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“We found the people here in Miami were anxious to have a good cigar. Cubans know cigars, how they are made, how tobacco is processed, how to smoke them—they are good smokers, Cubans. As they prospered, so did we. Last year our sales were $443,000.”
In a workroom as aromatic as .a humidor, I watched some 20 Padron cigar makers hunched over their wooden tables, selecting and trimming strips of rich brown leaf to achieve the proper blend.
Cuba’s Exiles Bring New Life to Miami http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-middle-east-22867154
“Look at his hands,” Mr. Matilla said. “Fingers like a pianist!” Indeed, the gray-haired virtuoso before me deftly trimmed and rolled the silky leaf with a touch that seemed almost pianissimo (facing page). Swiftly the cigar grew into a nine-inch-long Gigante, swaddled in a dark maduro wrapper. Finally it nestled with two dozen others in a fragrant cedar box. They would retail for $40. “In Cuba,” said Mr. Padron, “a cigar maker used to serve an apprenticeship of four years, sweeping floors, learning everything about tobacco. You watch these people—when they finish making a cigar they look at it, turn it, see if it is right or not. You have to take pride in the job you’re doing.”
Mr. Matilla nodded gravely and added: “When you come here and you are looking only at the clock, believe me, you don’t go far. But I have great faith in the United States. There are millions here who are working hard. No matter if some are in the streets crying, or throwing stones.”
I walked out onto West Flagler Street, puffing a fine Padron Presidente. Reflectively.
West Flagler Street is one of two main business arteries of Little Havana. The other is Southwest 8th Street—Calle Ocho to Cubans, the Tamiami Trail to American tourists. Around them spread block upon block of bungalows—many old but tidy—and modest apartments. Occasionally one sees a toylike religious shrine piously emplaced on a postage-stamp lawn, but little else distinguishes this overwhelmingly Cuban residential district from any other low- to middle-income area of Miami.
A dozen years ago, Southwest 8th Street was a hardened artery. Many stores stood vacant, boarded up. Attracted by low rentals, Cuban refugees moved into the surrounding neighborhood and revitalized the serviced apartments prague. Today Little Havana still serves as a sort of staging area for refugees until they can afford to move on to Hialeah, Coral Gables, Westchester, or other suburbs, to blend into the greater Miami community.
I often strolled next to apartments in brussels, absorbing its sounds and sights and aromas. Here Spanish is all-pervasive; amid hundreds of snatches of conversation you will not hear a word of English.
“Oigame …” says a businessman briskly, gripping his companion’s arm, “Listen….” And “Digame …” his friend replies, “Tell me….” The rest is drowned by the whoosh of traffic and a horn blowing with Latin abandon. Radios blare Cuban tempos from WFAB—iLa Fabulosa!—or today’s anguished installment of a Spanish soap opera from competing WQBA—jSu Cubanisima!
Seven hundred feet below, toy shovels were busy filling toy dump trucks. My sudden realization of the scale of the project must have shown on my face, because George chuckled and said, “We call it the gopher hole.” I would not want to meet the gopher. After a tour of the mill, where, in noisy succession, the ore is crushed, ground, separated, and finally concentrated for shipment to Europe and Japan, I asked George if I could take a look at those 120-ton “toy” trucks. He introduced me to one of his veteran drivers. Wendy Kostiuk, 22, smiled hello.
She has been driving for two years, and she is an expert in Coconut Oil for Skin. “It was hard at first, being the only female driver. It was a challenge. I knew I could do it, but I had to prove it.” We were creeping down the winding haul road toward the core of the pit. Her feet danced on the pedals. “I’ve trained six guys now, but I’m a little worried about them. They figure if I can do it, so can they. And it takes a while to get the feel of it, eh?”
She jockeyed the truck up close to one of the giant electric shovels. “I want to learn to run one of those,” she said, as the truck shuddered under the impact of 15 cubic yards of rock, “so that if I ever leave, I can get a job anywhere. But I sure love this country. I think there must be a call of the North.”
