"People are like stained glass windows. They sparkle and shine when the sun is out, but when the darkness sets in, their true beauty is revealed only if there is a light from within." Elisabeth Kubler-Ross
As we returned to the road, I glanced for the last time at the beautiful beach we just visited. It slowly faded away in my rear view mirror as did the exuberance of the experience. The next town we were to drive through was Playa Giron or Bay of Pigs as it is commonly known.
As we returned to the road, I glanced for the last time at the beautiful beach we just visited. It slowly faded away in my rear view mirror as did the exuberance of the experience. The next town we were to drive through was Playa Giron or Bay of Pigs as it is commonly known.
My father, as a young teen left school to help his family by working in the sugar cane fields. He would also help his Father, who made charcoal, along with his brothers when he could. As a teenager, he dreamed of freedom and a democratic government. Batista would never offer these freedoms, but during these years someone was gaining popularity. It was Fidel Castro. Fidel promised these things and more and people began supporting him in what would later be known as the Cuban Revolution.
My father, like most at first, was in support of Fidel and ended up working for a key supporter of the revolution. All was well until Castro failed to keep promises and changed his tune by favoring communism. My father and others realized that he was another dictator. My Father, along with many of the farmers and workers in the area would later join with the Brigade 2506 in the Bay of Pigs conflict.
The Brigade 2506 was a CIA-sponsored group of Cuban exiles that were trained in Guatemala to overthrow the Castro regime and bring freedom to the Cuban people. They were all told that on April 17th, 1961 they would, along with US forces, overthrow the government of Fidel Castro.
The US support never came ashore, President Kennedy went back on his word and 72 hours later Fidel Castro fended off the attack. Just writing those words down takes my breath away.
Somehow, Castro had gotten word of the attack and had troops already in position. My Father was captured and put in prison. He escaped prison, not once, but twice and eventually made it here to the United States. His story is incredible and one that I will begin to write once I'm done with the story of my trip.
Somehow, Castro had gotten word of the attack and had troops already in position. My Father was captured and put in prison. He escaped prison, not once, but twice and eventually made it here to the United States. His story is incredible and one that I will begin to write once I'm done with the story of my trip.
Playa Giron is where the final battle took place and a place I had many mixed emotions about going. As we were approaching Playa Giron, I began noticing tombstones along the road. Upon closer inspection, I noticed these were actually monuments, very large monuments placed by the Cuban government to honor Castro's troops who died fighting for him.
No monuments for the freedom fighters who were either killed in the 72-hour conflict or later killed by firing squad or tortured in prison. Nothing to commemorate them.
As I drove closer to the center of town with these thoughts in my head, I came upon a sign that said "Bay of Pigs, A Victory For Socialism".
As I drove closer to the center of town with these thoughts in my head, I came upon a sign that said "Bay of Pigs, A Victory For Socialism".
The sign to the left says: "Giron, First defeat of the imperialistic Yankees in Latin America"
I had thoughts... no, I had visions of destroying the sign and lost in that vision, I wandered into the other lane. It made me angry, so very angry. I had just left a beautiful postcard scenery beach and I reflected on that, which helped me focus on the task at hand. I was soon to be face-to-face with family that I had never met and I began to feel a nervous excitement.
Despite the surrounding beauty, I would always feel anger as I drove through this town.
The town of Playa Jiron, the largest I would visit other than Havana, was smaller than I would have thought. Along the main road, there were people holding signs up advertising the daily special of the restaurant that they ran out of their roadside house. It reminded my of the sign shakers we have in town in the states, only less enthusiastic and no gorilla suits. There were also signs on a few houses that advertised rooms for rent. The Government was allowing citizens to run businesses out of their houses, for a fee of course, and along this street most of the houses were also some sort of business. Most were restaurants and room for rent homes. The houses on the main road were the nicest houses I saw, but once you got away from this small 1/8-mile stretch of road, the scenery changed. Most of the houses away from the main stretch had thatched roofs and looked as if they've never been painted since they were built, if at all.
