We left Havana in our rental car for a two night stay in Ceinfuegos, a three-hour drive southeast to a coastal town. As we left the city we passed the port, and realized we somehow missed one of the most touristy areas, complete with a cruise ship. Somewhat shocked, I glanced past a few buildings and recognized the Plaza de Armas where we lunched just a few days prior. It’s one of the downfalls of exploring on our own armed with only a map and a guide book. I had wanted to ride the hop on/off bus, but decided against it without the security of credit card access for Americans. For me it’s a valid reason to return to Havana by the end of the year.
As we searched for the Autopista entry ramp, we got lost in a shady part of town. I watched locals pick through trash and gaze at us, the crazy tourists driving in circles. With the help of our iPad GPS map we finally found it, although in a roundabout way and no noticeable signs. Hitchhikers stood on the side of the highway, hands extended with pesos or bananas in exchange for a ride.
We passed horse-drawn carriages carrying wood and supplies, trucks packed with agricultural labor workers, skinny cows, goats, and revolution signs displaying Fidel’s picture and occasionally Fidel and Chavez in unity. I felt like the revolution was still occurring, although it’s been 57 years. We dodged a few potholes and stopped at a roadside grill for a bite to eat. My husband enjoyed a grilled ham and cheese sandwich for a few pesos while I opted for my pre-packed American protein bar. The bathroom was the typical toilet no seat, sit on the rim or squat and bring your own tissue. I was prepared.
Our open-aired Jagua hotel was a welcomed gem on the outskirts of the city. We spent a relaxing evening strolling the neighborhood and our hotel. They offered a buffet dinner, and although average it was perfect for our mood. As always I was craving veggies and nibbles of bread and cheese. Oh, and the sinful cake and ice cream.
We enjoyed live Rumba at the outdoor bar. The band didn’t really interact with the audience, so I went on stage and danced with the aging singer. He seemed thrilled and I tipped him at the end of the night. The following evening he reached out to the crowd choosing a lady or two to join him for a dance. Perhaps I taught him a thing or two about American tourists, allowing him to profit more.
I explored the town a bit more during my morning run. It seemed quaint but nothing noteworthy, except I was still in Cuba and loving every moment. We’d spend the day in Trinidad, a short one hour drive through hills and along the coast to a well-preserved colonial town. The two-lane highway seemed like a rollercoaster at first, winding up and down hills and around corners. As I was reading my Lonely Planet guide and not paying attention, my husband screamed “Land Crabs.”
I glanced up and thousands of crabs were crossing the road, getting crushed in the process. There was no stopping the massacre. Traffic in front of us mulled through them, and we couldn’t stop. I felt every crunch and cringed. For this vegetarian it was a nightmare. It smelled of death.
My husband was equally mortified and he said, “They’re raising their claws in defense.” He tried to swerve, but it didn’t matter.
We parked in town and walked along cobble stone streets. Cute artist shops lined the road alongside open-aired homes. Many had TV’s and basic furniture, but they seemed small. We found our way to Plaza Mayor, the cultural center. It was filled with music, greenery, arts and crafts markets, and plenty of privately owned restaurants.
I spotted an interesting pirate statue and asked my partner to take a photo of me standing next to it. He moved.
“Holy crap, you had me fooled.”
He stood for a photo and kissed my hand.
We wandered around town browsing artistic souvenirs and strolled through an archaeological museum. Lunch on a balcony above live music was superb. We weren’t in a hurry, and Trinidad had a good vibe. It wasn’t as crowded as I expected, or as it should be for such an interesting town.
Back in Cienfuegos we met a friendly Cuban lady who exchanged some Cuban pesos for an American dollar. I wanted to take home local currency since the government was in the process of unifying the two currencies and switching everyone to convertible pesos. I also gave her lotions and shampoo I no longer needed since we were leaving the following morning. We had to plan our trip carefully to make it back to the Havana airport for a noon departure.
The first three hours of driving was uneventful. Then our directions took us through a small but busy town with unmarked roads, a sketchy GPS, and a rental car about to break down. We could see the runway, finally finding our way to terminal 2. We parked, gave an employee our keys, and hurried to check-in. Our flight was leaving in less than an hour and the line was long. I waited among the crowd as my husband returned to CubaCar to collect our deposit.
The boarding process aboard Havana Air was chaotic and lacked any reasonable procedure. It’s the norm, I learned from a Cuban-American who worked at the US embassy. We departed a half hour late, with no pesos left except for my Cuban souvenirs. The adventure was well worth it and we were back in Miami forty-five minutes later, with a renewed sense of the Cuba Vibre.