Cienfuegos to Trinidad
Betty, our tour guide, shrugs. “I don’t go out much at night anymore because all my friends immigrated, but there is usually great salsa music there.”, she gestures to an outdoor seating area on a stage of cobblestone steps. “If there is electricity.”
“I am trying to leave too. Maybe Spain, but it is hard. I will come back though, I want to raise my children here. It is a good place with a great way of life. Our system is just too broken. I was in med school, but I make more money as a tour guide and it is much less stressful, so I quit.”
Betty is 27 years old. She has chin length dark hair, an easy smile and a small glittery nose ring. She walks us through the streets of Trinidad for hours telling stories of the first, second, third and fourth groups of people that tried to run the land; the Spaniards, the Russians, the United States and the Cubans. It felt like an open ended tour, as if the story is far from over here.
Our tour segues from personal stories to historical tales and back again, and again I feel incredibly lucky to be here, absorbing it all.
Weezie and I were exhausted after biking 53 miles through dry scrub land in the strong sun and wind. My feet ached and my eyes felt gritty—longing to close, but we were riveted. The stories here whirl and crescendo, pause and whirl again and I think they will continue to.
The streets here are cobbled and the buildings are painted beautiful shades of pastel; soft blues and Easter egg pinks, mossy greens and turquoise. It is a UNESCO world heritage sight and everything has been carefully preserved so that it is easy to picture what Cuba would have looked like in its heyday.
Children play in all the streets, kicking soccer balls and running from one families door to another. The windows and doors remain open and it is easy to be a voyeur and peak in and see families lounging together or in a few cases tonight, even dancing! Many people have converted their rooftops to patios and sit up on them to collect the breeze coming off the ocean that is just four miles away. Music and art fill the streets; intricate crocheted tapestry’s and painting, salsa and rumba.
And yet, we have not spoken to one person who hasn’t lost a family member to immigration, because the numbers here just aren’t adding up.
Betty doesn’t get paid for her tours. She survives on tips. She is smart, capable, passionate and engaged. She could do anything, if only this system would let her.