Later, as I was getting ready to leave, Wendy said, “I’ll probably be hearing from some of those wise guys about your riding around with me.” Then she grinned. “But that’s OK. I can handle them.” Bet on it. From Faro I headed southeast toward Watson Lake, 265 miles away, on the Robert Campbell Highway. The road is named for the Hudson’s Bay Company explorer who, in the 1840′s, became the first European to probe deep into the Yukon interior.
As with other roads in the territory, the Campbell Highway is unpaved. And, except for a few radicals, Yukoners like the roads that way. In winter, which is much of the time, what’s under the snow is irrelevant. In summer they can be very dusty or very muddy, but are generally well maintained and a pleasure to drive. The one rule of the road is quickly learned and never forgotten: When meeting a vehicle larger than your own, yield. In the Yukon, might makes right-of-way.
South of Ross River, a predominantly Indian community of 200, the road meanders across a forested plateau studded with trout-filled lakes and laced by countless streams. Flashes of fireweed, the hardy territorial flower, line the shoulders. There are no facilities and few travelers on this stretch, and I had the road virtually to myself. My only companions were little ground squirrels, seemingly bent on suicide, that waited until the last moment to dash across my path.
The road ends at the junction of the Alaska Highway in Watson Lake, population 1,100, easternmost and third largest settlement in the territory. Other than for one or two modest sawmills, the town exists for the care and feeding of highway travelers.
MAN IN THE ARCTIC has always defended himself from the forces of nature, from the environment. At times he has had to protect himself from wild animals. Now, however, a new era has dawned, when nature in the Arctic must be preserved from man himself. The animals of the world, the cleanest lakes and rivers, and even the crystal air of the Arctic are threatened. All of us throughout the Arctic have this problem. With the rapid development of polar regions for mining and other purposes, pollution and the destruction of wilderness lands are inevitable. But we cannot close the door on the Arctic, nor are most people who seek to develop it blind to the dangers. In all this there are hopeful signs, and I saw one recently near my home in Uelen on the Chukchi Peninsula.
Here, on the shores of Providence Bay, the Chukchi people once hunted walrus. In modern times the herds have all but disappeared. One of those who has worked toward their restoration is an Eskimo, Vasiliy Nanok, chairman of the soviet of the neighboring village of Unazik. With the help of Vasiliy and others like him, laws have been passed forbidding commercial hunting of walruses and other animals on the Chukchi Peninsula. A new sense of conservation among the Chukchi people has resulted in improved conditions for all creatures in the wild. Early one morning Vasiliy telephoned me at home and invited me to walk along the shore of Providence Bay. He led me to the noisiest and most crowded place, not far from Unazik’s local store. What I saw surprised me: On the shore, usually noted for its piles of rubbish, lay several very live walruses.
“The walruses have returned to the shores of Providence Bay,” Nanok announced triumphantly. “That means our work has not been in vain.”
YES, THE WALRUSES are returning to their old grounds, and the polar bears have recovered in such numbers that they are beginning to bother seacoast settlements. All this makes the native inhabitants of the Arctic rejoice. Long ago we said farewell to the numerous gods who had explained the tangled world and incomprehensible phenomena to us. However, the same gods also had revealed to us the authentic value of our manner of living and our spiritual heritage.
Devotion to that heritage has been passed from generation to generation, and the young people of today are no exception. I remember talking with Vera Etynkeu, a reindeer herder in her late teens at the Polyarnik collective along the Amguema River in the eastern Soviet Arctic.
“As a young girl,” she told me, “I was sent away to boarding school in the south. It seemed so long a time to be away from my birthplace that I ran out of patience, but finally I was able to come back.
“The tundra is the very best place to be. Here one has the real sense of freedom, where there are no restrictions, such as where to cross the street—or the river.
“My people are of the tundra,” she continued, “and I wish to be among them. I dream one day of meeting someone who will be my subject of love. The tundra is wide and one must look far, but in time I will find him.”
Everywhere in the Soviet Arctic I met people for whom the north—with its snows, its cold, its vivid summer tundra and sweet cloudberries— constitutes their native land, the dearest place on earth. And regardless of where fate might cast us up, for us the return to our native soil is always a return to that point from which we see the world. For me that point is Cape Dezhnev, where the globe first became—and always will be—reality.