Today I ate pig roasted on a spit with rice, beans, cabbage, tomatoes and bread on the side. Little Wilbur I called the fresh pink suckling; He had been frolicking in the sun in the morning but by noon he was on a spit, by late afternoon he was well-done and by evening he was in our bellies. Such is life.
The day panned out like this:
Waking up at 8:30, dressing in breathable cotton dresses and strappy sandals, my roomie and I left our casa particular and joined a friend in the main plaza next to our house for breakfast. First stop: bread. Next: one one-peso coffee with just the right amount of sugar. And then: a trip to the agro-mercado which included a man gifting me a guayaba and then the usual game of – “where are you from”, quickly followed by “do you have a boyfriend?” Wanting to get the hell out of there, I quickly bought some bananas, thanked the man and skedattled. 9am is too early to be questioned, poked and prodded for personal information leading to a proposal. Oh Cuba.
With breakfast in our bellies we took a tour of a glorious home which used to be the governor’s mansion. And then, my roomie and I returned to our casa where we were told to load up into an unmarked “taxi” with no doorhandles on the insides, windows that didn’t roll down with two Cuban men in the front seat. Sweat rolled down my legs as we made conversation with the men who seemed more disinterested in us than I ever thought possible. Fortunately these men did not seem interested in marrying us, and in fact, seemed completely blase about our inquiries about their lives completely and it was slightly refreshing to not be receiving attention from males for once.
We arrived upon the farm of our host father, Santiago and were told to disembark the car with no handles and were then led around the farm under the beating sun. The farm revolved around a central open space where a house, a patio and a fire pit are located. A spread of fresh fruit on the table and the crackling of fire wood as the skewered piggie slowly rotated and roasted above the log fire. Juices slipped down his plump belly and sizzled in the smokey fire.
Little Wilbur had some scruff on his beard and eyelashes.
After a few hours, Wilbur was aldente and ready to be served. the rest of our group arrived, conversation ensued, I peeed in a hole, and we were all told to get a knife because Wilbur was ready. I timidly approached the beast. Before coming to Cuba I had been vegetarian for 5 years. To put it blandly – Cuban food has about as much flavor as a piece of boiled chicken – so attempting to widen the scope of my food intake, I supplied myself with a metal fork from the table and approached the man with the machete, carving out hunks of skin and flesh apart from bone and breast. I asked for a small piece and was handed by no means a small piece. My plastic plate could barely hold it together. I gripped my destiny between my hands and loaded my plate up with rice, tomatoes, beans, bell peppers – and after sprinkled salt, drizzling garlic sauce and shooting some hot sauce over it all – I was good to go.
Dinner was officially served.
I scraped a metal chair to a table and began the feast. The meal was one of the most delicious ones I have had in Cuba and the farm was a literal breath of fresh air from the constant smog and congestion of the city.
Thank you for your sacrifice sweet Wilbur, and for joining us all together. You were the star of the evening and it was quite a night indeed.