Loco Cuba
Jul 26, 2000
Loco Cuba
Loco Cuba was indeed loco, which he had been from birth. Loco for lack of another word, such as mentally challenged (Fiction)
Loco Cuba walked the streets and beaches selling Pulque, a fermented alcoholic home-brew made from the mescal cactus, which contains mescaline. One small cup of Pulque is good for your health. One small cup that is... 
"Cuba, loco Cuba, loco Cuba" the children teased Manuel, as he carried buckets of water to the dirt floored palapa hut that was home. "Cuba, loco Cuba," the taunting continued. Their persistence at this would, in short time, agitate Manuel to the point of uncontrollable anger. "You're going to Cuba to fight Fidel Castro."
Manuel dropped the buckets and gave chase as the children laughed with glee at their ability to rankle the nerves of an adult. "Fidel, Fidel Castro," and the last run of fun was over for the children at play, who laugh and run away to save their play for another day. Not so for the one all called "Cuba." He would carry his pent up anger the day long only to be confronted the next day and the next. The tormenting followed him like a shadow.
Cuba chopped firewood for the earthen stove and hauled water for the endless loads of wash, by hand, that Abuelo (grandmother) had to do. Cuba would work in the fields when there was work to be had, always turning the few pesos he earned over to Abuelo. Cuba would do any chore he was called upon to do with no thought of complaint.
The two lived alone in their world of barest survival. Abuelo's age showed only in her face, not in her actions, for she was active in her own way all day long. She began her day by making the fire in the earthen stove, before dawn, to boil the pots of hot water needed to scald the pin feathers from the chickens that were to be sold that day. The killing of the chickens was left to Cuba, a bloody task that could harden any heart. At mid-day Cuba would make his trek to the river for more water, taking time to bathe off the chicken blood from the day's kill. More necessary than cleanliness was his need to swim in the solace of the river.
Cuba would forage into the nearby hills to gather wild herbs and berries to eat, now and again making the kill of small game. Not owning a gun, Cuba made his kill the old fashioned way— by stone, with the arm and aim of a hungry man. Cuba would skin the game with his razor sharp knife and then cure the pelt for sale or trade. Abuelo would cook the meat into a spicy stew, adding to their meager, irksome diet of eggs, chicken, beans and the endless pyramids of tortillas.
In one corner of the kitchen on the floor stood a large five gallon earthen pot emitting the smell of fermenting fruit. This was Pulque, an alcholic drink, of which one small cup is said to be good for the health. Pulque, made from the maguey and mescal cactus, is a mixture of alcohol with the narcotic effect of mescaline. This Abuelo would brew to be sold, a cup at a time, for the neighbor's good health. However, the bulk of the brew would be siphoned into three plastic containers for those Dias de Santos, Noche de Navidad, Cinco de Mayo and other special days of national importance. On these days of fiesta, hordes of people from near and far would over-flow the near by tourista city of Mazatlan. Mazatlan, being a coastal city, attracted monied people. In a weeks sojourn, during the various fiestas, Abuelo and Cuba could make three or four times the price of the goods and all would be sold in those few days of fiesta.
Preparations were made for the long trip to Mazatlan. Abuelo gathered eggs for many days before the journey. They were to be gone for 3 days during the fiesta. This was to be on the 15th, 16th, 17th of September. The three day fiesta of the remembance of the revolution for the independence of Mexico. Each egg was wrapped in corn husks so as to survive the butt-busting four hour ride to Mazatlan in a bus that had seen better days. The containers of pulque, a large box of eggs, the two dozen chickens—shackled two by two—were loaded onto a tattered red wagon, with no guide bar, that had to be pulled along by means of a rope. This was done the night before their journey was to begin, to avoid trying to load in the dark of night.
In the dark gray before dawn the bus driver gave three long blasts on his horn. This was to alert the village that it was time for departure. The bus was loaded with people lined up for market. Chickens and turkeys rode on top amid bales of feed sacks of beans and maize. Pigs and goats were stuffed between rolls of wire. Shovels, nails and heavier tools were outside in the luggage space on the bottom. The people were privileged to enjoy the dust-eating ride on the inside.
