Vinales

Journeying into Cuban Hearts, Part 2

by Ekua on September 26, 2010 · 14 comments in Cuba,why i travel

On our second morning in Vinales, five out of seven group members leave early to go on a hike. We’ve settled into the group and reached the point where we feel comfortable splitting up from time to time. The female half of the Aussie vegan couple and I stay in town. The previous night, Alberto had suggested that we all go shopping in Vinales in morning. We take him up on that offer.

Our first stop is a small boutique with a tiny selection of dresses and more jeans than seem necessary considering the climate. “This is a very expensive boutique,” Alberto says to us in a hushed voice. I get a sense that to him, this is the equivalent of a clothing store you’d find in Beverly Hills, the look-but-don’t-touch kind. I flip through the few dresses they have available and look at the price tags. They cost approximately 8-10 U.S. dollars.

Next, he takes us to store with a variety of items. The Aussie and I refer to it as a Cuban Target. Here, we see a bulky old school television selling for 600. We ask Alberto if the price is in Cuban Convertible Pesos which are approximately equal to US dollars. He nods his head yes . If a $9 dress is expensive, a TV is impossible for the average resident of Vinales.

Those are the kind of things you see in Cuba that make it consistently confusing. First you think, “Isn’t it fantastic that people here do/don’t do [fill in the blank]?” Then you think, “Where are the options? Is having options worth the result?” And so on. The often unresolved question, “Do the ends justify the means?” seems to always be present in Cuba.

Our last shopping stop is a grocery store. The front part of the store is inexplicably full of generic plastic toys, followed by a section of bathroom goods. For all I’ve heard about toilet paper shortages and an inability to buy basic toiletries in Cuba if you run out, there is quite a bit available. The selection isn’t vast, but you can find what you need there. In this store, there are no fresh fruits and vegetables, but around the corner is an area full of processed foods—lots of pasta, rice, dried garbanzo beans, chips and crackers, canned goods, strange meats and cheeses. It looks like what you would stock your pantry with if you were preparing for a natural disaster. I pick up a bag of crackers and looked at the ingredient list which includes “government authorized flavor”. Tasty.

Back at the casa, tiredness and unsettled stomach prompt me to rest for a bit. I wake up to find the casa owner’s son in the living room, sitting in a rocking chair and watching World Cup soccer on the family’s tiny television. I wonder how the family was able to afford their TV. I sit in an empty rocking chair and watch the game with him. He has kind eyes and we communicate about the teams and our hopes for the game with gestures, nods, and smiles. I know from Alberto that he is a huge soccer fan and plays for a local team. I look outside the window and notice that a storm is approaching.

The clouds that hover over the island are as complex as the people who inhabit it. In several shades and imaginative formations, they cast their shadows below. They accumulate and heave heavy drops and create a mirror for themselves. But it doesn’t last long. Soon after the last drop falls and the clouds disperse, the ground greedily consumes the water, insuring that mangoes will continue to drip from the trees; red, yellow, and fuchsia flowers will burst from branches; and the island will maintain a shade of green that is just a tad greener than you thought was earthly possible.

During the storm, I leave the casa owner’s son to his game and join the casa owner and a some other little old women on the porch to watch the rain and rock the time away. Unlike her son, the casa owner and her friends’ smiles are strained and less than genuine. They are white women, and in Cuba, I know that people of older generations often have more racial hang ups than those of younger ones. But I continue to rock and as the storm eases up, so do they. They begin to talk at me animatedly and I shrug and smile.

After the rain ends, the streets of Vinales immediately return to normal. People shout to nearby porches to communicate with their neighbors. A man sells mangoes up and down the streets until his wheelbarrow is empty. Guajiros ride by in horse-drawn carts. There’s a classic car, a beat up car, and modern car. Women and girls walk by with the a type of confidence I’ve only seen in certain parts of the world. It’s a type of confidence that doesn’t write off traditional femininity as weak or meek. No, the strength they encompass does not require them to shun their femininity, instead, it is born from it. Beauty and power exist harmoniously, simply because of a well-rounded knowledge the wonder of being female.

Later, the group comes back together for dinner at a nice restaurant on the outskirts of the town center. The hike and horseback riding that some of the group members partook in sound nice, but I wouldn’t trade the the shopping and porch rocking experiences I’ve had. While my day hasn’t been extravagant, the immersion has been exhilarating. And it isn’t over yet.

