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Ten Years Ago - March 2012

2022/03/18blog

Ten years ago, Steve and I cycled from Habana to Viñales, arriving late afternoon on Saturday, March 18. We had set out from Habana on Wednesday, March 15, and had been out of contact for three days. After finding our casa in Viñales and settling in, our casa hostess told us there was a message for me at another house. It was dark when we arrived at the house. We were exhausted from our ride and quite hungry. What followed was life altering.

Maria Elena (standing) told us in spanish that she had received a call from Dausel who had heard from Bonnie in Canada. Bonnie called with a message that my mother had died on Wednesday. Unsure I had understood correctly, I asked her to repeat the message. Still unsure and wanting to be absolutely certain, I repeated what I thought I heard in my best spanish. I don’t remember how often this was repeated, but ultimately I was convinced that there was no mistake. It was totally unexpected as she had been well when we left Canada less than a week earlier.

Needless to say, that was the end of our cycling trip and preparations began to get back to North Bay for the funeral. With Bonnie’s help, we were able to fly out of Habana the following Tuesday, rented a van and drove to North Bay the same day.

I have always had a special bond with Maria Elena and her mother, Julia who was also present that evening in Viñales. Bonnie and I visited Viñales last month during our first time back in the country in over two years. Maria Elena and Julia (93) were both well in spite of the difficulties that have conspired against the country in recent years.

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Parque Nacional Desembarcó Del Granma

Nothing brings a story to life like seeing the location where it took place. Such is the case with the saga of the Granma expedition in a boat purchased by Fidel in Mexico to to move 82 rebels, including Raúl Castro and Ché Guevara, to the isolated south coast of Cuba, hopefully without being discovered.

Photo of replica of Granma

I have read accounts of how they set out from Tuxpan, Mexico under bad weather and slipped past the Mexican Coast Guard; how a five day trip took eight days due to weather, how bad the conditions were for 82 passengers aboard a boat built to handle 12 passengers comfortably, how they were discovered and ambushed by Batista forces and how, of the 82, only 21 made it safely to the Sierra Maestra camp from where they launched a successful revolution three years later.

Map of Granma voyage Nov. 25 - Dec. 2, 1956

Cubans like to celebrate their heroes and their victories. Yesterday I visited the museum of the “disembarcation” and walked to the site of the “landing”. I followed a fully accessible concrete walkway over 1.3 km of mangrove swamp to a shallow coastline. In what Ché is reported to have said was more of a shipwreck than a landing, the Granma was run aground 70 metres offshore at this location because they had run out of fuel. The voyage had taken longer because of weather but was also delayed when one of the crew fell overboard. He was eventually found and recovered, but extra fuel and time were lost in the process.

In any event this was not the desired landing point; they planned to land at a deeper port farther along the coast near Pilón and take shelter in the Sierra Maestra mountains. As it was, an ordeal of extreme proportions was about to unfold.

Typical shoreline at landing site

The crew, seasick, malnourished and tired were shunted ashore,ten at a time, in the craft’s lifeboat. From there, 1.3 km of almost impenetrable mangrove swamp stood between them and terra firma. Carrying 20 kg packs, rifles (no machetes) and equipment, they somehow slogged their way through one of the most forbidding ecosystems possible. This is where “seeing is believing“. As I observed this tangle of roots and cut-grass over salt water and muck, I tried to imagine the hardship they would have experienced.

Picture of mangrove swamp

Somehow, they made it to firm land at the site of the present museum where a campesino, Ángel Pérez, assisted them and oriented their location. So far everyone was accounted for. The next step was to move overland in an easterly direction towards their intended campsite in the mountains. The distance was greatly increased since they landed so far from the intended landing site. At this point, another factor came into play.

Photo of recreated hut of Ángel Pérez on original location

In a coordinated strategy with rebels within southern Cuba, an attack on the Moncada Barracks in Santiago was planned as a diversion on Day 5 when the Granma was expected to land. Instead, they landed three days later, lost more time getting ashore and had farther to travel without being discovered.

