The Cuba Story, part 6, Iguana Island

The big day came. I woke up early. The shower had not changed. I stepped in the shower as Astroboy and came out as Wolverine. Combing did help a little but the tilley hat was the final solution.

The thought had been floating in my mind the whole weekend. No advance reservation. Cary said to just show up and pay at 8:30am. I was well ahead of the game. I was up early and had my breakfast in the buffet hall. A hard boiled egg, some omelet egg and sausages and a couple of glasses of freshly squeezed orange juice, one of the best I have ever tasted. I walked out feeling satisfied, not full, just the way I wanted it for an active day. I had made sure to make it to breakfast this morning. The breakfast buffet opened from 7am to 9:30am so you would have to get up early for it. If you had partied into the night until 3am, forget the breakfast. You might as well go straight to lunch. I had in fact already missed two breakfasts over the previous four days. Today was different. I woke up early. I had a mission: the island. What natural wonder would unfold before your eyes. Like a box of chocolate. You never know what you'd gonna get! The island would be my box of chocolate of the day. Maybe a Turtle kind box of chocolate. If there were a more exquisite box, it would be it also.

Cary was at her desk. Another couple was discussing things with her. New arrivals maybe? I had not seen them before. I did not pay attention perhaps. Maybe they were Canadians too. I waited, then 43 pesos later, Cary gave me directions to the marina. I was on my way to Iguana Island. The couple that just left would be leaving for the island too I was told. Sweet. Some company. There were two catamarans there at the marina she also said. Go to the right one. One would take you to Cayo Blanco, the other to Iguana Island. 8:30am. I did not want to be late. I knew exactly where it was as I was there just a day ago.

I arrived at the marina, showed my receipt to the tourist desk. "The right catamaran," he pointed lazily. I knew where it was. Four people were already on the dock, waiting. "Are you guys going to the Iguana Island?" I asked the first couple I saw. Maybe they were those I just saw at Cary's desk? I did not pay attention. They are from Toronto or Mississauga, I could not remember. The guy's name was Zaks. I had to ask a few times to get it right. Jack was it? No, "Zaks," he corrected me. Zaks sounded like some TV personality name, in Degrassi High? That got imprinted into my memory. The girl's name was an easy name to remember. Why do girls have easy names? It was too easy I did not try use image associations. Easy come easy go. Her name fell into a crack of my memories. They were a nice couple. All the couples I have met were nice so far and they were all young, around 30 years of age. I then listened on two a conversation to my left. These two Canadians seemed to be the only couple on the dock that spoke English. Maybe the other older couple to my left were locals. Maybe Spanish tourists. Who knows. I would not be talking to them on this trip. Oh well.

I came prepared for the eight hours in the sun. Not only did I have my SPF 45 sunscreen lotion in my backpack, I also brought a shirt with me. The Canadian girl had only her t-shirt on. She will get burned I thought. I was wearing a t-shirt this morning but planned to don a shirt over it later when the sun has climbed to its azimuth point. The t-shirt would have been fine but as I found out the hard way from my hike the previous day, it was useless if I sweated profusely. UV rays would burn right through my t-shirt where it clang tight to my body. I got whiplashed. A red band of sunburn had been painted across my upper chest, on my lower belly, on my upper back. I had gone to bed without a t-shirt on. I normally wear a t-shirt to bed. Sleeping half-naked seemed odd but not yesternight. Even with the A/C on, my body felt warm without a blanket. I had to save this couple. I gave them advice about sunburns. We shared some stories of our adventures, my adventures into Trinidad, my adventures around the resort.

8:55am. I checked my camera. Not that I needed to, but it felt good to hold it. It fits nicely in the palm of your hand. It felt powerful. Everyone would ask about it when they see it. They would readily assume you are a professional. "Professional" means I make money off my photos. Well, I do not. Photography is just a hobby. A hobby, they would ask? Yes, an expensive hobby. My heavy backpack had everything I needed for a day of photography. The island would meet the world and the world would meet the island after today. The iguanas would like me too. I had packed my Tokina 80-400mm lens again just in case iguanas did not like invading turistas too much. At 400mm they would not know I was even there. I also packed my macro lens apparatus. I was ready for every scenario.

