ave Viñales land of mojotes — lush emerald-green limestone hills jutting up out of the earth shaped like giant cigars — for Cienfuegos, a seaside town, 337 kilometers to the southeast on Cuba’s Caribbean shores.

I step into early morning sunshine, and there is Ibey at my door. She doesn’t generally rise this early, but here she is, tears in her eyes and babbling in Spanish. I catch the word “Fidel” and ask her to repeat. Slowly. The second time I catch the word “muerte,” which means “dead.”

“Castro is dead?” I ask. She nods, barely able to control her tears. We step inside her living room, where Rico, her husband, shirtless as usual, sits forward in his wooden rocker staring at the TV. His eyes are watering, also. All six channels are covering Fidel Castro’s death on Nov. 25.

Ibey, Rico and their daughter, Lisa, had been my hosts in Viñales for five days. They treat me like family.

Raul, Fidel’s brother, is making the announcement. The sadness and grief here in this little casa is heavy. I am reminded of how I felt when Kennedy was shot. I am no lover of Fidel Castro, yet against my own instincts, I find myself crying with them, picking up on their grief.

Presidents from Columbia, Argentina, Brazil, Greece, Palestine, Bolivia, South Africa and on and on send their condolences. All six channels repeat the news over and over.

I walk across the street to Rico’s sister’s house, thinking possibly Ibey and Rico are an exception to the grief. I am wrong. There is a palpable heaviness in the air.

They explain that mourning will last for nine days. That there is to be no music, no singing, no dancing and no public consumption of alcohol.

This puts a little damper on my vacation plans.

My taxi colectivo, which is a shared taxi, a Peugeot, picks me up, and I say goodbye to this lovely couple, who so generously opened their home to me, cooked my breakfast and dinner, packed me a lunch, shared their rum with me, introduced me to other family members, and plopped me on the back of their motorcycle for a tour of the town.

As the sun set each night, the three of us would rock back and forth, trying to understand each other. We had bonded quickly and easily, a testament to the gracious, open-hearted and inviting people of Cuba — always greeted with three quick smacks of the lips on each cheek, a handshake and a hug.

I have seen very few posters or photographs of Fidel around Havana, quite a few of Che Guevera and many statues and pictures of Jose Marti, 19th century poet, who sparked the revolt against Spain, but few of Fidel.

Since Fidel’s death, though, posters and photographs, in addition to the nonstop TV coverage, excluding all else for nine long days, are springing up everywhere — along with flags that say “26 July.”

The day marks the failed attack against an army barracks that sent Castro to prison for fifteen years. He was released two years later after cries of outrage from the general population. The date serves as a rallying cry for the revolution. July 26th flags were everywhere.

My taxi driver has graying hair and thick, gnarled hands with squared-off fingers. He smokes and has a deep, gravelly voice. He gets a kick out of honking at pedestrians and scaring them. As he speeds past them, he cackles maniacally while sneaking a peak back at me to see how I will respond.

He talks non-stop to the Cuban next to him, who quickly gives up trying to have a two-way conversation.

We “swished” taxis in Havana and I went from a Peugeot to a British Limousine. Yep, a British Limo. It was as ancient as the old casino days and repainted a dull greenish-blue. It had been gutted and the plush seats exchanged for what looked like Russian bucket seats — thick black vinyl, narrow, and square. It held nine people — three in

each row. I was the first one, so I took a front seat and prayed for a sane driver. He looked about 90, so I felt reasonably safe until he started making passes at me. Gawd, what next.

Cienfuegos, a southern beach town, was built by the French. The barrio I will be living for the next five days is in an area of five-story buildings that hug the streets from one end of the block to the other with unassuming wood doors and grates on the windows. The buildings are concrete with peeling paint.

There are few cars and the sound of horses-drawn carts, for hire as taxis, fill the air. I realize it is quiet because there is no music, no singing, no dancing and no drinking.

I meet Ilena and Lily, who kiss me three times on each cheek and then tell me how sad they are that their father figure, Fidel, is dead and they return to the T.V. for more of the same coverage repeated over and over.

They tell me President Obama has sent his condolences.

Now I’m on a bici-taxi headed down the Prado to an area of splendid Parisian-style homes. I like riding bici-taxis as I can visit with the man pedaling at a slow pace, near the ground.

