January 30, 2016, Guantanamo Province, Cuba — We woke up stiff and achy as the first rays of morning sunlight brightened the horizon. The place we stayed—a small, gray, rectangular room, built of cement blocks with a concrete floor—had made deep sleep impossible. Still, I was grateful to the people of this small mountain hamlet for welcoming us and providing shelter on a stormy night. Although the rains pounded down for most of the night and wet part of the floor, the dawn broke clear, promising sunshine. I was so eager to stretch my legs and get moving again, I couldn’t wait for the mules to be loaded with our gear. I just ate a chunk of dry bread for breakfast, put on my backpack, and started trudging up the long, rocky road. It was a steep trail, and after hiking about a mile I was glad to see the mule train coming up behind me—especially when they gave me a mule to ride. He was strong and sure-footed, gliding easily over the rocks and slippery red mud as we traveled...