Sorry for the massive delay since the previous post. Was quite busy during the last month of Cuba (as will be revealed here in good time) and then haven’t had a minute since then what with catching up with everyone, volunteering at the Olympics and working in Portugal. The next instalment is here now – I hope you are still interested…! Alex
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The next morning we awoke early, ready to begin our ascent of Pico Turquino. We had been told it was a difficult walk normally lasting two days, however, since there was no space at the half-way camp, we’d agreed to do the trek in one day, rising early and finishing late. The guide had stroked our egos a bit, “You’re all young and fit – you’ll be fine!” and so we’d said yes. As we wiped the sleep from our eyes and got into gear with a small but mighty Cuban coffee, I don’t think any of us had quite comprehended what lay ahead of us.
Our dinner from the previous night at base camp
We crossed the river separating the village from the truck pick-up point, hopping in the pitch-black dark from rock to rock, loaded packs making maintaining your balance that bit more difficult. The two headlights and the moon were the only light and as we headed up the winding mountain road, I had the feeling of being taken up to the top of a roller coaster once again.
Crossing the river at base camp – in the light
We soon reached the car park where the walk would begin and, after getting out our torches, for the walk was completely unlit and it was still dark, we met our walking companions. They were two women, one small, unassuming and thin, the other… we’ll say she was a little larger. If you averaged them out you would probably have 2 normal sized people between them. They were Cubans from Miami who were visiting the island to see family and their homeland.
Torches at the ready
We began the walk and it started off easy enough – flat, heading along a path flanked fields cloaked in darkness. The ascent soon began, however, and I began to see what the guide had been talking about. I selfishly thought about my own pain and tiredness, but what about the Cuban-American lady struggling at the back? We were only half an hour in! There were a series of very sharp ascents where the steps resembled somewhat the pyramid challenge off gladiators where each stair is about half a meter tall. Or, at least, I assume that is what it looked like, since we were still fumbling around in the dark. It is only when you go to the country that you realise how dark the world really is at night. Or, the way it is meant to be – the way our ancestors must have experienced night for thousands of years before electricity changed everything.
We continued on and on, and the heavy panting that had been following somewhere behind me for the past hour or so eventually drifted away and I realised our Cuban-American friends must have decided to ease off the gas a little. We reached a ridge where we could see the sun beginning to creep over the horizon. The whole valley was dimly lit, the mass of green becoming more visible, covered in a veil of misty clouds like the breath of some giant sleeping monster.
The tropical forest at sunrise
The walk flattened out somewhat and we appeared to be walking across the top of one of the lower down ridges. To keep up morale, we took to singing the old classic “ten green bottles”, each person in the line shouting out one word from the lyrics – quite a good method of checking no one had fallen down a crevice etc etc. Later we took to changing the words for comic effect (with various levels of comic intelligence) – 7 students from 2 of the UK’s best universities, hmmmm. Whilst all this was happening, rather depressingly so, our guide kept running in front of us, then going back and disappearing for 20 minutes or so as he went to check on other walkers further back along the trail. At one point he reappeared, overtaking us all whilst carrying a pink Von Dutch holdall above his head, which one of the less ‘experienced’ walkers (not from our group) had decided she could no longer carry. Anyone would have thought this was some kind of boot camp.
The most depressing thing about the walk was that there was only one path, no diversions, turns, forks for the entire duration of the ascent and descent. As such, you went where the path went. You followed the path up a 100m vertical ascent, and then you followed it down the other side again, going even lower than where you started off, and then you followed that path right back up the side of the biggest mountain on the island, finishing off at the same height as you were at half an hour ago. I’m sure this is meant to be good for the soul, or something like that, but it induced a series of huffs, puffs, profanities and moans from me. Sometimes I can just grin and bear it, particularly if I am on my own, getting lost in my thought and going into a sort of trance with the repetitive ‘thud’ ‘thud’ of my feet on the ground, but I am not one of these people who can indefinitely internalise it all and just soldier on. It’s as if every “Oh GOD!” or “Noooo” or “Why is it so steep???” makes it a bit easier. As if the acknowledgement from others that it really is that hard makes the journey a bit easier. That’s just me!
I’ll spare you any more details, but suffice to say that we reached the summit of Pico Turquino at about 2pm after walking constantly, save about 3 breaks, since 5am. I have done Duke of Edinburgh Gold Award in the Lake District, but this was harder. Yes the journey was shorter and the bag lighter, but the unbearable heat and suffocating humidity make everything so much harder. The steep ascents up steps made of mud required that bit of extra physical energy, and the disheartening descents before regaining the height you had just lost made it emotionally draining. If only there was a Fidel Castro’s Pico Turquino Award for going up and down in one day…!
