Chino and Susi were awake to see me go when the taxi picked me up this morning. I amuse myself that I find the drive through central Havana becoming old hat to me. Oh theres the university. Oh theres the José Martí memorial. Oh theres the zoo. Im surprised people dont start asking me for directions.
After driving on the highway for an hour or two with banana and palm trees dotting the edges of fields, we turned off onto a country road and into a much more jungle-feeling region. We stopped to exchange some passengers at Las Terraces, an outdoor exploration resort. Thick vegetation blanketed the hills sorrounding the resort, which reminded me of the hills around a resort we stayed at in Thailand; I felt like a trex could jump out at any moment.
The road wound around hills and opened up the the Viñales valley. Maybe Ive been from Oregon too long, but wow what a sight. Great steep hills rise straight up from the flat valley floor and are mostly dripping with verdant texture, but have exposed rock faces that glow orange at sunset--a climber's dream, Im sure.
Viñales was a welcome departure from the frantic tourist hustling scene of Trinidad. Although both are small towns deriving a large economic slice from tourism, I only heard a few shouted offers for taxis or casa particulares, in contrast to Trinidad where they seemed to stick like glue.
Just around the corner from the bus stop (everything in this hamlet is just around the corner from the bus stop) lay my CP. I cant remember how much I paid, but it was easily the nicest. Plentiful hot water, a towel, a private toilet, an air conditioner that worked. Plus other less important things like cupboards, soap, clean floors, a fridge. The owners were the Cuban aunt and uncle I didnt know I had. I asked Vladimir about planning my 18 hour trip and frankly mentioned that I had to budget my remaining money carefully. After formulating a game plan, I hit the road.
Along my walk to a cigar-rolling shop outside town, I felt amused to observe many hens pecking around with chicks in tow. The great hills (Mogotes) provided a picturesque backdrop as old trucks, cars, and country buses passed me. The cigar shop had closed for the season, a convenience store clerk told me with the exasperation that comes from having to tell it to multiple tourists every day. On my way back the the CP, I picked up a bottle of water, and I just want to note how much water Ive consumed... maybe 1.5-3 liters per day? Thats more plain water that Ive consumed in the last year combined (excluding in Israel).
At the arranged time, my cowboy guide walked up to the CP in gum boots. A 21 year old with three brothers (2 of them also guides), Adrián has been a guide for about a year, though he said he couldnt remember a time not being on a horse. Id believe it- in addition to the many free range chickens, this town was real rural deal: barn animals were scattered all about, I saw a cowboy texting-and-riding, and I saw two kids riding horses á la bikes to their friend's house.
Fortunately Adrián spoke Spanish reasonably slowly for the tourists, though my brain still hurt after two hours of exclusively Spanish dialogue. Though his brother was a ChE with the military, his family didnt have much experience education: his parents hadn't finished high school and his grandmother could only sign her name, which was not uncommon for someone from the Revolution era. He'd had the opportunity to go to college after high school, but though college was free to attend, he needed to start making money now. So far he didnt regret his career choice, though he did regret not taking English class more seriously. Apparently they also have the phrase "When am I ever going to need to use this??" He could say a few English phrases ("To the left," and "To the right"), but I think I was unable to effectively teach him his requestex phrase "The toe of your foot" that he could use to direct tourists how to ride.
Our dirt and rough gravel path initially wound through a nonpaved part of town. Although barn animals abounded and yhe folks appeared to live in a countryside manner, they didnt seem to be in poverty or squalor. To the contrary, I saw much evidence of ongoing home improvement, and though small, their cottages were well kept. I wondered if they appreciated the rich landscape views; at one time I marveled to a passing man while admiring the view, "It is so beautiful" and his tone was a bit, "Eh you get used to it."
Adrián preferred to trot the horses. In addition to making encouraging kissing noises at my horse Mojito, he also begged the horse to hurry by calling his name. "Mojiiiiito!" The reason he gave was that the tobacco farmers were far away and might close. Really it was because I ordered only 2 hours instead of 3 for budget reasons. This trotting led to a lot bouncing up and down in the seat (the raw result of which I observed later on my bum). I mentioned that, um, it was a little difficult for men to bump like that (the reason I didnt encourage the trotting. Poor Mojito.). He laughed and said he gets that a lot, then recommended leaning back in the seat to avoid bouncing. That would have been helpful advice, though I wonder how difficult it'd be to teach that in English.
The path was well worn, the result of many a tourist horse rides, and we bypassed a tourist trap refreshment spot to stop at a pseudo tourist trap tobacco drying house. There, a gentleman explained the growing and drying process in Spanish as we stood inside a high peaked barn with bound tobacco hanging from racks. Above, a rooster oversaw the whole operation from his perch among the leaves. The man took me to another building (like a school bus stop?) where he demonstrated the cigar rolling technique and gave me a free cigar to take ("Contrary to factory made cigars laced with chemicals, these are all natural so good for you!") Then he presented a "best" bundle of cigars and named the price for this premium souvenir. When I didnt grab my wallet, he brought out the "better." When I still didnt move, he plopped the "good" bundle on the table. I expressed my sincere gratitude as best one can who stumbles through a foreign language, but declined. He was still very warm and courteous, though Im sure disappointed. Still, I hadnt asked my guide to take me to a cigar rolling demo, so I couldnt feel too bad. (Side note: had we more time, my guide also would have taken me to a coffee plantation, which also would have been... complicated).
Afterwards I apologized for not smoking or buying, but tried to explain the tenets of my religion. He replied that it was ok, and that it was probably better for a person not to smoke. In fact, his grandmother died from lung cancer. He asked the name of my church which I shared, as well as the some basic premises, but he certainly didnt recognize the name. I wonder how many Mormons are in Cuba, let alone in a remote village.
After my horse adventure, I went to the bathroom to wash my hands. There I discovered that certain parts of my body looked like bubble wrap! The most sunburned portions had blistered. This provided a decent amount of fun as I popped and peeled ripe skin. Whitney would be in heaven.
My dinner of fish, beans, and rice was delicious (better than it sounds!) and I took an evening stroll back along the dirt path to try to snap some photos of the landscape in gentler sunset light. Along the way I saw a man and woman pushing a wheelbarrow of pineappples and selling to the residents (oh my gosh I wish Id had a way to butcher a fresh pineapple), and a passing cowboy argue about the price of mangos with a woman who sold them from her yard tree. I heard some gentle oinks emitted from behind a bush several young pigs scurried toward me. Id like to think its because they could sense my fondness for Babe, but probably they only thought I had their dinner. Along the way, cowboys washed their horses, the runoff of which created muddy pools in the path and blocked my sandal-clad procession (I can only imagine what the locals think of tourist attire). Finally I found an unobsured view of the sun setting behind some Mogotes, so I relaxed and just let it all set in. The sky turned purple with streaks of orange. And as the air cooled with resultant airborne bugs emerging, birds flitted about to gorge. I contemplated how fortunate I am to be able to travel and observe ao much. Though, perhaps like the folks in whose backyards I stood, there is beauty all around us. It just needs to be noticed and appreciated. I stood there being super deep until the constant barking of the neighbor's dog lasted long enough that folks might start getting concerned.
I returned to the town plaza where I hooked back into the rest of the world. Downloaded some podcasts, ran into some more OSU alumni (they saw the beaver hat!), followed the Beaver baseball game, reloaded my news reader, and chatted with Whitney as my final day in Cuba drew to a close.
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