Thursday, 22 December 2011
IN SEARCH OF A REVOLUTION 14-SUMMING UP
We didn't get to say goodbye to the family as Rhys lost his passport getting off the plane and by the time he'd changed into warm clothes and found it, we missed them at the baggage pick-up. Pity, I would have liked to say 'thank you.' Each one of them contributed something to my holiday. Mostly positive. I think I may have been a bit too lairy for some, too eccentric for others, and kept Ainsley talking too long for others' liking by asking too many history questions. If it spoiled your holiday, I'm really sorry.
I'm still processing what this holiday means to me. I went to try and understand to what extent the socialist revolution had worked-is still working. I learnt that it's not communism or socialism in Cuba. It's Fidelism. Raul Castro, Fidel's brother was with him from the very start of the revolution and they fought along aside each other. There's a memorable photo in the Che Guevara museum, where a young Raul is looking up at Fidel given instructions or a speech, perhaps? I wondered what he might be thinking and feeling. Is he in awe or jealous? The emotions of a younger brother towards his older sibling are always complex. Ainsley said Raul is a very different character from Fidel but believes that before he takes any significant action he might ask himself, 'What would Fidel do?'
Fidel is sick and so are some of his friends. Chavez, in Venezuela for example, has cancer. The two countries have a special relationship. Venezuela sells oil cheaply to Cuba. What will happen after he dies? The Cuban economy has been through many ups and downs since the fall of the Berlin Wall. In Havana they learnt to use any piece of spare land to grow food. Russia's withdrawal as a reliable trade partner that previously bought Cuban sugar at inflated prices and sold industrial goods at knock down prices, is long gone. Obama promised an end to Guantanamo Bay and a review of the US trade embargo. Both still exist.
There is some easing of the absolute socialist state. It has started with small businesses aimed at the tourist industry with people renting out rooms and using their yards as restaurants. But it is creating a two-tier system. Those who work in the tourist industry and those who don't. Dual currencies perpetuate inequality of income and standard of living. Ainsley's view is that it is not politics that is the problem for Cuba. It's the mentality. If you're having everything provided, why work? The revolutionary woman at the Moncada Barracks told him,
'Our generation was lucky. They knew who the enemy was.'
A friend who's an astrologer told me before I left Gatwick that Mercury was in retrograde and this might mean problems with communication. Well, the Chinese bus we travelled on did break down on a couple of occasions. Not as reliable as the old Volvos. She said it could also mean that I would have insights and be inspired. I was certainly inspired by Cuba. I respect what the country has achieved in such a relatively short time. It has made its priorities the eradication of poverty, literacy, free education and healthcare and stuck with it. Nobody would appear to be starving or homeless, although undoubtedly there is still a lot of poverty. The only beggars we saw seemed to have disabilities or mental health problems and I didn't learn how the State takes care of the vulnerable. Housing and basic food are provided by the State but in the cities we saw overcrowding and a lack of maintenance. Then there's what most tourists go for- the sunshine, the rum, the music and the dancing.
'What about freedom of speech?' I hear you say. I put this to Ainsley when we were on our own and we had an interesting discussion on how you could still be creative, an independent thinker and discursive. You can in Cuba, but in private. In public it would be very difficult to air a dissident voice. With three political parties in Britain all speaking the same bland language, a massive deficit and the right to make a profit put above all other national objectives, are we in a position to gloat?
I enjoyed the group travel experience with Adventure Travel. Accommodation, food and travel was much better than I expected. I loved the warmth and protection of our Guide, who was so willing to go the extra mile to make us happy. I liked the banter and enjoyed the company of the family. No need to take any responsibility for making arrangements. However, I think you would have a much broader experience of the country if you were to travel independently.
'You have come to Cuba at an interesting time,' Ainsley told us. 'Things are changing fast.'
He was certainly right. If you can live with the guilt of the carbon emissions produced on a long haul flight or convince yourself of the benefits of carbon off-setting, don't wait! Visit Cuba now! It's a holiday of a life time. Well, it was for me.
I'm still processing what this holiday means to me. I went to try and understand to what extent the socialist revolution had worked-is still working. I learnt that it's not communism or socialism in Cuba. It's Fidelism. Raul Castro, Fidel's brother was with him from the very start of the revolution and they fought along aside each other. There's a memorable photo in the Che Guevara museum, where a young Raul is looking up at Fidel given instructions or a speech, perhaps? I wondered what he might be thinking and feeling. Is he in awe or jealous? The emotions of a younger brother towards his older sibling are always complex. Ainsley said Raul is a very different character from Fidel but believes that before he takes any significant action he might ask himself, 'What would Fidel do?'
Fidel is sick and so are some of his friends. Chavez, in Venezuela for example, has cancer. The two countries have a special relationship. Venezuela sells oil cheaply to Cuba. What will happen after he dies? The Cuban economy has been through many ups and downs since the fall of the Berlin Wall. In Havana they learnt to use any piece of spare land to grow food. Russia's withdrawal as a reliable trade partner that previously bought Cuban sugar at inflated prices and sold industrial goods at knock down prices, is long gone. Obama promised an end to Guantanamo Bay and a review of the US trade embargo. Both still exist.
There is some easing of the absolute socialist state. It has started with small businesses aimed at the tourist industry with people renting out rooms and using their yards as restaurants. But it is creating a two-tier system. Those who work in the tourist industry and those who don't. Dual currencies perpetuate inequality of income and standard of living. Ainsley's view is that it is not politics that is the problem for Cuba. It's the mentality. If you're having everything provided, why work? The revolutionary woman at the Moncada Barracks told him,
'Our generation was lucky. They knew who the enemy was.'
A friend who's an astrologer told me before I left Gatwick that Mercury was in retrograde and this might mean problems with communication. Well, the Chinese bus we travelled on did break down on a couple of occasions. Not as reliable as the old Volvos. She said it could also mean that I would have insights and be inspired. I was certainly inspired by Cuba. I respect what the country has achieved in such a relatively short time. It has made its priorities the eradication of poverty, literacy, free education and healthcare and stuck with it. Nobody would appear to be starving or homeless, although undoubtedly there is still a lot of poverty. The only beggars we saw seemed to have disabilities or mental health problems and I didn't learn how the State takes care of the vulnerable. Housing and basic food are provided by the State but in the cities we saw overcrowding and a lack of maintenance. Then there's what most tourists go for- the sunshine, the rum, the music and the dancing.
'What about freedom of speech?' I hear you say. I put this to Ainsley when we were on our own and we had an interesting discussion on how you could still be creative, an independent thinker and discursive. You can in Cuba, but in private. In public it would be very difficult to air a dissident voice. With three political parties in Britain all speaking the same bland language, a massive deficit and the right to make a profit put above all other national objectives, are we in a position to gloat?
I enjoyed the group travel experience with Adventure Travel. Accommodation, food and travel was much better than I expected. I loved the warmth and protection of our Guide, who was so willing to go the extra mile to make us happy. I liked the banter and enjoyed the company of the family. No need to take any responsibility for making arrangements. However, I think you would have a much broader experience of the country if you were to travel independently.
'You have come to Cuba at an interesting time,' Ainsley told us. 'Things are changing fast.'
He was certainly right. If you can live with the guilt of the carbon emissions produced on a long haul flight or convince yourself of the benefits of carbon off-setting, don't wait! Visit Cuba now! It's a holiday of a life time. Well, it was for me.
IN SEARCH OF A REVOLUTION 13
We were coming towards the end of the holiday, spending two nights in Baracoa on the south-east coast and then flying from Holguin, the area of copper and cobalt mines, several hours north on roads so potholed you might think it was a war zone, ending with two final nights in Havana.
Some of the family had been disappointed that too much time had been spent listening to history in the Sierra Maestra. Some of the men would have preferred to have spent the time scaling the highest point from where the rebel radio had broadcast. For some, the whole trip had lacked any physical challenge. At Baracoa there was a chance to do another walk or you could go shopping. Rhys went off in a truck for the walk and I went off on the bus to the town.
In the past couple of days we had passed by Guantanamo Bay naval base and heard how in 1902-4 the Americans had managed to secure their bit of Cuba in case they ever needed to use it. Our last stop Santiago de Cuba, apart from the extraordinary Moncada Barracks experience, had been disappointing, full of motor bikes and choking pollution. Seeing the fort and the lighthouse at night had been really special though.
Baracoa is a lovely little country town with a chilled feeling. The main form of transport is horse and cart or rickshaw bicycle. It has the best music and Casa de la Trova we'd visited. Unfortunately, two members of family had fallen out. It had taken much longer than I thought but was bound to happen. We still managed to party.
I wandered around on my own. I could see why the renegade sneaked off from the group for a cigarette and a wander when he could. You get to meet local people that way. Being in a tour does set up a barricade of opportunity in this respect. In most of the towns we visited there was very little in the government shops. Cubans have ration cards for basics; rice, beans, cooking oil etc. There are two currencies in Cuba: the national currency and the convertible currency. There are 24 national pesos to one convertible peso and about 70 convertible pesos to the pound sterling. Locals are paid in national pesos. Tourists use convertible pesos. Those Cubans in the tourist industry are paid in national pesos but get tips in convertibles. Consequently, there is an inequality of income based on working in the tourist industry or not. Doctors and lawyers earn less than tourist guides.
We had wondered how some Cubans seem so well dressed, when there's so little to buy in the shops. Family and friends abroad send clothes and there must be a black market, although we heard very little about how it might operate. I was touched when I went into a book shop, looking for Cuban poetry in translation, that the woman at the counter took me into the back of the shop and whispered to me, asking if I had a pen she could have. On the back streets of Baracoa I saw some more fashionable T shirts and trousers for sale. Further down the street I managed to have a CD made of downloaded Cuban songs for 3 convertible pesos. A woman asked me if I needed a room and a man tried to thrust a live chicken at me. Perhaps he thought I wanted to take part in some Voodoo ritual. The Catholic Church is stronger since the Pope's visit at the end of the 90s but African religion still lives.
