alpha climbing founder and owner Aaron Hjelt visited Cuba for 10 days in early 2019 to explore the climbing, experience the culture, and meet the local climbing community. Here is a reflection of his trip. This is part 1 of 2 posts Aaron will publish about the trip. The second will be devoted to the planning and logistics of a climbing trip to Cuba. Coming soon!

Cuba will be a component of the itinerary for our 2020 Winter Quarter in North America: sport climbing in Cuba, Northern Mexico, and Arizona.

In Cuba, there are old cars everywhere. It’s true. Why? I’m not really sure. I try not to ask “why” when I’m travelling. It gets too confusing and too complicated. And, it seems arrogant. I’ll never know why Fidel Castro and Che Guevara joined forces to topple the Batista dictatorship in the late 1950s, but perhaps, I can learn how Cubans keep 60 year old cars on the road. On roads that haven’t been maintained in 60 years. It’s way easier to learn how a world famous Cuban cigar is made, than to understand the complexities of trade embargoes. I’m not advocating an “ignorance is bliss” approach to learning about other cultures. Rather, I’m suggesting that learning how other cultures take on the struggle of being alive helps to develop empathy. Asking why seems to lead, more often, to judgement.

Cuba is an island surrounded by mystique. There is so much “why” to ask regarding Cuba’s existence. The paradox is that Cuba is one of the U.S.A.’s closest neighbors, just 90 miles from Key West, Florida. Yet, we know so little about it.

Maybe a better “why” to ask is, “why go to Cuba?”

I had barely considered Cuba as a climbing destination for alpha climbing programs (or myself, for that matter) until December ‘18, when a potential opportunity to guide there presented itself. I hurriedly went to work unearthing logistical details, travel restrictions, flight itineraries, and the general pitfalls awaiting an unscrupulous international traveler. What became immediately apparent was that Cuba wants visitors. As an American, it seemed that I was wanted, also. Everything about my research convinced me that, 1) visiting Cuba would provide insight into a very strained foreign relationship (with one of our closest neighbors, nonetheless); 2) the rock climbing would be very unique, especially when compared to what the U.S.A. has to offer; and, 3) I could help the Cuban climbing community by bringing donations and spreading the word about what this amazing island has to offer climbers.

Rich greens and orangish brown earth blanketed the countryside surrounding the airport as my plane landed on a rainy day in late January. I didn’t see much else of the island due to heavy clouding. I immediately guessed that the island is very fertile, ready to grow just about anything. Although I don’t know much about farming, the deep color of the soil moaned for tilling, planting, and harvesting. Other than the infamous cigar, I had’t heard much about their agricultural since the U.S. does not import anything due to the 60 year-old trade embargo. Looking at the endless fields of who-knows-what, I spotted what appeared to be a farmer plowing his field with the help of oxen. This trip would be an eye opener.

Upon my arrival in Havana, I knew very little Cuban history. Sure, I was familiar with the revolutionaries Fidel Castro and Ernesto “Che” Guevara, but I hadn’t paid too much attention to the remarkable differences between the U.S.A. and our island neighbor. The two moments that I’ve been taught to regard are October 23, 1492, the date that is thought to be Christopher Columbus’s landing in the Bay of Bariay; and January 1, 1959, the day that President Fulgencio Batista fled Cuba in exile after Castro’s revolutionary army rebels ousted Batista’s authoritarian regime. Beyond this, I don’t really know any facts. I don’t know specifically how the arrival of Columbus changed life for the natives, other than subjecting it to Spanish rule within a few years. History informs us of the genocide and disease that Europeans brought, followed by slavery, independence from Spain, and then, fairly recently, revolution. This short synopsis fails to mention the previous 3000 or so years of human inhabitation, as well as the impressive geological history that shaped the landscape.

What I do understand, is that all of this history leads right up to the moment my drone gets confiscated by 3, 20-something female immigration officers wearing short skirts and fishnet stockings (I did get the drone back upon my departure). After they kindly reassured me that I wasn’t being arrested, and had gently packaged my drone for safekeeping in a giant canvas bag, I was on my way. Waiting for me was a 1950’s Buick. It was pink. History is crazy.

My driver floored the pedal through the evening traffic as I tried to take in a first impression. It was warm, tropical, and humid. There were people everywhere — on bikes, in the middle of the street, & riding busses. It felt chaotic, but this is usually the way it feels upon landing in the middle of a new culture. And it did feel new. Completely different, with its own blood and pulse.

