Cuba: Day 4 - Part 2

Bay of Cienfuegos

Benny Moré School of Art music students

If you know anything about Cuban music, you probably have heard of Benny Moré.  He’s from this area, the pride and joy of Cienfuegos, right down to the life-size bronze statue of him on the main street.  Unlike other musicians, he chose to remain in Cuba after the Revolution but died of alcohol abuse at only 44.
       We’re awaited at the Benny Moré School of Art, which provides training for all the arts:  painting, sculpture, music, dance.  We’re greeted by Eduardo, the head of the music school, and ushered into a large room with horrible acoustics and a large metal sculpture of a student-sculpted baby doll by the piano.  A group of students in school uniform performs for us, one after the other, all excellent.  In spite of their young age (most were 14), they already have many years in at the school.  When they graduate, they’re considered professional musicians and can perform and be hired as such.  Of the 250 students, 38 are in the visual arts, 45 in dance and the rest in music.  Talents scouts are sent out to scour all the schools.  What the music students are judged on I don’t know because Eduardo says they prefer children with no prior training in order to decide which instrument is best for them.  Schooling is totally free.
       The dance troupe is touring so we don’t get to enjoy them.  As for the art side of the School, we’re treated to an exhibition of the students’ works, as well as those of their professors.  In fact, they’re available to purchase.  One of the professors even makes an appointment to bring his works to the hotel for one of our bunch.  There’s a whole lot of talent in this school.

Many school walls are covered with artwork by professors and students alike

Back at the hotel, Chris gives us a slide show about Cuban society and culture.  Then, before dinner, I poke around the grounds a bit.  There’s a pocket garden by the sea and I happen upon a man picking dried leaves out of the bushes.  We exchange holas of greeting, followed by the eternal question De donde estas? (Where are you from?). We strike up a conversation of sorts and I tell him my father loved gardening.  All these clipped bushes are his work. He is the hotel’s gardener.  He asks me to follow him and stands me in front of a tree, facing me in a very specific direction.  “Look!” he says.  “What do you see?”  Frankly not much except a strangely clipped tree.  Then he points at a star near the top of the tree.  “Look closely.”  My eyes suddenly make sense of it all.  It’s the head of Che Guevara! Beret, bushy hair (pun intended), eyes, nose, mouth... it’s all there.  And I compliment him.  He looks from the tree to me and back, proud of his handiwork.

       Then it’s time for dinner on the patio of Los Laureles:  a méchoui, a lamb roasted on a spit over an open fire.  There is music - obviously.  A whole ensemble.  And as I can never stand still with that kind of rhythm, I start semi-dancing in place.  Suddenly one of the percussionists comes up and grabs my hand and then we’re out in a clear space, dancing all those steps my ex from Martinique taught me. “You dance just like a Cuban,” he says in Spanish, surprise in his voice and a smile on his face.  Applause from my fellow travellers and a nod from the orchestra at the end.  That was a lot of fun for me, not for the applause but because I love to dance.

      After dinner we set off again, this time to meet with one of those neighborhood committees whose purpose used to be to keep a political eye on people.  Now it’s more of a get-together-and-help-each-other thing.  None of us has the slightest idea of what to expect; maybe they don’t either.  The bus pulls up in the semi-dark and we see lots of people in the street, tables with dominos and game boards set up, food laid out.  A little girl - maybe six years old - stands stiffly to greet us by reciting a poem by Marti.  I crouch down to be at her level.  Her eyes in mine, she finishes her poem and escapes into the crowd. After a stiff welcome speech from a lady who looks like she has her Good Outfit on, we’re invited to visit some of the houses.  One lady walks me through her home, which is small, but not overly.  Proudly she shows me the rooms, polished spick and span, her songbirds, her kitchen.  Baseball is on television, a night game just like in the States, and the man in her family is watching it, in spite of our intrusion.  I manage to communicate in my halting Spanish and she replies in words I can mostly understand.
       Then it’s back out into the street.  One of our group is playing Parcheesi with three locals, and when she wins, everyone cheers. Others are playing dominos, with or without help from the Cuban kibitzers behind them.  There’s music from a boom box and cake is passed around. Everyone is having a good time.  It’s hard to believe the embargo exists, with all the hardships it’s caused.  “That’s the governments.  You and I, we’re just people.” says Ismaël, the bus driver, as we dance.
       The bus returns us to Hotel Jagua, tired but smiling, having verified that people are indeed just people.  It’s been an unforgettable night, an unexpected high point.

Video of Cienfuegos, including a section in the middle on the Benny Moré School of Art:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1KMERrWDtSQ