Saturday, 5 November 2022: Visit to an Historic Center of Cuban Sugar & Slavery

Pedro Junior fixes me a large breakfast here at my casa particular.  It’s one of the best ones I’ve had so far:  omelet with tomato and white cheese, bread, honey, raisin cake, fruit plate, fruit juice, and tea.  Barbara picks me up at 9:00.  We drive east in the direction of Sancti Spíritus about 10 miles then turn north to El Valle de Los Ingenios, a picturesque agricultural valley known for sugar cultivation and processing since the 1700s.  I had wanted to take the old train from Trinidad through the valley but Barbara told me yesterday that it is no longer running.  The government is unable to get replacement parts for the broken-down locomotives (or they haven’t tried very hard).  One more attraction touted by the latest Lonely Planet guidebook which is no longer available. 

First off, I get a tour of the plantation house at Guáimaro which dates from the late 1700s.  The Spanish family that owned the plantation had some 360 slaves and hundreds of acres of farm land.  My tour guide at this manor house is Carman, a thin, brown-skinned, educated, middle-aged woman with short greying hair who seems more serious than most Cubans I have met but is, in fact, very nice and knowledgeable.  Unfortunately, I only catch about half of what she tells me.  I find that the most impressive features of this large building are the pastoral landscape frescos adorning the walls of la sala grande (the large living room).  The owners actually lived in Trinidad most of the year but the husband would stay here both during the harvest season and when he made frequent trips out here to check up on his properties. 

Barbara has a woman friend who lives next to the manor house in a modest home with her family.  Barbara seems to know half the people in the area.  As I’ve previously noted, she is very outgoing, has a zest for life, and is frequently laughing.  In Trinidad, she always seems to be waving to people she knows and sometimes stops to talk with them for a few minutes.  I find it all entertaining.  When I’ve teased her about how many people she knows, she says it’s because she drives a taxi.

The woman who lives next to the manor house, her little girl (about age 4), and Barbara are hanging out in front of the house talking and having a good time while the little girl is hanging from her mother’s arms, legs, and neck.  It’s a bit boring for me after a few minutes especially since I understand little of the conversation.  I remind myself that it’s a good experience for me to see how Cubans interact socially.  These are people for whom life is a struggle economically and bureaucratically but who don’t blame each other for their woes.  Instead, they seem to help each other out and have strong friendships.

We next head to the old “central”, a sugar mill which closed about 20 years ago.  A man explains the process of extracting sugar from the cane.  There was a power plant here which generated electricity from burning the cane stalks.  The railroad from Trinidad ended here and there is an old 2-6-0 steam locomotive (two leading wheels and six driving wheels with no trailing wheels) parked on a siding.

 

 

After leaving the mill, we drive to Manaca Iznaga, a small town named for a wealthy local 18^th Century slave trader and land owner.  I climb 137 steps to the top of a 44-meter high tower with great views of the surrounding countryside.  The tower was used to watch the slaves, making sure they were working their asses off and not trying to escape.  The various portals in the tower are great for framing photos of the surrounding landscape. 

 

There is a huge bell in front of the hacienda near the tower which was used to summon the slaves.  Presently, dozens of women have booths in the area around the tower and hacienda where they sell fine woven table cloths, napkins, bedspreads, shawls, etc.   Almost all the beautifully embroidered items are white.  So if someone spills a few drops of red wine on one of these tablecloths, it’s ruined.  Not very practical.  Still, I would have liked to have supported them by buying some of their stuff but how would I get the bulky items back to Denver?    

 

My visit to this historic sugar-producing valley got me thinking about the institution of slavery which made it economically prosperous.  Owning people against their will is bad enough but the barbarity of these supposedly civilized and religiously-devout slave owners and overseers is hard to fathom:  the chains used when transporting slaves, the auction blocks where they were displayed like cattle, the branding with hot irons to indicate ownership, the beatings to keep them obedient and docile, the inhumane living conditions.  According to Carman, my guide at Guáimaro, these human beings were worked fourteen hours a day, six days a week.  Women were raped then forced to carry and raise their rapists’ children who then became slaves.  Families were broken up by sales of their members for economic profit with no regard for the emotional harm this caused.  And all the assorted daily humiliation these people suffered for their entire lives.   Just who were these fucking slave owners and the racist religions and societies that supported them?  And why should we not despise them and spit on their graves?  Oh yeah, “Judge not, lest ye be not judged” – bull shit! 

