans (united against the US threat to the republic’s independence, whatever their domestic squabbles) would form a resolute and disciplined defence force.
When I said as much to the family, Tania observed that the Bush II administration is not known for its sensitivity to world opinion. And Carmel apprehensively pointed to the Ukraine, Georgia and Azerbaijan as obvious examples of what cleverly spent dollars could achieve. But Ed dismissed the notion that eighty million US dollars (the sum of tax-payers’ money by then at the Commission’s disposal) could divide and conquer a Cuba so aware of the Revolution’s benefits, however critical of its restraints.
Tania added, ‘It’s sure the Yanquis couldn’t even try to set up a government run by returned exiles, like they tried in Kabul and Baghdad. That’s when rivers of blood would flow!’
By then my hostess and I had established a certain rapport and when we were alone I ventured to ask, ‘Can you guess how many of those marchers remain loyal, in their hearts, to the Revolution, to Fidel’s internationalism, to Ché’s “New Man” ideal? How many would have marched spontaneously against Radio Marti?’
Quietly Tania replied, ‘We don’t ask ourselves such questions. If we could ask them we’d be living in another sort of country. Maybe better than what we have, maybe a lot worse.’
During the demo Elián Gonzales and his father Juan Miguel had briefly joined Fidel on the podium and been rapturously cheered – the beautiful six-year-old child now a handsome fourteen-year-old youth. To Tania I mentioned my disapproval of this too-famous boy being kept in the limelight for an apparently petty motive: to remind Miami’s fanatics of their defeat.
Tania corrected me; the motive was far from petty, Elián’s extraordinary seven-month ordeal had given him a no less extraordinary and permanent political/social significance.
‘Mostly,’ said Tania, ‘such dramas get blotted out soon by something new. But our reaction to Elián’s tragedy actually changed Cuba, gave the whole country an injection of vibrant cubania, reinvigorated the Revolution. Cintio Vitier wrote a poem to Elián about the Yanqui bungling and one line says – “What fools! They have united us forever!” Foreign reporters said the government forced us to make a fuss but not so! It was an explosion of passion and debate and patriotism – spontaneous, all over the island, among all sorts. Psychologists and philosophers, factory and farm workers, artists and lawyers – gathering impromptu in streets, schools, conference halls, warehouses – everywhere! After three weeks our television started a series of Mesas Redondas, Round Tables, and millions watched qualified people looking at every side of the crisis. With Elián safely home, la Batalla de Ideas, our Battle of Ideas, grew out of those programmes. And that led to what we have now, Tribunas Abiertas, Open Rostrums, big open-air meetings all over Cuba for people to plan and communicate and argue about all sorts of social and cultural activities and political worries like the Miami Five – how to help them and their families? That’s why Elián has to be noticed and cheered and loved! He was the catalyst for this renaissance of the Revolution.’
That evening we had yet another conversation about the fostering of dissident groups by CIA agents and their infiltration by Cuba’s State Security officers. Again I felt a time slippage: socialism and capitalism still playing their Cold War spy games but on a shrunken stage – one little Caribbean island instead of two hemispheres.
Santa Clara university is privileged by location, its tranquil campus some seven miles from the city, wide parklands separating the faculties, a variety of mature trees shading the pathways. This campus has been much extended since Che established his base here, on the eve of the Rebel Army’s famous Last Battle, yet further extensions are urgently needed. In the hostels, four must share a small room; in the canteen, meals must be served in three shifts.
I arrived at lunch-time, not by design but because the bus service is so infrequent – for which reason the students do not consider themselves privileged. From Key West I bore a letter to one of the academic staff (let’s call him Juan) who received me with palpably mixed feelings. As his cousin’s friend I was affectionately welcomed, as a foreign contact I made him jittery. Even in a Cuba that is fast changing, institutional xenophobia endures.
Awkwardly, Juan explained that before entering any building, or meeting any of the staff or students, I must be vetted as an ‘international visitor’. He hurried me to the relevant office, past buildings all crying out for paint and minor repairs, but we found the door locked – ‘Hora de comer,’ said a notice. Even more awkwardly, poor Juan asked me to wait nearby for the registrar while he took his turn in the canteen. When I had been ‘approved’ we could talk in his faculty’s staff-room.
I sat under a ceiba tree and reflected that a country vilified for so long, in the world from which I come, has every excuse for official xenophobia, for suspecting any foreigner of being a counter-revolutionary snooper. We in the generally unsympathetic West have created this situation; xenophobia doesn’t come naturally to the laid-back, warm-hearted Cubans. Sometimes I regretted having approached the island as I approach every country, being an anonymous stranger, wanting only to enjoy the company of whomever I chance to meet. In Cuba’s case, I might have been wise to acquire ‘references’ from those of the Revolution’s distinguished foreign friends who are also my friends.
