Tobacco to basics
The morning wake-up call at Casa Particular Buena Vista in Viñales, in the western Cuban province of Pinar del Rio, is an incongruous dawn chorus of birds, farm animals, people and machinery. It’s a chaotic start to the day in an otherwise sleepy rural village.
Set in an idyllic valley of lush fields, Viñales has little in common with the capital, Havana, except that both are UNESCO World Heritage sites. Havana, the face of modern, urban Cuba, was inscribed onto the World Heritage list for its iconic architecture. Viñales, on the other hand, was recognised for its natural wonders, the Mogotes, extraordinary parabolic hills formed by the collapse of limestone caves.
The host of the casa particular (similar to a B&B) is Eugenia, a woman in her 50s with a warm smile and a face still full of optimism, despite the hard times through which she has undoubtedly lived. As we sit in the morning sun, Eugenia talks of the changes she has seen in Cuba. She tells me that despite holding a PhD in ecology, she must run her accommodation to earn convertible pesos (CUCs), the Cuban
equivalent of US dollars, because the state pay in Cuban pesos won’t support even a basic existence. ‘Anyway, with the collapse of the socialist trading bloc, they don’t need people like me any more,’ she says.
To supplement her heavily taxed tourist income, Eugenia has turned her small garden over to growing food, increasingly necessary in Cuba since many in the country came close to starvation during the early 1990s, a time known as the Period Especial. ‘We have sweet potatoes, bananas, oranges, avocado and a few other vegetables, and over there is our pig,’ she says. ‘Tourism is how we support ourselves around here now, but the other thing is agriculture. We’ve always supplied food and produce to the rest of Cuba and the world.’
The tobacco process
The next morning, I head out to view the surrounding agriculture, which turns out to be a mixture of small plots and large tobacco fields. Like Eugenia, my 18-year-old guide José also relies on a combination of tourism and agriculture to survive – as well as showing tourists the fields, he has a sideline rearing pigs. ‘The campesinos [farmers/peasants] work very hard and get paid very little,’ he tells me. ‘Often, they are out for 10–12 hours a day for the equivalent of just a few dollars.’ José, meanwhile, is paid US$10 a day, and is proudly sporting a new pair of sunglasses.
The main cash crop here is, of course, tobacco. Pinar del Rio is considered the best tobacco-growing region in Cuba, thanks to its fertile deep-red earth. All tobacco grown in Cuba is sold to the state, which tightly regulates the industry. Cuban cigars have a reputation for being the best in the world and can command astronomical prices – a single cigar can sell for more than US$400 and in 2008, sales totalled US$390million – so it’s hardly surprising that the state is so protective.
By mid-morning, the heat is already unbearable. José introduces me to the first farmer of the day, who is cutting leaves from the plants. ‘The tobacco plants are grown to about the shoulder,’ José explains. ‘This is when the leaves are large enough, and are cut at the stem by hand.’ For this, the farmers use a stubby curved knife, like a miniature sickle. ‘The work is hard and they sweat all day. The leaves are hung on racks outside for 100 days and then cured for another 100 days in the houses [large triangular barns lined with drying racks].’ The leaves are then sent to cigar factories, where they are rolled by hand under supervision, then finally given authentification by the state.
Organic techniques
It was poverty that forced Cubans to go organic, and the farmers here have used organic farming methods for the past ten years. After the Iron Curtain fell and Soviet trading agreements dissolved, Cuba found itself isolated – not just ideologically, but economically, too.
Unable to afford fertilisers or even find suppliers, the country was forced to become self-sufficient. To do this, farmers turned to a blend of hi-tech knowledge and ‘back to basics’ principles. Chemical fertilisers and pesticides were replaced by manure, compost and natural pesticides, available from around 200 small co-operatives.