He expressed how sad he was that Fidel had died. I asked if there was someplace I might be able to purchase some rum to take back to my casa.

“Oh no.” He said. “There is no drinking during this time of mourning.”

“Explain something to me.” I said. “If someone were to play baseball or loud music, would they be fined or put in jail? What would happen to them?”

He looked perplexed. He thought about my question. I repeated it. He looked even more perplexed and said, “Why anyone would want to play baseball? No one would be so disrespectful.”

And therein seemed to be the difference in our cultures. Where we may want to rebel, or get back to work and make a buck, a Cuban would be respectful.

I reminded myself, that not only is this a communist country, but it also comes from a strong background of Spanish culture and the Roman Catholic Church both of which also require respectful silence. I find the tradition comforting. Although, after three days it was too much for my tastes.

“But, let’s just say someone wasn’t thinking and they played loud music,” I pressed. “What would happen?”

“Oh, nothing! Nothing would happen,” he insisted.

Later, Lilly tells me a woman had been put in jail for playing music.

She explains that every block in Cuba in every town has a Communist Committee. That committee handles putting together festivals, helping the children in schools and keeping the community together. Including telling the police if someone is playing music when they should be quiet. My bet is Lily is on the committee.

A Rastafarian bici-taxi driver in Havana during my first few nights here had told me the repression was so bad that if a person complained about the color the government had chosen for the military uniforms, they could be put in prison.

He said doctors, with their free educations, made little more than $40 a month and often had to take other jobs. He made more pedaling a bicycle-taxi than a doctor earns. And people were still so poor, they gave doctors chickens, eggs or vegetables to help survive on their low government income.

I asked if people owned their own homes. Yes, they do. Utilities cost about four CUCs – a little over $4 – per month. Medicine is free, but pharmaceutical drugs were impossible to come by due to the trade embargo.

The embargo hurts the people because of how it is set up between the U.S. and other governments. If a country, say Germany, wants to sell cell phone parts to Cuba, the U.S. won’t buy those parts from Germany.

So even though there are tourists everywhere in Cuba, and I mean everywhere – I saw more tourists than locals – the economy is still stagnant due to the embargo. And the Cuban people suffer.

I felt so safe in Cuba, I would walk at night down unlit side streets, taking a shortcut back to my casa and see small children playing and women walking alone without a care. Do I owe this safety to the Communist block watchers?

And it was here that I saw the poverty. Families of 20 in two-room apartments with little or no clean water.

It would be easy to lay the blame for such suffering on the U.S. government. And it’s true the United Nations has to end the embargo and the tourists I met from every country were against the embargo, it is not so simple.

Without transparency in their government, it’s difficult to say where the tax dollars – as much as 90 percent in some places – are spent. And it’s difficult to track the tourist dollars. And it’s hard to see where the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization, or UNESCO, funds for the restoration of building is going. They say almost 50 percent goes back to the people for housing.

Lily, who was educated, had free access to health care, was married with two grown children had never been out of Cienfuegos because she couldn’t afford it. I left her a pair of reading glasses when I left. I made a friend for life.

Lily says Fidel is her father. She says she is sad every day that he is dead. It’s complicated.

The Jose Marti square is only twelve blocks from my casa so I grab my camera and head out ignoring the pleas to take a horse-drawn carriage. The closer I get to the government buildings at the square the more people I see. There is a lineup for blocks. I cannot see the end of it. I ask what it is and a couple from Canada tell me they are paying their respects to Fidel by filing past a picture of him and signing a grief book.

His ashes will be brought in for viewing in a couple days but for now, people are signing the grief book. Children in their red and white school uniforms are in line and some teenagers have the letters “FIDEL” written across their foreheads. They are quiet. A few tear up.

It is impossible to move through the crowd. I spot a stairwell and head up to a fine restaurant and order a mojito cocktail. I get one! I guess it helps to be a tourist and not everyone is a believer.

Yasmare comes into my casa at night and introduces himself. Lily and Ilena had stayed in one of the rooms for my protection and to prepare me breakfast and dinner but it is his turn tonight and he really wants to practice his English.

I ask him if he has stood in line to sign the grief book. I mention that there are so many people in line and he says it is an obligation. “How so?”

“Your employer will tell you to go.” he says. “If you don’t, you don’t get paid for that and your future is not good.”