Making the Most of a Visit to Camaguey Amid Blackouts

to attend their Theater Festival

By Lien Estrada

HAVANA TIMES – The Camaguey Theater Festival was set to take place on November 14 and run through the 24^th. Enthused, I bought a ticket to the city – some 137 miles west of us – for Wednesday the 13^th. It was a special occasion for me, coming from Holguin whose theater is more often being repaired than in use. I was excited to enjoy some theater, that most fleeting of the arts and as lovely as the rest.

The day came, and the trip went smoothly, thank God, but upon arrival I discovered that the program had changed – the festival wouldn’t start on the 14th, but on the 18^th. The very day I had expected to return to my home territory!

Instead of lamenting the loss, I decided to visit some old and new friends I’d only known on Facebook, since we’d decided to try and meet personally at the first opportunity.  Camaguey, a city known first for its churches and after that for its large earthenware water containers, has spawned some enchanting sons and daughters whose friendship I can in no way resist. I began to visit them with joy and gratitude. They’re a rushing river of tenderness and intelligence.

I discovered more than one of them in the process of readying their documents to leave for Spain or the United States, as I think is happening all over the country. Some of them didn’t believe that a festival could exist amid the crisis, and with so many blackouts. That situation in Camaguey was horrible. It’s bad all over, but in Camaguey they’re completely out of touch, a friend commented. For example, the electric company has a website where all the provinces offer information on their blackout plans for the day. Camaguey, however, doesn’t have this page, and when they do put out the information, they don’t comply with the supposed schedule.

“There’s a festival?” they kept asking me. How, when there’s no electricity? A friend who’s a theater producer remarked that the population would be sacrificing yet more (!) in these seven days, so that the theaters could do their shows. Because the electricity aspect of our country, which apparently the government has neglected (as I write this, the thought arises that it could also be an actual State strategy, like that of not allowing the country’s economy to develop in order to have more control) is vital for the functioning of the most basic elements of society, be it industry or art.

I continued with my vists. Sharing my hopes and my ups and downs, which shrink a little when we touch them more closely. “Look how skinny we are Lien,” one of the most intelligent people I know from this city observed to me. “Are you sick?” I asked hesitantly, fearing the responses, because the challenges of life can reach incredible levels, even when you don’t believe it. “It’s hunger,” they answered. “It’s a hunger; all the money in the world isn’t enough, and everything is food.” “That’s true. It’s that way all over,” I say. I didn’t tell them that in the Las Tunas bus termnal a malt drink costs 370 pesos. They probably know about worse things.

From visit to visit, I walked around the streets and alleys. The State stores that take MLC (magnetic foreign currency) are empty, but the private businesses are especially full. There were many more such establishments than I ever would have imagined in 2013. Cafeterias, resaurants, clothing stores, places selling battery-powered articles for illumination: lanterns, flashlights, rechargeable bulbs, since there’s little room in our minds to think about many other things.

Another friend, after telling me that this time he’s definitely leaving the island, spoke to me about his books. He gave me some and lent me some others, and I thanked him. He wants to make a business deal with me for selling the rest. I tell him, yes, please, we can absolutely make a deal whenever he wants. He’s a very tender person. When he leaves, it’s going to hurt not only me, but the whole earth, because even his steps are blessed.

I went to the home of another close friend. Our talk, and the confessions that are never lacking every time we meet, are a catharsis. He, too, gave me some books and told me he was writing. How fabulous! I was especially happy to hear he was producing art with a desire to share his sense of life. He read me one of his stories, along with some of Chekhov’s suggestions for writing better. I responded with infinite thanks.

But – “Is there really a festival?” Another friend asks me again. For four years, they hadn’t been able to hold it. And in the course of our converstation, he reminded me of a sad fact, very sad for me. “The problem is, to our system, we human beings have no value at all.” I think neither myself nor anyone else can refute that.  Even though it pains us tremendously. I’d like to know who could deny it, after all our bitter individual and collective experiences.

Before anguish pounced on me, since I’m an old hand at that, I pulled a package of spaghetti out of my bag. We’re in his 150-year-old house, in the middle of an imposing blackout. “I hope you like spaghetti as much as I do.” My friend, who’s been so kind to me from the moment he opened the door to his house, said “Yes, a lot,” and that we should have been preparing it while we talked. I had a moment of sadness: How could we have done that, in that darkness? I told him next time, without fail. We said goodbye. I left him with my embrace, apparently alone, although he couldn’t be that way even if he wanted, he’s a poet.

I then ran to meet with another poet (this is a city of poets!) who lives in Guernica, a little further out. We shared thoughts on how much you suffer for wanting to think and express the things we express and think in a context like ours. And I have to thank him for the exercises he explained to me, using respiration, relaxation, to expand awareness. The pressure points on my hands and feet to help with my mental state and balance. I plan to try all of them. I’m convinced that these are essential for survivng in this country.

“Subsisting in this disaster is a feat for champions,” another friend told me. “Absolutely,” I answer. “A friend in Holguin says that surviving in Cuba, or in any other Communist regime, is for lions.” She agreed. She’s a doctor who had to retire due to illness. She suffers from nerves, and can tollerate very few things. Her sense of humor and her kindness have saved her, and she’s had an education that I feel is from the old sense of the word.

The 18^th arrived. The festival was beginning .. and I simply had to go! I negotiate with God and beg for one extra day. I ask my friend who’s a theater producer where the inauguration is. He tells me laughing that he doesn’t know. I ask around on the streets, and can’t find an answer. A woman tells me to ask a group that went by with their credentials – surely they know. They tell me they don’t know, but invite me to the Avellaneda Theater to see “A Requiem for Yanini” at 9 pm. I thank them and wish them luck. They return my thanks.

It was the only presentation I saw. I recognized the imposing biracial woman I’d seen on the street – she was one of the protagonists. It was a good group, very numerous. I would have liked to be an actress, I thought, and many other things, but especially an actress.

The next day I headed to the terminal to put my name on the waiting list. I’ll write about that trip some other time. Right now, I want to relive a little longer the great enjoyment of my visit to Camaguey. The affection and respect I enjoyed among all the people there. That warmth, trust, safety and sharing!

I’m home now, remembering Camaguey and its sons and daughters, and grateful to them all.

Read more from the diary of Lien Estrada here.