Baracoa town wasn't the place to buy a fridge magnet or a Che Guevara cap. That would have to wait 'til the covered market in Havana.
Some of the family had been disappointed that too much time had been spent listening to history in the Sierra Maestra. Some of the men would have preferred to have spent the time scaling the highest point from where the rebel radio had broadcast. For some, the whole trip had lacked any physical challenge. At Baracoa there was a chance to do another walk or you could go shopping. Rhys went off in a truck for the walk and I went off on the bus to the town.
In the past couple of days we had passed by Guantanamo Bay naval base and heard how in 1902-4 the Americans had managed to secure their bit of Cuba in case they ever needed to use it. Our last stop Santiago de Cuba, apart from the extraordinary Moncada Barracks experience, had been disappointing, full of motor bikes and choking pollution. Seeing the fort and the lighthouse at night had been really special though.
Baracoa is a lovely little country town with a chilled feeling. The main form of transport is horse and cart or rickshaw bicycle. It has the best music and Casa de la Trova we'd visited. Unfortunately, two members of family had fallen out. It had taken much longer than I thought but was bound to happen. We still managed to party.
I wandered around on my own. I could see why the renegade sneaked off from the group for a cigarette and a wander when he could. You get to meet local people that way. Being in a tour does set up a barricade of opportunity in this respect. In most of the towns we visited there was very little in the government shops. Cubans have ration cards for basics; rice, beans, cooking oil etc. There are two currencies in Cuba: the national currency and the convertible currency. There are 24 national pesos to one convertible peso and about 70 convertible pesos to the pound sterling. Locals are paid in national pesos. Tourists use convertible pesos. Those Cubans in the tourist industry are paid in national pesos but get tips in convertibles. Consequently, there is an inequality of income based on working in the tourist industry or not. Doctors and lawyers earn less than tourist guides.
We had wondered how some Cubans seem so well dressed, when there's so little to buy in the shops. Family and friends abroad send clothes and there must be a black market, although we heard very little about how it might operate. I was touched when I went into a book shop, looking for Cuban poetry in translation, that the woman at the counter took me into the back of the shop and whispered to me, asking if I had a pen she could have. On the back streets of Baracoa I saw some more fashionable T shirts and trousers for sale. Further down the street I managed to have a CD made of downloaded Cuban songs for 3 convertible pesos. A woman asked me if I needed a room and a man tried to thrust a live chicken at me. Perhaps he thought I wanted to take part in some Voodoo ritual. The Catholic Church is stronger since the Pope's visit at the end of the 90s but African religion still lives.
Baracoa town wasn't the place to buy a fridge magnet or a Che Guevara cap. That would have to wait 'til the covered market in Havana.
IN SEARCH OF A REVOLUTION 12
So, the day we'd been waiting for...a walk up through the Sierra Maestra to Comandancia de la Plata, Fidel Castro's operational HQ during the revolution. Ainsley was worried that it would be too strenuous for me with my prosthetic hip. He had seen how I'd huffed and puffed on the first walk in Viñales.
'I've wanted to do this for years,' I said. 'It won't be my hip that stops me. The problem is more likely to be my weight and the heat. I know you're only thinking of me, but I'm going.'
Ainsley and the family weren't expecting me to be dressed in my pink pyjamas though. 'Is she planning to sleep up there?' was a comment relayed to me afterwards. No! my other trousers- a pair of see-through chiffon baggy pants, I'd tripped over on the last walk weren't going to be tough enough and my jeans were likely to chafe; my pyjamas are made of soft cotton-tough enough to withstand any falls or rough bits, absorbent enough for the heat. Respectable mama to troublesome teenager to eccentric old dear in 12 days,not bad, eh?
Our guide on the last walk had been called Janet. I've never heard the name given to a boy before. This time our guide had the good looks of a Mayan Indian and the patience of Job as we (okay, I) plied him with questions. He'd been warned by Ainsley that it was the women's history I was particularly interested in.
Celia Sanchez was at the heart of the Cuban revolution for over two decades and after meeting Fidel Castro in 1957, she became his indispensable aide working with him until her death at the age of 60. She was the architect and logistician. It was the clandestine network of peasant families organised by Sanchez that was critical to the rebels' survival. She had oversight of food, clothes and arms-everything needed to sustain the rebel forces in their guerrilla war. She also went into battle showing great leadership and bravery. Later she organised a national archive of the revolution.
See the BBC News Magazine of the 11 December 2011 for more about her in an article by
Linda Pressly: 'Celia Sanchez- Was she Castro's lover?'
Below is an article about other women, known as 'The Marianas' who made up the platoon of 13 who fought in hand to hand combat. But even better than hearing about their story from the Guide and gazing at their photos in the museum at la Plata, was later actually meeting one of these women in the flesh at the Moncada barracks in Santiago de Cuba. We didn't catch her name. We think she must have been in her late 60's. She stood in front of us looking down humbly and quietly shaking as if she might have Parkinson's, and Ainsley introduced her and briefly told us her story. By coincidence on that same day and time we were visiting the barracks museum, she had brought in for the archives her uniform, her medal, a piece of camouflage rebel parachute, and her photograph at 16 when she volunteered to fight the battle against illiteracy in the area and had signed up with the rebel army.
She shook the hand of every member of the family. I asked her if she'd written her story. She shook her head. I hope the museum makes sure they get her individual story in the archives that Celia Sanchez set up. These women are living heroes but they won't be around for much longer. The stories of macho men living in the mountains and fighting in the jungle for a cause are the romantic stuff that captivates tourists. Their stories are inspirational but for me the bravery of the women who fought is even more so. I think it is for other women and will be for generations of young women to come.
As we left the barracks, it wasn't only the women who were moved by the experience of meeting a real live female hero.
'I've wanted to do this for years,' I said. 'It won't be my hip that stops me. The problem is more likely to be my weight and the heat. I know you're only thinking of me, but I'm going.'
Ainsley and the family weren't expecting me to be dressed in my pink pyjamas though. 'Is she planning to sleep up there?' was a comment relayed to me afterwards. No! my other trousers- a pair of see-through chiffon baggy pants, I'd tripped over on the last walk weren't going to be tough enough and my jeans were likely to chafe; my pyjamas are made of soft cotton-tough enough to withstand any falls or rough bits, absorbent enough for the heat. Respectable mama to troublesome teenager to eccentric old dear in 12 days,not bad, eh?
Our guide on the last walk had been called Janet. I've never heard the name given to a boy before. This time our guide had the good looks of a Mayan Indian and the patience of Job as we (okay, I) plied him with questions. He'd been warned by Ainsley that it was the women's history I was particularly interested in.
Celia Sanchez was at the heart of the Cuban revolution for over two decades and after meeting Fidel Castro in 1957, she became his indispensable aide working with him until her death at the age of 60. She was the architect and logistician. It was the clandestine network of peasant families organised by Sanchez that was critical to the rebels' survival. She had oversight of food, clothes and arms-everything needed to sustain the rebel forces in their guerrilla war. She also went into battle showing great leadership and bravery. Later she organised a national archive of the revolution.
See the BBC News Magazine of the 11 December 2011 for more about her in an article by
Linda Pressly: 'Celia Sanchez- Was she Castro's lover?'
Below is an article about other women, known as 'The Marianas' who made up the platoon of 13 who fought in hand to hand combat. But even better than hearing about their story from the Guide and gazing at their photos in the museum at la Plata, was later actually meeting one of these women in the flesh at the Moncada barracks in Santiago de Cuba. We didn't catch her name. We think she must have been in her late 60's. She stood in front of us looking down humbly and quietly shaking as if she might have Parkinson's, and Ainsley introduced her and briefly told us her story. By coincidence on that same day and time we were visiting the barracks museum, she had brought in for the archives her uniform, her medal, a piece of camouflage rebel parachute, and her photograph at 16 when she volunteered to fight the battle against illiteracy in the area and had signed up with the rebel army.
She shook the hand of every member of the family. I asked her if she'd written her story. She shook her head. I hope the museum makes sure they get her individual story in the archives that Celia Sanchez set up. These women are living heroes but they won't be around for much longer. The stories of macho men living in the mountains and fighting in the jungle for a cause are the romantic stuff that captivates tourists. Their stories are inspirational but for me the bravery of the women who fought is even more so. I think it is for other women and will be for generations of young women to come.
As we left the barracks, it wasn't only the women who were moved by the experience of meeting a real live female hero.
Vol. 75/No. 29 August 8, 2011
Role of women’s platoon
in Cuba’s revolutionary war (Books of the Month column)
What led to the unit’s formation?
PUEBLA: In May 1958, as the dictatorship’s military offensive began, the army stepped up its repression against the population of the Sierra Maestra… .
After the army’s offensive had been defeated, we asked our commander in chief to allow us to fight arms in hand. He agreed. Fidel said yes, women had won the right to fight with a rifle face to face with the enemy.
On September 4, 1958, a meeting took place, a sort of roundtable. Fidel assembled his general staff at the time, those who were left in the Sierra Maestra… . There was a discussion at this roundtable meeting that lasted more than seven hours. Fidel had a very big argument there. There were still not enough weapons for everyone, and the men were saying, “How can we give rifles to women when there are so many men who are unarmed?”
Fidel answered: “Because they’re better soldiers than you are. They’re more disciplined.”
“In any event,” he said, “I’m going to put together the squad, and I’m going to teach them how to shoot.”
