A visit to_reality__interior_for_kindle by Ramon Granda

A Visit to Reality
in Black and White
ISBN-13: 978-1505827040 (CreateSpace)
ISBN-10: 1505827043
Print edition
Copyright © 2015 by Ramón L. Granda
Also published in electronic format by 21 Creations Corp. www.21creations.com
othon@21creations.com
eCover Design by Consuelo Castañeda
e-mail: consuelo@consuelocastaneda.com
Design and layout by Luis C. Othon. e-mail:
othon@21creations.com
Ramón L. Granda
Photos and Text
e-mail: rlgranda@yahoo.com
Ebook version Copyright © 2007 by Ramón L. Granda
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means,
electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise, except as permitted under sections 107 or 108 of the
1976 United States Copyright Act, without either the prior written permission of the Publisher and/or Author, or authorization
through payment of the appropriate per copy fee.

About the Author
Ramón Granda is from a traditional Cuban family. He was born in the United States in 1960 and
educated in Switzerland and England. He has written two other books, ‘Worldly Smite’ (1995) and ‘The
Serene City’ (1996). In addition he worked in film production for many years and wrote a screenplay
‘Canto de Cuba’ (2000). His virtual tour of Pinar del Rio can be seen at www.virtourist.com or at the
direct page of www.virtourist.com/america/pinardelrio/index.html.
This print edition was printed on Createspace. If you would like a different typeface or format, contact
GuideOnTheSide@gmail.com and we’ll arrange for an additional printing. Use that email address to report errors in
this document. Teachers: Please note the non-standard use of punctuation and the irregular margins and placement
of captions. Some pages lack page numbers. The page numbers might not match the photo index (in part because the
editor doesn’t know how to create those internal links). These errors have been preserved in this edition to show
students that a book can be created and ideas can be shared without the worry of “standard” punctuation.
Spellchecking was performed but some of the formatting was overlooked in the curator’s effort to get this edition into
print (for people who prefer not to read the book on a computer or ebook device). See more free ebooks and posters
at TransformTeaching.org. This edition comes to you in part because the curator got to place his favorite web sites
here: www.RoadloversInternational.com (a travel blog) and the www.Youtube.com/roadlovers channel
www.TheNewsCocktail.com (a collection of tips)
www.SpacePathAhead.com (a proposal for the future) and www.Youtube.com/spacepathahead
www.VeryCoolSites.com (What 500 videos and websites should students see before leaving high school?)
www.FreeEnglishLessons.com and www.GuideOnTheSide.com to promote learning.
www.Youtube.com/aiglon27 for educational videos
www.BuildingInternationalBridges.org (a non-profit organization that supports scholarships for Kenyan orphans).
www.TransformTeaching.org for free ebooks and posters for schools and homes.

A Visit to Reality
In Black and White
Ramón Granda
Print version 2014

List of Photographs in order of Appearance
View of Havana 2
Signs and Morro Castle 5
Amado and Julito 6
Obispo/Plaza de Armas 10
Barbershop 11
Gilberto and his parents 12
Hotel Moka 16
La Terraza 17
Bar - La Terraza 18 the
Red Lada 21
Kids in hamlet 22
Carlos Manuel de Céspedes 25
Palace of the Captains General 26
Entertaining Tourists 31
Old Havana Street 32
Obispo 33
La Maravilla 34
El Floridita 37
Centro Gallego and the Capitol Bldg. 40
Interior Patio of the Capitol 41
Chamber of Representatives 42
Capitol Hallway 43
Schoolchildren on excursion 44
The Sofa of Havana 51
Julia Miranda 59
La Lanchita de Regla 61
Lanchita II 62
A Pathway in Isabel Maria 65
Cuyaguateje River 66
Field of Green 67
La Carreta 71
La Real street Pinar del Rio 74
Abraham Perez House 75
Bus Station in Mantua 79
Residential street in Mantua 82
Fustes house in Macurije 85
Dimas 89
Dimas by the Sea 94
Dimas School 95
Blanca and family 96
Manolin Fustes 98
Red Earth - Pinar del Rio 100
San Carlos 101
Landscape Sumidero 102
Macurije 104
The Three Arnaldos 105
Toledo and Family 109
Berta Fustes 115
Martin and Neighbor 116
Miguel Fustes 117
On the porch with Juana Perez 124
Mantua Church 132
Cuni-Garcia Porch 1940’s 136
Monument in Mantua 139
Landscape Mantua 142
Transportation in Cuba 146
Che sculpture Plaza Civica 150
Isabel Maria 154
View from the Porch 155
Ramonin Granda 161
Baseball Stadium Mantua 165
Presidencial Palace 178
Plaza de La Catedral 192
Plaza Vieja - Old Havana 194
Interior Patio - Plaza Vieja 195
USA/Cuba Monument in Havana 196
Welcome to Guanabacoa 198
Cuban slogan 207
The Yumuri Valley 215
Rodeo 220

¡Oh beso de mujer, llama a mi puerta! ¡Haschisch de mi
dolor, ven a mi boca!
José Martí

In 1996, I made a first visit to Cuba. This is the story of my 26-day trip to the island
and of my lifelong Cuban trip. It is as much about first times as anything else. I
was born in the United States and no longer wanted to call myself something else
unless it were true. I had to check.
I didn’t know so I had to go. I stepped foot on the ground at the airport and I
knew. I felt a big jolt looking at the sign, Aeropuerto Marti La Habana. I was
Cuban. The intensity of what I felt was a big surprise. There were to be many
surprises like that.
I walk in and stand in line forever. There are loads of people waiting to clear
Immigration. The line was very slow through the booths. Then I see my best friend
Amado who was coming from another flight. He told me the woman at Customs
and Immigration was tough and I should change lines. I did not feel like
changing lines because I was already waiting forever. It was funny because when I
got to her I was a little nervous and gave her the passport. She looked at it,
took it, went, and came back. Then she says to me,
…“When did you leave?” and I go,
…“I never left!” and jabbed my finger at her for emphasis. I was a little surprised at
that but then that is the way I am, not too bright, even though I know a lot. I
stumble at the wonder of simple things.

View of Havana - Hotel Nacional

Everything was normal. I got my bags and then we waited around for
someone to pick us up. He never showed up. It was such a strange feeling to
be with my people for the first time. I looked at them shyly and tried to catch
everything without focusing on anything in particular, the people waiting for
friends and family, their clothes and manner, the cars in the circular driveway,
Russian Ladas with their boxy look, the beverage stand, and the fluorescent
lighting on people’s faces.
We decided to take a taxi. Amado, as usual, dickered with the driver and then we
agreed. That is how I rode to the house in Miramar for my first night in
Havana. I hadn’t slept very well for a few days and usually I’m
‘dormilón’. I did not sleep more than 2 or 3 hours because it was all so damn
amazing and weird and I didn’t know anything.
Slowly I began to know everyone at the house. We were all formal and stiffly polite.
This is always funny but with something poignant underneath. There are reasons
for everything.
I forgot to tell you about the quality of the night and the air and the ride. The way
the car lights beam through unlit streets illuminating details. The peeling paint on
columns, the small dogs sleeping on porches, the puffs of diesel exhaust from
rumbling trucks and the long avenues with their sparse traffic. All embraced by
the velvety darkness and thick, scent-laden air.
On my first day in Havana, there was full sunlight with that hot white light of the
tropics that makes every color clear. I got my next emotional surprise as we
drove in the car and came out of the Fifth Avenue tunnel bearing left and I saw my
first view of El Malecón, the sinuous curve of avenue that fronts the sea and leads
to the bay of Havana. I had very strong feelings. You see I had heard of it all
my life but never really expected to see it. I was born in Miami. It was a normal
ride for my friends.

Ramón Granda
I would have these jolts and some I would share and others not. Havana and my
people were a wonder to me. I ate the city with my eyes. All my life my family
had told me that because of my name I could not go. I had believed them and for
much of my life I had not wanted to go. The Cold War was real.
When the business week started, Amado had meetings in Old Havana and I
wandered the city. I had a list of museums to see. An older Cuban Exile and
family friend had shown me pictures of his visit and told me where to go.
When we met in Miami it had all the drama of a clandestine meeting for even
though thousands go every year, amongst our families it is looked on badly,
emotions are volatile and injuries real, so we hide our love and fascination and
keep them as secrets.

8 A Visit to Reality
I had arrived in mid-November and in winter it can get cold and some days the
wind is gusty and the sky is leaden. Monday was one of those days. It was late
afternoon. My friend had another meeting so I had a spare 1/2 hour. My hair
was a bit long and with the wind I looked like one of those little troll figures that
were popular in the 60’s. I prefer to have a neat appearance and so I used that
astounding intellectual ability of mine and decided to get a haircut. That is how I
met Gilberto the Barber and came to know about my lost family and understand it
is they who are home and we who are elsewhere. Eventually, I came to take that
strange road trip through history to family that was real yet had that air of
unreality that was the reality of my trip to Cuba. Oh the Cubanity of it all! I tell
you.
I saw the red and white striped pole discreetly set on the wall outside the shop,
which is next to a cafe on the Plaza de Armas, one of the oldest squares in
Havana. I only like old-fashioned barbershops. I entered and; the ivory patina
on the white tile, the ceiling fan, the old woodwork, and the perfect dimensions of
the barber’s chair made it the kind of old-fashioned that I accept with grace and
slide into with ease. The plaque on the wall honouring the first barber of Havana,
who received his license in 1552, and the view through the plate-glass window of
the sidewall of the Palace of the experience. The Palace was the center of
government for a few centuries and is where the U.S. General Woods or Brooke,
whoever was fat and ruled Cuba for a short time, had an elevator installed.
I sat in the chair. I speak Spanish with a Cuban accent so I am instantly
identifiable when I speak but our experiences clothe us differently. My people
and I were exotic to each other. The older ones know.
Gilberto the barber is middle-aged with a gentle face and a full bushy mustache.
He wore a clean, short-sleeved smock and our conversation began, as so many
did, identifying myself as Cuban from Miami. He asked,
… “What province is your family from?”, as he folded the cloth around my

neck, carefully tucking in the edges.
… “Pinar del Rio”, the westernmost province in Cuba.
… “Where in Pinar del Rio?” This time with a puzzled expectancy in his voice.
… “Mantua.”
He seemed stunned, went to the closet, and came back with his identity card. He
showed it to me. I read, “Birthplace: Mantua.” Now I was the one who was
surprised. My hair, of course, was untouched. So we entered into an animated
conversation of surprise and exchange.
He knew of the family, though he was a bit off on my father’s nickname, but then
38 years is a long time. My grandfather was the most important man in the district
back then. He was a signer of the Constitution of 1940, landowner, Congressman
and more but our family was but one of a weave of families. The phone rang. It
was the barber’s mother.
…“You’ll never believe who I have sitting in the chair”, he began. They
talked and then he passed the phone to me.
…“Qué tal, Señora?” I began. It turned out her husband had been best friends
with a relation of mine in Miami. I could hear him over the phone line getting all
excited and happy. My hair was still untouched. One and a half hours after I
had entered, I left with an excellent haircut at the most expensive barbershop in
Havana ($2.00), an invitation to visit his parents and the news that an entire
branch of my family was still living in the district of Mantua. My friend and I
were both an hour late and arrived at the same moment at the designated
meeting point and thus were both on time. Havana is like that.

