Saturday, April 22, 2017

My Trip to Cuba - (Part 9)

My Trip to Cuba - (Part 9)

"You don't choose your family. They are God's gift to you, as you are to them." 
- Desmond Tutu

I feel cheated and lied to. I was told as a kid that roosters crow in the morning sunlight. It was painfully obvious on this trip that I was misinformed. As the rooster, oblivious to my peaceful sleeping, decided to make his presence known at 3 a.m. I jumped awake and for a brief moment, wasn't sure where I was. The smells of the farm, of mud and decaying manure coming in through the open windows, quickly reminded me of where I was.

I was trying to fall back asleep, thinking of frying a particular loud and obnoxious rooster, but through the windows emitted a soft moonlight that spread across the room. I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, something moving on the wall across from me. The moonlight and gentle breeze were causing shadows to dance across the walls and the mosquito net that was draped over my son and I.  But this was no peaceful shadow slowly dancing back and forth.  It was a huge, hairy, tarantula-looking spider about the size of the palm of my hand and just a few feet over from it was one of the largest palmetto bugs I have ever seen. I quickly brought my foot, which had slid out from under the mosquito net, back into the confines of the now highly valued shelter.  Visions of the two insects plotting my demise made for increased anxiety.  The idea of waking up to something crawling across my face coupled with the anticipation of the tomorrow's activities made it difficult to sleep peacefully. I slept on and off for a couple of more hours until I heard my uncle stirring awake. The bugs were now gone, the spider probably making a meal out of the roach or both having retreated to their hiding place.  "Good riddance!" I thought to myself.

The suitcases, which had traveled with us wherever we went, would stay here so I filled my small backpack with our identification papers, some money and our water purifiers. We made our way next door to our cousins house where we had some Cuban coffee for breakfast.

One of the things that made the biggest impression on me and my son was everyone's hospitality. We were constantly being asked if we wanted something, if we were ok. They would offer up their chair for us to sit in. We instantly felt like family which was very comforting. Because of their caring and nurturing, we never felt like an outsider, as if the time and miles that kept us apart all of these years were insignificant. It's one of the things that stuck with us long after we returned home and I still think about when I reflect back on my trip.

As we exited the house to make our way to Mongo's house, my cousin's son was preparing his horse for the day.  As far as I know this was the only horse, and transportation my family owned. The horse, like the others, was very thin, but beautiful nonetheless.  He asked me if I wanted to ride the horse.  As I began walking towards the horse, I noticed the horse had no saddle. I also noticed that I outweighed the owner of the horse by at least 50 pounds. I could see myself climbing atop the bareback horse and the horse quickly protesting the extra weight and bucking me off and leaving me lying on the ground with bones protruding through my skin or some other kind of serious injury. I have a friend who nearly died from such an injury and the fact that there is no 911 or emergency services made me instantly change my mind. My son; however, declared eagerly that he would take my place.

The horse turned out to be very tranquil and my son, having never ridden a horse, rode the bareback animal across the road and back. He looked like a natural and the beautiful animal was very accommodating. I think the horse was just happy that he didn't have to carry me!







The thought of a serious injury had gotten me thinking, so I asked my uncle about emergency services and he didn't seem to understand what I was talking about. Loli explained to me that there are no ambulances or firetrucks in this village or any village within 4 hours. So, basically, you would have to wait for an ambulance to come from Havana. That seemed crazy to me, barbaric in a sense.  In Henry County FD, we strive for 7-minute response times in EMS and they seem comfortable with a 4-hour response time. Crazy!

The house we slept in the night before belonged to my cousin, Martha. It was the house my grandmother lived and died in and it was next to the main road that went from Bay of Pigs, through Cayo Ramona (where I had additional family) through Bermejas (where I currently was) and beyond.  Across the street was a bus stop.  Next to the house, was the dirt road we would walk up and down as we made our way from Mongo's house to Martha's house.  Where the dirt road met the highway, for lack of a better word, was a small store that sold soft drinks, candy and sometimes sandwiches. I was hungry, having skipped breakfast, so I approached to buy a sandwich. "We don't have any," the lady said, but we have a few soft drinks and a few pastries. I bought Eric a cola and we shared a couple of pastries. Below is a google image of the village my family lives in.

https://www.google.com/maps/@22.1378105,-80.9578363,783m/data=!3m1!1e3




Across the dirt road was the government grocery store. I figured I would step inside and possibly buy a huge bag of chicken or rice or something that I could give my family in order to feel like I contributed in some way. I asked Loli about making such a purchase and I was advised against it. The grocery store, which was run by the government, was where you picked up your rations. If you had some extra money, you could buy what was on the shelves, but buying too much food would raise a few eyebrows and garner the attention of the local official. "Ridiculous!" I thought.  I can't even buy extra food without a government official questioning me.

