Island that Dared (6 page)

By early afternoon the sun had become dangerous, especially for the fair-skinned Trio. On a bluff above the beach we found a friendly, simple convertible-peso restaurant, its half-dozen tables shaded by a towering mango tree. While I attended to my dehydration problem and Rachel sipped daiquiris the Trio stuffed themselves with rice, chicken and grated raw carrot.

Just below us, across the narrow road, a licensed free-standing butcher’s stall was surrounded by stray dogs – all pathetically emaciated, to the Trio’s distress. Slowly a man cycled into view, towing a bullock’s skinned hindquarters and unskinned head in a homemade trailer, on six
baby-buggy
wheels. Post-Soviet necessity has mothered many inventions centred on the bicycle. The thud of the butcher’s cleaver brought men, women and children hastening to the stall, bearing dishes, bowls, pots or pans.

‘What will he do with the head?’ wondered Zea. ‘Hang it on a wall?’ suggested Clodagh. ‘There’s the tongue!’ exclaimed Rose, pointing over our balustrade. ‘He’s selling it all to our waiter friend here, for the restaurant.’

On the way back, seeking to escape the heat-reflecting tarmac, we walked on the verge – a bad idea. Within that grass lurked vicious little thorny burrs which caused much grief when embedded in small feet.

Transport-wise, we were having a lucky day: as the junction came in sight so did a Santiago-bound bus. The younger generations galloped towards it, Nyanya cantering in the rear and Rachel yelling – ‘Wait for the granny!’ Which it did.

By day three, Rose and Clodagh were familiar enough with the city centre, and at ease enough with Cuba, to move around alone if need be – to return to the loo at No. 197, or be despatched to buy water or, in Rose’s case, to linger over the choosing of postcards. Not having to go everywhere as a pack was rather a relief. That evening Rachel and I realised that neither of us had thought for a moment of the ‘security’ factor. Later I heard about the Mexican wife of a retiring diplomat who pleased her Cuban friends by bursting into tears at a farewell party – because in Havana her children could be let loose to play all day with other children and they wouldn’t understand being imprisoned back home …

A steep narrowish street of two- or three-storey colonial houses descends
to the old market hall, a massive stone building with a wide, curving flight of steps and a high arched entrance, suggesting the approach to some grandee’s palace. Inside are two long halls with vaulted roofs, one
dedicated
to meat, fish, poultry and eggs, the other to fruit and vegetables. We found many counters bare – because of the drought, said Irma. Here were pyramids of oranges – small, green, dry – and good quality bananas, woody dwarf tomatoes, piles of pale brown dried beans, almost identical piles of coffee, ropes of onions and garlic, trays of huge papayas, some cut and sculpted with flies buzzing around their juicy crimson-gold flesh – but no greenery of any sort. The cheerful traders (as many men as women, unlike Africa) welcomed the foreigners, admired the Trio, poked friendly fun at Rachel’s Spanish, apologised for having no pineapples, carefully chose for us the least dry oranges and the ripened-to-perfection papayas and advised us to avoid the tomatoes. This was shopping as it should be, human beings relating to one another, ‘consumer choice’ limited by local circumstances.

Continuing downhill to the waterfront we were greeted by householders sitting on their doorsteps, some men mending shoes or spectacles or trying to heal ailing trannies, some women sewing children’s garments or cleaning rice, extracting tiny bits of foreign matter. (Very foreign, all the way from Vietnam.)

The seafront promenade, laid out in the 1840s for the delectation of the local nobility, is low on the list of Santiago’s tourist attractions. For some two miles it runs wide and straight between the murky waters of a listless port and a row of tall, grim-looking commercial buildings. A pedestrian walkway bisects this thoroughfare, its line of straggly trees
half-shading
a few seats in urgent need of repair. At one end is the horse-bus ‘terminus’, under an ancient ceiba tree, and these long carriages far outnumber motor vehicles. The Trio’s suggesting a ride in one caused a slight contretemps between their elders. Horse-buses operate within the national-peso economy and are not licensed to carry tourists. (Havana’s tastefully decorated nineteenth-century two-wheelers have special licences.) However, one driver volunteered to break the law for CP5; his four-wheeled twelve-seater was drawn by a large mule and a small horse and had an insecure canvas awning. Rachel then argued that large groups were awaiting transport and it didn’t seem fair for us to jump that queue. I saw her point, but I also saw those three hopeful little faces. We compromised. I’d go with the girls, Zea could sit on my lap, we wouldn’t be hogging the bus, its driver could have our CP5 (big bucks for him) plus half a national peso
from nine others. We waved goodbye to Rachel – still looking disapproving – and trotted off on the sandy equine lane that runs parallel to the tarmac.