Ramón Granda
I did not tell you about our outing the day before and my first taste of my beloved
province of Pinar del Rio. I behaved just as my dogs, Melo and Nene, used to do
when my father would take us all for a ride in Miami back when my brother and I
were growing up. My friend was driving too fast for me to see everything and “yap,
yap, yap” I would go. I was all excited and alert when we drove into the hills
near Soroa. I was struck with wonder and pride at the lushness, cool air, verdant
hills, ferns, a falling stream, palms and other trees dripping orchids.
There were four of us in the party. We finally arrived at a tourist hotel, the
Moka that was above a village set in the hills, La Terraza. My friends stopped for
lunch and I left them to race down the winding road to the village. My friend aside,
I only wanted to be with Cuban people and to meet them.
I have often been timid and do not force myself on other people. I had seen
when we were driving up the road that there was a small structure jutting out into
the lake. White walls on three sides open on the fourth, tile roof and red railings
on the verandah. I figured it might be a bar or cafe of some sort and went to find
out. I loitered by the gangplank, took photographs, and waited until I felt
comfortable or willing to go in.

There were people sitting at tables and no one seemed much bothered by my
presence and blessed relief, I saw a bar. I went to the man and asked if it was
open to the public. He said “Yes” and we went through a few more
questions and answers before I finally ordered and paid for a beer.
Anything that is available in Cuba, with the exception of the farmers markets,
is available and payable only with U.S. dollars or its convertible peso equivalent.
There are three currencies on the island; the national currency (when I was there
it was freely tradable and exchanged at about 18 to 1), the convertible peso (1
to 1), and the U.S. dollar (including coins). In the years since, it has changed
again as Washington threatens and Havana confiscates. The convertible peso
is required and the exchange is fixed in favor of the government. Contact is
down and prices are up.
Beer in hand and likely breathing again, I turned around and nonchalantly
looked at my fellow patrons. There was a table in front of me with three
men at it. One of them nodded a greeting at me, a young man of about 20,
and I nodded back, said hello and then introduced myself. They invited me
to join them.

Ramón Granda
Ruben, the young man, was from the village and had just recently graduated as
an engineer. The new village was a boomerang shaped structure built on
pylon. Each section has separate stairwells for access to the various dwellings.
It was built in the early 60’s and the hotel, which is further up on the hill and
not visible from the lake, was completed within the last two years (in 1994 or
thereabouts). The hotel is of elegant appearance and fully modern. The village is
of good design but somewhat shopworn and with an air of the unfinished that
all post-revolutionary concrete structures seem to share.
Ruben told me that it was a community development project built for eco-
tourism and that all profits would be reinvested in the community. Jobs were
for local people. I found the whole thing to be very attractive and laudable. It
was in every respect a model project for I saw no other of its kind.
I was favorably impressed by the project and by Ruben. My grandfather, in his
political career and in his life, had always been concerned with the betterment
of rural people’s conditions. I am certain that he would have approved of the
project and of young Ruben. I have envied only once in my life and got over it
quickly. I was at a friend’s house. She was calling loads of people, speaking
freely and I wished that I could do that. My friends are my lifeline but I
have to budget my calls. I did however tell Ruben that I envied him. It was
a fib but I wanted to convey my approval. I wished him well and departed.
They must have thought I was mad.

Ramón Granda 19
I joined up with my friends as they were finishing at the restaurant. Evidently,
the food was appallingly bad and somewhat expensive. I only ate once at a state
run institution. It was a restaurant in Havana, located in a beautiful old apartment.
We demanded to inspect the food before it was cooked, the service was poor in
all senses of the word, and the china was mixed, some of very high quality and
worth more than a year’s wages of any of the employees, and others of
COMECON manufacture. The good china was stamped Riviera Jewelers, in
Spanish. The company is still in business and as far as I know, still owned by the
same family and still serving some of the same families as clients. It is now
located in Coral Gables where the Mayor is a Havana gentleman of an old Cuban
family.
Coral Gables is rather similar in parts to Miramar. My brother’s townhouse is
in a part of Coral Gables that bears the same relationship that Kohly did to
Miramar, neighborhoods of Havana located on the other side of the Almendares
River. My grandfather’s Havana house was in Kohly. My family was not Major
League but we were Triple A. All of our families were once penniless refugees
of the Cold War. I think about it. Our social patterns are strong. They have
re-created themselves from scratch, to some measure. However, that was not the
point. My opinion of state run restaurants was not from my limited experience
but rather from conversations with foreign businessmen in Cuba who assured me
that in general; food quality was bad, service poor and prices high.

A Visit to Reality
The next two weeks I spent photographing Havana, having new experiences,
talking to everybody and desperately trying to find a means to get to the district of
Mantua and meet my family.
I forgot to tell you another story about my first day in Pinar del Rio. I met
Amado and the others. They finished and we drove off and “yap, yap, yap” I
would go when the view changed and I wanted to see everything while he drove too
fast. Twice, I made them stop so that I could take pictures of the landscape.
One of those times, we stopped at a hamlet. The houses were hidden from the
road and behind me. I had not noticed. My focus was on the landscapes.
Children came running up and asked me to take their picture. I did. There was
a party going on, some of the men were sitting and drinking, and then I heard the
music. They offered me a drink and I had to decline because of time. I explained
that I was with a group from Havana but that I was a Pinareño from outside and
it was my first day in the province and the others did not understand my
emotions. The ‘guajiros’ toasted me while one declaimed with emphasis,
… “You are in your Province!” It felt good.

Ramón Granda
Take a walk with me through Old Havana. We start at the Plaza de Armas and
then eventually make it to the former Capitol building, which now houses a library.
The Plaza is lively with an ebb and flow of people. It is rich with history and that
lends a certain solemnity and quiet to the hubbub that is yet always there. The
Palace of the Captains-General is now a museum of Cuban history with many
mementoes honouring those who struggled for independence. On the plaques, I
saw many names that were familiar to me from my life in Miami including those
of relatives by marriage, the Diaz de Villegas. I was thrilled and by seeing those
plaques and Havana, I understood better some of the sources of exile fervor.
The Plaza also houses the former U.S. Embassy. It was the Embassy while the
Palace was the center of government. The new Embassy was moved to a prime spot
on the Malecón when the center of government moved. The U.S. Embassy is no
longer new but is still there and in a perennial state of repair postponed and
covered in scaffolding.
In the center of the square is a statue to Carlos Manuel de Céspedes, the father of the
nation. He started the struggle for Cuban independence 129 years ago, although
our identity as Cubans is vastly older. I met a descendant of his in Havana, a
distinguished gentleman who is an architect and works for Habaguanex, the semi-
autonomous agency that is headed by the Historian of the City, Eusebio Leal and
whose task is the restoration of Old Havana through mixed foreign private/state
entities that invest in the city. The architect has three children, two sons and a
daughter. The daughter lives in Madrid. The sons are also both architects. One
lives in Havana and the other recently relocated to Miami as an exile where he is
a visiting professor and sometime lecturer at the University of Miami. I met Orestes
Jr. when I returned to the States and now we are friends, struggling artists defining
our culture and ourselves by exercising our respective vocations. The highest
professional salary in Cuba is 400 pesos a month, which is roughly equivalent to
20 U.S. dollars.

A Visit to Reality
Orestes del Castillo Sr. graciously wrote,
… “Am I really a distinguished gentleman? Oh my God! I’m not a descendant
of Carlos Manuel de Céspedes although his second last name is my first one; we
come from a common trunk of a tree but from different branches. I work for an
architectural design agency of the City Historian’s Office, not Habaguanex. I have
four children; the eldest one is Orestes, who lives in Miami. Felix is the second
one and lives in Havana as does the youngest, Javier. Maria Dolores is my third
child who is in Madrid for her doctorate in biological science.”