Growers developed a comprehensive understanding of small-scale food and large-scale cash-crop production through a combination of ingenuity, scientific research and assistance from the state. Every square centimetre of spare land was used, even in the cities (80 per cent of Havana’s vegetables come from land within the city). To complete the Utopian organic picture, the graft of ploughing was borne by oxen rather than tractors.
Farmers, however, seem ambivalent to the organic approach. For them, there is the stigma of the poor man’s way about it. They seem oblivious to the fact that in the West, many view Cuba as being at the forefront of organic and sustainable farming. Indeed, on one of the last farms we visit, I notice what looks like a very un-Cuban female farmer at work in the fields.
She turns out to be Canadian, here on a tourist visa but living with a farmer and his wife for two months to study their organic farming techniques. ‘I’m seeing how these guys do it here to take it back home and do it there,’ she says with a laugh. ‘Of course, the state wouldn’t have allowed me in if they knew this.’
The future
On the walk back to town, we pass a rock with ‘Viva Fidel’ scrawled across it. It’s a vivid reminder that a strong sense of socialist ideology still courses through Cuba, even if it’s increasingly diluted. The creeping influences of capitalism, the natural desire to own, and the opportunity to trade have definitely ignited the imagination of the average Cuban.
The country’s bizarre dual economy has certainly changed things – many Western goods are now available, albeit only in the CUC currency. With Fidel’s younger brother and current leader Raul Castro offering the prospect of increased liberalisation, Cubans seem generally optimistic about the future. ‘The leaders know that Cuba can no longer survive economically without embracing capitalism,’ a friend of my host tells me over dinner. ‘But they have also learnt from the mistakes of Russia and China, and will probably do this slowly, so as to not shock the people.’
However, there have been recent government proposals to increase food production by introducing chemical fertilisers – now affordable thanks to tourism revenue. Clearly, the risk is that the good work of the past ten years will be undone in this small corner of Cuba.
The growing gulf between those working in the two economies has also created a more fractious society, with farmers among the poorest of the poor. And the recent battering by Hurricane Gustav has given the region another problem to solve. The hope is that if Cuba can learn from the mistakes of China and Russia, then it can also learn from its own mistakes and be truly resourceful with its wealth of organic knowledge.
July 2010
Set in an idyllic valley of lush fields, Viñales has little in common with the capital, Havana, except that both are UNESCO World Heritage sites. Havana, the face of modern, urban Cuba, was inscribed onto the World Heritage list for its iconic architecture. Viñales, on the other hand, was recognised for its natural wonders, the Mogotes, extraordinary parabolic hills formed by the collapse of limestone caves.
The host of the casa particular (similar to a B&B) is Eugenia, a woman in her 50s with a warm smile and a face still full of optimism, despite the hard times through which she has undoubtedly lived. As we sit in the morning sun, Eugenia talks of the changes she has seen in Cuba. She tells me that despite holding a PhD in ecology, she must run her accommodation to earn convertible pesos (CUCs), the Cuban
equivalent of US dollars, because the state pay in Cuban pesos won’t support even a basic existence. ‘Anyway, with the collapse of the socialist trading bloc, they don’t need people like me any more,’ she says.
To supplement her heavily taxed tourist income, Eugenia has turned her small garden over to growing food, increasingly necessary in Cuba since many in the country came close to starvation during the early 1990s, a time known as the Period Especial. ‘We have sweet potatoes, bananas, oranges, avocado and a few other vegetables, and over there is our pig,’ she says. ‘Tourism is how we support ourselves around here now, but the other thing is agriculture. We’ve always supplied food and produce to the rest of Cuba and the world.’
The tobacco process
The next morning, I head out to view the surrounding agriculture, which turns out to be a mixture of small plots and large tobacco fields. Like Eugenia, my 18-year-old guide José also relies on a combination of tourism and agriculture to survive – as well as showing tourists the fields, he has a sideline rearing pigs. ‘The campesinos [farmers/peasants] work very hard and get paid very little,’ he tells me. ‘Often, they are out for 10–12 hours a day for the equivalent of just a few dollars.’ José, meanwhile, is paid US$10 a day, and is proudly sporting a new pair of sunglasses.
