Since time immemorial, the road to Puerto Manatí came with a familiar sighting: Las Carboneras, a small village of just 10 houses that set the pace of this line of business in the municipality. It was almost inevitable to notice the large furnaces a few meters from the road, the bare backs dressed in the steamy work, and the smoke as a barter of caress that foreshadowed the proximity of the coast.
It was the agreed destination of all those who required a sack of coal of the best quality and at the lowest price. People arrived there with transportation seeking to get rid of the annoying intermediaries and those who defended a particular business by dint of their drive. Times of alliances were blowing, where the word given was enough.
It was curious to see the children running around so close to the flaming wooden pyres, playing even in the heat of the furnaces at times of harvesting and with bare feet. Happy and unnoticed in the final hustle and bustle.
The community was a perfect conclave where more than three generations of charcoal burners converged. The old men, still marked with soot, continued to choose the best wood, the young men assembled the mountains of wood and the 100-sack kilns began to be drawn. One of them had to remain alert during the night to take care of the temperature, inside the roundel, protected with earth.
It is also true that the bottles of aguardiente had to be lifted more frequently to avoid the mythical onslaught of mosquitoes, the fierceness of the sun or to season the workloads. But there, in the hot and humble land, there was a purpose guarded for more than 50 years. The children learned the art of tanning wood as a natural reflex. That belonged to them...
...
With his hands on his head, Enrique Pérez Rojas evokes the memories of his childhood, of his grandfather rigorously teaching him which wood was the best to achieve a more durable product and which was going to drip like smoke. He recalls his first oven, without any shape or form, when he was not more than 9 years old and the pride of his family, even with few words. That same day they began to treat him as a man.
With his eyes lost in the undergrowth, where his house and those of others once stood, he tells me a story that comes out fecundly from below his throat. “There is nothing left here...
“There was no choice. The people had to leave. First, they made Las Carboneras a district of Puerto Manatí, they closed the school and the bodega. The children had to walk kilometers to be able to give classes because in the area there is no other transportation. To return almost at night with marabou on both sides?
“Without the food store, there was no way to stay. Imagine the lack of bread in the mornings. To make charcoal you have to be stuck at work since the sun rises, there is no way to go around looking for food, besides, at least not every day. We stopped getting the chicken, the minced meat...”
“The neighbors began to leave one by one. They took the doors, the windows, whatever they could and went to Manatí to try to survive. I was the last to leave. I had been in this place for more than 30 years and the only thing I know is how to make charcoal. I held out as long as I could, but they stole my animals and one night three men came and even threatened us. My wife got so nervous that every time the dog barked, she started to cry. She was going to getting sick.
“I picked up the pieces of junk and went to Manatí, where I made a bajareque (dump); but we were calm. I have to come here every day by bicycle, it's 12 kilometers. Sometimes I make two trips. Thank God I have energy, but it won't always be like this, because I'm over 50 years old... Look at my grey hair...”
“I have my ovens in the bush and things have become so hard with the resources that I carry the sacks of earth on my bicycle to cover the ovens. That earth has to be found half a kilometer away from the kiln. And the work takes several sacks. Fortunately, these tires have held up...”
“What can I tell you... Of course, I can't afford it. This is not paid for with anything. Making charcoal is very hard. But I've never thought of doing anything else. It's as if the old man is looking down on me from heaven. I do want my daughters to have a different life, far from the smoke and the sacrifice. I am enough for them.”
DIGGING IN THE “UNDERGROWTH"
Las Carboneras no longer exists. The weeds have devoured what was left of the houses and now it is difficult to recognize the exact place where each family once lived.
Javier Perez Sanchez, director of the Agroforestry Manatí base business unit (UEB in Spanish), between the buzzing of the mosquitoes and the silent destruction of the gnats, comments on 26 the conditions that govern the current production of charcoal, at a time when the supply is vital for so many families because of the low availability of energy, especially in the communities, where this sting is much harder.
“We have to be honest: the community was practically abandoned. There are only two producers left here: Enrique and Ramón. First, Ramón wanted to improve his life and go to the municipal capital; then, Enrique followed him. He was alone.
“Before there were several families, even four houses belonged to the UEB, but as soon as they closed the store and the school, the villagers left. Today, I have only three producers on staff; but with contracts, I sometimes get up to 10. They come, make an oven, and leave...”
“We started paying 4.00 pesos per kilogram of charcoal, then we raised it to 8.00 and now it's 15.00 pesos. We know it is not enough. They need more and we intend to raise it to 22.00, and we are still below street prices. The sack would come out at just over 500.00 pesos.”
“The competition is very tough because the sack of clandestine way is almost a thousand pesos and, in some places, exceeds that cost. We are making studies to favor the producers, taking into account our possibilities. They are part of the Forestal's patrimony and whenever there is fuel, we support them with the land and firewood; right now, we can't provide them with anything.”
“There is no way to recover the community, the only thing left to do is to encourage production with better rates. That is what we are doing. We have the priority of rescuing and encouraging this area because it is vital right now. Resources are very scarce. To tell the truth, they do everything with what they have at hand.”
“In recent times, we have given them files, machetes, and mochas. In small quantities, as much as possible. Of course, the will is there.”
Albero Seguro Cruz, secretary of the Agricultural, Forestry, and Tobacco Union in the municipality of Manatí, narrates with a frown the demands he has to face.
“As is to be expected, the charcoal workers ask for clothes, shoes, and files. They are not just any workers. To be here side by side with the pests, in the bush, requires means of protection, and we can help them very little.”
“Something that hits them hard is banking. We pay them by credit card and they don't have a way to get the money they need at once, when they go to the bank, sometimes they only get a thousand pesos or less.”
“We always try to contribute with fuel to prioritize the firewood shooting, to humanize the work. We have to keep fighting to increase prices. Our goal is to increase the income of foreign currency to be able to give more adequate attention to the producer. That is what we are working on.”
OTHER FACES, SAME ARDORS
Ramón González Ramírez also has his story in the foundations of Las Carboneras, but he is a man who looks and speaks in the present.
“Making charcoal now is much harder, before you had the means to take a cart of firewood to the site and the rest were easier. At the moment the most difficult thing is to gather the firewood and manage the firing. That is why less is produced.”
“I have more than 30 years in front of the ovens, although, of course, anyone can blow one up. We have to take care of them because that's what my family lives on. I want my son to make a contract to help us, he knows how to make the ovens.”
“On the street, the sack of coal is very expensive and they buy it because there is nothing to cook with, but my contract with the company is a thing of honor, although, of course, we need wages to go up so we can live better.”
“To be a charcoal burner is to be humble and hardworking, and not to be afraid of mosquitoes or the bush. Look what you think when you are in the heat, alone there, in the middle of the bush. But the tradition has been broken, it is very hard not to see the fruit of so much sacrifice”.
He jokes and at the same time speaks very seriously: “Despite everything, I would go back to being a charcoal maker...”