(The following story by John Moore appeared on the Toronto Star website on February 9.)
REMEDIOS, CUBA — Kids just love playing with trains… especially when the `kids’ are all grown up and the train is blast from the past.
So we were already pretty eager to climb aboard vintage steamer No. 1549, wheezing on the siding near the old Marcelo Salado sugar mill for the short trip to Remedios, when the engineer called out and waggled a beckoning finger at our small group of Canadians and a couple of guys from Argentina.
“He wants to know if you want to go in the locomotive,” our guide said.
“Just for a look?” I asked.
“No, for the whole ride,” he answered.
With that dream-come-true invitation, the inner child in us burst forth and we scampered with great speed (and little dignity) up the steps to the cab of the locomotive.
As we did a little victory dance, and the less fortunate travellers climbed into the passenger flatcars in back, the drivers – Santiago and Orlando – gave us the locomotive lowdown.
She was built in the U.S. in the 1920s, and wears her age with a tired grace. She spent decades serving the mill, which closed a few years ago. Santiago has been driving her for more than 20 years, ferrying workers and now joyriding tourists like us from the nearby resort at Cayo Santa Maria.
Like its celebrated classic automobiles, there are lots of steam locos all over Cuba. Many have been converted from burning coal to oil, but these days, they seem to run largely on ingenuity – replacement parts are either ancient stock left over from the pre-U.S. trade embargo days or new supplies from China, jerry-rigged to fit the archaic engine, Santiago says. The cab is hot and smelly, and daubed with oil stains everywhere … in other words, awesome.
When we get the signal to proceed, Santiago points at me, then at one of the levers. He must have read my shocked expression, (what, me drive!?) because he grabs my hands and wraps them around the lever.
I press it forward, and it pounds back in my fist with a harsh “chunk-chunk” noise, that draws horrified looks from Santiago and Guillermo and snickers from my companions.
“Slower, slower,” implores Santiago (sounding like I did when I was teaching my daughter to drive a standard), and after a few more tries, I manage to slide it ever-so-gently into gear. The train lurches forward. Santiago works the throttle and soon we’re belting along at, oh, maybe 30 km/h. But the thrill of standing on the platform, the heat and steam from the boiler only slightly eased by the breeze blowing in through the window, more than makes up for the lack of speed.
Kids run alongside the tracks, just like I did when I was their age. I’m enjoying the ride, with my arm crooked over the window, and my new-found celebrity status (everybody we pass waves at the engineer), when Santiago points to a rope suspended over my head and makes a downward tugging motion.
The ultimate dream: blowing the train whistle. I pull the rope … and produce a feeble, humiliating squeak.
Santiago and Guillermo roll their eyes; their expressions saying, “pull it like you mean it.”
I yank harder and this time there’s a billow of steam and an ear-splitting hoot.
All too soon it seems we arrive at Remedios station. It’s full of antique furniture, and its old telephone, ticket office and tote board, take us on a trip back in time – just like old No. 1549.