They made about 20 km overland to the small community of Alegria de Pio where they were attacked by Batista troops. The beached boat had been discovered and troops moved to all points of egress in the area. Three of the rebels died during the battle. The remainder split into three groups led by Fidel, Raoul and another, and dispersed with a plan to meet at the mountain location, still some 50 km away through very difficult terrain.

When they did regroup, only 21 of the 79 that left Algeria de Pio remained. The others were either killed by Batista troops in pursuit or died by accident, disease or exhaustion. Upon being reunited in the Sierra Maestra, Fidel asked Raúl “How many rifles do you have?”

“Five” Raúl replied.

“And two that I have makes seven. Okay. That’s how we will win the war”. - Fidel.

Years later, Raúl reportedly admitted that at that point, he thought Fidel had lost it!

From Museo las Coloradas, Parque Nacional Desembarcó del Granma

The above information was told to me by guides and others including a knowledgeable taxi driver. It is also backed up by maps and documents in the museum. I may have gotten some details wrong but I believe this to be an accurate representation of what I heard and read on this tour. In any case, it is a much more thorough treatment than what many history books reported: that the Granma landing was itself an ambush wherein three quarters of the rebels perished.

My present understanding is of an extremely dedicated group of rebels (only four of whom were non-Cuban) who embarked on a well planned but challenging expedition. Communication was sketchy at best. This is a story of determination and perseverance against incredible odds. Of course, the rest of the story is well known, but it is hard to imagine the eventual successful outcome, had the rebels not had the people on their side.

CJF March 9, 2020

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This is the Mariposa (butterfly flower), national flower of Cuba. It had to be a hard choice as the are so many.

It is not really orchid season but I found several in the same area.

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Santiago blog 20/02/2020

Santiago Blog 2 Re: Burning tires in Cuba to keep Cement plant going:

The attached article (see link below) is accurate according to what we have seen here in the last two weeks. Some Cubans are calling this the second special period. Shortages of petrol have closed universities, shut down government offices, cancelled domestic air traffic and made taxis in Santiago downright miserable to deal with. The list of other shortages grows daily with beer, tomato salsa, pasta, detergent and now, condoms! What a way to bring an unruly country to its knees! God Bless America!!!

People line up for hours hoping to buy newly arrived necessities.

We thoroughly enjoyed our week in Baracoa. We spent a fair bit of time with Keith and Cathy there. Also met an extraordinary couple from Ireland at same casa, a vegan restaurant to blow you away and now back in Santiago, in chocolate withdrawal. From here, going to tour Bayamo, Manzanillo, Niquero, Pilón, ending in Los Galeones for three nights.

‪We visited the tomb of Fidel today in Santiago. Not fancy at all. Just a huge boulder next to other great Cuban heroes.

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“I feel more Cuban every day” Manzanillo blog 26/02/2020

Manzanillo blog

I feel more Cuban every day. We are in Manzanillo on our way through one of the most isolated parts of Cuba where shortages are not so much an inconvenience as a desperate situation. I find myself lining up in long queues at the tienda for water, not knowing if they even have it.

In this photo, the usual courtesy of asking who is “el último” (last in line) doesn’t cut it. It is a bit of a free-for-all yet it remains civil. I wouldn’t even try to negotiate this situation. God bless America!

Needless to say, we can still find what we need but definitely have to work harder at it. Our casa host generously sold us a jug of water at cost so our essential need has been met as we head further towards the fringe.

Shortages have made it very challenging to find acceptable food in restaurants. The choice is pork, fish or chicken dinner. Fish has saved us, but there is a limit to how often you can go to that well. Oddly enough, we have eaten frijoles only twice so far. That was by special request at our second casa in Santiago. They do not seem to be in plentiful supply, certainly not in restaurants. The pasta option has also been elusive, lacking either salsa de tómate or pasta or both. Vegans would do well to come prepared.

The 30 plus temperatures have not let up. This is truly one of the hottest areas of Cuba. I can’t imagine summer here.

