Cuban Coffee in Cracked Hands

By D’Ayn Sayre

Speeding through the countryside, the roads are narrow and the asphalt is clayed over from the runoff of the mountains on either side. The awkward yellow taxi driven by Dianelis, a spunky young woman, weaves through the switchbacks, the stray dogs, and the horses pulling carts with expertise. The jungle dances to the rhythm of the wind. Dense, low forestry with enormous palm trees poking through the thick of the land are swaying high, reaching for the sun. The further we drive into the forest, roofs of homes seem to sag deeper, horses are thinner, makeshift barns lean further. Despite the decay of the infrastructure, the farmers wave with large smiles that truly reach their eyes as we drive passed. Now deep into the countryside, Dianelis pulls off the side of the road, minding a broken-down SUV on the right, and a plow with a missing wheel to the left. We have finally made it to the farm.

            Trekking up a “driveway”, a man’s shouting reaches my ears as he yells for his family to come and greet us as we arrive. No vehicle could ever actually travel up this driveway because it is a nearly 60-degree angle upwards, laid with loose stones the size of paperweights. Half way up the muddy incline two houses, a 30-year-old rusted tractor, two horses, a mule and more than 10 people come in to view.

            First, I’m hugged by Perfecto, who I quickly discover is the one who shouted our arrival. Eight children grew up on this farm, and he is the sixth. This man is charismatic, and easily the star of the show. His energy is infectious, arms waving, head rolling, straight white teeth smiling wide. Though Perfecto is surely entertaining all the way up to the top of the hill, his older brother grasped my arm as I nearly tripped over a loose stone. He’s the one who truly caught my attention. Clad in government distributed garb, Juanito’s tall and lanky form stands proudly in his forest green trousers, khaki button down that is a size too-large and originally intends to serve as an overcoat, a tan newspaper-boy cap, and to-the-knee rain boots. He leads us to his home, where we spend the day. His home is painted a light green with salmon colored shudders. The wooden structure atop a concrete pad was quaint, two bedrooms and a common room, separated into two spaces by a string of beads. One side of the common room was a seating area situated around a TV from the 1980s, and the other half was home to a magnificently hand-crafted dining table. The “kitchen” is out the back door, though they have no refrigerator and the stove is coal fire. The bathroom is also, outside.

            Juanito is the oldest brother of the family. He is the only sibling that lives on his father’s farm. It is now his. All eight children grew up here, but the rest of the siblings moved closer to the city to find work. The land grows coffee and sugarcane. Pigs, chickens, and hound dogs run about the yard.

            Even though I can not directly communicate with Juanito, I feel we will get along. About 60 years old, though looking 40, this man is quiet, observant, and hard-working. Perfecto is the talker of the family, and Juanito is the worker. Juanito’s deep, kind eyes and worn, cracked hands spoke for him. In him, I saw my grandfather.

             I grew up two doors down from my grandad,and although I saw him nearly everyday and we were close, he is not the chatty type. We can sit together in the car, work cows in the field, toss a baseball back and forth for hours in complete, comfortable silence. My grandad prefers to let his actions do the talking. The cracks of Juanito’s dry hands, with dirt embedded in the cuticles no matter how hard they are scrubbed, were just the same as the hands who picked me up off the ground after my first horse bucked me off. The hands that skimmed through my math textbook helping me find the answers to my homework. The ones who built homes and surveyed land for a living. Though Juanito and I do not speak, his eyes tell me he is of similar spirit.

            After introducing us to the remaining family and friends, and the gray clouds cast low in the sky, Juanito walks us up the path from his house, to his father’s. He begins to shovel the coffee beans drying out on the concrete pad in front of the house, which now sits empty after his father’s passing. There are purposeful divots in the pad, that serve to encourage rain run off. Noticing a second shovel leaning against the porch, I walk up to Juanito with it in my hands and question, with hand gestures, if I can try. His dark brown eyes soften as his lips perk up into a tight smile. He turns his body to show me the correct hand placement of the shovel, and then slowly performs the correct movements of the tool so I can learn. We push and shovel thousands of coffee beans into the middle of the pad. We cover the heap with a great blue tarp to protect the dried-out beans from the rain. He gives me a curt nod for a job well done.

            As Perfecto shows us how to remove the coffee bean from the hull standing on the porch, Juanito disappears. Minutes later he comes back through the thick of the forest, dragging stalks of sugar cane along with him. He hacks the stalks with a long machete hanging from his belt, and passes a hunk to each of us to chew on.

            We return to Juanito’s house as the rain comes in, and snack on sweet oranges, bananas, and the best pork I’ve had in ages. True organic, farm raised food. The kind of food I grew up on, but no longer come in contact with while living in the city. I meet Juanito’s son, his wife, and their son. I could see the deep, kind eyes were inherited as was his height and physique not only by his son, but also his granddaughter. The energy as both the Americans and the Cubans laugh deeply and grasp their bellies with one hand, almost losing their glass of rum in the other, is contagious. We drink, we laugh, and some sing as we lounge about the house, telling the rain to take it’s time in passing, as we were in no rush to leave. We all are enjoying the time with one another. I have never experienced such a deep feeling of comfort with a collection of strangers, especially strangers who do not speak my language. Perhaps it is because their lives are not so different from mine.

            I grew up on 30-acre farm split between my parents and grandparents, where we raised cattle, horses, goats, chickens, llamas, rabbits, the list goes on. Farming is a way of life, and it is evident that regardless of your country, your government, your language, your education, it teaches you strength. It teaches you hard work. It teaches you kindness. This family, feels like my own. As an American traveling to Cuba, I was not expecting to connect with anyone, yet I have with Juanito and his family. After many group pictures and hugs good bye, leaving is not easy. I am upset that I am not able to speak their language. I am saddened that I can not tell them goodbye for myself. I am frustrated for not realizing there are kindred spirits regardless of your place in this world. We drive back through the forest as the sun is setting, and I’ve never seen anything quite like it. I’ve seen plenty of beautiful ones, sitting on the riverbank of campus, watching the colors paint the flowing current. Over my pasture back home, sinking beneath the orange trees. Off the balcony of my dorm in Sorrento Italy, fading into the Tyrrhenian sea. But this sunset feels alive, even in death. I want to climb to the top of a ridge and watch the bold orange sun fade from the sky and sink below the palmed hills. It has been an unforgettable day.

            Seeing Cuba as an English major is not about relating Jose Marti’s Abdala to the struggles of the nation. Feeling Cuba as an English major is not about walking the grounds of Hemingway’s home in Havana, pausing as the warm air rolls over me, wondering if he stood in those exact steps. In actuality, being an English major had everything to do with seeing and feeling what Cuba is through my eyes, through my fingers, through my thoughts, my emotions, and my perspective. For me, writing isn’t about comparing and analyzing the thoughts of the greats before me. Writing is about breathing life into the crevices that are not yet explored. Writing is about telling a story the way I see it through my life and my experiences, past and present.