Monday, 31 October 2022: Paradise, at Last!

When I get up at 5:30, there is plenty of hot water.  There is also shampoo which is great because I must have left mine back in Florida.  I have a big breakfast on the 2^nd floor terrace down from my room which includes a tiny, tart fruit, the size of a mandarin.  It has a strange gelatinous texture but actually tastes pretty good.  The cook also brings me a caffeinated red tea. 

Josbaldo, the manager, made a call yesterday and found me a taxi driver willing to take me to my lodging in the Topes de Collantes for $20.  Another driver had told me that the fare was $25 and Josbaldo confirms that 25 is the going rate.  At 9:00, a little yellow Hyundai taxi pulls up.  A first for me in Cuba:  the driver is a woman.  Her name is Barbara.  She’s all smiles, maybe 50, a bit plump with her hair starting to turn grey.  I learn that she is a full time cab driver and former dance teacher.

 

It’s less than 25km to my destination but the paved road is narrow and steep.  About ½ way there we reach the top of a pass with a mirador (view point).  Barbara suggests I climb to the observation platform to take photos.  There are 140 steps to the top and the views are exceptional:  the Caribbean Sea to the south and forested mountains with a few little farms to the west, north, and east.  A couple more kilometers down the road, she stops at a small lodge for directions.  The old proprietor shows me around.  His lodge has a couple cheery guest rooms and a swimming pool located along a creek.

  

After a few more kilometers, we pass a school, cross a bridge, and see a sign which is a landmark for the location of the path that leads to the Rancho Bee Hole where I will be staying.  Barbara offers to pick me up in three days when I will be returning to Trinidad.  Ah ha – she gave me a good rate and has been very accommodating because she wants more of my business.  Well, good for her.  I’m happy to oblige as she seems dependable and is fun to be with.  We agree on “el tres a las tres” (Thursday, the 3^rd of November at 3:00 PM). 

At our stop there are several women talking.  One of them, a pretty young woman named Jane (pronounced HA nee), has been waiting for me.  She leads me down a path for a hundred meters or so to a 2X12” plank about 15 feet long with no handrail which crosses a large stream, called El Colín.  I cross carefully.  From there, it’s a short distance up to a cleared hillside several acres in area with the stream running around the west, north, and east sides.  Beyond the clearing is forest with a mixture of bushes and tall tropical trees.  At the top of the clearing are a small building surrounded by porches, an open air kitchen, and a few huts.  A few trees, flowers, and a vegetable garden are scattered around the clearing.  This feels like paradise and makes the whole trip worth the aggravations I’ve been through.

  

I meet Pedro Antonio, the manager, who is a light-skinned black man, thin, and in his 50s.  He speaks English to me and I mostly reply in Spanish.  I suppose he is used to “English-ing” their foreign guests.  I also meet a younger guy, Carlos, who is the cook and Jane’s husband.  Both men are simply dressed in long trousers (I’ve noticed that Cuban men generally don’t wear shorts).  They have been working in the kitchen which has a roof but open sides.  Pedro Antonio shows me a basket of little red Brazilian fruits that he has just picked from the garden which he now sets on the roof to dry.

 

The small building has an open-air bar on the south side and two sleeping rooms on the north.  The bar stools have saddles on them so the guests can feel like cowpokes, I suppose.  Pedro Antonio shows me my room which has a double bed with a mattress and wood frame, a couple of electric lights (the power is currently off – no surprise), a ceiling fan, a little fridge, and a couple of open windows (shutters but no glass).  The private bath has a flush toilet, sink, and shower.  Pedro Antonio says there is hot water.  I see there is a murphy bed which pulls down from the wall and rests in the space adjacent to my bed.  Good – a place to lay out my stuff as there are no closets, shelves, or dressers.  I also notice that the guest room next to mine is empty for now. 

After settling in, I snap some photos around the grounds of this lovely place.  I’m immediately drawn to a platform in a large sprawling tree in front of the two guest rooms.  The platform is about 15 feet above the ground and is accessed by a “stairway” consisting of a 1-foot diameter log placed diagonally from the ground to the platform with steps cut into it and rope railings on either side.  The platform consists of twelve 2X12 planks held together by support beams and anchored at each corner by substantial ½” iron cables.  The cables are wrapped around the 1-foot diameter tree trunk.  The platform is very stable – it doesn’t move with the wind or when I walk on it.  It would take a hurricane to bring it down.  There is room on the platform for two wooden reclining chairs and a table made from slices of tree trunks.  It’s a great venue for reading, writing, napping, enjoying a cool drink, and contemplating the meaning of IT ALL.