My taxi driver John delivered me to my Airbnb home in Habana Vieja (old town Havana) safely and armed with plenty of knowledge to start my trip. He even helped me carry my bags up the stairs. I felt welcome.

Cubans are outwardly passionate, loving, and extroverted. They kiss in public and don’t hide their affection. As in many latin countries, you will be expected to do the kiss thing when meeting. I don’t really know if this applies to everyone, but every female I met came in close. I try to aim for the ear lobe when I partake in this greeting. It can be awkward. I just try to make the kissing sound without too much mess. Sometimes I get it right, but usually I pucker too hard and it probably sends a sharp pain to her eardrum. This is just the beginning of the affection, though. Cubans aren’t afraid to spontaneously sing, dance, yell, jump, or let out emotions in ways which Americans proclaim to be “immature” or “inappropriate.” I don’t know why we are taught to repress ourselves so much. We’re so afraid of crossing a line at risk of offending, or playing the fool.

After receiving a very warm greeting by the mother (and her two adult daughters) of the house I had chosen on Airbnb, I took to the streets by foot to see and hear if Havana could live up to its reputation for nightlife. It was around 10pm. It was a Monday night. I didn’t expect too much. My expectations were quickly dismissed by drums, jazz, dancing, and a quintessentially Cuban mojito. If you want to dance, go to Havana and walk a few blocks. There is music everywhere, most hours of the day. The rhythm that fills the city barely lets off into the late night. Some of it is live with bands with their musicians in all white suits belting out bossanova. You don’t need to know how to salsa, but it helps. In the clubs at night, and blasting from cars and houses during the day, is the ubiquitous Reggaeton sound.

The next day, I roamed the streets of Havana, taking photos and observing. I got the sense that tourism was wanted, but also corralled or directed. I only had to walk a few blocks off the main streets to get lost in the daily lives of the city. In doing so, I was usually ignored. I can’t imagine anyone thinking I was a local. My initial impression from the night before, that of being welcome, quickly changed to a feeling of contrition. I was an invader, an exploiter. To go to someone else’s home to observe is really just an act of voyeurism. As tourists, we hide behind thinly veiled excuses of wanting to bridge cultures or gain understanding, but we often just come out as gawkers. There will always be a line between travelling somewhere to observe (most likely passing judgement) or to participate (most likely supporting). It’s impossible to participate fully unless we completely assimilate. I forced myself to put my camera away in order to just walk.

Cubans are very savvy on this, too. They make a business out of it for good reason. Currently, two economies exist in Cuba: the Cuban peso and the Cuban Convertible Peso (CUC). The CUC is based on the US dollar, and is 1:1. Cuban citizens get paid in their peso, which is approximately 25:1 on the CUC. The tourism economy is built on the CUC and very reflective of daily cost-of-living in the US. To simplify, Cuban wages don’t even touch the value of the CUC, so anything they can do to to acquire CUC, they’ll be open for business. So while I might have been mostly ignored while walking the back streets and alleys, every five minutes or so, I was approached by a Jineteros (Jineteras for females), hustlers. They were just trying to sell me something: cigars, prostitutes, hats, flowers — or trying to get me to go to a bar for an overpriced drink. It seemed that everyone in Cuba is an entrepreneur trying to get the golden ticket: the CUC. I don’t blame them at all. As an entrepreneur myself, I admired the hustle. But it got exhausting. I couldn’t talk to anyone. I couldn’t engage, just for fear of being hustled. It wasn’t that I didn’t feel safe (crime is actually very low in Havana), it just made me feel lonely. How was I to learn about Cuba. Did this mean I had to pay for every experience?

Back to 1959 for now, as this is the year visitors need to consider when taking in current life in Cuba. On January 1, 1959, Castro’s revolution took over and daily life changed almost instantaneously. I didn’t see what happened during the revolution of the 1950’s or the years to follow, but I can see that development and progress are in the eye of the beholder. I met a handful of Cubans during the course of my trip with whom I was able to speak with about life through the revolution, leading up to current times. Trying to wrap my head around Castro’s Cuba is very perplexing. For example, farmers aren’t allowed to slaughter their ox, since the state owns said ox. However, if there is an “accident” (maybe it gets hit by a bus), then the farmer can kill it and butcher it. One of the local climbers I met told stories of his grandfather’s barber shop. In 1958, it was prospering. In 1959, the state confiscated all of his equipment, down to his last razor. I learned of 85 year old farmers, who owned an American made tractor in 1958, and for the past 60 years, has plowed and tilled with a team of oxen. He still has hope that he’ll get his tractor back.

