Pablo Pimienta Castro, the forest worker from Pinar del Río, a coal expert, is a Hero of Labor of the Republic of Cuba. 39 years in the bush, swinging an axe, killing mosquitoes and breathing the tarry smoke from the ovens, is a lifetime.
It was August 2020, and the journalist Ramón Brizuela interviewed him: “I hope one day to have that little golden star on my chest that the Heroes of Labor wear in Cuba,” he said then. It was his dream, because dreaming is legal, the same on the highest peak as in a mountain hut, or while watching an oven and, without meaning to, build a personal story.
Night falls on the first of May, and in Mantua no one leaves the televisions. The everyday image of Pablo dressed in campaign attire prevents him from being found in the line of heroes.
One moment! It’s him!, in a guayabera; Pablo himself, simple, who lives in a neighborhood as humble as his existence, straight as a candle, in front of the President of the Republic. Moments later, the star he dreamed of shines on his chest. The comrades are waiting for him at the Agroforestry Company. He gets out of the car and smiles, as if he were asking for permission.
Pablo is shy, not used to stringing together words, because the solitude and silence of the forest have curtailed his eloquence. But they applaud and ask for a few words. “I want to dedicate my hero star to my teammates, my wife, my grandchildren and my children.”
And they don’t need more: they melt into a hug, and the tears roll capriciously down the traces that early mornings, suns and winters drew on the faces of these men. In Mantua, they await you. There he hugs family, friends and kisses grandchildren, his great passion. There are sincere words, poems and songs.
Pablo smiles, looks at the ground and says that “it went well for him, he will never forget that moment with the president.” Months ago, when the energy crisis hit the country during the summer that followed the pandemic, Pablo Pimienta allowed me to enter the ins and outs of his life and his trade. “I started in coal with some cousins,” he told me, “and then I couldn’t get away from it. I said it was for a while, but more than 30 years have passed and I’m still here.
Making ovens is complicated, I told him. Each step must be perfect, because the collapse of that burning pyramid can put an end to the efforts of exhausting days, and lead to accidents. «It is the ability that comes with the years. You have to firmly plant the heart of the oven, and select with good sense what wood to put in each stage ».
Pepper is thin, just 1.65 tall, and between words and mouthfuls of coffee, I saw him climb the oven ladder dozens of times with heavy bags of earth. “That’s skill, nothing more. My resin buddies move 55-gallon tanks one-handed and they’re skinny like me.”
I come back from the memory and look at Pablo. I want to ask you about your status as a Labor Hero and I can’t find the right words. But he bails me out. «I have several medals, which appeared over the years, without waiting for them. Someone told me that this moment would come, but I never imagined it. I can only tell you that I was very proud to know that they would recognize me with this star, and even more so when I, a charcoal burner from Mantua, found myself among such important people who were there for the same reason».
And now?
«Now to continue making coal, which is what I have to do to help my family and my country get ahead. I am glad to know that what I produce is exported and brings money to Cuba.” I don’t want to bother. But there is one question that everyone wants to ask. What did you tell the president? Paul laughs. “He asked me if it was hard to make charcoal, and I told him it wasn’t easy, but it wasn’t hard either.”
