CIENFUEGOS.
To my mind, Cienfuegos is the Cuban port which should, under a sensible
and progressive administration, offer the finest prospect for future
development and prosperity. The bay is extremely beautiful, and on its
deep expanse the combined fleets of the nations might anchor in perfect
security. Four rivers, which might easily be rendered navigable, the
Damuji, the Salado, the Caonao, and the Orimao, flow into its waters.
Here, in the brighter times to come, when the Spaniards shall cease from
troubling and the rebels be at rest, will surely be the capital of a new
Cuba.
Cienfuegos is on the direct line to Panama, and, once the isthmus is
cut, must become of vast commercial importance. At present it contains
less than 20,000 inhabitants, and its trade is of no exceptional value.
It is not an ancient city. It only dates from the beginning of the
present century, and derives its name from the celebrated Cuban general,
Cienfuegos. The church, a very hideous edifice, much older than the
town, contains a famous Madonna, whose robes of cloth of gold and violet
velvet were presented by Queen Isabella II., and who is the object of
many pious pilgrimages. The inns are fairly good, for Cuba. In one of
them, La Fonda de Paris, I was nipped by a scorpion, and that hotel is
consequently bound up, as far as I am concerned, with very unpleasant
associations.
The country round Cienfuegos is far more interesting than the town, and
a long drive enabled me to form the acquaintance of a very interesting
type of Cuban--the Guajiro, or white peasant, who abounds in this part
of the island, where many of them cultivate a few acres, and live a life
quite distinct from that of the rest of the world. The Guajiro is
generally of Catalonian or Andalusian origin. Many trace their descent a
long way back to ancestors who came over to Cuba a century or two ago.
As a rule, the men are handsome, manly fellows. They sit a horse as if
born on its back, and seem, like the centaurs of yore, to form part and
parcel of the animal. Their dialect, a mixture of Spanish and of
African, picked up among the negroes, is exceedingly difficult to
understand. The Guajiro used to be a slave-owner, and a terribly hard
task-master was he, for if there is one thing he hates more than
another, it is work. He enjoys sitting in the shade, smoking his
cigarette, and lazily, drowsily, watching his female belongings at their
labour. On the other hand, when roused to effort, he can perform
miracles: ride heaven only knows how many miles, in the blazing sun, and
build a palm hut in a few hours. Living from hand to mouth, rarely, if
ever, taking the trouble to cultivate his tiny domain properly, the true
Guajiro is a perfect illustration of the fact that "man wants but
little here below." His chief food consists of bananas hot, and bananas
cold, of tomatoes, and other vegetables and fruits unknown in European
markets, which are said to be both excellent and nourishing. He rarely
touches meat, except pork, on which he mainly feeds, but he often
catches fish for his dinner, and looks upon an iguana or a bull-frog as
a desirable delicacy. When he is not a liliputian landowner, he earns
his living as a herdsman, for, from childhood up, he has acquired a vast
experience in the management of cattle and horses--and, above all, of
niggers. Under these circumstances he is obliged to work. He hires
himself out by the week or month, during the harvest season, like any
other labourer, and thereby earns a fair wage, which he spends freely,
on Sundays and _fiestas_, in the taverns, or in betting at cock-fights
or at the bull-ring.
The Guajiro who owns a few acres of land is a far more interesting
individual than his fellow, the hired labourer. He is so gloriously,
insolently, independent. What cares he for the luxuries of life, if he
have but a dish of bananas for his dinner, and a smart suit of clothes
in his chest to wear o' Sundays? Six days out of the seven see him
pottering about his farmyard, a magnificent dunghill, on which his brood
of dark-eyed urchins flourishes in primitive costumes, and spends its
time in festive sports, together with the family dogs, pigs, and cows.
On high days and holidays he makes himself very smart, dons his white
"ducks" and his untanned pig-skin boots, his gaudy waistband, and his
broad-brimmed straw hat. The rest of the time he wears his pants and
his jacket only. A born musician, he plays the guitar, and often sings
charmingly. Sometimes that modern wandering Jew, the Italian
organ-grinder, accompanied by a monkey, stops in the dusty road in front
of the Guajiro's domicile, and tunes up "Il Baccio," or the "Blue Danube
Waltz," whereupon the Guajiro and his wife and their brood fall into an
ecstacy of wonderment, and reward the musician liberally, being under
the impression that his music is due to his skill and not to mere
mechanical contrivance.
The Guajira (the Missis) is also a character in her way. On her
shoulders, poor soul, falls the burden of the heavier work, all except
tending the cattle. She does the cooking, such as it is! She mends the
family rags, and washes them, and looks after the skinny fowls--nothing
on earth will fatten a Cuban fowl! Above all she keeps a vigilant eye on
her mischievous flock of Guajiritos, who never learn to read or write,
but sprawl about the filthy yard, or, when they are old enough, depart
on joyous expeditions in the woods, to search for natural curiosities
fit for food, such as iguanas, lizards, a large fat black snake, said to
be very tender, and better than an eel, frogs as big as your head, and
other such horrors, which the Guajira converts into succulent dishes.
