The Catalans Sang Old Songs

It was a beautiful Saturday morning and we were all very excited about our trip to El Jiqui. My father Joel P. Font, had spent several hours the previous day cleaning and waxing our 1953 two-tone Chevrolet. Now wearing our best weekend clothes, my mother, my baby brother, and I waited for him as he loaded the trunk of the car with several portable radios, and a large weekend valise. Each radio had been carefully wrapped with a beautiful bow.

As we drove away from the outskirts of Chaparra, the ring of sugar cane fields surrounding the city gave way to small farms and endless greenery with palm trees covering the hills for as far as the eye could see. This peaceful scenery was regularly broken by the sights and sounds of a steam locomotive huffing and puffing in the distance as it pulled a long train of cars full of sugarcane. Spotting the horizon we could see the traditional Cuban bohios, or peasant houses, so common in Oriente province.

I liked and hated these trips. I liked them because of what happened once we arrived at our destinations, but hated them because the three hour trips bored me, and my parents conversations were so removed from my childhood experiences, that inevitably my brother and I would sleep for most of the way. If we were awakened during these outings, it was for some extraordinary event.

As always, we reached Velasco around ten o’clock, entering the colonial cobble stone streets, and slowing down past the old stone bridge to allow the milkmen to pass with their horse drawn milk buggies. As we approached my grandparent’s house, everyone in the street, seemingly aware of our coming, wave at us and smile. My grandparent’s Spanish style home, built in the second half of the 19th. century when Velasco was one of the few Royalist towns in Oriente, had a simple but classic look. Unlike Chaparra, which was a sugar town built in the early Republican era following an industrial urban plan popularized in North America, Velasco's atmosphere and people seemed to reflect an older spirit and time in Cuba's colonial history.

With a keen eye for punctuality, my grandfather Pedro Nolasco Font e Hidalgo stands by the main door of the house looking at his pocket watch. Ready to say something to my father as we approach, he turns to me and says "Arrubiado, come here and give me a hug". Happily, and already knowing that my grandfathers' sense of logic, and well-cultivated formality usually melted when I entered his presence, I hugged him. He then said "Your father tells me you want to be a cowboy. Remember, you can be a cowboy, but you also have to be a lawyer, or an accountant!" At this point my grandmother, Mari, comes out of the house and kisses everyone and tells my father that our breakfast has gotten cold because we were one hour late. With a tame frustration apparently achieved after years of practice, my father looks at the sky and says. "Senores, I did not ask you to prepare a banquet. A cup of coffee and a piece of bread is usually what normal people have. With an annoyed tone, my grandfather responds, "Normal you say. You refuse to understand that we have our ways. You've always tried to adopt street manners, and it always ends up the same. You are not from the street. You have a family that did not invent itself from thin air last week. Look, when you come to our house, we reserve the right to treat you like a civilized person." Knowing that he would never win this type of debate, my father looks at my grandfather and says, "Esta bien viejo, lets see what delicacies Mama has made for us. But, I want to be in El Jiqui before 3 PM."

The table was impeccably set for twelve with silverware, tall crystal glasses, and crisp white linen. A beautiful porcelain Cupid adorned the center of the table. As my grandmother began to place her delicacies on the table, she began a long explanation of how hard she had worked early that morning to have everything just perfect. Their neighbor Clotilde Valls had shown up at 7:30 AM with fresh fruits, which they used to make marmalade, bunuelos, and a Majorcan fruit pudding. My grandmother's Catalan style cooking was famous throughout the region, and she took great pride in everything that had to do with food and dining. My grandfather would regularly say, in reverence to her work, "Senores, your eyes are gazing upon a masterpiece. This work Mari has created is the only artistic endeavor that mankind can admire, and joyfully consume. Can you do that with a painting, or a statue?"