I wasn’t alive in 1959 Cuba, but 2019 Cuba looks very similar, as I’m told. The architecture, infrastructure, cars — so much of it looks like it’s from the 1950s. I can’t explain it. It would be completely arrogant for me to hold an opinion on it.

Besides the 1950s look, another notable visual experience was not seeing commercial advertising, of any kind. No billboards, street advertising, signs on cars or busses. Nothing. The only signage to be seen has to do with the promotion of the Revolucíon. Now celebrating the 60th anniversary, this was a frequent theme in the propaganda. I was surprised to see the iconic stylized image of Che Guevara plastered about so frequently. I thought this was a cliché hipster tourist thing, but he really does seem to represent the romantic notion of resistance. I almost bought a Che t-shirt, but I own too many t-shirts.

After a few days in Havana, I met my friend Katie from Bozeman at the bus station, and we made our way to Viñales, home to some of the wildest limestone sport climbing in North America. It also turns out that Viñales is an international tourist destination. Our bus was filled with Germans, French, Dutch, British, and others. As we left Havana, it was quickly revealed to me that Cuba is a very mountainous island. I had no idea, since Southern Florida is a swamp.

Entering Viñales for the first time is like stumbling upon Eden. It’s paradise. This is the kind of place where humans can prosper. It’s fertile, warm, sunny, rainy, and begs for habitation. You could run around naked and eat from trees, except snakes are pretty rare. The day we chose to arrive was magnificent: clear blue sky, warm sun, slight breeze. The horses took their cues and stood majestically while shaking their tails, and small children kicked a ball around in the grass, barefoot, of course. Life was happening in a picture perfect way, free of Instagram and capitalism. And then, after we rolled into Viñales, the “Valley of Silence,” everything was a little less tranquil.

Viñales is bustling. It’s vibrant. Tourism has taken over, and all of the residents want the CUC. The economy was so good in this little village (relatively), that residents of Havana would commute the 3.5 hour bus ride to work for a week. As we exited the bus, we were immediately mobbed by home owners hoping to rent us a room. It would be quite possible to arrive in Viñales without a place to stay, and have a bed in 5 minutes. By and large, this is how most Cubans make any substantial money. Hosting visitors in a spare bedroom for a few days can bring in more income than what a physician makes in a month. I don’t know why. I was just happy to have a relatively inexpensive place to stay, and with an incredibly friendly and gracious family.

I found our Casa Particular (family house) on Airbnb with the primary agenda of being close enough to walk everywhere. Although renting a car is possible, it’s expensive, and seems like a bit of a gamble. The bus was cheap and taxis are readily available, and willing, so I negated the risk of renting a car rather quickly. This tuned out fine, as we rarely had inconvenience with getting a ride.

The family we lived with for a week consisted of three generations. The grandmother ran the house. This was obvious. She had the largest presence there, even though the house was Casa de Antonio (named after the grandfather). Since we were gone most of the day, we didn’t spend much time with them, but we were able to communicate with our rudimentary Spanish and learn a few things about the area.

For a small town, I couldn’t believe how much noise Viñales made. Around 5 in the morning, we start to hear the clack-clack-clack of horse hooves pulling a buggy down the street. By 6, trucks and busses would be rumbling past. And by 7, the town was up, singing, selling produce, sending their kids to school; the normal cacophony of a small rural village. There was an onion and garlic seller who would stroll through the street in the morning, singing something about cebolla y ajo. He was selling onions and garlic, but this is all I could figure out.

When I travel to climb rocks, climbing becomes a conduit through which I can explore the world, meet interesting humans, and practice a moving meditation on an ancient surface. I look at this as being very practical and hardly spiritual. I guess it’s also existential, but I didn’t do very well in the 2 philosophy classes I took in college, so let’s just stick with the practical experience of travel. Planning and training for travel increases the potential for all of the aforementioned experiences to occur. They all were occurring while in Cuba, until my stomach decided to stop cooperating with my performance objectives. I got a bug (which almost never happens), and it sucked the motivation out of me. Travelling to climb is great when everything is going well, but eventually, the complexity of life causes set backs. Fortunately, our house mom had the cure: a few pills of Metronidazole. My bowels regained some predictability in a few days. Although I did lose strength and motivation to climb hard, getting grounded for a few days was a reality check, and a reminder to practice more caution with hand washing and other methods of disease prevention.

