The taxi from Cienfuegos to Trinidad takes about an hour. It’s a breakneck ride on a beautiful road, with real hills rising above cultivated fields. Ambling horse carts keep to the side of the highway; we pass them like they’re standing still. “This isn’t a taxi,” I mutter, flinching. “It’s a private jet.”
View from the bell of the Antiguo Conveto de San Francisco de Asis.
Trinidad is Cuba’s tourist Mecca, a well-preserved Spanish colonial town founded in 1514. In 1988, it was declared a UNESCO World Heritage Site. The plazas and restaurants pulse with music, and buzz with well-mannered hustlers. It is colorful, rustic, friendly—and HOT. My God it is hot. Hotter than Havana in July. This is a town where you can sit absolutely still, in a shaded café, and still feel rivulets of sweat running down your sides.
I’ve chosen a remarkably fancy restaurant for my Cuban sandwich. But the waiters are extremely gracious: no meal too small, no tourist too inconsequential to receive stellar service. I’m grateful for this place: for the music, the candlesticks, the silver Jesus above the doorway, the photograph of the owner’s daughter on the wall. For the sandwich, of course, which arrives with melted cheese oozing over what is definitely not low-sodium ham. And above all, for the fan.
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As a traveler in Cuba, one has two basic choices where to stay: at one of the clean, reasonably charming hotels located not far from each town’s main plazas; or at a casa particular, the home of a Cuba family authorized to rent rooms to tourists.
During my first week in Cuba, with the group, I stayed at some pretty fancy hotels. On my own, though, it’s casas all the way. They’re an ideal way to meet Cubans, practice Spanish, eat local food and get transformative insights into this unique society.
But the equation can work both ways. Sometimes, it’s the Cuban hosts who are transformed by their visitors.
Julio Muñoz does the Vulcan mind meld with with Luna del Miel.
Julio Muñoz, 45, is Cuba’s best-known horse whisperer. He comes from a line of prominent Spanish immigrants; his two older brothers are gynecologists. Their spacious, ochre-colored family casa sits on a brilliantly sunny corner of Trinidad, adjoining the maternal clinic where Julio and his brothers were born. The house has been in his family for generations, though they lost other properties and businesses after the revolution.
“Why didn’t I leave Cuba?” Muñoz shrugs. “I am a survivor. And I’m a person who loves my people, and loves my country. I find ways to be happy. With my horses, and with my friends, I am incredibly happy.”
I was introduced to Julio by my colleague Christopher Baker, author of the wonderful Moon handbook to Cuba (a favorite among locals, I learned). After a coffee at Muñoz’s casa we hired a cab, and set off on the cobblestone roads leading to Finca del Chino: the ranch where his horses roam free. During the short trip, Muñoz described the serendipitous series of events that utterly changed his life.
“Since I was a kid,” he says, “I’ve been interested in photography. But good 35mm cameras were hard to get. Also, Cuba didn’t have a tradition of scenic photography. Normally, Cubans take pictures of weddings, birthdays, quinceañeras, things like that. But no fine art photography at all.
In mid-1994, when tourism restrictions relaxed in Cuba, the intense, wiry Muñoz turned his home into a casa particular. Thanks to his knowledge of Trinidad and his command of English, the Casa Colonial Muñoz quickly became popular.
Fresh vegetables for sale on the back of a bicytaxi, Trinidad
“Journalists, filmmakers; they were all greedy to come to Cuba, to make films, to write articles. And Trinidad was one their favorite places. Some of these people hired me as a ‘fixer’: to scout locations, translate, find people. That’s when I learned there was another way to take pictures: documentary photography.”
Inspired and encouraged by several of the photographers who stayed at his home (one of whom left him a block of color slide film), Muñoz expanded his horizons. He began to explore Trinidad with new eyes, and a new appreciation for the city’s architecture, culture and landscape.
“I wanted to record everything.” Muñoz rolls down the taxi’s window, letting in the heat. “And one of the most beautiful parts of Trinidad is the countryside. But the only way to reach it is by horse. And when I started using horses to reach the countryside—well, that’s when I fell in love with horses.
“It was like a loop of events. Because I rent rooms in my house, I am led to photography. Because of photography, I am led to horses—and through my love of horses, to the horse whispering techniques.”
We arrive at the ranch (called Finca del Chino, for the rugged owner), and accept a cup of strong coffee and a wedge of farm cheese from Chino’s wife.
There are many styles of “natural horsemanship,” Muñoz explains, sipping his demitasse, “but the core is the same. Never treat badly the horse. Never give pain to the horse. I don’t use spurs; I don’t use a whip. And most important, use the horse’s psychology. And when I say horse psychology, it means, how do they live in the natural world? How do they communicate between each other? When you learn to use this kind of body language, you can do amazing things.”
Fancy cakes on display along a Trinidad street
One of Julio’s first horses, Diana, was born and raised in his Trinidad casa. “She was living in the house like a dog. She was walking throughout the house – I have videos of all that.” Diana died after an injury, but Julio has immortalized her by starting a foundation—Proyecto Diana—that seeks to educate Cuba’s horse owners about equine care and training.
Muñoz leads me past napping cats, ancient farm implements and muddied boots toward the pastures. There are spurs on a wall—proof that most of the other ranchers at this finca don’t use my host’s method, despite its positive results. They continue to train their horses in the traditional way, through pain and intimidation. This clearly upsets Muñoz. But he continues to teach by example, hoping his methods will ultimately be absorbed.
“It’s very difficult to change the way Cubans treat horses. They use them like a disposable tool—or, how do you call it, a handkerchief. They don’t understand. With natural horsemanship, the horse is happy. It’s willing and glad to do things. There is a joy. There is a connection.”
Julio’s current love is a four-year-old horse named Luna de Miel: Honeymoon. We climb through a barbed wire gate, and Julio disappears over a small rise. He returns a moment later astride the brown quarter horse. The affection between man and beast is evident. Julio dismounts, and shows me exactly how trusting she has become. He tickles her ears, waves his hand in front of her eyes, picks her nose, and even takes hold of her thick, wet tongue.
Luna endures the routine patiently, then snuggles gamely up to me (I don’t go for her tongue) while Julio snaps a photo. It’s a cute shot, but it doesn’t compare to the pictures of him with his horse. Together, they’re practically a centaur.
“It really is like that,” Muñoz laughs when I remark on the telepathy between them. “When I drink rum, my horse gets drunk.”
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La Virgen de la Caridad del Cobre
Like many Cubans, Muñoz is a devout Catholic whose observances were long suppressed by the socialist regime. This week, though, due to policy relaxations by Raúl Castro, a historic event is taking place in Trinidad. For the first time since the Revolution, a statue of Cuba’s patron saint (La Virgen de la Caridad del Cobre, aka Our Lady of Charity) will be carried through the streets in a huge procession. There will be tears, singing, and a celebration at the cathedral.
Muñoz himself arranged the equine aspects of the event. “I am the boss of the horses,” he claims proudly. His gifted 17-year-old daughter, Maria Carmen, will sing to the crowd.
Observances like this are a sign of relaxation equal to the booming tourism industry, or the rise in entrepreneurship. But unlike those economic changes, the procession confirms a conviction that people on this island have long kept to themselves.
“The government tried to erase Cuban history,” Muñoz says with a slight smile. “But they couldn’t do it.”
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