(no subject)
Yo soy un hombre sincero
De donde crece la palma,
Y antes de morirme quiero
Echar mis versos del alma.
Yo vengo de todas partes,
Y hacia todas partes voy:
Arte soy entre las artes,
En los montes, monte soy.
Yo sé los nombres extraños
De las yerbas y las flores,
Y de mortales engaños,
Y de sublimes dolores.
Yo he visto en la noche oscura
Llover sobre mi cabeza
Los rayos de lumbre pura
De la divina belleza.
Alas nacer vi en los hombros
De las mujeres hermosas:
Y salir de los escombros,
Volando las mariposas.
-Jose Martí, first five verses from "Versos Sencillos"
I am a sincere man
From where the palm trees grow
And before I die I want to
Cast the verses of my soul.
I come from everywhere
And to everywhere I go:
I'm art among art
In the mountains, I'm a mountain.
I know the strange names
Of the trees and the flowers
And the deathly deceits
And the sublime pain.
I've seen in the dark night
The pure fiery rays
Of the divine beauty
Rain on my head.
I've seen wings grow on the shoulders
Of beautiful women:
And coming out of the debris,
Butterflies flying.
- Jose Martí, first five verses of "Versos Sencillo" (translation mine)
Cuba is tired.
Russia's house has emptied, leaving Ivan to rebuild what he used to have. He wasn't looking at Cuba now, not now when Cuba needed him most. Cuba had depended on Russia and his little ones for most of what he had, and now he has almost nothing.
His people are hungry. Cuba can feel it in his bones, the gnawing hunger of his island translating into a painful arthritis as he tries desperately to find food, medicine, oil. He has nothing to give or sell to anyone, not his people nor other nations, except good weather and sunshine. Can you sell that?
No one wants to visit a country where all the people are starving.
He walks along the malecon, the long highway where the soil reaches the sea, his shirt flapping in the breeze. It is too big for him now; it used to fit just right, but now there is no meat, no dairy. Animals take money to raise, factory farms take oil to work. His country is littered with closed factories now, his people trying to find jobs that brought them back to the tierra, to the earth. But his soil had been ravaged by pesticides and deforestation, Spain and America's footprints all over his land. His people are trying.
Camels pass him by, old flatbed trucks where hundreds of his passengers climb into like the cattle the country no longer has. It is hot, and even the passengers sitting near the windows are slick with sweat. It is a mass of skin and suffering and even from where he stands, Cuba can see more of his people's hollowed cheeks than he cares to count. It is one of the few modes of transportation left.
He is trying. He has kept up the rationing, even if non-food items have been taken out of the libreta. He doesn't have the means to accommodate this anymore, even if that means the children have to go without on Three Kings' Day, even if it means that his people go shoeless. With rationing he can keep his people alive, even if the portions are meager and not fit for livestock consumption. ('What livestock?' he thinks.)
He can feel himself fall into despair as he continues to walk, the sounds of the ocean in his ear. The Caribbean Sea is peaceful today, the water green and clear as it always has been. The sea traps Cuba within himself, a true island nation. Solitary. Alone.
Cuba’s steps slow. His people have always been joyful and musical, but the hardships since Russia left have left them quiet. But now he can hear the familiar strains of a classical guitar and he stops, his gaze falling upon a man sitting just ahead of him.
He is facing the sea, leaning against a palm tree. He, too, is skinny and his face lined with wrinkles, but he’s wearing a white fedora and his fingers dance along the strings, the notes of Cuba’s unofficial anthem surrounding him.
Cuba’s face is wet, not with sweat but with tears. He can hear the man singing.
Guantanamera
Guajira guantanmera
Guantanamera
Guajira guantanamera
The man continues, the verses written by Jose Marti wrapping around Cuba’s heart, strengthening him. His people are strong. They have suffered before and have triumphed over it. He has suffered before and has triumphed.
There is no one standing over him anymore; no Spain, no America, and now no Russia. It is time for him to step up and reclaim his beloved land, his tierra querida, as finally his.
Cuba finds himself standing just behind the singing man, who simply lifts his head with a smile and nods in greeting. “Compadre,” he greets, friendliness in his voice as he stops singing but his fingers keep playing.
Cuba doesn’t respond verbally. He doesn’t have it in him. He merely gestures for the man to continue his music.
Cuba’s music.
Jose Marti was a Cuban revolutionist in the fight for independence from Spain and is an important figure to Cuba and to all of Latin America. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jose_Marti
When the USSR collapsed, Cuba's economy collapsed entirely as they imported their oil from the USSR and exported what they didn't need. Between that and the lack of good agriculture, the people starved. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Special_Period
Camels: http://frysingerreunion.org/1/Cuba/transport23.jpg
The libreta is the rations book. Before the Special Period, it not only had food but industrial items like clothes and shoes and three toys for every child for Three Kings' Day (in most, if not all, Latin American countries gifts are given on Three Kings' Day rather than on Christmas.)
Guantanamera: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rAGowaK0doc The verses (this link is an acoustic version) are Jose Marti's from "Versos Sencillo" and the chorus translates to both a peasant girl from Guantanamo and a guajira (a Cuban rhythmic pattern), Guantanamo-style.
Compadre, in the simplest terms, means "friend." (It can also mean "godfather to my children," a link closer than friendship.)