Palace of the Captains-General

Ramón Granda 29
Wherever I walked through the city and the countryside, people would come up to
speak to me. In the square, it might be a Santera, a black woman of age and
distinction, priestess collecting for her religion, young people just looking to
speak to someone different or vendors both legal and illegal. The vendors,
hustling a living much as others do in any country where tourists visit, always
started the same way.
…“España!” They would shout as they saw me
coming and I would shake my head. …“No.”
…“Italia!” No again.
…They would shrug as if asking “what then?”
…“Cubano” I would say and most would get pissed and storm off.
I would speak to those who recognized me as Cuban. Others, though I felt
sympathy for, after all, it was only swing and a miss, and they are just trying to
make a living, I would not help in their pegging me. Our experiences clothe
us differently and manners make the man. My kind made some mistakes but we
are ‘ancien regime’ and I am Cuban. Words. I stop at a place. It overlooks the
valley of Isabel Maria. Standing there, I feel as natural to it as the breeze or the
trees or the water. This dust is from that earth.
The illegal vendors are sometimes left alone and at other times are arrested by
the vanload by the tourism police, which are different from; regular police, traffic
police, motorcycle police, security police and secret police. Prison sentences are
handed out the way flyers are at an American supermarket. One year, two years,
special on vendors, six months.
Restoration work is centered on the squares of greatest historic value radiating
outward along main thoroughfares. The farther you are away from tourist areas
the more things are in ill repair. Side streets can reveal a level of decay that is

A Visit to Reality
actively dangerous for if you walk on the sides there is real risk of a falling piece of
masonry or balcony hitting you. Some buildings are in total collapse and others
are ruins but have facades that can be preserved and incorporated into new
work. This is the case in my friend’s project. The Helms-Burton Law does not
apply to the property. There is no claim from government, individual, or heir as
the former owners were Spanish. All claims between the respective governments
are settled.
The buildings vary in age. The oldest date from the 16th
Century, some 17th
Century, many 18th Century, most 19th Century and some 20th Century
buildings including some Art-Deco treasures such as the former Bacardi Havana
headquarters (in disrepair but not severe) and most government buildings of the
former, short-lived, hot-house Republic (very handsome structures). The French
are, I believe, currently on their Fifth Republic. It may well take a couple of
centuries, or so, to get the swing of the thing.
To walk in the side streets and fully appreciate the sights and sounds you have to be
Cuban. Cultural memories are triggered by a Rumba beat from an unseen
courtyard, the smell of coffee and cigar smoke, workshops that are not shops and
may look like hovels but are not and where the same activity has been going on for
centuries. The sounds of metal, banter among neighbors, greetings shouted in
passing, some old lady yelling at a running child or the awe and aura of some
traffic-stopping national monument of a woman cutting through the crowd like a
prow through water, these and more surround you. The cultural memories are
there even if like me, you have never lived there and are experiencing them for
the first time. Cuban culture is strong.
No two buildings are the same. There is a wonderful variety and facades are
of dressed stone or painted in pastel colors, pale yellow, soft peach, creamy white.
The facades are accented with hard colors on the shutters of tall narrow windows
or railings on balconies in blue, green, brown, etc. Above most doors, there is
usually a fan inset of colored glass to let the light in.

Ramón Granda 31
The people are sexual and lively. There is a lot of movement and many currents
of mood, not everyone is friendly. Pedi-cabs are common but the most common
vehicles are American cars from the 40’s and 50’s with some few being in
excellent condition and others held together with string and a certain moral
quality of indomitable spirit. The owners of some of these cars have tacit approval
to operate as taxis and riding in them is an experience. The passenger area is vast
with enough room to conduct an affair in and include a compact 3 piece Jazz
Combo with bar to help you conduct it. If the above seems a bit callous because
of the political situation, consider. The previous generation had a wild time, stuck
my generation with the bill, and then gets angry with us for trying to fix it,
politically speaking. Of course, they also taught us to learn to love family and be
Cuban but some of us kept on learning and to be free and think and speak for
ourselves and respect the rights of others we learned on our own and by living in
the wider world. I love to learn but I often hate the process because until I have
learned I do not know that I am doing it. Enough pamphleteering. Time for a bit
of bar chatter, social stuff and we are after all on our way to the Capitol so quit
loitering you lot.

A Visit to Reality
Entertaining Tourists

Hemingway used to say that he liked his mojito at the Bodeguita del Medio and
his ‘daiquiri’ at the Floridita. Well…good choices. He made many places his
own and those two are still there. I received my favorite postcard from an exotic
location in the Levant, a painter friend of mine sent it, and it went “Dear
Ramon, Hemingway was not here. Love, Alessandro.”
At the Bodeguita, you can still see a picture of Errol Flynn with Sepy, a Hungarian
adventurer, back when Sepy was younger and causing scandals in Havana. Once,
he made a sculpture in Palm Beach of Anita Ekberg naked. She was not
present. It was around the time ‘La Dolce Vita’ was a big hit. Anita Ekberg’s
husband slugged Sepy upon meeting. I met Sepy a few years ago with another
painter friend of mine, Laureano Garcia-Concheso who also had been friend of my
father’s. Sepy’s three-acre estate in Coconut Grove is complete with an old Spanish
style bar cellar on the grounds. Sepy later seduced a friend of my then girlfriend.
The friend was at least 45 years younger than he was and afterwards he gave her
a fake watch. My then girlfriend is now married, based in Costa Rica and works
for the World Health Organization. By chance, I ran into her in Havana while
she was there on W.H.O. business.
Inside, El Floridita looks like it more properly belongs in a Miami Beach hotel
for it is ‘Jackie Gleason’ elegant, but they do make an excellent daiquiri. The
headwaiter wears a bright red sports jacket and on his lapel is a long column of
flag pins of different nations.

Ramón Granda 35
No doubt, rearranged over the last few decades but when I was there, I checked
and U.S.A. was in the top three.
Movie people have continued to go to Havana even during the height of the
Cold War. The only reason I know is that I saw a documentary on Cuban
Cinema on an arts cable channel in Munich. I was trying to get to Venice to
write a book. Martin Scorsese, Francis Ford Coppola, George Lucas, Robert
Redford, Arnold Schwarzenegger and more have all gone.
I have been lucky to meet many people who knew Hemingway as friend. All
assure me that he was a deeply charming man, cultured and rather handsome in
person. He was a man of many facets and those that see only one define themselves
but not he. I did make it to Venice and had a passionate and rewarding experience
writing my second book ‘The Serene City’, the arts and history of Venice as seen
through Cuban eyes. I was lucky to stay in an apartment in Palazzo Ivancich where
Hemingway used to stay and I wrote at the same desk as he. My friend Consuelo
Ivancich arranged it for me. Her father, GianFranco, was a close friend of E.H.
and lived for a few years at ‘Finca Vigía’ in San Francisco de Paula, Cuba. At
Hemingway’s house, Gianfranco met and married a young Marquesa from
Havana, Cristina de Sandoval y de la Torriente, Consuelo’s mother. The
Marques de la Torriente (of Cristina’s maternal family) was a well-known figure
who tried to mediate between the Batista government and the revolutionaries and
tried again and again but to no avail.
Peace among Cubans is a hard sell.

El Floridita

A Visit to Reality
We cross to Parque Central, close our noses at the smell of urine coming from the
public pissoires, and make our way to Prado. On the corner we stop. W e decline
the offer from the vendor selling oranges from his cart, and standing next to the
tall, handsome, cast-iron street lamps, admire the view. Across the street, is an
impressive Palace formerly the Centro Gallego and now known as the National
Theatre. It is vaguely reminiscent of the Paris Opera but set at ground level and
without the cupola. Up the street and on the same side is the Capitol. The
Capitol is modeled after the one in Washington.
I come from a political family. My father Ramón Granda Fustes, grandfather
Ramón Granda Fernandez, and great-grandfather Abraham Perez, were
congressional representatives of the former Republic. My grand-uncle (Abraham’s
son-in-law) Lomberto Diaz was a Senator. I entered the Capitol as a tourist with
the passport of another country. I look at the ticket stub #11673, stamped as paid,
$3.00 USD, and another $2.00 ticket to be allowed to take pictures, which I also
look at now. The building was almost empty even if you include the people who
work there. I cannot tell you what my emotions were even at this distance.

Ramón Granda
I am usually a quiet fellow and walked about the immense and largely empty
building, quietly and by myself. Two other tourists (American) entered at about
the same time but we did not speak to each other.
I have pictures: of the building, from the building, of the view from the steps up and
down Prado. I have pictures of the vast hallways paved in colored marble, the
gilded freestanding lamps and marble benches that are all reminiscent of Versailles.
I have pictures of the beautiful interior courtyards filled with thriving palms and
plants. I have a picture of me sitting in a chair in the circular chamber of the
representatives, from where my recent ancestors sat, with a nervous forced smile on
my face and haunted eyes. The picture was taken by the cleaning woman who was
kind and did it quickly so we would not be caught. I have one last picture that I
took. A teacher and her class of junior high students sitting on the steps and
behaving much as their equivalent on an excursion always do. I will not be their
enemy nor consider them to be mine.

Centro Gallego and the Capitol Bldg.

Ramón Granda 45
There were many strange coincidences throughout my trip, which is part of
what gave it that air of unreality. One night early on, Amado took me to a
paladar. They are privately run restaurants, which are restricted to twelve patrons
at a time. The business is but one of a very small but growing number of private
enterprise activities that are permitted by the Cuban government, though rules
change often and the authorities are zealous in protecting their authority. Anyway,
we sat down in the restaurant and who should walk in but Carlos Mavroleon. The
last time I had seen him had been two years earlier in London, where he is
based, and where he had been working as a TV producer for ABC News
covering the war in Afghanistan, conflicts in Ethiopia, Somalia and elsewhere. I
went to school and university with his brother and have been running into Carlos
on and off for more than twenty years. He is always interesting.
He was in Cuba working freelance as an associate-producer and camera operator
for a documentary report on the Helms-Burton law. He introduced me to his
producer, Linda. We sat next to each other at dinner and so I spoke to her about
Cuba (I talk to everybody about Cuba). She decided she wanted to interview
me. I said yes but spent the next week dodging it.
Afterwards the group wanted to go to a discotheque. I refused twice. The third
request was awkward and I went along figuring that I would walk in with them,
wait 5 minutes, and then leave. I never made it on that occasion. I was in a car
with a young, Spanish executive and Carlos. As we approached the entrance,
Cuban girls with dollars in their hands mobbed our car and every other. I much
later learned the club does not allow unescorted women and so they show the
money to let you know that they can pay for the entrance fee themselves. I
was enraged. I demanded the car be stopped, got out of it, howled insults,
slammed the door and stormed off.

It was a good few miles back to the house and the walk did me good. The
nights in Cuba are amazing, inky black and with oceans of stars. A mile or so
into my walk I became aware of someone else. Once we were certain that
neither was going to mug the other, we shared our respective rages and walked
together. He was a black man from Old Havana who was raging against the system
and said the leaders should visit reality.
… “Que hagan una visita a la realidad.”
… “A good title”, I said.
… “Use it”, He said.
… “Thank you,” and now I do.
Partway, he left me to chase two girls and a bottle of rum that he had misplaced
somewhere close to the Copacabana.