After dinner, the Aussie couple female half and I head over to the club with Alberto and Mr. Fabulous. The Aussie turns to me and excitedly whispers, “We’re in!” It is our third and final night in Vinales and we’ve come to know it and have felt incredibly welcomed. It is variety show night at the club and there are song and dance performances of various types of Cuban styles of music—salsa, rumba, Santeria and more. It’s all performed so casually and comfortably and the costumes are so outdated that it’s obvious that the show has been the same for a long, long time. And based on the nonchalance of the local members of the audience, that seems to be just the way it is.

After the show ends, the music goes back and forth from salsa to reggaeton. Still not convinced of our salsa moves, we relegate our dancing to the reggaeton songs. Alberto is not much of a dancer and sits out on most songs. But Mr. Fabulous goes for it, and seems to draw half of the audience to dance with our little group.  He starts dancing in time with the reggaeton and then builds up to dancing in double time before wiggling it out, each limb moving together but independently. With his moves and charisma combined, here in the States, he could easily start a dance workout video craze.

Alberto tells Mr. Fabulous about the nickname we’ve given him. He shakes his head and responds, “No, no, no!” He points to himself, smiles and says, “Senorita Fabuloso!”

By the end of the night, the three Australian guys have joined us and it becomes one of those crazy, joy-filled nights that is hard to surpass or even match. We linger in the square after the club closes and converse with people of the town and draw out the Vinales experience as much as possible.

At the end of my time in Vinales, I find the word that unites all the people I’ve encountered in Cuba: innocence. There is a lack of awareness about the world outside of Cuba that permeates so much of the way they do things there. It is refreshing, it is heartbreaking and it is endearing.

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Photo Essay: Portraits from the Viñales Valley

by Ekua on September 22, 2010 · 11 comments in captured on memory card,Cuba

As I’ve already written and will continue to write about, my group came across a wonderful assortment of characters in the Viñales Valley. Here are portraits of a few of them:

A father and son listening to music and dancing on their porch. We encountered them as we began our hike on our first full day in Viñales.

A farmer we came across during our hike through the valley.

Another farmer we met on our hike. We saw him more than once and he was puffing on the same cigar each time. I wish we had a chance to sit and chat with him… he looked like he would have some great stories tell.

At the ridiculous Mural de la Prehistoria (in the background), this man was trying to sell us bull rides. On the rare occasion that I encountered a wandering salesperson in Cuba, they were extremely calm and not at all pushy about it.

Watching the town clown add a handstand to his strange dance routine in the middle of the town square.

There was just one club in Vinales and each night there was a different kind of performance. On our last night, it was a revue show that included a variety of Cuban song and dance.

The one and only “Mr. Fabulous”.

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Journeying into Cuban Hearts, Part 1

by Ekua on September 14, 2010 · 12 comments in Cuba,why i travel

It is time for our group salsa lesson, the hour of our evening that we naively believe will give us the skills we need to work up the nerve to dance with the Cubans. Our instructor and her assistant are patient and serious, but I can see their eyes smile with amusement as they try to teach seven goofy foreigners the basics of salsa and rumba.

They are not the only ones indulging in entertainment we provide. Every time we catch a glimpse of the window, we see heads popping up, taking stock of our new skills or lack thereof. People also walk in and out of the studio during our lesson and linger to watch. It seems like half the town has showed up to view the comedy show we didn’t know that we would be putting on.

After dinner, we all meet up at one of the casa particulares. It’s the house of Alberto*, the man who couldn’t stop laughing when he overheard our tour guide explaining to another casa owner what the Aussie vegans would and would not eat. Alberto is small and animated and a lovely host. It takes just a few moments for me to realize he is gay. He says to us, “I saw you guys at your dance lesson.” He smiles mischievously and says no more. The Sydney boys bring rum and he gets fresh mint from his garden and we make mojitos.

But then it becomes known that he could get in trouble for having foreigners over who aren’t staying at his casa. To others, it could look like he selling meals to foreigners off the record. And this could attract negative attention from the government.

So we move our party to the steps of the town square. The Sydney boys replenish our drink supply, but we have no cups. Someone simply goes into the club to ask for cups and they come out with several. I am surprised at the ease with which they’ve acquired them. In the States, the response would likely be something like, “Buy your drinks here, or leave us alone.”

We intend to eventually go into the club and try out our salsa steps, we really do. But the town square turns out to be entertaining far beyond what we could have imagined. On the steps, our group is joined by our bus driver, Alberto, and a few of Viñales’s most unique characters.

