Baracoa (March 19)

Bags on the bus, off we went at 9:30, traveling only a short distance before disembarking at two renta habitación, the equivalent of B&B lodgings.  Pam and I were in the group that went to the one on the shore - Casa en la Playa (for which I could not find a link).  Our hostess was Daysi Camejo Fiffe (this link is an e-mail address).  It had two guest rooms.  

The accommodations were modest but spotlessly clean.  Both rooms had a great ocean view. Each room rented for between 15-25 CUC per night with an additional charge for meals.  Our hostess said she had guests about 300 days per year.  She paid the government 60 CUC per room per month to operate as a B&B.  She paid a ten percent tax on revenue generated from rentals and meals.  She was proud to tell us that during the past year she had her first guests from the USA.

hand-line fishing

view from the roof

Soon we were on our way again.

We ventured into the forest outside Baracoa to see Grupo Nengón Kiribá, a group committed to keeping traditional Baracoa dance alive.

Before the show started a number of our group wanted to use the restroom.  After they saw the restroom - a poorly maintained outhouse - the queue to use it grew shorter.

Looking out at the dirt road, I saw a man carrying what was probably his family's daily supply of water.  I was tempted to ask him how much he wanted to sluice down the inside of the outhouse.  I also thought about how much the three buckets of water must weigh and wondered how far he had to carry them, making the same trip day after day.

During the performance, the musicians and dancers did not smile, detracting significantly from the program by projecting no sense of enjoyment.  Of course, their somber expressions would be understandable if they had just used the outhouse.   

Things got more jovial when members of our group joined the dancers.

There was a pause in the dancing while we had of a meal of traditional foods. (Note the bowls and 'spoons' in the picture belows).  As people finished eating there was the opportunity to dance again.  

It had been suggested by Insight Cuba that we bring with us small handouts such as pencils, toothbrushes, bandaids and so on, all of which were not easily obtainable in Cuba.  This suggested list of items was expanded by friends who had previously visited there.  In anticipation of two weeks of continuously doling out items we had come laden with 'stuff' that could be handed out in small quantities.  

At the polyclinic in Santiago de Cuba, we donated a substantial supply of Advil and Bayer Aspirin 2-packs and Bandaid 5-packs.  Incredible as it seemed given that we were standing in a medical clinic, these items were eagerly received.  It may have just been good manners, but it seemed to reinforce what we had been repeatedly told about basics to us being luxuries in Cuba.  I am not suggesting the clinic did not have these items, but rather that it was constantly necessary to be so frugal with them that even a modest supplement of such supplies would make a difference.

Contrary to our expectation, early in the trip we had been encouraged to retain our handouts until we got to the rural part of the country.  Even with the items we had donated at the clinic and a few things we left each morning for hotel chambermaids, we still had a bunch of stuff.  Our present rural locale, a rapidly dwindling number of remaining opportunities and the certainty that taking the items home defeated the purpose of bringing them combined to make here and now the place to part with them.  Hilary (our group leader) coached us on the protocol.  We gave everything to the matriarch of the family that operated the venue.  She in turn parsed out to all those assembled our items and items from other members of our group.  My perception was that it was done fairly, with thought and love.  It was nice to watch.

We pulled out on schedule for the long ride back to Santiago de Cuba, retracing our route over the mountains.  This time I noticed that the grate on many of the storm drains was missing. I wondered what happened to the grates, speculating that in a country that endured so much scarcity they had been midnight-requisitioned for other purposes. The result was 30-inch square voids.  These were not potholes, they were pit holes that would do a lot more than damage a tire.  A big vehicle might be lucky enough to only break an axle. I later learned that these open store drains were just one of the reasons driving the road at night was deemed extremely dangerous.    

Near the crest of the La Farola (name of road - see March 17) was a 'scenic view'.  Waiting to ambush any vehicle that stopped were a gaggle of vendors.  When the bus pulled up there were only 4-5, but within two minutes there were at least twice that many.  Several of our group brought necklaces ornamented with attractive yellow and black snail shells.  As the bus pulled away, an awareness rippled through it with the realization that this type of snail was an endangered specie.

Completing our descent, the bus stopped at the same rest area we had visited just before beginning our ascent on route to Baracoa.  Here, to the chagrin of many in our group, it was discovered that the store had not restocked ice cream bars.  Further along we stopped at Hotel Guantanamo where the bar did a brisk business in all types of beverages.  

We rolled into the Meliá Santiago de Cuba about 6:30 PM.  Amusingly, all our passports were once again collected to be photocopied even though we had only left the hotel two days ago.  Some of our group headed out for one last night of Cuban entertainment.  We opted to have a relaxing evening in the hotel in anticipation of a long day tomorrow.