As any avid follower of PERPETUAL FOOTSTEPS can attest, when it comes to travelling, I prefer to set out alone and on foot with camera in hand. I have walked down dusty streets, dark alleys and risked life and limb bounding across roads teeming with cars, trucks, motorbikes, tuk-tuks, rickshaws, horses, oxen, you name it. In doing so, I hope to interact with locals going about their daily lives; to exchange a handshake, conversation or meal with someone who is just as interested in getting to know me, as I am they. Sometimes all it takes is a smile and a wave.

In nations near and far this mindset has led to many interactions that are forever seared into my memory. Last month I loaded my backpacks yet again and set off to the shores of Cuba, the long off limits neighbor ninety miles to our south. I crisscrossed the streets of Havana, Cienfuegos and Trinidad with this mentality at the forefront of my thinking. Three moments in particular from my ten days abroad provide vivid examples of why sometimes it pays to venture out alone and away from the normal tourist haunts.

During my first afternoon in Havana I walked along the Malecon for a number of blocks. This four-lane artery hugs the northern shoreline and provides easy access for vehicles entering and leaving the Cuban capital city. As I meandered along the paved sidewalk I struggled to avert my gaze from the steady stream of antique cars that drove by. Every make, model and color imaginable passed in front of me and each was more interesting than the last. After twenty minutes or so I turned left down a side street. Multi-storied row houses lined both sides of the street and locals bantered back and forth as music of all genres bellowed from passing cars and nearby balconies.

As I strolled, getting accustomed to another new culture, a passenger in a blue vehicle yelled in my direction. I caught a quick glance of a large, toothy smile as the car travelled another half-block and pulled over. Unsure of my surroundings in this new city, I debated proceeding forward and towards the car or turning onto a cross street. I continued onward. Moments later that same large smile, only know framed by a face, swung out from the window and looked back in my direction. “Hello my friend! Where are you from?”

I stopped, smiled and began conversing with the passenger as the driver listened. The talkative passenger, whose name I never learned, welcomed me to Cuba and began describing a cigar festival that was ongoing in Habana Vieja, or Old Havana. He asked if I was interested in buying cigars.

“Listen friend, a buddy of mine sells Cohibas and will give you the best price in town!”

While I was interested in purchasing cigars, I read that cigars should only be bought from a legitimate, commercial enterprise, not from the buddy of a guy I just met. I thanked him for the recommendation and told him I would keep the offer in mind. We exchanged a handshake and I was on my way once again. Late afternoon turned into evening and my first day in Cuba came to close.

The next morning I rose early and hoped to spend the entire day traversing the streets snapping photographs, taking in the culture and experiencing what daily life is like in Cuba’s largest city. Founded by Spaniards in the 16^th century, Havana became the jumping-off-point for Spanish explorers looking to conquer portions of North America. With a populace of more than two million citizens, Havana is Cuba’s largest city, port and commercial center.

My first destination was a well-reviewed cigar store south of my hostel. I had been in Cuba for almost 24 hours; it was about time I puffed on my first cigar. I entered H. Upmann’s and perused the glass cases filled with opened boxes of Cuba’s finest tobacco. I chose a fairly inexpensive Monte Cristo and walked to the cashier. She rang up my cigar and a lighter. Minutes later I walked out the door and into the wall of humidity that slowly enveloped the city at that early-morning hour. I proceeded to a vacant step and sat down. Cigar ✓, where to now? Habana Vieja!!

I stood up, oriented myself and started walking. I stopped at a nearby fruit stand and purchased two bananas for breakfast. I handed the salesman two Cuban Pesos and continued onward. As I made my way east along a side street someone approached from behind me.

“Hey friend, remember me?”

I turned and it was the same gentleman from the blue car the previous afternoon. I smiled, said hello and told him that of course I remembered. He asked if I made up my mind about the cigars that his friend was selling. I told him I hadn’t and was only in Havana a limited time. I was headed to Cienfuegos the next day but would return to Havana the following week before my flight back to America. He smiled that big, toothy smile and said ok. Little did he know that a newly purchased cigar rested in the pocket of my cargo shorts? While I did lie to him, I learned through my travels that it is sometimes easier to fib in order to avoid a drawn out, awkward conversation.

I walked away and smiled to myself. Of the more than two million people that reside in Havana, what are the chances I run into the same street salesman two days in a row?

From Havana, I took a six-hour bus ride south to Cienfuegos. Nicknamed the Pearl of the
South, Cienfuegos’s population of 200,000 makes it drastically smaller than Havana. In 2005, the historic center of Cienfuegos was declared a UNESCO World Heritage Site due to its example of early urban planning.  During my three days in Cienfuegos I visited a nature reserve that is home to native flamingos and snuck into a Cuban National Series baseball stadium with a gregarious taxi driver. It’s to bad the Cienfuegos Elefantes were on the road during my stay because I wanted to catch a game.

