Cienfuegos, Cuba. 1960 or thereabouts.
Ever since I had been a small child, the name “Calle Casales”(Casales Street) had a sub-world connotation in my hometown. This was a street that ran about 2 blocks south of Parque Marti, the main plaza in my hometown. It was in the midst of the oldest area in town, where most of the streets end, on the one side, near the cargo piers and going up to the other side of a thick peninsula like piece of land, these few streets would die (so to speak) near the navy facilities, called “Cayo Loco” (Crazy Key).
I lived only two blocks away from Casales and my actual getting acquainted with this (in)famous street came about due to the closing of the school where I went most of my young life. In the early part of 1960, the government seized most, if not all, private schools, but especially those which were run by the catholic church like my school. I remember going to the bus terminal on D’Clouet Street to bid farewell to most of the Champagnat brothers who had been in charge of my education since I had been in 1st grade and through the then current year, with the exception of one and a half years under the tutelage of Padre Varela school, about 150 miles from home, where I was a live in student. In other words, I was (am) the product of, for better or worse, a long education process overseen by the catholic system. This, in of itself, means not much; although this system could easily develop a not so open mind, it is nonetheless a good educational system. However, as this little story develops, you will perhaps understand that much of what I went through during this period was not totally in accord with my -until then- life long learning.
Having set the stage, let’s go back to Calle Casales. No one of any standing would be caught dead over there. Or at least, would try not to be caught there, whether dead or alive. This was the old red district in Cienfuegos, where most of the underworld bars, the “lowlife” (described as such by our elders) and the easy women were to be found. As I came to know some of these people, I always wondered what was to be considered so easy about living the life they were forced to live by the circumstances of their upbringing.
My grandfather had come from Spain in the year 1914 as, practically, a penniless immigrant; after years of working in sales, as a tailor’s apprentice, a trucker and a lot of other things in order to get ahead, he was able to establish the eventual family business: a rum factory by the name of “Ron San Carlos”. The building in which the factory was housed was a big, old building with an open inside courtyard, and a couple of “massive” (to me, anyway) warehouses where there were a lot of casks, bottles, filters and stuff, which I can’t really remember now. There were long wooden tables, where the bottles were filled by hand (not too automated back in the 30’s) and the boxes assembled. In the manufacture of these commodities (there were several lines of hard stuff distilled and bottled at the factory) most of the goods came by rail and/or ship. Also, they were looking for a less expensive area in which to operate. So, when all was said and done, the building in which they ended up was on Calle Casales, on the corner of Santa Clara. On one side, the raiways spur and less than 3 blocks away from the cargo pier; in the center of what would eventually become the heart of the red(dest) district.
When I was around 5 or 6 years old, I had accompanied my grandfather in several visits to the factory; I loved going in there and drive everyone crazy while zooming around a bright red push pedal car. It was perfect; the huge spaces, places to hide, the courtyard. Boy it was playing haven. Somewhere I have a picture of me in my red car (well, it is a black and white picture… but I know it is a red car… no comments!!) in the middle of several “disgruntled” employees and with a big grin on my face. One of these guys, Juanito, would come up behind me and tickle me every once in a while, just to bug me. In reality, it was like an extended family and every time I was there, my grandfather knew that wherever I might be, there would always be four or five pairs of eyes making sure I would not get into something from which it would be difficult to get me out. Those were early, innocent times and it was a fun life.
Several years passed before I went back to the factory again. This time as a “grown man” of 13, almost 14 years old. This came about because of the closure of the school and the requirement that those who wanted to remain studying under the new “management”, had to join the militia youth. Those who did not join had to leave the school. My choice (supported by my elders) was not to join and I left the school, not knowing this chain of events would trigger my eventual departure from Cuba. When this happened I was left meandering the streets, and this situation was really not acceptable. My grandfather spoke with my great uncle, who was managing the factory, and I went to work there with a job that included copying accounting ledgers (boring!!!) taking care of visitors (less boring!) and running around with my cousin (much more interesting!).
So the day came. I could have said yes to the ride offered, or could have taken my bycicle. Instead I chose to walk. Not only have I loved to walk for as long as I can remember but, in doing so, I felt a much more live closeness to my surroundings, especially in this area I had not seen or been to since I was a 7 year old child.
Will be continued...
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