Early in the morning on Boxing Day I caught a 3-hour bus to a town called Vinales, in the west. The Valle de Vinales is a beautiful national park of towering limestone cliffs (called mogotes here), the type you see all over the world, rounded on their summits and hanging with palms and vines, brushing the sheer walls and exposed caves. The earth in the valley is a rich orange and most available land is blanketed by tobacco plantations and vernacular shacks shaped like tents. I was greeted at the bus stop by a woman called Lila who I immediately liked. We walked to her casa and she pointed out all the important sites along the way. The main street in Vinales is flanked by rows of Scots pines, which fill the air with one of my favourite smells. In Vinales there are over 200 casa particulares (in a town of barely 2000 people that’s hefty) which means competition is high. My dinner was expensive but when it arrived and I tasted it I would have easily paid double. I looked around, expecting the whole family to join me – surely you’re not expecting me to eat all this? I had 7 plates of food including a whole fish, rice, salad, potatoes and fruit. It was the best meal I’ve had in Cuba but I was so full I had to go to bed immediately – at 7.30pm!
I had agreed the night before to do some horse riding and in the morning a cowboy called Abel picked me up, and we walked to his ranch where I met 3 other tourists – Anya and Nicole – 2 Swiss girls who you would call ‘bubbly’, and Yuta – a 60 year old German lady who’s previously beautiful face has been marred by a forlorn and tragic deterioration. I was given a starving mule to ride which meant I had to look forward to hours of my bony arse bouncing on his bony spine. We lightly trotted through the plantations and arrived at a farmer’s house where we had coffee and watched Abel roll a cigar, which we then puffed at approvingly. We continued around the base of a huge cliff and followed the dusty trail through the fields and deeper into the valley. It really was beautiful, so quiet and majestic and the sun bathed our shoulders perfectly. After a couple of hours we tied the horses to some bamboo and walked to a nearby cave. All the other cowboys bring their tourists here via other tracks and when there are enough – say 30 of you, you walk into the cave with torches lighting the way. The cave runs for 3km through the side of this mountain, emerging on the other side along with its own subterranean river. After about 300m you come to a lake that you can swim in. I wasn’t going to but its not every day you get to swim in a cave. About 15 of us swam 100m through the pitch black cave until we came to a slippery mound where things turned rapidly sexual, everyone rubbing cave mud on each other. It is clearly just an excuse for horny cowboys to lure slender females into a dark cave, using ‘medicinal mud’ as an excuse to have a thorough feel. On our return swim, washing off the mud and howling into the dark recesses of the caves for eerie effect it dawned on me the sheer filth I was in. This was a still body of water in a shadowy cavern. At least 50 people a day swish around in the water, possibly urinating but definitely scrubbing off sweat and scabs whilst scouring themselves with second hand mud and writhing in the murky lake. I emerged into the sunlight feeling nasty.
Hopping back on the saddles we circled back the way we came and had a pit-stop at some guys love shack, an event ensuing that at the time didn’t seem that weird.
The man’s name was Oman and he had the most terrifying eyes of lime and gold. I massively regret not taking a photo of him. In fact I sat there composing the shot in my mind, and the request in Spanish. There were two photographs I wanted – one where he was casually leaning out of the wooden doorway with his cigar smoke strikingly framed by the dark of the room behind. Another where he was sitting against the wooden slats of the door. To the left the cracks between planks allowed 4 or 5 strong bands of light to slice diagonally to the right. He would have sat there with these bands crossing over his chest and face, one powerfully highlighting a single terrifying eye. These 2 photos exist in my mind only, but they are amazing photos and I will kick myself for a while to come.
Oman split open some coconuts and deftly made us some strong rum cocktails. Nicole and Anya could speak very good Spanish so I just sat there trying to follow the conversation which thanks to the rum turned inevitably towards sexual banter and before I knew it I was acting as Anya’s father in a wedding ceremony there in the porch of a tiny wooden shack, surrounded by fields of tobacco and soaring mountains. Abel had taken a liking to Anya and by the reciprocal rubbing of fingers and arms I guessed it was mutual. It was a very strange event and I felt increasingly awkward. A few times I was worried the situation was going to get nasty and I formulated a few escape plans in my mind, one shamefully involved me running from the scene, leaving the two Swiss girls to their drunken fate at the hands of two randy cowboys. Another one involved me brandishing the machete and fleeing with all the horses, taking the girls to safety and possibly getting a back massage in return. As per usual, none of my situations materialised and instead we left after two hours, Abel teased within an inch of sanity, possibly sporting an unfulfilled erection. The return leg was so painful and I felt an equal measure of resentment towards the horse’s spine and guilt at whatever pains my bum may be inflicting in return. Upon dismounting the newly weds had a sloppy embrace, we paid our fee and stumbled off to our houses.
