“There we understood that our vocation, our true vocation, was to move for eternity along the roads and the seas of the world.”
Ernesto “Che” Guevara
These lines appear in the beginning pages of Che Guevara’s youthful journal, The Motorcycle Diaries in which he describes his travels as a young student throughout the countries of South America. It was these nine months on the road that he claims began his path toward being a revolutionary. The poverty, the mistreatment of the people, and the poor working conditions were all experienced first-hand and written about. Later in his life he would meet Fidel Castro in Mexico and head with him to Cuba to overthrow the government and “give Cuba back to her people.” Che is still revered as a national hero all across the island. I knew little of him before I left for Cuba but the island still embraces him and his passion forcing you to connect with him. It as if his spirit still presides over the country he helped create. Reading some of his writings now I find many of my beliefs to be similar in regards to the poor and downtrodden. I have tried to do my best on my travels but there is so much more that can be done at home and abroad. But I will stop there with all of that and tell you now about a country that I fell in love with from beginning to end.
Cuba for me has always been that taboo island 90 miles off our southeastern coast. We have been taught to dislike their leaders and mistrust the proximity of the tiny island nation. Whether justified or not I will not attempt to dissect. I am neither a true scholar on the situation nor am I a politician. In fact, as I get older I tend to believe things less until I see them with my own eyes. I do know that one of my favorite writers loved the country and the people, and similar to the affection shown to the English Romantics in Italy, the country of Cuba loved him, our native son Ernest Hemingway. You cannot truly know Hemingway without knowing of his love for Cuba and his time there. I knew I wanted to visit one day, but it wasn’t until the recent warming of relations and the instantly relentless articles in my travel magazines inviting travelers to come that I knew I needed to get there immediately. As silly as it sounds, I needed to get there before the Americans did.
Last year I was lucky enough to visit Budapest, and although I loved the city you couldn’t turn down a street without seeing a Starbucks or a KFC. I know I’m selfish because other countries do want some of what we have. I understand and try to remember that, but in all honesty when I touch down in Germany or Argentina the last thing I want to see is anything that reminds me of home. Born 100 years too late, I am in a constant search to find the places that are the most uncomfortable, the most unfamiliar, and the most exotic, with as few signs of American influence as possible.
Cuba suddenly was blowing up, and each new Conde Nast Traveler or Lonely Planet article would feature new stories and new pictures. They were selling it, and I was beginning to think I would get there too late. I began my research, aided greatly by a friend and co-worker who is from Cuba and travels back there twice a year. It was difficult and frustrating to try to get things booked. This tiny country has been accustomed to the Europeans who don’t mind certain inconveniences and delays, but as we all know, we as Americans we are used to having everything at the snap of a finger. This is not the case in Cuba. In fact, if you’re looking for an all-inclusive-lie- on-the-beach-trip save your time and trouble and visit Cancun. The charm of Cuba is how vintage and classic it is. I don’t want to say “behind” because it’s not. It is just different. For example, Wi-Fi is not everywhere, nor free or included in your phone plan. Do you know how refreshing it is to see people actually talking to each other while waiting for a bus? Or how good it feels not to be handcuffed to your phone, your “status”, your connection all day? You actually have to live and not just pose for a social media life. You actually have to read a map, ask for directions, and interact. It was nice to have ten minutes of the day for a quick social media check, but to be honest by the end of our trip I felt that need less and less.
Steve, a good friend of mine from childhood, had decided to join me on the trip, and as our plane touched down early in the morning the sun was already strong and the day scorching hot. After a tense arrival through customs, more so because no one was speaking any English, we were ushered in to our waiting transfer car, briefly falling in love with a group of girls in airport attire that were enjoying fresh mango and laughing with each other. The colors of the world seemed brighter, the faces warmer, and as we arrived and dragged our bags through the cobblestone streets of the Plaza De Armis my eyes raced from side to side trying to process this new sensory overload. I have not felt this sense of accomplishment since landing in Nairobi in 2011, that feeling that you had made it. I made it this far on my own, what had once only been seen as a sketch in my dreams had now become a reality. Feeling as if I were there visiting a distant relative, I took comfort as we checked into the Hotel Ambus Mundos with its high ceilings and tall tobacco-stained walls adorned with pictures of Hemingway from his days at the hotel and in Cuba. I quickly realized as the man at the front desk barely spoke English that some of the comforts I’ve taken for granted in other countries do not apply in Cuba. The lobby was hot, and even though it was early morning the tourists had begun to flood in to Hemingway’s old haunt. We were squeezed into a tiny service elevator, the grand wrought iron one in the lobby being broken, and were shown to our room several doors down from the room the writer himself used to stay in when he would come to the city to drink or write or both. The room is still set up as he had left it, as if they were expecting his return at any moment. As we explored the hallways of the old hotel I was beaming with pride. I had been in the country for a little longer then an hour and I was already drenched in sweat and submerged into the golden culture. There was an excitement, an energy, and I knew I was as close to going back in time as you could possibly be. I could feel the ghost of the great novelist greeting us with a mischievous grin and saying, “Welcome to paradise boys. Welcome.”
