Going into this trip, we knew the first half was going to be a little hectic. Eastern Cuba has so many specific things to see and do, and we were determined to see and do them all before making our way to the more tranquil, schedule-free West. Sara’s already mentioned the chaotic scorching excitement of the city of Santiago, but even our rural venture into the Sierra Maestras had two clear objectives: the Comandancia de la Plata (the jungle hideaway from which the Castro brothers and Che built their revolution), and Pico Turquino (Cuba’s highest peak). The Comandancia was everything we hoped it would be: mysterious, inspiring, and basically untouched since it served its purpose nearly six decades ago. As far as hikes go it was nothing too challenging, thanks largely to the fact that the heavily armed guerillas who blindfold you and carry you through the jungle have now been replaced by nicely tended paths. The next morning, however, all that would change.
Full disclosure: We did not climb Cuba’s highest peak. The trail was closed which, as we were warned, was often the case. Our host, however, recommended a different peak, one which we could actually see right from our casa. He hooked us up with an energetic young guide named Alexi who was happy to accompany these two fit Canadians on a merry little stroll up Pico Gayón.
Even fuller disclosure: There was nothing merry or little about it. I have previously said that Argentina’s Motoco was the most grueling experience my body has been subjected to, but after Gayón, I would get a job at the top of Motoco and make that my daily commute. Alternatively, I now have big plans (please hold me to this!!) to talk to my doctor about exercise-induced asthma. Or heat-induced asthma. Or humidity-induced asthma. Or using-venomous-plants-for-handholds-as-the-sun-chars-your-flesh-while-fire-ants-devour-your-feet-induced asthma. Any one of those really. Regardless, for some reason my heart and lungs decided at that moment to unionize and go on strike against me, while Sara and Alexi bounded up the mountain, apparently without any internal labor disputes
I do owe some major kudos to my two companions. Sara, with her trademark compassionate hard-assery, was immensely kind and encouraging whilst refusing to give into my requests that they go on without me (her responses to those requests gradually morphed from “Think of how disappointed you’ll be if you come all this way and don’t reach the top!” to “You gotta keep moving or the fire ants will literally kill you”, both of which were true and motivating in their own way). Alexi, meanwhile, maintained the patience of a saint for the entire trek, using all the time that I was lagging behind to discuss with Sara the fascinating ecology and geography of the region.
Finally, after hearing “We’re almost there” for an overly-generous number of times, Alexi and Sara disappeared completely from view and I heard Sara shout, in Spanish, “Only 2 kilometres left!” As my heart sunk, she added, “Just kidding! We’re standing on the summit!”
With the last of my energy, I hoisted myself over the last few fallen trees and finally came to a pleasantly breezy meadow with a literal old rugged cross marking the summit. Alexi was waiting with bananas and guava juice, and the 360° view of the infamous Sierra Maestras was indeed breathtaking.
The trek down was as treks down always are: physically easier, but more mentally challenging due to the constant reminder of how far you have to fall. Thankfully all our knees held out, and the worst injury was sustained by Sara, who took it like a champ.
As we reached the bottom, I thought there could be no physical sensation lovelier than level ground beneath my feet. Alexi managed to top that, however, by offering that we stop in at a neighbour’s place for coffee.
It turned out that this neighbour was, in fact, the farmer that owned the forest of coffee trees we had walked through at the beginning of the hike. As chickens clucked around us, he showed us his roasting pan (conveniently located next to a pot of boiled fish heads), ground the beans with a giant mortar & pestle, scooped the grounds into a homemade filter, and percolated the coffee on his wood stove. A few minutes later we were enjoying the freshest cup of java we could ever taste while listening to him explain the ins and outs of coffee farming.
So all’s well that ends well, I suppose, though my quads would fiercely disagree.
Fullest disclosure: Now that I’m fully recovered, I would actually quite like to do something like that again. Just don’t tell Sara, or she’ll find a way to actually make it happen before we head home.