Day 7 Mujeres granjeras organicas...

Oh the days are slipping by and I have not found any womyn farmers yet. The best lead I’ve had has been from the tour guide that lives in Banes (about 30 kilometers south of here) who assures me that there is a group of campasinas living together and growing food but he does not know directly of them, only his neighbor, who is also a gardener, does.

But he has not contacted me again even though he told me he would. I have to be patient, things move at a different pace here.

Plus I did not give him a tip so that probably ended things before they began – even though I told him I would pay him to find womyn farmers.

The other lead I have is that tomorrow it is also farmers day, as well as stand against homophobia day in Holguin, and all of Cuba – so maybe I will be able to make connections there. IF I get to Holguin. I will hate to have to take a cab, if I can’t rent a car…grrrrr

7:00am this morning after telling me my reserved car is no longer available, I am told to return to the rental car place in an hour or two but I do not want to pick up a car late morning or in the middle of the day – then I’ll have to return in the middle of the day & it won’t give me enough time to get anywhere, explore, get into conversations, and then get back.

Instead I go for a swim in the beautiful almost warm shallow aquamarine waters but the beach is still pretty crowded and the sun intense, so I leave the beach to walk around the workers’ Guardalavaca and then back to the tourist marketplace where I continue to talk with vendors.

I learn how bad my Spanish pronunciation is when walking down the sidewalk in the workers’ Guardalavaca, I try to point out a big butterfly – mariposa – to a womon who does not work with tourists and who is sitting quietly in the shade in front of her door watching her daughter play on the ground in front of her. It takes repeating myself several times – long after the butterfly leaves –  with me thinking I’m saying the right word and her focusing intently, until she finally goes, ‘ah ha, mariposa’ and then I see I’ve been mispronouncing this simple word…. Grrrrr

I continue to the little outdoor food vendors cooking in small wooden structures with palm leaf roofs and see that their menu is similar to the hotel food with the fried and grilled fish and chicken, no tamales – sniffle – and few vegetables. Corn and tomatoes seem to dominate, as well as fresh fruit juices. But there is a small ‘mercadito’ a few blocks away that is adobe and brick, with a sheet metal roof, and painted deep purple with lovely fruits and veggies drawn on the front. I see they have papaya, platanos, pineapple, guava, cabbage, calabasa, onion, tomatoes and the like. 

I also see in a kind of alley between and behind the tall apartment buildings a small cart overflowing with fruit and a wizened old man pushing it shouting something I cannot understand. I will not buy anything so I do not bother him but I sure would like a picture!

I believe one CUC (the tourist money) is worth at least 10 pesos (the people’s money). And I find out that electricity is only 1 peso a month, apparently for everyone, and the apartments are free although people are now allowed to rent out rooms or even entire apartments. When I ask people where they would live if I rented their apartment, they look at me as if I’m asking about the elephant walking down the street. They tell me it’s not a problem, they have friends, neighbors, family. Cubans take care of each other, they assure me.

And yet I see a very small handful of very, very, very skinny, very old Cubans with sad, hopeless eyes begging for money. I try to ask about them but I simply get agreement that it is a problem in Cuba, everyone getting enough food and clothes. 

And getting enough work. It seems some people work 6 days a week and others have work only for 6 months during the high tourist season.

I walk back across the wide park where no horses are grazing now – they’re probably all out working, pulling carts with tourists or even being ridden by tourists – and amble through the market, marveling once again at the abundant artistic talent in Cuba.

I am told that everything sold in the market has to be hand-made and also made by either the vendor or someone the vendor personally knows. The vendors get 10% of their sales, pay the market at the end of the day 15% of their sales, and then turn the rest over to the artists.

I’m told that there used to be a government official standing with each vendor all day to keep track of sales until they realized this was not feasible and so now, vendors are on an honor system. When I ask if vendors are tempted to lie about sales – I probably should have not used that word – they again look like I’m talking about the elephant on the sidewalk. 

They tell me the government takes care of all the people of Cuba, and without the artist, they’d have no work so they wouldn’t lie. I can’t imagine how tempting it must be to at least fudge a little. One CUC is worth so much money to them. And who knows, but the seller and buyer, if a painting went for $25 dollars or $24?

I return to the beach once more to swim before dinner and to study my Spanish. I try to also study at least once a day although I really miss my rosetta stone and my Spanish class.