Soon it was the Trio’s turn to disapprove. Whenever the team’s pace slackened they were whipped – just a flick, nothing excessive, but Clodagh muttered, ‘He shouldn’t beat them!’ Rose concurred – ‘We’re a heavy load, they’re doing their best!’ Zea said, ‘It’s very hot, are they thirsty?’

To take everyone’s mind off animal welfare I gave them a brief history lesson, pointing to the bay where something hugely important happened on 3 July 1898. As the Spanish fleet sailed out of the harbour it was immediately attacked and sunk by the US navy – and that marked the end of the Spanish Empire. A fortnight later the Stars and Stripes were hoisted above Santiago’s palace and General Leonard Wood took over as
Velazquez
’s latest successor.

Three expressions conveyed supreme uninterest. Clodagh said, ‘I think the mule’s much too thin.’ Rose said, ‘When there’s a drought where can they get enough grazing?’ Zea asked, ‘Why is it a mule? It has the size of ponies.’

That gave Rose an enjoyable opportunity to be the knowledgeable big sister, explaining the genesis of mules. Then Clodagh asked, ‘What happens the other way, when the horse is father?’ I explained that that rarely happens; when it does the offspring are known, in Ireland, as jennets. Rose frowned and wondered, ‘Why doesn’t it happen more? Isn’t it easier for a horse to get on a donkey than for a donkey to get on a horse?’

I theorised that mules are a useful tough hybrid whereas jennets are rather feeble, therefore not deliberately bred to suit human needs.

‘I’d like to meet a jennet,’ said Zea.

Owing to her encumbrances, Rachel had to burn the Santiago candle at both ends – home from the Casa de la Trova or the Casa de las Tradiciones at 2.00 or 3.00 a.m., up at 6.00 a.m. when the Trio swung into action. They and I ‘did music’ during the day, guided by handwritten notices posted each morning outside the Casa de la Trova, their timing not to be taken too seriously. One might arrive at 11.00 a.m., only to watch an hour-long technological struggle involving yards of flex, electric plugs, the testing of electric guitars and amplifying equipment, the tightening of drums, the tuning of the double-bass, the cleaning of flutes, the altering of music stands. The Trio revelled in all this, especially when invited on to the stage to study the scene in detail. For me (musically reared in an
extremely narrow-minded way) overamplification in a smallish room marred an otherwise exhilarating introduction to Cuba’s richest heritage.

Two sluggish ceiling fans tried to cool the Casa de la Trova, its slightly raised stage overlooked by a local artist’s hectic depiction of the Steps of Padre Pico. In this house lived one of Cuba’s most beloved composers, Rafael Salcedo (1844–1917) and until 1995 his home retained its
eighteenth-century
dignity. Then crass, cut-price renovations were (surprisingly) permitted and the many famous performers whose portraits crowd the walls would grieve to see it now.

Between the stage and the seating (plastic chairs) people danced – anyone in the audience who felt like it, but no more than four at a time. We always sat in front, within touching distance of the performers, and this sense of intimacy is important; one might be at a family party.

One middle-aged couple (white husband, mulatto wife) achieved
extraordinary
ballet-like gyrations and were ‘regulars’ – always in the second row, smiling affectionately at one another, then he standing, bowing, formally requesting her partnership while the crowd laughed and clapped. The performances of some young couples were even more overtly sexual but it was the solo dancing of a mulatto youth – small-boned, low in stature, apparently made of rubber – that most enthralled the Trio. Loudest of all was the applause for his performance with a tall
big-breasted
black girl, her ebony skin gleaming against a scarlet halter and tight green pants. As the band played faster and faster those two achieved an acrobatic-erotic
tour de force
that brought some of the audience to their feet (and perhaps to something else).

All this was more than I had hoped for in Santiago’s world-famous Casa de la Trova. Here were ordinary citizens doing what Cubans are supposed to do best, making music, singing, dancing, using their bodies with a joyous, mischievous, provocative eloquence – not for tourists but for fun. Outside the three barred windows, reaching from floor to ceiling, townspeople crowded under the arcade. Beaming old men with sun-worn faces, and eyes brightened by their remembered youth, clutched the bars for hours on end, shouting compliments to their favourite singers. Women carrying shopping-bags paused for some free entertainment on their way home from the market. Youths intently observed the musicians, studying techniques, arguing about styles of play. Uniformed schoolgirls eating lunchtime ham rolls wriggled their hips while commenting on the dancers. One rejoiced to know that this Casa belongs to all of Santiago (entry for Cubans NP1).

