Vueltas
Esteban remembered Vueltas as the home of a certain bandit name Menendez who led the Spanish volunteer militia during the war against the Mambís. The entire province of Las Villas teemed with bandits during the last decades of the 19th Century. Over sixteen sugar mills in the proximity to each other made the area attractive to marauders and rebels alike. Most bandits supported the rebels, and some were revolutionaries themselves. Some were Robin Hood types, stealing from the wealthy Spaniards and giving to the poor criollos. Others were just hoods, stealing and pillaging the old-fashioned way. Esteban remembered some of them fondly. Aguero, who had the well-deserved reputation of being the biggest thief of them all, was one of the good guys, in that world of ethical ambivalence. He relentlessly sacked most of the well-to-do families of northern Las Villas. Rumor had it that he turned some of the loot over to General Maximo Gomez and other Mambí leaders to support the independence effort. Every inch of Cuba has stories that links its revolutionary past to its revolutionary present. I walked into Vuelta, where the good bandits fed the first revolution, down its dusty streets, and headed for the Casa de Cultura across from the church.
I walk into a San Antonio de las Vueltas boiling with activity. Heavy pedestrian traffic kicks up dust. Groups of men and women standing on corners look with curiosity at the stranger with the backpack and walking sticks. The benches surrounding the white stucco church tucked into the back of a park filled with midday visitors enjoying the shade of the generous trees. The place has a wild west feel. The Casa de Cultura stands right across from the church, wide windows and doors opened to the street. I walk into the large tiled front room where a seven-member welcoming committee stand and smile, as if they knew exactly when I would walk in from the dusty outdoors.
“Hurry back here,” says one woman, waving me to follow into the back courtyard. “The flies are eating the fruit.”
In a room facing the courtyard, bowls filled with of mangos, pineapple, watermelon, plates of pastelitos and croquetas, guayaba juice, all covered with whatever edition of the newspaper Granma was available for protection from the flies, await on top of white tablecloths. I pull off my pack, place it by the door and hit the pineapple and guava juice hard.
The set up here is simple and downright Spartan compared to the festivities of El Purio. I sit on a comfortable wooden rocking chair in the small room and describe the walk and its purpose. Halfway through my rap, a tall, thin man walks in, from the courtyard, with a teenage boy. As I describe the project, weariness casts its heavy shadow. I am tired. Walking, I would still be good for a few more hours but here, sitting in a nice rocker, gently lulling in the warm room, flies buzzing the afternoon soundtrack over the fruit, my bones begin to settle.
The welcome is thankfully quick and over. Folks scatter and leave me in the company of El Quimico the tall, thin man and his student. El Quimico is the high school professor of chemistry who will be my caretaker and guide during my stay in Vueltas and the day after on the road. He is renowned for his environmental work. He and his students share responsibility for testing the spring waters in the region and their work identified some of the polluted streams dangerous to public health. El Quimico is well known in the region as one of the best, most successful teachers in a country that values its teachers. Each year he fundraises in the community to take students into the Escambray Mountains to explore the region and map the unmapped areas of the mountains. He’s a man comfortable on a journey by foot. My perfect guide.
“Are you hungry?” he asks. I don’t have the heart to tell him I have a pyramid of fruit salad effervescing in my stomach, so we walk next door to the only paladar in town.
I order beef steak and frijoles with rice. We talk and talk, and they do their share putting away the lunch, but I leave most of the plate untouched. The waitress notices.
“No le gusto?” she asks, making a sad face. “You didn’t like it?”
“Yes,” I clarify, “It was delicious, but I just ate a bucket load of fruit. Shouldn’t have ordered anything.”
She looks disappointed; her lip out pouting.
“Really,” I assure her. “Don’t take it personally. It was delicious. Really.” She is unconvinced.
***
Out into the dusty street again, we take a left and started a tour of San Antonio de las Vueltas. The “Vueltas” part of the name is earned based on its location. The town is located at the turn of the road to Taguayabon, which today is a much smaller town than Vueltas but a more important destination back in the day. The earliest reference to Vueltas is in the archives of Remedios and refer to the request of a certain Don Cristobal Moya to graze his cows in the place known as Las Vueltas. El Quimico referred to it as an accidental town. Houses sprang up slowly and by 1850 enough families had gathered to give the place an identity. The park and its church dates from those early days as do the yearly celebration known as parrandas.
“You’ve heard of parrandas, right?” he asks.
I nod, mentioning the fame of the Parrandas of Remedios.
“But Remedios is not the only town with parrandas,” says El Quimico as we walk past the church. “We have ours too. Right in this area. Just as good, just not as famous.”
