My story of the Sierra Maestra

View from my cabin at Villa Santo Domingo, by the gates of the national park.

Disclaimer:  This post (a) is not at all academic, (b) in no way constitutes a statement of political affiliation and (c) is intended to give my strongest impressions of my recent trip to the Rebel HQ in what is now Pico Turquino National Park, Sierra Maestra.  All filtered, of course, through my overwhelming geekiness about my subject.  All photos are my own.  I hope you enjoy my meanderings.

It is 7:30 AM and I am sitting in the back of a Jeep as it climbs the steep, twisty road leading from the entrance of Pico Turquino National Park to the viewpoint at Alto del Naranjo.  There is no seatbelt, so I hold on to the handle over the window.  (I once heard it described as a Jesus handle: hang on and pray.)  The guide and driver are chatting in the front, discussing the personal choices of mutual friends, and I look out of the window at the road.  Before we set off, the driver had said that he could only drop me off today; I would have to descend on foot.  Would I be OK to walk back down?  I had responded cheerfully and confidently that yes, I would.  Now, I am less sure.

“This bit here is a forty degree incline,” says the guide.

The sun is already beating down on the road.  I am wearing a long sleeved top, against the mosquitoes (which have tremendously good PR, but which never appear during my stay in the Sierra), long trousers and comfortable old walking boots.  If nothing else, the boots are clearly a good choice.

At the carpark/turning space at Alto del Naranjo, the driver says goodbye.  “If anything goes wrong,” the guide tells him, “I’ll call you on the mobile.”  I hope nothing goes wrong.

The path leading to the start of the Comandancia trail is about 1.5 kilometres.  My guide looks uncannily like Bulldog Briscoe, and he is extremely knowledgeable about the flora and fauna of the Sierra.  I am shamefully uninterested in the flora and fauna of the Sierra, even if it is a uniquely rich habitat.  All I can think about is that I am walking the same path as the Rebel Army.  Bulldog points out rare birds, tree dwelling bromeliads and medicinal plants as I try to get my head around where I am and what it means.  I am a terrible audience.  The path is fairly easy, although not as easy as Bulldog makes it look; the footing is treacherous in a few places, but I manage to hop from rock to rock and feel lithe and outdoorsy, like a proper adventure traveller.  As if I were a seasoned hiker who lives on the trail instead of a pale academic with a cabin at the eco resort.

At the start of the trail, a view over the Sierra.

By the time we get to the start of the trail leading to the Comandancia, I am feeling positively empowered.  I look around at the mountains, carpeted with dark green foliage and absolutely unmistakeable.  This is the landscape I have seen in so many photographs.  I am in the Sierra Maestra, and I am rocking it.  After passing through the office, located in the house of the farmer Medina – who donated the land on which the Comandancia was built, and whose sons formed the famous Quinteto Rebelde, musicians to the rebels – we go through a gate leading to the trail itself.  Bulldog and the museum guide, already deep in discussion, set off ahead.  I hang back a little, relieved that I can be silent without being antisocial.  The footing here is trickier and I have to go carefully, but I’m on top of it.  I quietly congratulate myself on being awesome.  Then Bulldog turns back and calls out nonchalantly: “There’s an incline coming up here, but it isn’t too bad.”

We turn a corner and I see what he means.  Ahead is a steep path pitted with rocks.  At the foot of the slope, a signpost reads CASA DE FIDEL (Fidel’s house).  All illusions of my own awesomeness melt away; suddenly I’m reminded of the last time I tried to climb hills, on a so-called “low level walk” in the Lake District.  I look at the sign again.  Casa de Fidel.  Casa de Fidel.  That’s what I want to see.  I’m going to get to it.  Casa de Fidel!  I set off a little too energetically, scramble a few meters and stop to do some violent breathing and swig water.  Up ahead, Bulldog and friend are almost at the top.  “Take your time!” he calls down cheerfully.

I take a moment to entertain some uncharitable thoughts, and set off again.

Che's first aid point.

Despite the signpost – which must be there for motivation – when I do emerge at the top of the incline and flop down onto the nearest flat rock, I discover that Fidel’s house is further up the trail (perfectly logically, when you think about it).  Here is a little hut which was used as a field hospital by the Rebel Army’s medic, one Ernesto Guevara.  I stare at the little hut while Bulldog does his spiel.

“Do you have any questions?”

“No,” I reply dreamily, continuing to look at the hut as if it contains the secrets of the universe.

“Did you understand everything?”

“Yes.”