Dressed in his light tan cotton linen suit, white shirt, and navy blue and red tie, my grandfather contrasted with my grandmother's lively flower pattern dress whose reflection shined on the polished black and white Spanish tiled floor. As we were all settling into the table and began to enjoy our potato omelet, Clotilde the neighbor, walks into the dining room from the kitchen, with two well-dressed men and a teenage girl. Holding a wicker basket full of Figs she turns to my grandfather and says, "Viejo, these are the Figs I promised you. Now, Mari can make her famous Figs with Anisette" Standing up, my grandfather said to Clotilde, "Your surprises always bring us joy. Please sit-down." The two men greeted my grandfather with the customary "Que dios lo vendiga, Viejo." At this point my father stood up and shaking each man's hand mentioned his name. "Enrique", "Gustavo". And, turning to the teenage girl said, "Montserrat, I cant believe how much you've grown." At this point my grandfather asked everyone to settle down for a prayer. Holding hands around the table my grandfather began. "Lord thank you for blessing us with this wonderful food. Thank you for giving us health. Thank you for bringing us to this beautiful place where we can enjoy our families in peace, and thank you for giving us the mental capacity to live as rational men."

As we ate that Saturday morning, the sights, sounds, and smells of the tropics embraced us. The bright Cuban sun brought in by colored glass skylights filled the interior of the house. The songs of an infinite variety of wild birds could be heard in the background, and the aroma of fresh mangos and guava fruit floated in the air. And, like always, my grandfather's Agua de Peralta cologne occasionally teased my nose.

"Now lets have Enrique tell us about the trip to Camaguey," said my grandfather. "Well, the business is expanding." responded Enrique. "Uncle Martin has added two new ovens, and one new production conveyor to the factory. They are now selling our candies and lollypops all the way up in Matanzas. But, he complains that the added business is not generating as much profit as planned because the price of sugar has dropped again, and he's been forced to lower his prices sharply." Enrique continued, "The new master candy maker, the man from Valencia, is excellent. He has devised more than a dozen new varieties of Chupetas based on our own fruit extracts, and Martin is hopeful that this man may be the one we need to administer the new factory in Pinar del Rio, if we ever get the right bank financing." "And, what is the problem?" Asked my grandfather. "Well, everyone knows that Perez, the Vice President of the Bank of Camaguey is corrupt. When uncle Martin went to see him, he jokingly said that no one could get that kind of loan without a good uncle. So, now you can imagine," Said Enrique, "If Martin pays off Perez, in no time there will be a line of uncles lining up in front of that factory asking for all kinds of payoffs." Turning to Enrique my father says, "And, this surprises you?" There is silence in the table. Thoughtfully, my grandfather says to Enrique, "I will write to Martin with the name of the Director of the Royal Bank of Canada in Havana, who is a friend, and I am sure we will solve this problem without soiling ourselves in this type of garbage. I have all the papers here and will send them directly to Havana in a few days. Also, tell Martin that we are sending him two young apprentices in August to work as bookkeepers. They are from the Serrat family." Enrique, with both joy and innocent sarcasm turns to my grandmother and says, "Vieja, one day they are going to erect a statue to this man in Camaguey." At which my grandfather responds with, "Stop being an exaggerated man, and finish your omelet."

Now turning to Gustavo, my grandfather says, "and what news do we have from Holguin, and La Brillante?" "More of the same." Responds Gustavo. "Your nephew Pio cant get enough people in Holguin interested in working in a brick factory. They come for a month, and then disappear. Pio offers decent wages but Cubans nowadays don't want to work hard anymore. Things are so bad he can’t keep a steady production run anymore. And, demand for good bricks is terrible. If not for the Terra Cotta business we'd be in bad shape. Shaking his head at Gustavo, my grandfather says, "Remember the last time I visited the Quarterly Representative Meeting at Friends Academy in Holguin, I went to see you boys and gave you my findings on this matter. The problem is not that people don’t want to work, it’s that they don’t want to buy our bricks. You and Pio like your fathers and grandfathers, make excellent bricks. Artistically fired, with hand-crafted textures and colors, but these days everything is cemented over. The Americans have convinced our architects to use these ugly cheap gray blocks in all types of construction. According to Jorge de Lerida, and Pedro Cortina, the best architects in Oriente, there wont be any Cuban brick making firms left within five years." Carefully measuring his words, my grandfather continued. "Have you boys acted on our advice to look for an Almacen (hardware store)? What is keeping you from taking Juan's offer of assistance in Havana. He will take Pio in as an apprentice for a year, then he will help you both setup a new Almacen in Holguin. You will, as always, have our support, but the time to act is running out." With youthful annoyance, Gustavo responds. "Viejo, Pio thinks we can beat the Americans in this business. We are going to copy their ugly cheap gray blocks, and cement trims. Whenever they come out with a new style, we will copy it. That's it."

