‘I am the future’
An interview with a milk
producer
By
Manuel Alberto Ramy
Until
recently, it was customary in any Havana barrio that someone would
knock at your door to sell you milk, cheese or yoghurt. No longer.
"They got lost," is the general comment.
What
has happened? Is there no dairy production? How can it be, when in a
great number of cities in the interior the milk is going directly
from the producer to the stores? So, what’s happening?
The
answer is in the countryside, among the producers, so I went to San
Antonio de los Baños, a city in Havana province, about 35
kilometers from the capital.
Short,
60, gray and thick hair, black and thick eyebrows, black and roguish
eyes. The furrows of the earth are etched on his face, and his hands
show that he grapples hard with life. This is Ernesto Hernández
Castro "born and raised ‘rightcheer’
in this
parcel of land" outside San Antonio de los Baños.
From
Havana Read Spanish Version
‘I am
the future’
An
interview with a milk producer
By
Manuel Alberto Ramy
maprogre@gmail.com
Until
recently, it was customary in any Havana barrio that someone would
knock at your door to sell you milk, cheese or yoghurt. No longer.
"They got lost," is the general comment.
What
has happened? Is there no dairy production? How can it be, when in a
great number of cities in the interior the milk is going directly
from the producer to the stores? So, what’s happening?
The
answer is in the countryside, among the producers, so I went to San
Antonio de los Baños, a city in Havana province, about 35
kilometers from the capital.
Short,
60, gray and thick hair, black and thick eyebrows, black and roguish
eyes. The furrows of the earth are etched on his face, and his hands
show that he grapples hard with life. This is Ernesto Hernández
Castro "born and raised ‘rightcheer’
in this
parcel of land" outside San Antonio de los Baños.
Ernesto,
a private farmer, inherited from his parents 2½ caballerías
of land
[33.5 hectares] "that are mine," and, because of its high
production, the state "lent me two other caballerías
[26.8
hectares] to hold in usufruct."
"My
business is producing milk," he tells me, as he leads me to the
clean milking sheds, between his house and the fields where the
cattle roams.
"I
have 25 cows, 11 heifers, 4 yearlings, 4 cow-calves and 4 male
calves; 48 animals, in all," he says.
At
this moment, 13 of the 25 cows are pregnant and the 12 other cows
produce about 100 liters of milk a day. I comment that the production
seems meager.
"This
is still not the right season. In spring, it’s almost double the
quantity," he states with firmness. He walks me through the
milking shed, which is not mechanical, with a fiber-cement roof and
cement floor. The place is clean and spacious. This is where every
liter of milk is obtained, so I ask him if he has seen any
improvement in the prices he is paid.
"For
sure. Before, they used to pay me 95 to 98 cents and today I get more
than twice that — from 2.45 to 2.48 pesos, depending on the quality.
In a few days, they’re going to pay me a few cents in CUC
[convertible pesos] per liter." (One dollar is equal to 82 cents
CUC.)
Looking
around, I notice a tank of the type used in mechanical milking to
refrigerate the milk. If you milk the cows manually, why do you keep
a cooling tank, I ask.
"I
use it to store part of the feed, which is imported," he
answers. "I buy [fodder] for 12 national pesos per 100-pound
bag." The tank’s cooling system doesn’t work anymore, he adds.
To this man, nothing is unusable; everything can be recycled.
Ernesto
uses up 2 pounds of fodder a day, "one pound per milking."
The policy of paying in pesos is not limited to fodder, he says. Fuel
for the tractor costs him 33 cents per liter. The tractor uses up 200
liters per month, "which translates to 60-some pesos."
He
shows me his tractor, "which I put together piece by piece,
buying one part here, another there. It’s my own, my very own."
He built it with the help of friends, he says, and pride spills
through his eyes.
But
that’s not all. His pride grows when he shows me a machine ("made
by me") for processing fodder. But, since he buys the fodder,
what does he plan to process?
The
state will lend Ernesto two additional caballerías,
so he’s going to dig a well there, buy a water pump and install an
irrigation system.