Parrandas are a combination street party, carnival and neighborhood competitions that trace their root back to the 19th Century. Their natural environment is the northern and central towns of Cuba; the area that used to be organized before the Revolution into the province of Las Villas but now comprises the provinces of Villa Clara, Santi Spiritus and Ciego de Avila. The most famous ones take place in Villa Clara, with the Parrandas of Remedios being the top, and reportedly the first dog in the pack, tracing the pedigree back to 1820. Neighborhoods in each town organize floats and other performance events and compete against each other for prices. Friendly and fierce competition is at the core of the performances. The tradition spread from town to town and Vueltas was not left behind.
As we enter the Casa Cultural, El Quimico grabs my arm and moves me to see the house next door.
“This is the house of Max Lesnik,” he says. “You’ve heard of Max Lesnik?”
“Of course,” I say excitedly. I know him.
“Well, he lived here until he left for Havana and then for Miami. The house is for sale. Tell him. Maybe he’ll come back.”
I snap a picture.
Max Lesnik is a legend in Miami and the bête noir haunting the dreams of right-wing exiles. He was a revolutionary journalist who ran a clandestine propaganda network in Havana assisting Fidel Castro and his barbudos. He became disenchanted with the revolution’s alliance with the Soviet Union and left the island in 1961, only to establish himself as one of the most vociferous opponents of the ultra-right exiles in Miami. His magazine, Replica, led the way in promoting a policy of engagement with the Revolutionary government since its inception. That attitude could get you killed in the Miami of the 1960s and 1970s. Bombs shattered the offices of Replica 11 times in the 1970s and Lesnik finally closed the magazine in the early 1980s. A documentary about his life, The Man of Two Havanas, directed by his daughter, circulated about ten years ago. He remains, in his 80s, a presence in Miami, making his voice heard on Radio Miami on a weekly basis and consistently promoting the anti-embargo, pro-engagement position towards Cuba. And he is still remembered in this small Cuban town.
“How do you see him?” I ask El Quimico. “I mean, he left. He lives in Miami.”
“We know. He is a personaje (a character). A revolutionary, from the first, we consider him. He had his criteria, of course. He disagreed based on principles, of course. But we think of him as one of us. Of the town.” says El Quimico. “Just like you, really,” he says after thinking for a few seconds. “You’re a Cuban just like any of us here,” he waves his arm arching from one side of the park to the other. “Look at you. You feel the pull that we would all feel if we left. That’s what makes a Cuban. Feeling Cuba is important for the soul.”
Back at the Casa de Cultura, a local historian waits to meet me and give me a brief overview of the history of Vueltas. After a while, El Quimico and I settle on where to meet in the morning and the local cultura workers usher me down the street, through the heat curtain of a hot afternoon sun intent of melting us all, to my room for the night. We walk past a park with a central gazebo steaming with young people frolicking, just being the puppies of our species. The park La Libertad is the social center of town, according to the promotora.
“Even when it’s hot people come here,” she says, noting that there were more people than shade trees. Old men sit on the benches lining the cement walkways that intersected at the gazebo. Some talking to those sharing the bench, others just occupying space and watching the time pass around them.
Less than a block down one of the streets that leads out from the park like spokes from an axel stood a hostel designed for local clients. My home for the night. These types of hostels rent cheaply by our standards, a night costing between a dollar or two U.S. and often rent by the hour. They are designed for couples requiring more intimacy than the crowded housing conditions allow or needing a break from the hubbub and drama inevitably playing out within the physically and emotionally dense environment of a Cuban household. The room has a well-stocked mini bar, plenty of snacks and a condom on the nightstand; all spell “Bien Venido.” These hostels do not rent to tourists, if you go by the book. They accept only local currency; el peso nacional, and, like all private hostals, they keep a registry of renters, which they turn over to the tourist offices on a regular basis. I have stayed in a few of these on my previous walks across Cuba. Casas Particulares designed for non-Cuban visitors have been legal in Cuba since the late 1990s but small rural towns have no need for them. Tourists do not visit these places. Some might venture off the beaten path to enjoy the local atmosphere of small town, but why spend the night?
The room does not disappoint. The shower was strong and hot and, while showering, I wash some clothes; t-shirts, underwear, shorts, which blacken the water swirling down the drain. They look like new hanging and drying outside on a clothesline by the front door. The TV works so I lay back on the bed, fluff the pillows and settled in. To my surprise, my phone responds, and I can talk to Fabiana while lying on the bed with the TV on mute. A moment of modernity. I describe the room to her and she surprised me. The condom on the nightstand sets her off. “What kind of a place is that? You walk out the door and what, whores are on the sidewalk?” I channel surfed for many laps around the TV offerings while I talk her down. I get the gist of several shows on Cuban TV in the process: a show on swarming land crabs of Cuba, including the fascinating zombie crab, a welcoming speech by the President Diaz Canel to visiting dignitaries from Africa, some footage of the artisan’s quarter in Cienfuegos and the tourists flowing through the kiosks. Fascinating viewing.
No comments:
Post a Comment