In Search of the Cuban Paso Fino

After 20 years of chasing scant evidence, a determined woman finally gains access to one of Cuba’s best-kept secrets.

- María del Carmen Martínez, PhD

I first traveled to Cuba in the summer of 1995 to find my grandparents’ relatives. The two sides of the family---those who emigrated to Florida after the 1959 revolution and those who stayed behind---had had no contact for 36 years.

Still, I had grown up hearing stories of my family: My grandfather came from mariners who fished the waters around Baracoa, a small town near the eastern tip of the island. My grandmother’s people were flinty, plainspoken farmers who lived in the interior, many miles from Baracoa. Here, I was told, my great uncles farmed a homestead with little more than the sweat of their brows and the strength of their horses, animals central to their way of life and sense of self. I longed to meet them, to see the place of my grandmother’s childhood and to learn about their horses.

I had no address, but I did have the name of the family farm, La Merced, and a working knowledge of the family tree. So I made my way into the countryside by bus, then car, horse-drawn carriage and on foot. I was rewarded at every turn with jaw-dropping vistas: verdant fields presided over by hundred-foot royal palms. Every so often I encountered a campesino with a little horse carrying a load of firewood or pineapples. Invariably, the locals tipped their hats to me, surprised to meet a sweaty, flushed foreigner.

Finally, near the region called Veguita del Sur, I knocked on the door of a farmhouse, my heart in my stomach. These people had no way to know I was coming. A wizened man and woman with kind eyes appeared in the doorway. Before I could say a word, my aunt reached out and hugged me. Apparently, the family resemblance was strong enough to be met with celebration.

“THOSE WHO RIDE”