So on September 4, the Mariana Grajales Women’s Platoon was formed. As I explained, Isabel Rielo became the commanding officer. I was named second in command. The squad came to have thirteen combatants in it. The commander in chief chose the name as a tribute to Mariana Grajales, a heroine of our war of independence and the mother of Antonio Maceo, the legendary general who fought heroically in Cuba’s wars of independence for over thirty years.
Fidel was the one who taught us to shoot. We had to hit a quarter—or a 20-centavo coin—20 to 30 meters away, depending on how he wanted to test our aim. And he drilled us. We had to split that coin… .
Then Fidel informed us: “You’re now going to be my personal security detail.”
From that day on, when people saw us, they would comment: “The Marianas are here. Our commander in chief must be arriving.” We were his advance detachment. He did this to demonstrate his confidence in women, in women’s equality… .
The first combat we saw was the battle of Cerro Pelado on September 27, 1958. This was the Marianas’ baptism by fire. The entire squad participated.
This was a tough battle. Remember that the enemy had artillery. The area had become the last redoubt of the dictatorship’s troops who had fled the territory after our counteroffensive had begun. We had to fight to get them out of the Sierra Maestra. Five compañeros were killed in the fighting; there were no casualties among the Marianas. Fidel has talked about this battle.
Afterward, Fidel went up to Eddy Suñol, one of the officers who was most opposed to having us as combatants, and he said: “I have a mission for you. We want to send you down to the plains, but you’re going to take the girls with you.”
Right then and there Commander Suñol said no. “I’m not going to the cities with them.”
Frankly, he was forced to take us. Fidel told him: “Either you take the women or you’re not going.” Suñol took us, although he did so gritting his teeth.
We arrived in Holguín on the night of October 20. The first battle began at dawn on the 21st, near the Holguín reservoir, where we were surprised by two trucks and a jeep full of the dictatorship’s soldiers.
We were surrounded with no way out, because the soldiers were less than ten minutes away from us. We agreed among ourselves that we would never surrender. We’d die fighting.
WATERS: The army troops must have been surprised to see you.
PUEBLA: Yes, because they had never before seen women in combat.
Back at the command post, when the report on the battle was made, the question was asked: “How did the women conduct themselves? What was their stance?” After that battle, the issue was settled. Women could fight alongside the men. Radio Rebelde was reporting it. We suffered two wounded and captured eleven rifles.
MADRID: What about Eddy Suñol?
PUEBLA: Suñol sent a message to Fidel apologizing for having opposed him on this question and acknowledging that Fidel was right. Because that battle had demonstrated that what Fidel had been saying about women was correct. They are as good soldiers as the men.
Related articles:
Miami protest hits bill to further curb Cuba travel
Cuban Revolution sets the example
Front page (for this issue) | Home | Text-version home
Role of women’s platoon
in Cuba’s revolutionary war (Books of the Month column)
Below is an excerpt from Marianas in Combat: Teté Puebla and the Mariana Grajales Women’s Platoon in Cuba’s Revolutionary War, 1956-58. The Spanish edition is one of Pathfinder’s Books of the Month for August. Puebla, a brigadier general in Cuba’s Revolutionary Armed Forces, joined the struggle to overthrow the U.S.-backed dictatorship of Fulgencio Batista in 1956 when she was 15 years old. She served in the Rebel Army’s first all-women’s platoon and was a founding member of the Federation of Cuban Women. The interview was conducted by Mary-Alice Waters, president of Pathfinder Press, and Luis Madrid. Copyright © 2003 by Pathfinder Press. Reprinted by permission.
WATERS: The founding of the Mariana Grajales Women’s Platoon marked a milestone in the Cuban Revolution. It demonstrated in practice the social course a victorious Rebel Army would fight for. As Karl Marx put it, you can judge any society by the status of women.What led to the unit’s formation?
PUEBLA: In May 1958, as the dictatorship’s military offensive began, the army stepped up its repression against the population of the Sierra Maestra… .
After the army’s offensive had been defeated, we asked our commander in chief to allow us to fight arms in hand. He agreed. Fidel said yes, women had won the right to fight with a rifle face to face with the enemy.
On September 4, 1958, a meeting took place, a sort of roundtable. Fidel assembled his general staff at the time, those who were left in the Sierra Maestra… . There was a discussion at this roundtable meeting that lasted more than seven hours. Fidel had a very big argument there. There were still not enough weapons for everyone, and the men were saying, “How can we give rifles to women when there are so many men who are unarmed?”
Fidel answered: “Because they’re better soldiers than you are. They’re more disciplined.”
“In any event,” he said, “I’m going to put together the squad, and I’m going to teach them how to shoot.”
So on September 4, the Mariana Grajales Women’s Platoon was formed. As I explained, Isabel Rielo became the commanding officer. I was named second in command. The squad came to have thirteen combatants in it. The commander in chief chose the name as a tribute to Mariana Grajales, a heroine of our war of independence and the mother of Antonio Maceo, the legendary general who fought heroically in Cuba’s wars of independence for over thirty years.
Fidel was the one who taught us to shoot. We had to hit a quarter—or a 20-centavo coin—20 to 30 meters away, depending on how he wanted to test our aim. And he drilled us. We had to split that coin… .
Then Fidel informed us: “You’re now going to be my personal security detail.”
From that day on, when people saw us, they would comment: “The Marianas are here. Our commander in chief must be arriving.” We were his advance detachment. He did this to demonstrate his confidence in women, in women’s equality… .
The first combat we saw was the battle of Cerro Pelado on September 27, 1958. This was the Marianas’ baptism by fire. The entire squad participated.
This was a tough battle. Remember that the enemy had artillery. The area had become the last redoubt of the dictatorship’s troops who had fled the territory after our counteroffensive had begun. We had to fight to get them out of the Sierra Maestra. Five compañeros were killed in the fighting; there were no casualties among the Marianas. Fidel has talked about this battle.
Afterward, Fidel went up to Eddy Suñol, one of the officers who was most opposed to having us as combatants, and he said: “I have a mission for you. We want to send you down to the plains, but you’re going to take the girls with you.”
Right then and there Commander Suñol said no. “I’m not going to the cities with them.”
Frankly, he was forced to take us. Fidel told him: “Either you take the women or you’re not going.” Suñol took us, although he did so gritting his teeth.
We arrived in Holguín on the night of October 20. The first battle began at dawn on the 21st, near the Holguín reservoir, where we were surprised by two trucks and a jeep full of the dictatorship’s soldiers.
We were surrounded with no way out, because the soldiers were less than ten minutes away from us. We agreed among ourselves that we would never surrender. We’d die fighting.
WATERS: The army troops must have been surprised to see you.
PUEBLA: Yes, because they had never before seen women in combat.
Back at the command post, when the report on the battle was made, the question was asked: “How did the women conduct themselves? What was their stance?” After that battle, the issue was settled. Women could fight alongside the men. Radio Rebelde was reporting it. We suffered two wounded and captured eleven rifles.
MADRID: What about Eddy Suñol?
PUEBLA: Suñol sent a message to Fidel apologizing for having opposed him on this question and acknowledging that Fidel was right. Because that battle had demonstrated that what Fidel had been saying about women was correct. They are as good soldiers as the men.
I have to tell you that after having been one of the main opponents of women’s integration, I’m now completely satisfied. I congratulate you once again because you are never wrong. Beforehand I believed that this time you were mistaken. I wish you could see—even if it were a movie, so you could smile with joy—the actions of Teté in particular, as well as the other compañeras. When the order was given to advance, some of the men stayed behind, but the women went ahead in the vanguard. Their courage and calmness merits the respect and admiration of all the rebels and everyone else. EDDY SUÑOL Letter to Fidel Castro, October 1958 |
Related articles:
Miami protest hits bill to further curb Cuba travel
Cuban Revolution sets the example
Front page (for this issue) | Home | Text-version home
Wednesday, 21 December 2011
IN SEARCH OF A REVOLUTION 11
'Today we will be having a walk in a national park, swimming under a waterfall in a cave, taking a dip in the Caribbean and visiting Trinidad de Cuba, a UNESCO heritage city. I am sure you will love it.'
What I really like about Ainsley is his enthusiasm. He's been a guide for ten years and must have done this trip over a hundred times at least, and despite the difficulties behind the scenes, he really wants to look after you and to give you a good time. That's why we tried to keep what else happened in Trinidad a secret until one of the family slipped up and spilled the beans a few days later. It was then I think he went from seeing us as responsible mama and papa to being the troublesome teenagers of the family. All in jest of course.
Trinidad is said to be Cuba's best-preserved colonial town. It sits in the lee of the mountain, within sight of the Caribbean. It's hilly cobbled streets are paved with stones that once served as ballast for ships on the empty outward journey from Europe. We had two days staying in the countryside outside the city, going in for sightseeing, eating and music. On the second afternoon while we were wandering about aimlessly, a beautiful woman approached me and asked me if were looking for somewhere to eat. We agreed to go and have a look at her family home, a casa particulares, where she could provide a banquet: fresh fruit, salad, with a choice of chicken, fish, lobster, pork, followed by pudding- all for 8 pesos-little more than a fiver. Up to that point Ainsley had arranged places for the family's evening meal. We walked through the living room, decorated with pieces of ceramics and stuffed animals, out to the back yard, where tables were laid for dinner. It looked clean and comfortable. We promised the woman that we'd let her know how many of the family wished to eat there later, by arranging to phone a neighbour and leaving a message. She also asked if we had any soap and clothes that we could give her.
It was the usual sub-group of the family who were up for it; mama, papa, the renegade, bolshie teenager, and uncle, with the addition of the blonde Czech woman and the quiet athletic couple. He wore a canary T-shirt which said, 'Lean, mean, squidgy machine,' referring to the race he'd run with a prize of 16 malt loaves.