Tomorrow we head to Niquero and Cabo Cruz from there. Cabo Cruz is a tiny fishing village at the south west corner of Granma Province. We plan to visit the Parque Nacional Desembarcó Del Granma. As well as celebrating the nearly disastrous landing of the boat carrying Fidel and Ché and 80 other rebels, this is an important protected area of pristine ecosystems, caves and petroglyphs. We hope to get to do some hiking and snorkelling and relax in this quiet, country setting.

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It’s going to be a beautiful day!

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Solstice sun peeks in the window.

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Pockets of residents who had gathered at every crossroad were waiting in the dark with flags and posters, chatting excitedly, taking pictures of each other to document this decidedly historic event. (see blog “Yo Soy Fidel”)

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Yo Soy Fidel!

I was sitting in a truck stop servi-centre at Kilometre 259 on the autopista just outside Santa Clara, Cuba, waiting for Fidel. I had biked the eight kilometres in daylight but just got some good sunset shots before darkness fell like a curtain. The procession that was carrying Fidel’s ashes was expected to arrive around eight o’clock so I was in good time. There was a great deal of excitement as people came and went with a sense of anticipation in the air. While I was waiting, two scooters showed up, their riders carrying a bundle of small Cuban flags for the servi-centre staff. Two cappuccinos and a cheese pizza later, I'm a cheap date. Totally dark now, I would be looking for a ride back after the procession. Hasta la victoria siempre, Fidel.

Eight o'clock came and went and it became clear that the procession would not come by before ten. I opted to head back to town using my trusty headlamp and night vision. Pockets of residents who had gathered at every crossroad were waiting in the dark with flags and posters, chatting excitedly, taking pictures of each other to document this decidedly historic event.

Eventually I arrived at the outskirts of Santa Clara where the divided highway was lit with street lamps for about a kilometre. I coasted slowly down the hill, both sides of the road lined with people of all ages: families, youth, students, old guard, some with tall flags, many with small flags and posters.  I found a place about half way down the lit up corridor and settled in for the wait. Bus loads of people kept arriving for the next hour. There was an atmosphere of respectful anticipation; not quite festive but not somber either. These were town folks with a dialect that I found very difficult to follow. But waiting in line brings its own familiarities and soon, I too was taking pictures of people and having my picture taken to mark the moment. Eleven o'clock rolled around, then eleven thirty. I am certain my cycling clothes made me stand out if my general appearance didn't and I wished I had a Canadian flag to let people know who I was.

It was after midnight when a police car came by and announced the entourage would be coming along in five minutes. Everyone jockeyed for position at roadside as anticipation heightened. Finally the moment arrived. A couple of motorcycles, a lead white car,  a large green truck, an open army jeep with army personnel, and the second jeep towing a specially outfitted trailer with the glass covered, quarter-sized casket containing the ashes of "el jefe" or "el Comandante" or just plain Fidel, rolled past. The crowd waved flags and chanted "Yo soy Fidel" (I am Fidel) or shot video or photographs. And just as quickly, it was over. After all the waiting, it had come and gone in less than a minute. People looked around digesting what had happened and congratulating each other; then slowly started drifting off in the direction of town and the ongoing artistic celebration at the Plaza de la Revolution within earshot of where we stood. I was dog-tired from a day of cycling and a night of waiting and was ready for bed.

As I cycled back to our casa particular I reflected on the conflicting and mostly negative international media reports I had read as the events built up over the week since Fidel's death was announced. There definitely was a great deal of effort and thought put into organizing the event. A close friend and university professor explained that she and her colleagues were expected to play a role along with students and other government workers. But what I witnessed was not orchestrated other than having busses available to move people out to the edge of town. These people were there because they wanted to be there; they wanted to witness the moment and pay tribute to a man who captured the hearts of generations of Cubans and was a respected leader and voice for working people in Cuba and elsewhere.

Fidel is known for his relentless defence of the environment, a national literacy campaign and a public health care system regarded as the best in the developing world. Cuba exports thousands of medical personnel around the world in response to natural disasters and disease. Castro’s commitment to the struggle for independence in Angola is seen as the beginning of the end of apartheid in southern Africa. Sure, this brought him into conflict with those who sought to colonize Cuba and feared the spread of socialism and independence among other Latin American countries.

