Part 8 - Rancho Luna to La Boca, Trouble with el Ministerio del Interior (Part 2)

We’d already been in Cuba for nearly two weeks, but it was only at Rancho Luna that we finally found ourselves on a real beach. We decided to take a day off there and reanalyse our situation. You will recall that in Gibara, Fisherman Buddy had warned us that we’d surely be stopped if we tried to leave the bay there, and in Cienfuegos we’d proven it. But the officer at the Frontera there had been so optimistic about our chances of gaining permission by applying at the International Marinas en route that we were quite keen to find one in Rancho Luna and try our luck.

As you will undoubtedly have guessed, there was no "International Marina" in Rancho Luna. We went to the little unmarked police station, much to the confusion of the officer on duty there, and we also went to the local dive shop, but no one in the village seemed to have the authority to grant us our permission, nor a clue as to what we were talking about.

On the other hand, this also seemed to indicate that no one had the authority to prevent us from paddling. Typically convenient specious logic, perhaps, but this is precisely the kind of thinking that had gotten us as far as we had.

Both for the sake of exploration and to see if anyone would object, on our second day in Rancho Luna we paraded all the way across the bay and up the river that empties into it on its far east side. This was, of course, not before enquiring several times with river fishermen about crocodiles.

The river was not navigable for more than a few kilometres, at which point it became hopelessly clogged with water plants, but neither on the way there nor on the way back did we see any official-looking posts or people, and certainly no one commandeered any boats to come and molest us. We happily concluded that that must be something that only occurs at major ports, and so we figured we could probably head right on out the next day and start going along the coast. If we got caught again we could just say we were perfectly aware we needed to get permission from an International Marina, and that we were actively seeking one out, and what better way than from the water? A ridiculous argument, but we counted on whoever caught us thinking we were stupid foreigners.

Besides, given the absence of one of these centres for marine empowerment in Rancho Luna, we surmised there probably wouldn’t be another until Casilda, the port nearest to the city of Trinidad.

The next morning we set out, but we experienced some frustrating delays packing. Our boats were stilled assembled from our little river exploration, which we thought would save us time, but the business of packing Jay’s guitar within the Pro Pack within the awkward holds of the Cooper kayak went differently than when the boat had been assembled around the packed guitar. In the end the Pro Pack and the guitar inside were strapped to the deck of Jay’s kayak, and I was happy for the delay because it gave the unreliable bread delivery guy time to find us on the beach and send us off with some of his fluffily flavourful yeasty feast.

And so, thus packed and tucked out, we set out for the sea again. The winds were low, and before long we’d cleared the bay. Rounding the point, our paddles dipped into the Caribbean itself, for the first time.

The water was perfectly transparent, and the sea bed was clearly visible: mostly white sand interspersed with intriguing patches of coral reef. The shoreline was long and straight, consisting almost exclusively of sharp, porous rock, and entirely inhospitable, looking as if it would shred any boat, let alone a skin-and-frame fold-up. There was a steady, large swell that would slowly bob us in and out of sight of each other. We shouted nervous jokes about how disastrous it would be if the weather took a bad turn: there was nowhere safe to land and the shore was quite exposed to the sea’s whimsy.

As it was, though, made for fantastic paddling, and after two or three hours we were rewarded with one of the coastal kayaker’s dreams turned into reality: an unspoilt and accessible-only-by-kayak beach.

It was populated only by a spear-fisherman patrolling the extensive coral there for fish and lobster. He had walked several miles from the road to hit the richness of the reef there. Plus, lobster fishing is mostly illegal: the state wants to control its reserves and serve it only to foreigners to keep its value high. The same is done with beef, but cows are harder to hide, I’ll bet. The spear-fisherman left soon after we arrived, having worked all morning and made a satisfactory catch.

We snorkelled there for a long while, amongst the architecturally labyrinthine coral, then we ate and relaxed in the shade. We didn’t know how far it was to the next place we’d be able to stay, but we thought we knew there’d be something at a place along there called Gaujimoco. Failing that, there was reputedly some sort of concrete shelter available for camping at Playa Ingles, further on. All distances were indeterminate. We couldn’t have been happier.

We set off again, and before long the rocks along the shore began to rise higher and we were regaled with dramatic cliff faces. At one point where the cliffs were particularly exquisite, there was a little inlet finishing snugly on a little beach. There were some smaller buildings up top on the left side of the inlet, a thin trail of smoke, and one man tending the fire, his back to the sea.

On the other side, perched high and arranged facing the sea, was some sort of extensive building complex. At some point in history, it had clearly been luxurious. It was difficult to say what its story was, what it was doing there.

As we turned in, we passed far under an old cable hanging from one cliff top to the other. It looked as if it had once held together a suspension bridge. Now people wishing to commute from one side to the other were obliged to descend steps carved into the rock all the way down to the cozy beach where Jay and I landed.