“You know, you can ask questions.”

“Thank you, but I’m fine for now.”

During the war, the Comandancia was hidden among the trees. Celia Sánchez transplanted fast-growing rambling roses which provided extra coverage. Now there are clear spaces like this one, which doubles as a helicopter pad when the mule isn't there.

Moving on and emerging into a clearing, we encounter a mule.

“Fidel’s mule,” says Bulldog, and laughs heartily.

“A very well preserved mule, if so,” I say.  We enjoy this exchange so much that we repeat it every time we see a mule.

In the little museum nestled into one side of the clearing, I look at framed photos, typewriters, medicine bottles and a host of other objects preserved under glass.  I am conscious of looking at everything with wide eyes, as if I can somehow absorb it all whole.  Who knows when I’ll be here again?  The museum guide explains the provenance of each object and I nod silently, not knowing what to say.  “Do you have any questions?” he too asks, looking a little amused, perhaps mildly concerned too.  “Did you understand everything?”  “Yes, thank you.  May I take some pictures?”  I photograph everything, although a lot of the photos won’t come out well.

“I’m sorry for being so quiet,” I say lamely as we walk out into the sunshine.  “I’m just really impressed.”  Warm smiles.  They understand.

There are more buildings along the trail, all surprisingly small, all sheltered snugly beneath the trees.  Batista’s army never located the Comandancia.  Even the food was prepared at night so that the smoke wouldn’t give away their location.  I look and listen, trying to imagine how it was, living under dense cover with the constant threat of discovery or betrayal.  But I can’t; my mind skitters away from the idea of a reality so far removed from anything I have experienced.  All my reading and study cannot compensate for the limitations of my sheltered existence.  A life and death situation is something I can only vaguely understand.

Casa de Fidel.

Finally, we round a bend and there it is: Fidel’s house.  (By this stage of the trip I have temporarily abandoned my own rather po-faced rule about names, even in my own mind.  He might be Castro in my thesis, but I am in the Sierra and in the Sierra he is Fidel.)  The small wooden cabin doesn’t appear to have a door.  Bulldog asks me if I can find the entrance, and I rather sheepishly inspect all the surfaces.  After a minute or so, the secret is revealed.  Two panels are raised vertically and propped up with sticks to display the interior.  Here are Fidel’s things.  The big bed, a present from Medina; the chairs and shelves and writing surfaces; the famous fridge, which Bulldog is careful to specify contained only medicine, never beer or wine.  The fridge has a war wound: an impressive hole caused by an enemy missile while Rebel Army soldiers were transporting it to the Comandancia.  There is a trapdoor, just in case.

I don’t know exactly how to describe what I feel at this point.  Let me try to put it this way.  Like many specialists, I am motivated by a deeply felt, utterly geeky joy in the sheer fact of what I do.  It’s not about political convictions, approval or disapproval; it isn’t that elaborated, and anyone who has tried to have a political discussion with me will tell you that I am capable of going into long and terribly conflicted discursions that would drive anyone, on any side of the question, round the twist.  No, it is something far simpler, best expressed in short sentences.  Look at this thing here.  I get to study it!  Is it not fascinating?  Let me tell you of it!  (Wait, where are you going?)

Cosas de Fidel.

I look at the house from one angle, and then another.  I contemplate all the objects.  I sit on the little bench opposite and look at it all some more.  After a while – possibly realising that I will sit there all day unless prompted – Bulldog politely but firmly signals that we should get moving.  Reluctantly I tear myself away.

It is only when the tour is over that I find my voice.  We are walking down the steep incline of the road, zigzagging to lessen the impact.  My shins hurt and my hamstrings feel strange and compressed.

“Just think,” says Bulldog, “there’s a road here now.  The Rebel soldiers used to climb this slope with all their equipment before it was paved.”

“Che Guevara used to climb it with asthma,” I say, conscious of being a wimp.

“He climbed Turquino too, with his backpack and everything.”  The highest point in Cuba, Pico Turquino is a two day hike in tropical conditions.  (It is unlikely that I will ever climb Turquino.)

“On a diet of crushed river crabs.”  I suppose it’s better than lard, I think darkly, remembering the Bolivian Diaries and their litany of lard based meals.

For the rest of the descent, we talk in first names: Fidel and Che, Celia, Camilo and Raúl, evoking the potent mythology of this little band who fought in these mountains.

For a tour of Fidel’s house and a special performance by the Quinteto Rebelde, check out this reportage by the BBC’s Michael Voss (who got to go there by mule).

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