The family mansion is built of palm branches, and has a rickety,
earthquaky appearance about it, that may be very picturesque, but must
be very uncomfortable. The whole family sleeps on the straw-littered
floor. Such Guajiros as I visited seemed to be happy enough, but in the
rainy season they often suffer from rheumatism, ague, and other like
diseases. Thousands of them have joined the rebellion, in the hope of
its eventually leading to a betterment in their condition, which, as
they get into closer contact with civilization, grows daily less
endurable.
The Guajiro of bygone times, with his bright eyes and his guitar, is the
starving reconcentrado of to-day. I like to think of him as he was, not
as he is. Let us, therefore, behold the SeA+-or and the SeA+-ora Guajiro in
all the glory of their war-paint, _en route_ for the procession of the
Angel, for instance, in their village church of Santa-FA(C). The SeA+-or is
dressed up in all his Sunday go-to-meeting best, a costume very like
that of our own coster-boys, and the same blood doubtless courses
through their veins, for I am assured, on authority, that Whitechapel
'Arry and his "donah" originally came from the sunny land of Spain, in
Merry King Charles II.'s time, to sell oranges to benighted Britishers,
and that, liking us and our ways, he then and there condescended to take
up his abode amongst us. Certainly the Cuban Guajiro shares 'Arry's
propensity for mother-of-pearl and silver buttons, with which he covers
every available part of his clothing, his jacket, his waistcoat, and his
trousers. By her lord's side tramps the faithful Guajira, a very
beautiful young matron, frequently, with delicate, regular features and
soft brown eyes with sweeping lashes. Her gown is made of gaudy chintz,
patterned with flaring bunches of roses. Most probably the fabric was
made in England in the tasteless early Victorian days, and intended as
furniture covering. Its train sweeps up a cloud of dust, for it would be
derogatory for any respectable Guajira to lift her skirts like those
miserable English and American women, who hold up their petticoats to
their knees, and go picking their way along as if they were treading on
eggs and were afraid of breaking them. The very negresses know better.
Nevertheless, the Guajira takes good care to display her very small,
brown, stockingless feet, thrust into a pair of green or red zapatos, or
slippers, in which she intends to dance the Creola. Over her shoulders
is a China crape shawl, either white or rose-coloured--a wedding
present,--and her raven tresses are set off by a bunch of wax-like
stephanotis or of scarlet hibiscus. Before and behind their parents trot
the "family," some dozen of them, the baby borne in the arms of a small
but very gorgeous negress. As to these little brown ones, I have seen
them trotting along without a stitch of clothing, with their hair very
neatly brushed and their small tawny feet encased in patent leather
shoes, the whole shaded by an old scarlet parasol. Sometimes, however,
the Guajiro and the Guajira may be particularly well-to-do, and in this
case they do not condescend to trapese along the dusty roads like the
common of mortals, negroes and mulattoes and "sich'z," but make a
triumphal entry on horseback, or on a little Cuban pony, gloriously
bedecked with silver and brass bells and buttons, and long tags of
yellow and red worsted balls. Or else they come along on bullock-back,
the Guajira sitting sideways on the beast's back, keeping her position
by clinging to her husband's waistband. Nothing quainter or more
picturesque can be imagined than this, to European ideas, queerest of
methods of locomotion. The bullock gallops clumsily enough, but seems to
fancy himself immensely in his rather novel character of horse. If,
perchance, you meet a dozen or so of these singular equestrians, you are
likely to retain a pleasant recollection of their picturesqueness to
your dying day.[15]
But let us hasten, or else we shall lose our Guajiro and Guajira in the
crowd in the _fiesta_, and that would be a sad pity. Their first duty is
to go to church, where we shall see them praying with pathetic sincerity
before the illuminated shrine of Our Lady of the Cobre or of Guadalupe.
No philosophical doubt haunts the consciences of these good folk. God
and His Blessed Mother hear every word they say to Them, and, as they
are on very friendly terms with the Powers that be, they place their
affairs most frankly before Them, firmly believing that if they do their
best to keep straight, according to their lights, their prayers will
surely be heard, else why pray at all? They have a good deal to pray
for. The Guajiro slily asks that he may be inspired to bet on the
winning cock, and the Guajira has a yellow lottery ticket in her bosom,
the number of which was selected at the instance of a notorious African
witch. Now that was very wrong, and the Guajira's mind is not at all
easy on the subject, for the new Cura, Padre Pablo has told her over
and over again that Lolla, the witch, is a black limb of Satan, and that
if things were as they ought to be, she would long ago have been burnt
at the stake. But still, if Our Lady would but make that number win,
there would be ten or twenty dollars to the good, and see what a lot of
comforts that would enable her to get. And, besides that, is not the old
Guajiro's grandmother, who is nearly a hundred, ill at home, and is she
not always wanting medicine, and things that poor people cannot afford
to buy, and, the children are really getting too old to go about without
any clothing, especially Cassandrina, who is nearly seven years of age.
