This was my first thought when my feet, covered in plastic bags, hit the rusty red dirt of the Organoponico Alamar (organic farm) just outside Havana.
For me, dirt smells like home. Growing up on a farm, I’ve become intimately familiar with every smell dirt can take on. Here, it smelled freshly worked and slightly damp, an extreme change from the baking pavement and crowded, chaotic streets we’d been on all week.
The day was picturesque, with every color of the spectrum represented in the plants – ranging from vegetables to fruits to flowers – the dirt, and the clear blue sky.
I knew the cyclical patterns of farming, the worn hands from working on dirt and machinery, and I had heard the stories of how things were “back in the day.” I had seen the pictures, my grandpa standing beside livestock, standing beside mules to till the ground, looking like a picturesque representation of what farming used to be, of the backbreaking labor it demanded.
But my dad got a combine with a buddy seat in it when I was three years old so we could ride with him more easily. Now one of his tractors is GPS capable, meaning it knows where the edges of the field are, and requires little-to-no guidance. I had heard the tales of what farming once was, how it required everything a man’s body could withstand, but I had never experienced it firsthand.
When I stepped off our bus and onto more familiar territory that changed.
We walked past the first field, past a rusting yellow motorcycle and sidecar, past three old men sitting on buckets and working the ground, into a shelter with a roof made of palm tree leaves. A young, dark-complexioned man walked in, towering over our general Cuban tour guide, a life-loving, bottle-blonde named Zuli. He was tall (someone the Cubans would call a “Hemingway”), but his shoulders were slightly rounded, pulling his torso into itself, leaving me to wonder if it will be worse in 30 years after bending down to rake the earth, plant rows, and harvest day in and day out. His name was Tony, and he was our guide for the Organoponico Alamar. Despite knowing English, he refused to speak it, leaving Zuli to translate back and forth.
This farm in particular, and many of the other small organic farms in Cuba, was an invention of necessity. The fall of the Soviet Union birthed the “Special Period” in Cuba, an optimistic way of describing a great depression. As 80 percent of Cuba’s economy relied on the Soviet Union, when it crumbled, so did Cuba.
Cuba depended heavily on their sugarcane production, as over 30 percent of the country’s GDP came from that product alone. Sugar was shipped to the Soviets and other socialist countries in exchange for equipment, a sweet deal for Cuba. But everything disappeared in the blink of an eye, and all that was left was sugar.
Cubans somehow endured the unbearable conditions in which they were left. Estimates put the average weight loss during that time between 12 and 20 pounds. Food was scarce, disease was rampant, power outages were frequent, public transportation was unreliable, and every day was a fight to get through. Hearing Cubans mention the Special Period was much like hearing grandparents mention the Great Depression – rarely do you get any details. Instead, you only hear that it was hard, it was terrible; you see something pass over their face, like memories that they don’t want to drag out; a few seconds pass and they’ve shaken free and are back in the conversation, steering the topic in another direction after telling you you’re lucky to not have experienced it.
The same government that relied so heavily on one other nation and allowed the crops to be so uniform is also the one that mandated the creation of these smaller farms. Still, without the ability to import from America, or many other countries, Cuba was cut off from pesticides, fossil fuels, and other commonplace agricultural equipment such as tractors.
Perhaps most interesting is that Cubans had to go back to an “outdated” way of farming after having years of the best equipment and newest techniques. In the 1960s and 70s, Cuba used pesticides as the main way of controlling bugs and boasted the most tractors per capita. It’s hard enough to farm using only – or mostly – natural methods. It’s even more taxing when you’ve tasted the easier way out.
Cuba’s scientists were put to work in the fields to discover ways to farm without fossil-fuel products. They were successful, turning to agro-ecology, which combines agriculture and ecology, studying how the ecosystems interact within themselves and in their landscapes. This discipline allows for unique solutions and enhances sustainability by using natural methods to fight crops and insects.
Modern agriculture is often referred to as “industrial” because of the resources available to farmers. I mentioned GPS tractors earlier, but pesticides and fertilizers are made from chemicals, and most things are down to an exact science, turned into a machine that produces one specific crop.
The Organoponico Alamar was a beautiful example of fighting crop-killers by farming more effectively. They’ve discovered that to increase their income, diversification is a must. They’ve expanded to have a limited selection of fruit, ornamental plants, and medicinal/spiritual plants. Not only that, but they’ve successfully started some new genealogies of plants, breeding them for specific attributes. This way, if one crop does poorly, another arena is likely to succeed.