I stepped inside the store and I instantly felt sorrow. The store looked more like an over-sized kiosk. There were small chalkboard signs advertising items for sale, such as a can of tomato paste for $130.00 or a box of matches for $1.00. There was a set of old wooden shelves that ran along the back wall. Tucked away in the corner on one of the shelves was an old cash register.  There were quite a few green plastic bottles with hand written labels affixed to them. I'm not sure what was in them and I never found out. A small counter separated us from the employee and the goods on the shelves. No browsing or reading labels here. In the other corner was a roll of pipe and a few hardware items such as a mop and a strainer of some sort.  Matches, cigars and various fruits were advertised but nowhere to be seen. My uncle, Onelio, bought some cigars, which appeared from a room in the back and stuffed them in the front pocket of his shirt. He flirted with the ladies behind the counter, something he did with every woman we met, and we left the store.



I tried to imagine what it would be like not having choices when it comes to buying food. Not having the money to buy a can of tomato sauce or a box of mac and cheese. How many nights as newlyweds did my wife and I get by with spaghetti or mac and cheese with hot dogs. I bet we know 20 different ways to prepare mac and cheese, and to think, I thought I was missing something or struggling.  What these people wouldn't give to struggle like that!

We left the store and took the dirt road down to Mongo's house. As the dirt and pieces of coral crunched beneath my feet, I took in the surroundings and breathed the morning air. The road and surrounding houses, shacks really, reminded me of pictures I'd seen of the past from small rural farm towns in Georgia. Old wood clapboard houses with tin roofs, built upon pillars of brick and a small porch in front. Instead of pines, moss-covered oak trees or rows of pecan trees, these had scattered palm and plantain trees.  Most of the houses had 5-gallon drums on the front porch where they kept their drinking water.  Some houses had small gardens in the back, which had only been recently allowed by the government. Beyond these houses, and slowly creeping in towards the dirt road, was nothing but jungle.

We arrived at my Uncle Mongo's house and Onelio decided to sit down and smoke one of the cigars he picked up at the government store.  My uncle, Mongo, asked me if I'd like to take a walk.  We set off further down the dirt road into the jungle.
 
He first took me across from his house to an area just 50 yards up the road. He pointed out a large area and stated that it used to belong to my cousin, Frankie, before he escaped to America. This was his pasture where he kept his animals for the government. Upon closer inspection, I could make out the old fence.  As I took another step closer, Mongo quickly stopped me.  He pointed to a bush I was about to lean into and told me to take a closer look.  As I looked closer, expecting to see a snake or a spider, but I didn't notice anything out of the ordinary. He hesitantly grabbed a branch from the bush in front of me and then I noticed some fierce barbs all along the branches.  The bush was covered in long thorns an inch or more in length.

He said, "This is the Marabu plant." I found out it is also called the sickle bush, but the Cubans call it "el marabu". The plant was brought here during the 19th century, probably because of its beautiful flowers.  My uncle said the plant was brought here by the Japanese, but I later read it was brought here from Africa.  Unknown to the importers, whomever they were, the Cuban soil and climate were a prime growing habitat for the plant and it quickly took over most of the uninhabited land and is now taking over the rest of the island. There are now efforts to rid, or at least curtail, the spread of this menacing plant. The plant and the roots must be removed and if any of the roots are left in the ground, they will quickly sprout new plants. One bright note is that they have found that the plant makes a charcoal of extremely high quality due to its high ratio of carbon.

My uncle shared a few stories of Frankie and his farm which is now an unrecognizable mass of overgrown plants and looks as if it has been swallowed by the jungle. My uncle and I turned back and we kept walking past his house and my cousin's, who lives next door, and we came upon the last house in the village. The house was about 10 feet by 15 feet and looked like it was abandoned. I asked about it and he informed me that someone still lives there and he will probably stop by later. The house, he said, was just a one room shack, everything else is done outside. Outside I could see his barrel of water, a ragged old chair and a charcoal stove that seemed to be very common in the village.