Looking at Gustavo with astonishment, my grandfather says, "a most direct and simple solution." Gustavo then added, "We don’t even have to invest in creating our own styles." My grandfather turning to my father says, "These boys have not considered that most of the cement we now use in Cuba comes from the United States. And, that their cement block factories are mechanized, and their production quantities are so large that their costs per block is probably the lowest in the world." Turning directly to Gustavo he continued, "You would have to buy new tools, and train these very people who you now say don't want to work, to use these new tools, and you will need to pay them more so they don't quit so quickly, and then you have to convince your old clients, and new ones, that your ugly gray blocks are better than the Americans. I think in the end the Americans will be able to produce more ugly cheap gray blocks than we, and our losses will then, after this great effort, will be much greater than if we stop this now." Turning to my father and Enrique, my grandfather said, "Your opinions count." Then turning to my grandmother he said, " Mari this coffee has gotten cold, can you please warm it up." Breaking the serious mood in the table, my grandmother responds by saying, "May god protect us from cold coffee and finicky Quakers." After reheating the coffee, all the women walked to the Living Room where they held their own lively conversation. "That old brick factory has to be demolished. It's a relic," said Enrique. "Pio has to go to Havana and apprentice with Juan. While he's there Gustavo should go to El Jiqui where everyone knows he's needed. Upon his return, we will follow up with the plan as agreed last year."

"La Brillante is finished. Luckily, Juan will make Pio into an expert in the Almacen business, because everyone knows Juan is the most thorough, frugal, and astute merchant in our family." Said my father. Concluding the discussion, my grandfather informs Gustavo that he and Pio are to come to a family meeting the following Saturday, where final action was to be taken regarding the brick factory.

As we finish our breakfast, someone knocks in the front door. We hear my grandmother open the door and exchange greetings with some people. Soon two older men wearing long sleeve white linen Guayaberas and black pants approach the dining room. They were Roberto Fung, the oldest Chinese person in Velasco, one of my father’s old teachers, and like my grandfather, one of the first Quakers in Cuba. The other was Dr. Emilio Pratts, my grandparents Dentist, a member of the Communist Party of Cuba, and a veteran of the Spanish Civil War. After all the greetings were done, they turn to my grandfather and ask, "Viejo, are you ready for our inspection?" Looking at his pocket watch, my grandfather responded, "I estimate that if we leave here in a half hour, we will arrive in Delicias before 1:30 and we'll catch everyone by surprise." Turning to my father he added, "We are getting the Meetinghouse ready for tomorrow. Fernando Galba and Gladys Lopes are getting married tomorrow morning. But, before I leave, come to the library so I can give you some special things for the folks in El Jiqui." Following my father and grandfather to the library with its huge ceiling fan, were he kept his desks, typewriter, two walls with barrister bookcases, a picture of himself wearing a 1920's style straw hat standing next to Eddy Chibas, a photo of the Capitol building in Havana, and a picture of the Almendares baseball team with a big "Los Campiones de Cuba" sign scrolled on the bottom, was always an experience that made my heart pound. This was my grandfathers' intellectual inner sanctum, this was where he worked as national treasurer for the Cuban Quakers, where he administered all types of businesses for far away clients, where he practiced his accounting profession with two young helpers who always wore suits and ties in 102 degree temperatures, where with some frustration he'd try to teach me about life, George Fox, our family history, and the importance of being an honest man in a dishonest society. Pointing to two boxes full of books, he explained to my father, "Each book is properly labeled for the right person, but if they do not play the book game, just remove the labels. And, when you see Paulo, tell him Pio's time is up, and Gustavo has not been able to convince him to act. Tell him he has to take over the brick factory within a month, otherwise the losses and the grief will give him an ulcer that will torment him for the rest of his life. Tell him I have a buyer for the entire property, and he has to come and see me next Saturday." Picking up one of the books from the box, my father said, "Do you really think that people in El Jiqui are interested in reading about the Rise of the Kingdom of Aragon, and the Usatges of Barcelona in the Late Middle Ages?" The answer was, "Of course, this book has a whole section on agriculture and trade practices whose impact is timeless." My father in his customary sarcasm said, "but they didn’t have tractors back then, what’s the relevance." "The relevance is" answered my grandfather, "that when you come back we need to talk about what is happening with your Taxi business. I met with Luis Aran who has a client in Santiago who is selling off a dozen Taxis due to a family bankruptcy. Luis thinks we can barter for a few of these cars. You realize that if you add three or four more cars to your fleet, you can expand service to Puerto Padre, or Victoria de las Tunas?"