Punctually at 2.00 p.m. the registrar returned, an elderly white woman, hair dyed auburn, tight-lipped an
d narrow-eyed. She viewed me with acid suspicion. Why should a tourist be interested in a university? The implication was that tourists should stay on their beach reservations enjoying Operation Three Ss. But now all is in flux and the bureaucrats are not always sure of their ground, having been told that tourists, however deplorably independent, are an important economic resource. Reluctantly, and very slowly, the registrar computerised my passport and visa details, then handed me a long form to be filled in – which task I could have completed while she was computing. (The questions included, ‘How many years have you been at your present occupation?’ I wrote, ‘65’.) Finally a junior clerk took my ‘entry permit’ to some apparently distant office for the registrar’s signature to be rubber-stamped and counter-signed. Meanwhile Juan was sitting under the ceiba, picking his teeth with a matchstick.
In a large, high-ceilinged, airy staff-room, where the bookshelves were sadly uncrowded, Juan introduced me to a few of his colleagues, and several students, and for two hours a bland discussion of Eng. Lit. was enjoyed by all.
Towards sunset the university bus put me down opposite Santa Clara’s colossal, ungainly Coppelia palace and I was tempted – but the evening queues stretched out of sight, around the corner. Moments later, near Parque Vidal, capitalism reared its ugly head in the shape of a giant plastic ice cream cone advertising one of those Nestlé pavement fridges I’d first noticed in Havana – inscribed ‘Why wait when you can have it NOW?’ It enraged me to see Nestlé targeting Coppelia, for forty years the Cubans’ source of affordable, wholesome ice cream. However, these mobile fridges accept only convertible pesos for their much inferior product and are therefore unlikely to shorten Coppelia’s queues in the immediate future. But their presence crudely illustrates the divisive power of Cuba’s dual currency.
Back at No. 374 it was packing-up time; I would be on the road before dawn. My plan to walk across the Sierra del Escambray to Trinidad appalled the family – in those mountains there was nowhere to sleep and nothing to eat! I soothed them as best I could and they looked pleased (though sceptical) when I spoke of returning to Santa Clara in October 2007.
Chapter 10
I set out for Manicaragua in darkness yet already Santa Clara was awake and noisy: shod hooves raising sparks from the cobbles, pedestrians and cyclists exchanging shouted greetings, favourite son tunes emanating from bicitaxis’ transistors.
Beyond a straggling, semi-moribund industrial zone I watched the sun rise above those low, bare hills mentioned by Che. From numerous bohios, scattered across arid slopes, immaculately uniformed children were descending to the road where horse-buses or bicitaxis awaited them. The tall, buxom senior girls looked decidedly nubile in their navy-blue mini-skirts and pale blue blouses. The boys wore scarlet shorts, white shirts, scarlet neckerchiefs. Several fathers and mothers came pedalling towards me with a small child (or two) on the home-made carrier and cross-bar seats.
A night of heavy rain had brought perfect trekking weather: high bright clouds, intermittent sunshine, a strong following breeze. The wide grassy verge spared my feet and all became greener as the road climbed gradually through cattle ranches and canefields. No more than a dozen vehicles disturbed my twenty-mile walk. Each of the few villages had its primary school (named after some local hero of the Revolution) and its whitewashed health centre displaying lists of dates for the next round of children’s inoculations and adults’ AIDS-education sessions. CDR leaders make sure everyone attends.
At noon I ate a tin of sardines and watched pairs of oxen ploughing at the base of forested hills. Then suddenly the Escambray were quite close, a dusky blue unbroken wall, by Cuban standards real mountains – Pico San Juan reaches three thousand seven hundred and sixty-two feet.
At 5.15 I trudged wearily into Manicaragua; it was a long time since I’d carried a loaded rucksack so far. This smallish market town is unlikely ever to find itself on the tourist trail and I didn’t look for a casa particular. There was however a shabby two-storey hotel and, rather to my surprise, the friendly young man at Reception offered a single room for NP40. An equally friendly young woman led me upstairs and pointed out the communal bathroom. The hotel served no meals but there was a pizza stall around the next corner and the organoponico market would open at 7.00 a.m.
Ten minutes later the mulatta manageress arrived, overweight and breathless, looking flustered and embarrassed. It was all a mistake – she pressed those NP40 into my hand. This was a ‘Cubans only’ hotel, the nearest tourist hotel was Hanabanilla, twenty miles away – or I could return to Santa Clara. Behind her stood a small, slight, scowling man, grey-haired and xenophobic, wearing a track-suit and baseball cap. Stepping forward, he demanded to see my passport, checked the visa, said I must stay at the Hanabanilla. A taxi was about to leave, CP10 the fare, I must hurry – he gestured impatiently towards my half-unpacked rucksack. The manageress gave me a quick sympathetic look, then disappeared. My captor (as I thought of him) escorted me across the road to an antique Chrysler already packed with hotel workers who had been shopping in Manicaragua. When ordered to make room for me a slim young waitress seemed quite pleased to find herself on the lap of a handsome young waiter.