Everyone seemed happy on the dock. Everyone had a smile. We would be on the water very soon. Another couple joined us on the dock. Great, more company. This would be fun indeed. Out of the corner of my left eye, I caught some movement. The captain of the catamaran turned up from the lower dock. I stood up and reached for my backpack. Made eye contact with the captain. Maybe he was not the captain. "Boat is broken," he declared in a Cuban accent. Huh? What boat? What broken boat? "Sorry?" I needed to hear that again. "Boat to iguana island is broken," he repeated. "We cannot go ...". In a matter of a minute, his simple English broke my excitement in half. My plan of the day was drowning in the water. "You can go on the other catamaran. To Cayo Blanco. Same price. 43 pesos," he offered. The other option was to return to the resort and get a refund. We stood on the dock, speechless. Unbelievable! Just my day. Just when I wanted to visit the island. Why today? Why me. I stood there on the dock, thinking. What to expect on "Blanco". Maybe it was not a bad option. Are there iguanas on Cayo Blanco? I can do snorkelling too? I had to enquire with the captain before making my decision. There would be some iguanas he assured. He had to concede however that the beach would not be as nice. Small beach in fact. A minute passed. I vocalized my thought processes. I made my decision. A long way back. The Canadian couple followed suit.

Cary would be in the lobby. She just returned from the marina herself she said. She must have a car I thought. Maybe they called her. How else did she know. I turned in the receipt for my 43 pesos refund. We were right not to go to Cayo Blanco she said. She was sorry about the mechanical failure. It was not her fault. At least, there was still the mountain excursion on Thursday. That lifted my spirit up. There was something else to look forward to. I would return to her desk on Wednesday to pay for the excursion. Done deal. I had a new plan.

Barely 9:30am. Today would be exploration in the jungle of Ancon. I had spoken with Cory and Helene about hiking the area, and about the theft along the beach. They had shown me the forest outside of the resort that they hiked. The little forest on the outskirt of the resort was not much of a forest but it does have palm and coconut trees. Tall grasses and a lot of vegetation. Some bugs. Tons of lizards. It would be my little jungle of Ancon.

Hopefully, something would happen in the jungle today as it will encounter my camera. I could spend hours here, exploring. I would conquer the jungle. At the entrance of the jungle was a deserted parking lot, behind the resort. Could there be another entrance in my jungle I wondered? I had done one survey in the area on my first day but maybe I had missed something. I walked around the perimeter of the parking lot again. It must be about 10,000 square meters. As luck would have it, I spotted my first subject of the day. A water fowl, I thought it was because of its relatively long legs, to wade in the water, although this parking lot is bone dry. There were evidence of water at one point though. I spent fifteen minutes chasing after this long legged waterfowl. For a small bird, probably twice the size of a golf ball, it was a Ben Johnson. I could not approach closer than couple of meters before it sensed danger and sprinted away. I stood still but the bird would not come my way. I followed it but it would keep its distance. It beat me at its game eventually. The heat was unbearable in the vast expansion of cracked dirt. It was a inhuman. I was being baked on a dry pan. I receded, leaving my footprints behind. The battle was decidedly lost but the war had yet to start. I pursued another goal, the jungle. I had paid a visit already to the jungle the previous day but did not enter far into it. The bandits were hiding in it I had imagined. Today I would venture deeper, much deeper. The bandits could not have been more than petty thieves. Some small kids. It was barely 10am. The sun was not as brutal as it could be. There were two tire tracks. I followed it. I raised my lens only once to catch a small yellow bird with greenish wings on a branch. Two hours later, I ended up near a beach. Cory and Helene were strolling down by the water. We talked some more. They left. Then I left. The jungle won.