Ramón Granda 47
One day I was walking from Old Havana back to Miramar, a distance of about 8
to 10 miles. I had only just started and had to cross in front of the Spanish
Embassy, a handsome Beaux Arts villa painted white. There was a large crowd of
about two or three hundred people and they were silent, always a dangerous sign. I
crossed by the rim of the Havana Tunnel (that goes under the channel and takes you
to East Havana and the beaches of Santa Maria) and made it across the street to
the little park in front of the Embassy.
I asked one fellow what was going on and he muttered imprecations against the
Cuban government and the system. He said two (presumably dissidents but I do
not know) had gotten in. I moved over closer to some park benches and loitered
there with my camera in my shoulder bag and my thumbs in my jeans pockets.
Drawing attention to myself at a potential riot is, in my view, not prudent.
The police arrived in large number and then began to disperse the crowd. One
boy, 17 or 18, was backing off from a police car, whose occupant, a Sergeant
that looked like a hard case, was asking him questions. The boy kept repeating, “I
didn’t do anything” as he backed off and then
moved away.
The car made as if to chase him but I believe he got away. Score one for the boy.

I was dispersed, along with everyone else, firmly and quietly. I continued with
my walk. I found out later what had happened. There had been a change of
government in Spain and the new Prime Minister, Mr. Aznar was and is
conservative. Mr. Mas Canosa of the Cuban-American National Foundation
had some influence with conservative governments and so he used it. Score one for
the Foundation. The Spanish Ambassador made some noises about liberty in
Cuba and meeting with dissidents. The Cuban government kicked the Spanish
Ambassador’s ass out of the country. Score one for the Cuban government.
Although I sympathize with the values of the Ambassador and also have a dispute
with the government, I do not forget that a little over 100 years ago that Spanish
bastard, General Weyler, may he rot in hell forever, in the service of the Imperial
Government put concentration camps in my beloved province of Pinar del Rio.
No Spanish Ambassador can dictate anything to any Cuban on any matter on
Cuban soil.
To be Cuban is to have many disputes, at many different levels over a long span
of time and all held concurrently. The day after this incident was the anniversary of
the execution of Cuban medical students by the Spanish during the struggle for
independence. By the way I have many Spanish friends and understand that
Spain has come through its’ own terrible history and they are always welcome as
friends. We have a history in common.

Ramón Granda 49
I continued on my way and a few miles on I saw an open-air market and
decided to have a look. I did not get my look because I ran into Wilbert instead
and invited him to join me for a coffee and a mineral water. We went into the
cafe/club surrounded by a high wooden fence we were standing next to. We
chatted for about half an hour or maybe more. He drank the coffee but kept the
bottle of water unopened and eventually took it with him. I did not ask. Wilbert
had thrown himself to the sea as a rafter but had been unsuccessful. He was in
some despair and this is a common condition among people on the island and
particularly for the young. He spoke only Spanish and knew next to nothing of
the outside world. His training was in the repair of industrial equipment and he
was soon to graduate. I saw that my words were welcome so I gave him a few tips
on how to get a job at one of the hotels. My own experiences are limited, his
zero, but I have received much good advice on these matters from successful
people, and so I did what Oscar Wilde suggested one do with good advice and
passed it on. Wilbert had not known how to apply for a job and had not
considered it a possibility.

Towards the end of my trip, I ran into him again though it took me a moment to
recognize him. I was walking and he had called me by name. He had that shy, sly
smile Cubans get with friends and he introduced me to the person he was with.
We exchanged greetings, wished each other well, and then parted ways. I do not
know if he got his job but he was no longer in despair.
Before I went to Cuba, I did know that I had some family living on the island.
I had the address in Havana of my grand-aunt Lulu, sister to my maternal
grandmother, and had planned to see her if I had the chance. Transportation in
Havana and within Cuba is a terrible problem. As a vagabond author with limited
funds, I am used to being resourceful. I am grateful to my difficulties. It meant
that I had the widest and most interesting experiences, met more people, and
understood at least some of their problems better. I had to share them even if only
for a very short time and in a very small way.
Anyway, I got a lift to Lawton. It is the neighborhood in Havana where Lulu has
her house and I saw my grandaunt. She was a delicate, frail creature whose
mind had long since taken to wander and only occasionally returned to occupy
what was left of her person. The house was in ill repair and stripped of
ornaments and most furniture, presumably sold for food over the years, but very
clean.

An unrelated couple with their two daughters lived with Lulu and cared for her in
lieu of rent. This is a common and usually humane arrangement in Cuba but of
course, everyone has his or her own story. I could tell that the couple took good
care of her even if their manners and education were in a condition that I would
consider severe shortage, just like electricity and water, but I was grateful to them.
In my family Lulu had a reputation for malice, haughty behavior and never caring
for others. Nonetheless, those same relatives when asked by one of her remaining
sisters for money in order to bring Lulu to the U.S. all paid up immediately.
On my first visit, I saw none of that. She repeated in wonder, “Es mi familia.”
Her face glowed and later she confessed that she had been a beauty pageantQueen
in Pinar del Rio. She was one of ten sisters, no brothers, and her father died in his
40’s - what a house. Lulu was a pageant winner who married a demanding
husband with a life in the Capitol. I can see the sources of many rivalries and
misunderstandings. I said only sweet things to her and caressed her hand and
face while telling her that she was very pretty. She was born to far more than
her end would indicate.
The husband of the couple had something he was proud of and wanted to show us.
We followed. The house is long and narrow and all three interior sides open up
to a small courtyard that is short paces away from any one section.

Ramón Granda 53
In a cage in the courtyard were two pigs that they were raising as food. I suppose
I was shocked. It became a common phenomenon in Havana after the collapse
of the Soviet Empire and the COMECON trading system to raise a pig or some
chickens in courtyards or backyards. I know because I was telling the story to
another relative (by marriage) at his house in Siboney when I noticed that he had
three. I shut up.
In any case, the shock of it did not really hit me until later when I was back in
Old Havana and sitting at a table with friends. They were discussing normal
things but I could not hear them. I felt a distant roar around my head. I excused
myself from the table and walked, back straight, across a park and the avenue to
an isolated part of El Malecón. I then doubled over in anguish and cried.
Sometimes no matter how much you care, nor how much you try, you have to
accept that it is just not enough.
When I returned I gave no explanations but my Cuban friend understood
and had me accompany him to pick up his daughters from school and then took
me to his very small apartment. We sat in the living room and from a desk in a
converted closet that was his own ‘sanctum sanctorum’ he pulled out a bottle of
Scotch. We drank and talked as friends.

Not all was fear, rage, anguish and class pride. There was more to the story and it
continues. I am lucky in my friends because they understand what is genuine much
better than I do but when I am being scared, priggish, and moralistic, they tell me.
I was not interested in meeting foreigners and particularly not interested in meeting
businessmen. My friend told me that I should meet everyone, think and judge
for myself and have the information with which to do it, as I am a writer.
Therefore, I did.
We were invited to the birthday party of a foreign executive (a Syrian-Lebanese
trading family based in Athens with wide interests and the minor branch that is in
Cuba deals in oil) at the house, which he occupies in a secured area of
Siboney, formerly Biltmore. Amado entered and introduced me by saying,
… “Ramón did not want to come. He only wants to
be with Cuban people.”
As it happened most of the few people there were Cuban. Our host had not
arrived, as it was a surprise party organized by his nephew and another younger
relative, Linda the TV producer from London. I was still dodging the interview.
One of the Cuban men (tall, slender but strong, reserved and between 50-60 years
old) said that my attitude was the right one. His name was Herrera.

Ramón Granda 55
I was later told that he was equivalent to Vice-Minister for tourism. This can mean
a lot or it can mean nothing. As he said nothing and was reserved, I suspect it
meant something. We chatted cordially and he asked about my trip, so I told
him, heart thumping but voice level
… “I did not come to impose my views on anyone
but as I consider myself to be a ‘hombre libre’ if I am asked for my views I will
give them in as honest a manner as I can.”
He looked at me steadily but in the back of his eyes was something and then he
mentioned,
… “You know, my father did business with your
grandfather. We are from Guane” a town in Pinar del Rio sometime rival to
Mantua. My maternal grandfather is from there.
We chatted some more and he expressed the wish to travel with me to the
province. He did not. Perhaps some day he might. The party progressed as such
things do and apart from Carlos being up to his usual mischief there was only one
other incident to report. I mistook a security agent, official liaison from the
Cuban government to the trading family, for my host and thanked him for his
hospitality. He misunderstood me as well and as we were sitting next to each
other, he put his arm around my shoulder as a

friendly gesture. I thought the gesture excessive for a simple thank you but as I am
polite, said nothing for the minute or two that the gesture lasted. So enemies
meet.
I did the TV interview. I got a tip from a businessperson who told me that I
could set ground rules and so I did. I could not be asked about anyone by name.
The interview had to be conducted in some place that was neutral. No house
should be shown in the picture. I was concerned that the focus be on my words
and not on other issues and very concerned that any repercussions not fall on
anyone else and be limited to me. They met the rules and at a table in a garden
with no building visible, the deed was done. I am a bit dull-witted so I figured
out beforehand exactly what I wanted to say. It was my first and thus far only
interview and I was very nervous before and afterwards but not too much during.
Carlos, sly monkey that he is, gave me a glass of wine for the nerves and
eventually I polished off the bottle and smoked throughout. The report aired in
Canada and in various European countries. I have a copy of the report and of the
unedited interview. Though I pick my risks, I do speak in the same way in Cuba
and in Miami. I am a free man.
It was a great relief and that Saturday night I accompanied my friend Amado as
he entertained potential investors. One of them was a German/Spanish
aristocrat who gave me the tip about the ground rules and I learned a great deal
about my countryby seeing it from his perspective.

