Cavorting with Castro

The aroma of a burning cigar used to be offensive to my delicate sense of smell. This comes from hearing my mother gleefully tell the story of when she smashed a cigar in my uncle's face with a wooden spoon in 1963 because he kept smoking it in her house after being asked not to. Yes, she delights in repeating it as often as she gets the opportunity. I digress....

Every Sunday morning for the last three years I have had a covert rendezvous with a man who I have dubbed Castro. Our brief encounter takes place at the local artesian well and lasts only a few minutes (this sequence of photos took only about two minutes to take). He walks briskly to the tree, fills up his plastic container with water and leaves just as quickly to go home. I am there because it is a halfway point in my route and the pure, unchlorified water is a delicious treat, even in the cold winter. No words have ever been exchanged.

I know Castro is coming before I see him. The odor of his stogie gets blown all around the area by the canyon breezes. The clothes are always the same, the khaki shirt and pants and his signature patrol cap. In the winter he adds a heavy camouflage coat. The rubber boots, well I guess that's what they wear in Havana.

This morning I strapped my little camera to my wrist and headed out at 6 a.m., determined to capture his image to share with you. He didn't disappoint me. At precisely 7 o'clock my nostrils announced his arrival and by 7:05 he was heading back to his casa, probably to watch Musica y Palabra Hablada on channel KUBA.

Adios Fidel... See you next week...

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