After a brief break in the cool air-conditioning of our bedroom we decided to head out and explore the city. I get a weird sense of excitement when I am in a city for the first time and I immediately put on my stoic traveler face as we walked passed vendors peddling old books of Fidel and communist propaganda posters under the shade of giant magnolia trees. We studied the map I had brought and decided to walk a bit and see our section of the city. Not too far into our exploration we had cigars hanging out of our mouths and were drinking mojitos at one of Hemingway’s old stops down by the water, the bar Dos Hermanos. It was filled with fishermen propped up at the bar and families throughout the long open dining room ordering lunch. The world was buzzing around us with Cuban music blasting in the young afternoon air and quick Spanish dialogue firing around us like bullets. I sipped my cool minty drink and took it all in with a big smile on my face. Steve took pictures and I wrote some things down. I had really made it. I had made it to Cuba.
It is remarkable how quickly humans can adapt to their surroundings when there is a necessity; hours into our trip I felt as though my mediocre Spanish was improving. Even Steve, who had never traveled to a third world country before quickly settled in to the slower pace and the waiting that characterize many places outside the US. One thing we could not really adapt to was the heat. Yes, we learned to deal with it, but from the day we landed until we left we were a sweaty pair, only finding relief in showers, air conditioning and the beautiful blue worlds of the ocean.
After a few days melting in Havana our first travel day had arrived and we were preparing to head two hours east to the resort town of Varadero. Renting a car is always my brilliant idea until the day comes when I have to get behind the wheel in a new country. I have driven in several countries, including Italy a few times, and believe if you can drive in Rome or Naples you can drive anywhere. I kept repeating this to myself as we buckled in to our Chinese made vehicle and headed out into the unknown of our adventure. Within the first 20 minutes outside of Havana a police officer ran out into the middle of the road and pointed at my car. I didn’t know what to do so I kept driving. Farther on down the road it happened again. Steve reprimanded me for my speed; I checked my lights, my dashboard searching for a problem. “What the hell are they doing that for?” we wondered as we kept nervously looking in the mirrors at the empty roads behind us.
Driving through a country, though maybe not the most stress-free way to see it, is definitely the closest. Over the next several days my compadre and I cut back and forth across the island driving right through the heart of it, finding places and spaces that I imagined to be yet discovered. The countryside of Cuba reminded me of the farm roads I used to take as a boy from Philadelphia to the Jersey shore, long stretches of straight roads with crops or groves on either side. However in Cuba farmers are selling mangos and other exotic fruits rather than the tomatoes or corn that New Jersey is known for. Other differences are the lack of fences and the free roaming of livestock. Every travel day tested our nerves as I did my best to avoid potholes, pigs and people, and Steve did his best to hold on in the passenger seat and not worsen the situation by expressing his terror. After a day of driving, no matter how long or how short, the stress would wash away in a sunset as we smoked cigars and laughed at the fact that we had made it through another day without hitting anything (or anyone!!)
Varadero beaches
Crisscrossing the country showed us first-hand how the real people of Cuba lived. We made several friends, including Raphael whom we met in Varadero. After talking for a while we realized he was heading in the same direction (four hours west) the next day, and so we offered him a ride. This was not only great for him, saving him a seven-hour bus ride, but was great for us as we now had someone in the car who knew what the hell was going on across these roads. For example, remember the aforementioned frantically waiving policemen? “That policeman right there waving you to come. Do not stop, he is just looking for a ride home. No car and no motorcycle.” These were invaluable tips. By the time we arrived in his hometown of Pinar Del Rio Raphael had made some calls and invited us out with his cousin and some pretty girls. The night was soaked in rum and sweat as we tried keep up on the dance floor with the honey colored Cuban girls. The next morning as Steve and I gingerly brought our bags down to the car, Raphael stood with a smile in the morning sun. He waited patiently for us to muscle down a breakfast so he could take us to one more stop before he sent us on our way: a tobacco farm he had told us about where the farmer himself showed us around and we smoked cigars the size of a babies arm amid roosters and children playing with sticks. It was hot and we were hung-over, but the experience of spending time with this old farmer who made us a thick dark cup of coffee as we smoked his hand-rolled fresh cigars was worth every second. We were sad to say goodbye and promised Raphael we would keep in touch and see him again soon.
Raphael, his cousin, Steve and the farmers son.
