From Oxen to Che – A Stop in Santa Clara
Some places pull you in for reasons you can’t quite explain. For me, Santa Clara was one of them – perhaps because my mother’s name was Klara, or perhaps because of the history that still lingers in the streets.
On the way there, we made an unplanned stop at a small farm. It wasn’t on the itinerary, but our guide knew the family and asked if we could visit. They weren’t wealthy, but they had what they needed: a horse, two oxen for ploughing, and a tobacco barn where leaves hung drying for cigars. We were offered coffee and the chance to buy handmade cigars – a simple, honest glimpse of rural life.
Then we continued to Santa Clara, a city where the legacy of Che Guevara is hard to miss – whether you go looking for it or not. I’m not a communist – not even close – and I suspect many of them weren’t, at least not in the way history later packaged them. But revolutions rarely come from comfort. After years of pressure, something eventually gives. What comes after is, as always, a different story.
Where a Train Went Off Track – and History Followed
In December 1958, an armoured train sent by the Batista regime was derailed just outside Santa Clara by Che Guevara and his forces. The train carried soldiers, weapons, and supplies – and was meant to crush the rebellion.
Instead, it became a turning point. The soldiers surrendered, the weapons were seized, and within days, Batista fled the country.
What remains today is less a train and more a carefully preserved version of how history prefers to be remembered.
Che, Preserved
The centrepiece of Santa Clara is the mausoleum of Che Guevara.
Here he stands, larger than life, looking permanently ahead – as if history ever had a clear direction.
His remains are buried here, along with several of his comrades. The site is carefully maintained, almost reverent, and clearly important.
Whether you see a revolutionary, a symbol, or a carefully curated story probably says more about you than about him.
A Cake for the Evening
My casa particular in Santa Clara was painted bright pink – impossible to miss, and perhaps not entirely by accident. It was New Year’s Eve morning, and the city felt calm, almost as if it was waiting for something. No grand celebrations yet, just people going about their day.
On the street, I passed a man cycling carefully with a cake balanced in front of him.
No rush, no drama – just making sure it arrived in one piece. I assume it was for the evening. Some things don’t need much explanation. History may be loud, but everyday life tends to carry on quietly anyway.