As we left Velasco towards El Jiqui, my father and mother could not stop discussing how my grandfather was able to keep track of so many people and details, and how annoying he could be at times, with his expectations for a strict life style and rationality. A sharp contrast to the majority of our acquaintances, and my mother's family. But, my mother loved my grandfather, and always ended up defending him, as my father would ramble with his criticism.

About thirty minutes after leaving Velasco, and as my brother and I began to doze off to the music of Beny More’s “Corazon Rebelde” playing on the car radio, it started to rain. Looking at each other, my parents knew what this meant. The dirt road would muddy up and our car could, as in many previous occasions, get stuck in the mud. We proceeded, since it was too late to turn back. As we reached the old train station near the entrance to El Jiqui, my father said to us, "I know what is going to happen now." As the car moved forward several hundred feet, there it was. A flood of water had covered the road. Driving slowly onward, we found ourselves in the middle of this shallow flood. Suddenly, the wheels lost their grip and we were stuck in the mud. After a vigorous but futile attempt at moving forward or backwards, my father turns the car off, and says, "we should have taken the train." My mother laughing said, "that’s what you say every time we get stuck." A few minutes after getting stuck, the rain stopped, and about five minutes later the sun was out again as if nothing had happened. Rolling up his pants and taking off his shoes, my father leaves the car in search of help. While my father is away two men dressed as typical Guajiros, the country folk of Oriente, and two oxen approach us and greet my mother, telling her that just like last time, they had come to pull our car out of the mud. With hesitation we all leave the car and get our nice clothes wet and all full of mud, while the oxen pull the car to dry ground. As the men untie the ropes from the car my father returns with another man and four horses. After the men laugh at my father for getting stuck in such a predicament, they also hug us, telling us how happy everyone will be when they see us. And so we enter the famous family finca (farm) of El Jiqui on horseback, wet and full of mud, followed by two oxen carrying a box full of radios with colorful bows, our valise, and my grandfathers’ boxes full of books. I thoroughly enjoyed getting stuck in the mud, and riding the horse, but my mothers' face seemed to show a different sentiment, that of annoyance.

In front of the main house, past a huge wooden archway and a flagpole with a Cuban flag, there was a large boulder with a bronze plate holding the inscription "El Jiqui. Un Campo de Palma en Cuba. Fundado en 1821 por Don Jaime Ferraz." El Jiqui was not just a family farm, it was a way of life, a Utopian experiment, and it was revered by my grandmother Mari's family, the Ferraz's. Located on about 300 acres, in a beautiful and fertile valley with an arroyo running through, El Jiqui was a fruit farm, furniture factory, distillery, and dairy. A diversified family owned cottage industry in the middle of the countryside. Here on a huge rectangular building with sky lights and windmill generated electricity, carpenters and furniture makers, using old style rustic tools, took great pride in making the distinctive rough oak and cowhide furniture so popular throughout Oriente. Here in another identical rectangular building, old men and women speaking a Catalanized Castillian lingo distilled rum and mixed it with tropical fruits and extracts based on old Majorcan recipes passed down from Jaime Ferraz himself. This liquor whose label was fondly named, Joderin Lijero, (Screw You Lightly) was loved by the Guajiros and demand was always incessant. And, the most modern of the businesses, the dairy, located in a fenced off section of the complex holding dozens of cows and goats, was worked by young women who wore white tunics, and produced farmers cheese, feta cheese, and butter for the regional markets. With one of the first rail lines in Cuba running nearby, El Jiqui had a reliable communications link to most markets in Oriente, and although it was far from all major cities it was not unusual to see visiting merchants inspecting one or another of these great buildings. Everything about El Jiqui symbolized self-reliance. Somehow, this place had survived the destruction and carnage of the war of independence from Spain. It survived the terrible depression that befell Cuba during the “Machadato” period, and somehow there it was a surviving oasis for so many people in the middle of an ocean of Royal Palms. In El Jiqui every building had been constructed as a family project, and each building was named after the crew master who constructed it, going back to the 1820's.