In the small towns I would visit over the next few days, I seldom saw a car. The only cars I saw were those passing through. No one in any of these towns seemed to own a car. I mostly saw people walking on foot with an occasional bicycle or horse-drawn buggy. I remember my Father talking of walking to Playa Giron during the April 17th conflict, so I knew we had to be close to the small village where my family still lived.
Being close to the ocean, I rolled down the windows to take in the ocean air. It was salty, crisp and very refreshing. There was a steady breeze coming off the ocean and the palm trees danced to an imaginary song as they swayed back and forth. With the Caribbean blue background and the waves crashing harmoniously against the shore, it was a beautiful sight to see, smell and hear. I wanted to be a passenger on this stretch of road, so I could daydream and absorb this beauty that I may never see again. And if Lora were in the car with me, she would tell you that I do drive as if I am the passenger, daydreaming and absorbing the beauty!
As the stretch of road took me away from the beach, we rolled the windows up and drove the short distance back to Cayo Ramona, where an Aunt and several cousins live. We stopped at my Aunt's home, but she wasn't there, so we decided to continue driving towards Bermejas. On a map there is no name for the small village my family lives in, but it is closest to Bermejas, so that's what we call it.
I didn't know exactly what to expect when I arrived at the small village that most of my family lives in. Even in small towns here in the US, there is usually a gas station, a small grocery store, a blinking red light, train tracks, a church... something. Something that marks the center of town or something that brings the community together. There was nothing like that here. The only thing I noticed was a bus stop and a dirt road that left from the two-lane road we traveled on to get there.
The small village is made up of approximately 20 houses, a small store where rations are distributed and purchases can be made. There was also a bus stop and a small soda stand, for lack of a better word, where sodas and snacks could be purchased. On occasion, you can get a sandwich or small snack there also.
As I turned down the dirt road headed south, my anticipation grew even more. I glanced at the houses as I drove by and I felt as if I was in a dream. I've wanted and prayed for this moment for so many years and even though my Father wasn't here with me I was supercharged emotionally. I was finally going to meet my family and learn about my Father's upbringing. I would finally be able to put faces with the names that I've heard countless stories about.
I took the fork in the road to the right towards the last set of houses. We were going to Loli's Dad's house first. I only knew him as Mongo and he is the oldest of my Dad's siblings. As I looked down the road, where the road curved to the right and disappeared into the jungle, I saw a small house with sky blue siding and white horizontal stripes. "That's it!" Loli said and I slowed to a stop in front of the house.
Upon hearing the car my Uncle, Aunt and a couple of cousins came out. I think the only times in my life I smiled as big were when I got married and when my children were born. And just like then, my eyes were burning as I fought back tears of joy. I hugged my Aunt first, then my cousin and made my way to my Uncle. When Mongo hugged me, I could feel love --the kind of love that you only get from family. It was as if he didn't want to let go. It was as if he, like me, had dreamt of this moment and he was trying to make up for all of the years that time had swallowed. I could see the moisture in their eyes as well and the love I felt was unmeasurable. There is nothing like family I thought, there is nothing like family!
"Where's your Dad?" they asked and with sadness I informed them that he couldn't get his visa and that he was hoping to come in the near future. Without a phone, there was no way to let them know what had happened.
I took out my camcorder and decided to film as I walked through their home. I stepped through the front door into the small living room and noticed that there was no ceiling. All of the walls were about seven feet tall so the entire house was open from the tops of the walls to the roof. The roof was constructed from local timber and all of the support was round lumber and it looked like bamboo construction. There was a small eating area behind the living room and behind that, I was told, was the kitchen. I eagerly made my way to the back of the house and my heart sank. The kitchen, as they called it, was nothing more than a shelf with an open window. Outside the window was a vessel for holding water. They had a small table set up with a rice cooker and an electric eye for cooking. A small refrigerator sat in the corner and the other corner had a small washing machine that was like nothing I had seen before.
