Vinales - Part 1

In the morning I continued my search for a working sim card with Ernesto. We went to his local government run internet shop but, of course, they didn’t sell them to non-locals. I would have to go back to the place that makes you wait an hour surrounded by other pissed off tourists. I decided that I’d rather have a spider lay eggs in my inner ear canal than go there again so I went home and waited for the collective taxi to Vinales to pick me up.

As a parting gift to Ernesto I gave him access to my external hard drive that had about 600 films on it. As you may have noticed by now, fast internet is hard to come by so streaming and downloading are nigh on impossible. He seemed particularly happy that the 1973 version of Papillon was on there, which was a little surprising given everything I’d learnt about him so far.

One thing that is relatively good value here are the collective taxis. My fare to Vinales was only 15 CUC, which is the same as a 15 minute night time ride in Havana. Except Vinales is two and a half hours away. And I found out to my delight that I was the only person taking the taxi.

The car turned out to be a Ford station wagon built in 1954. I was tremendously excited at first but that soon gave way to yet more toil. For one, the engine bathed the passenger seat in hot sulphurous diesel fumes that seemed to bind themselves to the inside of my mouth and throat with great ease. The noise was not unlike being inside a World War II era B52 Bomber, a plane that famously made its crew lose their hearing. The roads also made New Orleans look like the German Autobahn and this car had no suspension to speak of. By the end of the journey I was half-deaf, and my muscles had deteriorated to that of a veal calf. I felt like I’d gone three rounds with mike Tyson in a sauna.

In spite of all this I confess that I did still enjoy the novelty of driving in a car that would be in a museum in any other country. Even if I was so dehydrated that me pee was probably the colour and consistency of molasses.

Exhausted and gasping for water, I was greeted by my rather fearsome host Ms Odalys. She was a plump, matronly figure with a stare that always made you feel like you’d done something naughty. Her place had been recommended by a friend in NOLA and it was certainly not wanting for charm and character. She spoke to me in machine gun Spanish, despite me insisting repeatedly that I could barely understand her. Thankfully one of the two other guests, a pair of very sweet middle-aged Italian ladies, was on hand to translate by way of French.

Apparently I was to immediately go on a horseback ride and see a coffee and tabbacco farm, a cave and a lake. She said that it would be 30 CUC for three hours and I politely declined, citing abject poverty. A rather stern look crept upon Ms Odalys’ face and she marched off in a huff, muttering in hushed Spanish tones.

I was shown to my room, a marine themed orgy of bright blues and lime greens that gave one the sense of being trapped in a child’s goldfish tank. After a minute of unpacking she stormed in, slamming the door behind her and said that she would get me a horseback ride for 10 CUC. I hugged her and kissed her on both cheeks and all was right with the world again. She swore me to extreme secrecy and we shook on it. At least, I think she did. Her Spanish was so fast that making sense of it was a shot in the dark at best.

I was still shaking like a paint mixer from my drive and completely exhausted but Ms Odalys insisted that I get in the saddle immediately. And with that, I found myself five minutes later with a guide called Unal and sitting atop a horse called Pina Colada.

The trekking was on a pre-prescribed circuit that was admittedly very beautiful in parts. Unfortunately the horses looked unwell and were badly treated. Pina Colada seemed the only exception as he decided he wanted to canter the entire trail, much to my chagrin. Predictably the ‘trek’ was also a vessel for tourists to buy the local coffee, honey, rum and cigars. I confess that the chap at the rum part was so charming and spoke English so well that I bought a bottle (after some friendly haggling). I considered it an investment as well as a useful tool to make new friends. I decided to skip the cave and the cigar factory as I’d had just about enough. The desire to quietly sip my incredibly delicious rum on the veranda in a rocking chair, soaking in the cool early evening airs was too powerful to ignore.

Later, I dined on delicious fresh fish and pork with the two elderly Italian ladies Eliza and Maria, who had joined me on the veranda for a sundowner (told you the rum was a good investment). As we at dinner I noticed that we were always under the watchful eye of Ms Odalys, who ran her guest house like a dictatorship, randomly barking orders at various family members.

Most tourists on a budget stay in these Casa Particulares, which is basically a Cuban BnB. They cost around 15-30 CUC a night (depending on negotiating skills) and usually include breakfast and, if you’re lucky, a decent dinner. This place had both meals in spades and Ms Odalys was not one to let anyone go hungry on her watch.

Ms Odalys apparently had a reputation for honesty, according to the Italian ladies. Given that she had charged them both three times more for the stodgy horse ride, I had reason to doubt this. I told the ladies that I planned to hit the town square in the evening and the younger of the two (in her mid 50s), Maria asked if I could chaperone her. As we walked through the dead of night it soon became clear that she had a seriously bad fear of dogs. Which I found both amusing and baffling in equal measure. Especially since the dogs in Cuba are tiny and about as friendly and clean as stray dogs get.

We made it to the town square and hit a salsa/rhumba/generic Cuban music club called Il Colonial. Within moments, she had been set upon by a 24 year old called Luiz. Incidentally the bother of Unal, my horse guide. Unal was there too, chatting up tourists, puffing out his broad shoulders and cheeky Cuban smile. Earlier he had told me he had a wife and kids at home but I’ve learnt that that doesn’t seem to count for much here.

I ended up having a blast chatting to a gay Australian around my age called Dave and a British chap in his 60s called Duncan, who looked a dead ringer for Stephen Fry. We traded tales over Mojitos whilst watching Luiz try and work his magic on a lady old enough to be his grandmother. Cuban men will say just about anything to get laid and given the near constant revolving door of tourists, they’ve gotten really good at it. Dave and Duncan were part of an organised travel group that was apparently nursing a 19 year old American girl with a broken heart. She had met a young Cuban chap in Havana and, in Dave’s own words, been ‘fingerbanged’ by him. Sadly he had swiftly fled the scene after said act. During their brief time together she had been whispered all sorts of things about his new found love for her and she’d bought it. I suppose at 19 it’s forgivable, but still a bit thick.

Luiz was not having the same measure of success and soon it was time for me to take Maria the Italian dog fearer home. She told me Luiz had said he loved her and wanted to come home with her. He even said he thought she was a famous singer. Given that she was quite savvy in the ways of the world, Marai saw straight through his thinly veiled bullshit.

As we trundled to the casa in the dead of night Maria shrieked so loudly that I almost had a heart attack. A puppy the size of a Guinea Pig scurried out of the darkness and passed with little interest. I suggested Maria should perhaps seek professional assistance.