After dinner we all met up again and had some beers in a bar. I revived my German and had a tri-lingual conversation that left me feeling like a pretty intelligent human being. We were all shattered from the day so made it an early night. Thankfully there were no awkward goodbyes at the girls’ house, we’d never see each other again but we had shared a very good day. Abel followed Anya to her room and at first I was a bit disgusted, but then realised that it was all light-hearted fun. She’s on a 3-week holiday in Cuba and she’s about to shag a cowboy, good for her. If I had fewer inhibitions and didn’t have such an unapproachable expression perhaps I would meet more interesting people. As it is, I am doomed to a life of bitter solitude and brief encounters that go nowhere. Still, tomorrow is another day. And a damn good day it was.
It started early with a fantastic breakfast, the sunlight pouring through the front door and warming my legs under the table. Fried eggs, fruit, coffee, I knew it was going to be a good day. I walked to a botanical garden I had read about, the entrance gate covered with fruit fresh from the trees. Behind the dense hedge lies a gorgeous little cottage owned by two elderly sisters who’s father set up this garden almost a century ago. It’s a mesmerising maze of paths weaving between trees of all heights, density and occupation – mango, kumquat, Guava, pineapple, aloe Vera, hyacinths and orchids, massive buttress roots spilling onto the ground like a freeze-framed giant squid climbing the trunk. A nice lady walked me round pointing out all these unusual additions and what is best in what season. You end back at the house in a surreal little patio, given a plate a fresh fruit and left to contemplate at your leisure. I loved the house. It was ramshackle and quirky - a tree made of business cards, a chicken wire fence covered in dolls heads and mouldy newspaper clippings of nothing in particular.
I rented out a bike and cycled off into the valley, past tons of creaking porches, weather beaten faces smiling from rocking chairs, the smell of cigar smoke strong in the air and a constant stream of tourist busses sweeping past me, belching out exhaust fumes roaring on to the next ‘point of interest’. Over the crest of one hill was a massive car park at the base of the cliff, with no cars parked. A cave here leads 150m through the mountain emerging on the other side at a restaurant. Walking through the tunnel I got more and more excited, imagining what delights would emerge at the other end. It was a large restaurant who’s conical thatched roofs pleasantly block out the other car park containing maybe 5 or 6 tour buses. On arrival the entire group is seated en masse and served swiftly but unaffectionately. Being solo I was herded to a lonely table on the sidelines where a nice couple from the Basque Country gave me some cheese and ham. It was all so impersonal and obviously they carved a new road around the mountain and made a second car park because as much as tourists are happy to eat their set lunch together, the idea of walking through a cave to get there is obviously too much to cope with. This is a mentality I still can’t get my head around – package tours. If you are strapped for time then theoretically doing a whistle-stop tour (of what someone else thinks you will like) of the area is a good choice but you’re never going to experience anything too real or challenging.
On this negative note I will leave Vinales for a moment and return to Havana. The wonderful Bush Administration already has a plan set out for Cuba when Fidel is finally declared dead. Probably contained in a spiral-bound dossier the plan involves allowing tens of thousands of Cuban exiles to return to Cuba – this invariably will include the mafia in Miami and many many tales of “The American Dream” and how much better life is under capitalism. A mixture of emotions will ensue – people haven’t seen their families for years and years and this joy of being reunited coupled with a sudden onslaught of feedback and criticism of their own lives under communism will result in a great deal of unrest. In fact unrest and dissent is all part of the grand plan. It is planned that there will BE a counter-revolution, people will demand change upon hearing how wonderful it can be to have any job you wish and travel at will. Already in the youth here you can see an affection and yearning for the American culture of consumerism and wealth. It’s not hard to picture the scene in Havana when it all changes. A certain amount of violence, demonstration and death will be allowed to occur under the watchful eyes of the US, at which point they will swoop in, ‘liberating’ the poor souls who have been trodden on by the evil dictator Castro and the army will restore peace, imposing their own form of temporary government with the sole intention of turning Cuba into a capitalist economy. Cuba will become an ally of America (possibly another state) and stop being so friendly with China, Russia and Venezuela, and fat balding men in bad suits will slouch in their leather armchairs in Washington a little more content that one more part of the world has been forced over to their way of thinking. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. McDonalds and Starbucks have already chosen their plots along the Malecon for when this all occurs.