 

From Cienfuegos, I traveled to the small city of Trinidad, the location of two awe and laughter invoking moments. Trinidad, a UNESCO World Heritage site since 1998, lies along the southern coast of Cuba. As I walked along the narrow streets, my eyes moved from the brown cobblestones beneath my feet, past the pastel-colored buildings and landed on the Escambray Mountains that stretch for nearly fifty miles. The majority of visitors remain in a two-or-three block radius around the Plaza Mayor, a central square with ornate park benches and well-manicured shrubbery. Throughout my stay, it became unavoidably evident the vast majority of the UNESCO funding bestowed upon Trinidad did not filter far from the Plaza Mayor. I strolled around the Plaza Mayor but spent most of my time weaving my way through the surrounding roads.

Early one afternoon I happened to walk by one house and saw a sweat-drenched man swinging a sledgehammer onto bowling ball sized rocks. Our eyes met and he waved me over. Large beads of sweat poured down his forehead. I managed to hold a conversation for several minutes with this man who barely spoke a word of English. He explained that he was widening his driveway and needed to split the rocks in order to make them easier to move. During our conversation a small girl appeared from the home dragging a small chair. I turned and smiled in her direction.

“Hola,” I offered with a smile and a wave. She returned the salutation and instructed me to sit down.

Her father introduced her and also motioned for me to take a seat; but not before he moved the small chair into the shade of his metal-framed garage. Although shielded from the sun, the garage trapped a think pall of humidity. The father sauntered off to fetch two cups of coffee and left his daughter and I to entertain each other. I have multiple nieces and nephews and am quite comfortable making small talk with children. In this particular case it turned out to be more of a challenge with each of us fluent in a different language. I managed to learn that she was three years old, had two cats and a baby brother.

Adults fluent in separate languages understand the challenges of conversing with one another. However, I could see the confusion in this young child’s eyes when I failed to respond to her many inquiries. It became evident she did not comprehend why I responded “Lo siento. No entiendo” (“I’m sorry. I don’t understand”) so often. Her father returned with cups of coffee while his daughter walked away puzzled. Although temperatures hovered in the 90s, the hot coffee quenched my thirst even as it increased my already elevated body temperature.

A friend of the man walked up the driveway and the two gathered near a newly split pile of rock. They chatted and their hand gestures indicated they were discussing the condition of the driveway. I sat sipping my coffee as his daughter re-appeared. She began speaking, and again, I only understood every third word, if I was lucky. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small bottle of nail polish. She smiled and unscrewed the top. I nervously smiled back.

How am I going to get out of here without having my nails painted? Thoughts bounced in my head…Finally I gave in.  I’m in Cuba and if a three-year-old child wants to paint my nails, who am I to say no. Luckily, the shade is not fluorescent.  Ok, I’ll let her paint ONE nail.

“Solamente uno,” (“Only one”) I instructed.

She leaned forward and pressed the applicator to my thumbnail. Her father re-joined us and embarrassment appeared on his face. I made a motion that his daughter’s actions were not a problem. She finished my thumbnail and moved her hand onto my index finger. I pulled my hand back, “solamente uno, solamente uno.” Her father gave instructions in Spanish; she stood up, smiled and closed the jar of polish.

I finished my last sip of coffee, stood up and handed the father my empty cup. I needed to continue walking. I shook the fathers hand and bid him good luck with his excavation. I waved goodbye to his daughter and turned to walk away. She took a few steps toward me and spoke. I deciphered that she wanted her photo taken. I stopped, smiled and pulled my camera to my eye. I snapped a few photos and kneeled down to show her the final product. We exchanged smiles and goodbyes once again and I walked back up the driveway to the gravel road. I proceeded onward.

I strolled up and down sun-drenched streets with my ears peeled and eyes moving from one side of the street to the other. I spotted two local gentleman perched above the ground on rickety, metal scaffolding applying a fresh coat of pastel paint to the façade of a building. I weaved my way around groups of school children, clad in their white and red uniforms, celebrating the end of another day. Horse-drawn trailers sauntered past carrying everything from passengers to food to bricks. They maneuvered for their place on the blacktop alongside antique taxis, bicyclists and more modern vehicles.