The road I was walking down, as my uncle explained to me, leads to the ocean. It is about a 7-mile walk down this dirt road, through the jungle, without another house in sight. Walking down this road became surreal to me.  My uncle explained, with a smile on his face, that all of the brothers would take this road to the ocean where they would swim and fish and camp out by the sea.  They would spend the night by the moonlit ocean fishing, listening to the seagulls and the waves crashing against the rocks and make their way back the following day.  These memories seemed very dear to him and I felt they reminded him of a much easier time, of an easier life.  I remembered as a kid, my father telling me the same stories.  My father even shared a few pictures from those days, young brothers holding their catch up for the camera, victory grins plastered on their faces - the innocence of youth seen with each smiling face.

My uncle abruptly paused, and with an undertone of sadness, he tells me he should have listened to my father.  I wasn't sure what he was talking about.  Sensing this he repeated what he said, "I should have listened to your dad, your dad told me what Cuba would turn into, but I didn't want to believe him.  I'm approaching the end of my life and I will never know prosperity, freedom or opportunity.  Until I die, I will never truly be a free man. Your father knew what was coming and he was brave enough to change his life. We are all very happy for your father, very proud of what he has done, I just wish we all had listened to him!"

Ironically, the area we were standing in at that moment, was the area my father came out of the jungle and was staring at a jeep with a machine gunner looking in the opposite direction.  My father wasn't detected, but he knew it was pointless, the war against Castro was lost, and he could see that they were questioning his family.  He had no choice, he announced himself and with a nervous and sad voice,  greeted his captors.
We continued down the dirt road and we were quickly surrounded by ever thickening jungle. The jungle was incredibly dark with the canopy blocking out the sun and I couldn't imagine what it was like to fight in this jungle. I imagined my father walking from here all the way to the beach, to the Bay of Pigs and back again fighting against Castro's troops. I was in awe of the desperation and determination it must have taken my father and the others that joined him to fight in that battle.

As we continued walking, my uncle began telling me a story that is known to everyone in town.  A long time ago, a communist man fled his government, he was said to be from Spain.  He was known as "Old Man Vison."  He was supposedly fleeing capture, so he decided to settle, secluded from society, about a half mile further down this road we were walking down. This man, it was rumored, was a man of importance where he came from and was extremely wealthy.  Where he kept his money, no one knew.  One morning, he was found dead, hanging by a tree near his home.  Fingers were pointed, but the guilty person or party, if there was one, was never found.
  
Years later, an uncle of mine, by marriage named Armando, decided to build a house and move onto this piece of property.  Before he could get settled in, the Bay of Pigs started and he was captured along with my Father never to return to Cuba.

Years later, somebody decided to settle on this piece of property again. After a few nights there, he walked up to my uncle Mongo and told him he couldn't sleep there anymore. When Mongo asked him why, the man stated that every time he went to sleep he dreamt of a ghostly figure looking over him from atop a pile of something that looked like charcoal. He concluded that the homesite was haunted by the ghost of Old Man Vison.  He packed his belongings and never returned.

Fast forward a few years, a cousin of mine named Becky, who was too young to know of Old Man Vison, began having dreams. She had these dreams repeatedly and to the point that she began to tell people of it. My cousin, Frankie, overheard her telling the dream. She described an old man standing atop a pile of treasure behind a house with an avocado tree in the front yard. He knew exactly what she was dreaming about as she described the old man in detail. She was dreaming of the home of Old Man Vison.

He quickly grabbed another cousin and knowing where the property was located gathered what they could to go and dig for treasure. All they could find was a metal cup and a bowl, but it would have to suffice. They enthusiastically took off running down the road to the old homesite of Old Man Vison. They began digging, and as they did clouds began to move in, the wind started to blow and rain and thunder began. They dropped their utensils and took off running back where they came from. 100 yards down the road, the rain stopped, the sun was shining and there were no signs of it having rained at all. They stopped and stared at each other in amazement.  After a few minutes, they got spooked and both ran home.

My cousin Frankie, despite several attempts, never found treasure there. Later he found something better, freedom!  He was able to escape communism/Socialism and several years later, his wife and kids did the same and, today, they all live happily in Florida.

We walked a little further and as the road turned to the left, Mongo pointed into the jungle and I could faintly make out a path. We took the narrow path about 50 feet into the woods and I found myself standing next to an old tree. The canopy of the jungle darkened out the sun and the temperature seemed to drop about twenty degrees. There was an eerie quietness to the jungle here that had me perplexed, but before I could have time to ponder the situation, Mongo pointed ahead and I could make out a hole, obviously man-made, about 3 feet deep and 15 feet wide. There was an old cup and bowl laying there.  Mongo pointed out that he's done all of this digging and found nothing but coral rocks, He's given up on finding the lost treasure of Old Man Vison. I couldn't help but feel a little uneasy standing here.  I was waiting for something or someone to jump out at me, for lightning to strike or for a snake to squeeze out from the rocks below.  But also, a part of me wanted to start digging.  Mongo had the deflated look of someone that had lost something valuable and I couldn't help thinking that this "treasure" was probably a desperate search for something that would make his life a little easier.  Maybe something that would validate his years of struggling and ,perhaps, give him a few years of a better life.  A life that has always been unobtainable for him and my family living here. I couldn't help but feel sad for my uncle and with sadness and a heavy heart, we left the area.

