«La Loma de las Siete Vueltas. Sierra Cristal, Oriente de Cuba». (ESP/ENG)

Te van a decir que se llama así porque el camino da siete curvas antes de la cima. Mentira. Yo conté ocho. Otros dicen que hay que dar siete giros al llegar para no perderse en la niebla. Tampoco sé. Lo único que te aseguro es que en algún momento vas a mirar el suelo y no vas a ver tus huellas. Y vas a oír pasos que no vienen de atrás. Vienen de arriba. Alguien baja mientras tú subes. No es un fantasma. Es la loma jugando con tu cabeza. Déjala. Ella siempre gana.

They'll tell you it's called that because the road curves seven times before the summit. That's a lie. I counted eight. Others say you have to make seven turns at the top so you don't get lost in the fog. I don't know that either. The only thing I can guarantee is that at some point you'll look down and you won't see your footprints. And you'll hear footsteps that aren't coming from behind you. They're coming from above. Someone's coming down while you're climbing. It's not a ghost. It's the hill playing tricks on you. Let it. It always wins.

La subida es pesada, eso sí. Las rodillas reclaman pausa. El aire se pone denso. El horizonte empieza a repetirse como un disco. No te asustes. Es normal.

The climb is tough, that's for sure. Your knees are begging for a break. The air is thick. The horizon starts repeating like a broken record. Don't panic. It's normal.

Cuando llegues arriba, el mundo se abre verde y inefable, como la poesía. Los valles como mantas. Las nubes como venas de plata. Te vas a girar para ver de quién son esos pasos. No va a haber nadie. Solo el viento moviendo las palmas reales.

When you reach the top, the world opens up, green and ineffable, like poetry. The valleys like blankets. The clouds like silver veins. You'll turn around to see whose footsteps those are. There won't be anyone there. Only the wind moving the royal palms.

Las cuevas negras en la roca. Los trillos que no llevan a ningún lado. Respira hondo. Esto recién empieza.

The black caves in the rock. The trails that lead nowhere. Take a deep breath. This is just the beginning.

El vértigo aquí no es por la altura. Es porque en algún momento vas a sentir que las Siete Vueltas no terminan nunca. No es vértigo de caída. Es vértigo de estar vivo. Das un paso y te late fuerte. Das otro y ya no sabes si el latido es tuyo o del monte. Sigue caminando. Porque allá arriba te espera algo que no vas a ver en ninguna otra loma de Cuba.

The vertigo here isn't from the height. It's because at some point you'll feel like the Seven Turns will never end. It's not the vertigo of falling. It's the vertigo of being alive. You take one step and your heart pounds. You take another and you no longer know if the throbbing is yours or the mountain's. Keep walking. Because up there, something awaits you that you won't see on any other hill in Cuba.

A veces puede verse a un hombre. Es el desmochador. Es un tipo menudo, brazos largos, un machete colgando. Lo vas a ver trepando una palma como si hubiera nacido en ella. No tiene prisa ni pausa. Tiene un ritmo singular.

Sometimes you might see a man. He's the tree cutter. He's a small fellow, long arms, a machete slung over his shoulder. You'll see him climbing a palm tree as if he were born there. He's neither in a hurry nor slow. He has a unique rhythm.

Llega arriba y empieza a cortar hojas. Racimos de palmiche. Caen lentos, enormes, golpeando el suelo con un eco que te retumba en el pecho. No está cortando palmas. Está como dibujando el cielo.

He reaches the top and begins to cut leaves. Bunches of palm fronds. They fall slowly, enormous, striking the ground with an echo that reverberates in your chest. He's not cutting palm trees. He's like he's drawing the sky.

Cuando baja, se pierde entre las cuevas y no vuelve la cabeza. Los lugareños dicen que lleva más años que la loma. No le hables. Solo mira y calla.

When he comes down, he disappears among the caves and never looks back. The locals say he's been there longer than the hill itself. Don't speak to him. Just watch and be quiet.

No vengas a conquistar la Siete Vueltas. Ven a que ella te conquista a ti. No vas a bajar diciendo "qué vista". Vas a bajar con las piernas temblorosas y los ojos llenos de algo que no es luz ni sombra. Si alguien te pregunta qué tal, vas a decir "fantástico" y te vas a quedar corto. Porque lo fantástico no es el paisaje. Es sentirte vivo, pequeño, perdido y encontrado todo a la vez. Eso no da miedo. Da hambre de más. Da ganas de volver.

Don't come to conquer the Siete Vueltas. Come and let it conquer you. You won't come down saying "what a view." You'll come down with trembling legs and eyes filled with something that's neither light nor shadow. If someone asks you how it was, you'll say "fantastic," and that won't even do it justice. Because what's fantastic isn't the scenery. It's feeling alive, small, lost, and found all at once. That's not scary. It makes you hungry for more. It makes you want to come back.

Ya sabes. Cuenta las curvas. Cuando llegues a ocho y el camino se repita, sonríe. Cuando oigas los pasos arriba, sube más rápido. Cuando veas al desmochador, quédate quieto un rato. Y cuando bajes, vas a tener una historia que ni tus nietos se van a creer. La Sierra Cristal no es para cualquiera. Pero si llegaste hasta acá leyendo, es para ti. Ahora solo falta que vayas.

You know the drill. Count the curves. When you get to eight and the road repeats itself, smile. When you hear footsteps above, climb faster. When you see the tree trimmer, stay put for a moment. And when you come down, you'll have a story your grandchildren won't believe. Sierra Cristal isn't for everyone. But if you've read this far, it's for you. Now all that's left is for you to go.