Ciego Montero-Part 2

Ciego Montero-Part 2: Talking Shit to the People

The theatre, next door to La Casona, is also one of the most popular public spaces in town.  The director, introducing himself at the door, explained how every day some event takes place within these walls, be it a film or a poetry reading, a dance or a musical performance. Always free and open to the public.  This afternoon the theatre had one of its rare closings because of a presentation in my honor. The Grupo Folklorico, a group of dancers and musicians consisting of practitioners of Afro-Cuban religion who live in town, were scheduled to perform for me and my friends.  He leads me inside.

The theatre reminded me of the small movie house in Gainesville, Georgia where I would escape to see the lives of others. It was a good place to be by oneself without feeling alone. There I saw Romeo and Juliet and fell in love with Oliva Hussey and found out that I could cry to Shakespeare as the soundtrack by Henry Mancini made me feel the very loneliness I was trying to escape. Memories of those times seem to teleport randomly to wherever I am and stand in front of me, waiting to be bumped into.

The ticket booth out front is flanked by two doors which open to the semi-circle walkway that lead to the right and left of the large sitting area in the middle.  The seats, hard and folding tight against the back, welcome about one hundred rear ends. My welcoming committee members and the regional assistant director of Cultura from Cienfuegos, the thin black man who I had met in Potrerillo, sit in the first two rows. A few invited visitors are scattered behind.  Carbajal stands in front of the elevated stage and introduces the “young artists” who have come from Oriente, eastern Cuba and have overcome much to be here today.  

“The show is a tribute to their religious traditions,” he says. “I’ll let them show you what they have.” 

The drummers begin their assault; a batá, a drum with two sides designed to be played while lying across the lap, and three congas, tall and sturdy, painted azure blue and looking like they have seen a few all-night sessions. As do the drummers; tall black men with boxer’s bodies.  The cantor, far left in a white shirt and pants, wails a rhythmic chant in Lukumi, a prayer in a language of the gods.  First out from backstage right, comes Oshun in a flowing yellow dress, wearing a golden crown, the goddess of the river and fresh water, of luxury and pleasure, of sexuality and fertility, of beautify and love, of destiny and divination.  The rhythms of the drums embed in her dancing body.  She sways her hips, dancing on bare feet over every inch of the stage, taking her time, flowing with the melody, each beat creating a yellow canopy of sound over the stage. A hypnotic spectacle.  So starts the tribute to the Orishas in song and dance.  Yemaya, ruler of the seas and protector of women, in her blue glory, comes next. Babalu-Aye in his San Lazaro incarnation hobbles out, stumbling to the beat of the drums, almost but never falling; a drumbeat pulls him up like strings of a marionette every time.  Obatala, white glory surrounding black skin, comes down from the stage and casts blessings on all of us mere mortals.  The chants and the drums work like opium on my tired mind, emptying and refiling my head with calmness, with a warmth that soothes me. 

With the echoes of the last prayer still reverberating and the applause ringing, the regional assistant director stands at his seat and thanks the group, praising their talent. In a rather stream of consciousness presentation, he gushes about me, my project and how the presentation enriched and justified the efforts of Cultura in their support of my walk.  

As he talks, I notice a man, sitting a few rows behind us, frantically raising his hand to be recognized.  

“Yes, you have something to say?”  asks Carvajal, the MC for the event. 

“Yes. Yes I do. I’m a citizen here and I want to say that what the compañero just said is serving shit to the people. He doesn’t know anything.” (“Lo que este compañero está diciendo es mierda al pueblo. Este no sabe nada.”) 

“How old are you? What do you know? I’m the oldest one here. I know. This guy doesn’t know anything,” he continues, staggering, barely standing. He speaks from a deep drunk. "He just talks to talk. What do you know?"

He repeats his talking points of ‘shit to the people’ and ‘what do you know” a few more times with little variation, until a couple of the musicians come off the stage and escorted him out. 

In Cuba, even a drunk’s totally incoherent comments can have political embroidery. Shit to the people? As much as I appreciated the presentation of the Grupo Folkorico, the price for memorable performances goes to the old citizen and his alcohol induced soliloquy. 

***

The phone connection at the hotel does not live up to the hype.  I walk the grounds searching for a good signal and find nothing better than the two bars that I could get in the hallway outside the door to my room.  But the room does not disappoint. I have a bed and a bathroom to myself. This is real comfort. Whatever had attacked my insides the day before in Cruces is still with me.  It is luxurious to sit leisurely on a toilet that worked as intended and take a thorough inventory of the sickness in real time. 

I explore the balneario. The therapy rooms, where visitors sit in the thermal waters and are massaged into a higher, healthier level of consciousness, are all on the first floor. A dining area and kitchen share the floor.  The 25 guest rooms stretch along both levels of a two-story wing juttying out the back of the main building. A fenced-in garden, unkept but with splashes of roses and small blue flowers, nestles on the other side of the glass doors leading out of the hallway to the rooms.  

I sleep well on a bed for the first time since Matagua. I wonder what Samuel is doing tonight, besides sleeping on his own bed.