The hot morning sun had dried up the muddy ground, allowing for wispy dust clouds to guide our path to the train depot not too far from Abuela’s house. In the humid heat, stained-glass-winged dragon flies hovered and then darted about while delicate white and yellow butterflies flew close to the ground, searching for moisture and salt.
Little was discussed that morning at breakfast, and I, a bit choked-up, had difficulty swallowing my food. Unlike her warm welcome the previous afternoon, Abuela appeared sad, and her kisses were tinted with a serious tone as she stood by the door and said goodbye.
Holding my hand, Father walked me down past the fruit processing plant right before the train depot. The rich smell of guava, papaya, and sour orange syrupy sweets that were bring packed into brightly labeled oblong tins and fat round cans infused the air, the taste of which lingered on my tongue.
A tiny, whitewashed building with faded blue trim waited for us on the other side of the tracks. There, two simple wood benches huddled against the mud-covered walls to welcome Mother, Tía Cecilia, and our luggage, while Father and I went in to visit with the men. Inside, the dark, cool interior, a gangly man paced back and forth behind a long counter, selling cigarettes, cigars, sodas, beer, and small glasses of rum.
Father sat me on top of the counter and began introducing me to the men at the bar, until the urgent klaxon alerted us to the arrival of our ride. In a hurry, we downed the cold citrusy salutaris we were sharing through a red-striped paper straw. Outside, an amazing contraption waited for us.
Little more than a rudimentary wooden bus built on top of a freight rail car, our guaguita was red with a noisy engine spewing white smoke. There were two open doors—one at the back, and one on the side with a short ladder for riders to step up into the car. It being high off the ground required Mother and Tía Cecilia to hold their skirts down as they climbed. Luckily, that morning they had changed from their high-heels into bright rubber flip-flops—Mother’s were fuchsia pink, and Tía Cecilia’s were mint. Always coordinated and anticipating such a moment, they even lacquered their toenails to match the nail color on their hands.
Sitting on a small taburete that had been nailed to the wooden floor, Candela, the rotund, jovial driver, oozed from either side. My eyes bulged upon hearing Father explain the reason for his name, because it meant a burning flame. But when he laughed and assured me there was nothing to fear, I relaxed. Still, I played it safe, keeping one eye on Candela’s every action until my attention focused elsewhere once we started to move away from the train depot.
Inside, a row of long narrow benches on each side stretched the length of the car. Above the seats, rows of glassless windows displayed flapping canvas shades helplessly trying to block the insistent hot sun. Its ceiling was low, forcing the adults to hunch over when they entered or stood.
Once in motion, passengers bounced about on their seats, wobbling up and down and side by side. Then, as the guaguita picked up speed, the recurring thuds from the wheels against the joints on the track lulled the passengers into a trance. But for me, there was too much to see. Well-worn men smiled through tanned and wrinkled faces as their large hands held onto their woven palm leaf hats. Delighted to be in familiar territory again, Father eagerly engaged them in a discussion about the harvest and their hopes for the better life that the revolution had promised to every laboring man.
Friendly women wore canvas shoes with laces and simple cotton dresses as they held tightly onto small children who stared at our big-city paleness and my red and black cowboy shirt. But unlike Father, Mother and Tía Cecilia only nodded politely, content talking to each other and no one else.
My heart ready to burst, I gazed at the endless countryside flying by in front of me. I belonged there; I wasn’t a separate being.
There were no mountains or hills on my land, but acres of flat green fields that stretched everywhere on either side of the tracks. Large sugar cane fields were evenly tall except for the places where the harvest had been started and left behind deep and wide paths.
Every so often, the fields of green and sugar cane parted, giving way to small clusters of buildings and shacks shaded by coconut, avocado, and other life-giving trees—places where prancing roosters, hens, ducks, and turkeys patrolled the yards. Often, a nursing caw stood calmly tied to a spike hammered deep into the ground near the owner’s house. Barefoot children skipped and jumped about while their mother’s hung wash out to dry.
