Day 8 (cont.): Potrerillo

Potrerillo

We enter Potrerillo from the east. The Caunao river flows calmly just south of us.  Jiandry passes me the backpack, dismounts, and walks the horse to a bright blue house right at the T-juncture where roads lead north to San Juan, south to town and Lomita and east back to Jorobada. The blue house belongs to his aunt, he tells me. I lean my bag against one of the posts holding up the wire fence where Jiandry tied the horse, and walk through the gate of the small, picture-perfect front yard full of small red and yellow flowers and bushy greenery.  

The aunt comes out to greet us, drying her hands on a small towel.  She waves us in. Jiandy is a light-skinned man. His aunt is a dark mulata full of energy and so happy to see her nephew. 

“Passen, passen. Hay niño, how long has it been?” 

“A week?” he laughs.  The small entrance room soothes my eyes with its light blue paint.  I feel the coolness as soon as I walk in. She hustles to the back and we sit in two rockers. Her tiny son, around two years old, walks from the kitchen focusing on the two glasses of cold water in his hands as if they were birds about to fly away.  

Day 8: Mataguá to Potrerillo Part 1

Matagua-Potrerillo

 

Samuel is no longer sure about walking with me. 

“My back,” he complains, “It’s very stiff. Can’t bend.” 

He mentions that a cane tractor, one of those ancient U.S. manufactured contraptions older than the Revolution, that carries the cane waste (bagazo) to the mill, is leaving at six, conveniently from right in front of his house. 

“It can drop us at a crossroad close to Jorobada. We’ll still have to walk but not as much. I’ll be fine for sure then.” His hip is giving him trouble as well, he adds. Makes it tougher to move. His back problem has affected his walking gait and his knee was throwing his hip off kilter. But he adds quickly, if I want to walk, he is ok to walk with me. If I want to. 

The ride on the American-built cane tractor loosens my fillings. There are no shock absorbers on these things and the wheels are solid rubber, not air-filled tires like on a tractor. Nothing about the design is meant to comfort riders. We stand on a metal grate which sticks like a stiff lip out the front of the trailer being pulled by the tractor. Riding on a vibrating iron cow, on the dirt road winding through the cane fields, which would have been a pleasure to walk, is an organ-shaking affair. A danger to all fleshy portions of my mouth. 

Day 7 continued: Mataguá

 Mataguá

The town reminds me of an old-west settlement. Flat faced buildings with verandas facing wide dusty streets.[1]The Casa Cultural is a grandiose, early 20^th Century mansion with majestic, sculpted columns holding up the ceiling of spacious main room leading to a central courtyard through the rear. One small card table with three folding chairs around it near the front door furnishes the entire cavernous room.  Two cultura workers, a young woman whose name I miss, and Samuel, the man who will be my host for the evening, elegant in a white shirt and beige pants. 

“You must be hungry and tired,” says the young woman.  “You can go eat with Samuel at the restaurant.  The Manicaragua leaders will be here in a little while. They were waiting for you.”  

I quickly recount our day of waiting and she listens as if she cares but the weariness of her eyes betray disinterest.  “They’ll explain. Go eat.”

Day 7: Guaracabulla-Matagua

Guaracabulla-Matagua

 

There is very little light in the casa cultural of Guaracabulla. The only light bulb worthy of the name shines in the main room, near the front door. The bathroom, next to the room with the mattress, is dark as a cave. The black mass of a large tank filled with water rose between the sink and a flat floor with a drain near the wall; what passes for a shower in Cuba. I “showered” throwing water from the tank on myself with a small cup. The splashing surprising the skin without forewarning from the eyes. Peeing in the toilet during the night was a challenge, not that a few drops outside the bowl would be noticeable. Flushing meant pulling water out of the tank into the toilette with a larger bucket. Nevertheless, it was, as they say, all good. I surface from the blackness with plentiful sleep and ready to roll at six. 

The promotora had brought me a thermos full of coffee the night before. Drinking coffee like this now – as I awake with the morning, in a small town in the center of Cuba, prepared specially to send me on my way through the Cuban countryside – makes it taste like ambrosia. I pull my pack to the front porch, breathing in the cool morning air.