The beast itself – El Pico Turquino
The view from just below the summit was spectacular with views across the completely forested region. The area was eerily silent (we hadn’t even heard animal noises on our way up, and just the odd bird) but extremely beautiful and made the demanding ascent worth the while.
Nearly at the summit
The actual summit however, was something else. There was no view and the plateau on top was surrounded with tall shrubs, bushes and clouds – there was no view at all! All there was was a few rocks, a sign to say well done and a statue of every Cuban’s favourite revolutionary hero… (no, not Che) José Martí. Although everyone associates Che with Cuba and although his image does appear round and about, the far more prominent symbol of revolution is José Martí. He became the leading figure in the independence movement against Spain’s colonial rule and also against increasing American influence in Cuba. Virtually every government building in Cuba (and in an all powerful one-party state such as Cuba, that’s a lot of the buildings) has a bust of Martí, the main airport is named after him, book shops have a section dedicated to his works (fiction, history, works by José Martí, children’s) and so really it should have been no surprise to find a cast of his familiar face upon a plinth at the summit of Cuba’s tallest mountain. There must be a factory somewhere that just produces casts of his head, they are that common. A sign explained that the monument was carried up the mountain by a group of young Cubans to celebrate the centenary of his birth. Wow, they must really have loved Martí…
An obligatory group photo with our favourite José at the summit of Pico Turquino
After an hour sitting down, the reality sank in that we would actually have to descend at some point. I didn’t seem particularly worried at this point. Going down is always easier than going up, right?
Going down was actually a much longer walk in terms of distance. Where as we’d started at about 500m above sea level, the town we had to reach to camp for the night was on the coast, a full 6,476 feet vertically below our current position. We met a new guide who would ‘show us the way’ along the single path with no turns and as we began our descent the weather turned and it started raining. With every step, your toes pressed into the ends of your shoes (I was only wearing running shoes, having not thrown hiking boots in my suitcase alongside the flip-flops) and you knees ached with each massive step down. The rain in previous days and weeks had made the path slippery and eroded some of the steps, so there were a few falls and scrapes. Eventually we reached a part with proper beams running across the edge of each mud step, and due to the pull of gravity, the tiredness of our bodies and the weight of our packs, I found it was much easier to run down the hill, jumping down steps at a time and grabbing on to trees to stop myself going too fast, legs quivering like they were made out of jelly and knees refusing to co-operate. I felt like one of those extreme sportsmen you get being sponsored by Red Bull running down Mount Everest or something, but I doubt I looked anywhere near as cool as they do.
Running down the mountain on the home straight with Action Man and Lara Croft (won’t let me rotate)
We eventually reached the house where we would be staying at about 8pm – a full 15 hours after starting the walk. Unfortunately the house was already full of tired hikers who had just finished (swapped walking horror stories with them) and distinctly more eager ones who were about to start the next day going in the opposite direction (told them what they had to look forward to). We managed to get some much appreciated dinner (rice, beans, meat and root vegetables – what else?) and beers from them.
FINISHED!!
Happy to sleep anywhere
With nowhere to sleep in doors, they kindly found us room to sleep in a large, circular hut outside with a roof made of tropical leaves. They found enough sleeping bags for half of us and enough roll mats for half of us – I went for the mat. With no door and facing the sea, there was a breeze that swept in and out of the hut and which grew colder throughout the night. It didn’t bother me too much, since I could have slept just about anywhere at this point, and I lay covered in my thin micro-towel for warmth, wedged between two other drained and sleepy walkers, the sound of the sea and the goat’s tied up in the garden (some sounded like squealing children when they bleated, others like a machine-gun laugh) sending me off to sleep. Once again demonstrating the kindness Cubans so often show to complete strangers, after turning up on their doorstep out of the blue as we did, they didn’t make us pay a thing for the accommodation, and the dinner cost a matter of pence.
Despite the trials and tribulations, aches and pains, it was a great experience and one of the most satisfying things I did during my time in Cuba. It also gave me a new found respect for Fidel, Che and their comrades who, despite the climate, spent years negotiating this terrain in secret, being tracked down by armed soldiers… and I thought our walk was difficult!
Blog: Alex in Cuba 