as an edible?) and toffees sold singly at half a convertible peso apiece. Glass-topped cabinets displayed imported plastic toys, children’s garments, two boxed sets of tin cutlery and a few enamel dinner plates. Behind the counter a high shelf held five dusty bottles of Scotch and two of London Dry Gin.
‘There’s nothing for us to eat!’ lamented Rose. ‘But Nyanya’s OK,’ said Clodagh, indicating a tall fridge amply stocked with Buccanero. I stuffed ten tins into my rucksack and we followed Rachel to the agromercado , not far up a side road. Too late, alas, too late! Beside a few palm-roofed trestle-stalls a notice nailed to a fence listed prices and hours of business: 8.00-10.00 a.m.
Back on the main road we paused beside a very old woman squatting under a ceiba tree, her posture oddly grasshopper-like, her black skin hanging loose as a garment, her bright eyes lively, a basket between her feet. She was selling another unfamiliar fruit – four inches long, oval-shaped , with a kiwi’s skin, sweet red flesh, a huge shiny brown stone and an acrid smell. ‘Like a dirty stable,’ commented Clodagh, declining to sample one. The others promptly spat out their first bites, to the old lady’s amusement. I nevertheless bought ten, not an extravagance at a fifth of a national peso each.
Even in Cuba swimming sharpens the appetite and a hunger mutiny threatened. Rose looked gloomy, Clodagh peevish, Zea rebellious. ‘There must be a restaurant,’ said I. ‘You speak without conviction,’ said Rachel. But there was one, separated from the road by another mud-lake and opening at noon. Rose looked at her watch and proposed twenty minutes of rummy to take minds off grumbling stomachs. I excused myself, by then reduced to a sweat-producing zombie.
Soon after I noticed a girl leaving the bakery with an armful of saucer-sized ‘ship’s biscuits’ – flat, hard, golden-brown. In Havana I had been able to buy their like and, because the instinct of child-protection overcomes even heat-lassitude, I now hastened hopefully across the duck-boards. An anxious Rose accompanied me; being at a rapid growth stage food was pivotal to her thinking. Happily no libreta was required and, exercising restraint on behalf of the locals, I bought fifteen for NP30. ‘Five each!’ exclaimed Rose though I had been mentally calculating ‘Three each’.
In the lean-to restaurant – built against a co-op store missing half its roof – local electricity rationing had stilled the ceiling fan and the dumpy, grumpy waitress wore a sweat-band. Wide spaces separated the eight four-person tables, their oil-cloths frayed but clean. (In Fidel’s Cuba cleanliness comes a long way before godliness, and is almost obsessionally emphasised as part of the national health-care programme.) We were the first arrivals, soon followed by two urban-looking men carrying briefcases and three svelte young women clutching thick files: touring government officials, we surmised. The waitress served them first, perhaps by way of reminding us that, strictly speaking, foreigners should be ejected from a subsidised national-peso food outlet. But for the Trio, we might well have been ejected; our proper place was in one of the tourist hotels.
The communal menu was an oblong of cardboard, handwritten in pencil. Impatiently Zea said, ‘Let’s look at the book’ – she’s not accustomed to eating out. The ‘book’ listed only arroz con frijoles and stewed or fried pork: heavy going when it’s 88°F in the shade. Observing the lavish helpings, Rachel rightly judged that three orders would suffice. Eventually plates heaped with white rice appeared, and bowls of soupy kidney beans to be poured over it, and large slabs of fried pork – fifty per cent fat with the bristles in situ. I never eat lunch and this fare did not tempt me to abandon the habit of a lifetime. Later I was to regret not stoking up; in rural Cuba the wise eat when they can. Meanwhile we were all
‘There’s nothing for us to eat!’ lamented Rose. ‘But Nyanya’s OK,’ said Clodagh, indicating a tall fridge amply stocked with Buccanero. I stuffed ten tins into my rucksack and we followed Rachel to the agromercado , not far up a side road. Too late, alas, too late! Beside a few palm-roofed trestle-stalls a notice nailed to a fence listed prices and hours of business: 8.00-10.00 a.m.
Back on the main road we paused beside a very old woman squatting under a ceiba tree, her posture oddly grasshopper-like, her black skin hanging loose as a garment, her bright eyes lively, a basket between her feet. She was selling another unfamiliar fruit – four inches long, oval-shaped , with a kiwi’s skin, sweet red flesh, a huge shiny brown stone and an acrid smell. ‘Like a dirty stable,’ commented Clodagh, declining to sample one. The others promptly spat out their first bites, to the old lady’s amusement. I nevertheless bought ten, not an extravagance at a fifth of a national peso each.
Even in Cuba swimming sharpens the appetite and a hunger mutiny threatened. Rose looked gloomy, Clodagh peevish, Zea rebellious. ‘There must be a restaurant,’ said I. ‘You speak without conviction,’ said Rachel. But there was one, separated from the road by another mud-lake and opening at noon. Rose looked at her watch and proposed twenty minutes of rummy to take minds off grumbling stomachs. I excused myself, by then reduced to a sweat-producing zombie.
Soon after I noticed a girl leaving the bakery with an armful of saucer-sized ‘ship’s biscuits’ – flat, hard, golden-brown. In Havana I had been able to buy their like and, because the instinct of child-protection overcomes even heat-lassitude, I now hastened hopefully across the duck-boards. An anxious Rose accompanied me; being at a rapid growth stage food was pivotal to her thinking. Happily no libreta was required and, exercising restraint on behalf of the locals, I bought fifteen for NP30. ‘Five each!’ exclaimed Rose though I had been mentally calculating ‘Three each’.
In the lean-to restaurant – built against a co-op store missing half its roof – local electricity rationing had stilled the ceiling fan and the dumpy, grumpy waitress wore a sweat-band. Wide spaces separated the eight four-person tables, their oil-cloths frayed but clean. (In Fidel’s Cuba cleanliness comes a long way before godliness, and is almost obsessionally emphasised as part of the national health-care programme.) We were the first arrivals, soon followed by two urban-looking men carrying briefcases and three svelte young women clutching thick files: touring government officials, we surmised. The waitress served them first, perhaps by way of reminding us that, strictly speaking, foreigners should be ejected from a subsidised national-peso food outlet. But for the Trio, we might well have been ejected; our proper place was in one of the tourist hotels.
The communal menu was an oblong of cardboard, handwritten in pencil. Impatiently Zea said, ‘Let’s look at the book’ – she’s not accustomed to eating out. The ‘book’ listed only arroz con frijoles and stewed or fried pork: heavy going when it’s 88°F in the shade. Observing the lavish helpings, Rachel rightly judged that three orders would suffice. Eventually plates heaped with white rice appeared, and bowls of soupy kidney beans to be poured over it, and large slabs of fried pork – fifty per cent fat with the bristles in situ. I never eat lunch and this fare did not tempt me to abandon the habit of a lifetime. Later I was to regret not stoking up; in rural Cuba the wise eat when they can. Meanwhile we were all
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