But how is one to buy dresses, in these hard times, for growing wenches,
even if they are one's own children, unless a little windfall drops into
one's lap? Therefore, "O Most Pitiful Lady of the Cobre, ask your Son,
whose image wears such a pretty frock of sky blue satin, with a golden
fringe, to let old black Lolla's number win. _Por amor de Dios._"
Being perfectly satisfied that their prayers are duly registered in the
Court of Heaven, the worthy couple and their brood, who, by-the-way,
have been staring all the time, with eyes as big as halfpence, at the
gorgeous robes of Our Lady of the Cobre, flock out of church into the
broad, sunny plaza, where, although it is only six o'clock a.m.
(everything in Cuba is done at an unearthly hour on account of the
heat), the Procession is already beginning to form, so as to be over
before High Mass begins. Bless me, how magnificent it all is! So much
better done than in the days of the old Cura, a dreadful old person,
concerning whom there were so many queer stories. Since our blessed
Pope, Leo XIII., has come to the throne, things _have_ changed for the
better.
First come the confraternities of the Precious Blood and of Our Lady of
the Cobre, all very decently dressed, the blacks and the whites mixed
up, on a footing of perfect equality, holding candles in their hands,
without any distinction of caste or colour. Then the Children of Mary,
not a few of them dressed up as Saints,--St Agnes with her lamb, St John
with sheep-skin wound round his chubby limbs, St Francis as a little
monk, and so forth. And lastly, the priests in their showiest vestments,
and the choir boys with their incense, and the climax of the function,
the Angel,--that is to say, a chariot drawn by two white oxen, whose
sweeping horns are tipped with gold foil, in which, on a throne made of
leaves and artificial roses, sits a little girl attired as an angel with
a flaxen wig, for in tropical countries, where mortals are generally
black-haired, all Celestial beings are supposed to be blondes. The
angel's wings are made of coloured bits of paper, cut in the shape of
feathers, arranged with a distinct eye to artistic effect. When the
angel and her chariot arrive in front of the Church the priests bring
forth the statue of Our Lady of the Cobre, and place it under a gorgeous
canopy, where it remains, whilst the terrestrial angel recites a _loja_
or sonnet, in honour of the Blessed Lady. Then the Benediction is given,
all the motley crowd drops on its knees, and afterwards everybody
hurries into the Church to hear Mass, and so the religious part of the
fiesta ends. Later in the day after the mid-day siesta, we shall find
the Guajiro at the cockpit, which women are prohibited by law from
attending, so that the Guajira will be discovered sitting outside the
village fonda, gossiping with her cousins and friends, and sipping
tamarind water, whilst her numerous progeny disport themselves in the
middle of the square, where there is a sort of fair in progress. If the
favourite cock wins,--and it must surely win on this special
occasion,--the Guajiro will be in the best of humours, and he and his
wife will dance the Creola until the small hours, for a Cuban dances
even when he is half-dead. Long before the sun rises our friends will
have wended their way home, and there will be but little joy in their
lives until the next fiesta comes round. But as there happen to be
seventy-two of them besides fifty-two Sundays, the chintz dress with the
big roses will stir up the dust between the farm and Santa-FA(C) on many an
occasion yet, before Christmas comes round again, and everybody goes to
pray before the Infante de Dios[16] in the Parish Church.
In the neighbourhood of Cienfuegos, I had the questionable pleasure of
beholding a Cuban "duck hunt." In the diary of our good Boy-King, Edward
VI., appears the following entry:--
"1550, June 4. Sir Robert Dudley, eldest (surviving) son to the Earl of
Warwick, married Sir John Robsart's daughter, Amy, after which marriage,
there were certain gentlemen that did strive who should first take away
a goose's head which was hanged alive on two cross posts."
The cruel sport, at one time considered a courtly pastime in England, is
still a favourite in Cuba. Two posts are set up, some three yards apart,
and to the centre of the cross beam a live duck or goose is tied by the
legs, head downwards. Then some ten or twenty men on horseback dash
under the posts, and the victor is he who "takes away the goose's head"
as he gallops through. The wretched bird's head being well greased, it
often happens that the poor creature's sufferings are prolonged for many
minutes, whilst the wild crew of horsemen strive to wrench it off,
without losing their balance or falling from horseback. The hubbub is
deafening, everybody shouts at once, and, above the din, you can hear
the piercing shrieks of the half-strangled fowl. As all the horses must
pass under the comparatively narrow gangway, many are thrown down, while
others take fright and gallop off, frequently leaving their _caballeros_
sprawling, and perhaps badly damaged, on the ground. It is a disgusting
and most cruel exhibition, and makes one feel sorry that it should have
been included among the wedding festivities of so interesting and much
to be pitied a heroine as Amy Robsart.