Radio silence...

A year afloat: to the Caribbean and back
Sam and Alex Fortescue
Tue 3 May 2011 02:41
Fear not, dear reader! All is well.
 
Ship's company has been off on land based manoeuvres in the hot, basted interior of Cuba, where state internet cafes are few and far between. Since leaving Havana on Saturday, we've travelled 200km farther west (our furthest point of westing for this trip) by taxi to a town called Vinales. Little bigger than Crewkerne at 12,000 souls, the place is an appendix to the tourist route around Cuba, famed for its dramatic mountain scenery. There are no Alps here, and the highest peak is a little over 400m, but the hills are in the form of huge anthills - very steep sides with rounded tops, not unlike muffins, rising out of the rich, flat countryside around them. These mogotes are all that remains of a once great limestone massif, and each is riddled with caves. The people here are easy going - in no mean part due to their reliance on tobacco as the main crop. They ride about casually on small horses that high step through the thick red dust on every road and track. The men wear straw hats with wide, curved brims and lumberjack shirts, and many of them ride without even a saddle to help them.
 
We stayed in a family's spare room for peanuts, and feasted on gigantic lobster tails for the equivalent of £6. Breakfast was a welcome fruit-a-thon, breaking the otherwise vicious cycle of cheese and ham based bread confections which account for the street food option. We're obeying a rural timetable: in bed by 9.30, but up earlier than usual to hike and ride. The main thing here is walking, so we hired a talkative guide called Juan, who promised to take us on a 3-hour tour to a cave in the 'Valley of Silence'. The land was dotted with numerous little trianglular palm-roofed barns, where the tobacco leaves had been painstakingly hung one by one on beams to dry. And along the way, various locals sat in the shade waiting to sell home grown coffee, fat cigars or fresh pineapple juice.to passing trippers. There was delightfully chilly swimming at the cave itself, where two caverns had partially flooded. The system stretched for another 47km after the second pool, possibly providing an unexplored dry route to Florida.
 
Seven hours later, we finally limped back into Vinales. It wasn't a long way, you understand. No, it was just that Juan seemed unable to walk AND talk at the same time. There was thus a stop for every single story he told, and several for good measure in shady spots. Everything from Fidel to Switzerland was discussed in exhuberant, arm-waving style. The slow pace was fine until halfway back to the village, when the sun was at its zenith and we had to fight our way through the heat that hung over the tracks like a suffocating vapour.
 
Swallowing my deepseated dislike of wearing trousers in temperatures above 35 degrees C, we hired horses and a guide the following day for a two hour ride around the same countryside. Though small, the horses were well trained and responsive to even my bumbling commands. I managed to avoid confusing my steed into sitting down, something Alex had counselled against, and found the narrow saddle astonishingly comfortable. My beast would trot and gallop as I wished, proved unperturbable by stray dogs and even picked its way across a rickety wooden bridge and through a deep ford. Alex was on a smaller, friskier animal, with a bouncier gait. Our guide would regularly flick the horse with a leafy twig, which would send it into a panicy gallop. The time passed quickly, and we returned caked with red dust, but thoroughly happy.
 
By the time you read this, we'll be back aboard Summer Song in Varadero marina, making ready to set sail for the Bahamas, 300 miles to our northeast. We won't be going back to Havana after spending two further nights there when Dom and the boys had left. Edmund will be delighted to know that we've been feasting on cucumber salad, although he and Timo may be disappointed to have missed Havana's finest dining experience. This is one of the few privately run establishments, which occupies the top floor of a crumbling colonial building in the Vedado district. After appearing in the New York Times, the restaurant is definitely 'on the circuit', but still manages to produce superb food in a setting that oozes dilapidated chic and boasts views across the city skyline. After supper, we gurgled mojitos while I puffed on my second (and last) Cuban cigar.
 
Dom will no doubt draw some vicarious excitement from our move later that evening to hear the Cuban salsa legend which is Van Van. Despite the dubious name, just mentioning this band is enough to make most Cubans break into song. We went to see them at the 'Casa de la Musica' with an English couple we'd met at the resto. After paying a 'bribe' to skip the lengthy, voluble queue, we found ourselves seated at a table, sipping straight rum from a chilled bottle. The curtain rose and Van Van erupted into latin rythmn, prompting dozens of couples to appear on the dance floor and start swinging and twisting in front of us. Posessing only very limited powers of salsa, I was transfixed by the grace and confidence of these locals, so it took a while for Alex to coax me into a few experimental shuffles. The old Fortescue hips and shoulders were soon rolling like a native's, though, and we salsaed until 3am before stumbling home to bed.
 
The old Fortescue mind is dimming, however, and sleep is near. Until next time, readers, hasta la vista...