Day 12: Cienfuegos

 Cienfuegos

After a quick shower, I meet Orlando in the courtyard again.  We walk across the Parque Marti to a local restaurant for lunch. A nice space facing the park, carved out of a central courtyard of an old house. Some kind of net covering the open-air mutes the sunlight and its heat.  The cast iron tables and chairs give it a lean, clean look. 

The president of the Benny More museum, who I met at the Casino Congo in Lajas, also happens to be eating lunch. 

He approaches, shakes hands, and reiterated his interest in the Camino. “I think that if we can make it known, it will help us all,” he says.   

He introduces me to his guest, a representative from Cubanacan, a Cuban travel agency.  “This project should be a tourist itinerary,” he says to her after explaining a bit with my help.  

She listens patiently and nods.  

“Sounds fascinating but, so you know, we go where we know we can have good results,” she says, meaning that Cubanacan will take tourists where they can spend money. “Where we can get a good response from the locals. Where the locals can offer something unique.”  

The museum director interrupts. “There is nothing more unique that what Grenier just did.” 

“Yes. Agreed,” she says. “And we’ll be on board as soon as it becomes economically feasible.” The word in Spanish is “rentable.” As soon as we can make money on the deal, we’ll be there, she assures.  

“That might be a while,” I say. “But even if you just take folks that come into Cienfuegos on the cruise ships up to Palmira. That’s a place that has many things to offer as a day trip. It will help out Palmira, the tourist would see a bit more of Cuba and you can talk about the town being part of the Camino. It would be a start.” 

The museum director and I both speak enthusiastically about the Camino but the lucid part of my brain tells me to curb my enthusiasm.  I’m talking to a cruise guide, I remind myself. The chances that someone this low in the pecking order will be able to introduce a new idea into the system are smaller than winning the lottery twice in a row.

That afternoon, around 5:30, we have a small closing event for the walk in the UNEAC courtyard.  Fifty people hear a presentation that I’ve given hundreds of times by now; about the Camino and the vision of establishing it as a historic trek route.  I am tired, and my Spanish does not shine.  I get tangled on the word “comercializacion.”  The Camino needs exposure, I argue. Its commercialization will be slow but I now at least it exists. 

Carbajal from Ciego Montero and the tall, steel-jawed guajiro from Cruces sit in the audience. A representative of the Patrimonio Nacional (National Heritage) listens as well. He is anthropologist who speaks of the need for the Camino and other cultural routes like this in Cuba. He would love to work with me and have me involved in the Patrimonio organization to push for the establishment of the Camino as one of the few Rutas Culturales of Cuba.  

“Not only have you established a route that celebrates the life of Esteban Montejo, but you’ve established a route which exposes travelers to the expansion of the sugar industry, the history of the Cuban economy in Central Cuba.”  

This is the type of itinerary that is necessary to introduce tourists to the Cuba por dentro. It blends history, geography, economy, and the forging of Cuban identity. He goes on and on about the importance of activity for the present and future of Cuba, the little towns on the Camino, and the economy of the region.  

Having grand ideas is a thriving cottage industry in Cuba. Turning them into reality, getting them rolling, is the tough part. The three-hundred-kilometer+plus walk is cake compared to what comes after, if this is to be the beginning of a lasting project. 

After all the questions and answers, I sign books for the last time. My friend Carbajal approaches my table. 

“Para un amigo, escribe,” he smiles. 

“Y para su mama,” I say. Sign it, to a friend and his mother.

After the event, Orlando leaves with the instructions to meet at seven for dinner.  So, I am up in my room, getting ready, drying after taking a cold shower, when my phone rings. It is six thirty.  

“Be downstairs in fifteen minutes. The driver will bring you to my house for dinner. Here we can relax.” 

***

The evening at Orlando’s is a relaxing change of pace. His wife cooks a seafood meal with rice and beans, we drink wine and talk about the walk, Cienfuegos, Cuba, politics and the changes ahead. 

“There are still debates going on,” he says after we had finished eating. “The right wing and the left wing. The conservatives who don’t want change and the liberals who do.  This is a constant in our history. We’ve never been monolithic in our politics. You people in Miami think we all followed Fidel unthinkingly.  That was never the case. At least in the UNEAC. We always had debates. Sometimes vicious.”  

He shakes his head. “We’ve treated people badly along the way. It has to be said.  Mariel...those people were treated very badly. But there are reasons, as usual.  Some people grabbed the reins of the political decision-making process that shouldn’t have.  Even when it seems like we’re doing the right thing, sometimes it doesn’t work out. And the mistakes haunt us for a long time.  

"We sent leaders to be trained in Russia, for example. It seemed like a good deal at the time. But then they came back. They were guaranteed a spot in the leadership of some organization because of their training and their sacrifice of going to the Soviet Union, and all that.  They became leaders without really knowing the communities, the people. The reality of Cubans. We called them the Mishas.  These people make up the historical leadership of the island today at the very basic levels. This is why things do not change fast enough.  There is a network of them. Has nothing to do with Raul and Fidel, really. It’s the structure that was set up during the Soviet times.  It removed the leadership from the people. 

“But still, we will prosper. We will survive. You can tell. You must have seen it in your walk. Cubans are a different type of people. I don’t know what it is but we have something that ties us together. Beyond politics. Beyond nation really. Something.” 

He laughs. “As soon as I figure it out, I’ll send you an email.” 

The next afternoon I ride one of the cars that make the daily trip to Havana. Orlando walked with me to the corner where a big mulato organized the riders into half a dozen cars. 

“Take care of him,” says Orlando, handing me off for the last time. “He’s a friend.” 

The tall, handsome mulato organizes rides to all destinations from his corner fiefdom. Some cars headed to Santa Clara, others to Trinidad. In less than thirty minutes I was riding shot-gun in a Buick, with a 1960ish body with who knows how many Buick parts still hanging on. Two students from Guyana studying medicine in Cuba, all expenses paid, sat in the back seat. 

“We miss home,” the young man says pointing at his girlfriend. “But we feel good here. People are nice. They welcome us from the beginning.” 

The countryside blurs by. How long would it take me to walk the 230 kilometers to Havana? A week? Ten days? I’ll be there in three hours today in a car that has no business rolling this far. The wonders of modernity.