Chemicals are based off of natural compounds, oftentimes only amplifying or more effectively accomplishing something that there is a natural solution for. Pesticides are no different. Rather than importing a chemical conglomeration, Tony explained that the farm uses other plants. Oregano is planted around the fields and acts a pesticide; marigold is also planted as an insect repellent and can be used for medicinal purposes. The array of crops planted here – and the different strains of oregano – give the 25 acres a spicy, unadulterated pure smell.
The group, almost always lighthearted, and Tony, who’d had a permanent half-grin on his face since we got there, turned serious for a minute. “Our stomachs were loud. We had to produce,” he said of learning how to grow crops with these odds stack against them.
Stopping in front of the row of greenhouses, Tony picked up a weathered rectangular tray, with rows and rows small boxes cut into it. Chipped and worn around the corners, it was well-used. “Ninety percent of our plants start here,” he explained, “and stay in a greenhouse for 30-50 percent of their lifetime before being moved to the fields.” The boxes are planted by women – who Tony credited as being some of the farm’s best workers (second to worms, but we’ll get to that later) – who have smaller hands and more patience, allowing the fields to be used more efficiently. Not only do plants take a shorter amount of time to grow, allowing for more to be produced in a year, but fields get rotated more often (a practice that is good for restoring nutrients to the soil) and aren’t simply sitting there waiting for plants to take root.
“We are in a permanent state of planting and harvesting,” Tony described, the only thing changing being the area and the crop itself. He referred to this practice as “intensive production work” for good reason – once harvested, the land is barren for no more than 48 hours before receiving the next batch.
We kept walking, passing rows of every shade of green, marked with small handwritten signs. “Bloque J”, “Vivero Technificado de Frutales” they read, creating little crop neighborhoods. Hand painted and wooden, the signs only added to the feeling of farming the old way.
I laughed to myself when I pictured the signs we have at home existing here – representing not only the different strains of the crop you’re growing, but the specific brand, a sign shaped like the crop itself. Meant for identification once growing, yes, but used more so as a marketing tactic for those other farmers, driving by and checking out your field.
I wondered if these signs were in Cuba’s future. As relations between our countries start to thaw, I’d be unsurprised if they fall back into their old ways (or the new ways) at least to an extent. There are risks involved in tampering with nature and dusting food with chemicals, but the rewards can be there, too, and some businesses are already looking for ways to break into the market.
Cuba imports about 900,000 metric tons of corn annually; 70 percent of imported corn is used to feed livestock, while most domestic corn is used for human consumption. But without the advances other countries have, Cuban corn only yields 25 percent of the worldwide average.
“For the most part, it’s been good advances. With some GMO [genetically modified organisms, typically created by altering the genome so that the plant’s DNA contains genes not naturally found there] things, I don’t like that it’s been forced on everybody,” said sixth-generation Ohio farmer Kevin Flanagan, my father. “Not because I think there’s anything wrong with them or that they’re dangerous, but because I think countries that don’t want them shouldn’t have to have them.” My dad has seen farming change radically throughout his lifetime, and by working with his father his whole career, he gained even more perspective. He’s not an expert on all farming, but he is an expert on small, family-farm operations, with feet-on-the-ground perspective and roots in the industry.
Farmers are an aging population in both the U.S. and Cuba. Why would Tony, a young man, choose this career path?
Agriculture’s always been in his blood. And speaking from experience, once the land is in your veins, it’s hard to shake out. A previous employee at the Superior Square for Agriculture and an electricity professor at the university, both his parents were agronomists. “I grew up in fields,” he explained, “I followed my instincts here.” And here he’s stayed for four years. He loves the work, but he does credit two groups as perpetual employees-of-the-month.
Women, with their small hands and endless patience, are better for planting the some 3 million seeds each year. But worms, he says, are the best employees because “they can work for 24 hours a day.” Living in their own trenches on the farm, the worms labor to dig tunnels and form miniature irrigation systems. It’s a sentiment echoed by my own father, who refuses to use certain kinds of fertilizer on his corn because it kills so many earthworms.