We made our way back to the road and began walking back to Mongo's house. The sunlight was coming in through the trees and its rays danced across the road as the gentle breeze swayed the branches of the surrounding trees. Being in the jungle made me think of deer hunting in Georgia, so I asked about deer hunting in Cuba.  Mongo stated that there used to be a healthy population of deer, but they are extremely rare since people began hunting them for food. "I haven't seen one in years," he said, "they're probably extinct as far as I know."  "What a shame!" I thought. It seems like many of Cuba's good things are gone and what is left is nothing but a mere shadow of what it once was.

As we returned back to Mongo's house, we made plans to go to the beach in the afternoon. I couldn't wait to go fishing off of the coast and, like when I was a child, the excitement began to build.

Upon arriving at my uncle's house, my cousin advised us that the government's meat provisions were in and he had better go to the store to pick up his ration. Before I could offer him a ride, he grabbed my cousin's bike and took off down the road. I smiled watching my now enthusiastic seventy-something-year old uncle riding a bike down the dirt road with the energy of a child.

When he returned from the store, he had a small plastic sack and he motioned me over to look at his ration of meat.  I looked inside, expecting a package of ground meat wrapped in plastic with its strands of red meat packed into a Styrofoam tray, but instead I saw a brown blob of something, wrapped in nothing but thawed out juices.  Seeing the confused look on my face, he said it was ground meat. I said, "I know, but it looks different." He pointed to it and upon a closer look, it was mixed with oats. It looked different than anything I was used to and in the same bag were a couple of chicken quarters, also thawed out.  Most of the people in the US would riot if they were forced to buy or eat this.

As we walked towards his house, he asked if I was ready to go to the beach. "Of course!" I said, "I'm always ready for that!"  He went inside to change and moments later, Mongo, Onelio, Loli, Eric and I piled into my rental and headed for the beach. I couldn't wait to fish and see the beautiful ocean.

As it turned out, the road to the beach was the very dirt road we had walked in the morning. The dirt road makes its way through the dense jungle for about 6 miles.
About a mile into our drive, we came upon a group of lumberjacks. They were all wearing military type uniforms and carrying axes, which they used to harvest the nearby trees. I don't think I saw a single person smiling - they looked more like prisoners than working men.  They actually looked like they would kill somebody if they had the chance.  As some of the men cut down a tree, another would load it into the bed of the trucks parked by the road. They worked with no enthusiasm and stared at us as if we were in a forbidden area. By the look on their faces, it was as if they were asking us to take them with us, their motions robotic and uncaring. I drove a little faster until they were out of sight. 

About every half mile or so, we came upon a small open area that would contain about 12 or more bee boxes.  Before I could ask, my uncle explained to me that my cousin, who we would be seeing later, raises bees and collects honey as his job. He does everything from building the boxes to collecting and packaging the honey.
 
As I was scanning the area, I noticed a large group of crabs in the roadway.  As a child, I remember seeing pictures of the crab migration in Cuba. I always thought they were tiny hermit crabs, but these crabs were large, the size of a blue crab. I asked about them and they explained to me that these are the very crabs I was seeing in pictures.



The crabs begin their migration in the spring when millions of them make their way to the ocean to release their eggs. They are land crabs that live in the jungle floor in holes in the coral floor. They must keep their gills moist or they will die; however, they can not survive in the ocean. Their journey to the ocean is only to release its eggs and then return to the forest.  Many of them will travel 6 miles or more in huge groups that completely cover the ground.  Below is a video of them:

https://youtu.be/7efaivmilno

The first thing that I asked about was their edibility.  Before they could answer my question, I glanced at one I had just ran over and oozing out of its shell was a substance that not only stunk, but it looked like snot.  Mongo laughed when he saw the look on my face. "No, they are not edible."  He continued to tell me that when they swarm, they come through the house, through windows, over furniture - they are everywhere.  He said, "All we need is a good rainstorm and the migration will be in full swing!"  I prayed for sunshine and no rain.  No way was I going to add "looking for crabs in toilet" as part of my checklist for daily toilet use.