Ramón Granda 57
Eventually we ended up at a dance hall called ‘La Casa de la Música’ where the
crowd was at least 90% Cuban of all tones but mostly black. The energy level was
astounding. I relaxed, drank, and was sweaty. I went to join a group of dancing
girls and spoke to one whom I will call ‘La Bella Gladys’. I look like everyone
else and she did not believe me that I was from outside and accused me of being a
“guajiro from Pinar del Rio”. Ecstasy, joy, bliss. A level playing field and I
was being judged on merit. I danced with wild abandon. NG La Banda (NG
means New Generation) is the best and hottest salsa band I have ever
experienced and when the girls dance ‘Tembleque’ the man is dead who does not
respond. I have never in all my life been as happy as when I was called a “guajiro
from Pinar del Rio” in Havana on a Saturday night.
All of my family in Miami had been firmly opposed to my going to Cuba. On
the other hand, I have never received so many calls from them as when I was in
Havana. My mother and brother who support me in everything I do would call me
directly. My aunts and cousins from my father’s side would call my brother for
news and then he would conference call me (how families work, or not). My
family all had requests for people and property I should see. I complied with all
requests as regards the living.

One of my cousins asked me to go see Julia Miranda, an elderly black woman
who had been the cook in my aunt and uncle’s house. My cousin also told me
that Julia did not know of the deaths of my father, grandfather, aunt, uncles and
others and that she would leave it to my discretion as to whether and how to
inform her.
Julia lives in Regla and to get there is a lot of fun. I went often. It is a working-class
district on the other side of the bay of Havana. You have to take a waterbus similar
to the Vaporetto of Venice, from the port on the Old Havana side to get there. It
is always crowded. I noticed that there were usually two or three dogs (different
ones each time) that regularly commuted from Regla, where they lived, to Havana
where they pursued their living and attended to their respective affairs in the city.
The dogs knew their turn. They boarded the ferry after the people on foot and
before the people with bicycles. No one else seemed to notice but they were
always allowed their place.
I met the old (over 80) warm, wonderful, and beautiful woman that is Julia
Miranda. We cried over our dead, spoke long and told stories. I even expressed
sympathy when she declared her outrage that beans were selling at 15 pesos a
pound. Her granddaughter was an unemployed accountant and I got her a little
job interview in Havana.

Julia’s father was born a slave into a paternal grandmother’s family, the Fustes-
Miranda. Slavery was abolished in 1881. From 1841, U.S. slave-owners wanted to
annex Cuba and some Cuban slave-owners responded warmly. This and the
legacy of slavery taint U.S.-Cuban relations to this day. I remember as a child
expressing some racist views and being corrected by my father and grandfather.
Julia told me stories about my grandparents. She went into their house when she
was a child of about 11. According to her, my grandfather Ramón used to say that
he had four daughters. Three + Julia. One was an ‘azabache’, a multifaceted black
stone that is given or received with love. It is a talisman found on any Cuban
baby’s charm bracelet or necklace. What he would buy for one, he would buy for
four. My father and grandfather supported Batista, who became a dictator and this
was plainly wrong and brought tragic consequences. However Batista was a man of
color and so the charge of racism leveled against his government and its’ members
was plainly false. The society did have problems and continued to do so both in
Cuba and in exile. It is true that Batista as dictator was not allowed to join the
Havana Yacht Club because of his color. He was mulatto and indigenous Cuban.
There were small pockets of survivors in the East where his family was from.

Ramón Granda 63
Ours is an essentially European culture set to the pounding lyricism of the Afro-
Cuban in music and art. Our people are African; Yoruba and Congo. All
Cubans eat Yoruba food, speak Yoruba words, and dance to Yoruba rhythms.
This is Cuba. Pre-revolutionary racism was restricted to social clubs and beaches
but did not apply as forcefully to government, business, press, or the arts. It is
true that 90% of all Cuban exiles are white but in the 1960’s, blacks would not have
been welcome in the United States nor anywhere else they would have wanted to
go. By the way the Revolutionary government people have all been almost
exclusively lily-white and from the landowning class or upper bourgeoisie. Go
figure. I know because we are all related. The right wing Congressman from
Miami, Lincoln Diaz-Balart is the nephew of Fidel Castro and the son of the
leader of the Batista Congress after the coup in 1952, brother-in-law to Fidel at
the time. Perhaps they should all go on Oprah and resolve their family squabble.
I’ll go with mine.
I heard from Linda, the TV producer, one more time. She was furious with Carlos
and their host was appalled. An importantperson had been to dinner. In Cuba that
can only mean one of two people and it turned out to be #2, Raul Castro, head
of the Armed Forces. Evidently, Carlos got drunk, berated #2 for his treatment of
Cuban veterans of the Ethiopian and Angolan campaigns, insulted him for
human rights abuses, and then went out dancing in Havana. Carlos is always
interesting. That is what I had written while he was alive.

Years afterward, his faced popped up on the TV screen while a ‘60 Minutes’
reporter informed that their producer was dead. Carlos was killed on the Afghan
border. Later, assassins posing as journalists killed General Ahmad Shah-
Massoud. It was in preparation for the attacks that unfolded on 9/11. Carlos was
beautiful. He will linger for you as he does for me.

Field of Green - Pinar del Rio

Road Trip.
Beer, Gas, Go! I got a lift to the district. My friend would drop me off. I would
spend five or six days there and then figure my own way back. It went this way.
I had asked Julito if he could drop me off. The answer was yes and then he in turn
asked if Camilo could come along as a second so that Julito would not be alone
on the way back. Sure. Then Tony joined us because it looked like fun and he
wanted to buy some food in the country. Four Cuban guys on a road trip,
three from Havana dropping off one from the province. Normal. Except we are
all children of conflicts that began long before we were born and, as I write these
words, I will turn 37 years old in five days time. Then, as I review these words
from my first trip, ten more years have passed.
I am the son of the late, great, playboy-politician of the Batista Era, Sugar Candy de
Mantua, Ramonin Granda, Azúcar! A great dancer, a man of tremendous vitality,
a source of joy that provided a river of jobs and money to his people, then a
stream, then a rivulet, then a few drops and then he died. My father, I loved him
so. My words are true but not the whole truth, I know, but kindly allow this
moment for a son to present his father for the first time.
Julito was a military man and is the son and nephew of Revolutionary
Ministers of government. Camilo is a lawyer, marine biologist, enthusiast of
Cuban music and is the son of the Revolutionary Icon, Ernesto ‘Che’ Guevara.
Tony is an electrician and a fun guy. Julito, Camilo, and Tony grew up together
and were friends. We all went on a road trip because I wanted to meet the family
that I had not known existed.

Ramón Granda 69
We left Havana at around 10:30 in the morning after first stopping to fill the
tank with gas, drink our first beer of the day, and bring a few more for the road.
Julito and Camilo argued about the music, called each other stubborn and then
Camilo jammed some hot Cuban music. He explained to me that it was called
‘charanga’. Tony and I settled in for the trip. I was in the front seat. They knew
I wanted to see everything. Julito was driving the old, small, gas-guzzling, red Lada
with heart. I know what you are thinking and to argue political correctness is to
misunderstand.
Camilo is garrulous, of stocky build and with a hearty Cuban manner that may
mislead for he is very smart. He and Julito bickered just as Amado and I do.
Tony was laconic and very funny. Once we got going, we settled into a rhythm.
We told stories, drank, laughed, and stopped periodically to get out of the car,
stretch and then piss by the side of the road. Very satisfying.
They talked about their lives at school and military service in the countryside. We
had to explain controversies about music to each other for otherwise they were
incomprehensible. Evidently, in Cuba it was once a very serious issue on whether
or not you would listen to the music of Jose (Come On Baby Light My Fire)
Feliciano.

To me, a minor pop-figure of the 60’s who plays and sings well but not
someone to get excited about. The story goes that Feliciano once played for a
right wing audience in a Latin American country and for this reason, the Cuban
authorities banned his music. I threw no stones for in my own glass house of
Miami I have had to witness the banning of a Puerto Rican Salsa singer for
even less with the additional insult of bomb threats placed against him and any
establishment that would host him. The ire and banning was for befriending a
Cuban salsa singer whose politics few in Miami care for or in Cuba for that
matter. Furthermore, there was a real bomb placed at Juanito’s Centro Vasco,
a club/restaurant that subsequently closed. Juanito had always been a real friend
to everyone. The bomb was merely for showcasing an aging Cuban actress from
the island. I respect and indeed defend the right of anyone to think and speak for
themselves but sometimes it is merely good manners on my part and nothing else.
By the way, Gloria Estefan, Willy Chirino, and Celia Cruz are all very popular in
Cuba though the general view is that Willy and Celia are more Cuban and thus
better. Anyway, on to sex.

A Visit to Reality
We told stories about the general level of horniness in our respective schools
and they told me anecdotes about recruits. The Havana boys all displayed the
usual prejudice and fear of city people for country people. They thought and told
me emphatically that I was crazy to be going to a place I did not know, to meet
people I did not know, on my own and without an assured means of getting back
and with little money. Ahh, what do they know? However, they did make me a
little nervous. Therefore, I drank less and kept my wits. We all howled with
laughter at stories about recruits and guajiros having sex with chickens, pigs,
mares, and whatever else was available. They are old stories and jokes. I had
heard the same from my father and his friends.
At some point on the highway between Havana and the provincial capital of Pinar del
Rio (the town and the province have the same name) my view of them changed.
They were friends. I felt compassion for Camilo. His father was hunted down
and killed in Bolivia when Camilo was a very small child. He never knew him;
at least I knew mine. As I write these words, I also remember that Camilo’s
father’s men executed the father of my lifelong friend, Carolina Puig, when she
also was a very small child. I felt that Batista supporters sparked these conflicts. I
will never be in sympathy with the political values and actions of Che Guevara
for I believe that if he had control of the missiles during the crisis, he would have
launched them. I also recognize that he is part of our history and that he has
been dead for more than 30 years. Camilo and I did not discuss these things but
perhaps some day we might as friends.