Rhys handed over his worn denims and a jumper I'd given him for Christmas the year before. The woman gave her apologies and said she had to go back to the square to seek more business. We sat down, wondering if indeed this was her family home. She'd looked quite poor and this place seemed relatively affluent, with a large kitchen and lots of people milling about. Four men tumbled down the stairs into the yard, picked up their instruments and started playing. Apart from a couple of other guests we were the largest party.
The food and the drinks started to flow. One of the band did a long riff on his guitar using a glass ashtray. The renegade shouted out requests for ABBA, greeted a young man he'd met earlier, and the band changed track from Guantanamera to Fernandez. One of the musicians handed Rhys his guitar and Rhys did a short piece (Those guitar lessons from Dewi next door hadn't been wasted after all). The singer asked the Czech girl to dance. I asked the singer to dance and the singer asked the bolshie teenager, while 'Squidgy' played the maracas and his partner videoed us all.
I was just wondering when Rhys would start singing Calon lan as he had on the coach on our wedding anniversary. But at that point the singer pointed at Rhys feet. They were wearing the same style of baseball sneaker. Except the singer's were black, old and torn and Rhys' were in relatively good nick and were green. Rhys took his shoes off and the singer ran off to the kitchen with them, coming back a few minutes later smiling and wearing the green sneakers. He offered Rhys his own, but Rhys declined. They had their photo taken with their arms around each other as if they were blood brothers. We paid the bill and Rhys stepped out barefoot on to Trinidad's cobbled streets.
We hadn't gone far when Squidgy insisted Rhys have his socks. At least he wouldn't injure himself quite so easily. I was just worried that Rhys might decide to give other items of his clothing away before we got home. So we hobbled to the square holding each other up laughing and wondering what Ainsley might think if he knew. Cubans and tourists were sprawled on the steps of the square watching the dancing and appreciating a band with a loud brass section. We had another drink or so and when the band stopped around midnight we stumbled down the cobbled hill to catch a taxi back to the hotel.
As we reached the corner we now refer to as 'machete corner, something started to kick off between two taxi drivers, one who owned a 50s American car and the other who owned a Lada. Machetes flashed and members of the respective gangs rushed forward to offer restraint and support. For a moment I thought I was in a scene from West Side Story. Squidgy was pushed by a man who thought he was chatting up his girlfriend, a drunk with a bottle lurched through the small crowd, and bolshie teenager ran to the restaurant on the opposite corner to ask for help in getting a taxi. She later told me that she was trained in responding to major incidents. The owner stepped forward and indicated to the Lada gang that we wanted to a taxi. I would have preferred an American car, but it seemed churlish to argue. Two Ladas thundered out of Trinidad. When we arrived at our hotel other Ladas were already there waiting. Safety in numbers I suppose.
What I really like about Ainsley is his enthusiasm. He's been a guide for ten years and must have done this trip over a hundred times at least, and despite the difficulties behind the scenes, he really wants to look after you and to give you a good time. That's why we tried to keep what else happened in Trinidad a secret until one of the family slipped up and spilled the beans a few days later. It was then I think he went from seeing us as responsible mama and papa to being the troublesome teenagers of the family. All in jest of course.
Trinidad is said to be Cuba's best-preserved colonial town. It sits in the lee of the mountain, within sight of the Caribbean. It's hilly cobbled streets are paved with stones that once served as ballast for ships on the empty outward journey from Europe. We had two days staying in the countryside outside the city, going in for sightseeing, eating and music. On the second afternoon while we were wandering about aimlessly, a beautiful woman approached me and asked me if were looking for somewhere to eat. We agreed to go and have a look at her family home, a casa particulares, where she could provide a banquet: fresh fruit, salad, with a choice of chicken, fish, lobster, pork, followed by pudding- all for 8 pesos-little more than a fiver. Up to that point Ainsley had arranged places for the family's evening meal. We walked through the living room, decorated with pieces of ceramics and stuffed animals, out to the back yard, where tables were laid for dinner. It looked clean and comfortable. We promised the woman that we'd let her know how many of the family wished to eat there later, by arranging to phone a neighbour and leaving a message. She also asked if we had any soap and clothes that we could give her.
It was the usual sub-group of the family who were up for it; mama, papa, the renegade, bolshie teenager, and uncle, with the addition of the blonde Czech woman and the quiet athletic couple. He wore a canary T-shirt which said, 'Lean, mean, squidgy machine,' referring to the race he'd run with a prize of 16 malt loaves.
Rhys handed over his worn denims and a jumper I'd given him for Christmas the year before. The woman gave her apologies and said she had to go back to the square to seek more business. We sat down, wondering if indeed this was her family home. She'd looked quite poor and this place seemed relatively affluent, with a large kitchen and lots of people milling about. Four men tumbled down the stairs into the yard, picked up their instruments and started playing. Apart from a couple of other guests we were the largest party.
The food and the drinks started to flow. One of the band did a long riff on his guitar using a glass ashtray. The renegade shouted out requests for ABBA, greeted a young man he'd met earlier, and the band changed track from Guantanamera to Fernandez. One of the musicians handed Rhys his guitar and Rhys did a short piece (Those guitar lessons from Dewi next door hadn't been wasted after all). The singer asked the Czech girl to dance. I asked the singer to dance and the singer asked the bolshie teenager, while 'Squidgy' played the maracas and his partner videoed us all.
I was just wondering when Rhys would start singing Calon lan as he had on the coach on our wedding anniversary. But at that point the singer pointed at Rhys feet. They were wearing the same style of baseball sneaker. Except the singer's were black, old and torn and Rhys' were in relatively good nick and were green. Rhys took his shoes off and the singer ran off to the kitchen with them, coming back a few minutes later smiling and wearing the green sneakers. He offered Rhys his own, but Rhys declined. They had their photo taken with their arms around each other as if they were blood brothers. We paid the bill and Rhys stepped out barefoot on to Trinidad's cobbled streets.
We hadn't gone far when Squidgy insisted Rhys have his socks. At least he wouldn't injure himself quite so easily. I was just worried that Rhys might decide to give other items of his clothing away before we got home. So we hobbled to the square holding each other up laughing and wondering what Ainsley might think if he knew. Cubans and tourists were sprawled on the steps of the square watching the dancing and appreciating a band with a loud brass section. We had another drink or so and when the band stopped around midnight we stumbled down the cobbled hill to catch a taxi back to the hotel.
As we reached the corner we now refer to as 'machete corner, something started to kick off between two taxi drivers, one who owned a 50s American car and the other who owned a Lada. Machetes flashed and members of the respective gangs rushed forward to offer restraint and support. For a moment I thought I was in a scene from West Side Story. Squidgy was pushed by a man who thought he was chatting up his girlfriend, a drunk with a bottle lurched through the small crowd, and bolshie teenager ran to the restaurant on the opposite corner to ask for help in getting a taxi. She later told me that she was trained in responding to major incidents. The owner stepped forward and indicated to the Lada gang that we wanted to a taxi. I would have preferred an American car, but it seemed churlish to argue. Two Ladas thundered out of Trinidad. When we arrived at our hotel other Ladas were already there waiting. Safety in numbers I suppose.
Tuesday, 20 December 2011
IN SEARCH OF A REVOLUTION 10
Some of these places I hardly remember now because we seemed to speed through the days: lush countryside; cultural and historical places of interest, a swim or a walk, a lunch of ham and cheese sandwiches or rice and beans, arrive at our hotel at dusk to avoid over-booking, at least one member of the family unhappy about the accommodation, eat a banquet in a government restaurant or private home, go on to a 'Casas de la Trova' to hear music and watch dancing (we were mostly too intimated by the standard and not know Salsa steps well enough to take to the floor), drink a lot of cocktails, do a morning walking tour before jumping back on the bus for the panoramic tour and off to our next destination. The tour was following a pattern that not everybody appreciated but I was still loving every minute.
Day 6 was one of my Cuban highlights-a visit to Che Guevara's mausoleum and museum at Santa Clara. Throughout Cuba there is a refreshing absence of billboards and commercial advertising. No big yellow M's. Instead, there's Che's charismatic face looking at you everywhere. Not so often is the image of Fidel. I asked Ainsley why.
'We tend to honour the dead heroes of the revolution. Che is close to our hearts. When Fidel dies no doubt we will honour him in the same way.'
After the unsuccessful attack on the Moncada barracks in Santigo de Cuba on 26th of July 1953, (which more of later), Fidel was sentenced to fifteen years in prison but was released after two years. He managed to escape to Mexico where he was joined by Che, doctor and revolutionary. In late November 1956, together with Raul, Fidel's brother and eighty other loyal comrades they set sail for Cuba in a yacht called 'The Granma,' built to carry twenty. On landing and suffering many casualties, the small band made for the wilderness of the Sierra Maestra mountains, from where they were to plan and execute the revolution. Photos of the time bear witness to the harsh conditions and Che's attempts to live like the other rebels without any special privileges that might go with his rank of General.
Che Guevara was to earn some of his reputation based on his bravery at Santa Clara in 1958, using tractors to de-rail a train carrying arms and troops. Greatly outnumbered he still managed to achieve his objective and many of Batista's troops surrendered.
Che's remains were brought from Bolivia where he fought as a guerilla in the Bolivian army and was captured and shot in October 1967. He was a Cuban citizen and many of his family still live in Cuba today.
In the mausoleum, a star of light shines over his remains. He lies there with other brave rebels. I scanned the names. I could see only the names of men. 'But what about the brave women? Where are the women in the revolution? 'I asked myself and Ainsley later. He looked rather sheepish.'Wait!' he said. And I wasn't to be disappointed. They do exist and their stories are inspirational. More later in this story.
