Day 4 (cont.): Remedios--Casa del Cimarron--Viñas

Cuevas de Guajabana: La Casa del Cimarron

 

We follow the asphalt road about two hundred meters to the dirt road leading up to the caves.  The terrain is flat as we make the turn, but we see that the abrupt hills will have their way with us in about two hundred meters in.  

“Up there,” says Alexis. “Can’t see them from here but up there are the caves.”  

From the road I see two green hills; one has been flattened as a result of gravel mining. 

“Las Tetas de Guajabana,” says Alexis. The tits of Guajabana. “That’s what we call them. Before they flattened one with the mining. It’s almost gone. Now it’s a teta y media.” A tit and a half.

A subtle, easy climb winds up the intact teta to the Casa del Cimarrón. Some industrial materials--cement, rebar--litter the flat land leading to a path that disappears into the trees. Excitement bubbles inside me at the chance of seeing this cave which a 1988 Bohemia article dubbed “La Casa del Cimarrón.” 

Day 4: Remedios-Cuevas de Guajabana

Remedios-Cuevas de Guajabana

I came to hide in a cave for a time. I lived there for a year and a half. I went in there thinking that I would have to walk less and because the pigs from around the farms, the plots, and the small landholdings, used to come to a kind of swamp just outside the mouth of the cave. They went to take a bath and wallow around. I caught them easy enough, because a big bunches of them came. Every week I had a pig. The cave was very big and dark like the mouth of the wolf. It was called Guajabán. It was near the town of Remedios. It was dangerous because it had to way out. You had to go in through the entrance and leave by the entrance. My curiosity really poked me to find a way out. But I preferred to remain in the mouth of the cave on account of the snakes. The majases are very dangerous beasts. They are found in caves and in the woods.

--Esteban Montejo

 

The earthy smell of coffee in the morning always makes me smile, especially when I am resigned to hitting the road without it. Joel is the owner of the hostel. It bears his name, brightly painted in blue on the metal garage door. A colorful bandana wraps his head and he has coffee on the stove. He hands me a cup of steaming espresso.