Free Solo Viñales
Dripping in sweat we surveyed the world beneath us, the sweeping panorama of Viñales. Our hired gun - the rake-thin guajiro Aurelio whom we’d sought out a few hours before - stood majestically atop a rocky outcrop like a grizzled, poorer, Mufasa looking proudly down on the valley below. At the kingdom that wasn’t his. In a way I was his Simba [1].
“Coo-Coo-WEE,” he bellowed into the sprawling valley. “Coo-Coo-WEE.”
Ari and I followed suit, but our voices - lacking the rum-soaked authenticity of our aged guide - were swallowed by the humid air around us. Aurelio shot us both a glance - the kind that told of a disapproval he’d never find the vocabulary for; for which words hadn’t been invented.
Gasping for breath Ari and I had struggled to keep pace with Aurelio as he climbed the mountain for which we’d hired him to scale. Santanillas - fire ants - had attacked our bare legs on the ascent but Aurelio - admittedly wearing trousers - marched on uncomplainingly. Every hundred metres or so we’d stop to sip from our 1.5 litre bottles of Ciego Montero, which we’d both drank about half of after only one quarter of the climb up; Aurelio allowed himself a sly chuckle each time we stopped to sip. He’d probably never drank water his whole life.
The night before Ari and I decided we’d like to climb a mountain - any mountain - that made up the Cordillera de Guaniguanico range in Pinar del Rio: tobacco province in Cuba’s west. That previous day we’d been compelled to do the tourist thing and visit the underwhelming Mural de la Prehistoria with Lafonda and her 8-year old niece. A mural which Ari, quite rightly, looked upon with as much disdain as Aurelio would later look upon us. The name alone creates expectation that it was created by the ancient indigenous tribes which once lived on this island, thousands of years ago. That at least would forgive its amateur appearance. In reality the mural is a post-revolution creation which, when considering the number of hurricanes to have devastated the region, one can’t help but wish hadn’t been destroyed instead. [2]
1960s PRE-HISTORY: The attraction that brings tourists from all over the world for no other reason than because the guide books tell them to - Mural de la Prehistoria. Amateur in design and execution it’s the one blight in the otherwise flawless countryside of Valle de Viñales.
Unimpressed with this day of tourismo, Ari and I vowed to go trekking the next day while Lafonda and her niece went horse riding.
With no plan other than a desire to climb something, we decided over a breakfast of huevo revuelto y frutas that we’d just drive until we saw a mountain we liked. From the veranda of Casa Anita - our casa particular located two-kilometres south-west of Viñales town centre - we had sweeping views of the valley. We were adamant, however, that we’d steer clear of the area around the Mural de la Prehistoria known as los Dos Hermanas, for while it is undoubtably beautiful we had no desire to scale a mountain only to glimpse the mural in the distance. This meant we had to drive several kilometres north of Viñales town centre, out into the rolling farmlands, surrounded by the impressive mogotes which typify the Viñales Valley rock formations.
ARRANGEMENTS: Carlitos de Jeffers on the front porch of Casa Anita, prior to setting off for base camp. Just as he did prior to climbing Snowdon and Scafell Pike here he can be seen preparing his last will and testament, which was mainly concerned with who would curate his travel journals. Had mishap befallen Carlitos it’s poignant to think that this photo would be as iconic as those taken of Oates and Scott before their demise in Antarctica.
Once sufficiently far from civilisation we turned off the main road onto a narrow lane lined on one side with small holding farms - each spaced out by 100 metres - and an impressive looking mountain range to the other. Deciding that was the mountain for us we set about stopping the few locals we saw ambling along the road.
“Buenos dias,” we’d say cheerily, “sabes anyone who can take us up la montaña?” Pointing to the looming mountain behind us.
We kept the engine to the Chinese-made Geely going at all times just in case.
One man who was kicking along the dusty verge in a pair of battered flip-flops simply laughed at our question, as though the very thought of climbing the mountain in the already sweltering temperatures was too silly to contemplate. A woman meanwhile, her sun-worn face lined with thick wrinkles and struggling with two heavy-looking canvas bags in either hand, simply shrugged her shoulders. Why would she know?
We had several other encounters like this until at last we stopped a young man, no older than 18 years old, who was wielding an axe. He’d appeared from behind the trees wearing a wide-brimmed sombrero, a torn denim shirt and grubby green trousers.
Ari was about to call him over but I placed my hand on his to indicate that I’d better take this one.[3] After all, I’d gone full-blown CCA and was already speaking my native tongue in broken English with a heavy Cuban accent, pronouncing less consonants than ever before.
“Buen’ dia’ compay,” I called, effortlessly using the Cuban word for “mate”. I held my hand out of the window for him to stop. He did so reluctantly. “Como esta’ amigo mio, bien? Que bien. Y la familia? Buen’. Dime compay, usted know anyone to climb us up montaña? We want climb mountain, yeah?”