Steve and I found a little slice of paradise as we made our way to a tiny spot on the far western end of the island called Maria La Gorda. Here we spent the next two days doing nothing except reading, snorkeling, drinking rum and smoking cigars. We befriended a couple from one of the nearby rooms and over the next 48 hours Pete and Rocio became our Cuban family. Pete is from New York and fell in love with Rocio a year ago on his trip to Cuba. I had noticed them at dinner the first night as Pete whispered something to her and she giggled uncontrollably at his jest. The four of us now stuck together. We spent the days on the beach or in the water and the nights having rum and wine with our meal. One day I asked the pair if they wanted to join Steve and I on the diving boat that would take us out a mile or so and let us snorkel while others scuba dived. They agreed and when 3:00 came Steve and I noticed it was only Pete who walked toward us.
“Where is Rosalita?” I inquired.
“Oh no man, she can’t come, Cubans aren’t allowed on boats.”
It was true, as our small chartered boat with several Euros on it prepared to depart to the dive spot a policeman walked down and checked over the boat, making sure no one was on there who wasn’t supposed to be. Good thing Rosy knew not to sneak on. Consequences are quite different over there and with that said it is the safest country I have ever been to.
By the time we had to check out from Maria La Gorda all four of us were ready to go. Although the scenery is some of the most tranquil I have ever seen, the accommodations were without screens and the nights sleeping under the constant bug onslaught were brutal. We had been eaten alive throughout the night, by what is still up for debate. Mosquitoes, sand flies, bed bugs— whatever they were they had had their way with us, and we were ready to move on, back to Havana. This was going to be a long driving day, seven hours at least, and the four of us had decided to stick together and follow each other.
“Rocio has one stop to make if that’s cool, close to Pinar Del Rio,” Pete said.
“No problem man.” I replied and buckled in for what going to be our longest drive of the trip. I had been dreading this day since the conception of the Cuba trip began months before. Itchy, hot, my stomach unsettled, Cuba was making me work for her but I would be rewarded with what lay ahead. It was our adventure and I could feel the soul of the country beating through my blood now as if I had become part of its rhythm. We headed out. The dust of the road ahead was all I could see as Rosy took off. It was a strange dust, red almost, and in it I swore I could see the ghosts of Che, of Hemingway, the ghosts of old lovers carried within me, all stirred up in the dust on the road. I don’t know if I found something there on those roads or if I left something, but I do know something happened. The day was already warm and we were in our tiny car and cutting back across the hot country, the tropics. The people’s curious eyes watched us as we flew by. Maybe they saw the ghosts too? Maybe we were the ghosts?
Outside Pinar Del Rio Rosy needed to make a stop in a little neighborhood with dirt roads and colorful houses pushed next to each other. Her mom owns a souvenir shop, and she was picking up some wooden trinkets from a carpenter there. We entered his house that was littered with saws and wood shavings. I picked up a mask long and smooth with a dark spot in the middle of the wood.
“Cuánto cuesta?” I asked.
“Doce pesos,” the man replied.
Rosy shot me a look and her eyes told me to not ask him anymore about pricing. The house was hot so I decided to go back down to the cars. All of my money and my passport was in them so I went to stand guard and study the town. People walked by with their children, some with broken umbrellas to shade themselves from the sun. They would see me and give an inquisitive look and keep moving. I would smile at the children and some would smile back as others would hide between their mothers’ legs with shyness. I was soaking with sweat in the sun and I watched a man across the street use a light pole to wipe the sweat from his back, feeling glad that the Cubans were hot, too. I decided to open the car and pull out some toys I had brought from the US to give out. As kids walked by I would approach them with coloring books and crayons, handing them out with a “para usted,” and a big smile. The kids would smile back at me and stare at their new gifts. Steve came down and immediately started handing out some things to the kids. What at first was an almost empty street became a street of voices echoing words in Spanish and then a lot of people coming to see what all the commotion was about. We were laughing with the children as they posed for pictures with us. We spoke in broken sentences to the adults as they hugged us hello, both parties grateful for the experience, the love that was now taking place on this tiny street. Rosy was occupied with the carpenter and I was giving everything away. I gave away my Phillies hat, my sandals, and my running shoes. We emptied my suitcase from all the hair bands and baseballs I brought. We gave out a baseball mitt to a little infant in diapers, and we blew up the last soccer ball I had and rolled it to a tall lanky boy who kicked it around with Steve testing it out, then came and gave me a handshake. I was starting to stress out because the crowd was growing and I was running out of things to give away. I had gone through my lotions, toothpastes and shampoos. Like a gift from above I came across a big bag of double bubble chewing gum I had brought and forgotten about. Steve and I started taking big handfuls and handing it out, two pieces per person. Now not only the kids were excited but the adults, too. We handed out gum to everyone, and as I looked around all I could see were big smiles and every man, woman and child chomping their teeth on the juicy gum. Steve taught several kids how to blow a bubble, blowing their mind. I showed several more how I could blow a bubble inside a bubble blowing their little giggling minds again. Kids were laughing and racing up and down the street. One little girl didn’t get a piece, and I asked one of the older boys to give her one of his, which he did immediately and with no hesitation which for some reason made me feel so proud. We were all chewing gum, the whole town, and somehow it wasn’t hot anymore and we weren’t foreign. Rocio came down to find the whole town standing around our cars chewing gum and laughing. She smiled at us. It was hard to say goodbye to our new friends knowing the life I headed back to and the life they were staying in. We said “adios, adios.” and shook hands and hugged. Later that night when we had arrived back in Havana Rosy came to my car with something in her hand. It was the mask I had asked about earlier that day.
