“Vamos,” I
said. This story he told again and again
to his friends and family. It was the
first time that the first person off the bus chose him promptly.
Walking through town, it seemed that every other house was a
casa particular, and it’s no wonder
that so many Cubans welcome the money coming from tourism. A surgeon’s salary in Cuba is around $30 a
month, the same as what I paid for one night in Villa Ariel, after a delicious
dinner his mother cooked for me and huge breakfast to prepare me for my excursion
to the nearby caves.
We walked quickly through town, Ariel carrying my bag and
chatting jovially, as was his manner. We
left the paved streets and crossed a small stream, and walked up a dirt road
over rocks and horse shit, to a brightly colored house at the end of the
road. “Villa Ariel, El Musico,” the sign said
next to the door. Ariel proudly showed
me around the house. My room, with a
wall AC unit and two fans constantly on swing mode, was shiny orange, decorated
with heart-shaped stuffed animal pillows.
The bathroom had been cleaned meticulously, as Ariel boasted and presented
the hot water heater. He offered me
something to drink, went to the kitchen and cut up a mango, which he blended
with sugar, and gave to me to enjoy as we worked out the paperwork.
“I want you to be happy and enjoy everything. I want you to be happy here and return
here. When you come to Viñales, you come
here. A French girl just left this
morning. She was here for 21 days. I cried and cried when she left. People love Viñales. They come back to stay. You should stay more than one night. There’s so much to see her, so much to do. It’s very beautiful. Tonight, I’ll take you town, and we’ll go
dancing. For dinner, what do you
like? Do you like fish? What time for dinner? Excursions, yes, don’t worry. I do everything here. We have whatever you want. I recommend you go by horse this afternoon
through the mountains. You see the
mountains; it’s beautiful; you go to tabaco
factory; it’s all organic, and see how it’s made; you can go to the lake and
take a swim; drink the best mojito in
town.”
Seemingly always in sales-mode, Ariel has already asked me
to go online and recommend his home and to distribute his business cards to all
my friends in Havana, especially if I have friends who are travel agents. A family member will pick me up and take me
to the cave excursion in the morning.
The taxi will cost me another $30, but after the overwhelming
hospitality that Ariel has shown me, I don’t dare complain.
The feast that Ariel’s mother prepares for me that evening
is the best meal I’ve had in Cuba so far.
Everything is abundant and delicious, which is the way of the casas particulares. The family seems to live in the back of the
house or in a smaller house in the backyard.
The family is all very friendly and welcoming. Curious about the foreigner staying in their
home, there is often someone standing off in the distance, watching me.
As I’m eating dinner in the kitchen at the front of the
house, Ariel is preparing for his night out performing. The family are all musicians, and Ariel plays
the guitar and sings in restaurants, often for free, he explains as he slicks back
his black hair in the mirror. He’s
wearing jeans, a black and grey striped t-shirt, and black suspenders. He swings his guitar case over his shoulder,
wishes me well with a huge smile on his face, and says that he’ll wait for me
in the restaurant where he’s performing.
The before suggested companions into town don’t happen as
Ariel is already in town and his brother Adrian isn’t ready to go out. Ariel’s parents are sitting in the living
room, on the new living room furniture that Ariel told me was very expensive,
watching a popular Brazilian soap opera on TV, which has been dubbed in Spanish. As I walk into town alone in the dark, I
realize that everyone else in town is watching the same Brazilian soap opera. Through open doors and windows, I see small
families gathered around TVs as the drama unfolds. From Ariel’s remote section of the
neighborhood, a person could walk the ten minutes into town and still watch the
show. The houses are close enough
together, the TVs are turned up loud enough, and the windows and doors are open
often enough to not miss any of the melodrama.
Surreal moments like these are frequent in the small town of
Viñales: a boy on a bicycle turning the corner with a pizza balanced on his
palm, horse drawn carriages with leathered old men from ages past, a man named
Eddie on a horse showing up at the door and asking me to follow him. The town has its charm, despite being overrun
by tourism. The land surrounding the
town has even more charm, and the mountains, beaches, lakes and caves welcome
travelers far and wide.
Ariel is singing his heart out to the one couple who are
eating there, and he beckons me to come and sit. It seems that everything Ariel does, he does
whole-heartedly. A kind and
compassionate soul, as all his friends remark of him, Ariel is also a romantic
and a dreamer.
“I’m 23. I’m young. I’m talented.
I don’t think I have opportunities here, and I want to go to another
country for my chance.” Ariel and I are
walking back from our night out on the town.
It’s Fidel Castro’s birthday, and there was a party downtown. We went to the salsa club to watch the
performances, live music, and entertainment.
On the way home, Ariel shares his plans with me. “I want to go and sing in another country,
but I don’t have the money to travel or to buy the ticket. I’m going to start another casa particular, get lots of clients,
and save money to travel.” I can tell
that he’s exhausted from a long, hot day, but he manages to prepare everything
for me for the morning and wish me a good night as we part ways.
The next day, Ariel is off to the bus stop once again to
search for another client, but he arrives a few minutes too late and finds no
one to rent his room for the night.
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