Disclaimer: Due to the topic of this essay, primarily focused on Cuban state-owned centrales [sugar-mills], research is severely restricted for tourists, foreign nationals (even if Cuban-born) and citizens alike. I was granted access to these sites through connections with relatives and family friends. This essay has been self-censored to protect identities against backlash from the Cuban government in allowing me to conduct my investigations. As such, certain people and locations have been left intentionally vague. Sharing this essay outside of academic circles, such as social media sites, should be discouraged to help protect all those involved.

. . .

At my grandmother’s house in the rural town of El Santo, Villa Clara, I was in limbo. It was nearing noon, and I was anxiously awaiting a call from the head of Cuban security to obtain clearance. Just the day before, I had arranged to travel to Encrucijada’s last remaining (semi-functioning) central. My family and I had made several calls, exhausting all our connections, but when we finally made a breakthrough, I was ordered to wait until security verified my visit. This time of year, the central operates during summer hours, pressing caña (sugarcane) during the early mornings and closing at noon; staffing was limited. I was hoping for a bureaucratic miracle. But the day stretched on, and still no call. My original plans were suddenly crumbling apart.

Then, serendipitously, as things often are in Cuba, my cousin stopped by. He proposed that we travel to the defunct Central Emilio Córdova, historically known as Nazábal, instead. I was interested in seeing two sides of the same coin: a central and batey (sugar-mill town) in opposing realities. One operational, and one in ruins. I felt that investigating both would provide me with a clear understanding of the central’s imprint on the batey. However, reaching the ruins of Nazábal is no simple feat.

Even in such proximity, there is no readily available transport to Nazábal from El Santo. The main road is in shambles. Cars and horse-drawn carriages make the trip albeit with trepidation, and scooters would simply blow out their tires. The only somewhat reliable means of transport is the infamous cascal. A single locomotive, that laboriously trudges along from El Santo to Central Emilio Córdova, with its final stop seaside at Playa Nazábal. Like the 1957 Chevrolet Bel-Airs that proliferate on the island, the cascal is a relic from a departed era. Every morning at six, its horn blares as it approaches the crossing in front of my grandmother’s home. Minutes later, while I’m still in bed, it would shake the entire house, sluggishly reversing to its destination. The boarding platform is a mere minute walk from the house. However, it usually only makes three stops at El Santo, and the timetable changes from day to day in an almost arbitrary pattern. One must ask the conductor to confirm the schedule, but I was fortunate. The cascal would leave at midday and return at 4 p.m.

Both my cousin and my grandmother’s husband would accompany me. My cousin, Salvador, had done a year residency at the batey’s clinic and knew most of the community—they affectionately call him el medico [the medic]. He assured me we would have no problem entering the remnants of Central Nazábal. My grandmother’s husband, Jardines, would be my guide, a retiree of the now obsolete mill, he worked for decades in the central’s laboratory as a chemist. A plan had coalesced, and we hurriedly boarded the cascal.

Inside the now defunct Central Emilio Córdova. All photographs created and edited by Idael Cárdenas. Unless otherwise stated, all images were captured in the summer of 2023.

The cascal was recently painted cobalt blue. But the paint was already chipping, and the interior wood veneer was splintering at the seams from years of exposure to Cuba’s unkind heat and humidity. That day was no exception. There was an unwavering-sweltering heat inside the car. Beads of sweat were rolling down the necks of all those in front of me. The small polycarbonate window panels provided paltry relief, as did the cascal’s painful advance of six miles per hour. Even so, we chugged along, and it became apparent how the term cascal was coined. Every couple of seconds, as the car swayed from side to side and the wheels vibrated on the track, a noise ricocheted: cas-cal, cas-cal, cas-cal, cas-cal. Salvador, seated next to me and drenched in sweat, sneered, “una experiencia única (a once-in-a-lifetime experience).” In a way, it was.