On a side note, a short tale that makes me smile: A few years ago Cuba’s baseball team came 2nd in the Pan-American Baseball League and won the princely sum of $22 million. This is clearly a huge amount of money and could have been ploughed back into the game, or spent on a new stadium etc etc. However Hurricane Katrina had just struck and it was decided to donate the $22 million to New Orleans instead. This tremendous gesture of charity aside, its also a smack in the face of the Bush Administration who didn’t get their arses in gear quick enough to save the lives of their own citizens (but when a Hollywood neighbourhood is in flames it’s a different story). Venting complete its back to the stillness and tranquillity only found in the countryside.
After returning my bike I had a 5 o’clock appointment with a local masseuse called Onasis. He works at one of the big hotels here but said it would be cheaper and more convenient for me to have the massage at home. I suppose that’s true but I didn’t feel entirely comfortable stripping down to my boxers and lying face down on my bed whilst a stranger lathered me up. In a designated massage environment I’m fine, but the bedroom scenario just seemed too personal. The back massage was good, shiatsu he said, but the head and foot work left a lot to be desired. Its always hard to tell whether a masseuse has accidentally brushed your scrotum or not, and of course you’re not going to bring it up because that could be mortifying. Instead you just lay there tensing your thighs every time the hands move that way, in nervous anticipation of more clumsy contact. I paid him still standing in my boxers and waved goodbye feeling slightly used.
During dinner there was Salsa music playing and I was asked my opinion mid swallow. I was starving and in these situations I tend to just say yes to everything in the hope that the questioner will shut up and let me enjoy my food in peace. So all my nods and “ si, muy bien, entiendo, si” led to me agreeing to leave somewhat abruptly and have an hours salsa lesson with an ageing dance teacher. Earlier on in the day I had walked back from my bike ride merry and smiling, a slightly camp old man eyed me up and said “buenas dias” as I ambled by. Nice I thought, always good to have a bit of attention even if it is a bit wrinkly. So when the door creaked open and there stood the same gentleman inviting me in for a dance I had to chuckle to myself.
Rosendo’s modest house consisted of 2 bedrooms, a kitchen and a bathroom. In the kitchen was a very good looking guy around my age, wearing only his shorts and smoking a cigarette. We moved the table and chairs into the bedroom and used the kitchen space for the lesson. The young guy who I will call Rico sat in the doorway holding the remote for the stereo, selecting the tracks for our dance. At first I was awful and awkward, embarrassed, stiff and apologetic. But I soon started to master the simple steps that all the complex spins revolve around. You just have to free your hips and your arms in salsa. So there I was gripping the naked back and hand of a wrinkly salsa teacher, tripping over myself trying to dance. I really enjoyed it in the end and was praised quite highly considering it was my first attempt. Rico complemented me a few times and I felt watched, but not judged (twice I received an air-kiss). They were definitely queer. They can’t have been lovers, the age gap was too great, but when I left, Rico definitely acted different to any other Cuban male I’ve met so far. It’s a strange mix of sexuality and a guarded tension that underpins unwillingness to be too forward – just in case I’m ‘not’. Rosendo turned off the front lights as I left and peeked out the door,
“Porque?”, I asked
“Es Cuba”, he replied.
“Si en Habana, perro no en Vinales, si?”
“Si, si. Ok, chiao”.
Maybe I was reading too much into the situation but the thought of this lovely old man, possibly gay, possibly in a relationship with someone too young for him, wary of coming out of the house at night, hmm. As I was walking up the street to a bar I realised I had left my shirt in the kitchen ( I was wearing a shirt over a T ), at the moment I turned round to go back Rosendo was a few meters away jogging topless with my shirt in his hand. “ ahh, gracias senor, Buenos noches”, I said. When I turned back to walk up the street a small group of locals gave me a sceptical look – I guess if he was the only gay in the village and I’ve just emerged from his house late in the night, being handed back my clothes it deserved a look of “Uchm, I see.” I found it quite funny though and sat at the bar smiling to myself. Then some local drunkard sat down with me and tried to talk to me about English football. I had no time for that shit, pretending I care about Liverpool or Michael Owen. There’s a time and a place for entertaining foreign drunks, and that was not it.