Waiting for us sitting on a swing in the shaded veranda of the main house was Vicente Ferraz, 104 years old and the family prankster. "Joel, I've been waiting here all day for my new girlfriend Josefa, and instead you show up. Turn around right now and don’t come back until you find me a beautiful 30 year old princess." Laughing, my father responds, "and what are you going to do with a 30 year old princess?" The response was, "I'm going to teach her all the lovemaking secrets I've learned in the last 104 years." Suddenly, more than fifty people of all ages appear from within the main house and come out to greet us. This multitude represented not only my grandmothers and grandfathers’ family, but also representatives of many of the old Catalan and Majorcan families that had settled northern Oriente province since the middle of the 18th century. Although, all were Cubans by birth, some of the women wore espadrilles, flowered pattern dirndl skirts, white blouses, and loose kerchiefs, a style of dress not characteristic of Cuba, but mimicking the old folk dress of Catalonia. On the other hand, the men all wore Cuban white Guayaberas, and black pants. The group did not have a single non-European looking person in it. We looked different from the general population that surrounded us in Oriente, we also ate differently, thought differently, danced to different musical rhythms, and chose mates differently. All these things were not so clearly evident to the general public, or ourselves, unless we were in a concentrated form, like the yearly feast and book games held in El Jiqui, and several other places like it in the region. It was easy to understand why my grandfather used to say that "in Cuba you can spot a Catalan from 10 leagues away." But, regardless of the aesthetic differences, my grandfather also pointed out that we were Cubans, and my father would ad with pride that we were also Guajiros.

Having changed into clean clothes, my parents proceeded to make the customary rounds greeting old friends, and soon I found a group of boys, and cousins, I could have a top-spinning contest with. The comings and goings of an army of people responsible for the smooth operations of the party was occurring flawlessly, and every half hour that passed saw the arrival of one or two dozen new guests, with the greatest number arriving around 5:00 PM by train. In total I heard that more than 225 people had arrived by 6:30 PM. Everyone seemed to know each other, and everyone came with a box full of gifts, or books. As the sun began to set, Ortensia Ferraz, my grandmothers cousin and the respected matron of El Jiqui, came out of her kitchen smoking a huge Cuban cigar and said, "Senores, it is time for us to walk over to Las Palmas to enjoy the moonlight." Without much commotion, everyone began to walk towards a distant field surrounded by Royal Palms, with the arroyo in the distance, and several huts. As both adults and children approached, we could see the perimeter of the field lit by torches, and a wooden dance platform flanked by long tables full of food and liquor. In front of one of the huts there was a typical Guajiro organ band, with a huge hand cranked organ, a timbalero, a congolero, a clavero, and a contrarrallista. In front of another hut there were several tables full of boxes were all the books had been placed, and other tables full of a variety of gifts. Upon closer look, you could see large barbecue pits near the arroyo, and several large cauldrons over bon fires. This is where people where roasting pigs, several cows, making rice, ajiaco, and dozens of chickens which were to be vigorously consumed during the festivities. As people arrived in the field, the syncopated sensual sounds of "El Barbero de Sevilla" could be heard from the organ band. This party was to last all night, or until the Joderin Lijero ran out, which was unlikely. What was to happen here this night and the next day was part of the invisible glue that kept us all together, and reminded us of a long and proud tradition.

After several songs were played by the organ band, the heads of the three main extended families walked up to the dance floor. From the Ferraz family there was Ortensia, Paulo, and Vicente. From the Font family there was Jorge, and Ramon. And from the Montcada family there was Guillermo, and Ofelia. All of these people were past 75 years old. Each made announcements pertaining to births, deaths, or upcoming marriages in their respective families, and provided brief summaries of issues of common interest to the group. There was a brief period opened for questions, and then Ofelia Montcada, the youngest of the group announced, that "now the time has come to reflect on business. Paulo will go first." “As you probably have heard, we are going to close La Brillante, because the business is no longer producing. Next year we will be opening an Almacen in Holguin, and will need your support to make that a success. Those of you interested in doing something in Holguin come to see me soon." Now, Ramon Font has an important announcement, said Ofelia. "I have a letter from Pedro regarding the status of the school in Banes. He says there is an immediate opening for a Mathematics teacher and we need to find someone fast. He also informs me that there are three clerkships open at the Centro de Contabilidad in the Dockyard at Gibara. Please see me later if anyone is interested. "Finally," said Ofelia, "we have Guillermo with his announcement." "Our bitter Orange hybrid finally works." He said. "After trying for more than three years we've achieved a pittless fruit with a half inch crusty skin, and a mild sweet aroma similar to the expensive Valencia's we've been using. We expect to be able to supply El Jiqui with about half of the oranges it needs within two years. And, since each bitter Orange is twice the size of a Valencia, you can imagine what that means." "Now" said Ortensia, "I have the last word. I want everyone to have a nice time here tonight, and remember that all the cots are setup and numbered in the Pere (furniture) building, and the Mateo (distillery) building. The outhouses have not been moved since last year." A signal is given and the organ band starts with "Lagrimas Negras." The party is now officially starting.

