From the beautiful bay of the former village of San Carlos and San Severino de Matanzas you can see in the distance an Indian woman dressed in green, asleep and young. It is the Pan, the highest and most majestic hill of my city. However, lying in the shadow of its hillside, there is a small town that treasures a thousand stories: Ceiba Mocha.
For many it is only a fleeting reflection in its passage through the Central Highway. The story tells that this route could be in the middle of the town, but its inhabitants did not accept it. And I appreciate it, I do not imagine the impetuous pace of the cars overshadowing their albor.
Ceiba Mocha is not perfect, but it’s mine. It seems small, perhaps the size of a simple kiss and is that it knows how to hide its greatness very well to give it to only those who see light in its shadows.
In each of its streets I remember the stories of the oldest settlers. I imagine the farmers taking water from the well of the Virgin that since 1944 lies under the pavement a few meters from the cathedral of the park.
And I see Manuel García running through the trees to escape with the money of the rich and give it to the poor; and it is there that he conquered the nickname of the King of the Fields of Cuba.
They say that Aldo Santamaría, Abel’s brother, was passing through some of the houses on the central street and created one of the 26 July Movement cards in 1955.
The old batistiano quarter, today the basic secondary Juan Manuel Quijano Table, still has traces that remember the atrocities of an epoch.
And on the road drivers slow down at the persistence of legends, while all say that there is no better nougat than Mocha.
The local historiography perpetuates that 293 years ago a ceiba desmochada was the meeting and departure point of the closest peasants. Then the people took refuge in her womb and made her the guardian of her entrance. The town grew and the ceiba sprouted the branches in the hearts of its children.
Original text byon Jan 11th, 2018