Translator: Unstated, Yoani Sánchez
Reinaldo took the side of yes and he insisted and insisted. I, however,
am of the generation that thinks ahead of time that nearly everything is
prohibited, that they are going to scold me at every step and prevent me
from doing anything that occurs to me. So this time the matrimonial
discussion was intense. He claimed that we could board that boat to see
Cienfuegos Bay from the swells of its waves; while the little voice
inside me shouted that so much enjoyment could not be available to
nationals. For a couple of hours I believed in my husband's optimism and
like a tropical Candide he got away with it. We went to the marina
office near the Jagua Hotel and an official there sold us two tickets
for the coveted boat trip. We never hid our breakneck Havana accents,
nor tried to pass ourselves off as foreigners, but no one asked for
identification. We felt there were already a pair of seats on board the
yacht "Flipper" with our names on them and the murmur of skepticism
faded in my head.
We arrived at the dock half an hour early. The sun-burnt tourists began
to board the boat. Rei and I reached the spectacular corner from where
we took photos of that bay as big as an ocean. The dream lasted barely
five minutes. When the captain heard us talking he asked if we were
Cubans. He shortly informed us that we had to go ashore, "boat rides are
prohibited for nationals at every marina in the country." Rage, anger,
the shame of carrying a blue passport makes us guilty — in advance — in
the eyes of the law of our own nation. A feeling of deception on
comparing the official discourse of a supposed opening with the reality
of exclusion and stigma. We wanted to cause a scene and cling to the
railing, to compel them to remove us by force, but what would it have
served? My husband dusted off his French and told the group of Europeans
what was happening. They looked surprised, whispered among themselves.
None of them disembarked — in solidarity with the excluded — from that
coastal tour of our island; none of them found it intolerable to enjoy
something that is forbidden to us, its natives.
The Flipper sailed, the wake of apartheid was visible for a few seconds
and then was lost among the dark waters of the bay. The face of the
musician Benny Moré on a nearby poster seemed to have exchanged its
smile for a sneer. On one side of his chin was the famous refrain from
one of his songs: "Cienfuegos is the city I like best…" We left that
place. Reinaldo defeated in his illusion and I sad that my suspicions
had triumphed. We waked along the road to Punta Gorda while an idea took
shape in our minds: "If Benny had lived in these times, he too would
have been thrown off — like a mangy dog — from that yacht."
6 November 2011
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