Pico Turquino

My day started at 3:30am. To get to the base of Pico Turquino you have to take a two and a half hour private taxi from Santiago de Cuba. Unfortunately it's impossible by public transportation, especially if you want to summit in a day.

There are two routes, a flatter two or three day approach from the north or the much steeper southern approach. We were doing the latter. Most people need to start before 7am if they have any chance of getting down before dusk. It's about six hours up and five down, with a few short breaks for beige snacks.

At the base, it was still pitch black when I arrived. There were two Argentinian ladies in their 40s already there. This was peak Argentinian holiday season and you find them just about everywhere in Latin America around now. Usually sipping a steamy mate tea in put of their personal Calabash gourd.

I remember the same thing happening in Colombia. They were always very genial people, aside from their obsession with Frenet Branca. It could be a lot worse, at least they hadn't just finished three years of military service like the Israelis.

Lucretia, the younger of the two was a government lawyer and Cecilia was a school teacher. We were soon joined by Jean Charles, a rather eccentric Belgian man in his mid-50s. Along with our guide Alejandro we would be the only five people to summit that day. One of the great luxuries of climbing the tallest mountain in Cuba the hard way is the lack of other people silly enough to bother doing it.

As we set off, first light revealed that we were right by the sea and the mountains plunged dramatically into black, volcanic beaches that stretched as far as the eye could see. It was a truly beautiful place.

The climb began easily enough but soon grew steeper, wetter and slipperier. Stable flooring gave way to loose, unpredictable rock. It became clear that this was not going to be the walk in the park I'd expected. It was only a few hours into the trek that I realised that this was the highest and most challenging climb I'd ever done by far.

The path we were taking had a good deal of history to it. It was from the top of this mountain that Che Guevara broadcast a series of televised interviews with CBS News that helped win hearts and minds in Cuba and beyond. The surrounding Sierra Maestra mountains were the revolution's base of command. It was also the first place Fidel's men had a military victory.

Slogging through the humid jungle, I could only be impressed. This would not have been an easy place to run a revolution. Both sides of the narrow path were high walled and roofed with a thousand hues of impassable green jungle, barely letting a drop of light in. It felt like it was going to swallow you whole at any moment. Occasionally there would be a small clearing where you could marvel at just how high you were above sea level.

The endless hours of uphill walking gave me little choice but to learn a lot about my co-walkers. Jean Charles was the only English speaker, so I was somewhat tied to making conversation with him.

He turned out to be an interesting fellow, in a very dorky sort of way. He worked as a coach for top level executives in corporations, specialising in emotional intelligence and cultural acclimatisation.

'What exactly is cultural acclimatization?' I wheezed, between our mutually heavy pants.

'When a corporation is operating in a market that has a very different culture, we have to teach the executives how to adapt to it.'

'What was your biggest challenge?'

'A German company setting up operations in Latin America. It drives the Germans completely nuts. They need a process for everything or it does not compute. The Latins don't really do processes.'

Having now spent some time in both Colombia and Cuba, this wasn't much of a surprise. In his spare time Jean Charles (Pancho to his friends) liked to take place in a cross country horse based sport that I imagine very few people have ever heard of, including myself.

It had some silly French name I can't remember. Basically you have to ride a horse cross country between various checkpoints. Courses vary in length but rarely more than 120kms. You are given a range of speed, for example 10-15kms an hour. You want to make sure your average speed for the whole course is no higher that 15kms an hour or you are eliminated. The aim is to be as close to the top of the range as possible.

But wait, it gets even more exciting. An hour after the course, your horse's heart rate is taken. Lower being better. Your final score is the average speed (provided you aren't eliminated) divided by the heart rate. Apparently you are allowed to do all sorts of weird things to slow your horse's heart rate down, including ice baths and shiatsu massages.

Had I not been stuck with Pancho for eleven hours, with no other distractions except a mountain, this sport would have tragically remained a blind spot in my knowledge forever.

He currently owned three horses in France and had three children.

'Those are some expensive habits.' I remarked, jovially.

'Not as expensive as ex-wives.' He said, in a slightly exasperated tone. He had a point.

Eventually I made it to the top, a few minutes before everyone else. I was keen to be the highest person in Cuba, if only for a brief moment. My clothes were all soaked through with sweat and everything below my waist was aching fiercely. I felt amazing nonetheless. This had, by complete accident, been one of the hardest things I've ever done.

And then we had to get down. This was actually much harder and more dangerous than the way up. Our legs were unreliable and feet blistered. And there was the near-constant threat of slipping on loose or wet stone. Almost immediately, we were all taking tumbles in the manner of a town drunk.

After an eternity we reached the small farm where we had eaten breakfast. This meant we only had about an hour to go. We wolfed down a quick meal. Pancho and I left early as we had respective dinners to get to. We said about as emotional a farewell as possible, given our energy levels. As we left, Alejandro warned us to stay vigilant, there was a wild boar on the loose who had a history of attacking trekkers.

About half an hour later we spotted something standing in the middle of the path, staring squarely at us. It was the aforementioned wild boar. And he didn't look happy. Pancho panicked and immediately started running back up the hill.

I, however, had seen a YouTube video where someone was in a similar predicament, albeit with an elk. I prayed the same rules applied. Without hesitation, I picked up two large, leafy branches and held them up above my head. Then I charged at the boar, wailing like a banshee. I looked utterly ridiculous but It worked. His beady eyes bulged and accompanied by a squeal, he scurried down the hill, out of sight. For the time being.

Pancho couldn't quite believe what he saw. Neither could I to be honest.

'What would you have done if he didn't move?'

Probably pissed and shat myself. Not necessarily in that order. I wasn't exaggerating. That boar looked like somebody owed him a lot of gambling money.

After another small eternity, we got to the bottom. Daylight had all but gone and I was relieved beyond measure. I collapsed into the car. My driver knew it was wise to not try and make conversation. For he wouldn't get a bleat from me.

Back at the casa, I hoovered up two ham and cheese pizzas from the local Domino's (the shite Cuban backyard version) and drank three sodas. Once fed and sugared, I promptly crashed into bed in the manner of a felled tree at 9pm. Not even mustering the energy for a celebratory rum. That would have to wait until I could walk again.