I slowly lowered the camera, I couldn't film this. I couldn't believe that I had family that didn't even have running water in their home. I had a pain in the pit of my stomach for all of the wasted water, food and other things we take for granted in this county. I felt guilty for all of the complaints I've voiced that, after seeing this, I should never have spoken.
They ushered me through the house and we made our way to the back. Behind the house was a small work shop* where my uncle worked as a carpenter. Beyond that, there were a few banana trees then the thick jungle which continues about six miles till the jungle meets the ocean.
*As it turned out, the shop is actually the remnants of the house was where my father grew up. There was nothing left of it but a roof, its supports and the dirt floor my father walked on.
The shop had a homemade table saw with a small router type bit sticking out to the side and another table had some sort of sander with an exposed sanding belt. None of the equipment had any safety features as my uncle pointed out to me with his two half-fingers.
In one corner of the shed was a small area where they would boil water for drinking and bathing. Their drinking water, when available, was delivered by truck and placed in two 55 gallon barrels on the front porch. Behind the shed were three small cages each containing what I thought were large rats. I was wrong, they were Hutia. Hutia is a moderately large rodent that nests in the trees or rocks instead of burrowing into the ground. I guess this is their equivalent to our squirrel. Upon closer inspection, they reminded me of the Nutria. It is hunted in Cuba and used as a food source, which is against the law in Cuba, by the way, to hunt for your own food supply. However, my uncle, was apparently a very skilled hunter of Hutia. My uncle explained to me that Hutia are herbivores and when cooked properly were very tasty. Everybody there echoed his sentiments and I was hoping I would get to eat some before I had to return home.
Before I knew it, another Uncle, Onelio, and a few more cousins made their way to me and we went around to the front porch. I was told to bring the car around the back of the house as to not garner any unwanted attention. The chairs were brought from inside and placed on the front porch, I was given a cigar and the storytelling began. I know Eric felt lost, not knowing the language and having difficulties understanding the conversation, he had to be. But laughter is contagious, and the love shared that day can't be held prisoner by a language barrier. He felt it, as did I, and I couldn't help but to think of my Father, my wife, my daughter and the rest of my family and how I wish they could be here.
I thought again of all of the things we take for granted in life and how sometimes our priorities are misplaced. My family cried as I asked about my Grandparents and what they were like, reflecting on love lost and the void left behind. We laughed as I mentioned our lack of hair in the family and that, at least not in my case, it is not malnutrition at play.
During the brief moments of silence, I thought about how difficult it must have been for my father to leave his family and the only people he had ever known. To escape with only the glimmering hope of freedom and opportunity awaiting him.
I puffed on my cigar as I sat in the same rocking chair my father once did, sharing stories the way only a family can do. Listening to stories of my father and his siblings' mischief growing up, absorbing the surrounding scenery and watching Eric trying to communicate with his new family. Laughing, crying, smiling and building memories - as only a family can do. Because of this day, this moment, my internal light will forever shine brighter.
Being close to the ocean, I rolled down the windows to take in the ocean air. It was salty, crisp and very refreshing. There was a steady breeze coming off the ocean and the palm trees danced to an imaginary song as they swayed back and forth. With the Caribbean blue background and the waves crashing harmoniously against the shore, it was a beautiful sight to see, smell and hear. I wanted to be a passenger on this stretch of road, so I could daydream and absorb this beauty that I may never see again. And if Lora were in the car with me, she would tell you that I do drive as if I am the passenger, daydreaming and absorbing the beauty!
As the stretch of road took me away from the beach, we rolled the windows up and drove the short distance back to Cayo Ramona, where an Aunt and several cousins live. We stopped at my Aunt's home, but she wasn't there, so we decided to continue driving towards Bermejas. On a map there is no name for the small village my family lives in, but it is closest to Bermejas, so that's what we call it.
