Crossing the Sagua la Chica--Vueltas
Back on the trail, we cross the asphalt and head to a cluster of wooden houses along the road about fifty meters to the south. The Sagua la Chica flows just beyond, through the bottom of a steep ravine. We need to get to the other side. Rafael leads us, saying that if the water is low enough, we can cross here and retake the dirt path on the other side. If the water is too high and we cannot cross here, crossing over on the bridge on the Circuito del Norte, about two kilometers south, is the only option.
We approach the small houses squatting in a semi-circle around an open plot of dirt and grass that could be confused for a courtyard. In the middle of the small clearing, a young man looks up from under the hood of a gleaming, unscratched, bright red 57 Chevy.
“There’s a crossing here, right? Can it be crossed?” asks Rafael.
“Yeah,” the man says, “you want to cross?”
He looks at my walking sticks and, without a word, waves for us to follow. He leads us down the steep path through short grass and brambles down the bank to the river’s edge.
A shallow crossing, carpeted with pebbles beneath the ripples, leads to a small shrub-filled island in the middle of the river.
“It’s shallow on the other side too,” he says and wades in. He is barefooted and walks across like he is walking across a field of flowers. I take this as a good sign and removed my boots, handing my sticks to Rafael as he crosses in front of me. I step into the slow-moving stream.
The second that I stepped in, the freezing water shoots a bolt of cold straight into my brain and I get an instant headache. I stand for a second letting my sun-drenched feet get acclimatized. There is no way that a stream in Cuba in April could actually be this freezing cold, right? The others prance past me as if they have hobbit feet and soon look back at me from the small grassy knoll of an island in the middle of the stream. I take a step, willing my numb feet to move. Turns out they are not numb at all. The deceptively innocent looking pebbles visible under the undulating current pummel my tender feet. The cold, combined with the pain from the rocks, takes my breath away. No amount of strategic foot placement lessens the pain. Unconsciousness looms as a genuine possibility.
I hobble across the water, peppering the entire journey with hand balancing moves as if I were crossing the Grand Canyon on a wire. By the time I am halfway across the second stream, the bottom of my feet felt as if all the nerve endings have become exposed. I see stars; as if someone were holding a lit sparkler in front of my face. I realize, I have been holding my breath as I ungracefully make the last stretch onto the bank. Reaching solid ground, I gasp as if I have been drowning.
“Coño,” I manage to mumble to no one in particular, sitting hard, breathing hard, on the grass.
Our motorcycle guide waits on the other side, smiling, pretty as you please. This, I think, is how unexpected, inexplicable heart attacks occur. I focus on putting on my boots, slowly, and as nonchalantly as I can, given that my chest still throbs as if sobbing on the inside. My feet feel grateful to be cozy in the shelter of my Asolos. I suppose my feet could have used a few more years running barefoot in the streets of Cojimar.
One foot in front of the other, in the previously unappreciated softness of the boot soles, we angle across the tall grass and shrubs up to a narrow dirt road.
“Where’s the motorcycle,” I ask. “Up ahead,” he says, “couldn’t get it this far on it. The ruts in the road made by tractors would destroy it. I have to take good care of it. Getting parts is impossible.” I could say the same about my feet.
Flowers and flowering trees line the road. I point to the flat roof of a cement block house painted blue to our right. It has what look like tufts of tall, dead grass growing from the roof and all around the house. “What is that?” I ask.
“Garlic,” they answer in unison. “Good crop around here at this time.” If you have the property on which to grow garlic, you probably also had a couple of functioning cars sitting on that property. And maybe a motorcycle or two. You would do fine in this time of transition, at least economically. And your food would be always freshly seasoned.
We enter the town of Gutiero, following its white dust streets to the gazebo at the center of town. It is past midday, the sun high in the sky casting white light on everything. Dust, street, cement block buildings all in a penumbra of white luminescence. Almost ethereal, the environment, if not for the dust steaming up my nose. In the shade of the gazebo, after bolting down some papaya juice at comical speed, and splashing on my face some of the bottled water handed to me by the motorcycle driver, I am handed off to the Vueltas promotores. Doing the honors are many of the people that took care of me in El Purio; the doctor, the promotora cultural, the driver. I said goodbye to my guides. Armando took my hand and thanked me. “Buena suerte,” he said gripping my hand with both of his. “And thank you.” I knew he referred to the money. Rafael I hugged mightily and he back, almost lifting off my feet. “Thank you, brother,” I said. He smiled and nodded. “Pa’lante,” I yelled after them as they road back the way we came, Rafael bulging out of the side car.
The doctor looks at me after giving me a handshake goodbye and out of the blue says, “Guillermo, we have a question.” He looks around nodding in the general direction of the others.
“How old are you?”
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