It was constant stop and go. A monotonous ride for Abuelo, but a source of joy for Cuba. For him it was a break from being harassed on a daily basis and, although he was not aware of it in his mind, in his heart it was a great relief from the savage chore of killing chickens and the resulting daily blood bath.
By the time the bus pulled into the station in Mazatlan the city was a confusion of festivity. Every hotel room was taken, which didn't bother the hordes of Mexican nationals who either stayed with relatives and friends, or set up camps on the beautiful beaches that abound in Mexico. The bus station was a beehive of human activity with the comings and goings, loadings and unloadings. The taco vendors were busy feeding people, while stray dogs milled about nervously, hoping for spills. Hand-outs being few and far between. Everywhere you looked there were people trying to get to someplace else from the place that they were.
As always, Abuelo and Cuba would walk the three miles to the home of Tia Maria, a cousin who had had a child by her first cousin thirty-three years passed and was, in reality, Cuba's mother. Tia Maria lived in her two room house on the out-skirts of town in the slum area. Her home would be flooded nearly every rainy season because the slum homes were set in the lowland near the sewer wash from the higher land where the more prosperous lived.
The trip had been long and hard on Abuelo, so after a hasty meal of fried eggs, beans and tortillas, they went to bed. Abuelo, in Tia Maria's big bed. Tia slept on the couch while Cuba made do on the floor in the corner. Before dawn Cuba was awake. He lay still, although he badly needed to relieve himself. He knew he could not just go outside like back home, yet the room where all the others went to relieve themselves, scared him. Once he had tried to bathe like he had seen the others do, but when he turned the knob the water came shooting out as hot as the water that took the hide off the chickens back home. From then on Cuba would wash using the watering hose where the water was as nice and cool as the Rio Lobo. Besides, everyone knows that hot water will give you the grippe.
At dawn's early light the Army, accompanied by a Navy gun boat, set off a military cannonade that jolted the city to attention. The three days of the Independencia of Mexico were officialy underway. The city fathers answered with thundering rockets. The bars, that hadn't closed, were still open and the tourists grabbed at that excuse to start all over again.
Cuba was up and out back washing with a hose. Abuelo and Tia Maria were up and active loading the wagon with pulque, now transferred into a one gallon cantainer with a large chunk of ice, a snap top, with a scoup the measure of the cup. A bag of limes sat next to a cutting board. When need be Cuba would cut the limes into quarters with his finely honed knife. For those that drink pulque there is the ritual with the lime and salt.
With the coming of the sun, Abuelo and Tia Maria made sure Cuba had a double egg, beans and tortilla breakfast. The open air market was not that far and the two women walked along behind as Cuba pulled the wagon, stopping only to make a sale of a live chicken or, now and again, a cup of pulque. As sales were being made Cuba would take a small toy flute and play a few notes to let the people, within hearing, know there was something for sale.
At the entrance to the market the two women cleared a space for their goods to be sold. The chickens were laid out on display— take your pick and pay. A cup of pulque for your good health is worth more to you than wealth.
With each sale Abuelo would take all the money and stuff it into her coin purse then to be tucked to her bosom for safe keeping. Tia Maria happily collecting the wages of sin being paid. By mid-day what had not been sold was again loaded aboard the wagon but this time the pulque was given to Cuba to carry cups, scoop, limes and all. Abuelo gave instructions to Cuba. He was to walk the streets until he reached the beach. Once there he must sell all the pulque, more than one gallon, before returning home and to be very careful making change.
The days were long and sales were slow but Cuba never gave thought to complaint for this was the only life he had ever known and he not have the ability to imagine any change.
On the third and conclusive day of the Fiesta de Independencia de Mexcio, Cuba made his way to the beach, lugging the last of the pulque to be sold. Once there, he stopped to play a few notes on the flute which got the attention of a group of gringo tourists nearby who where curious as to what was being sold. This was explained to them by a local who worked in one of the hotels and spoke good English. This being such a rare and exquisite treat they bought it all, on the condition that this vendor accept their invitation to join them in drinking a cup or two. This Cuba was most willing to do, why not? They had bought it all and so he was free. He had had a cup of pulque before and if one was good, would two not be better?