I’m sitting in my tree perch writing this stuff.  There is a mixture of sun and clouds, a nice breeze, and the temperature is maybe 75 here at 800 meters elevation.  A hummingbird visits briefly.  There are black birds with non-melodic songs and large black raptors (maybe vultures) soaring above the trees on the other side of the creek as they look for lunch.  A small duck is paddling in the creek.  The noise of the flowing water through a riffle in the stream below me is very subtle.  I only hear it when there are no other sounds. Tall reeds along the creek sway in the breeze as do the palm fronds.  There are also the infrequent sounds of vehicles in the village ¼ mile away but they don’t really disturb the natural ambiance. 

I wish Ernest Hemmingway could have discovered this spot 65 years ago when he was depressed.  He was living near Havana at the time and suffering from writer’s block.  I’d like to think that the peacefulness here would have inspired him to start writing again.  Then again, he would have probably gotten sloshed and fallen over the wooden railing around the platform, busting his neck.                 

At 1:00 PM, Pedro Antonio brings me lunch on the patio next to the bar.  I’m served vegetable soup with potatoes, manioc and corn; a fruit plate; and a purple fruit juice – plenty for a light lunch and I assume this is it.  But as I’m finishing, out comes a plate of grilled fish with rice and manioc and another plate of avocados, tomatoes, and a tasteless white, chewy vegetable.  I eat all the fish feeling that if the critter gave its life for my lunch I better not waste any.  I’m stuffed!

I ask Pedro Antonio to serve me less for dinner.  And, I’d also prefer beans to fish.  He replies that beans aren’t available today but he can get some for tomorrow.  The meals will be $5 for breakfast, $10 for lunch, and $10 for dinner – more expensive than average for Cuba but more than fair considering they have to bring much of the food here from Trinidad and I have my own personal chef!

After lunch it’s looking like clouds are starting to build up and may bring rain later.  I better take a walk now unless I want to get soaked.  Besides, I need to get some exercise after that huge lunch.  I follow a path leading east from the rancho and into the forest, not knowing where it will take me.  I’m a little nervous because the path could lead to someone’s home who will be pissed off at me for invading their space.  Who knows what lurks ahead which is half the fun.  The path climbs a steep hillside through the forest and above the El Colín stream.  An exotic tropical tune by my favorite Cuban composer, Ernesto Lecuona, plays in my head.   

Soon, the trail drops down to a dry creek bed and up a short hill to a half-constructed concrete road.  Damn, I haven’t escaped civilization, after all.  I stop where the road drops down to El Colín.  Here I encounter a concentration of redish-pink flowers at the base of a steep rocky cliff.  This bedrock must be the same Jurassic metamorphic schist found in the Alturas de Banao where I hiked last Friday.

 

After returning to the rancho, I walk up the main road a short distance through a village looking for a shop where I can buy toothpaste and bottled water.  All I find are several drab, multi-story apartment buildings and a bakery.  I ask the bakers where I can find a tienda de comestibles (food store) and they reply that there is one further up the steep road.  Naa, it’s not urgent and it’s rather hot and muggy even at this altitude. 

While I’ve been walking, I have come up with a couple short story ideas:

1. “The Old Man and the Knee”  An older American man comes to Cuba to get away from his bad marriage.  He winds up here in the Topes de Collantes.  He has a bad knee but one day he takes a walk along a forest path with no destination in mind.  The knee is killing him but he presses on suicidally.  It’s getting dark and starts to rain.  He becomes lost after taking a wrong turn on his way back.  I’m not going to give away the ending.

2. “The Old Fool Who Should Have Known Better”  A recently-divorced American man comes to Cuba after nearly 50 years of marital misery.  His kids have taken their mother’s side and have cut him off.  He arrives in Cuba in search of romance hoping to rekindle his youthful passions.  A friendly and pretty mulatta approaches him in old Havana.  They hit it off.  She invites him back to her place and fucks his brains out.  He falls in love.  You can see where this one is heading. 

I return to the Rancho Bee Hole and reality.  Thankfully, the dinner tonight is smaller than the lunch – vegetable soup, crispy plantains with guacamole, rice, and fruit.  Pedro Antonio joins me as I’m finishing dinner.  The Spanish starts flowing from my lips as I tell him about my travels, life in Denver, and so forth.  He switches from English to Spanish realizing, I suppose, that I need practice in listening to and comprehending Cuban Spanish.  I like this guy.  There are some little annoying flying bugs bothering me but they don’t seem to bite.  There are also a few mozzies – I slap on some repellent which seems to keep them at bay.  The power is back on which gives me a chance to get my camera and phone batteries charged.  Pedro Antonio and Carlos leave for their homes close by leaving me alone at the rancho to read a Gutiérrez short story.  I go to bed at 9:30.  There’s nothing going on to keep me up any later.

© Will Mahoney 2022

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