Seemingly a lifetime ago, public transport in this region was the extreme opposite. Locals lamented that the batey of Nazábal was probably the most well-connected town in the entire province of Villa Clara. Nazábal possessed a diverse array of trains and lorries to nearby towns and the municipal center of Encrucijada (aptly named as a crossroads]. A central veteran, Riquito, recounted:

Mira aquí está es la foto del cascal viejo, todo de madera, y chiquito. Pero nunca se rompía. Aquí había más transporte que en ningún otro lugar de la provincia. {…} Y aparte habían dos locomotoras que te llevaban hasta la playa. La tienda de aquí y el central se abastecían por un vagón de línea que tenían también.

(Look here [showing me on his phone], this is the photo of the old cascal, made entirely of wood, and small. But it never broke down. There was more transportation here than anywhere in the province. {…} Additionally, there were two dedicated locomotives that took you to the beach. Both the main store and central were also supplied by a separate railcar too.)

(I asked)—¿Los que vivían aquí en el batey, conseguían casi todo lo que necesitaban ahí en el centro del pueblo verdad? (Those who lived here in the batey, got almost everything they needed right there in the center of town, right?)

En esa tienda, había de todo. Si tú le decías al dueño, me hace falta una máquina de este modelo o cualquier tipo, te la traía. (That store had everything. If you told the owner, I need this certain machine of ‘x’ model or type they would bring it to you [via train].)

(I asked)—¿Y, ahora? (And, now?)

—Ahora ni hay una bicicleta. (Now there’s not even a bicycle.)

Part of the central is now used to house faulty locomotives.

Central Emilio Córdova functioned as both a nexus and terminus for an area larger than 200 square miles. All the municipality’s centrales shipped their commodities (sugar, molasses, rum, etc.) through the batey of Nazábal. Their destination, el espigón (the jetty). Jutting out from the beach, the boxcars would be unloaded onto ships destined for ports in La Habana or beyond. However, when the central was dismantled much of the vast network of rail and roadways was left abandoned. The jetty was left to decay, until Hurricane Irma in 2017 razed what little had managed to endure. Yet it still exists, albeit submerged. When visiting Playa Nazábal, I could feel with my feet sections of the ruined espigón on the seafloor, sensing traces of concrete and metal. In the coming years as hurricanes continue to assail the island, more fragments will run ashore, obscured remainders from bygone days.

The cascal, now on its last legs, is also a remnant of those days. Gazing out from the window, it was unmistakable we were entering the central’s immense territory. Fragmented cañaverales (sugarcane fields) were intermittently coming into view, disrupted only by dense shrubbery that crammed the railcar on either side. Aromales. Fields of the invasive and thorny marabú aroma that has besieged cañaverales and forests across the island. So pervasive, that we were forced to shut the windows to prevent being abraded by the protruding branches. Any slight breeze inside the car was stifled further.

Jardines pointed at the fields, “no sirven (they’re no good).”

Indeed, Riquito confirmed when I asked him, “¿Qué quedan de los cañaverales por aquí? (What remains of the sugarcane fields here?)” With a dejected look, he explained,

Queda caña, el problema es la calidad de la caña, parece hierba bruja ya. Ya no sirve, porque acabaron. Mira, de ahí (desde el central, y la calle enfrente del apartamento) para allá hasta el agua {el mar}, era monte. Ahí en ese monte, aquí había unos que se llamaban Los Rosas, que lo tenían lleno de ganado. La leche sobraba, las vacas comían en la sombra y todo…vinieron los inteligentes y chapearon todo…se llevaron el monte completo.

(There is sugarcane left, the problem is the quality of the cane, they look more like weeds now. They’re no good because they {Cuban government} destroyed it all. Look, from there {from the central, and the front of his apartment} to the water {the sea}, was all forested. In that forest, there were these people, The Rosas, which had livestock. There was plenty of milk, the cows ate in the shade and everything…then the ‘smart ones’ (the regime) came and cut everything down…they uprooted the entire forest.)

—I asked, ¿En qué año fue eso? (What year was that?)

Los años ’80. Entonces la salinidad empezó a caminar para acá. Cuando paró el central en el 97, ya la salinidad estaba de Buena Vista para allá. Ya estas tierras para la caña no sirven, tienes que tener mucho abono, y no hay.

(The ’80s. Then the salinity began to creep in. When the sugar-mill stopped in ’97, the soil’s salinity was at Buena Vista {a satellite branch of the central about 3 miles inland} and beyond. These lands no longer work for sugarcane, you must have a lot of fertilizer, and there just isn’t any.)