I reckoned that it used to be some rich mafia dude’s Cuban palace, and since then it had become a state-run resort. It didn’t surprise me that there was no one on the beach, for some reason. Low season? In any case, the right-hand or southern steps clearly lead to where the action was, so up we clambered. We didn’t really want to leave our kayaks alone, but neither of us could quell their curiosity enough to stay below with them.

By the time we’d made it to the top we could hear the dance music which was blaring from speakers near a swimming pool where young women in bikinis ran and splashed about. Two men surveyed the beatific scene, their backs to us.

After we garrotted the men, we took the women as our harem and installed ourselves in the mansion. We live there still.

Actually, we hailed the men, and one of them turned around. He had been in the middle of enjoying a joke with his companion, but his face dropped on seeing us, and he jabbed the other in the ribs with his elbow. They approached with sternly confused faces, and we approached bidding them jolly buenas tardes.

They demanded to know how we’d gotten there. Had we come on foot?

We owned up that we’d come by boat, and parried with "What is this place? A hotel?" (All our converse in poor Spanish.)

No, they replied, looking at each other, it’s a military base, and what boat?

Which is about when we started reversing direction. "Military, eh? Heh, heh. This is not Gaujimico? Heh... Yeah, which way is it to Gaujimoco, if you please, dear sirs?"

That distracted them a moment. The trick was to make sure they didn’t have time to realize that they should detain us and fetch an officer who might give us some cold war style grief. Or maybe these two were officers? What kind of base was it, anyway, with girls prancing around half-naked? How do we join the Cuban army?!

They began arguing about exactly how many more coves one had to pass going down the coast before one arrived at Gaujimoco. This was just before we redescended the stone steps to our boats. It is easy to imagine just how eager we were to get the heck out of there before someone with a more paranoid imagination came along, and the tension mounted as Jay had to fiddle with something or another before we could split. Meanwhile, the man who’d been tending to the fire on the other cliffside had noticed the little gathering and seemed to be racing down his steps to get to us.

But, he was just a fire-keeper type, and not a sadistic freelance inquisitor, and we waved as we pushed off and resolutely refused to turn our heads around until we were well along the coast.

Would they try to radio ahead, or signal the Coast Guard to go on high alert? Or would they take us for the dumb tourists that we were?

But we were in high spirits: we were at sea, and although were weren’t quite island-hopping like on our legendary Greek Expedition, still we had that uniquely folding experience of being self-contained and mobile.

Any form of transportation that avoids the necessity of a return to your starting point has the possibility of being a viable and efficient form of transportation. If it makes for interesting sport, too, it is raised in status to being thoroughly cool. Anyone that has had to use two cars to have one waiting downriver, or who has had to paddle back along the same route they’d gone out on, all to return the boat to a rental place with silly hours, they’ll know what I mean.

Cars are great such transport, when you have your own, but are frustratingly limiting on the water. I always thought multi-pitch, traditional gear climbing to be a quite impressive self contained transport... not the "traditional" with the hammers and pitons, but the modern "trad" climbing with removable protection like cams and friends. Then there’s descending cliffs or canyons without leaving any gear behind: e.g. absailing (rappelling) down one rope and then pulling on a second rope which unties the clever knot which was firmly keeping the first rope around a tree. Both ropes come tumbling neatly down when you yank on the second.

And then there’s folding kayaks that fit into a backpack. We had further fantasized about folding bicycles and folding bicycle carts, so that we could bike the portages and forays inland... But in Cuba I am thankful we were not so independent: our constant and necessary interaction with Cubans gave our days there a delightful and rich flavour.

That day at sea was the most savoury yet. There were at least two more breaks in the cliffs featuring beautiful coves with little isolated beaches before we saw, further on, a few small sailboats returning to what was evidently another inlet. Our reckonings and tired limbs conspired to reason that it must be Guajimoco. We pressed on as the sun sagged.

We finally arrived and entered. It was an absolutely perfect natural harbour for small boats, and beautiful. A long narrow entry with cliffs on either side opened up into a shallow lagoon. The left-side cliffs on the way in, and half of one side of the lagoon, were lined with little cottages, all of the same construction but painted in different pastel colours. It was calm, the sun’s light was late and golden, and there were very few people about. We grinned at each other: we couldn’t believe our eyes! We couldn’t have dreamt up a more perfect locale to end the day. There would be safe harbour, comfort, and hot food. At the same time, I remember feeling we thoroughly deserved some kind of reward for all our indomitable efforts.

There were a few people along one edge of the lagoon, looking at us in wonderment, and we paddled over to them, impatient and intent on finding out if there was actually any accommodation there.

The first and second members of the cast to greet us were clearly divers, and, judging by their gait and attire, they were guides and instructors, too. Muscular, long hair, wrap-around sunglasses, and all smiles. They greeted us and confirmed that it was indeed Guajimoco, and asked where the heck we’d come from in our queer crafts.

Jay and I answered with pride and probably in unison: "Rancho Luna!" - words that I can never help but utter with a slight drawl, and of course with fondness. And the Divemasters of Guajimoco gave us just the very words I never knew I always wanted to hear: "Rancho Luna? You guys are crazy!"