The merry-making tourists meant no harm, infact they were intrigued to meet someone so untainted by the outside world, someone so natural in manner and dress. They tried to communicate, via the man that spoke Engish, asking his name, how the pulque was made, where he lived, how old he was and did he carry a knife for protection? "My name is Manuel," he answered, accepting the first cup, "Abuelo makes the pulque at home in Rio Lobo and I'm 30 or 40, and my knife is for cutting limes for your drink." With this said Cuba pulled his knife out and cut limes, giving a quarter of each lime to all as the tourist poured the cups to the brim. On the third cup he was asked his last name. Confused from drink he replied, "Cuba." The interpreter laughed, "Maunel Cuba, are you a friend of Fidel Castro's?" The response from Cuba was instant. With knife in hand it was not the movement but the look of madness in his eyes that broke the mood of merriment. The interpeter, feeling ill at ease, decided to take leave with his family. In parting he conveyed to the group that he thought the vendor was not all there and to be careful but this only gave them cause for empathy towards Cuba and so they showed him favor by filling his cup again. With the aid of their English/Spanish dictionary they tried, but failed, to carry on a conversation. Communication was gone and the last cup of pulque was bestowed to Cuba. The sun was high, and so were they, so to escape the burning sun the group decided to move on to the El Shrimp Bucket bar in their hotel. In parting they gave Cuba a $20 dollar bill as a gesture of goodwill.
Cuba now sat alone in the sand in a stupor from the effects of too many cups of pulque. Children ran past kicking up sand as they tried to loft a kite. Cuba tried to get up, falling back twice before he was able to stand. Clutching the twenty dollar bill in one hand and the now empty container in the other, Cuba made his way from the crowded beach to the more crowded malecon. (the street that runs along the beach front) This being the last day of the fiesta, people were aligned along the street jockying for the best position to view the Marcha Grande.(the big parade)
Cuba stopped at a taco stand, as most drunks do, for something to eat. The crowd by now had grown to a throng as the floats came into sight. There were many beautiful and colorful floats in all manner of shapes and sizes. There were clowns, their buffoonery drawing laughter, applause and squeals of delight from the crowd as they passed by. The Vaqueros came next in all their regalia, prancing along on well groomed high-bred steeds, while clowns trailed along playfully behind scooping up the poop in their wake. Now came the students from the local schools marching—not quite in step—carrying their school banners, the nation's flag and poster pictures of the present day president and local government officials. The pictures were met with less than polite applause. A voice in the crowd shouted "Puto!" More than a few laughed. Next came the older school children, a tad more in step, their banners held high with pride. These picture posters were of the fore fathers of the revolution for Independenca: Hidalgo, Morelos, Juarez. These were greeted with much more enthusiasm. Cheers and cries of "VIVA LA REVOLUTION, VIVA HIDALGO, VIVA MORELOS, VIVA JUAREZ," came from the people.
Coming next into view were the legendary Emilio Zapata and Pancho Villa. The roar from the crowd startled Cuba as he was jostled about knocking his taco to the pavement and riling his drunken mood. A stray dog ate half before Cuba got the other half and stuffed it into his mouth. Coming into view now was the red banner, with black hammer and sickle, of the Communist flag. Mexico's politic is tolerant of the communist party and has always maintained close ties with them, including Castro's Cuba. The picture posters being carried now were those of Vladimir Lenin, Che Guevera and Fidel Castro. The crowd now went into an ecstatic fit of near frenzy. Someone lit a string of firecrackers tossing them in the air, they landed at Cubas feet exploding in rapid fire, "POP, POP, POW, POW."
In the confusion Cuba was pushed down in the street. He jumped up looking about in anger for the perpetrater, hand on the hilt of his knife. "VIVA LA REVOLUTION," the man standing next to Cuba shouted. "VIVA LA REVOLUTION, VIVA CUBA, VIVA FIDEL CASTRO." Instinctively the hand gripped the knife tighter. "VIVA, VIVA FIDEL, VIVA CUBA, VIVA FIDEL CASTRO." Cuba turned to face his antagonizer, "No Castro, no Fidel." The man just laughed in his face. "SI, SI, VIVA FIDEL CASTRO, VIVA FIDEL CASTRO," the man chanted in Cuba's face, trying to prove his senseless point.