Misty-eyed, he stared past me—you can see the ruins of the Empresa Cañera Central Emilio Córdova from his apartment balcony. Without altering his gaze, he muttered, “Pero pa’ que, este central era una joya.” (“I am telling you, this central was a jewel.”)

Riquito remembered a land of sugar at his doorstep. Though his connection with the central arose by circumstance, it became an inextricable facet of his life. I asked him how old he was when he began work at the central.:

Ahí en el central (batey) no había televisor en ningún lado, solo si estabas en el sindicato nada más, y no nos dejaba a ninguno entrar a ver televisión. Entonces mi papá habló con Pepe Álvarez, que era del sindicato para ver si yo podía entrar. ‘{Dijo Pepe} Bueno tendrá que pagar el sindicato, como si fuera un obrero.’ Entonces empecé a pagar el sindicato y así entre para ver televisión. Y así cogí el escalafón, por eso entre desde los 16 años al central.

(In the central (batey) there was no television anywhere, only if you were in the workers’ union, and they would not let you enter to watch otherwise. So, my dad talked with Pepe Álvarez, who was part of the union, to see if I could enter. ‘{Pepe said} Well you need to pay into the union, as if you were an employee.’ So, I paid my dues, and that’s how I entered to watch television. That’s how I began to climb the corporate ladder, and that’s why I was 16 years old when I started at the central.)

The central also serves as an impromptu taller [workshop].

As the cascal finally approached the batey, the central came into full view. It was a giant. The colossal structure loomed over me, rusted, and with most of its zinc roof panels absent. On its singular steam-stack, in faded bold-lettering, recorded its name, registry number and the year it was seized by the state and renamed, “Emilio Córdova. 420. 1967.”

A small group of people congregated at the central entrance. My cousin approached one, and blurted, “He’s an architecture student (pointing at me), working on his thesis, can we come in?”. The man shot a quick look at us, “¿No vas a poner una bomba verdad? (You’re not going to plant a bomb, right?)” Bursting in laughter they greeted each other, and I shook his hand. I was lifted out of bureaucratic purgatory.

But more waiting was coming. The cascal broke down, and as we idled near the track for the repairs, storm clouds were materializing. Just as the first raindrops fell on my skin, we boarded for El Santo. It was 7 p.m., three hours delayed. Condensation collected on the windows, foliage lashed at our arms, and our bodies swayed. Cas-cal. Cas-cal. Cas-cal. Cas-cal.

Inside the central.

. . .

That same night at my grandmother’s house, amid a heated domino match, my cousins told me stories about my late great-grandfather’s obsession with caña. The man may have been afflicted by undiagnosed OCD but had the disposition of a sugar-connoisseur. One would arrive eager, at his house in La Puntilla, for a sip of his renown guarapo (sugarcane juice). Still, seldom would he allow you to pick the sugarcane stalk of your pleasing; his selection process was akin to choosing a fine wine pairing. Striking the cane with a machete, one stalk, selected from rows neatly labeled by variety or hybrid. Caña violeta, criolla…cristalina. Their respective tastes, like a family heirloom, were passed down to three generations. I felt inexplicably nostalgic, longing for a piece of my inheritance that would be forever lost, only to be remembered in instances such as these: crowded around a small table, domino pieces shuffling in our hands.

A view of the central from the batey.

This piece belongs within a larger anthology of essays, stories and images titled, “¡Azúcar!”: Fragments from a Land of Sugar. The project began within the Harvard Divinity School’s seminar Coloniality, Race, Catastrophe with Professor Mayra Rivera and teaching fellow Steve Rizzo. Research and materials produced serve as the basis for my architecture thesis advised by Lisa Haber-Thomson at Harvard’s Graduate School of Design.

This research would not be possible without the generosity of Harvard’s David Rockefeller Center for Latin American Studies [DRCLAS], and Jimena Codina in particular, for helping me become aware of DRCLAS’ opportunities for student funding, through the Summer Research Travel Grant.

This project is dedicated to my family. Gracias mimi y papá.