The main cash crop here is, of course, tobacco. Pinar del Rio is considered the best tobacco-growing region in Cuba, thanks to its fertile deep-red earth. All tobacco grown in Cuba is sold to the state, which tightly regulates the industry. Cuban cigars have a reputation for being the best in the world and can command astronomical prices – a single cigar can sell for more than US$400 and in 2008, sales totalled US$390million – so it’s hardly surprising that the state is so protective.
By mid-morning, the heat is already unbearable. José introduces me to the first farmer of the day, who is cutting leaves from the plants. ‘The tobacco plants are grown to about the shoulder,’ José explains. ‘This is when the leaves are large enough, and are cut at the stem by hand.’ For this, the farmers use a stubby curved knife, like a miniature sickle. ‘The work is hard and they sweat all day. The leaves are hung on racks outside for 100 days and then cured for another 100 days in the houses [large triangular barns lined with drying racks].’ The leaves are then sent to cigar factories, where they are rolled by hand under supervision, then finally given authentification by the state.
Organic techniques
It was poverty that forced Cubans to go organic, and the farmers here have used organic farming methods for the past ten years. After the Iron Curtain fell and Soviet trading agreements dissolved, Cuba found itself isolated – not just ideologically, but economically, too.
Unable to afford fertilisers or even find suppliers, the country was forced to become self-sufficient. To do this, farmers turned to a blend of hi-tech knowledge and ‘back to basics’ principles. Chemical fertilisers and pesticides were replaced by manure, compost and natural pesticides, available from around 200 small co-operatives.
Growers developed a comprehensive understanding of small-scale food and large-scale cash-crop production through a combination of ingenuity, scientific research and assistance from the state. Every square centimetre of spare land was used, even in the cities (80 per cent of Havana’s vegetables come from land within the city). To complete the Utopian organic picture, the graft of ploughing was borne by oxen rather than tractors.
Farmers, however, seem ambivalent to the organic approach. For them, there is the stigma of the poor man’s way about it. They seem oblivious to the fact that in the West, many view Cuba as being at the forefront of organic and sustainable farming. Indeed, on one of the last farms we visit, I notice what looks like a very un-Cuban female farmer at work in the fields.
She turns out to be Canadian, here on a tourist visa but living with a farmer and his wife for two months to study their organic farming techniques. ‘I’m seeing how these guys do it here to take it back home and do it there,’ she says with a laugh. ‘Of course, the state wouldn’t have allowed me in if they knew this.’
The future
On the walk back to town, we pass a rock with ‘Viva Fidel’ scrawled across it. It’s a vivid reminder that a strong sense of socialist ideology still courses through Cuba, even if it’s increasingly diluted. The creeping influences of capitalism, the natural desire to own, and the opportunity to trade have definitely ignited the imagination of the average Cuban.
The country’s bizarre dual economy has certainly changed things – many Western goods are now available, albeit only in the CUC currency. With Fidel’s younger brother and current leader Raul Castro offering the prospect of increased liberalisation, Cubans seem generally optimistic about the future. ‘The leaders know that Cuba can no longer survive economically without embracing capitalism,’ a friend of my host tells me over dinner. ‘But they have also learnt from the mistakes of Russia and China, and will probably do this slowly, so as to not shock the people.’
However, there have been recent government proposals to increase food production by introducing chemical fertilisers – now affordable thanks to tourism revenue. Clearly, the risk is that the good work of the past ten years will be undone in this small corner of Cuba.
The growing gulf between those working in the two economies has also created a more fractious society, with farmers among the poorest of the poor. And the recent battering by Hurricane Gustav has given the region another problem to solve. The hope is that if Cuba can learn from the mistakes of China and Russia, then it can also learn from its own mistakes and be truly resourceful with its wealth of organic knowledge.
July 2010
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