It worked. The youngster looked down the road to one of the next farm houses along.
“Aurelio!” He screamed. “Aurelio!”
“Tranquilo,” I assured him, “we no hurt you.”
At this point Ari stopped me. “He’s not screaming “auxilio” (Spanish for “help”); he’s calling for someone called Aurelio.”
Of course I knew that but I let Ari think he’d got one over on me.
“Aurelio! Aurelio!”
The youngster shouted a few more times before, in the distance, a wiry man appeared on the road and approached us uncertainly. The youngster walked on to meet him and we watched in our rear view mirrors as Aurelio was informed of our heroic quest. It being Cuba the youngster was obviously negotiating a finders fee, for of course we would have to pay the good man.
Once the conversation ended the youngster walked past us with the axe in his hand while Aurelio mosied on up to us at his own leisure, nonplussed by our unexpected emergence into his day. He spoke as though he didn’t already know what we wanted and, after repeating our request to him, he looked up at the mountain and whistled through his crooked teeth as though calculating its height in pesos convertibles (CUC).
“You have climbed before?” I asked.
“Claro,” he said gruffly. “Muchos veces.” No eye contact.
MEAT MARKET: The sparse decor of the abandoned carnicería we made our basecamp for the expedition. Nice to note that cigar ash was unlikely to fall into the meat as the butchers prepared it as smoking was strictly forbidden.
“Entonces, cuanto cuesta?” Said Ari, rubbing his thumb and fingers together in the universal sign language for bunce.
Aurelio took his eyes away from the mountain and gave us his price. Whatever he’d been working on in his little farm could now wait; he jumped in the back of the Geely and directed us to the carpark of a long-abandoned carnicería situated a five-hundred metres down the road. All that was left of in the building was the flaking hand-painted sign of a pork leg in the main room which we walked through in order to reach the beginning of the trail.
It should be noted Aurelio didn’t change or bother to grab anything from his home before we set off - he went as was: battered leather boots, dirty tan trousers and green shirt unbutton all the way to reveal his tanned torso. A weather-beaten cap, perched precariously on his head at a slight angle, gave him a child-like quality despite his middle age.[4]
Once he’d led us over a barb-wire fence and across the rich umber-coloured earth of a farm which lay at the base of the mogote we plunged into the thick undergrowth. If it was a sweltering day already the shade of the tree canopy increased the humidity tenfold so that our shirts were completely soaked within minutes. We’d climbed for no more than 100 metres before Ari stopped, gasped for breath, and sipped from his crumpled bottle of water. So as not to give him an inferiority complex I took a few gulps from mine too, though I winked knowingly at Aurelio - who stood with a bemused expression atop a large boulder - so he would know I was as minimalist as him.
Aurelio felt it wasn’t necessary to warn us of the fire ants swarming in the earth beneath our feet. His boots and trousers - not to mention his savvy employ of the boulder - would have meant he was relatively protected from those bastardy santanillas. And even if he was bitten Aurelio wasn’t the type of person to mention it. Ari and I, however, wore low-riding trail shoes [5] and shorts - in my case, a pair of sun-damaged indigo blue nylon swimming shorts which fell well above the knee and which offered no stretch. My legs were totally exposed. Ari wore longer basketball shorts, falling just below the knee. Regardless, the ants attacked us indiscriminately, irrespective of our sartorial choices.
ARI: His broad shoulders bejewelled with sweat, my climbing companion Ari stops to drink in the view/drink some water midway up the ascent. Ari’s red bag appeared to shrink in size as the climb wore on which made me suspect not only was he reliant on water to sustain him on the dizzying trek but secret snacks as well.
As we began slapping our legs like an impromptu Morris dance, Aurelio smiled at us with amusement, leapt off the boulder and disappeared around a bend in the track. Immediately I followed.
“Vamos Ari,” I called loudly. I expected to see Aurelio waiting for me so we could share a knowing look; however, as I climbed the corner, over a jutting piece of limestone, it was clear it would take more than brushing off a fire ant mauling and abstaining from hydration to win over our wily guide.
Onwards.
This Mogote wasn’t for tourists. It can have been rarely climbed by locals even and the “track” we followed wasn’t well defined; we relied solely on Aurelio’s knowledge - no doubt passed on to him in the oral tradition of the locals. It wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest if we were the first foreigners to attempt reaching its dizzy summit. Mogotes don’t slope gently; the walls are near vertical. Thus, it was a steep climb requiring the use of tree roots, rocks and vines to haul oneself up through narrow passages. Despite the admiration we had for Aurelio’s refusal of water, I came to realise Ari and I - though mostly me - were our guide’s equal, for the very fact we risked santanillas and some robust grazing to the shins, calves and thighs. Let’s not forget Aurelio was wearing trousers
After approximately 50 minutes of climbing we began to get a sense of our surroundings. The route we’d climbed took us on a circular path, from the foothills of the south face, up the western slopes, around the north face and then to the western side which began to plateau out as it joined the slim range which stretched westward for a further 3 kilometres or so. Breaks in the foliage gave us glimpses of the stunning vistas in all directions - just five-or-so kilometres north was the small coastal town of Puerto Esperanza and, beyond that, the dazzling aquamarine of the Caribbean; due east the land flattened into the valley until, way in the distance, the slim cordillera of which our own mogote was once likely joined to stretched as far as the eye could see.