The first of our new friends is a guy we nickname, “Mr. Fabulous”. We’d seen him the day we’d arrived and his look surprised me. Vinales was not place where I’d expected to see someone sporting an asymmetrical dyed black emo haircut and pants so tight that they looked painted on. As soon as I saw him, I knew I needed to get to know him. I had shared my sentiments about this with the Aussie couple.

So as he approaches our group, they join me in my excitement. He is a friend of Alberto’s and hairdresser in town. As he chats with Alberto, I can tell he is sizing us up, determining whether or not he’ll hang out with us. We seem to pass the test and he stays and mingles and shares his flamboyant fabulousness with us.

Alberto decides to share a secret. He turns to the female half of the Aussie couple and says, “I have something to tell you.” He pauses. “I’m gay.”

“I know,” she responds.

He leans over her towards me to let me know, and we basically repeat the same lines. I explain to him that I don’t care. I tell him that I live in San Francisco, after all. He looks at me with a blank stare. I can tell he has no idea San Francisco has a reputation for being a mecca for gay males. He asks the Aussie, “What about your boyfriend? Does he know?”

She says, “Yes, he does, and he doesn’t care.”

We try to explain that the whole group knows and everyone likes him just the same. We tell him that we’re all pretty much from liberal cities with an “anything goes” vibe. But again, he stares at us blankly and skeptically, clearly not being able to fathom the places we come from. The people of the town seem to be friendly with Arturo and Mr. Fabulous and their friends. They are well-liked and respected. But when we ask for details on whether or not it’s always been the same way, we don’t get a clear answer.

Also hanging out in the square is the the town clown who has orange striped hair like a cat. He was one of the salsa lesson crashers we’d encountered earlier. That night, he is determined to put on a show for us. He dances a strange concoction of salsa-ish and tap dance-ish moves with such conviction that just for a moment, I wonder if he’s a dance move creative genius. Intermittently, he throws in a silly handstand to mix things up. The people of the town are obviously used to him and they are subtly compassionate towards him the way they might be to members of their own families.

We have such a great time meeting new people that we never go into the club before it closes. We see our guide exit the club amongst the last people to leave. He is arm and arm with a woman. It was hard not to assume that a relatively high income made it easy for him, with his highly tacky persona and all, to easily attract women. More than once we would see him in the same beauty and the beast situation.

More than once we would hear stories of people who left their jobs behind to work in the tourism industry where tips give people the opportunity to earn more than the average Cuban. Our guide had once been a teacher. Alberto had previously been a nurse. Both respectable jobs, but not ones that provided extra income in the form of tips from foreigners. In Cuba, you can find people who wistfully want more, but there are often undertones of apprehension and caution about what “more” will bring.

Like I  had hoped when we arrived in Viñales, it is a place that is willing to let people in. When we finally leave the square and return to our casas, the mojitos have long worn off. But our travel buzz, the kind that comes from the ascension to discovery, has been steadily growing.

*Name has been changed

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Photo Essay: Plants and Landscapes in Soroa and Viñales

by Ekua on September 7, 2010 · 13 comments in captured on memory card,Cuba

When it comes to photography, plants are often my favorite subjects to capture. In the countryside and nature of Western Cuba, there were plenty of opportunities for me to indulge in this passion:

It was incredibly hot and humid, but with this kind of scenery, we barely noticed.

A mango tree. I love the way they grow.

I have never before seen palm trees growing on a mountain. It’s a very cool sight.

Looking up at a Royal Palm, the national tree of Cuba.

Technically, it was called an orchid garden (rather than a botanical garden as I called it in my previous post) so the focus was on the many wonderful varieties of orchids.

A bug eating plant. Note the fly on the left side of the plant. We waited patiently for the plant to eat it, but it refused to give us a show.

The view at the beginning of our hike in the Viñales Valley.

A hefty looking tree that is a type baobab.

Dried tobacco leaves in the warehouse where we had our cigar rolling demonstration.

The postcard image of the Viñales Valley and its mogotes.

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Onward to the Viñales Valley

by Ekua on September 5, 2010 · 7 comments in Cuba

We spent the morning thoroughly exploring Old Havana and before heading west to the town of Viñales.  As we left the city behind and traveled a long, lonely stretch of highway in silence, our hearts and minds sunk further into Cuba.