Once we joined an early evening session in the tiled patio, a bigger space with potted palms along two walls, a mini-bar at one end and three very obviously dehydrated lavatories at the other. Soon the tourist
vanguard
appeared, half a dozen bronzed Italians and beetroot-coloured Dutch, all busy with digital and video cameras at CP1 per shot. A tiny nonagenarian white woman – her spine severely curved, limbs withered, eyes sunken, voice quavering – was still able to enjoy dancing. (Her enjoyment couldn’t have been feigned.) When she invited the male tourists to dance with her two did so, looking thoroughly uncomfortable, while their partners took photographs. I wished then that I had confined myself to the casual, spontaneous, non-commercial afternoon sessions.

Across the street from No. 197 stands Santiago’s celebrated music college (strictly classical) – a fine colonial town house, painted dark pink and navy blue with a view through its pillared chambers to a gracious patio where students relax in the ample shade of kapok and jaguey trees. From Irma’s front windows one could hear the students’ endeavours and Clodagh, especially, spent many spare moments listening to her
contemporaries
drawing sounds as of a cat being tortured from their violins – her own instrument of choice. Alternatively, one could stand on the pavement by an entrance – as many passers-by do – listening to orchestral rehearsals or one-to-one tuitions. In our world this might be considered an inhibiting distraction for students but in Cuba lives are shared, privilege is not associated with privacy (an alien concept) and those attentive
peripatetic
audiences seemed to be appreciated. Throughout our stay the orchestra was struggling with Schubert’s Unfinished Symphony and a somewhat confused Clodagh complained, ‘They keep on playing the same tune, will they ever finish it?’ I explained that the composer himself had left his seventh symphony unfinished, perhaps because he died of typhus fever at the age of thirty-one. Rose looked shocked. ‘So he was five years younger than Mum is now!’ That inexorably led us into another field of enquiry. ‘What,’ asked Zea, ‘is typhus? Why does it kill people?’

Irma’s five-star
casa particular
had only one defect: no writer-friendly table and chair. Therefore I regularly retreated to a corner café on Calle Aguilera where Mirta, a buxom young black woman with a wide smile and a deep chuckle, provided demitasses of excellent coffee for NP1 and was intrigued by my industrious scribbling. Cubans see no reason to stifle curiosity but discovering my profession scarcely lessened her puzzlement. For all their high literacy rate, most young Cubans are not book-minded.

The café was unlit, its walls panelled in dark wood, its high ceiling smoke-stained. Habitually I sat by one of the barred, unglazed windows and one morning three young men stopped outside on the pavement, staring at my table. After a brief confabulation they entered and shyly offered me NP1 for a pen – the coin on an extended hand. Four pens were visible: blue, red, black and green, all in use when I’m journal-writing, a fetish which perhaps says something about how hard I find it to order my thoughts. Feeling mean and nasty, I apologised for needing all those pens because of being a writer. Gloomily the young men accepted this excuse, one explaining that in Santiago just then there were no pens and when the next delivery arrived they would cost CP1 apiece. Tactlessly I opened my purse to provide CP3. The young men stepped back, gesturing their horror – they weren’t
jineteros
, they didn’t want a tourist’s money, what they urgently needed,
now
, was one pen. I gave them my black and blue pens and accepted NP2.

Usually I was alone in that café, the first arrival, but once, as I was about to leave, fourteen young women assembled outside, looking cowed and sulky, then were led in by a hard-faced older woman. Having pulled two little tables together she opened thick files of rubber-stamped documents containing more figures than words. I ordered another coffee and lingered. The group ordered nothing and on arrival had ignored Mirta. It seemed the young women were guilty of some shared failure, had got their sums wrong, either through incompetence or in an attempt to pilfer. Individually they were challenged, their boss jabbing a forefinger on a page, glaring at them, demanding explanations, hectoring them, plainly enjoying her job. A few muttered defensively, others looked down and said nothing. Only one became angry, raising her voice, half-standing to lean towards the documents and doing a little finger-jabbing on her own account. In response the boss tore up two sheets of paper and snapped something that silenced the angry one who then looked around the semi-circle, seeking support. Everyone avoided her gaze. Next the others were ordered to sign chits which the boss counter-signed and stamped with a large official seal. To me, a café seemed an odd setting for this disciplinary procedure – here was another example of Cuban life being lived in public.