The climbing was otherworldly. As a professional gym route setter for 15 years, I would often hear the quips gym clientele expertly proclaiming, “well there’s nothing like that in nature,” when faced with three-dimensional roof climbs. These climbers haven’t been to Cuba. In my goal to find this type of climbing in nature, Cuba provided. The geology is jaw dropping. Huge rounded domes called mogotes guard Viñales to the north. Some rise 1000’ above the surrounding farmland. Nearly every mogote has an exposed rock face on it, and all of these have 3-D karstic features on them. We sampled a different crag every day we climbed. They all had a different characteristics, technical aspects, and physical demands. By and large, what makes Viñales climbing notable is the gym-like features that flow from the rock: massive stalactites, tufa, and other speleothem. Some walls are as large as 200m, with flowstone features prominent the whole way. To the intrepid route developer, there exists endless potential, limited mostly by the severity of bushwhacking. To get to the rock, you must first brave the jungle. You also need a lot of hardware that isn’t readily available in Cuba. It all has to be carried in. Without getting too much into the nuances of the labor involved, assessing the personal investment of both the local route developers, as well as the international climbers who have joined in, is impossible. There is an incredible amount of climbing here, despite the odds against it. When rock this featured is in full view of human civilization, it is asking to be climbed.

Surrounding the mogotes, in every direction as far as one can see, are lush fields of tobacco leaves. Where there isn’t a blanket of green, the deep red soil opens up the earth for a new crop to grow. Every evening, the sun would cast its glow on the farmers harvesting the massive leaves. After cutting the leaves, they gathered them together before draping the bundles over large a-frame structures to dry in the warm Caribbean sun.

Guarding one such field, on the path to one of the crags, is Clara’s house. I’d guess Clara to be around 65 or 70. She’s lived in Viñales for 40 years. She rolls cigars, tends to the chickens, keeps the house, and watches over the family. Clara doesn’t speak english, but knows how to make foreigners feel welcome, with strong coffee and easy conversation. She pulled us into her (nearly) open air kitchen, quickly heated water over a wood flame, and produced a batch of organic “pour over” that even the snobbiest hipster would appreciate. Then we had shots of rum and puffed on a handmade cigar while we watched her roll them with ease. The light from the setting sun was pouring in the window and the occasional stray chicken would interrupt the tranquillo. It was then that I felt the “silence” that this valley is known for. No electricity, no internet, and none of the intrusion that comes along with these conveniences. We were not connected to anything at the moment other than this genuinely cheerful human being who we were getting a little buzzed with. After leaving Clara’s we walked back into town, past the ballfields where the local baseball team was practicing. More barefoot boys running in the grass and wrestling when their coach’s back was turned to them.

Two days before we left Viñales, we rented a scooter to drive to the beach. It was cheap, about $20 for 24 hours plus a deposit. We thought it would be a casual ride. After leaving the village, we found out why riding a scooter to the beach isn’t a normal tourist thing. On the way there, we took the route recommendation of a local, the most “direct” way. It was a rough ride, with potholes and lack of pavement for most of the 60 km way (which took 2 hours). Our sit bones were wrecked by the time we got there. Cayo Jutías was nice. It was paradise for a few hours, but the mosquitos made it a little less relaxing. While I lay in the sand, reading my Kindle and giving of myself to the thriving bug population, I felt the dread of possibly dying in a scooter accident. So after a few hours, and with our daylight window slowly closing, we mounted our 150cc Honda and throttled it back to Viñales. When we hit the junction at Santa Lucia, Katie and I were both thinking the same thing, “let’s take the other way back.” As I cautiously navigated our rental around the 2 foot deep potholes on a road that hadn’t seen repairs in 60 years, I realized we were quickly getting off the tourist track. Traffic was few and far between, with horse-drawn carriages being the norm. Farmers waved to us. So did the horses. To our right was the dramatic uplift of the Sierra de los Organos, and to our left, the Carribbean Sea, with the U.S.A. barely over the horizon. We seemed to have magically transported to a time that didn’t seem to care much about the rest of the world. As the sun drooped lower and lower, the greens got greener, the red soil got redder, and I wanted to let it hang there, suspended in time for a little bit longer than I knew I would get. It was a perfect moment, but as the sun finally dropped and the chill and bugs slammed against us, I was reminded that we don’t live in a perfect world. Humanity is filled with conflict. Our contempt for each other makes the sun set faster than it ought to and casts clouds in front of the glow.

On that sunset stretch of backroads Cuba, I found myself not questioning anything and also not attaching much reaction to anything I saw. Here was someone else’s life. I was present to see the beauty of it, and that was it.

Check out a full photo gallery of Aaron’s trip here.

How the Sun Sets in Cuba