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Early in the morning Papa was already listening on the radio. Many boats in difficulty, prohibition to leave ports, not reassuring weather forecasts.

The strength of the wind increased again and Gregorio continued to raise the anchors. It was seven in the evening.

The following day, as the forecasts showed no signs of improving, the provisions had to be rationed. Since Papa had had a fever, Gianfranco offered to go in search of medicines and, descending to the ground, with the cautious but sure step of those who use to search unknown lands, he fired in the direction of the hills.

Towards sunset from the bend of the river came a boat pushed out by a guajiro* whose straw hat this time was not sheltered from the sun, but from the rain. He asked if we needed help. Papa waved him over. They talked for a long time. The guajiro promised that he would return in the morning to take us women to the valley where the train to Matanzas passed. From there we could have taken the bus** to Havana.

I was not at all happy to have to leave the Pilar, which would return as soon as possible by sea, but I understood that given the circumstances on board there were too many.

The next day the guajiro returned on time. After we climbed up the river for a while, we landed in a cove where large crabs waved their legs as they attempted to advance on the slippery smooth stones. In single file we followed the guajiro through the tall grass. The wind was biting, but it had stopped raining. The heavy ground made the march tiring. Arriving at a pueblo hidden among the banana trees, the guajiro decided to look for horses to speed up the march.

In truth, more than a pueblo this was a semicircle of boji*** around a square of red clay. A sow was walking on the square surrounded by tiny pigs, observed with apparent interest by a group of guajiris...****

* A Cuban agricultural worker.

** written in Spanish (guagua).

*** huts?

**** farmers, mountain men.