Baracoa

We are headed east to Baracoa – as far as you can go, and still be in Cuba. Columbus landed here in 1492 and it soon became the first capital of the Spanish colony. I am in a comfortable bus, handled by Enrique, a calm gentleman who navigates the winding road well. A lunch stop is welcome, at a beach with one shade tree in the sweltering heat. We are immediately greeted by an old man who has miraculously set up a shop under our tree featuring coconuts, which he splits with a battered machete. He also has shell necklaces, for a dollar each and they sell like hotcakes – he makes his profit on volume, no doubt.  Some of us decide to jump in the surf to cool off. Actually, just three – our Cuban photographic hosts cannot resist the temptation. Carlos Otero is a young Havana resident who is our inside man for this trip to the rural areas at the eastern tip of the island. He is drawn to the simple lives of the people here and has scouted the area by bicycle, making friends with people we will see soon. Jorge Gavilando is a retired doctor who had specialized in research into cancer immunology before transferring his passions to photography.  Arien Chang is young up and coming photographer who has become highly respected in the Havana photographic community. We are extremely fortunate to have them as our guides. Talented, warm, and funny.

(Carlos with rugged central-casting Latin looks, Jorge with his warm smile, and Chang working into one of his goofy looks)

Our diverse group of 15 is led by Arthur Meyerson, from Houston, who does stunning work and is a helpful, inspiring hand to all. Our next stop is a photo op at a huge sign proclaiming the entry into Guantanamo town, still about twenty miles form the US military base, but a reminder of the relationship between our two countries.

It is now dawn, and I walk around Baracoa. It is a tropical town with a definite Caribbean feel. The town is waking up, and the first harsh sunlight makes for some wonderful photographs.

The main forms of transportation here    include walking, horse drawn carriages, and bicycle taxis. I see very few cars and even fewer old American classics. This is not Havana. Some tourists have been discovering the town recently but the   transportation is used by all. The only place you cannot get to easily is our hotel - at the top of 88 steps to the lobby (the rooms are higher still). I have three short sleeved shirts with me and I soon realize that I need to cycle them through a morning, afternoon, and evening change of shirts in the sweltering humidity. 

Outside of Baracoa the countryside is scattered with small communities that struggle to get by supporting the coconut crop and harvesting from the government owned groves. Housing was extremely basic, but we did see electricity almost everywhere. Today, Carlos leads us to visit a family he knows, and he is greeted with a warm embrace by the father, who welcomes us in. The two sons are sent up a tree to gather coconuts and split them for the guests. The fruit is young and full of sweet coconut water and the interior is coated with sweet paste.                         

Carlos is inside the house, helping someone pose a shot of the father through the window opening, and I am outside with the two sons, seeing if I can get him to break character for an unguarded moment, but he mostly maintains his serious demeanor. Away from the camera, he is gentle, with an occasional soft smile. His sons are quite taken by all the attention and are happy to pose for me in a more natural way. The dog (I think it is a dog) gets into the act too.