It happened so fast. Instinctively, without reason or warning, so that there was no time to parry the thust, Cuba's knife was buried to the hilt in the man's chest. The force of the blow sent the man staggering backwards into the street, stumbling, trying to regain his balance before finallyfalling into a group of students. Clutching frantically at two of them as he fell, dragging them with him. At first the students thought him to be a drunk, but as the blood fountained from the mortal wound and the man lay sprawled out in the street, the realization of what had happened took hold and panic set in.
Mothers and fathers rushed about to gather their children out of harms way as the crowd turned into a mob, surrounding Cuba, preventing him from taking flight, which he had no idea of doing. Policemen broke through the mob and approached this killer of the innocent with care. Cuba, in his state of drunkenness, was unaware of the serious consequences of his deadly act. The man's wife and children rushed to their loved one's aid as he grasped for life's last breath, repeating over and over "Por que dios mio? Por que? Por que, dios mio? Por que?" Then he was gone.
One of four policemen approached Cuba, gun in hand, and demanded he drop the knife. Cuba looked at the blood-stained knife then to the policeman and then to the family in the street grieving for their loved one. He wanted to say something, but what? The policeman had seen this look before. The man before him was confused and dazed from the realization of what he had done and he wasn't sure what to do next. In a soft settling voice he ask Cuba for the knife. Cuba pointed to his container "Este es mio." The policeman in charge nodded to one of his men who then picked it up and walked within fifteen feet of Cuba then stopped and slid the container the rest of the way. Cuba then took a limon from his pocket and cut into it, not in half mind you but just enough to use the juice and core to wipe the blade clean, then, taking the knife by the blade he now handed the weapon over hilt first to ensure that the recipient would not cut himself. The policeman knew there might be relatives or friends around so he told his men to cover him on all sides as he asked his ward to come along for some coffee. A coke bottle came flying from out of the crowd splintering in the pavment but off-target five yards behind. Cuba started to resist but one heftier policeman grabbed him by the belt from behind and lifted Cuba off his feet as two others took him by the arms. All four marched Cuba into the nearest restaurant as the crowed of the curious and the hostile mingled outside across the street.
Inside Cuba was forced into a chair with his back to the wall. He sat hugging the container in his lap. The call had already been made and it would only be a matter of a few minutes before back-up would arrive. Men were posted at the entrance as well as the exit. The man in charge had seen these situations grow ugly and he was taking no chances. It was more for his safty and that of his men's than it was for the suspect. It was hot inside, it was hot outside, it was hot all over town.
"Manuel Rochin" was the name given when asked and then he tried to explan that he lived in villa Rio Lobo and he came here with the chickens and Abuelo to stay with Tia Maria where the water was hot enough to skin a chicken so he used the tub with cold water like the Rio Lobo back home. As to why he had done what he did Cuba simply stated that he didn't want to go to Cuba and fight Fidel Castro, adding that if the jefe would give him his freedom he would give him the $20 US money. The old policeman just shook his head and said to himself, 'por que dios mio, por que?' When the man in charge of the men in charge arrived in a Ford LTD four door, no license plate and six bullet holes in the right rear door, he agreed on the spot that this man should be placed in prison to avoid any potential problems.
Cuba was ushered into the back seat, head down, clutching his container to his chest. Some people spit on the car others pounded on the hood and trunk and ran along side as the driver forced the car through the street-mob that had grown quite large in size. The two policemen in charge sat on either side with Cuba in the middle, in the back seat. The driver didn't have a siren to clear the way so he pulled out a automatic pistol stuck it out the window, facing the sky, and fired off eight shots in syncopated rhythm that got the crowd instantly out of the way. The took him to Dolores Prison, jokingly called La Casa Grande (the big house) by the locals. It was an island filled the dregs of humanity surrounded by a sea of people just trying to survive.
Contributed by:
T.F. Shirley
©2000, May 12. T. F. Shirley
Email: [email protected]