GUANTANAMERA
Based on a poem by one of the heroes of independence, Jose Marti, the song tells the story of a woman farmer, a war hero from the town near Guantanamo Bay. It's led here by Compay Segundo, a founding member of Buenas Vista Social Club. His gravestone sports hat and guitar.
IN SEARCH OF A REVOLUTION 9
Members of the family were starting to relax, beginning to get to know each other better. I was waiting for the storming phase. All new groups with a mission go through it. If they can work through the issues the group will re-form stronger, but if not there will be splinter groups and possibly counter-revolution. A parallel process for the history we were learning about and experiencing.
That evening in Cienfuegos, a sub group we'd become involved in took part in a lock-in. Not a political gesture but a social one- at the Casa de Trova- the house of music for tourists, that you can find in all the main Cuban towns and cities. Tourists like Salsa and Son. According to the Rough Guide, 'Son is the blood running through the veins of Cuban popular music.' Many younger Cubans prefer Reggaeton or Cubaton, based on hip-hop.
As we supped Ron Collins after Ron Collins and listened for the thousandth time to 'Guantanamera', we shared stuff about ourselves and bitched about other members of the family. Rhys and I were given the title of mama and papa, there was the renegade and the bolshie teenager, apart from uncle of course. Like an Alan Ayckbourne play. It reminded me not to rely on first impressions.
Cienfuegos is a pleasant city with a European feel-largely due to the influence of French settlers in the 19th century. The family saw the city by bicycle-rickshaws. When I lived in Indonesia over 40 years ago, we saw the bicycle rickshaw as a symbol of exploitation. Now in London you can see young people in rickshaws transporting tourists. Cab drivers hate them. It's probably the same in Cienfuegos but it's a great way to see the sights.
That evening in Cienfuegos, a sub group we'd become involved in took part in a lock-in. Not a political gesture but a social one- at the Casa de Trova- the house of music for tourists, that you can find in all the main Cuban towns and cities. Tourists like Salsa and Son. According to the Rough Guide, 'Son is the blood running through the veins of Cuban popular music.' Many younger Cubans prefer Reggaeton or Cubaton, based on hip-hop.
As we supped Ron Collins after Ron Collins and listened for the thousandth time to 'Guantanamera', we shared stuff about ourselves and bitched about other members of the family. Rhys and I were given the title of mama and papa, there was the renegade and the bolshie teenager, apart from uncle of course. Like an Alan Ayckbourne play. It reminded me not to rely on first impressions.
Cienfuegos is a pleasant city with a European feel-largely due to the influence of French settlers in the 19th century. The family saw the city by bicycle-rickshaws. When I lived in Indonesia over 40 years ago, we saw the bicycle rickshaw as a symbol of exploitation. Now in London you can see young people in rickshaws transporting tourists. Cab drivers hate them. It's probably the same in Cienfuegos but it's a great way to see the sights.
IN SEARCH OF A REVOLUTION 8
Day 5 and today we retrace our steps to Havana and then south into the Matanzas province. We will be passing the area on the Zapata peninsula that is rich in exotic wild life and visiting a museum at Playa Giron near the 'Bay of Pigs' that tells the tale of this episode of the socialist revolution.
As we pass the park/zoo where you can see crocodiles, Ainsley tells us that our fellow countrymen don't rate it- it's too tame- so we won't be stopping there. Instead we get a chance to swim in a sea water cave. And the history lesson begins today in earnest.
Ainsley has named four men travelling together with the family as,'The Four Seasons.' Uncle is one and today he's decided to opt out. He puts in his blue ear plugs and closes his eyes. He's soon spotted. They have a laugh and Uncle sits up to listen. We arrive at the museum half an hour after closing but it's opened up for us and we wander round looking at the photos and hearing the story.
'Fidel is my hero,' Uncle says. Ainsley looks a bit surprised and replies, 'Yes, he's mine too.'
After the success of the revolution lead by Fidel with Che Guevara and others in 1959, huge sectors of Cuban industry were nationalised and foreign businesses, most of them American, were confiscated. The US Government retaliated by freezing all imports of Cuban sugar, restricting exports and in 1961, breaking off diplomatic relations. Seeking to overthrow what they saw as an evil regime, the CIA became involved and the US backed counter-revolutionary forces in Cuba. They trained mercenaries and Cuban exiles in the US and Guatemala, and on April 17 1961 launched an invasion landing at the Bay of Pigs on the south coast. The revolutionaries were ready for them and the whole operation ended in failure but many lives of soldiers and civilians were lost.
There were guns and weapons of war displayed in cases against a backdrop of photos of Fidel and Che Guevara. The most moving item for me was a pair of pretty silk white shoes blown off their teenage owner, Nemesia, in the battle that lasted 72 hours and killed her mother. Next to them a poem by El Indio Nabori (El Cuculambe) imagining the scene; Before the revolution the daughter of a poor charcoal worker had dreamed of owning a pair of white shoes but her father would never earn enough to afford them. Then came the revolution and landowners were forced to hand over their land to the workers. At last the young woman was able to have her dream, she no longer wandered barefoot and wild. She wore her white shoes with pride. Until the invasion.
As we pass the park/zoo where you can see crocodiles, Ainsley tells us that our fellow countrymen don't rate it- it's too tame- so we won't be stopping there. Instead we get a chance to swim in a sea water cave. And the history lesson begins today in earnest.
Ainsley has named four men travelling together with the family as,'The Four Seasons.' Uncle is one and today he's decided to opt out. He puts in his blue ear plugs and closes his eyes. He's soon spotted. They have a laugh and Uncle sits up to listen. We arrive at the museum half an hour after closing but it's opened up for us and we wander round looking at the photos and hearing the story.
'Fidel is my hero,' Uncle says. Ainsley looks a bit surprised and replies, 'Yes, he's mine too.'
After the success of the revolution lead by Fidel with Che Guevara and others in 1959, huge sectors of Cuban industry were nationalised and foreign businesses, most of them American, were confiscated. The US Government retaliated by freezing all imports of Cuban sugar, restricting exports and in 1961, breaking off diplomatic relations. Seeking to overthrow what they saw as an evil regime, the CIA became involved and the US backed counter-revolutionary forces in Cuba. They trained mercenaries and Cuban exiles in the US and Guatemala, and on April 17 1961 launched an invasion landing at the Bay of Pigs on the south coast. The revolutionaries were ready for them and the whole operation ended in failure but many lives of soldiers and civilians were lost.
There were guns and weapons of war displayed in cases against a backdrop of photos of Fidel and Che Guevara. The most moving item for me was a pair of pretty silk white shoes blown off their teenage owner, Nemesia, in the battle that lasted 72 hours and killed her mother. Next to them a poem by El Indio Nabori (El Cuculambe) imagining the scene; Before the revolution the daughter of a poor charcoal worker had dreamed of owning a pair of white shoes but her father would never earn enough to afford them. Then came the revolution and landowners were forced to hand over their land to the workers. At last the young woman was able to have her dream, she no longer wandered barefoot and wild. She wore her white shoes with pride. Until the invasion.
Monday, 19 December 2011
CUBA-SOME FACTS
CUBA: SOME FACTS
- It is the largest Caribbean island, bound on the south by the Caribbean Sea and on the north and east by the Atlantic Ocean and covers 110,861 sq km.
- The current population is estimated to be over 11million with an ethnic mix predominately of African and European ancestry. The indigenous Taino who inhabited Cuba before Columbus's arrival were wiped out by Spanish invasion and European diseases.
- The population is around 51% mixed race, 37%white,11% black and 1% Asian. We were told that race is not an issue.
- Cuba is a republic with a centralized socialist government. We were told that it is neither communism or socialism. It is Fidelism. However, the Communist party is enshrined in the constitution as the only legal political party.
- Tourism is the biggest industry, with British tourists currently the largest number. Sugar is the second main industry. It is estimated that 3% of the economy is made up by remittances sent to family members by Cuban-Americans. More of that later.
- According to UNICEF, Cuba has 100% adult literacy rate, the highest in all of Latin America.
- Education and health are free to all at the point of delivery. Medicines prescribed in hospital are free. Those prescribed by GPs can be bought relatively cheaply.
- Life expectancy at birth is 79 years, also the highest in Latin America. (cf 78.4% men, 82.4% women in the UK in 2010)
Sunday, 18 December 2011
IN SEARCH OF A REVOLUTION 6
November 30 2011, our 32nd wedding anniversary.The differences in those used to city life and the country bumpkins were beginning to show We woke up in a cabin on the San Vincente Ranch to the sound of tropical birds, early sun streaming through the shutters and mist rising from lush vegetation in the forest. When I asked the girl with jet eyes, who hadn't been sleeping well, if she'd heard the dawn chorus, she replied, 'No, thank God, I was wearing ear plugs.'
We visited a cave and on our way out, as we were browsing the hand-made crafts a couple of local women approached the few women in the party, rubbing their hands and arms in a washing gesture. 'Baby. Soap?' Soap wasn't something we had thought of bringing from the UK. From then on I became a soap monitor. Members of the family donated small white cubes or bottles of shower gel from the hotel if they weren't using it. Every time the bus stopped there would usually be a disabled man and a very thin woman waiting for soap monitors. We also had the odd child asking for sweets. On one occasion after a bit of hassling Rhys gave away his half eaten packet of Hacks. As the child popped the cough sweet into his mouth, I had to turn away.
Ainsley saw to it that our wedding anniversary was one we wouldn't forget. I smoked my first hand-rolled cigar at the tobacco farm; at lunch we were serenaded by a salsa band and treated to pina coladas made with fresh coconut cream; applauded by the audience of an open air night club and treated to many drinks. To finish the evening I pulled an older member of the family we called 'Uncle' into the swimming pool with me, fully clothed.