The question of human rights violations invariably comes up and is used to dismiss anything good that might have come out of the Cuban revolution. I do not defend human rights abuses under any circumstances, but our place in world events is not black and white. Fidel Castro Ruz left a legacy of steadfast struggle to improve the lives of working people everywhere and in the process, inspired generations of Cubans and others to continue the work he started. For me, it was a privilege to stand for hours at the side of the road in the dark and pay respect and tribute to one of the great world leaders of my generation. “Yo soy Fidel”.

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It was after midnight when a police car came by and announced the entourage would be coming along in five minutes. Everyone jockeyed for position at roadside as anticipation heightened. Finally the moment arrived. A couple of motorcycles, a lead white car,  a large green truck, an open army jeep with army personnel, and the second jeep towing a specially outfitted trailer with the glass covered, quarter-sized casket containing the ashes of "el jefe" or "el Comandante" or just plain Fidel, rolled past. The crowd waved flags and chanted "Yo soy Fidel" (I am Fidel) or shot video or photographs. And just as quickly, it was over. After all the waiting, it had come and gone in less than a minute. People looked around digesting what had happened and congratulating each other; then slowly started drifting off in the direction of town and the ongoing artistic celebration at the Plaza de la Revolution within earshot of where we stood. I was dog-tired from a day of cycling and a night of waiting and was ready for bed.

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Parque National Turquino, Cuba,  Pico Turquino Trek Nov. 2016

Pico Tuquino at 1,974 metres is the highest point in Cuba. I hiked from the southern coast at Las Cuevas (Santiago province) to the village of Santo Domingo on the north side of the Sierra Maestra mountains via Pico Cuba, Pico Turquino, Pico Regina and Pico Joaquin; an exhilarating and challenging hike to put it mildly.

Day 1 My trip started at five o’clock with a taxi ride in a seasoned but dependable Muskovich ably driven by Raphael from Chivirico to Las Cuevas, the southern access point to Parque Nationale Turquino. We arrived just before day break and I was introduced to Octavio, the park warden and Elpidio, my guide. Most traffic in and out of the park goes through the Granma entrance at Santo Domingo (north side). Communication is a little more difficult through the Las Cuevas "office" (Caribbean side). Consequently, I didn't learn until I got there that a group of 17 German tourists were scheduled to stay at the principle "aguada" or base camp that night; no room at the inn so to speak. My best option was to hike the short distance to Aguada Majagua and spend the night there before tackling Turquino and down to Aguada Joaquin the next day. No problem; "Es Cuba". Aguada Majagua is only four kilometres from Las Cuevas but includes a climb of 600 metres on rocky, south facing Caribbean coastal mountains, still warm from yesterday's sunshine. With my pack weighing around 24 pounds, my legs were quickly introduced to unexpected punishment. My cardio was up to the challenge but the heat was suffocating and the sweat rolled off in buckets. I had sufficient water so spared no expense in drinking what I could. Even with the shelter of a thin canopy, this was a rude introduction to hiking the Sierra Maestra mountains. Buoyed by optimism and using my best slow methodical technique I hung in, breathing hard and concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. After about two hours we made it to Aguada Majagua, drenched and tired. The short first leg turned out to be a bonus as my body was ready for a break. Aguada Majagua is a "Microestacion Biologica" for the park, run by a lovely family who caters to hikers with meals and overnight accommodations. As I rested in the shade of a thatched roof dining area taking in my surroundings, a tall glass of hot medicinal tea appeared in front of me, made from herbs freshly cut. People came and went; cowboys in rubber boots, on quasi official park business, speaking so quickly I could not understand a word. "Could be a long day" I thought. But gradually people went their ways and I began communicating with Nereida, the woman of the house and Elisario, her 28 year old son named after his father. Before I knew it I was observing the process of roasting coffee in a large cast aluminum pot over a wood fire in their typical rural kitchen with neither electricity nor running water. Once roasted I was happy to help Elisario grind it. Reduced to one-on-one communication, things slowed down and my awkward halting Spanish started to get results. Before I knew it we were trading life stories. Lunch appeared; bean soup, rice, omelette and abichuela which was devoured completely in record time. I slept in the afternoon in my modest accommodation; mattress on concrete floor in steel roofed wood cabin without doors or windows; just openings for the breeze to flow through. Supper time came and again, food appeared, seemingly out of nowhere. Darkness came quickly as we finished eating and the petroleum lamp came out to provide light to clean up dishes. What followed was a somewhat awkward hour of sitting around outside in the dark talking with Nereida and Elisario senior. I didn't know what their schedule was but seven o'clock seemed like too early to turn in. We found many topics in the end and I realized it was me who was not comfortable with gaps in conversation, being more used to external diversions (television, music, games, etc.). Other than talking, our only entertainment was the six free-range pigs who moved in late in the afternoon, stayed to clean up table scraps, then stretched out to sleep for a bit beside my bunkhouse before drifting off in the middle of the night to start foraging again! Tired but content, I slept well surrounded by a million stars.

