Day 10 (continued): Santa Isabel de las Lajas

Santa Isabel de las Lajas

The settlement of Santa Isabel de las Lajas dates to 1800 but it was officially founded in 1824.  Esteban settled in the town after the war and took part in the 1912 black revolt protesting the exclusion of blacks from national political culture. He lived in Lajas at the same time as Coronel Simeon Armenteros and other members of the Partido Independiente de Color, the national party leading the revolts.  Most of the violence of the uprising took place in eastern Cuba, around Santiago, but a few bands of Independentistas stirred the pot in the Province of Santa Clara; one band attacked the northern region around Sagua la Grande and the other, led by Armenteros attacked the communication infrastructure of Cienfuegos between May and July 1912.  Estaban was in this group. The uprising was quickly crushed. Esteban survived to tell the tale.[1]

If there was ever a man who loved what he did and where he did it, it is the director of the Benny Moré museum in Lajas.  

Day 10: Cruces-Lajas-Ciego Montero

Cruces—Lajas—Ciego Montero

 

Electricity came first to Santa Clara. Right into the city. The philanthropist Marta Abreu brought it. It didn’t come to the Ariosa until…well, I don’t remember, but it was after the Caracas mill. Caracas brought in electric light in that area of Lajas. In the biggest mill in Cuba. The owners were millionaires, and that was why they bought the electricity. Their name was Terry. I don’t know where I was, up in a tree or on top of a roof. But I saw the lights of the Caracas mill, which were a marvel. 

--Esteban Montejo

 

It must have been the water. I boil with internal heat even before I toss my mattress on the floor hoping to find the coolest spot in the big room. My efforts are to no avail. The fever sucks up the feeble breeze of the fan like a black hole sucks up light. The absurd dreams begin as soon as I close my eyes. 

And then there were the shits. 

I stagger in a stupor to the bathroom five or six times, wobbling between the theatre seats each time, and each time leaving behind more body weight than the time before. This continues until thereias nothing left inside of me. 

After the third or fourth visit to the bathroom, I stop cursing the darkness and am glad that I can’t see what I leave behind. I perform the laborious flushing duties the first couple of times, but by the third and fourth forays, I abandon my waste to fester in the darkness. I know I will return. 

Day 9 (continued): Reality Check in Cruces

Reality Check in Cruces

The room is warm. Real warm. Sweating while sitting perfectly still warm. The window leading to the side street is sealed shut for some unfathomable reason.  Without the fan, the room would be impossible. Looking for the bathroom, I explore the building.

Behind the theatre stage are the restrooms. Or I should say, is the restroom. Unisex. Uni-able. One bathroom with three stalls, none of which flush, or have lids on the toilets or doors on the stalls to enclose them. And there is no light in the bathroom.  So, using it requires, first, that your eyes become accustomed to the seamless darkness. If you manage locate one of the three stalls, guess the location of the bowl, and aim properly, you might not add to the novel life forms nurtured by the green-yellow swamp surrounding the base of the bowl. If you felt the socially conscious urge to flush, there is a bucket on the floor by the entrance which needs to be dumped into the toilet. The last person to use it did not bother to fill it, the tap being some distance away in another room.

Day 9 (continued): Mal Tiempo-Cruces

 Mal Tiempo-Cruces

After touring the plaza with Maipu and Aniel, we enter the motel. Cookies and a cold drink wait for us. Elias, the manager welcomes us.  After I summarize the project, he offers to give me a tour.  

“We have nine large rooms with the capacity for forty-five people.  It’s not the Hilton but we receive people year-round. Groups of tourists, but mostly school trips or national organizations.” He points to the work area at the end of one wing. “As you can see, we’re renovating.” 

He tells me how back in the day, when the Baños de Bija were functioning, the motel would be full of guests. 

“A little bus would stop right out front and take visitors to the baths and bring them back later. A bus from Cruces stopped here too on the way to los Baños.”  

Outside, we say goodbye to Aniel.  The promotora probably wished that she could join him, but she silently resigned herself to her fate, accompanying me to the Mal Tiempo sugar mill through the shrub.   

We work our way around a fence to the south of the monument and head towards the smokestack sprouting in the distance. It is hot as hell by now.  Waves of heat rise from the sandy flatland, making the palms in the distance undulate, like some tropical Van Gogh creation. Maipu wraps a long sleeve shirt around her head in a makeshift turban and we weave through the scrub brush. The terrain reminds me of the high mesas in the Southwestern part of the United States. I half expect to see a sagebrush blowing past us, had there been any wind.

Day 9: Walking to Mal Tiempo

 Mal Tiempo

 Mal Tiempo was necessary to give courage to the Cubans and to give strength to the revolution. Anyone who fought there left convinced he could face the enemy….Maceo was certain of victory. He was tougher than a hardwood tree. 

--Esteban Montejo

Night falls softly in this area of the flatlands.  Buses emptying workers into the dusty streets, tilting with the weight of the passengers pouring out the same side. Men stand on the sidewalks or leaning against walls rehashing the day’s news. Walkers hurry somewhere important.  This corner is the crossroads of the town.  Men sit on the wall of the Casa de Cultura facing the street or stand facing those who are, telling stories, gesturing wildly, well into the night.  It was the town crier corner.  I sit on the porch and watch the town breathe.  

Around eight I get ready for bed.  I decide against sleeping on the sofa and lay out my mat, lining up the two available fans to deliver what passes for coolness all over my body.  As I’m getting my toiletries in order, I see a large, muscular man open the gate from the street and walk towards the open front door.  

“Aquí no hay nadie,” I say. There’s nobody around.  

“I know,” he says. “I’m the night watchman,” El sereno. 

They are the only words he says to me all night. He makes the rounds in silence, which in the case of the one room building means looking around, checking the back door, inspecting from afar the few furnishings, opening the second door facing the street at the other end of the front porch and taking the keys from their hanging place above the phone.  He takes a chair from around the folding table and places it outside, under the roof at the corner of the property, facing the crossroads and the crier’s corner. He sits and looked out into the street, saying not another word to me. 

            I sleep on the floor as well as could be expected. Sometime near dawn, a loud snoring wakes me up. The sereno asleep on the sofa. I am glad that I had left it for him.