We visited a cave and on our way out, as we were browsing the hand-made crafts a couple of local women approached the few women in the party, rubbing their hands and arms in a washing gesture. 'Baby. Soap?' Soap wasn't something we had thought of bringing from the UK. From then on I became a soap monitor. Members of the family donated small white cubes or bottles of shower gel from the hotel if they weren't using it. Every time the bus stopped there would usually be a disabled man and a very thin woman waiting for soap monitors. We also had the odd child asking for sweets. On one occasion after a bit of hassling Rhys gave away his half eaten packet of Hacks. As the child popped the cough sweet into his mouth, I had to turn away.
Ainsley saw to it that our wedding anniversary was one we wouldn't forget. I smoked my first hand-rolled cigar at the tobacco farm; at lunch we were serenaded by a salsa band and treated to pina coladas made with fresh coconut cream; applauded by the audience of an open air night club and treated to many drinks. To finish the evening I pulled an older member of the family we called 'Uncle' into the swimming pool with me, fully clothed.
IN SEARCH OF A REVOLUTION 5
The following day on the way to the Viñales valley, west of Havana in the Pinar del Rio province, the bus pulled up at a cigar factory. The guide leaned out of the bus and spoke to the security guard who shook his head. The bus moved on.
'I'm sorry, but the factory's shut,' Ainsley said.'There's been a power cut and the workers have been sent home. . . Welcome to Cuba, my friends.'
'But we need compensation,' one of the family piped up.
'Compensation? Ah! I'll see what I can do,' Ainsley laughed. 'But don't worry, you will see a cigar factory, I promise.
Ainsley had talked non-stop for the three hours or so it took to get to Viñales. He told us more about Cuba and it's history as we drove through the striking landscape. If he caught somebody snoozing he'd call out their name in a half-joking tone and ask them to remove their sunglasses. He pointed out places of interest that we could see and some we never got to see because he was worried about hotels over-booking. Our mission each day was to get to the next hotel before any other tour party, learn as much as we could from him about Cuba, and have fun. I couldn't get enough.
The roads were deserted of traffic through most of our journey through Cuba. Imagine being the only vehicle on the M4 for several miles on a week day in December? People stand by the side of the road at designated places to hitch a lift from a government truck or private car. Although there is an inter-city bus service for the tourist and better off, local buses are few and far between and are like cattle trucks. A hundred or so local people cram, standing, a few sitting, suffocating in the heat with just a grill to let air in.
We drove on. Boulder like hills formed some 160million years ago by rain and erosion and covered in vegetation, known as 'mogotes' are similar to the limestone hillocks you see in China and Vietnam and loom out of the valley floor giving an ancient and eerie feeling. Ainsley pointed out tobacco plantations and other crops. He told us that there's little incentive to work the tobacco now. 90% of the crop yield goes to the government, leaving 10% for the farmer.
'You will visit a tobacco farm tomorrow, he said, as he went round the bus with plastic cups, pouring from a bottle of rum. 'In the meantime, here's the compensation.'
.
'I'm sorry, but the factory's shut,' Ainsley said.'There's been a power cut and the workers have been sent home. . . Welcome to Cuba, my friends.'
'But we need compensation,' one of the family piped up.
'Compensation? Ah! I'll see what I can do,' Ainsley laughed. 'But don't worry, you will see a cigar factory, I promise.
Ainsley had talked non-stop for the three hours or so it took to get to Viñales. He told us more about Cuba and it's history as we drove through the striking landscape. If he caught somebody snoozing he'd call out their name in a half-joking tone and ask them to remove their sunglasses. He pointed out places of interest that we could see and some we never got to see because he was worried about hotels over-booking. Our mission each day was to get to the next hotel before any other tour party, learn as much as we could from him about Cuba, and have fun. I couldn't get enough.
The roads were deserted of traffic through most of our journey through Cuba. Imagine being the only vehicle on the M4 for several miles on a week day in December? People stand by the side of the road at designated places to hitch a lift from a government truck or private car. Although there is an inter-city bus service for the tourist and better off, local buses are few and far between and are like cattle trucks. A hundred or so local people cram, standing, a few sitting, suffocating in the heat with just a grill to let air in.
We drove on. Boulder like hills formed some 160million years ago by rain and erosion and covered in vegetation, known as 'mogotes' are similar to the limestone hillocks you see in China and Vietnam and loom out of the valley floor giving an ancient and eerie feeling. Ainsley pointed out tobacco plantations and other crops. He told us that there's little incentive to work the tobacco now. 90% of the crop yield goes to the government, leaving 10% for the farmer.
'You will visit a tobacco farm tomorrow, he said, as he went round the bus with plastic cups, pouring from a bottle of rum. 'In the meantime, here's the compensation.'
.
Saturday, 17 December 2011
IN SEARCH OF A REVOLUTION 4
It's getting hotter and we're all getting thirsty.We carry on wandering, hoping we'll soon reach the Havana Rum factory. Ainsley greets two young women dressed in khaki short skirts and introduces them to the family.
'These women are working to eliminate Denghe Fever.'
'Bloody hell,' I think.'That's one disease we didn't get vaccinated for. Isn't it a killer?'
He reads my mind.
'It's a killer. The mosquito lives in clean still water. These girls go round houses and have the right to demand entry to fumigate. It's an offence not to let them in. There's no known cure.'
The girls take out their cleaning materials from their bag to show us. We later meet a guy on the street mending what looks like a back-firing vacuum cleaner. It's the fumigator.
I now realise I never asked an obvious basic question. Do homes in the old town have running water? Presumably not. We were probably told. Ainsley would be disappointed with me. Like so much of the information about Cuba we were given in those early days it washed over me in a haze of Havana rum.
We did the tour of the Rum Factory, saw a model of the process, the story of slavery short-circuited, and tasted samples of three and seven year old rums. The seven year old tastes like a single malt whisky, warming the cockles but not quenching the thirst. You need a mojito to do that. Now, where are the cigars?
'These women are working to eliminate Denghe Fever.'
'Bloody hell,' I think.'That's one disease we didn't get vaccinated for. Isn't it a killer?'
He reads my mind.
'It's a killer. The mosquito lives in clean still water. These girls go round houses and have the right to demand entry to fumigate. It's an offence not to let them in. There's no known cure.'
The girls take out their cleaning materials from their bag to show us. We later meet a guy on the street mending what looks like a back-firing vacuum cleaner. It's the fumigator.
I now realise I never asked an obvious basic question. Do homes in the old town have running water? Presumably not. We were probably told. Ainsley would be disappointed with me. Like so much of the information about Cuba we were given in those early days it washed over me in a haze of Havana rum.
We did the tour of the Rum Factory, saw a model of the process, the story of slavery short-circuited, and tasted samples of three and seven year old rums. The seven year old tastes like a single malt whisky, warming the cockles but not quenching the thirst. You need a mojito to do that. Now, where are the cigars?
IN SEARCH OF A REVOLUTION 3
We tumbled out into the sunshine of Havana Vieja, the Old Town, following the loping walk of our guide, Ainsley. It's winter and not yet 10am but the temperature is in the mid-twenties and Ainsley's shaven head is already glistening. His name of course isn't Ainsley but he's the spitting image of the 'Ready, Steady, Cook' chef. He even has the same shoulder gestures as he towers over us and laughs.
Havana's success and riches were founded on the strength and position of its harbour in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries built on the sugar trade and slavery. As the conquistadors plundered the treasures of the Americas, Havana became a regular port of call, also attracting merchants and pirates, such as the infamous Welsh pirate, Harry Morgan. The Spanish built a protective fortress around the harbour and city that survives today.
The nineteenth century was a period of growth when some of the most elegant and beautiful buildings in the colonial style were constructed around shady squares. At the same time crime and corruption pushed the bourgeoisie into the suburbs leaving the old town to the poor.
In the first half of the twentieth century Americans invested in the City, building palaces in the Art Deco style devoted to drinking, gambling and the tourist industry. Gangsters and the mob ruled the roost until the Revolution in 1959 led by Fidel Castro & Che Guevara. The socialist capital and the old town was cleaned up of crime and prostitution, land nationalised and the houses of the rich handed over to their servants. With an emphasis on improving conditions in the countryside for the rural poor, many fine buildings in the capital were left to crumble and residential overcrowding increased. It wasn't until the 1990s when Havana was declared a UNESCO heritage site that many architectural treasures-churches, houses, and government buildings were restored to their former status.
Ainsley stops every few metres to greet an old friend, flirt with an older woman, stroke the head of a younger one, put his arm around the shoulder of an old man selling peanuts, and laugh at a mother-in-law joke with another guide dressed in the red T-shirt of Cubanacan-the government tourist agency they both work for. He wants us to get the feel of the 'real' Cuba. Fourteen digital and one analogue camera snap in 360 degree circles at his every stop.
We wander up dusty narrow streets filled with wooden scaffolding and peer through double doorways into courtyards. Washing hangs from grimy balconies, small dogs lie on their backs in the sunshine, good-looking young men with their backs to the wall hang round doing nothing, and children ask for pens.
'Come on, family!' Ainsley shouts, as we linger at a taxi rank admiring the 1950's Chevrolet Bel Air in maroon and chrome. ' I hate those American cars,' he says.'There's much more I want to show you.'
Havana's success and riches were founded on the strength and position of its harbour in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries built on the sugar trade and slavery. As the conquistadors plundered the treasures of the Americas, Havana became a regular port of call, also attracting merchants and pirates, such as the infamous Welsh pirate, Harry Morgan. The Spanish built a protective fortress around the harbour and city that survives today.
The nineteenth century was a period of growth when some of the most elegant and beautiful buildings in the colonial style were constructed around shady squares. At the same time crime and corruption pushed the bourgeoisie into the suburbs leaving the old town to the poor.
