I’ve come to Cienfuegos for the architecture and to arrange a snorkeling trip, as recommended by the guide book. At my casa I ask Roberto about it; he tells me no one has asked him about that before. At the former yacht club Club Cienfuegos they tell me to ask at the marina. At the marina, they tell me that the last boat of the day has left. And tomorrow? They have boats in the morning, but it’s only for a cruise of the bay; they don’t arrange snorkeling trips and have no information about them.
Later, I’ll meet people who tell me they had arranged catamarans out of Trinidad, and I’ll remember seeing a laminated 8 1/2" x 11" sheet of paper in my casa there listing snorkeling as something they could organize. Trusting the guidebook, I had delayed my snorkeling; it’ll be the one thing I regret about my trip.
I share a taxi colectivo from Trinidad to Cienfuegos with a French couple. They’re spending just over a week in the country and are on their way to the beaches in the north for their last few nights. They ask me my itinerary and I tell them that I’m debating where to go next. They strongly encourage me to visit Viñales; it’s been their favorite destination in Cuba. I had planned to avoid long taxi rides, but their enthusiasm sways me.
In Cienfuegos, my casa is just off the Paseo del Prado. It’s on the street that leads right to the Parque José Martà in the city center, and after checking in, I walk to the park along the bustling pedestrian Bulevar. A shoe store catches my eye. It’s rained almost every day I’ve been in Cuba and I contemplate purchasing a pair of blue woven slip-ons to wear while my other shoes dry out.
The park is surrounded by beautiful buildings from the late 19th- and early 20th- centuries. The cathedral is closed and so my first stop is the Teatro Tomás Terry, a theater built between 1887 and 1889 to honor the Venezuelan industrialist Tomás Terry.
Inside, the auditorium is empty save for two American tourists who discuss American foreign policy in the 70s. I linger, imagining the performers who have graced its stage: Enrico Caruso, Anna Pavlova, surely Cienfuegos’ own Benny Moré? Salsa music drifts in through the open doors. I follow the sound and peer out into a courtyard, but no one is there.
I walk across the park to the Museo Provincial and step back through time as I wander the rooms stocked with the 19th-century furnishings of French-Cuban society. From the top floor I look out across the square to the theater. It’s a quiet afternoon and the square is practically deserted.
I walk west to the nearby Cemeterio la Reina. Horse-drawn carts pass me by as they run along the avenue, competing for fares with the city buses that roar by. On the porch of a pink house, a man cuts hair.
Carmen greets me at the cemetery. She was once a schoolteacher, but now offers tours of the cemetery to practice her English. She explains that people were buried in the walls of the cemetery because of the high water table, and she explains the various symbolism exhibited in the statues. She lingers over the tomb of Maria Josefa Alvarez Miro, “La Bella Durmiente,” the centerpiece of the cemetery and encourages me to take photos. It is said that the sleeping beauty died of a broken heart at the age of 24. In her hands, she holds three poppies, symbols of both sleep and death.
When Carmen learns I am from New York, she excited explains a connection between the Green-wood cemetery in Brooklyn and that of the Tomas Acea Cemetery on the opposite end of the city. She tells me that the latter was patterned after Green-wood; it’s the only garden cemetery in Cuba.
I walk back to the city center along the water. I watch as men throw nets from the shore and clean fish on the sidewalk. At the Prado, I take a sharp right and continue to the MalecĂłn, keeping the bay on my right. The city feels like an old beach town: quietly abandoned, flat, dotted with palms and small shops selling snacks and groceries.
As I approach Punta Gorda, Cienfuegos’ old upper-class neighborhood, the homes become a mix of clapboard houses and grand statements turned into hotels and clubs. At the Club Cienfuegos—formerly an exclusive yacht club—I stop for a drink on their back veranda. As I sip my drink I listen to the music drifting in from the club pool and look over the marina.
I walk to the 1950s Hotel Jagua, which would not be out of place if it had been transported to Miami and continue on to the end of the promotory. There, at the Centro Recreativo la Punta I watch as locals swim in the bay. Just offshore, makeshift sailboats ply the waters.
After dinner I walk back along the Malecon. Along the water, I look up as a car barreling down the road almost runs up on the sidewalk before me. Its tires squeal against curb and the driver quickly cuts the wheel back towards the middle of the road.
A woman asks me if I’m ok as the crowd twitters. She’s from California and has been in Cuba two months out of a planned three. She’s with her Cuban boyfriend and two Iranian men, one of whom sways on the sea wall to what he’s listening to on his headphones. Occasionally he breaks out into song. He cradles a bottle of rum that he passes around.
We chat about Cuba and she invites me to join them on a snorkeling trip she has planned the next day, but I’ve already made arrangements to visit El Nicho. She lights up and tells me how beautiful it is and how great it is that I’m going there. The bottle of rum is passed around again and I say my goodbyes; we all have an early start in the morning.
Mangoes are in season and the countryside drips with them. Orlando, my driver, tells me Cienfuegos is known for two things: sugarcane and fruits. He points out the various varieties of fruit as we pass them in the fields, rightfully proud of his city. We are driving up to El Nicho, a waterfall and nature preserve on the edge of the Parque Natural Topes de Collantes.
Once we are out of the fields, the road continues through lush greenery, twisting and turning on its way up into the mountains. It’s said that tienes mas curvas de la carretera por Cumanayagua is a complement to the local women (you have more curves than the road to Cumanayagua).
At the park, I follow a trail that passes by three pools and the waterfalls. Roberto had told me that El Nicho is a great trip during the summer as the water is always cool. I skip the first pool but dive into the next, which sits under a set of falls. The water is crisp, cool, and clear, and I float happily in the middle of the pool. Near the shore, I watch a small crab amble through the shallows.
Leaving the park I find Orlando at a nearby restaurant, finishing his lunch. I’m not hungry and tell him to take his time. I walk back to the car to relax. When he returns, a car pulls up and stops. A group of his friends are out for a ride and he chats with them before they take off. He chats with his friends a bit before they take off down the road.
In the afternoon, I take a taxi to the beach at Rancho Luna, realizing that my day is a mirror of the one I had in Trinidad, going from the mountains to the sea. I rent a snorkel from a beach bar and plunge into the clear waters. Not knowing where to look, I see sand and seaweed and a tropical fish or two before retiring back to the beach, where I sit under an umbrella to read.
Leaving the beach, a man comes to tell me that my return taxi will be in a different car. The driver I had come with had a fare to Trinidad and won’t be back. He waits with me as I watch a small crowd collect by the road. A bus approaches and the crowd moves to board. I ask about the bus and the man tells me it’s a local bus just for the workers at the beach. It’s come to take them home.
Back in Cienfuegos, I look to have dinner at a paladar in the center of town but find it closed. Another couple finds themselves in the same situation. I make my way back to the Prado and find a restaurant with a table overlooking the street. A small jazz combo sets up in a corner and I hear the saxophone pick up a melody the drum and bass seem not to have agreed upon.
The town has grown on me since arriving. It’s sleepy but peaceful and full of relationships. As the waiter comes to check on me he spots some friends on the street below and calls out to them. They pause and exchange pleasantries before moving on. Later in the evening, I’ll see them walk back in the opposite direction.
After dinner I stop by Coppelia. It’s my second night in a row, but I decide that I might as well enjoy it in a town where there are no lines. I’m not sure what the flavors are but I order a sundae anyway and watch the families and friends gather as I wait for it to arrive. 🇨🇺
