Tobacco requires careful attention: some say the plants grow best when farmers talk
to them.
The Mural of Prehistory by artist Leovigildo González.
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The Viñales
Valley has been on UNESCO’s World Heritage List
since November 1999 as a cultural landscape enriched by traditional farm and village
architecture. Old-fashioned farming methods are still used
in Viñales, notably to grow tobacco. The local population is an ethnic mix
that illustrates the cultural development of the Caribbean and Cuba in particular.
Source:
Report of the 23rd session of the World Heritage Committee, in Marrakesh, Morocco,
4 December 1999.
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The
Viñales Valley, near the western tip of Cuba, is a magical landscape of hills
and caves where life centres on growing tobacco. A Cuban writer recalls discovering
this World Heritage site through books well before setting foot there
In the west side of
the Cordillera de Guaniguanico, at the foot of the Sierra de los Órganos,
lies a region of limestone outcrops known as mogotes. These huge round-topped hummocks
rising out of the ground emerged from the sea more than two million years ago and
were formed during the Jurassic period. Born in the vicissitudes of history, the
land still bears the marks of precipices, chasms and seams carved out by erosion.
Tobacco grows in the valley—strange red leaves almost starved by the salty soil but
brought to life by permanent sunshine.
I always dreamed of the Viñales Valley but never ventured there. In school
I could touch the lush tobacco leaves pictured in textbooks and see the caterpillars
that live off them, slowly and avidly taking on the aroma of tobacco before devouring
the plant. My life was that of the concrete city, though the sensation left by dew
on my hand was so strong that I still recall it as if it were real. The leaf, bright
and green like a child, turns a deep toasted brown before it is smelt, chewed or
burnt, becoming like time itself and ending up, in old age, as wisps of smoke.
Farmers, most of whom came from the Canary Islands, arrived around 1800 and began
cultivating tobacco across the region, which is commonly known as the Vuelta Abajo.
Two hundred years later, tobacco is still the lifeblood of the Viñales Valley,
which produces 661,000 quintals of it every year. Only the best leaves get sent to
Havana, where hundreds of workers called torcedores and anilladores handroll them
into cigars. Cuba produces 65 million cigars a year, packed in cedarwood boxes and
exported to the entire world.
Growing tobacco calls for patience. Some even say that the plant grows better if
you speak to it. Once the seeds are sown (between October and December), the moment
to reap and pack is of critical importance, marking all the difference between acidity,
sourness or waste-product.
The valley is like its tobacco—discreet, thrifty and tranquil, stuck in the same
serene pocket of time as its villagers.
People who have never been to the Viñales Valley, in the Cuban province of
Piñar del Río, should know that it boasts a unique variety of plant
and animal life, some of it in danger of extinction, such as the cork palm, the agabe,
the macusey hembra, the alligator oak and the dragon tree. Unaccustomed to the ways
of civilization and to music unlike their own songs, the valley’s birds also come
in a kaleidoscope of species, with names as evocative as the pine-forest grass quit,
the mockingbird and the totí.
Exploring
caves to the tune of haunting tales
It
was here that the Guanajatabey Indians built their primitive homes in caves hollowed
out of the limestone mogotes, where relics of this nomadic people have been found
along with fossils of Pleistocene mammals embedded in the rock. Deep inside the caves,
albino fish swim and butterfly bats flit.
Some caverns, such as the Cueva del Indio, rediscovered in 1920, have close to four
kilometres of underground streams which can be explored in a small dinghy so long
as you don’t mind listening to all the scary tales the peasant guides love to recount.
As the streams slowly work through the limestone and mix with the mogote clay falling
from above, they become solutions of minerals and coppery earth, both of which are
then deposited on the roofs and walls of the caves, turning the surfaces ochre milky
green, rendering the scenery all the more mysterious.
We are only 150 kilometres from Havana, but millions of years away.
Where
Nature invites painters to take place
Returning
to Viñales is a bit like returning to a museum. A silence hangs over it, a
mysterious calm that dwells in the early morning mist. In Viñales village
we visit a church built in the last century with sombre pews that have been repaired
countless times. The musty odour mingles with the smell of warmed-up food. Heavy
rainfall in the wet season has spoiled the splendid facades of the houses, which
now look like faded mosaics.
And Cuban hands, always touching and caressing things, cherishing the past, have
worn out the fine wooden railings at the front of the houses. As in every village
in my country, Viñales also has a central square—a byword for order amid confusion.
Four kilometres from the village, on one side of the Dos Hermanas (Two Sisters) mogote,
stands the Mural of Prehistory, a impressive 120-metre high fresco painted by Cuban
artist Leovigildo González, disciple of the Mexican muralist Diego Rivera.
Depicted are the animals and other creatures that lived in the valley in prehistoric
times.
People who have not read the poem of José Lezama Lima (1912-76), Bajo el arco
de Viñales (Beneath the arch of Viñales), or have never seen the paintings
of Cuban artist Domingo Ramos or contemplated the Mural of Prehistory, should know
that this valley, which rose from the bottom of the ocean near the western tip of
the island, is above all a place of art, a site where Nature provides the frame and
waits for the painter to be seated.
But how does one take leave of the valley? Through its cliffs, its hollows? Through
the passage in a mogote and its columns of gentle stalagmites? Through the long line
of big-belly palm trees with their fiery plumes lit by summer? Through its chattering
streams full of blind fish? Through the echoes of cockfights left in an old sugar
factory? Or through a cheap painting on the yellow wall of a restaurant somewhere
in Havana’s tourist district? Which path home is best? |