As I made my way down the dirt road trying to avoid the crabs so I wouldn't get a puncture in one of my tires, I realized it was soon becoming impossible. What in the world would I do if I had a flat tire, in the middle of the jungle with no spare or AAA to bail me out?   That would make for one horrible story that I did not want to be a part of and I thanked God when we pulled up to the deserted beach!

It was a very windy day, as I stepped out of the car and glanced at the coast. The shore was not sand but a shore of dark coral rocks. It made for a beautiful contrast against the sapphire-colored water. The waves would roll in and as it crashed against the shore, a white spray of water would fan upward pushed towards us by the heavy wind.  What a beautiful sight! There wasn't a single person to be seen and as far as I could see, there weren't any people or buildings, just beautiful, seemingly-endless coastline. 



When I reached where the rocks met the ocean, I glanced down and saw two small crabs making their way through the rocks. I also noticed that the water, right next to the shore, was at least 20 feet down. I later learned that ships, because of the depth, could anchor close enough to the shore here to just put a plank to reach the shore. It was rocky, natural and untouched by mankind. It was, simply-put, majestic! 

Fishing the Cuban coast with my son was going to be one of the highlights of my trip. Untouched for who knows how long. The anticipation was killing me and I quickly made my way back to our car to assemble my fishing rod with visions of catching fish, visions of holding up my catch for the camera, the storytelling at the dinner table as we ate my catch.  I was like a child with excitement.  When I opened the trunk, my heart sank. Remember the suitcases I had unpacked earlier this morning?  Well, they contained my fishing reel and some small tackle I had brought. All I was left with was a fishing rod with no reel, no line and no tackle.  What would have been an opportunity of a lifetime became an epic fail of a lifetime.

As I was kicking myself for my misfortune, my Uncle Mongo motioned me to follow him. I grabbed my glasses and made my way across the rocks and followed him along the shore. After about one hundred yards or so, we came across an opening in the rocks. It was a shallow area, about the size of a swimming pool, that was filled with water from the waves as they crashed against the shore. The bottom was mostly sand and the depth was about 3 feet. I couldn't believe it, it was beautiful!  Eric and I decided to go for a swim and enjoy this incredible location. I placed my glasses on the rocks and jumped into the water.



The water was sky blue against dark rocks that glistened with the overhead sun.  One end of the pool acted like a trough and every time a wave came in, it would splash against the rocks and the water in the pool would be replenished. I could see some small fish swimming below, shells dotted the bottom and some bristle worms were moving in the rocks along the sides. It was like swimming in a salt water aquarium.  It was amazing!

After about 15 minutes of swimming, we climbed out of our private swimming hole and made our way back to the car. Once there, I realized I didn't have my sunglasses. At the very mention of this, my uncle made his way, barefoot, back across the rocks next to where I had jumped in and found them for me.  What amazed me was how he moved with the quickness and nimbleness of a gazelle!

The disappointment of not being able to fish didn't last long as the beauty of this place, the time shared with my son and family, was something I will never forget.

Driving back with grins on our faces, the wind blowing through the open windows was meditative in a way. I simply drove and took in the surrounding jungle. My brain taking snapshots as if it was a camera.  A couple of miles in something amazing happened. A deer ran right across the front of our car.  It was no more than 20 feet from the hood of the car.  My uncles gasped, as did I, as the beautiful creature, believed to be extinct by my uncles, ran across the road we were driving on. It was as if we had seen a unicorn. "Wow!" I thought, "God, now you're just showing off!"

We spent the remainder of the day reliving our trip, drinking coffee, smoking cigars, sharing stories. I saw most of the people in the village that day as they stopped to share stories of my father and uncles. They shared their lives, their opinions and their experiences with me.  We laughed as we watched my cousin's kid playing with a little puppy and we cried as my aunts talked about my grandmother passing away.  The emotions were raw, the love was real and it touched my soul.




I began this trip thinking I would maybe enlighten my family on how the world away from Cuba really is.  I thought I might be able to drive up in my rental car, like a savior, and share my knowledge of the outside world with them, but instead I was the student.  I learned about how love can keep a family together during the toughest of times and how it drives a person to want better for them, even if better is just giving up your month's ration of meat to someone else.  I learned about God's beauty in the untouched.  I learned what a precious gift the love and compassion of family and friends can be, the blessings that come with it, and how, when everything is all said and done, those are the things we will truly miss.