Cuba: Day 5 - Part 1

Trinidad, with the Sierra de Sancti Spiritus Mountains in the background

We get an early morning start to Trinidad.  The city, not the country.  Although it’s not that far away, the road is winding and the trip will take a while.  We have a lot on our collective plate today.
       We roll past mango plantations but most of the scenery looks like it’s not cultivated.  And there’s a reason for that.  It’s covered with an invasive plant called marabu, known to English-speakers as sicklebush.  Native to Africa, marabu was brought to Cuba in the 19th century.  As long as agriculture kept it in check, things were all right, but after private farms were taken over by the state and later when sugar prices crashed, many fields were left fallow.  That’s all it took for the marabu to spread until it now covers about five million acres.  There’s no use burning it because it spreads by the roots and will grow back.  The only hope is to pull it out by its roots.  Although the bark is used in Africa in native medicine, the only use for marabu here might be as a biomass fuel.  Like the kudzu imported to the States, it’s become a real headache.
       At a crossroads we see a man in a yellow vest.  Chris explains that he’s what’s called a Yellow Jacket.  As vehicles are scarce and far too expensive for the common man, the Yellow Jacket’s job is to wave down any passing vehicle with empty seats and make the driver pick up the people who wait patiently on the side of the road, provided they’re headed in the driver’s direction.  You cannot refuse.  Our bus is owned and operated by the State Tourism Board and can’t be commandeered, but normal buses can.  Or private cars and trucks.  Or tractors.  Anything to keep the masses moving and going about their business.
     Next comes a bit of comedy.  While crossing a long, curving bridge over a valley, Ismaël hits the brakes.  Looking out the window for the reason why we’ve stopped, we see a shirtless man on horseback - with lariat and dog - in the on-coming lane.  And a cow just standing there, next to the bus.  The cowboy is joined by another cowboy with a few more dogs.  They poke and prod; the cow stands her ground.  The dogs nip at her heels; the cow stands her ground.  The first cowboy throws his lariat around the cow’s horns and pulls with all his might, but she will not be moved.  Then the second one gets his rope around her horns from another angle and they both pull; but she still will not be moved.  All of us cheer the cowboys on.  Finally the cow gives up, edges begrudgingly - lassoed head down - toward the side of the bridge, and the bus erupts in a hoot of approval as Ismaël moves us on before something else happens.

All of Trinidad is a UNESCO World Heritage site.  Which may be why it looks more kept up than Cienfuegos or Havana.  Buildings look freshly painted, even if paint is both scarce and expensive in Cuba.  Given the warmer climate here than on the north coast, the architecture of the area runs to tall windows protected by ironwork, huge double-portal wooden doors, Roman roof tiles and bright colors.  Sidewalks are narrow, the streets cobbled and filled with horse carts and tractors.  This is a farming region and once one of the sugar centers of the country.
       Our first appointment in Trinidad is with Nancy, a historian and an expert on the restoration of this city, which dates back to 1514.  Almost all the buildings were built in what she calls The Golden Period of the sugar boom:  1725 to 1860.   After that things apparently all went south.  The lack of slaves and the rise of competition from the sugar beet in Europe brought about an economic crisis.  The soil was depleted anyway.   There were no roads, so people arrived by boat but the harbor was too small for the newer, larger ships.  So Trinidad remained frozen in time until 1960.  A kind of time-warp.
       Now, with Cuba opening up to tourism, this town is again flourishing.  Since 1992, 2% of all income from restaurants and B&Bs has gone to restore the city.  But the increased demand on the electricity, water and sewer systems caused by tourism is overwhelming the municipal utilities that basically date back to the colonial period.  It’s a perfect example of the problem facing all of Cuba, especially if the United States lifts its sanction on travel to the island (which has pretty much happened since I wrote this two months ago).

       Our second appointment is at Fabulas del Cedro, the studio of Lazaro Niebla Castro (no relation to Fidel and Raul, I believe).  A quiet man, he talks softly of his work and waits patiently while Alicia translates what little he says. After trying different art mediums, he chose wood-carving.  But he wasn’t happy with the “shiny” look of new wood.  After one of Cuba’s hurricanes a few years ago, he saw piles of old wood lying around the streets, ready for the dump.  He carefully selected a few unbroken shutters and started carving them.  He settled on the cedar ones, because they age well... and, he adds sheepishly, “they smell so good when I carve them”.  He transforms the shutters into colorful portraits of his neighbors and other people he’s photographed.  My favorite is an older lady with a bucket and a face pleated by the years; Lazaro tels me it’s his favorite too.  He and I exchange e-mail addresses.  Maybe I can buy one of his works for shipment; it certainly wouldn’t have fit in my carry-on for the flight back.

Lunch is on the rooftop veranda of the Vista Gourmet paladar.  Again, there’s music.  I eat while watching a woman hang out laundry on another terrace rooftop nearby.
       Then it’s some free time before our next people-to-people.  We’re told to meet in the town square and we scatter in all directions.  Walking around, I see many tractors, as I would in The Thumb of Michigan.  This is indeed farm country.  Coming around a corner, I stumble on the arts-and-crafts market. Some of our group are already there.  As I walk down the long passage between the tables, people call out to me by name.  “Sandy, buy my hats.”  “Sandy, look at my lace.”  It’s only when one calls out “Sandy Schopbach” that I remember the National Geographic name tag on my shirt.
       Down another street, I happen upon two men repaving the street.  It’s made out of cobblestones, stones from the river, a job I’m later told no one wants to do any more. These men have been either commandeered or volunteered to repair the street.  I’d think they were a two-man road gang if there’d been a man with a rifle anywhere in sight because the job consists of breaking up individual stones with a hammer and then fitting them into the cobbled pattern of the street.  It’s hard work, but probably better done now than in the heat of summer.
       I manage to find the old house - now a museum - Alicia told me about.  It has a look-out tower that affords a great view out over the rooftops.  But Alicia didn’t warn me about the athletic climb up two floors of steep, steep stairs followed by an almost vertical stair-ladder. Still, it’s well worth it, if you’re able-bodied.  It’s quiet up here and you can look down on the museum’s courtyard or out over much of Trinidad and the hills and Caribbean Sea beyond.
       Back downstairs again, an elderly lady pops out through a doorway and wants to show me her box of lacework.  Whispering and looking over her shoulder repeatedly, I suspect she’s not supposed to do this on the job, but is paid to keep tourists from touching the antique furniture.  She makes the lace and embroidered linen herself and each piece is only 3 CUCs (convertible pesos).  It’s so little money to me and means so much to her, so I choose a piece for my Paris apartment.

Iglesia de la Santisima Trinidad