In the first half of the twentieth century Americans invested in the City, building palaces in the Art Deco style devoted to drinking, gambling and the tourist industry. Gangsters and the mob ruled the roost until the Revolution in 1959 led by Fidel Castro & Che Guevara. The socialist capital and the old town was cleaned up of crime and prostitution, land nationalised and the houses of the rich handed over to their servants. With an emphasis on improving conditions in the countryside for the rural poor, many fine buildings in the capital were left to crumble and residential overcrowding increased. It wasn't until the 1990s when Havana was declared a UNESCO heritage site that many architectural treasures-churches, houses, and government buildings were restored to their former status.
Ainsley stops every few metres to greet an old friend, flirt with an older woman, stroke the head of a younger one, put his arm around the shoulder of an old man selling peanuts, and laugh at a mother-in-law joke with another guide dressed in the red T-shirt of Cubanacan-the government tourist agency they both work for. He wants us to get the feel of the 'real' Cuba. Fourteen digital and one analogue camera snap in 360 degree circles at his every stop.
We wander up dusty narrow streets filled with wooden scaffolding and peer through double doorways into courtyards. Washing hangs from grimy balconies, small dogs lie on their backs in the sunshine, good-looking young men with their backs to the wall hang round doing nothing, and children ask for pens.
'Come on, family!' Ainsley shouts, as we linger at a taxi rank admiring the 1950's Chevrolet Bel Air in maroon and chrome. ' I hate those American cars,' he says.'There's much more I want to show you.'
Friday, 16 December 2011
IN SEARCH OF A REVOLUTION 2
The Ambos Mundos Hotel, situated on the corner of Obispo, in Havana, combined the grandeur and faded glory of the Conquistadores with the grime of last month's tourists. The pregnant woman pointed out she could write her name in the dust on the bedside table. Funny place to leave your autograph. But that wasn't her only gripe. Because of over-booking and the sex ratio of single people, she and her husband had been separated and invited to sleep with two complete strangers. She with the blonde bombshell and he with an older gentleman. Strangely, they weren't keen on wife-swapping on the first night of their holiday. But isn't it always the way? Depending on your outlook, some people always seem to get runs of bad or good luck.
The following night she didn't have any hot water, the night after she had an army of ants running across the back of the bed, and later she found a toe-nail on the floor of her cabin. Not sure if that was the result of the torture she seemed to feel being in a group of rowdy old people. To be fair, although she felt sick and tired most of the holiday she kept a low profile. In fact, so low you could hardly see or hear her. On the other hand, her husband was extremely generous. He treated us all to lashings of 7 year old Havana rum and frequent rum cocktails. They maintained their status by sitting in the front seat of the bus for the whole holiday. Even when it broke down.
It's all a matter of expectations, I suppose. They had been on adventure holidays before and had clean rooms and good facilities. We, on the other hand, had been independent travellers staying in some really grotty places over the years. We hadn't expected swimming pools and hot water. So when they appeared it was a huge bonus. Not sure I would have wanted to have been split up from Rhys though, not on the first night. Not without our lock knife.
The following night she didn't have any hot water, the night after she had an army of ants running across the back of the bed, and later she found a toe-nail on the floor of her cabin. Not sure if that was the result of the torture she seemed to feel being in a group of rowdy old people. To be fair, although she felt sick and tired most of the holiday she kept a low profile. In fact, so low you could hardly see or hear her. On the other hand, her husband was extremely generous. He treated us all to lashings of 7 year old Havana rum and frequent rum cocktails. They maintained their status by sitting in the front seat of the bus for the whole holiday. Even when it broke down.
It's all a matter of expectations, I suppose. They had been on adventure holidays before and had clean rooms and good facilities. We, on the other hand, had been independent travellers staying in some really grotty places over the years. We hadn't expected swimming pools and hot water. So when they appeared it was a huge bonus. Not sure I would have wanted to have been split up from Rhys though, not on the first night. Not without our lock knife.
IN SEARCH OF A REVOLUTION 1
'Madam, are you sure you don't have anything sharp in your hand luggage?'
'No, my husband has a knife but he packed it.'
'Well, we'll just put your bag through for the third time.'
The Security Guard emptied everything out, felt the corners of my grubby bag, and hey presto! Rhys's knife fell out. Just like that.
'Err. . ., but he said he'd packed it in his ruck sack.'
The man examined the knife we'd bought in Mexico last year to peel fruit. He gave me an 'Oh, yeah?' look.
'You know it's an offence to carry a lock knife like this in a public place, don't you?'
'No, but...'
'The funny thing is it's not illegal to own one.' He clicked it open. The blade glinted. ''But I'm afraid I'll have to call the police.'
'Yes, but . . .'
So our search for a revolution began... in Gatwick.
15 hours later at Havana Airport, wondering how we'd manage without our flick knife, we staggered to the bus, our rucksacks on curved backs like endangered turtles, wishing we hadn't brought so much stuff. We noticed with envy soft cases on wheels and purveyed their owners who would be our travel companions. They looked a random bunch of white middle aged to older adventurers with a few exceptions: a young woman with jet eyes and infectious laugh, a blonde Czech woman, a pregnant Brummie couple, and a tall Indian man with presence-possibly gay. Together with our chocolate (his description), basketball net-high Cuban guide, it would seem we would tick all the boxes for a good mix. All that was left was to spend two weeks together to see if it would work.
'No, my husband has a knife but he packed it.'
'Well, we'll just put your bag through for the third time.'
The Security Guard emptied everything out, felt the corners of my grubby bag, and hey presto! Rhys's knife fell out. Just like that.
'Err. . ., but he said he'd packed it in his ruck sack.'
The man examined the knife we'd bought in Mexico last year to peel fruit. He gave me an 'Oh, yeah?' look.
'You know it's an offence to carry a lock knife like this in a public place, don't you?'
'No, but...'
'The funny thing is it's not illegal to own one.' He clicked it open. The blade glinted. ''But I'm afraid I'll have to call the police.'
'Yes, but . . .'
So our search for a revolution began... in Gatwick.
15 hours later at Havana Airport, wondering how we'd manage without our flick knife, we staggered to the bus, our rucksacks on curved backs like endangered turtles, wishing we hadn't brought so much stuff. We noticed with envy soft cases on wheels and purveyed their owners who would be our travel companions. They looked a random bunch of white middle aged to older adventurers with a few exceptions: a young woman with jet eyes and infectious laugh, a blonde Czech woman, a pregnant Brummie couple, and a tall Indian man with presence-possibly gay. Together with our chocolate (his description), basketball net-high Cuban guide, it would seem we would tick all the boxes for a good mix. All that was left was to spend two weeks together to see if it would work.
Wednesday, 16 November 2011
'WE'RE OIL IN THIS TOGETHER'
Last night over 130 people turned out to take part or support an evening of music, drama and stories that launched Emily Johns' exhibition,'What the Oil is Thinking,' at Pontardawe Arts Centre. The Murdon Choir sang, Mess up the Mess, a youth theatre group, performed a physical piece of theatre, inter-spersed with facts about oil spills and the cost to us all. Members of Script Cafe had their five minute plays performed by professional actors. There was a communal piece,'We're going to see the Albatross,' devised by participants of 'Make a Play in a Day' using as their starting point Emily's print of an albatross hovering over a sea- city of plastic, the size of Texas.
Then a piece exploring how difficult it is when you're dealing with climate change and green issues, not to preach or lecture. Does making people feel guilty about using their cars or flying long distances work any better? If people know the scientific facts, will that help people change their thirst for oil? Should we start fining people for not re-cycling?
This is a really challenging area for those playwrights who want to tackle big issues. The conclusion was that it's the pictures and images that we hold within our mind's eye or stories told to us by others, that make an impact and influence us to change. But is it that simple? My experience working with people with disabilities, trying to challenge attitudes and behaviour made me realise that without legislation and enforcement, effecting change can be half-hearted and take a very long time. So what needs to happen when we know what we should be doing to save our resources but we're lazy or don't entirely believe that the future of the planet lies in our oil-stained hands?
Then a piece exploring how difficult it is when you're dealing with climate change and green issues, not to preach or lecture. Does making people feel guilty about using their cars or flying long distances work any better? If people know the scientific facts, will that help people change their thirst for oil? Should we start fining people for not re-cycling?
This is a really challenging area for those playwrights who want to tackle big issues. The conclusion was that it's the pictures and images that we hold within our mind's eye or stories told to us by others, that make an impact and influence us to change. But is it that simple? My experience working with people with disabilities, trying to challenge attitudes and behaviour made me realise that without legislation and enforcement, effecting change can be half-hearted and take a very long time. So what needs to happen when we know what we should be doing to save our resources but we're lazy or don't entirely believe that the future of the planet lies in our oil-stained hands?
Sunday, 13 November 2011
THE LAST ALBATROSS, BLAZIN' FIDDLES & A REUNION
Yesterday, November 12th, was Remembrance Day for Lost Species. Three species are lost to eternity every hour. Feral Theatre's Funeral for Lost Species considers the social significance of extinction and commemorates it as a social tragedy. We were invited to hold an event that remembered and celebrated lost species.
Over the past few months members of Pontardawe Script Cafe have been working on the theme, 'Conscious oil,' writing short plays in response to a set of dramatic prints created by Emily Johns on the theme of our historical relationship to oil. Yesterday we held an event,'Make a Play in a Day' where we responded to one of the prints, an endangered albatross with its wings spread, hovering over a city of abandoned plastic bottles. There used to be 21 species of albatross and now there are only three species left. We devised a communal piece that explores the issue. It's very difficult not to be preachy and we had some interesting discussions about how best to put our message across, what motivates people to change their behaviour and how can we adapt to survive climate change? Our inter-connectness with all species was again highlighted and reinforced. What kind of species will humans become? Will we become as extinct as a Dodo or what kind of mutation might we evolve into?