ANCÓN: “Would you feel any pity if one of those dots stopped moving forever? If I offered you $20,000 for every dot that stopped - would you really, old man, tell me to keep my money?”. Up high in the sultry Viñales air Aurelio points basic geographical features out to a befuddled Ari who - as noted by the bottle of water gripped tightly in his hand - struggled with the altitude and humidity. The pueblo seen here is Ancón.
Eventually we summited. I half expected Ari to unfurl the Stars and Stripes banner of his home country and stab it into the ground for Uncle Sam. Fortunately for Aurelio and I, he must have left it in the Geely for he stared blankly into his backpack for a few moments before zipping it up and chanting “USA-USA-USA” silently into his closed fist. Eventually he joined us on a slab of horizontal limestone which protruded between the trees just enough to offer a clear view south towards Viñales Valley and the next mogote range in the hazy distance.
Above us circled death’s cleaning service - dozens of turkey vultures, gliding effortlessly on the warm air currents in search of a fresh carcass. [7]
“Coo-Coo-WEE,” bellowed Aurelio once again as though summoning them down to feast on our soon-to-be-dead bodies. For the santanillas had done a thorough job in attacking our legs and the burning sensation was acute.
Nevertheless the vultures would go hungry for, at last, we appeared to gain Aurelio’s respect: he sat with us on the ridge to admire the view, pointing out various landmarks in the distance. Although it must be said he still refused our offer of water which Ari and I both considered a little too much; sadly, even though we’d impressed him with our climbing skills, the time he spent with us never went beyond a business transaction.
We spent approximately 30 minutes at the summit before Aurelio decided it was time to descend, which he did at a cracking pace on account of our agreeing upon a fixed rate for his services rather than by the hour. It was fine though because the climb had worked up an appetite. Back at base camp [8] we derobed to wring the sweat from our t-shirts and, with the sun shining on our glistening torsos, high-five one another.
Sadly it was time to say goodbye to our faithful guide. Perhaps encouraged by the adrenalin still coursing through my veins, or just the camaraderie I beckoned Ari aside.
“I think we should give him a little extra, he’s been great,” I whispered about Aurelio.
“Yeah he has,” acquiesced Ari.
“So are you ok if we round it up?”
“Fine by me.”
And with that I strolled over to Aurelio and held out the CUC20 note so he could appreciate the magnitude of our gesture. “Ere’ lo mejor, compay,” I said, forcing it into his grateful hand and slapping him on the back. He looked close to tears. And why not - after all, he’d just earned in three hours what most Cubans earn in a month.
We climbed wearily into the air-conditioned comfort of the Geely and left Aurelio in the carpark holding the CUC20 note up to the sunlight as though he still couldn’t believe his luck. If he wanted to he could even splurge on a taxi to take him the one-kilometre down the road to his farm.
BASECAMP: On the porch of the abandoned carnicería after the climb, Aurelio and Ari strip off to join Carlitos (already nude and behind the camera) in a congratulatory round of high-fives. It was Aurelio’s idea and it was strange that he subsequently chose to keep his clothes on and watch us instead, but at the end of the day there is nothing quite like letting a warm breeze cool one’s sweating undercarriage after an arduous climb, so it was win-win.
1. Albeit being of no blood relation to him and in no way did he attempt to teach me about the circle of life. If anything, the guijiro was largely indifferent to me.
2. Cuba may lag behind the west in many respects but it may be comfort to some to know that crappy tourist traps like this exist even here.
3. Like most Americans Ari speaks Spanish as though he has a hot potato in his mouth.
4. Aurelio was almost as minimalist as me, so total respect for him. The only reason I took two-litres of water, a small first aid kit, a GoPro and my Nikon 600 was more for Ari’s sake than anything. Had it been just me I wouldn’t have bothered with Aurelio - just climb it!
5. For Gypsy completists out there I’ve long endorsed the Salomon XA Pro 3D for their comfort and style. If anyone from Salomon is reading this I’m open to endorsements.
6. It should be noted Aurelio wasn’t indigenous.
7. Which reminds me of a classic joke I sometimes regale backpackers with down at the Galah: what did Sid James and vultures have in common? They both depended on carrion to stay alive.
8. The carnicería