Text and Photos by Nester Nuñez (La Joven Cuba)
HAVANA TIMES – Even if I were tortured, I could never say the exact number of times I traveled on trains without tickets. I didn’t do it out of innate juvenile mischief or because I lacked the seven pesos the ticket to Santa Clara cost, but because buying it consumed hours of life in a tumultuous and dangerous line where you had to put your physical and emotional resistance into practice: shouting, fighting, regaining calm and normal blood pressure to come out victorious.
It was easier for me to slip towards the platforms, wait for the conductor to look the other way, slip through any door, and once on board with the train in motion, avoid the police and inspectors. It was a kind of adrenaline more authentic and satisfying. Ultimately, if you were caught, you would have to pay double the fare: fourteen pesos. And the extra fine, twenty. I made five hundred a week with some cigars I bought in Cabaiguán and resold in Matanzas.
Regli, Yackelín, Liudmila, Yula, the people from Colon, and Jaguey Grande studied Law, Psychology, or engineering at the University of Santa Clara. Traveling was part of our lives for at least five years. Traveling, breaking down on the way, spending hours lying on the edge of the dark road, experiencing thirst and hunger… Each of us probably considered the possibility of quitting the career at some point, but we pulled ourselves together and kept going. It was mainly driven by hope, the idea of a better future, or perhaps the inertia we carried from the 1980s. The truth is, we didn’t get off the train, although, to tell the truth, some preferred the bus. Not me. In buses, I have always felt my freedom restricted.
Today is one of the many times I return to the city where my son was born, the city that rewarded me with a book and where great friendships still live. One of them, knowing my aversion to all things related to procedures, paid my reservation on the Viajando app from the comfort of her home. It cost 57 pesos, 1.8% of the average salary Cubans receive.
So, I am at the Matanzas bus terminal. From a distance, its structure still looks beautiful. Inside, you find walls full of dampness, spaces closed to the public, and the bathroom, whose bad odor has been legendary for at least three decades. The seats are metal, a bit more modern. I especially enjoy one of the posters on the mural: “Enemies will not spoil our party because we will not allow it as transporters.” A little above, a faded photo of Fidel Castro adds a touch of absurdity to what was already incomprehensible.
The Yutong is seven years old, runs well, and has air conditioning. It sways a bit, but it’s because of the constant potholes on the Central Highway. Despite it being winter, the marabou in the fields retains its green. The farmers must have gathered their cows early, as I don’t see any.
After Jovellanos, there is a good stand of mango trees, and then some greenhouses. The sugar canes are firm, resembling pencil stubs with the tips passed through the teeth of an impatient child. I realize I haven’t heard anything about the sugar harvest.
Before Colón, the discomfort of traveling by bus begins to manifest: I am uncomfortable, and my back hurts. My phone rings. It’s Erick, a journalism student at the University of Havana whom I admire, among other things, because he lives off literature: he buys books, reads them, and then resells them. He asks when he can come to my house to check my library to see if there’s anything of interest. I have some gems, I assure him. Come by in a couple of days right now I am now heading to Santa Clara.
Erick gives me the bad news in the kindest way: They have just raised the prices of tickets. From Havana —the starting point taken as a reference— to Santa Clara, it’s 275 pesos. Saying “bad news” is a cowardly euphemism. What I feel is a stab in the back, and the blood of the people is flowing. I think of Regla, Yacke, all the students of all times, their parents, ordinary workers, Erick, who even by selling literature by sacks…
I stop writing because no memory, no chronicle, and no words, not even a few photos, are worthy of the discomfort, distrust, and anger that such measures generate in me. The Central Highway is a big pothole. Cows don’t fatten, and from what I’ve seen on the journey, there won’t be much sugar this year.
Starting February 1, Cubans will have to pay a price five times higher to see their relatives, study, work, or travel outside their province. Salaries remain the same, but the distrust and discontent of the citizens grow. If things continue as they are, I am increasingly convinced that, sooner or later, it will be those who decide from above without considering those below, who will pay the price.
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