Day 3 (cont.) Remedios

Remedios

I know a bit about Remedios, even before I walk into town. It has quite a reputation to uphold. I know that now, in 2016, after many years of presenting its case, the city has been officially recognized to be among the eight oldest settlements on the island. Many historians consider it to be the second or third settlement established by the Spaniards as they felt their way around the coast looking for adequate harbors.  There is sound evidence to suggest that by 1578 the town of San Juan de los Remedios already existed, and that as a port of call it had been around since1514, before Trinidad.  Only Baracoa and Bayamo have earlier pedigrees.  But the settlement cycled through a series of names before arriving at San Juan de los Remedios and this fuels the debate about its longevity. 

Day 3: Vueltas-Remedios (21 km)

 El Palenque

The next morning, at 5:30, I met El Químico along with an eager group of his students at the gazebo in the park La Libertad. From there, we will take on our way to Remedios. 

There are six students; four boys and two girls, all dressed casually. No uniforms. All talking at once, standing around El Quimico as if he were a totem. 

“That one there,” said El Quimico as we get ready to head out. “The tall blond guy. He’s the son of the owner of the paladar where we ate yesterday. They do ok. The economy is helping them.  Here if you can’t get in the new economic current, the tourist and things like that, or people who help you from abroad, you’re swinging with two strikes.” 

Day 2: San Antonio de las Vueltas

  

Vueltas

 

Esteban remembered Vueltas as the home of a certain bandit name Menendez who led the Spanish volunteer militia during the war against the Mambís.  The entire province of Las Villas teemed with bandits during the last decades of the 19^th Century.  Over sixteen sugar mills in the proximity to each other made the area attractive to marauders and rebels alike.  Most bandits supported the rebels, and some were revolutionaries themselves.  Some were Robin Hood types, stealing from the wealthy Spaniards and giving to the poor criollos.  Others were just hoods, stealing and pillaging the old-fashioned way.  Esteban remembered some of them fondly. Aguero, who had the well-deserved reputation of being the biggest thief of them all, was one of the good guys, in that world of ethical ambivalence. He relentlessly sacked most of the well-to-do families of northern Las Villas. Rumor had it that he turned some of the loot over to General Maximo Gomez and other Mambí leaders to support the independence effort. Every inch of Cuba has stories that links its revolutionary past to its revolutionary present.  I walked into Vuelta, where the good bandits fed the first revolution, down its dusty streets, and headed for the Casa de Cultura across from the church.

El Purio to Vueltas: Part 2

Crossing the Sagua la Chica--Vueltas

Back on the trail, we cross the asphalt and head to a cluster of wooden houses along the road about fifty meters to the south.  The Sagua la Chica flows just beyond, through the bottom of a steep ravine.  We need to get to the other side.  Rafael leads us, saying that if the water is low enough, we can cross here and retake the dirt path on the other side.  If the water is too high and we cannot cross here, crossing over on the bridge on the Circuito del Norte, about two kilometers south, is the only option.   

We approach the small houses squatting in a semi-circle around an open plot of dirt and grass that could be confused for a courtyard. In the middle of the small clearing, a young man looks up from under the hood of a gleaming, unscratched, bright red 57 Chevy. 

“There’s a crossing here, right? Can it be crossed?” asks Rafael. 

“Yeah,” the man says, “you want to cross?” 

He looks at my walking sticks and, without a word, waves for us to follow. He leads us down the steep path through short grass and brambles down the bank to the river’s edge. 

A shallow crossing, carpeted with pebbles beneath the ripples, leads to a small shrub-filled island in the middle of the river. 

“It’s shallow on the other side too,” he says and wades in. He is barefooted and walks across like he is walking across a field of flowers. I take this as a good sign and removed my boots, handing my sticks to Rafael as he crosses in front of me. I step into the slow-moving stream.