I sweated my way back to the resort. The thought of hiking in this forsaken jungle was revolting. I just wanted to rest. "Kucola, please," I asked the bartender on this beachfront bar. He handed over an orange cola and a plastic cup. No kucola. I took it and walked to a beach table underneath a palm umbrella. I had to pay 75 cents for the cola. It was not part of the resort, I found out. What a ripoff. It seemed like a part of the resort but it was not. Deception. I don't trust Cubans. I gave them a peso. I sat there looking out into the sea. Then Louis, Susana, and Carolina came into view. Why did I keep on running into them I wondered. They were going kayaking. I did not want to join. I was too exhauted and dehydrated after two hours in the jungle.

As soon as they left, I returned to my room and napped. My lower legs were dangling off the bed. It was barely 11:30am. A few knocks on the door. The maids. Go away, I told her in my head. I got up and opened the door. "Please, come in..." She might as well finish her job now rather than doing second rounds. I was in the room. No peso today. I did not feel sorry. I had given her a second peso on Monday already. I wondered what she would think. I did not care. My eyes were closed. She finished her work in a hurry since I was laying dead on the bed.

Close to 12:30pm. I felt somewhat refreshed. I went to eat alone. Just as I was finishing up, some laughters caught my attention. The voices sounded familiar. There again, I ran into them. Mark, Louis, Susana and the daughter were having lunch next to me. Louis was cracking jokes. The two girls would need a tummy massage afterwards, I imagined. I was glad Carolina was having fun as I believed she had a fight with her mom just the previous day. I invited myself to their table and recommended the fish. It was fried just right today, however way they made it. It got Mark's approval. Mark took culinary lessons in high school.

As lunch came to an end, the mountains came into discussion. I had reviewed the details of the excursion. I had preached about going to the mountains for a couple of days. The group would like to visit the mountains too but exactly where would the excursion have taken us? I had no idea. Louis had no idea. No one did. Carolina was the boss. She wanted to go. She wanted to go right away. Louis would rent a car and we would just go. Just go. Go where exactly? Just go by ear, Louis would say. I would prefer a plan since the mountain sounded big to me but I had no problem with it as long as someone speaks Spanish. I had known Louis could speak some to get us out of trouble. Susana is from Ecuador but it might appear she had been away a little too long. I bought into the idea. We would hit the road and create our own adventure. Perfect. My day would be saved after all.

An hour later, we were in a rental car, a Huyndai, a stick shift. I never drove a stick shift before. No one had experience except for Louis so we knew who would have to drive. We set sail. The wind would take us where it blew. Freedom in Fidel's backyard.

Twenty minutes later, we were in Trinidad then jumped onto the road to Cienfuegos. The road would hang close to the Caribbean Sea, to its left, then it veered north-west toward the inland. We passed by a range of mountains on our right. Were those the mountains we wanted to explore? They already behind us. Were we going in the wrong direction? We had not map. We were going where no turista had gone before. Maybe Louis had an undisclosed plan. Maybe he wanted to surprise Susana and Carolina. Susana had said she wanted to see Cienfuegos. Why not, my iguanas were not going to happen. Cienfuegos was an hour plus away, but the ride felt shorter. I had wished we could stop for photo shooting but it would have taken us three hours then. The fly-by scenery was exotic. Farmers and bulls working the fields. Cowboys shaded under their hats. Homemade carriages with one horsepower. Homes of the countryside. A shrimp hatchery. Fields of corn. Fields of coconut trees. Fields, lots of fields. Hitch hikers. Bus stops. Industrial chimneys and thick black smoke, probably not as polluting as our own thousands of smoke stacks in North America. Some signs of communism. Not much of Fidel around here. Not a single poster of Fidel. Maybe Raul took them down? Nah. Fidel probably had no interest in promoting his image in the countryside.

6:20pm, we entered the border of Cienfuegos, a city of far cry wealth compared to Trinidad. An upscale Trinidad, Cienfuegos showed signs of progress. It was bustling with people and activities on the street. Cienfuegos showed off more prestige than Trinidad. I wondered how La Habana would be like. It must be an upscaled Cienfuegos.