“Thank you so much sweetie,” I said with a big smile as I studied it. “Can I pay you for it?”
“No,” she said smiling. “It is a gift from the town.”
The mask now hangs in my bedroom so I remember our friends in that village every day.
The last few days we spent in Havana. Now, ten days later, returning to the city we had started in with 1000kms on the road, we felt like Cuban pros. We walked the streets with confidence, knew the correct prices of cab rides and cigars. I was dark now, golden and seasoned and the people could tell I was a traveler, not a tourist. One night at dinner I ran into a friend Pablo from Uruguay who I used to work with in LA and haven’t seen in ten years. This along with many other subtle events just proved to me that Cuba loved me as much as I loved her. There were the people, the food, the girls, the colors and the ghosts, everything alive and welcoming. We spent the last two nights at the Hotel Ambus Mondus where the big pictures of Papa smiled down on me almost with parental affection. Our last day we drove out to Hemingway’s Finca where we toured and I scattered some of my grandparents ashes in the flower bed that sits below his bedroom window. As we drove out I saw kids playing on the baseball field he had built for them and that they still use 55 years after his death. No wonder the people here love him, he was part of them as I felt now.
We went out for dinner that last night with “our man in Havana,” Guillermo. He is the ex-boyfriend of my co-worker and is the kindest man I have met since years ago when I met my big Serbian brother Vladimir. He was so patient with us, and everyday we spent in Havana showed up with a smile and an umbrella and an energy that mirrored my own. Steve called him the Tasmanian devil because –no joke– the guy could walk all of Havana five times in one day and not be tired. This night was sad though as it was the end. The three of us walked the old streets of Havana as the little lights of the shops began to sparkle on. We laughed and smoked cigars, Guillermo still pointing out historical buildings and facts. We had dinner at a little place he knew of that no tourist will ever find, and the waiter questioned me in Spanish as I ordered two entrees and a bottle of cold white wine for myself.
“Esta bien. Él sabe lo que ordena..” Guillermo said to him, and the waiter still seemed confused.
We drank and ate that night, three friends. The air had cooled and a nice wind was blowing in from the water and racing down the streets to find us. We talked about future plans and the next time we would visit. A street cat came up to me, a wanderer through this world, and I could relate so I petted him and gave him some meat from my plate. The meal finished, we said our goodbyes and the waiter apologized for doubting my appetite with a smile and a hug. We all laughed but there was a sadness now that began to press on us. We walked the streets one last time and looked at the shops and the girls and the art. It was harder to say goodbye to Guillermo than I thought it would be, even with the full bottle of wine in me. We had become friends, brothers, in our short stay, but he knew by the passionate way I talked that I would be back again soon. I asked him if he needed anything, anything I could bring him.
“Guitar strings.” He smiled peacefully. “That is all.”
Steve and I headed back for one last drink at the Hotel Ambos Mundus. It was late and the bar was empty with most of the lights off and the shadows from the shuttered windows lining the walls like zebra stripes. A new bartender made us huge double daiquiris that sent us spinning one more time into our room and into our dreams. Pictures of Papa watched us as we said our goodnights, never taking his eyes off his two new young countrymen. He smiled his great big smile and I smiled back. We had done it. We had found the Cuba he loved and told us about.
On the flight back to the States I was alone and sitting by the window. I could still feel Cuba in me. I had become a part of her and she of me. I ordered my ginger ale in Spanish and was completely shocked at myself. I was still thinking in Spanish. I rested against the window. I rested for a long time with the thoughts of my adventure fresh in my mind. What had happened to me there, on those roads and in those waters, was something I had not expected. I had found a peace– a peace with myself, a peace with the ghosts that I carry. I began to place things in the waters of my heart and let them float away. I felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be in life, that I was making a difference even if it was a small one. Unfortunately in the coming months and years ahead Cuba will change. One thing that will not change, however, is the way this country had welcomed me and made me feel about my life. As Che wrote, “There is nothing lonelier than adventure,” which is true unless you have a whole country become a part of it. Thank you, Cuba, the people, the culture, and the countryside. It was more than I could have ever imagined, and I will see you again soon.
travels4312 