Before long I was back on the cobble-stoned streets indicating I was back in the center of Trinidad. The sun dipped lower in the sky and cast dark shadows over concrete steps occupied by those enjoying a much-welcomed respite from the midday heat. Up ahead in the street I noticed a ring of dirt and a weathered, straw hat teetered within. I inched closer and saw various tools strewn around the perimeter of the hole: a shovel, hammer, hollow pipes. A man standing over the hole looked up and noticed me. He waved me over and I eagerly approached curious to see what was happening. I stepped to the hole and gazed down. I shirtless man, clad in tan pants and a layer of grease, worked tirelessly on what appeared to be a pump. He grabbed one of the nearby hollow pipes, slid it on the handle of a valve and hoped the increased torque would make it budge.

I conversed with the man who stood beside me. From what I gathered, the pump controlled the flow of water to the nearby homes and there was a problem with it that needed to be fixed. The man in the hole handed up a label-less water bottle with only a few sips left. Another man approached from my left and joined us at the hole. He quickly grabbed the water bottle, took a sip and then pushed it in my direction. I graciously declined. He started speaking in a hurried manner and I assumed he was asking me if I had more water for them.

“Lo siento, no tengo agua, no tengo agua” (“I’m sorry, I don’t have water”).

In fact, I was quite parched and could have used a bottle of water myself.

“Necesito agua tambien.” (“I also need water”).

The men all glanced at each other as the man to my right put his hand on my shoulder and smiled. He took the water bottle and swirled it in a circular motion, “el ron, el ron.” He motioned for me to smell the contents and handed over the bottle. I took it and brought it up to my nose. It was ruuuuum!! I only realized later that “ron” is “rum” when translated into English. I let out a hearty laugh and told the guys they needed it more than myself. We shook hands and I continued on. These countries and cities never cease to amaze me.

The following day I boarded an early morning bus for the eight-hour journey from Trinidad back to Havana. I used the journey to think back on the previous ten days. During my prior travels, I never had a set schedule. I came and went as I pleased. It was not uncommon for me to spend upwards of a month in a particular country. My trip to Cuba was different. I had ten days. No amount of time is ever enough and Cuba followed suit. While my time was brief, I was happy with how it turned out.

The bus pulled into the depot in the early afternoon and I loaded my bags into the trunk of a taxi. We made the fifteen-minute drive to my accommodation located just off the Malecon. I checked into my room and threw down my bags. There were a few last minute errands to accomplish before my flight back to the States the following morning.

I grabbed my camera and what remained of my Cuban Pesos. I wanted to exchange them back to American Dollars before departing for Miami. I locked the door to my room behind me and descended down a flight of stairs and onto the street. I turned right and quickly covered the six or so blocks until I hit the Malecon. I crossed four lanes of traffic and began walking east. My eyes swung between the buildings and cars to my right and the wind-churned ocean to my left. I rattled off my to-do list for that afternoon: Cigars. Souvenirs. Exchange currency. Pack.

From across the street I heard someone yelling. This was nothing new. I became accustomed to seeing and hearing Cubans standing on the street, necks craned, yelling upwards to get the attention of someone inside a residence. I took a few more steps and the yelling continued. Curiosity finally got he best of me. I turned around and looked in the direction of the shouting. A man stood there waving in my direction. He can’t be waving at me. I stopped in my tracks to focus closer. Just then the man raised his arms in the air and very animatedly moved them in a way that mimicked turning a steering wheel.

Are you kidding me?! Is that the guy from my first day in Havana? The guy riding shotgun in the blue car that wanted to sell me cheap, and most likely fake, cigars? It is!!!

 A smile that would rival any young child’s on Christmas morning stretched across my face. I let out an audible laugh and threw a wave to my “friend”. I could not believe it. Out of the entire city of Havana, we happened to be in the same close vicinity and he recognized me from across the Malecon. I took a quick look to my left and another to my right. The coast was clear. I jogged across the street and approached blue car guy. His smile mirrored my own.

He spoke good English and we conversed for a few minutes. I admitted that I was shocked we had run into each other again. He recalled our previous conversation from the week before in which I told him I was travelling to Cienfuegos and Trinidad before returning to Havana that day. He assumed he’d run into me on the Malecon. Always the businessman, blue car guy asked if I was ready for those cigars yet. I shook my head with a sly smile.

“Next time I come to Havana I promise I’ll buy some,” was the line I recited. “For some reason I think we’ll end up running into each other again.” (That is no lie. If I ever make it back to Havana, and run into blue car guy again, I will undoubtedly buy a few of even the fakest-looking cigars from him. He is dedicated and dedication deserves to be rewarded.)

“You got it my friend,” he replied with a disappointing smile.

We shared a big hug and exchanged a handshake. I threw him another wave as I turned away. I took a few steps and chuckled at what just occurred. Thoughts raced through my head. The best memories I’ve made during my nine-or-so months travelling around the globe haven’t occurred in museums, on tours, or in any organized fashion. They’ve all occurred when I least expected it. Cuba was no different.

 

 

** Click HERE for additional photos from my time in Cuba