Walking to Viñas on the Tracks Zulueta Built
After passing a few houses, a path appears on the left, heading north. A blue house marks the turn. We soon find ourselves in the first forested area of the Camino so far. The leaves on the ground give the path an orange carpet that almost tricks you into feeling a crispness of a phantom autumn air. An amber hue smoothes the surfaces of tree trunks and blurs like tinted glass over the leaves on the ground. All green fades into the background as the orange spreads its glow from the ground to the trunks and higher. It has not rained in weeks but the moisture, or its memory, cools the air. And, to round out the change of scenery, we are walking uphill! A gentle slope that I swear makes my legs smile and my heart rate change gears into a faster tempo. I feel like I’m walking!
“This used to be a railroad line,” says Joel. We walk the line built by the mighty Julian Zulueta in 1877 to carry his sugar from his mill, Zaza, in Placetas to the port of Caibarien. The slight downhill slope, uphill to us, allowed the train full of cane to make it to the coast, spending no fuel for energy. The engines only needed enough fuel to carry the empty train back up the hill to Placetas, some thirty-six kilometers from the port. Zulueta, a Spaniard internationally linked to London and New York via trade networks, was also tightly linked to the Spanish government (his uncle was president of the Cortes and representative for Cadiz). He was a notorious slaver, who mounted his own slaving expeditions to provide labor for his mills. He had his comeuppance during the War of Independence when Gomez burned his prize possession, the Zaza, and freed all his slaves.
About a kilometer and a half before reaching Viñas stands a gigantic water tank that supplied the railroad with water during the 19th and early 20th Century. It no longer functions but impresses with the solid cement arches supporting the round, rusted tank, its riveted iron or steel panels clearly visible and seemingly intact.
At the tank we leave the path to visit the ruins of the Fort Tetuán a hundred meters to the east. What remains of the fort rests adjacent to a private small farm. Joel knocks softly on the frame of the open door of the farmhouse to inform them of our presence and our plans. In many places on the Camino historic battles took place during the war of independence from Spanish rule. Historic to the local population, at least. In this case, a local hero, Jesus Crespo, a ‘patriota remediano,’ a patriot from Remedios, scaled the walls of the small but seemingly impermeable fort and flushed the Spaniards out with his savage machete attacks. He apparently went batshit with his weapon in the fashion of mad whirling dervish. Spaniards hated facing rebels with machetes. Esteban reported this to Miguel in their talks and documented tales abound of Spanish troops fleeing wildly when rebels shouted, “al machete” and charged the Spanish forces. Crespo flushed the Spaniards from their hiding place and outside the forces of General Francisco Carrillo, waited. A plaque on the remaining tower of the fort commemorates the event.
At the entrance to Viñas stand another fortified structure, this time a railroad station. Railroads were high-risk, high profit investments in this sugar rich region. Fortified structures along the length of the tracks were part of the infrastructure of all railroads in Cuba. The Viña station is in good condition and has served as a sports center and probably a community center in its lifetime. Structures in Cuba are recyclable, not disposable. The shade of the town park forms the backyard of the rectangular building. Park benches filled with men staying cool under the green wings of four large ceiba trees. I ask one of them, wearing a straw hat that had been in the family a while from the looks of it, the directions to the pioneer camp. The guajiro who still had a few teeth in his mouth says “on the left. Right before the fork at the edge of town.”
***
A kilometer and a half past the park, down the only paved street in town, we entered the pioneer Camp Orestes Acosta. The camp is hosting a summer session designed for students with disabilities. Hundreds of students have taken over the camp and all its cabins. The director welcomes us by saying straight out that they have no room for us, if we need an actual room with amenities.
“But,” he says, “we are not going to turn you away. Look up there,” he points to the high ground to the east of the camp at a row of round cement bohios; thatched roof cabanas still under construction. “Those are the expansion cabanas that we’re building. They have roofs, floors, walls.”
“All we need,” I say.
“No electricity, showers, toilets,” he continues. “You can sleep there.” He points to a door leading into the main building behind him. “Your packs are in here. You can charge your phones in there too. Overnight if you want. It’s safe.”
We climb up the slight incline to the cement bohios. Inside some mattresses coated in cement dust, folded in half, looking like dentures, line up against the walls. One look at them and I begin to itch. I’ll be sleeping on the cement floor and on my foam mat tonight. An intimidating pile of chigger condos stand layered against the right wall; at least ten mattresses blending into the cement greyness that surrounded them. A metropole for mites and other barely visible creatures with bites worse than their bark.
Up high under the thatch hung a string of light bulbs, indicates there is electricity, at least for lighting. My colleagues all move into the second room. I have come to appreciate the solitude and lack of adult supervision but in this case, I wonder if they know something I don’t.
Down the hill from our facilities for the night a dj stands on a stage behind his mixers, with a large screen behind him where music videos play. Beneath him a dance floor not yet full. Most of the kids are eating their dinners in the cafeteria. Our cement bohios on the hill are parallel to this noisy set up. The thought of getting a restful night sleep begins to fade like the sunlight in the dusk. Maybe my colleagues searched out the extra wall to shield them from the sound.
To clean up after a sweaty day of caves and dust, we walk past the entertainment, towels over our shoulders, past the cafeteria and out a small path leading out the back away from the camp. The river is a quick walk away and soon we sit soaking in a pool of fresh, surprisingly chilly water. Joel has brought a bottle of regional rum which warms me up before setting foot in the pool.
“This is mild stuff.” He says. “You can taste it. The rum. Not just the alcohol.”
The soles of my feet are still tender from the pummeling received at the river crossing in Pavon so walking into the rocky pool is a slow, tentative maneuver. Once in, I lower myself and soaked in the coolness, letting my head submerge was a rush. There should be more of this in the Camino, I think. Esteban would not have missed an opportunity to soak his aching body in a Cuban stream. It would have been one of the many favors provided by the wilderness that never denied him anything.
Back in the cabana the bulbs hanging from the wires across the ceiling of the rooms had sprouted light. The DJ and the videos throb full blast and the area in front of the screen had beome a dancing stage with colored strobe lights flecking the moving bodies. About two hundred kids, I’d say. Dancing or watching the dancing. Cuba has few resources but activities for young people receive priority.
I talk to Fabiana, best I can, divining for reception and finding a fluctuating bar towards the river. She lets me know that my mother is stable but not far from the bottom.
We mosey over to the spectacle. The DJ plays dance music that you could hear in any Miami night club. The days of playing revolutionary trova songs eulogizing social justice and internationalism are long gone. I recalled the Brigada Antonio Maceo. We stayed in camps just like this one as we toured the entire island back in 1979. Back then, the soundtrack to our visit was the old trova, the nueva trova, guaguanco, punto guajiro, all of the traditional Cuban genres that we felt were part of the Cuban history that was passing us by as we lived our lives in the exile imposed on us by our parents. These kids probably have never felt the sheer élan that we felt listening to traditional Cuban music. It rewired our brains.
The party shows no sign of dying down as we head to our hard floor bedrooms. We fluff the concrete of our beds a mere fifty meters away from the DJs turntable. I drink more rum, lay out my mattress, put in my earplugs, and drifted above the music, remembering the day, Esteban’s cave, the Tetas de Guajabana and the Penis of the Bishop. I can do this. I can sleep to the sound of Enrique Iglesias and Gente de Zona. I can do this. Not a terrible end to a 34 km day, really. Esteban Montejo lived for a year and a half in that cave, bat guano as his mattress. Could be a lot worse.
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