29: The corner of religion in the Revolution

On December 17th, something implodes in the little church of Rincón and dozens of miles around it all over Havana. People start walking to the shrine the night before to keep their promises, to pay their debts to St. Lazarus and Babalú Ayé for a thousand and one miracles. People dress in sacks trimmed in purple. They crawl, dragging stones heavier than they are. They pray a little, sing Christian hymns, or sing in Lucumi, the half-magic, half-malevolent language from Africa. They light cigars, drink rum, spit in ecstasy, raise their cries to heaven, like children, peering drunk into the mystery of a saint who could not heal his own sores licked by dogs, a saint more popular than God.

Often entire families trave—old people, babies, and pets included. Traffic comes to a standstill for two days. The army and police take over all roads to Rincón to suppress any display of political nonconformity, and because many criminal acts occur in the midst of this sea of people. Cubans en masse are not to be trusted. They can be bestialized. No one remembers piety when pilgrims walk. Even the language they use is violent, of an almost sacred obscenity.

Many sick people are seen—crippled bodies, saintly madmen. I have felt infinite disgust and infinite sorrow to see how we Cubans digest ourselves year after year, in this ceremony whose overtones are more satanic than anything else. The Church hierarchy knows it, but they can’t risk losing their last truly spontaneous faithful, on the island or in exile. On both sides of the road, masses of pork squeal in the vendors’ fires. Money rules. Such an unpronounceable feast, Lezama Lima would write. The stench from the dead flowers is unbearable, like a funeral home.