After a night of dance and revelry, which ended at 4:30 AM, and without any drunken disorder, my father and I find our cots, which were in the furniture building. My mother and baby brother slept in the main house along with all the other mothers with babies. No one awakened that Sunday morning until past 11:00 AM, when the sounds of a man singing, backed up by a guitar, mandolin, and a flute filled the quiet valley. It was Vicente and several old men singing old Catalan songs that no one younger than 60, any longer understood.

After we all washed and ate breakfast by the distillery building, everyone headed towards the Palm tree shaded area near the arroyo, where small groups of men formed and animated discussions began. The biggest group was discussing Cuban politics and Fidel Castro. Someone asked my father if he had seen Fidel when he passed near Chaparra the previous month. My father answered in the negative. An older man posed an open question. "What do we all make of this?" One by one the answers came. "I'm surprised at the incompetence of the Batista regime." Said one man. "The culture of corruption we have in this country can only be cleaned out by a revolution like this." Said another. "These bearded boys are too young to understand the international politics Cuba needs to navigate in order to be stable." Said another. "I hope a new more mature government is formed soon, so this instability can end. Its bad for business otherwise." Everyone shook their heads at that comment. "If Fidel wins this revolution and forms a new government, he should shave his beard and take on a more professional demeanor. If not, who is going to take this man seriously outside of Cuba?" Said another man. At this point, Jorge Pratts, my grandparent’s Dentist younger brother gives his opinion. "In Spain during the civil war, the anarchist mobs won some battles, but in the end we lost the war because we failed to organize in a rational, logical way. The Fascists, on the other hand calculated all their moves with military discipline. The informality of Fidel, and the mobs in the streets concern me a great deal. Where is the ideology, where is the plan for the future. I'm afraid we have a revolution based on good intentions, and no direction. Its almost irresponsible." To this opinion, another man said, "the average man in Cuba today is not interested in long term plans. They're all intoxicated with the idea of getting rid of Batista and his regime. If Fidel was to stand up tomorrow and say, I am a man without any ideas for the future, but I'm here to fight Batista, his popularity will not diminish." At this statement, everyone nodded in approval. Another man, in a sarcastic tone said, "You all worry too much. I can tell you that this thing is going to end within a year. Batista, or the Americans are going to pay Fidel off with $10 or $15 million dollars, and you'll see all these bearded boys disappear. Fidel will buy a private island off the coast of Portugal, or he'll exile himself off in Galicia, and that’s it. If it doesn’t work out like that, then the Americans will intervene, and in the end it will still be the same. In Cuba things have always had that kind of rhythm." This sour comment brought only silence, and the group broke up.