Ramón Granda
We took a break and stopped at the Pinar del Rio Hotel. It is at the entrance to the
town and across from the University. We went to the poolside to check out the
local action. There was not much. There was a couple of billiard tables next to
the bar, a few men were playing, a few others were watching without much interest
and a few others were milling about. Music came from a jukebox and a scratchy
PA system. I had another beer. One fellow recognized Camilo and Julito
from their schooldays together.
It turned out he had been stuck in Pinar del Rio for several days. He had been
driving some visitors when a part failed in his car. The visitors moved on with
someone else and he was left with a broken car, no visitors, and thus no work. It
is a common occurrence and in this crowd, everyday is an adventure, a
struggle, for the way in which they, the companion from school and others like
him, earn their living, has tacit but not legal approval. There are laws for
everything. Sometimes the laws are changed to permit the activity and sometimes
the laws are enforced. Survival strictly within the rules and strictly within the
system is not possible. Not even communist party members can do it without
living in misery. This is, of course, just my impression based on my observations at
the time I was there. It is an indication of the dynamics involved in change. My
understanding is that the situation is changing greatly every six months or so and
that this has been going on for some years but is speeding up now.

La Real street - Pinar del Rio

A Visit to Reality
We left the hotel, made a couple of wrong turns, and asked several people for
directions out of town and for the road to Mantua. On one occasion, I asked
halfheartedly and sheepishly for a neighborhood in Pinar del Rio named after
my great-grandfather Abraham Perez, but the person did not know. Camilo said,
… “Ask the older ones.”
I did not but it was kind of him to suggest it. We stopped at a clean, new Cupet gas
station - pay in dollars. I bought some bumper stickers because they were funny,
‘I Love Pinar del Rio’.
We were driving through the heart of tobacco country and passing through town
after town like San Juan y Martinez that I had heard of but only remembered
by seeing the name. We were zipping along on a high, country road. The deep
ditches down the sides are covered in Marabú scrubs that have 2 and 3-inch
thorns that can shred tires. The Ox was unexpected.
Greenery flashing, side roll left, bump, bump, bump down and through the ditch
thinking vaguely ‘hey, this is just like the wiesen’. No one was hurt but we
were stuck in a six-foot-deep ditch.

Ramón Granda
The Ox looked at us with an indifference that bordered on contempt and then
moved away. A bus came along, the only one of its kind that I saw in Cuba,
stopped, people piled out, offered us a rope and with some sweat, a push from us,
a pull from the bus and presto, we were out. Miraculously, the tires were
undamaged. Tony drove for a while.
At 3:30 in the afternoon or so, we pulled up to my destination, the ‘Terminal de
Omnibus’ in Mantua, a station but no buses. I had the name of a taxi-driver,
Joaquin, who Gilberto the barber told me could sometimes be found there. The
taxi-driver lived in Dimas, a village in the district, and usually worked in Havana.
There was no one there. My friends tried to convince me to go back with them
and I said,
…“No”.They thought I was crazy but insisted on staying at least until the taxi-
driver was found.
…“O.K.”
We found a countrywoman in the station. Oddly enough, her last name was
Miranda and my friends teased me that she was my cousin. She may well have
been for, as I was later to learn from a local historian, the Mirandas have been
landowners in the district since before 1587, a legal document of that year
mentions the heirs of Florencio Miranda. I am a descendant of his and I
suspect that in one way or another half the district is as well. Total population
of the district is about 25,000.

A Visit to Reality
So Cousin Miranda gets on the country grapevine and Joaquin the taxi-driver is
found parked in front of the hospital - wherever that is, informed and in due
time he showed up. My friends were still a bit wary about my adventure and
before I had a chance to explain my business, they jumped to it for me,
harangued the taxi- driver, and told him that they would hold him responsible if
anything happened to me. Country people are stubborn and do not like to be
told their business but under questioning I suspect that he got flustered and
mentioned that he had to go to Havana on Sunday (five days hence) and
inadvertently quoted a fare of
$40 dollars. That took care of that problem. The ride takes 4 to 5 hours and
he later tried to raise the fare to
$90 dollars but with no success. He may have been the only driver in the district
but I was the only customer.
When my friends left, I dickered with Joaquin on prices and explained what I
knew of my family. The Villamarins were distant relations and lived in Dimas. I
wanted to see Blanca, the sister of my Uncle Luria (he is in fact a 3rd or 4th
cousin but all of my generation or younger call him Uncle). I also wanted to meet
the whole Fustes clan who are close relations but I had no idea where they were
or who they were. Joaquin knew.

He drove to a house in Mantua and asked the people sitting on the front porch if
they knew where Miguel Fustes was (eldest member of the clan). They said he
was in the country at his brother’s place in the village of Macurije. At the time, I
thought that was funny because the district is remote but evidently, even people in
the boonies have places that they consider to be the boonies. I said nothing.
We drove to an apartment building, a post-revolutionary concrete structure on the
outskirts of Mantua. Joaquin wanted to change, shower at his sister-in-law’s
before moving on. I did not mind, as everything was interesting to me. We went.
‘La Prieta’ a handsome woman in her late 50’s, was moved when she found out
who I was. She made me some coffee and her 20-year-old son kept grinning at
me as he hauled up sacks of rice with a pulley up to the balcony and then stacked
them in another room. When ‘La Prieta’ heard me say,
… “Cuba es bella”, tears formed in her eyes and she handed me the coffee with
great tenderness.
I found out in Miami that she had been a sweetheart of my father’s, if I had
known at the time I would have given her a hug and made her cry for real but as it
was I did give her a kiss on the cheek when I said goodbye. I think I was still a bit
tipsy. Without undue haste, Joaquin finished his ‘toilette’ as befits a man of his
station and indicated that he was willing to leave.

Ramón Granda 81
He gave instructions to his nephew to put gas in the car. The young man went
and did as told by emptying two plastic 5-gallon containers of fuel into the vehicle.
Before we left, he gave me one last grin and I waved.
The district, ‘Municipio’ in Spanish, is equivalent to a rural county in the United
States. Mantua is the county seat with a pop. 10-15,000, Dimas is a village by the
sea population 1500 about 30-40 kilometers to the northwest of the main town,
and Macurije is a small village pop. 500, a further 10 kilometers to the
north/northeast of Dimas.
It was still daylight. Once we were underway Joaquin suggested that we continue
past Dimas and go first to Macurije, meet the Fustes there and then return to
Dimas to stay at Blanca’s house (uninvited and unannounced but I had
ascertained from him that there was room). I agreed.
My perceptions of Joaquin the taxi-driver were many, varied, colored by sincere
emotions as well as fear and distrust. My view evolved during my short trip and
continued to do so over these many months since. He is a communist and
droned on about how people did not understand ‘the special period’, the changes
brought about in Cuba by the disappearance of the socialist block, and the
grand scheme of the authorities in dealing with it. I let him speak and then as
some comment seemed to be required from me, I mentioned that I had respect for
any who had sincere values and applied them but I had and have only contempt
for those who sang one tune in Cuba and then an altogether different one in
Miami. There are many. This ended the political discussion and we were quiet for
a while.

Ramón Granda 83
Periodically he would stop in the road, individuals would come up to whisper in his
ear, and at one time, he stopped to give a lift to a mother and child. He
explained that he could not do it for everyone but if it was someone close, he did.
I liked him for that but disliked him for the other. He was deferred to in a
way that only comes from political power. Joaquin was stocky, heavyset, had a
slow, deliberate manner, dark hair and light eyes. He drove in exactly the manner
that I like. He adjusted to the terrain that he knew well and provided a smooth,
steady progress. He was 52 years old when I met him and thus would have been
15 years old at the time of the Revolution. He was a mine of information about
my family and we conversed.
A short while after the fork in the road, left goes to Dimas, we continued on the right
side and main road that goes to Macurije, Joaquin pointed to a long row, it seemed
kilometers long, of pine trees on the left and said
… “That’s Varona”. ‘Varona’ was my grandfather’s
main estate. He had two others; a small one in Macurije

and a retreat in the hills called ‘La Jocuma’. I believe I understood Joaquin to say
that ‘Varona’ had three kilometers of beachfront. The total acreage for all three
properties was about 7,000 acres.
In conversation, no more lectures, Joaquin spoke of the things that he considered
the Revolution had accomplished. Free access to health care was one and I asked
what the system had been in my grandfather’s day. He explained that those who
could not afford healthcare on their own had to apply to my grandfather for
authorization. He would sign a slip of paper for medicine, doctor’s visits, or
hospital stay. I asked if my grandfather had ever refused anyone. I wanted to
know.
… “No”. My grandfather never refused anyone. He signed every request and he
had power for years.
Joaquin then spoke of the expansion of the national electrical grid to include
places like Dimas and Macurije. This was true but he did not mention the
outages or the fact that my grandfather first brought electricity to those places. He
did so by installing small electrical plants that serviced the respective
communities on a continuing basis. Shortages are so common now that many
villagers have replaced their old electrical cooking ranges with even older charcoal
burning stoves. In the country, nothing is thrown away. They were stored in barns.
The charcoal they make themselves.

The man who replaced us tried another tack. As we were approaching our
destination, we stopped again for someone to whisper in his ear. It was
Joaquin’s cousin. He is a doctor in the village. There is a small, new clinic. It is
clean and well run but supplies are extremely short. Joaquin pointed out that
education was free which is not true as you repay it in service, and that it was a mark
of progress that his cousin, a peasant, could become a doctor (patronage by
Joaquin). I never argued but I did check up. The other doctor in the village was
excellent but Joaquin’s cousin was a scruffy, unshaven, peasant who felt protected
and the general view in the village was that to fall into his hands was to fall into
danger.
The doctor who took care of us in Miami when I was growing up was put
through University by my grandfather. Dr. Fernandez, as a sign of his gratitude,
never ever charged us. My grandfather’s lifelong best friend was a Doctor from the
countryside, Dr. Terrada.
My displeasure with Joaquin built up slowly. I renounced any claim I might have
had to my grandfather’s property when I was an adolescent. I did so first, in
order to have a life enjoying the opportunities of a wider world, and then for
peace. I speak only for myself.
I do not give it much importance and so if anyone asks I am unbothered to say it
and may well have mentioned it to Joaquin during the ride. I did feel a tinge of
something as we passed it though. It is beautiful. He also pointed out many
sites and houses and gave me a good feel for the history of the place.

