Stubborn Like an Islander

Stubborn Like an Islander / 14ymedio, Reinaldo Escobar
Posted on August 14, 2014

14YMEDIO, Reinaldo Escobar, Havana, 8 August 2014 – In the land of San
Juan y Martinez, Bernabé Pérez Gutiérrez planted his first crops and
fathered fourteen children. It was during the last years of the 19th
century, and the immigrant baptized his farm The Islander, in memory of
the Canary Islands where he'd come from. Today, his great-grandchildren
are trying to keep one of the most important tobacco plantations in
Pinar del Rio running, with the their great grandfather's same
stubbornness and his love for the furrow.

The Islander is a family cooperative inserted into a larger entity
called "Rafael Morales Credit and Strengthened Services Cooperative
(CCS-F)," consisting of 64 tobacco producers, occupying over 250 acres.
It also includes dairy and pig farmers. Only ten of these farmers lease
their land (under usufruct), while others jealously hoard their property
titles.

What distinguishes The Islander is not only the quality of their
tobacco, their fruit or their flowers, nor even the hard work of the
members of the Pérez González family. Its hallmark is that this site has
been, since the time of Barnabas an example of a sustained endeavor that
refuses to be subjugated, neither by the misfortunes of nature nor the
whims of the bureaucracy.

During the time of the Canary Islander grandfather, the Islander
operated as a consultancy where the farmers came for advice. His son
Pragmacio, who became the head of the farm with the death of its
founder, converted a part of the house into an area for discussion
groups where they analyzed newspaper articles with news of the Second
World War and the evolution of the communist regime in Russia.

The layout of the estate is also unique in the area. In 1955, Bernabé's
children built a shrine to their father, who was devoted to the Virgin
of Charity. Their religious fervor reached the point where during a
drought they organized a procession with the image of the Patroness of
Cuba in order to summon the rains. Under the small belltower, the
priests of the area have baptized and married many members of the family
and their neighbors.

However, the greatest peculiarity of The Islander lies not in its
enormous ceiba tree, nor in the small chapel, but in its people. In the
current times, where being an entrepreneur and defending the autonomy of
the farmers generates suspicion and incomprehension, the Perez
Gonzalezes are known in the area for being "grumpy."

In a country where the established leadership obeys and doesn't question
the powers-that-be, the progeny of that immigrant have had to overcome
many obstacles. The family obstinately denounced the unjust
relationships between the tobacco producers and the State monopoly that
trades in it. Often it's not about demanding new prerogatives, but
demanding that the directors and agricultural officials meet the
standards they themselves have set.

Sitting in the doorway, where a sweet breeze blows, some descendants of
the obstinate Canary Islander started listing their demands. Bushy
eyebrows one and all, they bear the unmistakable family stamp that marks
them as stubborn. They relate that among the most insistent of their
demands is questioning the calculations of the Tabacuba Company in
determining the tobacco growers' costs for each bushel of leaves.
Included in the formula are inputs such as fuel, fertilizer and
herbicides, plus adding the wages paid to the workers engaged in
planting, cultivating and harvesting and selection of tobacco.

"Every year it's more expensive, particularly the wages, because nobody
wants to work for four pesos," commented Alfredo Perez, the current head
of the family. "However, the company seems to live in another dimension
far from reality, and the data they use for what they call the cost
sheet." Times have changed and the costs of living have skyrocketed, but
the agricultural bureaucracy continues without updating their old numbers.

With his hat in his hand, Juan Pablo, with a degree in agricultural
engineering, complains, "As if it were great news that they now tell us
they will pay a little better for every bushel of tobacco, but for every
percentage point they raise the schedule, the costs go up six or even
ten percent."

The floor passes from person to person, until it is Nestor Perez's turn;
Nestor dreamed of being a lawyer but they expelled him from the
"university for Revolutionaries" for being too confrontational. With
regards to the problems of the company, the young man has realized that
"when the specialist comes to determine the quality of our offerings,
they find a lot of irregularities, and categorize as 'affected' a
tobacco the produces ample dividends for the company. That's where the
farmer has to stand firm and not accept the impositions. Ultimately we
are the ones producing the leaves and we have to learn to set conditions."

In the middle of the conversation, with the coffee cups now empty,
another battle these farmers have waged comes up: the demand for proper
electrification of the cooperative. In the late sixties they had
provisional access to an alternative electrical line, installed
illegally. This is what is commonly called a "clothesline" because it
lacks adequate poles and transformers. Since then, and due to the
increase in consumer appliances during the last 45 years, the low
voltage affects not only domestic energy use, but also production. The
Perez Gonzalezes have written letters to all the institutions involved
and never stop raising the issue in public assemblies.

Technical problems directly affect performance. "There is a group of
producers in the area who average over 15 tons of tobacco every year,"
argues Nestor, while putting fruit in a basket. "With stable electricity
we could reach 25 tons. We've proposed to the State that they open a
line of credit for doing this work and we pay for it, but they haven't
accepted this proposal, which makes us think they they are intentionally
trying to marginalize us for our way of thinking."

Alfredo, the youngest of the family—but by no means the least
tenacious—says that "although the cooperative is supposedly autonomous,
in real life it is subordinate to the Tabacuba Company. For example,
we've asked for disks for plowing, but when these items arrive, it's the
company that decides how to distribute them according to their own
criteria. We can't buy those any other way because there is no free
market offering them."

The oldest of the all the Canary immigrant great-grandchildren is named
Ariel and speaks in direct sentences. While he's talking, a lean dog
with a sharp look sits under the chair where he is sitting. "The
cooperatives were left without any batteries for their tractors," says
Ariel. "They have to sell them to us because we order them properly, but
these are the things they do to isolate us from the rest of the
cooperative. They say we're a bad example."

The afternoon advances, but the heat doesn't let up. A part of the
shadow of the great ceiba reaches the doorway. Juan Pablo summarizes the
conversation with perfect clarity, "We know that in meetings where we
haven't been invited they warn the cooperative members that they should
stay away from us because we are counterrevolutionaries. Someone always
comes to tell us about it, because everyone knows that the only thing we
want is to work."

It's time to go back to the fields, so the five men take up their tools
and return to the furrows. Before saying goodbye, they raise one of the
biggest pieces of nonsense they have to deal with. "For a farmer to
receive a document of ownership for their home, they first have to
donate to the State what they built with their own efforts and
resources. And so then the State charges you for what you gave it. If
you don't give them the land, you can't build your house legally."

Source: Stubborn Like an Islander / 14ymedio, Reinaldo Escobar |
Translating Cuba -
http://translatingcuba.com/stubborn-like-an-islander-14ymedio-reinaldo-escobar/