We grinned further, even more broadly, and one of them went on: "Wow, no one’s ever come into this place, from another place, in a kayak!"

Music to our ears. These guys knew how to make friends! Other men were there, too: at least one guy who looked like staff, and a couple of guys who had different security-type outfits.

Soon we found out that it was some sort of resort, and that all of the dozens of bungalows were full that night. Full! What about our cosmic reward? But they were not full the next night, which was interesting. The problem was that the little nearby village had no hotels, no casas, and no restaurants. Playa Ingles was considerably farther, and the sun was grabbing its coat and hat to go out. Shangri La, but it’s full.

However, there was some hope. There apparently might be a way to wangle something with the security guards. They had a dormitory, and if we slipped them twenty convertibles they’d let us sleep in a couple of the bunks, on the condition that we were out of their beds at seven a.m. Pretty unfavourable terms for us, but they had us by the talegas and everybody knew it.

We agreed, of course, but there was some other sort of complication that we had to wait for. One of the "security" guards was holding things up trying to get a hold of his boss. It turned out that this guy was from el Ministerio del Interior and he didn’t know how to cope with our extraño, extranjero, and altogether unexpected arrival. He was stationed there year ‘round waiting for stuff like us to happen. Finally, we happened, and he didn’t know what to do. I find this sort of pathetic. Maybe he was doing exactly what he was supposed to do, but I was, and remain, determined not to like this guy.

I went to grab us a couple of beers at the resort to assist our wait for the word on his phone call.

At one point, he was speaking to someone on the reception phone, and he called over to us to find out our nationalities. We told him, awaiting further questions, but none came. Then he was off the phone and informing us we had to stay put (where would we go?) until his boss came to see us.

This made us a little worried, and we began to wonder why they had only wanted to know our nationalities... Was there some deeper significance to this question? The very first fear that jumped into our hungry paranoia was that this rat’s jefe had some awareness of the Cienfuegos fiasco. In fact, he must, for otherwise why would he be disturbing his important affairs to come down and bother with little old us?

He took a while, and I’d gone off to unload the ‘yaks - it was getting dark and there seemed little doubt that one way or another we were sticking around there. I can reconstruct what happened in the next scene based on Jay’s testimony:

A jeep screeched in and two men in military garb jumped out. A few words with el rata directed them to Jay who stood smiling, beer in hand, and with a hearty "Buenas Tardes!"

One man, who reeked of authority, seemed to be fuming, and the very first sentiment from his lips was something along the lines of "You knew you were not authorized to be out there!"

He was none other than the Captain of the Port of Cienfuegos, in the flesh, and a few days ago, when asked by our optimistic and friendly captor at the Cienfeugos Bay Frontera, he had explicitly said we were not to get back in the sea without permission.

At that point Jay pulled a "No hablo Español." He, and the Captain, and his entourage, now four strong, all came to where I was unloading the kayaks.

It took us a while to calm him down. But who’s heart wouldn’t soften faced with Jay’s and my angelic countenances beseeching with such earnestness?

I don’t think he was sure himself how to deal with us, and when earnest beseeches failed, we tried being grovellingly submissive, and that did the trick. He seemed to decide on just trying to frighten us, which would be less work for everyone. Which is to say he didn’t fine us US$3,000 each, but he expressly forbade us to ever reassemble our boats anywhere in Cuba. He told his resident minion, el rata, to make sure and escort us to the road when we left the resort.

We were free, but utterly stricken by this turn of events, and suffice to say we were none too happy with el rata’s role in our downfall. I remember that that night he had the nerve to ask us to buy him several rounds of beer when he got off work. That was while we were sitting around, disconsolately drinking and watching a twenty person tour of French being taught to salsa dance in the resort bar. It was a new low for us, and for the Expedition.

The next morning the new day gave us new courage. We had decided not to obey the Captain’s injunction. After all, we still had twelve days left in Cuba, and we weren’t going to spend them merely sitting on some beach getting drunk! We had to attack the problem from a different angle. Perhaps we should try and get permission from the authorities. Obviously we’d burned one bridge, but we convinced ourselves that it was unlikely that this Captain had any influence outside of the state of Cienfuegos. All we had to do was get out of range.

But we didn’t know when we’d next be able to paddle, so we had to spend the morning trying to dry our boats. They were still quite wet. For some reason, in spite of the intense sun, it took several hours before we felt we could repack them. The resort was probably anxious to be rid of us by then: it was becoming clear that we weren’t going to stay there. The food had been awful, and anyway why would we stay where we couldn’t use our boats?

When the time came, el rata led us to the road. I remember with what amazement I received his demand for a tip, which he said was "customary." I laughed in his idiotic face.

We commenced hitchhiking towards La Boca, a village on the water just near Trinidad, and, most importantly, in the next state. There were several enticing looking rivers in the area, and, as we drove along the coastal road, we observed with mischievous delight that there was a gorgeous river, which meandered inland into lush hills, that demarked the Cienfuegos state border. As long as we stuck to the east side of that river, we were out of their jurisdiction... right?