But wait, you ask.  Would you spit on the graves of George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, and James Madison?  Um, no.  I'd like to think that maybe they were kinder to their slaves that the average soulless slave owner.  But, I must admit that it's a complicated question without simple answers.  For example, is it fair to judge 18th and 19th Century morality by 21st Century standards?  Hmmm.   What do you think, reader?   

When we get back to Trinidad, Barbara stops by the Santander Ceramics Studio run by a family of several generations of skilled potters.  They have a huge stock of colorful ceramic goodies.  I buy a very small pot which will easily fit in my luggage.  

Barbara’s price for my four-hour private tour is $45.  She drops me off at my hostal and we agree to leave for Cienfuegos Monday at 9:30AM.  I won’t need a taxi tomorrow as I plan to hike up to the radio/TV tower above the city and wander the streets of the town. 

I have a late lunch (pizza with olives and green peppers) at Muñoz Tapas which has a roof top terrace a couple blocks from my room.  The waitress is very friendly and we talk for a while.  She claims that a foreigner can buy a Cuban debit card at the airport in Havana which is useable for credit card transactions.  If true, this is one more very important tip that my Lonely Planet guide didn’t mention.  My cynical guess is that there’s some catch or the card fees are exorbitant.  I complain to her that none of Cuban restaurants seem to offer Moros y Cristianos (beans and rice).  She says that if I come back tomorrow they will fix me an order.    

I get back to my casa particular for a 4:00 PM haircut appointment.  I have wanted to get a haircut at a shop in Cuba because I have good memories of the very reasonably-priced, deluxe haircuts I got in Turkey when I worked there 20 years ago.  Yesterday, when I mentioned to Barbara that I wanted a haircut, she said that her ex-husband’s sister could do the job.  I didn’t realize she would do it at my place but today is her day off.  

Barbara’s son, Davier, arrives at 4:00 on his motorcycle with a woman and introduces her in English as his “uncle”.  I have to let him know that she is his “aunt”.  Irma is maybe 60 with pelo corte (short hair) who is here to give me a corte pelo (haircut).  I had told Barbara that I wanted a shampoo and haircut, but I guess that Irma didn’t get the message and there is no shampoo in my room.  So we agree that Davier will go out and buy some shampoo and cream rinse while see does the cut.  We use one of the chairs on the outdoor dining patio next to my room.  I’m a bit embarrassed about the hair on the patio but suppose it will be easily swept into the adjacent garden.  She cuts it a bit short and my beard very short – can’t say I didn’t get my money’s worth.  She also trims my ‘stash, my unruly eyebrows, annoying ear hair, and even my snotty nose hairs.  When Davier arrives back with the hair goo, Irma does the wash and rinse in my sink using the detachable shower head.  Price is $10 – seems a bit high for Cuba but, hey, she does house calls.  Next time I would go to a nice salon for a more comfortable, relaxing experience.  I write for a while after the haircut.  It’s hard keeping up with my notes.       

At dinner time, I walk back to the Restaurante El Dorado on Calle Piro Guinart, where I ate last night.  The lights are out again but I’m able to see to write with my flashlight.  After one party leaves, they waitress moves me to their table so I’ll have better light from a battery-powered lantern.  In addition to the bruschetta which I had last night, I order plantain chips, a caramel flan, and an agua gaseosa (sparkling water) with a chunk of lemon but NO ice.  No more limonadas for me, I’m afraid.  Barbara confirmed this morning that bars and restaurants don’t use purified water to make ice because it’s too costly.  The same band as last night is playing but tonight they have a singer – a chubby black woman with a nice voice.  

I arrive back at the hostal just before 10:00 ready to crash.  Pedro Senior meets me at the door and wants to talk.  I spoke with him for a while yesterday – an interesting man, retired math teacher, very chubby, maybe 70.  Too bad I have so much trouble understanding his Cuban Spanish although he understands my Spanish just fine.  Yesterday, we talked politics.  He’s understandably bitter against both the Cuban government and American sanctions.  His family has trouble earning enough from travelers to maintain the place.  Tonight we talk about the western U.S. drought.  He is interested in my analysis of the causes and long-term implications.  Like many other Cubans, he assumes that the Grand Canyon of the Colorado is in the state of Colorado.  I have to explain.  They’ve had guests here from many countries – even Hong Kong, Taiwan, and Japan.  Lots of Europeans and Aussies.  Even some U.S. Americans.  Before heading back to my room, I remind him that tomorrow we “fall back” (Cuba is on Eastern Time and observes Daylight Savings Time).  He’s forgotten about the time change.   

I’m asleep a couple hours when suddenly the lights and the fan come back on – it’s a strange way to be awakened from a deep sleep!  

© Will Mahoney 2022

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