Day 2 I woke without alarm at four o’clock, got dressed and packed for the day. Nereida was up with a fire going for coffee and breakfast. At five, Elpidio showed up having walked back up from his home in Las Cuevas in the dark. After warm goodbyes we headed out in early dawn light to start the nine kilometre distance and roughly 1400 metre elevation change to reach the top of Pico Turquino before the clouds roll in mid-morning. My pack was still heavy but my legs had benefitted from a night's rest. The uphill climb was relentless, varying only in steepness of grade. Soon the vegetation changed and the canopy thickened so when the sun came up, we were somewhat protected from the heat. Elpidio proved to be quite knowledgeable about plants and birds and was happy to answer my many questions. There were many birds to identify, either from sight or song. Cihou platanera, lechosa, sarnicaro, carta de Cuba, all helped pass the time and take my mind off the constant uphill challenge. Soon incredible vistas started to show and the vegetation became thick and green. The trail became a narrow track hugging the rock on one side with the abyss a short fumble away on the other. Those who know me well will testify that I am not comfortable with heights. Elpidio, observing my squeamishness offered to carry my pack through the suddenly almost vertical portion of trail. I relented, wisely. Without the extra weight our pace picked up and we soon arrived at the former site of the Aguada Cuba base camp. It was taken out of service because of the lack of available water and difficult access. This is unfortunate because the location is strategic in terms of distance climbed in a day. The site is just below the peak of Pico Cuba and is in the process of being cleaned up. There is a monument to Cuban hero Frank Pais here. After a short break for food and water we set out again with renewed energy. Skirting just below the peak of Pico Cuba (the second highest point in Cuba at 1872 metres) the trail followed a ridge of rock connecting it to Pico Turquino just wide enough to allow for a trail and margin of vegetation on either side. One could easily look over either side into the abyss by craning one's neck. By now, incredible vistas had become commonplace and even ignored due to shades of vertigo. Finally, the trail actually levelled out and almost without warning we had arrived at the top of Pico Turquino in full sunlight. Exhilaration is a word that comes to mind to describe the feeling I had as I looked around. At the centre of a large clearing at the top of Pico Turquino is a tall monument to José Marti, perhaps the most important figure in Cuba's many wars of independence. Poet, philosopher and architect of independence, he stands atop the highest point and looks out over a country that seems to have always been locked in a desperate struggle for control of its own destiny.

Chanie Wenjack Once the requisite pictures had been taken, I turned my attention to the focus of my trek; I had decided to dedicate this walk to the memory of Chanie Wenjack. I offered some tobacco, grown in and carried from northwestern Ontario to Cuba, to the memory of Chanie and all the other indigenous children who were taken from their families and placed in the care of strangers in alien institutions we know as residential schools. There they were punished for speaking their language or expressing their culture and abused physically and, in many cases, sexually. Chanie was one of 6,000 aboriginal youth who are known to have died from abuse, disease or exposure when trying to escape from residential schools in Canada between 1870 and 1996 when the last residential school was closed. I prayed for the many more thousands of surviving family members whose lives have been ruined by the loss of 6,000 plus children and continue to suffer from inter-generational trauma. This is surely Canada's darkest chapter. I offered tobacco also to the memory of indigenous people everywhere who were used by colonial powers to survive harsh conditions; then abused, cheated, murdered or pushed to the margins of existence to make way for "civilized" development. Nowhere is this history more complete than in the case of the Taino Indians who occupied Cuba when the Spanish explorers landed circa 1500.

