El Tren

Riding the Rails In Cuba

Steven Jones

For many people of my generation, traveling by train has a certain aura about It. Adventure, fun, curiosity, romance, and other symbols of the good life that poor & middle class people dream about. Several years ago The Orient Express, a movie about a journey by train across exotic Europe, dramatized these emotions. It is a marvelous story, full of adventure, intrigue and mystery.

My own impressions are enriched by my vague, very vague, memories of a train ride with my parents from Idaho to Nebraska, whence they had come. Later, as a young boy, I would watch with growing curiosity the trains go by across the highway from our house. The majestic Pullman sleepers and regular passenger cars always seemed to suggest that "here go the rich and privileged on exotic journeys." Whereas the longer, slower freight trains with many hobos lounging in the empty boxcars or on flat cars, seemed to suggest that here was an opportunity awaiting anyone bold enough to take it. Maybe this is where the seed of my own wanderlust was planted.

Finally, my experiences in the late 1960's with the US Army in Europe crystallized these emotions. This was the height of the Cold War. Crossing the check points aboard the military Duty Train at the tension-filled borders separating the West from the East, particularly into West Berlin, Germany, was an adventure fraught with excitement, not to be forgotten. Riding the regular trains throughout Europe reintroduced the romance and thrill of travel by rail.

In Cuba my destination was Holguin, a large city in the Oriental (eastern) part of Cuba (see map). Originally, I had planned to sail to Puerto Vita on the North Coast of Cuba, about 500 miles east of Havana. From there, for about four pesos (15 cents US), I could ride on the local bus the 35 miles to Holguin, the provincial capital.

But, plans change, as events keep reminding me. Even before I set sail from Key West, Florida in early December I discovered an electrical problem with the auto steering device, an invaluable tool for a solo sailor. Lightning had struck the Sirius II last August and I am still finding additional electrical damage, this being one of them.

With strong easterly winds in my face, and without total confidence in the autopilot, I decide to leave the boat in Varadero and travel overland to Holguin. It was Tanya who works in the Port Office who suggested that I go by train. "It is only $23, you stay on the same train, and it only takes 12 hours." That sounds to me much better than a three-day boat ride into winds of 20-30 knots, never leaving the cockpit.

She arranges for me to pick up the ticket in Matanzas. She tells me how to get a private taxi to take me there, thereby avoiding the exorbitant fees the government wants you to pay the metered taxis. Tanya gave explicit instructions to stop at the old bus station in Matanzas first to pick up the train ticket. Albert, the private taxi driver, didn't see the purpose of this and took me directly to the train station. Fortunately I had plenty of time for the officials to sort this out. Finally, with ticket in hand I sit down to wait for the train.

The first thing that I notice is that there is no official announcement when your train arrives. Or, if there is, it could not be heard above the hub-hub of the officials and waiting passengers shouting to/at each other from various locations throughout the waiting area. The second thing is the respect accorded the elderly. More and more this becomes more meaningful to me. When boarding time comes, someone always appears to help the elderly passengers. Finally, thirty minutes after departure time, I notice a line starting to form by the departure gate. I deduce that this is for my train and line up. I show my ticket to the same official who issued it. He crosses my name off the list and I proceed. I note that Cuban passengers are required to show their identity cards as well. Finally, after another thirty minutes, the train arrives. I imagine an "all aboard" (todos a bordo?).

Even though all seats are reserved, there is a massive rush to get aboard. Alas, when it is my turn my way is blocked by a very heavy set lady who probably has a difficult time egressing her home, let alone trying to board a train built a long time before the concept "user friendly" was invented. The boarding steps are too steep and too narrow. The handrail is not within her reach. Already a friend is pulling her arm from above; another is pushing on one massive check from below. The guards watch indifferently; I am reluctant to get involved. Finally, a rail line official comes over to heave on the other check and she is aboard. I suppress the desire to applaud and follow along.

Seat numbers are just barely visible on each side of the aisle. My seat is about in the middle of the 80-passenger car. All seats face the front. There is plenty of legroom, although my seat companion chooses to share mine as she uses her space for the several small packages she has with her. There is ample overhead storage, used for the usual suitcases as well as boxes, lumber, sacks of food and, as I find out later, fresh fish. No live chickens.