So much of the landscape of the Cuban countryside is unaffected by human alteration and thrives freely. It looked like the simple crayon images kids often create where despite their actual environment, everything is where it’s supposed to be. Shaggy edges of Jungle Green grass, Sky Blue with globby white clouds, a simple Raw Umber house here and there. Every so often, a classic car whizzed by to give it a stroke of pastel. Hitchhikers gathered underneath freeway overpasses that led to nowhere to escape from the heat and catch a ride while uniformed government workers oversaw the process.

We passed through small villages and farming communities where lines of clothing in a colorful array of shades waved against the blue and white… Cuba’s own version of Mexico’s ubiquitous decorations, papel picado. People ranging from the blond-haired and blue-eyed to those with the almost black skin of West Africa lived their lives intertwined in these villages. Elderly people sat on their porches and slowly rocked the time by in their chairs.

We stopped in Soroa, an eco-tourism spot set in thick tropical vegetation a winding drive away from the main freeway. There, we had lunch and the option to visit a botanical garden. Our ride had given us a glimpse of how incredibly fertile the area was, and we all decided a garden visit would be worth it. We saw several types of orchids, mango trees, bug eating plants and woodpeckers. At the top of the garden, I looked out at mountains covered with palm trees that are endemic to Cuba with awe and admiration for Mother Nature’s possibilities.

When we arrived in Viñales, I was immediately captured by it. Time after time, little countryside towns that serve as a base for the nature that surrounds them often turn out to be my favorite places. Not everyone in the group shared my instant fierce passion for Viñales. “Is this it?” a group member asked as we arrived in the sleepy town. “There’s nothing here!” It’s true, the main square in the town consisted of a few benches, a couple buildings and a rundown church. But there was something so inviting about the atmosphere of the town; it felt like a place you could get to know quickly.

In Viñales, we stayed in casa particulares near the town center. Our guide began assigning casas, and I asked if my roommate and I could stay in the one were standing in front of. I’d peeked in and liked the rocking chairs and sparkly gold-tinted beaded curtains I saw inside.

Everyone went to settle in, and our guide accompanied the vegan Aussie couple to explain their dietary situation to their casa owner. He told her that they didn’t eat anything that came from an animal—they would not eat meat, milk products, eggs or even honey. The casa owner’s response to this? Sustained, uncontrollable laughter… until she realized it was not a joke. Her demeanor reversed and she became very serious and determined to make them good food. At the house next door, another casa owner that a group member was staying with had been listening to the whole exchange and never stopped laughing.

After enjoying our most flavorful meals thus far at our respective casas, we went back to the main square to go salsa dancing at Viñales’s one and only club… except none of us danced that night. We were all too self-conscious to get up there with people for whom salsa dancing was as easy as walking. We had the silly idea that after our salsa lesson the next day, we would be ready to join the Cubans.

The next morning, since we were all interesting in hiking through the Valle de Viñales, we arranged to do a group hike. Our guide looked to be in his late 40s or early 50s. He’d grown up in the area and knew a great deal about it. He probably led these hiking tours all the time, but with childlike enthusiasm he pointed out the different types of flowers and the sayings about them. He showed us plants that close when you touch them and a tree that is related to the baobab tree of Africa.

He knew all of the guajiros and gaujiras we passed by and their life stories. We exchanged holas and smiles with them. They posed proudly for pictures. We stopped for juicy mangoes and pineapple and guava in a farmer’s flowering tree enclosed yard in the middle of a vast expanse of fields. The farmer had a gentle demeanor and poured us glasses of his syrupy raisiny homemade wine. We’d set out early to avoid sweltering heat and high humidity, but even in the morning, it was unbelievably hot. We were all ready for shade and showers so we decided not to linger too long. We took off for our last stop on the hike, a cigar rolling demonstration.

Later, we all went to visit the Mural de la Prehistoria, an ugly and inexplicably painted cliff side. If nothing else, the absurdity of the mural’s existence provided some laughter. From there, we went to  a lookout point to see Viñales’s postcard image overlooking the valley and the unlikely karst formations that jut out of it. It was reminiscent of Halong Bay in Vietnam, except rather than sea, it was farmland. And instead of traditional floating fishing villages, there were farmers living and working the same way they had been for a couple hundred years.

Viñales’s verdancy was fresh and enchanting. But even more charming were the people of Viñales, who compared to the people I’d encountered in Havana, were easy to connect with. In the end, it was the people of Viñales who would solidify my love for the town and reveal Cuba to me in ways I didn’t expect.

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