By Vanessa Bauza South Florida Sun-Sentinel. Posted at 5:52
p.m. EDT Sunday, May 6, 2001. The Charlotte
Observer
HAVANA -- In the winter months, the malecon -- Havana's famous seawall
stretching from the old quarter to the city's poshest neighborhood -- is unable
to contain the surging waves that crash over it, soaking cars and bicycles in
the road and spraying buildings on the other side.
But with the summer approaching, calmer waters return and the malecon
becomes the poor man's beach.
Here, young schoolboys boys strip down to their underwear, negotiate the
craggy rocks below and dive headfirst into deep pools. Scores of fishermen claim
choice spots by the mouth of the bay, casting long lines -- which glint in the
sunset like a spider's web -- in the hopes of snagging a snapper.
Muggy nights lure lovers to the shadow spots between street lights where
they cuddle together in a tangle of arms and legs. After a few swigs of cheap,
throat-scorching rum known as chispa de tren, or train spark, any gathering here
has party potential.
But the camareros, inner-tube fishermen, are not content to simply stay on
the wall.
They go beyond.
From the narrow streets of central Havana they emerge in the early morning
and late afternoon with the inner tubes perched on their heads, fishing pole in
one hand, flippers, burlap sacs and bait in the other. The inner tubes, which
are normally used for trucks and vans, have nets stretched over one side,
creating a kind of one man catamaran powered only by the fisherman's kicking.
Dozens of camareros come out daily to test their luck -- and skill.
"Today was a bad day, but that's how fishing is," said 17-year-old
Henry Lopez, who is deeply tanned with large green eyes. "Yesterday I
filled my sack. Today I only caught two. Imagine."
Lopez wears a long sleeved T-shirt to shield him from the sun and pants
stained with oil and fish blood. He has pinned several spools of fishing line
under the netting of his inner tube and a long pole with a hook.
Lopez works every other day at a nearby bakery, but he can make more than
his month's salary in a few good hours out at sea. A 20 to 30 pound snapper or
swordfish fetches up to $25 on the streets of Central Havana. Often the fish are
filleted and resold to small mom-and-pop restaurants. Lopez's father left the
island on a boat in 1994 and now lives in Boston, so the extra money goes to
help his mother buy luxuries from the dollar stores like a VCR and telephone.
But the job has its risks. A brittle inner tube could deflate leaving a
fisherman to swim back to shore. Sharks and barracuda sometimes lurk in the
shade of the inner tubes before snatching bites of the fisherman's catch. ("I
just pull up my flippers and wait," says Lopez nonchalantly.)
And there is always the worry of being swept away by a sudden current.
Once, Lopez had to take a bus back to Havana when his inner tube was dragged
some 6 miles east of the city to the fishing village of Cojimar.
There is also the threat of getting caught, which seems to worry the
camareros less than sharks and currents.
Inner tube fishing is illegal.
The socialist government controls all private enterprise, and keeps a
watchful eye on coastal waters. Fishermen can have their gear impounded and be
fined 1,500 pesos (about $70). Fishermen must have a permit from the government
and permission to operate a boat. Both procedures seem too bureaucratic and
bothersome for the young camareros to hassle with.
Besides, the cops who patrol the sea wall turn a blind eye and generally
show more interest in checking the ID cards of young, lycra-clad girls. The
camareros explain that it isn't the cops' job to stop them, and the marine
patrolmen whose job it is don't seem to enforce the law much either.
"It's illegal, but everyone does it. Just jump in and go," says
15-year-old Orlando Santana between sips of tamarind juice. "The police are
our friends. We give them fish."
"They're worried we'll take off for the north, make a sail with a sheet
like a wind surfer," adds another young man, laughing.
Indeed, the inner-tube fishermen are a bitter reminder of the balseros who
in 1994 escaped the island by the thousands in makeshift rafts, many glimpsing
their homeland for the last time as they turned around for a final look at the
malecon. Today, due to migration accords which repatriate Cubans found at sea,
risky rafts have given way to smugglers in fast boats. Inner tubes are now used
mostly for fishing.
Santana, a baby-faced teen with bleached-blond hair and an earring in one
ear like a pirate, says he was kicked out of school today. He has come to see if
his luck changes on the sea wall.
"I've been coming here since I was 7," he says. "I was raised
on the malecon. My brothers and sisters are afraid of the water; not me."
Shimmering fish scales, scraps of newspaper and cans of Cuba's Cristal beer
litter the rocks where the fishermen wait.
A cargo ship approaches the bay.
Pelicans alight.
Before long the men spot a patch in the distance where the water seems to
boil from jumping sardines. The camareros know this means bigger fish below. One
by one they toss their inner tubes back in the water, put on their flippers and
start kicking out to sea toward the lighthouse, where the sea gulls are already
gathering.
"Go on, kick those legs," tease the land lovers on the wall. "Do
you need a push?"
(c) 2001 South Florida Sun-Sentinel.
Visit the Sun-Sentinel on the World Wide Web at
http://www.sun-sentinel.com/.
Distributed by Knight Ridder/Tribune Information Services. | 