Ramón Granda 87
We pulled up to a house on the remains of a paved driveway next to a short
stretch of sidewalk built in more optimistic times. The house was a bit ramshackle
in appearance, wood frame with galvanized metal roof but well cared for and set
on a high, concrete foundation with steps leading up to a porch enclosed by a
balustrade. Palms and crocus bushes were planted in front. I stepped back to the
road to take a picture and caught by chance my cousin Miguel as he was walking at
a distance towards me from the back of the house. I did not know anyone so I
was letting Joaquin do the announcing.
Miguel Fustes was in his late 60’s with a gaunt face, long bones, lanky frame and
when he grinned (often), he was delightful. There was some momentary
confusion as to my identity. When it was clear, his face exploded with joy and we
were in the fierce, warm embrace of family. Good news is shared and soon there
were people around me being introduced. Miguel wanted me to stay there but I
said I already had obligations in Dimas (fib but I wanted to see everything and
take pictures of the Villamarins for my Uncle Luria). We did however make
plans and then carried them out. That Wednesday night I would spend in
Dimas. It was December 4, 1996. The next day and part of Friday in Macurije.

Then Mantua for two nights. Sunday I would return to Havana.
As it was getting dark, we did not stay long and were soon on the road to
Dimas. Joaquin had suggested that we make an arrangement for him to stay
with me throughout but I declined because I wanted neither the expense nor the
bother and opted instead for contracting short hauls at set times.
We arrived in Dimas at night. The Villamarin house is the first on the right as
you enter the very small town. It is built on traditional country lines; wood
frame and with a high roof of interwoven and overlapping palm fronds. You enter
into the living room, bedrooms to the sides, then towards the back is the dining
room and furthest away, often in a separate section, is the kitchen. ‘Bohíos’ are a
pre-Columbian style. They are a legacy of the people who were before.
Joaquin had to go to another house and get someone else to be intermediary and
announce me as he once had a fling with a daughter of the house. Now in her
40’s. Blanca, in her 80’s, does not allow him to enter. We had already agreed
that he would pick me up the next morning at 7:30 a.m., and drop me off in
Macurije.

Bianca took me right in without hesitaton and in the most natural manner. She
ascertained that I had not eaten. She pointed out where I could wash up outside
while she prepared some food for me. It was a simple meal. I was grateful for it.
She even apologized for the simplicity, imagine, and let me know that this was due
to the late hour (noted). One of the sons joined me for the meal. He was a shy,
curious, rustic at least a foot and a half shorter than me. However, he was very
strong and with the surprisingly common blue eyes of the district. Afterwards, we
all retired to rocking chairs in the parlor and conversation. As word spread,
people would come in and others would drift out. We were never less than four
or more than seven.
I have a blood type that attracts mosquitoes. I was sitting in a rocking chair made of
thin rubber tubes stretched horizontally. I was wearing a light shirt. The nature
of the chair turned my lower back into long, buffet lines of all you can eat, for what
felt like, every mosquito in Dimas. No-see-‘ems joined in, ‘jején’ in Spanish. I said
nothing and conversed on other matters. For two hours. Finally, it was very late,
there were few people left, and my back was in agony. The welts lasted for
weeks. I excused myself by saying I wanted to take a walk and smoke a cigarette.
My dinner companion joined me as tour guide.

Ramón Granda 91
The nights in Cuba are amazing. We walked carefully down the very long, main
street of the little town by the sea. At the ‘bodega’ (store/cafe), a few men were
sitting around, drinking, playing chess, and talking horses, sports, and women. The
small area around the bodega had lights and made an attractive scene in the pitch-
black night and under the canopy of stars. We passed unperceived in the dark.
My companion, a distant relation but family nonetheless, pointed out sites to me
that I had expressed interest in and wanted to photograph the next day. We had
a pleasant, quiet time together and then returned to the house. A bed had been
prepared and I slept for the first time under a mosquito net. It is the norm in the
countryside. The moment I touched the pillow I fell into a deep sleep and woke
up the next day at dawn. It was 6:00 a.m. And I was the last one up.
I have morning habits. Cuban coffee first (same as everyone else - no problem). I
walk barefoot in the house, a habit that in Havana was viewed as strange but in the
countryside, it was viewed with horror. I adjusted but in Dimas, the slippers were
half the size of my foot - picture and laugh. I bathe in the morning. In Cuba, the
norm is to bathe at the end of the day and before the evening meal. It is healthier
and more hygienic. It was very cold. I showered in the country shower located
outside, made of wood, and divided into two sections one for men and the other
for women. The doors cover the torso. The small spigot is connected to a tank of
rainwater and gravity provides the only pressure.

I have another morning habit; coffee, cigarette and toilet. Silence please and
respect for the procedure. I got one look at the outhouse and the neatly cut
squares of Granma newspaper, unofficial motto - the paper that irritates you
twice, once when you read it and once when you wipe, and locked up like a bank
vault. No doubt, this contributed, politics aside, to my annoyance with Joaquin
for he showed up an hour early, honking his horn, and wanting me to rush. That
does not work for me. I had the message conveyed that we had contracted for
7:30 a.m. And not before. In addition, I wanted to take photographs. I would do
so on foot so therefore his services were not required. He could kindly return at the
appointed time. He accepted. The family rallied nicely to this firm stand. I had
arrived as a stranger but was leaving as a champion of family honor.
I finished dressing and then raced to get everything done. At the entrance to the
town, I took a photograph of the sign, house in background and herd of goats in
foreground. Then street scene of downtown Dimas; houses, morning light, ox-
cart hauling refuse, old man in suit and straw hat and people going to work.
The Social Circle, a community center built by my grandfather. My aunt built
the Church. My grandfather built the two-story school. I did not make it to the
port and was not able to see or photograph the houses built by my grandfather
for the fishermen. I did not make it to the cemetery. I returned to the house,

Ramón Granda 93
managed a last family portrait, and then was ready and waiting at precisely 7:30
a.m. We traveled on the road built by my uncle, with contract arranged by my
father. Onwards to Macurije. I have subsequently learned that the school I took
pictures of was post-revolutionary and replaced an earlier structure. My
impression that it was built by my grandfather was mistaken. The stories of what
was built by whom and when are sometimes hazy memories of stories heard in
childhood.

Ramón Granda 97
Shortly after my arrival in Macurije the word quickly spread that, the son of
Ramonin Granda had arrived to reclaim family lands. When they found out it
was not true even the Revolutionaries looked a bit disappointed. Cousin Miguel
wanted us to ride horses and thus give me a tour of the area but unfortunately, I
do not ride. I know, but I can snow ski. So instead, we walked a couple of houses
over, to meet his nephew (mid-40’s), my cousin Manolin Fustes, who was polite
to me and formal. We spoke for a few minutes but something was bothering him
and finally he told me.
…“We’re family,” he said.
…“How come no one has contactedus for all these years? That’s not right. We are
family.”
He had a point but I explained that the two remaining relatives, my elderly aunts,
had only lived in the countryside in their early youth, married into strong
families in Havana and that exile had also brought them other concerns. This got
nowhere. So instead I opted for the truth and straight out. I told him,
…“I had no idea that you existed. I found out by chance in Havana and as soon
as I found out, I started trying to find a way to get here. We are family and here I
am.”

Ramón Granda 99
The truth is hard but Manolin took it well. I was invited to lunch later at his
house. It was still early morning. He lives in Miami now (2006).
The lunch started a competition among the three branches of Fustes family in
Macurije as to who could feed me most. The Fustes are a proud family and I knew
that my grandfather had gotten his start as a landowner in the district by marrying
my grandmother Carmela Fustes-Miranda in 1919. Abuelo Ramón was an
itinerant vendor when he courted my grandmother. He was always neatly dressed.
He would hold his legs out from the sides of the mule so as not to lose the shine
on his shoes. He started working at nine years old cleaning bottles at his father’s
bodega in San Cayetano.
The land in Cuba has texture; hills, valleys, mountains. Soaring royal palms grow
everywhere and the sky is expansive. The earth in the province is many shades of
red and sandy in other parts. This allows for the cultivation, in their respective
areas of; rice, tobacco, vegetables, fruit, coffee and the raising of cattle. When I
was there the rice harvest was finishing. The harvested grains were drying on plastic
sheets in the sun. Then once dry were dehusked by milling machines and stored
in sacks. In the special period, the government has allowed farmers some leeway
in administering their own affairs. Havana even returned some land that was
previously confiscated. In general, decisions as to what to

Ramón Granda 103
plant, where and when are determined centrally by bureaucrats in Havana. The
orders are handed down to the provinces, then the districts, then the villages and
finally down to the individual farmer, who is stubborn and irrespective of
particular political belief, many are pro-revolution, still moves or wants to move to
the rhythms and values of centuries of living on the land. Bureaucrats in Havana
or wannabe’s in Miami do not have a clue.
After meeting Manolin, Miguel took me to meet the three Arnaldos at the house
where I was told my father was born. We walked down a dip and then up, across
the main road, and up a long hill itself with falls and rises to a plateau where the
house is located. The country tracks are heavily eroded by the rains but the
vegetation in places untrod is profuse. In a sense, everything was new to me and
I was on occasion awkward and emotionally conflicted but in another sense, I
was reawakening and applying very deep connections and understanding. The
family connections usually happened very quickly even though I never really
sorted out all the names and relationships and had a job just to jot down the
main ones. If I do not write down a name, I forget it the moment I’m told.
There was another complication. It is still a very traditional society and apart
from the houses where I stayed and had time to figure things out, I never really
knew who the women were. They would be presented by first name and
occasionally by relationship, wife, mother, etc. but mostly

would join in conversation or not and go about their business without
enlightening me as to who they were. There was a regular flow of traffic. Later in
Pinar del Rio and Havana, after I got the swing of the thing, I would march right
in, announce myself, collect the relatives, take their picture, names, relationships,
accept a bite, join in the chatter and leave.
I liked Arnaldo Fustes right away. He is a handsome man (60’s) of rustic dignity. He
has a warm manner and a sly sense of humor evident in his blue eyes. He was
honest about family matters. On one occasion, he was handing me a ‘chinguirito’,
a rural cocktail made of moonshine, a squeeze of whatever citrus is available and
a spoonful of brown sugar, and let me know with a serious face that the citrus likely
had worms in it and was the reason everyone around there had worms. I
laughed and drank. I should be as healthy as they are. There are no bacteria,
germ, or creature that could survive contact with that moonshine. It could strip
the enamel off your teeth. We understood each other and the more we got to know
each other (slowly) the better we got to like each other. I spent part of the day
with him as he went about his chores and was able to get a sense of the network of
relationships in the country, the poorer farmers would bring their rice for him to
mill as he had a machine, as well as a sense for the rhythms of country life. His
son is a teacher in the village primary school. His grandson of 9 or 10 could recite
‘décimas’, a traditional form of poetry that is

