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. 

Day 6 Part 2: Placetas to Guaracabulla

Walking to Guaracabulla; the Geographic Center of Cuba

The date associated with the Triunfo de la Revolución, the Triumph of the Revolution, is January 1, 1959. Many people imagine the bearded rebels marching into Havana on New Year’s Day, welcomed by the jubilant throngs. The date and the triumph, however, have more to do with events that took place along these cane fields and guardarayas on New Year’s Eve, 1958. Che Guevara and his troops overwhelmed the forces of Batista in Santa Clara, the city about thirty kilometers to the west of Placetas. Che took Placetas on December 22, 1958 and Remedios on Christmas Day, 1958. He regrouped in Placetas and asked his cartographer to find a route to Santa Clara “por dentero,” not on the main roads leading to the city. It is certain that his route crossed the path that we blazed today. His troops moved in the direction of Sabana, a small town north west of Placetas.  If he took no main road to get to Sabana, his guerrilleros could not avoid tramping along the same cane fields, crossing the same railroad lines and seeing the same palm trees that my two friends and I encountered today. It is easy to imagine their rifled trudging through these back roads, cheered on by the parents of our direction givers today. The old lady who served us good lemonade and bad information was a child then. Maybe she watched open mouthed as Che went by, hopeful or fearful of what lay ahead. 

***

The van takes us to the center of Placetas.  The Casa de Cultura stands across from the shady park that offered a particularly inviting welcome to the town. It seems like an enjoyable place to lay in the shade and spend some time after a long day walking.   This would be a good layover for walkers tired of small towns.  Placetas is not a metropole but with 72,000 people, it can sustain a more diverse social life than the small towns so far encountered on the route. With several private and state-run restaurants, a hotel or two, and neighborhoods to explore, it makes for a good lay-over town. 

Day 6: Zulueta to Guaracabulla: The Geographic Center of Cuba--Part1 Placetas

Zulueta-Placetas: On our Way to Guaracabulla, the Geographic Center of Cuba

 

The morning rushed up on us during sleep about the same time it always does. Too damn early. 

“The muchachos are not here yet?” the promatora asks, referring to Maykel and Carlos Alejandro. My two friends had agreed to meet us in Zulueta and guide us into Guaracabulla, the geographic center of Cuba and Carlos Alejandro’s hometown. We stand on the road heading out of the Casa de Protocolo. She just rolled up in her Lada to say goodbye and to give Joel, Alexis and the kids a ride back to Remedios.

“They are on their way, pidiendo botella, hitchhiking, from town,” I say. 

“Ah,” she says. “That must have been them that we passed. The one with a hat and the other one with the baseball cap.” 

“Yeah. Maykel always wears a straw fedora hat,” I nod. 

She gives the driver instructions to go pick them up.

I say goodbye to Alexis and the crew. I give them all something to remember me: the twins smile wide when I handed them each a pair of biking gloves that I had packed in case I needed help gripping my hiking poles. Alexis and Joel object to receiving 50 CUC each but then shift to thanking me when it becomes obvious that I am not going to take it back. 

"We’re leaving you in good hands, it seems,” says Alexis.

“Se te quiere, Alexis.” I say. Gracias por todo.” They head back to a life of little resources and much work. This walk had been a vacation for them.