I didn't know exactly what to expect when I arrived at the small village that most of my family lives in. Even in small towns here in the US, there is usually a gas station, a small grocery store, a blinking red light, train tracks, a church... something. Something that marks the center of town or something that brings the community together. There was nothing like that here. The only thing I noticed was a bus stop and a dirt road that left from the two-lane road we traveled on to get there.
The small village is made up of approximately 20 houses, a small store where rations are distributed and purchases can be made. There was also a bus stop and a small soda stand, for lack of a better word, where sodas and snacks could be purchased. On occasion, you can get a sandwich or small snack there also.
As I turned down the dirt road headed south, my anticipation grew even more. I glanced at the houses as I drove by and I felt as if I was in a dream. I've wanted and prayed for this moment for so many years and even though my Father wasn't here with me I was supercharged emotionally. I was finally going to meet my family and learn about my Father's upbringing. I would finally be able to put faces with the names that I've heard countless stories about.
I took the fork in the road to the right towards the last set of houses. We were going to Loli's Dad's house first. I only knew him as Mongo and he is the oldest of my Dad's siblings. As I looked down the road, where the road curved to the right and disappeared into the jungle, I saw a small house with sky blue siding and white horizontal stripes. "That's it!" Loli said and I slowed to a stop in front of the house.
"Where's your Dad?" they asked and with sadness I informed them that he couldn't get his visa and that he was hoping to come in the near future. Without a phone, there was no way to let them know what had happened.
 |
| The kitchen |
 |
| Washing Machine |
I slowly lowered the camera, I couldn't film this. I couldn't believe that I had family that didn't even have running water in their home. I had a pain in the pit of my stomach for all of the wasted water, food and other things we take for granted in this county. I felt guilty for all of the complaints I've voiced that, after seeing this, I should never have spoken.
They ushered me through the house and we made our way to the back. Behind the house was a small work shop* where my uncle worked as a carpenter. Beyond that, there were a few banana trees then the thick jungle which continues about six miles till the jungle meets the ocean.
*As it turned out, the shop is actually the remnants of the house was where my father grew up. There was nothing left of it but a roof, its supports and the dirt floor my father walked on.
The shop had a homemade table saw with a small router type bit sticking out to the side and another table had some sort of sander with an exposed sanding belt. None of the equipment had any safety features as my uncle pointed out to me with his two half-fingers.
In one corner of the shed was a small area where they would boil water for drinking and bathing. Their drinking water, when available, was delivered by truck and placed in two 55 gallon barrels on the front porch. Behind the shed were three small cages each containing what I thought were large rats. I was wrong, they were Hutia. Hutia is a moderately large rodent that nests in the trees or rocks instead of burrowing into the ground. I guess this is their equivalent to our squirrel. Upon closer inspection, they reminded me of the Nutria. It is hunted in Cuba and used as a food source, which is against the law in Cuba, by the way, to hunt for your own food supply. However, my uncle, was apparently a very skilled hunter of Hutia. My uncle explained to me that Hutia are herbivores and when cooked properly were very tasty. Everybody there echoed his sentiments and I was hoping I would get to eat some before I had to return home.
 |
| Mongo, Caridad, Onelio and Loli |
I thought again of all of the things we take for granted in life and how sometimes our priorities are misplaced. My family cried as I asked about my Grandparents and what they were like, reflecting on love lost and the void left behind. We laughed as I mentioned our lack of hair in the family and that, at least not in my case, it is not malnutrition at play.
During the brief moments of silence, I thought about how difficult it must have been for my father to leave his family and the only people he had ever known. To escape with only the glimmering hope of freedom and opportunity awaiting him.
I puffed on my cigar as I sat in the same rocking chair my father once did, sharing stories the way only a family can do. Listening to stories of my father and his siblings' mischief growing up, absorbing the surrounding scenery and watching Eric trying to communicate with his new family. Laughing, crying, smiling and building memories - as only a family can do. Because of this day, this moment, my internal light will forever shine brighter. 