In the 1970s a small inoffensive dam created a reservoir some eighteen miles long, embedded in lush green forested mountains and curiously shaped; on the map it looks like an emperor poodle with an erection. It is now known as Lake Hanabanilla and the road ends at the hotel, a crass building on a bluff above the water. Although listed as a tourist hotel the management seemed unaware of foreigners’ expectations. In my diary I noted, ‘no bedside lights, erratic plumbing, grumpy staff, vile expensive food in a pretentious restaurant. I’m reliably informed the four hundred rooms are all booked up, mainly by Cubans, for the hot season. At present there are about forty here, all rowdy young convertible-peso-rich people whose competing transistors create a discordancy around the swimming-pool below my balcony.’
Then I met Miranda, a thirty-year-old from St Lucia who had just completed her medical training in Havana, all expenses paid by the Cuban government. She had an agreeably bouncy four-year-old daughter, a razor sharp mind and no inhibitions about analysing race relations in Cuba, a subject rarely discussed by the Cubans themselves. I shall have more to say about her views in the next chapter.
Miranda was one of my two reasons for not returning to Manicaragua next morning. The other was Lake Hanabanilla, its deep clear water almost cold in January, its surrounding mountains exhilaratingly beautiful. My fellow-guests were horrified to see me plunging into the ‘dirty’ lake – in their view a form of attempted suicide by hypothermia. Some looked affronted when I condemned their heated pool, reeking of chlorine and full of everybody’s pee – as filthy and unrefreshing. In between swims, Miranda and I walked and talked in the woods while Rina played in the hotel crèche.
A ferry sometimes operates between the dam and Jibacoa, twelve miles down the lake on the Manicaragua-Trinidad road, but for lack of fuel this ten-person motor launch was currently inactive. Instead, a three-hour downhill walk took me to the main Cienfuegos-Manicaragua road. When I crossed the dam before sunrise a colourless mist veiled Lake Hanabanilla and as the road wriggled around hills too steep for cultivation the rising sun showed their bushiness flecked with red and yellow blossoms. Dwarf palms studded narrow valleys where horses grazed on nothing much. Then isolated bohios appeared and distant shouts seemed to emphasise the silence as men guided humped oxen to the scattered fields where their ploughs awaited them. A joyous content filled me in this hidden little corner of ‘undeveloped’ Cuba but too soon a sharp bend revealed the plain below. There old tobacco fields and new eucalyptus plantations surrounded the town of Ciro Redondo with its incongruously urban apartment blocks and obtrusive munitions factory.
From the junction I walked on hoping for a lift but the few passing vehicles were overcrowded. My plan was to get well away from Manicaragua before nightfall, into the Escambray’s foothills, and there to find a secluded camp-
site. For another two hours I plodded on, now feeling the lack of breakfast but reluctant to deplete my rations; such luxuries as sardines and olives can’t be replaced in small tiendas.
Near the little town of Espejo a kind old man, thin and round-shouldered with bright blue eyes in a chestnut-brown face, beckoned me on to his mule-cart. He was taking two churns of milk to the market and in Manicaragua would accept no pesos.
Half an hour and two large pizzas later I was on the town’s outskirts, relieved to have escaped the attention of the baseball-capped xenophobe. The road dipped to cross a trickling stream, then gently climbed around low hills – promising camping territory. But soon heavy blue-black clouds began to gather – not promising weather for the tentless. As I prepared for an unpleasant night, the Fates offered shelter: an abandoned bohio some way above the road with no other dwelling in sight. Climbing the steep path, I realised that I was very tired. It seemed this home had long been abandoned: its thatched roof was in shreds, its latrine collapsed. Happily the wide verandah had a sound tin roof (odd that nobody had appropriated it) and I was unrolling my flea-bag when a shout startled me. A young man was hurrying up the path, carrying a kid with a broken leg. For a moment he stood staring silently at me, understandably flummoxed. Then he became assertive in an amiable way and twenty minutes later (the rain by then torrential) I was the wet guest of the nearest CDR president.
My hostess, Maribel, and her family were non-bureaucratic and flexible. They didn’t ask to see my passport and visa, were curious about but not suspicious of an Irishwoman’s Cuban journey. Of course they all disapproved of my walking to Trinidad, but for humanitarian rather than political reasons. Maribel spoke broken but graphic English. ‘You has small pesos no problem, I has able get free car for Trinidad.’
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