We stopped inside a roundabout when Louis rolled down the windows and started enquiring for directions. "[something] por aqui?" he asked this Cuban on a bike. The fifteen minute conversation was all greek to me. Louis explained later the Cuban was trying to rent his casa for the night instead of answer our questions. He was very persistent but finally showed us the way. We cruised through the city along the north shore. Along the waters were some ships. Cienfuegos must be a major port of Cuba. A small port though. One end of the city to the other took no more than 10 minutes.

Then it was already dinner time. 6:50pm. It looked like we were not going to make our 7pm reservation back at Ancon and Cienfuegos looked exciting. There was no rush getting back and I wanted to stay for dinner. Lobster would be good. I had remembered to treat Louis to a lobster dinner. This would be it.

While Susana went into a hotel to obtain a turista brochure and I used the baño of the hotel, Louis and Mark were roaming the streets. A Cuban capitalist on his banana seat bike had offered a great deal, a lobster dinner for 10 pesos. 2000km from home, we were up for some experience with Cuban cuisine, so we agreed to follow him. The capitalist slithered down the street. We followed him in second gear, twenty metres behind when we decided to stop to take pictures of a blue house. We lost the capitalist. The capitalist lost us. We were too good of a catch to let go. He had made a turn somewhere. We were not sure. Seconds later, there he was, he had turned around looking for us on his banana seat bike.

We arrived at the restaurant. The capitalist would receive two pesos for the referral. I think he got the short end of the stick. Some of us walked in, walked out. I walked in, checked out the place. It was a home. The restaurant was in their 14'x14' kitchen. They had made some renovation it seemed. It looked like a fish house restaurant. A fishnet hung on one side of the kitchen with some collection of fishing paraphernalia. A bar on another side. It looked like a tight squeeze. It was already hot. This little square would feel like a furnace. We decided to stay and try out their lobster. The lady of the house turned the fan on for us. It helped a little.

Another bull's eye. The lobster was the size of my hand, nicely grilled, served with rice and some vegetables. It was delicious. We had a drink of mango juice as well, sweeter than any mango I had tasted thus far. No sugar. All natural. Cubans really have the best fruits, I thought. I am sure South-East Asia grows these sweet mangos as well. As we finished our dinner, the chef came out. I thought he was the chef. He looked like a chef, a burly one. Heavy booming voice. He looked like a nice and sincere Cuban. Very open it would appear. He also said I look like his father. Huh? Did I look that old? Maybe the tilley hat did not coif down my Wolverine hairdo. Ok, sure. I has some family or friend in Vancouver he also said. Sure, whatever. He could not tell me exactly where. I used to live in Vancouver. I did not tell him that. He spoke some English, that was good.

It was a great dinner. We spent almost an hour at his home. The lobster was so big most of us could not finish it. I never leave my dish unfinished, unless I cannot keep it down my esophagus. I finished mine. I was satisfied and full. We would then have a flan. It was super sweet, sweeter than the pile mango sugar we had ingested earlier. Dinner was fantastic. We paid. I paid for Louis. I would never forget that he saved my vacation. It was nearly 8pm. We were getting to head out and party then return to Trinidad. The sun was obviously setting as the street got darker, but it did not instill that dreadness of the Trinidad streets of my first day. We were ready to leave and then some more Spanish started to flow between Louis, Susana, Carolina and the burly chef. The mood suddenly changed. The air felt a little more intense. What was going on? I looked at Mark. He seemed to pick up some words. He knew a little more Spanish than I. Something to do with "crabs", "road", "Trinidad". Ok, so? Then, mugging and killing. What? I got bit and pieces from the translation. "Crabs" and "road" and "mugging"? What was he talking about? The chef would repeat in short bursts his cringing voice and gesture a couple of times with his thumb slicing across his neck. Over and over, he warned us not drive back to Trinidad at night. Millions of turistas had fallen to the hands of thugs on night roads. Some had even got killed over money, he explained. Thousands of crabs on the road from Cienfuegos to Trinidad would puncture your tire and that would be how these thugs would stop you on the road, then mug you. No, we must not take the road back tonight, too dangerous, he warned. We should stay overnight. He would have convinced one of us. It would be too risky he urged. If we were to leave now, that is, if we were to leave immediately, maybe we might make it back but even then, we would be testing our chances. Once we started our engine, there would be no stopping, no braking. We would have to drive all the way even with a flat tire. No stopping he said. All the way, until we find safe spot.

