Radio silence...
A year afloat: to the Caribbean and back
Sam and Alex Fortescue
Tue 3 May 2011 02:41
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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...
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