Finally, we are under way. The lady conductor comes around to check every ticket, relocating passengers if the ticket does not match the seat number. I find the gentle sway of the car and the rhythm of the clickety-clack of the steel wheels on steel rails very restful. Just as I remembered. Just as it is meant to be. Venders begin to ply the aisles, selling sandwiches and frescas, soft drinks. The sandwiches appear to be miniature hamburgers with a thin layer of a deviled ham or chicken for the meat. They sell for $1 US and go quickly, as do the soft drinks. At several stops along the way more venders come aboard to sell different kinds of pre-packaged dulces y galletas (sweets and cookies) and more soft drinks.

My seat companion, who has already determined that I am either a little slow or a foreigner, has some food with her and later offers to share. I try to explain no tengo hambre, I am not hungry, and that I have my own water, but she insists that I drink some of her café. How can one refuse Cuban coffee?

"Smoke them if you have them," is an old military command. It is still practiced in Cuba. The train car is soon filled with cigarette smoke that slowly, very slowly, filters out the open windows. Fortunately, the much sought after Cuban cigar is not a popular (or affordable?) item in Cuba.

By the second stop, this car is full. Initially, everyone seems to have a seat. Later I notice that a more mature conductor joins our car's conductor to talk with some young men standing in the space between the cars. I see money changing hands so can only assume that these men were trying to get a free ride, not as easy as the hobos of my youth. They get off at the next stop.

Darkness falls. The train's interior lights come on, one overhead light at one end and two at the other end. None in the middle where I am. Great for sleeping, but I was going to use this time to catch up on my writing. It is not meant to be. Looking back at the following cars, there are about 14 passenger cars in all, the rest appear to be well-lighted. My car is the exception.

Now nature calls, as happens from time-to-time. I make my way in the swaying car to el bano, the bathroom. I will learn several lessons on this trip, one of the most important being that if it becomes necessary to use the restroom at night, bring a flashlight. A lighted bathroom, toilet paper and a washbasin are not included in the price of the ticket. The smell is bad enough that one does not want to stay in this room any longer than necessary. To complicate matters, this door opens inward; there are no handles on the inside. I bang on the door to get the attendant to open it. I nearly died from the smell before the attendant opened up. His big smile tells me that this has happened before.

As the hours of darkness inch by, children are hungry or uncomfortable and become restless. Parents, family and friends talk louder to be heard over the fussing children and other noises. People begin to close their windows to keep the cool air out. The cigarette smoke becomes denser and denser, more noticeable when the train slows down or stops. Is this the romantic adventure of my youth?

Before midnight, well before the halfway mark of the trip, el bano plays another trick. Apparently, the holding tanks are full. The stench of urine permeates the stuffy, noisy car. The only other comparable smell goes clear back to my experience as a boy scout. Another tenderfoot and I were assigned the task of putting out the campfire. Nature was also calling so we elected to economize and combine two tasks into one. Not a good idea, as the odor lingered over the campsite all night and into the next day when we broke camp. Maybe this explains why my association with scouting ended that first year.

The train makes about a dozen stops along the way. People seemed to know when to get off. There is never any announcement that I could discern. Only twice am I able to see a sign on the station to identify it. I was sure that I would know my stop, as it is the last one. Not to worry?

Well, when we arrived at what I thought was the last stop, my seat companion motions for me to stay put. After a lengthy wait, the car silently, slowly moves backwards, then faster and faster. This continues for several minutes until we come to another stop.

It is dark. There is no platform. But the remaining passengers start moving to the exits, myself along with them, towards what appears to be a station in the distance. As I get closer I realize the one or two of the cars is aligned with the platform, but it is too small to accommodate all of them.

The reason why the last leg was so mysteriously quiet: The diesel engine that had started with the train in Havana, three cars in front of my car, dropped the passenger cars and another engine had hooked on behind, 14 cars away and beyond my hearing, to move us to the passenger station.

When I finally trudged over to where I thought I was supposed to be, I was met by Cari and her father, people I had only talked to on the phone before. As soon as she spoke I recognized her voice. She has the voice of someone who belongs in Customer Relations, calming people with problems, smoothing ruffled feathers. She and her father had been waiting in the dark for me for over an hour. At their house, later, over coffee and toast, they convince me that my adventurous return to Varadero will be by tourist bus, complete with air conditioning and flush toilet. As for traveling by train, I like the movie versions better.