My brain was running a mile a second. His story sure scared some of us. Was he as sincere and truthful as he appeared? Appearance as we had learned in grade 9 can be deceiving. Louis had said he would not trust any Cubans either. These Cubans make 20 pesos a month. Cash was hard to come by. Can we trust this seemingly honest son of mine? I had my doubts but how could I relay this to my adventure companions without disrespecting my son? He spoke some English, yes? He might understand. Maybe not. I could only suggest that we verify these stories with the police. Some guy in beige uniform with a moustache and a cap behind some wooden counter would look into our eyes and say no. I knew somehow it would be relayed back to my son. He shook his head. The police was corrupted, cannot be trusted. Alright, I really just wanted to get out of there so we can discuss in private.

Mark wanted to leave immediately. Susana wanted to stay overnight. Carolina was just having a time of her life. She wanted to party in Cienfuegos. Louis was more seasoned. He had driven all over Cuba. He was neutral. Whatever decision the group made, he would go along. I considered our safety first.

We decided to leave, to get out of his home. His wife had offered their living room for the night, for free. "Free," the chef confirmed. That sounded tempting. I had no intention to sleep overnight in this restaurant. We decided to leave. The burly chef offered us a 3-foot machete for protection. Interesting, I thought. I could pass for a Bruce Lee if we in fact had to stop on the road to repair a flat tire. I know no karate but I have seen enough movies. Maybe that would scare off a Cuban punk. My brain was still running. I had a flashlight. I did not my pocket knife though. The flashlight would be useful if we had to repair a flat tire. I did not tell anyone I had a flashlight or anything else. What would the purpose be? It might just start to fuel some more imagination.

We could not stay even if we had wanted to. Louis said there might be some underground rentals. Without our passport, no Cubans could rent us a place for the night but the underground might, Louis explained. Not all of us carried our passport or a photocopy of. We thanked and took some pictures of the chef's family. He has a cute little boy, or what is a girl? I could not figure out. I did not want to ask. It might be rude. The kid had long hair. At their age, it looked like either. Louis checked the emergency tire. Yes, it was there. I thought about my camera bag. If we get mugged, they might not think about the trunk. I stowed the bag in there. We closed and locked the doors and off we went into the night.

The discussion continued in the car. If there were in fact thugs and thousands of crabs on the road, it would have been too late anyways, or would it simply get worse? It was already pitch dark. Thugs would hide in the dark. But there would always be cars traveling the route yes? We should just stay and party in town then. The scale tilted over. We decided to leave Cienfuegos. We would be home by 10pm, or thereabout. An hour an a half on the road. Maybe longer. It was dark. Would we see the road signs? Wait, there were virtually no road signs in Cuba. We had made one wrong turn already. It would be a long hour and a half as our eyes scanned the road, would not leave it. Susana was tense, I could feel a couple of feet away. I did not check but I knew she was up the whole trip back, buckled in her seat, hanging on to the door frame handle. She has a daughter to protect. Maybe that could play to our advantage if thugs came out. My eyes would be fixed on the road as well but I could not see much from the back seat. It would be up to Louis and Mark to spot the crabs. Mark would be the navigator. Louis was the captain. He would steer the boat off danger. The fun was over. Carolina fell asleep.

One crab. A second one. A third. A fourth. Maybe. Maybe they were crabs. Maybe they were our imagination. Maybe it would have been a good camping story if there were any truth in it. My son lost his machete.

We arrived at the resort around 10pm. We were exhausted. I had a small stomach ache. I hit the baño.

The day was over. It was a good lobster.