Explaining the worms’ benefits, Tony grabbed a stick from the ground and started tearing up the trench, bringing worms to the top as their homes were being wrecked. He picked up a clump of soil, a deep brown signifying that it’s chock full of nutrients, alive with wriggling worms in his hands.
As we continued to walk around these thriving fields, Tony explained the different circumstances that they’ve had to adjust to, ways the government has helped the adjustment, given incentives, supported the industry, helped feed the people. The irony wasn’t lost on me that the government was largely why they were in this precarious position in the first place, the reason that people were starving, and half of the reason for the embargo.
It also wasn’t lost on me that my country was the other half. That we had punished the people. That the Cuban government and the Castros weren’t really affected.
The embargo, in its most watered down form, is simple. Nothing gets in or out of Cuba from the U.S. Seems straightforward and effective. Seems like it’s going to smoke the Cuban government out of its hole, and force them to comply to our model of government.
But it’s not the Cuban government that has been punished. The Castros were likely affected on some level, but it’s the people who have borne the brunt of this burden. The embargo has driven prices of all imports up, as they are essentially unable to get anything from the U.S. – or anything under a U.S. patent or composed of a certain amount of U.S. parts. In the medical world, this has made many treatments unavailable to Cuban doctors. While doctors are plentiful, the medicine is not, making cancer and HIV/AIDS an even more dire diagnosis than here. Likewise, advances made in Cuba can’t be shared with the U.S. For children, costs of toys are driven higher and parents are reluctant to shell out the cash for something that will be broken or forgotten in a handful of weeks.
Just as Cuba’s people are punished, so are the American farmers. “Embargo is a bad word to a farmer,” my father said, as it leaves abundances in the states, dragging the prices farmers get paid down.
Food prices have risen, something that effects everyone – kids or adults, healthy or sick, young or old – particularly since Cuba imports 84 percent of its food as of 2007. However, most of that is food that won’t grow in the Cuban climate, such as wheat. The majority of fresh fruits and vegetables are grown in Cuba, and the amount of meat produced there is rising as well. As of 2015, the U.S. exported $5.6 billion in wheat alone, and grew almost 2.4 billion bushels in 2009. The grain goes anywhere in the world – except for Cuba. Because of this, Cuba is forced to find another supplier, farther away, making the product less fresh and more expensive.
Cubans are resilient, and this farm was another example of that. Time cards were kept on a wall outside a storage building, marked with names and the amount the individual had worked and produced. A basic salary of 400 Cuban pesos each month, the amount varies depending on how long they have been with the cooperative and their production and sales. As a communist country, 16 percent of everything is taxed and goes back to the Cuban state. From what is left over, 50 percent is put back into the farm for development and the rest is divided into incomes. Something must be working, because in the 20 years since its invention, the cooperative has expanded from 800 square meters (less than .2 acres) and 5 workers to 25 acres and 122 workers.
We neared the end of our tour, coming to the shack where canned products are kept and where women work to seal tiny bags of spices to sell, when the rain that had been hanging in the air all morning finally decided to fall. It was a rain that farmers here die for, the kind that is steady but soft, soaking into the ground instead of pounding into it. We found cover but the storm only kept up for a few minutes. A half hour later, the only evidence that it had rained was seen on the bags over our feet and smelled in the air. Covered with red dust from walking fields all morning, our bags now boasted a thin layer of red clay, and the air that had smelled spicy before was now even more amplified, like when the house becomes permeated from sautéing fresh herbs and vegetables.
The farm has a market near the road, selling guarapo (sugarcane juice), and Technicolor produce. Bundles of bright orange, dirt-dusted carrots, and the palette of heirloom tomatoes, weighed on a scale covered in rust that looked like it belonged in Little House on the Prairie by a woman with ornate nails. The juxtaposition of her hands and the produce with the scale seemed to sum up Cuba in a neat package: something old, something new, but always beautiful.
Ripping the bags off our feet to reveal shoes that were somehow still tinged red from the dirt, we thanked Tony. Like everyone else in Cuba, he told us that we don’t say goodbye to friends, we say see you later. We climbed the stairs onto our charter bus, to leave the smell of fresh earth and hard work behind and head back to the heart of Havana, clouded with pavement and diesel, a city that somehow smells both like any city and entirely like itself; another contradicting juxtaposition in a country built on them.
To read some of the articles I referenced for help on this piece: