Sugar Cane Dreams

A breeze blew across the harbour, slowly carving the sleep from John's face. The morning was warmest it had been so far all year. He sat silently on a bench looking across the harbour; the beauty of the view did not exist for him anymore.

A small group of elderly tourists were walking out on the pier with their lattes, taking pictures. John's only thought was that their pictures would be so boring. He paused and remembered his first view of Victoria's harbour. He had to concede that when he first visited the city, the harbour seemed a magical place. For a moment he reflected on what time and familiarity could do to your perception.

The moment ended and a deep angst returned. John felt he needed to leave the Island for a little while. The city was growing and every year it seemed more cosmopolitan. Still, John couldn't help but feel affected by being on an island. Either you felt trapped or you just forgot that a world beyond its rocky shores existed. For some, even the rest of the Island north of the Malahat seemed distant. This had to be one of the few cities left in North America where a fifteen minute drive was considered far away.

John realized there were benefits to this island mentality, but at the same time he needed an occasional break to make him realize what he had. For John, he only needed to close his eyes and the warm breeze sent him to the country of his father's family, another island but as different as places could be. Cuba, the island of music and confusion; of line-ups and rum; where the air is as thick as syrup and the smells of diesel and black tobacco hang like laundry in the air. The country where the people speak of life with their lips and bodies, but use only their eyes and hands to talk about politics.

A horn blew, John opened his eyes and sighed, the view hadn't changed except for a tugboat towing a barge into the harbour. The barge was full of earth and it looked as if about fifty seagulls had made a temporary home of this floating island. John stood and started the last few minutes of his walk to work. As he walked he tried to turn his mind to work but Cuba stayed. Could he go? He had vacation time but for how long? Maybe that didn't matter. Maybe it was that  he needed to get there and worry about the time later.

John hadn't gone to school with the intention of working for  government but there were not a lot of jobs around and he had kind of fallen into this position. Leaving would not be the best decision but maybe he would not be staying so long. His work was for the most part dry and though there were moments when it could be very interesting, there was however, no romance, no intrigue.

His personal life was little better, he hadn't been on a date of any kind in six months and the last time he had a girlfriend was a year and a half ago. It wasn't that he was avoiding women it was that every time he thought about making the effort to ask someone out, it tired him or the girl that he was interested in made it clear that he shouldn't even think about it.

So between John's work and love life, he was living un vida sin vida, a life without life.

The day began he worked, he ate and he went to sleep.

John opened his eyes and looked around. He was surrounded by sugar cane, the rich smell of it boiling in giant pots drifted silently through the moist air. Nearby in a clearing, a large group of peasants were cheering and swinging their fists in the air. Their faces' all looked tired but their eyes were filled with hope. In front of them a man sat on a horse, his arm in the air. He spoke in a low Spanish that did not seem natural to him. John assumed he was speaking in a way his audience would understand. Finally, after much more yelling of which John only understood one line, "You are free now", the man on the horse turned and looked directly at John, he hesitated for a moment then slowly rode towards him. A moment later he was next to him. The man seemed enormous on top of his white horse. The man looked down at John for a long time as if judging him or seeing how he would react. The man's dark brown eyes were intense, his thick moustache coated in spit and dust. He slowly spoke in a deep, accented English, "So... Are you with us?"

John woke up he was in his bedroom of his apartment, the clock said 5:30 am. It took him a couple of minutes to get his bearings, he felt excited, yet at the same time distant. John was not the kind of person to do something brazen. No, he would work towards it. He would ask for a leave of absence, maybe two months off three months from now. Getting out of bed he went to the kitchen and began to make coffee. He thought of his lucid encounter with this man on a horse. The smell of burnt sugar still lingered in his nostrils as if his neighbour was boiling molasses.

After some negotiating with fellow employees, John's request for a leave had been granted. Now there were only two months till he left. For the most part he worked tirelessly, hardly thinking of the adventure that lay before him. It was as if the knowledge of his impending liberty had already set him free.

One afternoon after work John stopped at the Mirage Café for a coffee before heading home. After getting a large dark roast coffee he decided to sit outside and enjoy the late spring sun. The only vacant seat on the sidewalk was at a table with a man. The man had bronze coloured skin and piercing eyes. He was wearing a light cotton shirt and was smoking an unfiltered cigarette that he had obviously rolled himself. The smoke that rose from it was acrid, almost making John's eyes water. "Can I sit here?"