Ramón Granda 107
still very popular in the countryside and is used to commemorate events or
spread news, of the most decorative and instructive kind. Naturally, when the
men were alone, women smiling on from behind the door, little Arnaldo would
recite all the naughty ones, filthy and very funny in his singsong voice.
Teacher Arnaldo had a mass of pencils in his hand that were for his class. I was
struck by them. They were of traditional manufacture; hand made of wood and
produced in the country. I traded him a ballpoint pen for a pencil. I always have it
with me as a reminder.
The exact order of events at this distance evades me but my one night in Macurije
did involve a crisis of conscience. Even though much of my time was devoted to
family and was guided by family, I still wanted to meet others. I did. In the
natural order of things managed to get away on my own. I walked a few
kilometers back up the road and wandered the outskirts of ‘Varona’. The
ground was marshy and drainage ditches were poorly maintained. Much of the
land was overrun by Marabú scrub. I already knew that material resources were
scarcer than they used to be. In the valley of Macurije, Gramps smaller ranch,
there were no cattle. I saw no Zebu cattle anywhere, the long-legged, floppy
eared, grey-white beef cattle that were the ideal breed for the tropics. Resources
used to be lavished on the breeding of a herd and it was the pursuit of
millionaires. The saying goes

that a rancher is someone who lives poor and dies rich. It was an obsessive
pursuit and former breeders (mostly in exile) mourn the loss of the herds more
than loss of wealth or position. The current leader of the Cuban state reflects all
the prejudices of his class, landowning gentry, in his pursuits as he fancies himself
a breeder but none of the abilities in his results. Except in politics where near
every one of his class and background wants to be President and he has made
himself so for life.
On my way back from ‘Varona’, I ran into Jorge. His friends call him Toledo.
He was working in the hot sun with a machete clearing a small piece of land by
the side of the road. We exchanged greetings and then as a break seemed
welcome, entered into conversation. He was a young farmer (20’s) who had
recently moved to the district. His wife was from there and she missed her family.
He invited me to his house for a coffee and I accepted. The province is famous
for her hospitality and this is another legacy of the people from before and is
demonstrated most by those who have least. On the way up the hill to his house,
he called to his wife, at another house, and asked her to borrow a bit of powder
and to bring the machine.
The house was new built of wood frame, galvanized metal roof, and dirt floor.
Everything was crafted with greatcare and maintained with extraordinary neatness.

A Visit to Reality
This is noteworthy even though the norm in the countryside is already a level of
cleanliness - of hygiene - that is very high and should not be confused with their
austerity of material resources - another matter altogether.
We chatted, drank coffee (his), smoked cigarettes (mine), and told stories. He was
from a town in the hills near Viñales as was my grandfather. He had done his
military service as a cook (which reminded me of our Cuban neighbor’s eldest
son when I was growing up in Miami who was drafted into the U.S. Army, served
as a cook and was killed in Vietnam). After Toledo finished his service, he
married his wife. He is white and she is black. In the course of time, they had
their daughter, a very cute 3 year old, and moved to Macurije. The color thing
reminds me of Marilyn, a friend of mine in Havana. Her sister is Grace and both
are named after American movie stars. Marilyn says
… “My father is blonde, my mother is black, and so
I am beige and beige, darling, goes with everything.”
I liked Toledo and his family. I said goodbye and then later tried to see about
finding some cement. He did not ask and it was not charity as he certainly did not
need it - it was personal and the gesture would have been as a friend. There was
none available in the village. The closest place to get some would be in the provincial
capital, and then there would be the problem of transportation.

Ramón Granda
I was further advised that as a foreigner it might cause resentment among local
officials. In order to do it right I would have to get permission from Havana.
Swing and a miss for that visit. I gave nothing to any of my relatives in the district
except contact and affection. That was fine with them.
Walking back from Toledo’s I was stopped at another house and invited to sit on
the front porch and chat. She was a young mother and her child was a toddler.
Her father and three other men, brothers or other relation - no clue as they did
not speak but only listened - quickly joined us. They were drinking from a very
small bottle with clear liquid and I asked if it was water. It was not but the daughter
provided me with a glass of water. They offered me a shot of ‘aguardiente’ firewater
moonshine, and I accepted. I inquired as to where they got it from and they
pointed across the street. I gave her a few bucks, enough to buy a case, and asked
her to get another bottle. She came back with a 2-litre monster. We drank.
Fortunately, I have extensive experience in handling shots, schnapps in Bavaria,
vodka at Nikita’s in London, grappa on the Amalfi coast, B-52’s in South Beach
and jello shots at parties everywhere. It was my first experience drinking
moonshine straight up and the trick I found was not to let it touch your teeth. So
there I was jammin’ with my homies in Macurije. Cousin Manolin rides by on
horseback, sees me doing my thing, and gets a big, old grin on his face as he
trots by jauntily.

A Visit to Reality
Score one for reconciliation.
Luis Antonio, the father, was a 48-year-old ‘campesino’ who had lived all his life
in the village. He said he was a revolutionary, to be distinguished from a
communist. He was 11 years old the last time my family name was part of public
life in the district. He knew of us and as we spoke, he remembered quite a lot of
things. He had no shoes but rather an upper and lower portion held together
with twine. He complained of it but I made no comment. Instead, I bought the
bottle and we spent a little time together. His family had no connection to mine
but he knew of others that had worked for my grandfather and in his view, we had
done right by them. “Los Grandas sirven” he repeated with emphasis and
mentioned that he was willing to tell that to anybody; perhaps he will have his
opportunity.
Luis Antonio also remembered some ‘décimas’ celebrating political banquets
my grandfather gave in the district. I wrote down two of them. My family
never put their name on anything, school, church, road, park, monument, etc.
but Gramps would have payed the poet. It was commissioned work. In exile, my
Aunt Maruca used to run ‘El Municipio de Mantua En El Exilio’ and organized the
annual parties as well as published the tabloid magazine ‘El Mantuano’. It
would be full of family pictures and family names - hence the family style -
public works are for the community but poems and press are for promotion.
The one year that my father organized the party, in 1978, more than a thousand
people attended. It was held at the Four Ambassadors Hotel in Miami and one
of the bands was Miami Sound Machine with Gloria Estefan.

Ramón Granda
The parties varied in quality, many were attended more from a sense of duty
than anything else, and I was often timid about dancing with the dauntingly
stout, mustachioed, young country lasses fed on American bounty. I told the boys
about it in the car ride from Havana to Mantua. We had made a small dent in the
bottle. I left Luis Antonio and his family returning to Vicente’s house, Miguel’s
brother, to join Berta, Vicente’s wife, on the porch. A steady stream of people
came by including the local official who runs the government store, nothing
available. He was pleasant. The excellent Doctor also came by. Berta was telling
me that it was a shame that I would not get to meet her son Martin, a very bright
electrical engineer who lives in Havana with his wife and child. Naturally, an
hour or so later my cousin Martin showed up after a 7-hour odyssey. He hitched
three rides and the last was in the back pen of an open truck. He had taken
advantage of a just announced the previous night holiday that made it a long
weekend.
Martin has a good heart and takes care not only of his parents who are getting old,
and I may be wrong about Miguel being the eldest, but of a great many family
friends in the district. He had opinions and information on an even larger number
of topics and a certain family resemblance in this curiosity about the world and
its’ workings came through between him and me. We presented a strange mirror
to each other so naturally, we were together a lot, and in a marathon of talk. He
would outpace me.

A Visit to Reality
On to the crisis. As you can imagine; the condition of former family property, the
general condition of people in the district, the knowledge I learned about my
family past and present, the ongoing nature of our many disparate disputes and
my own physical condition all added up to a great deal of emotional turmoil and
frustration with everything that had happened. In the afternoon, the focus of my
rage and distemper had been Joaquin and the shopkeeper. They were not there. I
blamed them unreasonably, and I felt for the first time blood lust and the urge to
violence. That night, alone, I had to deal with it. I had also confirmed in passing
and without comment that Cousin Miguel and his brother Vicente had been
early supporters of the Revolution. Miguel’s complaint had been he lived in
their house in Havana, that my grandfather would not use political influence to
benefit family members. I told Miguel that my grandfather was right and left it at
that. Of course, my grandfather’s views did not apply to my father for my
grandmother had altogether different ideas. She used to call my father her Prince.
She told my grandfather that if a fool like him could be in Congress then so could
her son. No one stands up to a Cuban matriarch on family matters.

A visit to_reality__interior_for_kindle by Ramon Granda

A visit to_reality__interior_for_kindle by Ramon Granda

Recommended

Recommended

More Related Content

What's hot

What's hot (12)

Viewers also liked

Viewers also liked (15)

Similar to A visit to_reality__interior_for_kindle by Ramon Granda

Similar to A visit to_reality__interior_for_kindle by Ramon Granda (20)

More from Steve McCrea

More from Steve McCrea (15)

Recently uploaded

Recently uploaded (20)

A visit to_reality__interior_for_kindle by Ramon Granda