Wednesday, May 11, 2011

Trinidad

Last week, the University classes had a “receso,” otherwise interpreted as Spring Break. Unfortunately, I still had most of my classes, but at least got Friday off. So, the six of us took advantage of this, packed up our bags, and headed south to Trinidad for the weekend.


It’s a beautiful city, plopped in between the Escambray mountains (where Fidel and the 26th of July movement lived for 10 years) and the sea. There was still a significant amount of tourists there, but less retired British couples and more young backpackers. We hung out in the city on Friday afternoon, ate some greasy chicken for lunch, and drank the famous drink of Trinidad: canchachara. It consists of water, sugar, honey, and “firewater,” which is an alcohol extracted from sugar cane, although I’m not really sure how it’s different from rum…something about the stages of fermentation. We then went to a market, where I bought a farmers hat that I haven’t taken off since. I love it. It almost got away from me on the ride home, when the back door of the van flew open on the interstate and it flew away. We pulled over and I sprinted after it, hurling myself into the oncoming traffic to retrieve it. Not really, there were no cars. But it’s back now, safe on my head for eternity.


Me, my farmer's hat, and a clay mug of canchachara.


The next day, we decided not to go back into downtown Trinidad, but instead, spend the morning exploring a few towns on the way back. The most memorable of which housed a 9-story bell tower that was circa 2 centuries old and that held 15+ flights of rickety, unstable staircases. So, up we went. As we began our ascent, a shoeless man ran up and told us that he was in charge of the bell tower and that there was a 1-CUC fee to climb up. This was obviously a lie, but he was so adamant about us paying him, we said why the hell not and did anyway. On the top, the view was breathtaking. The sun was still rising and the air was misty and we could see all of the sprinkled activity for miles. Some of the countryside was broken up into a patchwork of small agricultural fields, some strewn with smaller towns, and some untouched all the way until the foothills of the mountains. We stayed there for a while, not wanting to move too much and fall victim to a weak floorboard. Then, by the time we did get down, on account of the 200-something stairs that were really more like ladders, our calves were spazzing and we could locate all of our weakest leg muscles. Espresso shots ensued, then back in the van for the ride home.



This was our last trip outside of La Habana. Jefe recklessly drove, and I once again sat on my wooden bench from the 14th century…for the 10-hour round trip. I actually see more of the Cuban countryside that way, because it’s impossible to stay in a single position for over 10 minutes, so I’m constantly shifting and looking out the window for entertainment.


Rural Cuba is truly beautiful. The landscape is constantly changing, from orange trees in the west and mountains in the east, to sugarcane fields and grazing goats. Then, a river, and an old man floating on a Styrofoam block with his primitive fishing gear. There are usually people selling strings of garlic or blocks of cheese in the median, especially in the western farming province of Pinar Del Rio. Driving through the small agricultural towns, I usually get whiplash from trying to look out both windows at the same time. All of the tractors are from the soviet era, and some of the irrigation systems are the same ones used thousands of years ago: a simple, shallow trench in the earth. There are fields of plantain trees, black beans, and rice ponds. Plátanos, frijoles, y arroz: the Cuban necessities.


Even if I were to close my eyes on these drives, I would still be able to piece together the changing landscape via smell. Of course, the windows are rolled down the whole time, so if the car is in motion, we’re struck by a constant surge of air. Air that’s getting denser and warmer with the onset of summer, and also sweeter as the fruit trees ripen and the flowers bloom. The ocean, of course, smells of salt and seaweed, which we got a heavy dose of on the trip south through the swamp. Also on that trip, the pungent smell of dead crabs was hard to miss. The tobacco plantations smell like cigars, and passing through a citrus farm smells pretty accurately like oranges because the rinds are ground up and scattered back on the soil for fertilizer. The efficient but unsustainable agricultural method of burning fields after the harvest makes the air smell like a bonfire, unless it’s a sugarcane field, which has another distinct odor. Sometimes the old motors of other cars on the road hurl a cloud of black smoke into the van, and everyone holds their breath until it dissipates. And, with horse and carriage as a common mode of transportation, sometimes it smells like horse shit.


I was nostalgic on the drive back from Trinidad, knowing that was the last time I would be seeing those landmarks that had become so familiar. And to add to the nostalgia, we were listening to some of the Cuban music I bought from a man’s briefcase at a gas station (an exchange that looked strangely like a drug deal). We stopped once more at a vegetable stand where I found my favorite food in the whole world (ok, besides beans): mangos. I bought six, which proved to be a very insufficient amount as I ate five of them before the day was over. I actually decided I couldn’t wait the 92 kilometers back to Havana to eat them. So, very primitively, I peeled them with my teeth, which prompted Pavia and Shelby to follow suit. A very messy endeavor, but we made a party out of it.


So, there we were, seeing and smelling rural Cuba for the last time, with mango pulp strewn on our faces, and our heads grazing the ceiling with every bump. We passed through the mountains, the colorful villages, sunflowers patches, and stray cows. Finally made it back to La Habana, put the beans on the stove, and ended the weekend with some salsa music and an early bedtime.

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