Were I to be dropped in the middle of a deserted city and could choose only one person to help me get through life there, I’d choose a Cuban.
More specifically I’d choose a Cuban who grew up in Sancti Spiritus.
The people in that town about 220 miles east of Havana, almost in the center of Cuba, have had to live with little to no access to the world of easily available hardware, tools and supplies.
The PVC they use to build plumbing systems is an irregular size. Instead of Teflon tape to help seal the joints, they prefer to use plastic sacks from retail stores. A fresh sheet of plywood doesn’t exist. They scrounge for what they have.
Their tools are well used and cared for. There’s no hope of replacing a drill bit if it’s broken.
They make do. There’s been little to no new construction since the mid-1970s.
They live in houses passed down through the generations and there are often three generations living in the same home.
The oldest people in the home knew Cuba before the revolution and embargo. The children of that home have only known the revolution and embargo.
Some homes have survived in near-perfect condition. The home where we, a water team on a mission trip from First Presbyterian Church Greenville, stayed was converted into a hostel, sort of like a bed and breakfast, and was in great shape.
While standing on the roof of the hostel, we were able to look down into the homes surrounding us. They were in shambles. Chickens ran wild through the streets and a turkey gobbled behind the high fence surrounding the hostel.
The city is old, older in fact than Havana. The Catholic church just off the square was completed in 1618.
The city has the one thing all small towns in the United States of America are clamoring desperately for: a vibrant downtown.
There are eight roads leading into the main square. One of the roads has been closed to vehicle traffic. The tiled walkway is lined with commercial shops, both government-owned and privately operated.
Of the three days we spent in town, the square was full of people each day.
All the folks in the downtown area seemed to share one thing in common, they were waiting.
They waited for rides.
They waited for lunch.
They waited for something to do.
And it most likely wouldn’t come soon.
The only demarcation from a weekday to a weekend was the change in children’s clothing. They no longer wore uniforms on the weekend.
The folks stood in the square, slunk-shouldered and waiting. It was a recurring theme.
But then, we walked off the square to find our partners at the Presbyterian and Episcopalian churches.
They had purpose. Each day those people knew there would be a line of their friends and family members waiting to fill jugs, of all shapes and sizes, with clean, usable water.
They knew the work they were doing was making a positive impact on the people who lived around them.
They were able to supply something their municipalities had failed to do: clean water.
It’s so simple for us here in America. We turn on a faucet, drink the water and don’t get sick. It’s not the same in Cuba.
The years have not been kind to the infrastructure in these towns. It’s a warning to anyone who operates a government — maintenance is as important as construction.
Their municipal water systems have failed. Those failures affect the lives of children and elderly dynamically.
Just as effective as poor infrastructure is on the lives of the people in the community, so is the clean water system provided by the Episcopal and Presbyterian churches there. Those systems fill the gap for hundreds of families. They show up daily, looking for the living water these purifications systems provide.
The people who serve that water, and their community, have purpose.
They aren’t standing around the square waiting. They are on the ready in their church with a purpose to provide the clean water the community so desperately needs. n
Jon Alverson is editor and publisher of the Delta Democrat-Times in Greenville. Write to him at jalverson@ddtonline.com or call him at (662) 335-1155.