What goes up…..has got to come down Elpidio brought me back to reality by saying we should part company and start heading down since clouds had formed around us and rain was very likely. When crossing over from one side to the other guides will take you to Turquino where they will hand you off to a guide from the other side and return home the way they had come. Communication being as it is however (and the effort required to go to the top) hikers generally start down and hope to meet their new guide along the way. Armed with clear instructions and a good measure of confidence I said goodbye and started down towards the Aguada Joaquin base camp about five kilometres distant and 800 metres below. Clouds had thickened in no time and rain was starting to fall; or was it? I noticed that under tree cover the ground was wet and water fell when I grabbed a tree for support, but where there was no canopy the ground was dry. Trees were taking moisture from the clouds and releasing it as condensation. The temperature had cooled considerably. Almost immediately after setting out alone, I saw a cihou platanera, the cutest little owl-like bird about six inches high. It flew up onto a branch over the trail in front of me and watched me through the fog. I took this to be a good sign and forged ahead with good energy. Going downhill soon brought its own new challenges. My knees which had responded so well to the uphill task now started to complain bitterly about having to hold back my weight and that of my pack. Fortunately the first four km followed another connecting ridge that would alternate between up and down but ultimately drop 200 metres. Once again there were stunning vistas over either side of the ridge but now they were obscured by cloud giving some wonderful photo opportunities (without the angst of staring into the abyss). I didn't worry about finding my way but acknowledged the additional concern of slipping on wet tree roots that often formed "stair treads", and twisting an ankle. "Slow and sure" became my motto. Before long I came to some signage that indicated I had reached Pico Regina, followed shortly by Pico Joaquin (1676 metres). From Elpidio's instructions I knew this was where my descent would get ugly. I was looking at a drop of 600 metres over approximately one kilometre. I had considered bringing poles for this part but didn't do so. Imagine my joy when I found a nicely cut hardwood stick about four feet high leaning against a tree on the side of the trail! Perfect. Still no guide but I was within a very long stone's throw of Aguada Joaquin and food and rest. This last bit almost proved to be too much as my legs and knees screamed for mercy. Each step had to be placed just so and weight transferred somewhat gently onto the receiving leg. Sometimes I would favour one side, then the other in a crab-like sideways gate,down, down, down. Finally, I heard sounds and saw traces of rooftop and broke out into a cluster of cabins that were Aguada Joaquin. I had arrived at my resting place for the night and was anticipating a relatively easy eight kilometre walk out the next morning.

Aguada Joaquin Unlike the small family atmosphere of Aguada Majagua, Aguada Joaquin is all business, capable of hosting groups of 17 hikers; food, water, accommodations. The bunkhouse consists of a long two-room cabin crammed with bunk beds reminiscent of cub camp in the 1950's. The water source is rainwater in a series of large rain barrels; the electricity for lights and radio communication comes from six solar panels. Cooking is done on a wood fire in a traditional concrete trough in an aerated kitchen. Soon after I arrived a group of ten hikers , mostly from France came up from the Granma entry point at Santo Domingo. Two of the hikers were young German speaking Austrian women who were lost in the French whirlwind. This was, for me, the classic English-French-Spanish language vortex one runs into once in awhile. I had read that one needed to bring one's own food and water so my supper was a can of sardines I carried from home. The rice and vegetables were a bonus. I had also packed a four litre bladder of water clear over the mountains, intact since I was given a small bottle at every meal and this had carried me. The group was to depart early for Turquino and back so things wound down fairly soon after supper. Still guideless, I was planning to hike out with two park rangers on their way to do trail maintenance at seven the next morning. Considering the number of people in what was basically one large space, there was surprisingly little noise during the night. I was up for breakfast at four a.m. with those who decided to make the climb (four of the French hikers took a pass). I set out on schedule with Fred and Juan Bautista on what was really the most enjoyable part of the trek; eight kilometres of gentle up and down with 200 metres drop overall. This was a bird watchers dream. Ruisa Senor, Cuba's most beautiful song bird, imitating seven other birds made multiple appearances. Carta de Cuba, colibri and nameless others were in abundance on this interior mountain environment. The temperature had increased from five degrees Celcius at breakfast to 20 degrees plus as the morning progressed. Once again incredible vistas appeared, this time of the interior Sierra Maestra mountains. J. B. and Fred left me to begin work and I continued in leisurely fashion, stopping to photograph elusive birds and really enjoying everything around me. At one point I was rewarded with a vista of my path up  to Pico Cuba and Pico Tuquino and through to Pico Joaquin. If I had any doubts that this was a serious trek, they were dispelled by this view. Somewhere around ten o'clock I met up with Oscar, my guide from Santo Domingo! Things had been going extremely well but I welcomed the company. He would soon prove his usefulness in pointing out different birds and plants that I might have missed as I watched each step. The first and most timely was my only sighting of a tocororo, Cuba's national bird, a red, blue and white jay-like bird. I also would have missed a side trip into La Platica, a small community with an Ecoalojamento research station near the park boundary.