Hearing the change to the engine’s roar, I turned around and sat next to Father again when the guaguita began to slow down as we approached the ancient sugar mill. There, we switched to a secondary track to clear the line for the magnificent and fierce sugar cane train to pass.
Standing on the seat for a better view as Father held me by my waist, I delighted in the sight of the enormous black locomotive passing in front of us. Polished to a shine, with smoke billowing from its stack, its enormous wheels, pistons, and gears pumped hard to pull its endless number of rail cars, each overflowing with an abundant gift from the land. In a gesture of delight, Father smiled and patted my head, just as he had done while sitting on my bed when I was three—right after Tía Nereida had taken Mother away to the farm.
The mill was an unpredictably busy place which buzzed with people waiting, departing, or switching guaguitas also parked on the jumble of tracks. Straight and confident atop their fine leather saddles, affluent riders dressed in gray long-sleeved shirts and matching pants. Holding firmly to the stirrups as they rode, their enormous machetes hung from the left side of their belts, ready to be brandished with the hand of God. In sharp contrast, the less prosperous farmers rode their ungallant horses while poor peasants got around on their mules or simply walked.
Pulled by huge tan bueyes, overloaded carretas maneuvered to be next at the sugar mill line. The scent from the boiling sugar cane juice reminded me of how hungry I was, and when I told Father, he promised that La Finca wasn’t far. Hungry and tired, I couldn’t wait for the guaguita to start moving again.
It was then, as I looked around in inpatient misery, that a slender young man with brilliant blue eyes caught my sight. Sitting atop his shiny golden mare, he, accompanied by a strong moreno on a coal-colored horse, rode up to our side of the car.
All smiles, Father asked if I remembered my Uncle Nenico and Benita’s brother Antonio, who worked with him at Abuela’s and El Viejo’s old farm.
But even before I could ask Father if they were there to take us with them, Candela blew the klaxon, revved the engine, and we slowly started to move away from the two handsome young men on horseback, the mill, the train, the lively people, and the taste of cooked sugar cane.
Fixated on his beautiful face, I reached for Nenico’s hand, but Mother, who had been merrily chatting with Tía Cecilia while keeping an eye on the men, yanked my arm back just as my uncle’s and my fingers touched. Disappointed, I stared at her, my face rigid with rage.
The mill faded into the distance as we chugged on down the track, passing endless fields of sugar cane once again, but not as many homesteads.
Unable to forget Nenico and Antonio, I searched the landscape for them, hoping to spot the two racing the guaguita to catch up with us. No matter how hard I looked, they were nowhere to be found. Eventually, at Father’s insistence, I sat down on the seat next to him.
Comfortable leaning into Father’s side, and with the hum of the engine keeping time, I drifted off to sleep and didn’t wake up until Candela tooted the klaxon once again, revved the engine to climb the incline ahead, then applied the brakes to bring the us to a full stop, announcing, “¡Ya llegamos!”—We arrived!
Father helped me to my feet, giving me a chance to spin and dance. Imagining myself a bird in flight, I stretched out my arms and flapped my hands when Candela lifted me up and twirled me before handing me to Father, already on the ground waiting for me. Taking my hand, he walked me to a very tall gate built into a towering fence that stretched in either direction for as far as I could see. A willowy pine tree that had grown to be a part of the fence offered us shade as I waited for Father to open the gate. The great house stood at the end of a smooth stone path.
To our left, the wide, black earth yard reached far to the paddock’s fence where a milking cow and Father’s old horse were kept. As tall as trees, an endless garden of zinnias lined the stone path.
When I saw Papá and Mamá in the opening of the Dutch door, I broke away and bolted to the house. Happy to see me, he mussed my hair and hugged me close. Him being a short man, I wrapped by arms around his hips. Then, with me standing on the toe of his boots, he walked me into the house.