At the sound of a bell, everyone gathered around the hut with the books and gifts. Seven young women stood in front of the tables, and an older but most beautiful woman who was mistress of ceremonies, read from a paper: "We are happy to be this years' princesses for the Wisdom and Beauty contest. All the participants please line up on the left and get ready to begin." Soon, about a dozen teenage boys, and young men in their early twenties stepped up, each with a piece of paper in his hand. "Miguel Mestres," Shouted one of the girls. Shyly and awkwardly, a boy walked to the center of the group and said, "I will read a poem I wrote about the first time I kissed a girl" When the boy was finished, there was light applause, and another name was called. "I will read a poem in honor of Jose Marti" and this went on until all the boys had a chance to read their poems, or short stories. "Now we will select the winners," said the mistress of ceremonies. All the girls gathered in a circle for a few minutes, and then the mistress of ceremonies announced, "We have chosen the winners for this year. Third prize goes to Esteban Martorell, Second prize goes to Luis Bolet, and the First prize goes to Carlos Montiel." The crowd breaks up in applause, the losers walk away, and the three winners proceed to get their prizes. The third and second place winners got to pick three of their favorite books from the hundreds of books stacked on the tables, and the first prize winner got to pick six books. Then each winner got a chance to explain why he chose each book, and read the name of the book donor, or "patronador" of each book. Each explanation got a vigorous applause from the crowd, filling each boy with pride and washing away the awkwardness they first showed. Incredibly, Esteban had chosen one of my grandfathers’ books, the one my father had pointed out to my grandfather in the library, and tugging my father’s arm I mention this. Looking at Esteban with an incredible face, my father said, "Your grandfather is going to be very happy when he finds out that Esteban is going to read his book about the kingdom of Aragon during the middle ages." When the winners left the area, each of the girls got a bunch of books and reading the names of persons scribbled on the labels, called each person from the crowd to come a get his/her book. In this way, all the remaining books were given away with great fanfare. This is how I got my first book on El Zorro.

After the noise quieted down, the youngest of the girls, announced that, "the chain of gifts" was ready to start. Within a minute everyone had organized themselves into a group six or seven layers thick in front of the girls. "Bring Ortensia to the front," said the Mistress of ceremonies, “she goes first." Walking with a huge smile on her face, Ortensia stands in front of the girls and a wheel barrel full of gifts is brought to her. She turns to the crowd and says, "the biggest pleasure of my life is to see you all here and happy." Two young men take the wheel barrel away and the first name is called. This person receives several gifts, turns to the crowd and waves. This process goes on for about two hours, my father getting most exited when his portable radios are given away to friends and relatives. Walking over to my mother I notice she has gotten a pair of Espadrilles, and an American pressure cooker, and she is happy.

The Wisdom and Beauty contest, or as the old folks used to call it in archaic Catalan, “La Festa de Savi i Beldad”, was something uniquely ours. Something that was often misunderstood, and criticized in a macho society. It was not a beauty pageant where men judged women for their body contours. It was a rite of passage for young people, a ritual where young women judged young men for the wisdom and beauty of their poems and short simple stories. Here young men stood before a crowd of adults and got their respect and acceptance based on the most innocent of the arts. This process did not produce sissies, or effeminate men, and El Jiqui was a sexually charged place, with the old people like Vicente at the lead. But, the expression of sexuality had a different flavor here, with women like Ortensia walking around smoking cigars without anyone lifting an eyebrow. This was perhaps another echo of our Catalan heritage, where women were not told what to do, but had to be consulted. The heat of the tropics affected both sexes equally, but without embarrassing erotic shows. This environment, and this type of order was what my grandfather referred to in his thankful prayers, when he would say, "thank you god for giving us the mental capacity to live as rational men."

Indirectly, and perhaps unconsciously I already understood at this early stage of my life, that we held an invisible line of mannerisms, character, and a worldview that differed from that of the majority of Cubans who did not attend the big family feast in El Jiqui each year. Although, not wholly Catalan, Quaker, or Cuban, this mixture existed in that time and place, and is now only a memory. As Dr. Pratts would often say, “Cubans are an exaggerated people, prone to boastfulness, single minded, and too reliant on superstitions for their conduct.” Then he would add with a chuckle, “and that’s part of the reason this is such a colorful country, and why we are here.” With our idiosyncrasies, we too were part of that exaggeration and diversity that made the island of Cuba, the “Most Beautiful Land Man has ever laid his Eyes Upon”, and the “Pearl of the Antilles”.

Late that afternoon, as we prepared to return home to Chaparra, a young man quietly approached my mother and told her that he was a friend of her cousin Major Paco Cabrera, who had joined the revolution and Fidel Castro, in the hills of the Sierra Maestra two years earlier. He said Paco was fine, and that thanks to my mother’s family, they had been getting food supplies on a regular basis. He told her to tell her family that hopefully, Paco would see them soon. Turning to my father the young man said, “for your family’s safety, when you get to the outskirts of Velasco tonight, don’t continue on the main road past 8:00 oclock.”

(c) Copyright by Joel Font
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