La Platica La Platica is another jewel hidden away in a deep valley of the Sierra Maestra. We left the main trail and went down, down, down across a lively mountain stream, then down some more. Along the way Oscar would stop, shinny up a tree and start throwing mandarinas for me to catch. Then an orange tree much to high to climb. No problem; throw a piece of deadfall and watch them tumble down. Then try to catch them before they roll down the hill into the bush. What fun. Limon (a grapefruit like member of the citrus family neither sweet nor cardiac but very refreshing), naranja (oranges), lima (limes). Pretty soon my pack was back to the weight before I dealt with all the water. Down some more, banana plants lining the path, until we came out at the first of a handful of houses. Here we met Cirro and Bilhilio and were immediately served a small glass of coffee (mountain variety pre-sweetened) and I shared the last of my mini-chocolate bars. Oscar quizzed me on several herbs growing around the house and I passed the test: cilantro (big leaf, same taste), anise, herba buena (mint). Then a tour of their orchid garden spread out in the shade of trees around the tidy little fenced yard. I was in heaven. My favourite things to photograph are flowers and my favourite flowers are orchids. I haven't counted yet but I am guessing eight varieties in bloom. The next stop was the research station where I met Eneilia and Decidario who manage the research station. A mother with twin girls about six years old stopped to pose for a photo. Down to my last granola bar for them to share. The community has water and electricity from solar panels and small hydro. I can only  imagine how peaceful it must be to live there. We left the community climbing up a long set of stairs built into the hill side and joined the main trail again which led us to the staging point at Alta de Naranja. This is the park entrance and end of my trek. Fortunately there was a group of tourists heading down the five kilometre road to Santo Domingo after their tour to the Comandantia La Plata, the rebel hideout from which the revolution was born. But that is another story. For now we were happy to squeeze into the mini-van and head down the steepest road in Cuba to Santo Domingo and some of the normal comforts we often take for granted.   In Santo Domingo I met the park administrator for the Granma entrance who apologized profusely for not providing my guide in a timely fashion. A taxi was quickly arranged and I was on my way to Bayamo to rejoin Bonnie, Simon and Miriam. With the memory of Turquino still fresh in my head, the trial and hardship has faded leaving the awesome beauty and special people I met along the way who went out of their way to make it a memorable experience.

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These pictures may be out of sequence. This is the top of P. Turquino.

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“With the memory of Turquino still fresh in my head, the trial and hardship has faded leaving the awesome beauty and special people I met along the way who went out of their way to make it a memorable experience.”

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This was a relatively easy day up and down through many types of forest with birds and flora everywhere.

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Aguada Joaquin

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My good luck sign - “sijú platanero” shows me the way! Lush vegetation reflects the presence of moisture year-round. I even found sphagnum moss and mushrooms in this part. 

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I dedicated my trek to Chanie Wenjack.