El Purio: The Welcome (Part 1)

 El Purio: Walking in, Sitting down, Shaking hands

Walking into town, the spewing smokestack of the Central Perucho Figueredo dominates the skyline. This is the Central, known then as El Purio, where Esteban first worked as a free worker, selling his labor for room and board, hard work and something resembling a wage.  
The work and working conditions hadn’t changed much from his slave days and the mentality of his brothers in sugar hadn’t changed much either, according to Esteban. Being now free-men did not change their habits, honed and developed under the lash and the yoke. They were accustomed to life holed up in the barrancones, “that’s why they didn’t go out to eat. When lunchtime came, they went into their rooms with their women and ate lunch. The same at dinnertime. They didn’t go out at night. They were afraid of people; said they were going to get lost. They were convinced of that” (47).

 The old slave mentality kept most workers shackled to the life in the barrancones; they did not explore the towns or the wide world now available to them. Esteban rebelled against the old habits and the old slave mentality even as he performed the same old jobs he had performed as a slave. His life as a cimarrón had freed his mind.  He could find his way around this new world easily enough. Many times as a cimarron he did not know where he was. Had no clue which way to go to stay safe. But he persevered. His mind was strong. He did not become desperate or feel hopeless.  “I couldn’t think like that because if I got lost, I was able to find my bearings. I don’t know how many times I found my way in the woods without ever locating a river!” (47)

One of the few remaining square shaped mill
stacks in the country stands on the outskirts
 of El Purio

We walk along a street heading straight for the ingenio, me and my welcoming posse.  I strain my neck to read the name of the mill stretching up the length of the smokestack. Layers of town stretch between us and the mill proper.  Somewhere down and to the left throbs the sound of Cuban reggaeton.  Turning in the direction of the music, we see a park boiling with people. The music stops and a baritone voice booms from the same loudspeaker.

“Welcome to the walkers of the Ruta del Esclavo. El Purio welcomes you!!!”  

The people, a hundred or more, milling about, begin to pay attention to us as we walked into the park.  The ones nearest to us turn and applaud.  I grin and wave my walking sticks in the air.  They expected more, I can tell, as some of them look behind me in anticipation. But this is all you get, folks. An old guy with two sticks. It doesn’t get any better than this, I’m afraid.

The promotora leads us into a long building on the left.  Inside, about sixty people of all colors and ages stand and applaud our entrance.  Who knows how long they had been waiting but at least they waited inside, away from the heat. The air conditioners, two feeble wall units, struggle to do their job.  Maykel and I look at each other; hope this is short, our eyes say.  We are bone-tired.  “Hecho polvo,” is the phrase. “Ground into dust.”  Nearly forty kilometers that did not walk themselves behind us.

Sitting down brings home just how tired I am.  The plastic seat of the folding chair does not like my ass.  My hip pouch bites into my waist. I hold on to the almost empty water bottle,  tilt my head back in an unnatural position and let the last few drops drip into my mouth. My throat is dirt dry and it feels like parts of the canal path are trying to crawl out and go back home.

After a few minutes, the formal welcome begins. The promotora spoke of the importance of Barnet and the book and the place of honor that El Purio held in Esteban’s life.  Of this project and how El Purio is being recognized as an important stop in the Camino del Cimarron. She goes on a bit, looking my way and nodding as a way of punctuating her remarks. She sits to scattered applause.

A singer and guitarist followed with a couple of beautifully performed ballads that I do not recognize. Music always revives me, and I feel a spark of energy run through my tired bones as the guitar and the voice decorate the room. A local author follows, reading some of his melodic prose, something about the struggles of a slave and the desire for freedom. We all come from slavery of one kind or another. We all fight for freedom, of one kind or another. The narrative, he says, comes from his recent book. He reads beautifully, with a mesmerizing tonality that focuses me on his words, meditatively.  I swear you kick over a rock in Cuba, a top-notch artist will crawl out. 

 The promotora of Sagua wore the difficulties of the day on her face. Wearily she opens a thin, long cardboard box on the table; something that might hold a necklace or a knife.  Gently she holds up an exact copy of the Camino symbol Miguel and I had place inside the Sagua museum the day before and presents it to the local promotora from El Purio.

“Only five of these exist,” she says, “and El Purio was selected as one of the most important places on the Camino. A place where a symbol of this route should be housed.” 

The crowd claps with some enthusiasm.

She points to a stack of books on the table. “These are the new editions published by Casa del Libro of the work by Miguel Barnet.  If you would like them signed by El Caminante, I am sure that he would be glad to do it.” She smiles at me. “Would you like to say a few words, Grenier?”

As if I had a choice. I am not used to being the focus of attention. I remind myself that this is the price of admission for walking Cuba.  I struggle up from the slouch that my body had made its own on the chair and walked the front of the room. After speaking of the importance of El Purio for Esteban, I hold the symbol.

“The last words said by Esteban in the book are “Con un Machete me basta.” (All I need is a machete).  All he needed to get through life and the challenges that is poses was the tool that made his work possible and the weapon that allowed him to fight for his independence. That’s all he needed to face the future as a free man. The arrows on the blade point to the future.” I hold up the symbol and point to the arrow engraving. “We should all find the machete that we need to face the future.” I mumble through the speech, untying my tongue as best I can.

Outside is a flurry of activity. I sign and dedicated books using walls and trashcans as writing surfaces and shake hands at a frantic, unprotected rate that would unnerve any germaphobe.  A reporter for a local newspaper interviews me as did Maykel and Carlos Alejandro, my guides, for a piece they were writing for OnCuba Magazine and Vanguardia, the regional newspaper for the province of Villa Clara.  We say a grudging goodbye immediately after the interview. They need to travel back to Sagua.  To their lives as young men trying to make it in Cuba.  I am sorry to see them go.  No es facil.