The man shook his head slowly and gestured towards it with his massive nicotine stained hand. John pulled out the day's paper and began reading. The coffee was strong and quickly woke him from his after work daze. Traffic was not as busy as some days as if the city had already begun to relax for the evening. Across the street a truck stopped, it was pulling a trailer that held one of the horses that pull the carriages for the tourists in the Inner Harbour. The horse was massive its head hanging over the side of the trailer it was looking in John's direction but at not him. It was looking instead at his table-mate. The bronze man took a long pull on his cigarette, then spoke in a Latino accent, "I had horse such as this one once. Her name was Concha. She never rattled." The man paused and smoked his cigarette. The light changed and the horse swung its head back inside the trailer. "Some Spaniard stole her." The man said with some anger in his voice. John thought he saw the man's eye water. "I am sorry to hear that." John said and then turned his head to give the man some privacy. When John turned his head back a moment later the man was gone. All that was left of him was the butt of his cigarette in the ashtray its heavy smoke still swirling low in the air.

As the time for his adventure grew closer John began to spend an ever increasing amount of time at the library reading about Cuba and getting acquainted with the culture that seemed so familiar, yet was unknown to him. It was not going to be his first time there, but on the previous trips he had been a child travelling with his family and truly he knew nothing about this country that was a part of him.

It was evening and the library was quiet. John was sitting at a table in the back of the library trying to plan his trip across the entire island of Cuba. A well dressed man came up to the table and smiled at him from behind his well groomed moustache and then sat at the opposite end of the table. The man opened a book and began to write. It seemed like he was writing a letter, because he wasn't using any library books. He continued writing for quite some time before John asked him what it was he was writing. The man looked up from his book and put down his pen. "I am a poet, I am writing about my country which I miss and which needs my help. I will return there soon." The man spoke with an accent but it was barely audible. The man had most likely been educated in North America. John was just about to ask him where the man was from when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He looked up and the librarian was standing over him. "Just letting you know that we are closing in fifteen minutes." She smiled and walked to the next table. John turned back to the man but he was gone. At his place was a book. John looked at it. The title was Versos sencillos by Jose Marti. "Simple Verses" John said to himself then put it on top of the other books he intended to take with him to the checkout.

"Day and night
I always dream with open eyes"

I dream awake (from Ismaelillo)by Jose Marti

It seemed only a moment in time later that John had two days until he left. The dream which had started this journey still seemed so vivid in his mind.

Everything was set, from his plane ticket to his first night's accommodation. John was still a cautious man and he didn't want to go anywhere without at least a little security. That morning he had giving his landlord his advance rent and had mailed out all of his bills, he was just about set.

The night before he left John sat at his desk reading the local Spanish language newspaper as best he could. He hadn't practiced as much he should have, but this seemed an easy way to go about it. John doubted he would sleep this night. The radio was tuned to a local college station because it played a fair amount of Cuban music. Somehow he doubted that the Canadian romance with Cuban music and the reality on the island would be the even remotely close.

The music stopped and the signal seemed to jump around. John stopped his reading and played with the antenna trying to get the signal back. Finally a voice emerged clear though the man spoke in Spanish. John concentrated with his eyes closed doing his best to understand what he was saying. It was an apology to his listeners. Apparently the man had reported a story that had turned out to be incorrect. The man's voice was deeply animated and sad. The words rose in pitch and then finally he said clearly and in English "People of Cuba, awake!", this was followed by a moment of silence and then a loud bang that echoed through John's speakers. John awoke, he had been sleeping. His radio had only static coming from it. One tap of the antenna and music came out, it was Guantanamera, the folk anthem of Cuba written by Jose Marti. 

As John stepped from the open door of the plane he was hit with an air so thick he had to almost bite it into his mouth. He walked down the steps and followed the group of passengers into the terminal. The group was then divided among the Customs Officers present. The line entered had about five people ahead of him. The Officer wore fatigues that were crumpled, not as well kept as the others. The officer looked tired and his breathing was laboured, but his eyes burned with an energy that John could barely look away from. Finally it was John's turn he approached and handed the man his passport. The man took it then looked up into John's eyes. His stare interrogating him rather than his words. Finally after a long moment a half smile emerged from the scruffy faced officer. "Welcome to Cuba!". He handed the passport back and looked to the next person. John turned back as he walked away but the officer was coughing and didn't see him smiling back at him, he was home at last.