We'll be performing our piece on Tuesday 15th of November at 7pm at the Arts Centre. Professional actors, directed by Derek Cobley will be performing the individual short plays, and in addition, Mess up the Mess, a local youth theatre group will be performing, and the Murton Choir from Swansea will be singing. So now all I've got to do is learn my lines. Eeek!
On return from Pontardawe, we had a quick fish and chip supper and drove down to the Royal Welsh Theatre of Music and Drama. The building was only finished in June and is already a architectural icon overlooking Bute Park. 'Blazin' Fiddles,' a group of five fiddlers, an electric organ player and a guitarist from the Highlands and Islands of Scotland entertained us wholeheartedly for the evening. In the first half of the programme of jigs, reels, laments and marches, the Cardiff audience sat rather primly and politely. After the interval the mood changed and everyone was clapping, nodding and whooping for more. But sadly only a few of us responded to the call to get up and dance, led by a black woman groupie from London. We jumped, stamped and clapped to the wild, heart-stomping playing of the sweating Celtic musicians. Our spirits soar!
I got back to find an email from a person I'd mentored several years ago and with whom I lost touch when I went to Shetland for a year. He had been in care for most of his life and the future wasn't looking too bright for him. He'd re-found me through Google. I was delighted to read how he'd turned his life around, was working, had finally got his GCSE's, was in a relationship, and was off alone on a back-packing adventure to Australia. Inspiring!
What a Day!
Over the past few months members of Pontardawe Script Cafe have been working on the theme, 'Conscious oil,' writing short plays in response to a set of dramatic prints created by Emily Johns on the theme of our historical relationship to oil. Yesterday we held an event,'Make a Play in a Day' where we responded to one of the prints, an endangered albatross with its wings spread, hovering over a city of abandoned plastic bottles. There used to be 21 species of albatross and now there are only three species left. We devised a communal piece that explores the issue. It's very difficult not to be preachy and we had some interesting discussions about how best to put our message across, what motivates people to change their behaviour and how can we adapt to survive climate change? Our inter-connectness with all species was again highlighted and reinforced. What kind of species will humans become? Will we become as extinct as a Dodo or what kind of mutation might we evolve into?
We'll be performing our piece on Tuesday 15th of November at 7pm at the Arts Centre. Professional actors, directed by Derek Cobley will be performing the individual short plays, and in addition, Mess up the Mess, a local youth theatre group will be performing, and the Murton Choir from Swansea will be singing. So now all I've got to do is learn my lines. Eeek!
On return from Pontardawe, we had a quick fish and chip supper and drove down to the Royal Welsh Theatre of Music and Drama. The building was only finished in June and is already a architectural icon overlooking Bute Park. 'Blazin' Fiddles,' a group of five fiddlers, an electric organ player and a guitarist from the Highlands and Islands of Scotland entertained us wholeheartedly for the evening. In the first half of the programme of jigs, reels, laments and marches, the Cardiff audience sat rather primly and politely. After the interval the mood changed and everyone was clapping, nodding and whooping for more. But sadly only a few of us responded to the call to get up and dance, led by a black woman groupie from London. We jumped, stamped and clapped to the wild, heart-stomping playing of the sweating Celtic musicians. Our spirits soar!
I got back to find an email from a person I'd mentored several years ago and with whom I lost touch when I went to Shetland for a year. He had been in care for most of his life and the future wasn't looking too bright for him. He'd re-found me through Google. I was delighted to read how he'd turned his life around, was working, had finally got his GCSE's, was in a relationship, and was off alone on a back-packing adventure to Australia. Inspiring!
What a Day!
Tuesday, 1 November 2011
PONTARDAWE STRIKES OIL
There's Oil in Pontardawe!
As the price of oil rises, and as the temperature drops and we gear up for what is predicted to be another harsh winter, residents have struck oil in the Centre of Pontardawe - the Arts Centre. And they are singing about it, telling stories and generally creating a drama!
Just weeks after the ban on free plastic bags, Pontardawe Arts Centre is hosting a lively evening to launch the popular exhibition 'Conscious Oil' by Emily Johns. With stories from local miners, singing from the Murton choir, drama from Mess up the Mess and Pontardawe's own script cafe, this evening is set to get you thinking about where your next bag for life is coming from.
'We're oil in this together,' says Brian Cainen, a Swansea scriptwriter whose sketch sees two polar bears fighting over the last piece of ice in the arctic. 'Drama explores big issues,' he says, 'by bringing them down to a human story - or in my case a polar bear story.'
Energy charity Awel Aman Tawe, and Peacock Vein Scriptshop have joined forces to organise the event with funding from Countryside Council for Wales, Environment Wales and Literature Wales. As Jan Daniel (Chair of Script Cafe) says,
'We are oil addicts. But we all have to adapt to survive'.
Conscious Oil - an evening of music, theatre, art and stories.
Pontardawe Arts Centre - Tuesday 15th November 7.00 - 9.30
SORRY-THE FINAL OUTCOME
Hi!
Scores of people came through the doors of the Dahl Art Gallery, in the Norwegian Church last week to see the art and poetry exhibition-'Sorry, i don't eat fish'- Janet and Ieuan Rhys Daniel's creative response to climate change and a celebration of the natural world.
Comments in the Visitors Book included:
'Wonderful drawings, thought provoking poetry'
'Funny and moving'
'I laughed out loud'
'Inspiring and stimulating'
'So glad I came'
£1359.88 was raised for two environmental charities-Awel Aman Tawe, a community energy organisation, and The Taffs Well Community Garden, encouraging local families to grow their own food.
A massive THANK YOU to everyone who supported, visited and contributed.
If you weren't able to get to the exhibition, you can still see and order the pictures and prints on-line. Pictures cost £150-200 and digital prints £25.
See http://ieuanrhysdaniel.tumblr.com
A few of the poems can also be viewed on http://janetdaniel-writer.blogspot.com
The exhibition will be on show again at the Pontardawe Arts Centre from March 28-April 20 2012. There will be a launch on the 28th of March with an open mike poetry session with readings on the theme of nature and climate change.
Please do get in touch if you would like further information
Saturday, 29 October 2011
Friday, 21 October 2011
LAPWINGS
A Shetland pony stoops
at the brackish end of Strand Loch,
her tresses tossing gnats away.
She sniffs sorrow in the wind,
her world is changing.
She lifts her eyes to the stone sky
as a fluttering
of black and white waders
wave by.
She stares solemnly into the shallows,
catching a glimpse of plumage popping.
She counts crests bobbing in damp grass.
‘Not so many this year,’ she neighs,
dipping her head back to the water’s edge
as a bleak mist rolls in.
Janet Daniel
LAST ONE TO LEAVE THE ROOM
LAST ONE TO LEAVE THE ROOM
Gaze into this bowl of light.
See wasp spiders crawl over purple whales
sheep eyes, sleep eyes
swallow, suck
wallow round
deep down, until
like a python
night fingers my throat
squeezing my breath
crushing the light out of me, until
I squeak.
Light becomes night;
night without reason
treacherous night
unforgiving night
don’t go gently night
ferocious night
starry infinite night
In my last nanosecond
I awake
vaporizing night, until
a glow worm appears
re-igniting light;
light pulsating
throbbing light
light of reason
loyal light
forgiving light
child whispering light
laughing light
starburst light
light flooding into consciousness
light giving light to life again.
Janet Daniel
BEELINE
BEELINE
No bees?
No grapes
No sun
No wine.
No wine?
No way!
One way
Save lives
Build hives
More bees
More grapes
More wine
Sunshine!
Janet Daniel
NEW YEAR'S EVE 2009
NEW YEAR’S EVE 2009
You rise
sparkling like glow worms massing,
chandelier
peeping through Leylandia.
You move slowly until break out
into rainbow-scaley sky.
You rise
bouncing ball of icy blue
hang solemnly
ready to drop
onto an unsuspecting world.
You rise
hide behind cross-hatched pear,
play peak and seek
where in autumn
hardened fruit failed their perry promise.
You rise high
to top of leaded apple light
where earlier today
Jays picked budding berries.
You rise higher
pure demure
reminding us of friends
and places faraway.
You rise
above sheep mountain
silhouette
and below
spin fish, turn tides,
moods ebb and flow,
wolf women whistle and wail.
You rise ever higher
and retreat. Janet Daniel
DANCERS' HAIKU
DANCERS’ HAIKU
Roots wrap round lichen
Dancing to sacred rhythm
Freeing green spirit
Janet Daniel
SORRY I DON'T EAT FISH-THE POEM
SORRY, I DON'T EAT FISH
Sorry, I don't eat fish
I wish I could say
when asked
to a dinner party a few days away.
My conscience tells me I should be good
and eat only plants ,
but I can't.
It's the fish that are nearly extinct
that I particularly like
although feel terrible shame
when eating cod, haddock or hake
or any white fish that tastes really divine
when deep-fried with chips and a glass of white wine.
Then there are the oily fish
mackerel, salmon and herring
that once filled the oceans near to our shores
but not anymore,
because people with taste buds like me
just couldn't believe
we are over-fishing our seas.
I am told there are fish to be eaten
without beating you up
you don't have to deny a fine source of grub.
People talk of a sustainable way
but is it at a price I'm willing to pay?
If I don't
it will soon be the end of my favourites
all fished away.
So perhaps I should look
for snapper, crimson and red,
trout, brown, sea and rainbow
organically bred
black and sea bream from the North Wales quarter
cook flounder and more from Cornwall's water.
I do have a choice
I can choose to say
Yes, I eat fish the sustainable way.
Janet Daniel
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