Entrance to the Bitiri guesthouse

By Lien Estrada

HAVANA TIMES — I had the good fortune to visit Mayarí once again, that land of rivers and mountains, about two hours by car from my home in the city of Holguin. I was going to meet up with some very dear friends—people who teach you how to be a better person in every way and who offer other blessings that lovingly reconcile you with, and commit you to, the rest of humanity. For that reason, I decided to stay at the Bitirí guesthouse. A privileged place in other times and undeniably pleasant—in other times, we said.

The news that the restaurant had closed came as quite a shock. I arrived around ten in the morning and expected to have lunch there. That was no longer possible. The blackouts, they warned me, were severe. Being without electricity all night had already become “normal.” So I wasn’t going to enjoy the air conditioning either. There was no running water in the bathroom. If you needed water, you had to draw it from the cistern with a bucket and rope. One bucket per room. The other one—the one attached to the rope—belonged at the reception desk.

When I needed drinking water, the gentleman on duty kindly shared some of his own with me, because the establishment didn’t have any either. I took a walk around the grounds because the building is beautiful, and I came across some metal gates announcing a swimming pool and its operating hours. Closed. There was a swimming pool here?! I never would have guessed it, so hidden away was it. If you look through the narrow gap between the locked gates, you can see that it is a large pool with a concession stand beside it. Surely that was where they sold beer, soft drinks, sandwiches, malt beverages… in other times.

What saves the place is the humanity of its workers. I was welcomed warmly by the woman in charge, who helped me carry the bucket of water to my room while I could hardly believe what I was seeing. My stay cost exactly the same as it had eight years earlier: 360 pesos (0.60 USD). Of course, that amount is practically nothing to anyone in the country today. But it’s also true that it shouldn’t cost the same with electricity, water, and food as it does without any of those things. The bed was comfortable, though, and the toilet flushed, which is more than can be said for many places where plumbing problems are common.

The woman in charge kindly offered me some coffee. It was delicious. I was in the land of Cuban coffee, after all. I had to tell her how good it was and ask, rather bluntly, “Did you make it?” She replied that her husband had. A man of medium height raised his arm in greeting. “Thank you very much,” I told him.

I went out that afternoon and, of course, I lost my key. I can’t remember a single time when I haven’t lost a key. When I served in the Reformed Presbyterian community of Cardenas, I always left it inside my room. Then I had to use a long pole to open the door through the window by pulling back the latch. Every time I picked up that pole, the cook, who would see me, would exclaim, “Again!” I never managed to remember that key. Well, this time I lost it in a river while spending time with my friends.

When I returned around 10:30 that night, I explained about the key. There was no spare! I told them it wasn’t a problem, and I stretched out on the sofa. Then the receptionist and her husband kindly opened another room for me. I slept well. I had brought along my little rechargeable fan. Previous experience had taught me that you must carry anything that might help make things a little more bearable.

The next day, when the new shift arrived, those leaving explained my situation. That was when they called the manager so she could summon the maintenance worker to dismantle the lock and let me retrieve my belongings. The manager arrived. I immediately noticed that she had a lot of authority and determination. As it turned out, there was a spare key after all! I paid 500 pesos for the lost key. After dealing with that manager, I had no desire to stay there another minute. I packed my suitcase and left.

Fortunately, a fast shuttle came along, and I returned home for the same fare I had paid on the way there: 5,000 pesos (9 USD) The trip back was more comfortable, faster, and friendlier.

As I traveled, I kept thinking that Bitirí is Cuba. The manager is like most managers, trained in Cuba to function a certain way—highly arrogant types. We are here to command, not to serve. Everyone is militarized. Even when other people possess a different spirit.

But despite everything, I didn’t complain to anyone. I am in Cuba. I spoke to my family more about the joys than about the challenges. And I did the right thing. The happiness of having shared time with such noble people deserved that.

Read more from Lien Estrada’s diary here on Havana Times.