"The
pump to bring water out of the well is being sold to me in national
currency," and the cost will be about 3,000 national pesos, he
says. "Ah," he adds, chomping on a cigar, "I get the
two additional caballerías
to hold
in usufruct, too, without paying anything."
That
way, he can say goodbye to imported fodder, because "look, ears
of corn with the corn still inside are a basic meal, and King grass
cut every 70 or 80 days is very good; it promotes milk. I’m going to
have fodder for the entire year."
Forty-eight
animals, four caballerías
of land
(soon to be six), some of which will be set aside for fodder — can
one man deal with that much work?
"I
have two workers, one to feed the animals, another to be a night
watchman." The law allows him to be an employer "and I pay
each man 900 national pesos, plus breakfast, lunch and dinner. Heck,
they’re almost like kinfolk."
I
return to the topic of milk. How does he sell it? A quick answer:
"Part of it goes directly to the trade [the San Antonio markets]
and the rest goes to Balkan," a state-run processor of dairy
products. This detail reminds me of a logical concern expressed by
Prof. Armando Nova, of the Center for Studies of the Cuban Economy,
to the effect that direct distribution to the consumer depresses the
industry because it is then unable to produce derivatives, such as
cheese or yoghurt.
Ernesto
— a swift, shrewd and agile man, capable of smelling the oncoming
rain — has smelled the oncoming changes in the economy, so he’s not
going to accept two new caballerías,
invest in water pumps and irrigation pipes and sow grass just to
grind the fodder and produce milk. I tell him that. Smiling, he
answers: "I hope to have 40 milk cows, 25 of them in production,
from whom I can get 300 to 400 liters a day, and I’m going to raise
beef cattle."
He
intends to buy 15 to 30 additional cows and 40 male calves that he
will raise into adult bulls and sell, for about 3,000 or 4,000 pesos
each. He explains the equation thus: "Today, a 200-pound calf
costs between 200 and 300 pesos; before (the new measures), it used
to cost between 14 and 15. After six months, the calf becomes a
yearling, and the price goes up. At the age of 16 months, it becomes
a young bull, and the price goes up." He stops and explains that
the current price of a calf is what a young bull used to cost. He
goes on, saying that today he can buy a young bull "from the
state or from a private vendor for 4 pesos a kilo, and when it
becomes a bull, I can sell it for 9 pesos a kilo."
Is
that good business? I ask him. He smiles in response.
Ernesto
is going to take on his project by asking the bank for a 100,000-peso
loan ("which I’m sure they’ll give me"), plus interest and
payable in five years. In that period, "I can pay back that loan
twice over." The man who says that is obviously self-confident
and believes in the future and the changes the agro sector is
undergoing.
As
I prepare to leave, we talk about the new measures being implemented,
such as the increase in the price paid by the state for milk and
other agricultural products, for a kilo of cattle on the hoof. Also
about the turnover of idle land, about the greater autonomy for
municipal delegations to the Ministry of Agriculture (according to
the characteristics of each region), an aspect that might include the
participation of other, non-state distributors. That’s the way to the
future, I say.
"What
future are you talking about?" asks Ernesto. And he answers
himself: "I am the future."
As
I drive back to Havana, I conclude that I do not have sufficient
elements to gauge whether dairy production has increased, because the
incentive measures have been in effect for only a short time. But I
am sure that the milk products that once were rerouted to the black
market are back in the normal economy, thanks to the new measures.
That
first conclusion enables me to draft the following theory. Every
society needs to look for a balance of interests and motivations. In
Cuba, the interests and motivations of the individual, society and
the state were unbalanced to the detriment of the individual’s
legitimate needs. Now, those interests and motivations are being
rearranged so as to increase production and productivity, for the
benefit of society and the state. This harmonizing and balancing
course is indispensable.
It’s
not enough to be satisfied with the positive news that our rights are
being restored. The Cuba of the future begins — like everything else
in our history — in the countryside.
Manuel
Alberto Ramy is Havana bureau chief of Radio Progreso Alternativa and
editor of Progreso Semanal, the Spanish-language version of Progreso
Weekly.
