2/5 Havana
Kim and I surprisingly survived the agonizing 21 hours from our front door in Ivins, Utah, to downtown Havana, Cuba. At the point where we were waiting to get our luggage, which took over an hour at the Havana Airport, it was somewhat questionable. However, we did ultimately limp across the finish line at Hector and Diana’s apartment at 6:00 P.M., where we rented a bedroom for $30 a night.
Thankfully, the day ended with a couple of Crystal Lagers and a pizza. We were brain dead and travel weary, but victory was ours. We had survived another punishing travel marathon.
2/6 Havana (walked 5 miles)
The first part of the our day entailed responsibility. We met with Peter Marshall of Canbicuba about our tour, and then went to work putting our Bike Fridays together.
The afternoon brought a walking tour of Havana, which is the perfect illustration or definition for the word, “dilapidated.” Although there were a smattering of refurbished structures, most of the buildings looked like they had received their last paint job or repair work prior to the 1959 revolution. It is easily the ugliest, most rundown city I’ve ever visited.
First of all, there is no grass or greenery anywhere. It is all crumbling sidewalks, small piles of garbage in the streets, ponds of vile, stagnant water in the gutters and the shells of collapsing buildings towering above you.
Yet, many of the people are very stylishly dressed. Young women are typically attired in tight fitting dresses or spandex that show every curve and a generous amount of skin. I couldn’t help but stare at times.
Even though it is obviously poor, we felt very safe in walking up and down the streets. People seemed indifferent to our existence in their midst, as they sat on their stoops watching the day unfold. Some would attempt to engage us in conversation, hoping to earn a commission as our tour guide.
We trudged through a particularly colorful street, where the owners had cleverly used old bath tubs, assorted junk and gallon upon gallon of bright paint to construct a vibrant, mural filled alley that was a living, functioning piece of art.
The myth about Cuba being the home of the 1950’s vintage American car is true. Some are nicely painted and beautifully restored; however, the vast majority are rusted out rattle traps which emit a terrible black cloud of foul exhaust.
The conclusion of our Marse Lear led walking tour took us to an upscale Cuban restaurant. Kim had a beef-tomato dish, while I enjoyed a delightful platter of shredded lamb. Our three course meal, along with two drinks, coffee and dessert only set us back $20 per person.
2/7 Holguin
Cuba is a lot like rural Alaska, where no one seems to be in a hurry. Our prompt 8:00 A.M. departure ended up being 9:30 A.M., which meant a long sit on the hard concrete steps of the apartment building above Cafe Ruta. We watched the big, smoke belching monster, Havana, a city of 2.5 million, slowly come to life.
Once the bus left the bombed out looking inner city, Havana actually looks like the Cuban Missile Crisis ended badly, we found ourselves rolling through a verdant countryside filled with palm trees, banana plantations and endless fields of sugar cane. Initially, the four lane highway was decent, but as we travelled farther and farther away from the capitol city, the modern Chinese bus wildly swung side to side over the uneven asphalt. It was like riding in a small boat during a violent storm.
The 12 hour journey to Holguin was painful. Sure, we had two 15 minute breaks and a 45 minute lunch. It still hurt to be caged in that bus endlessly. It was like watching “Ground Hog Day” over and over again. We passed people slowly pedaling worn, rusted out, single speed bikes featuring a wooden platform strapped on the back for carrying things. Families were loaded in small carts, typically pulled by a scrawny single horse. Ancient Fords, Chevrolets and Dodges rolled down the highway, throwing out a huge plume of black smoke. The Russian Lada, a small, characterless tin box of 1980’s vintage, seemed even more feeble than the American septuagenarians and octogenarians.
We would see a single tall smoke stack in the distance, spewing out effluent from the sugar mill. That meant that they were producing brown sugar. Two stacks were to be equated with white sugar.
Small towns slipped by, with people walking up and down the middle of the streets and sitting on their stoops visiting with friends. The people looked rather weather beaten and were dressed in faded out, thread bare tee shirts and jeans. Yet the communities didn’t have a nasty edge to them, as some of villages in Central America, where the walls are filled with graffiti and people carry scowls on their faces that spell trouble.
Our hotel, with all of the character of a Soviet era apartment complex, provided a dismal buffet upon our arrival. Nevertheless, I inhaled the greasy ribs and shredded mystery meat like it was the Last Supper.
In walking through the lobby I noticed two Cuban beauties, in extremely short dresses and showing a good deal of cleavage, sitting on a couch. I have no way of knowing this for a fact, but I would have bet my last dollar that they were prostitutes looking for their next John.
Exhausted and physically beat up from sitting all day, I went to bed that night questioning the value of travel. Was this really fun?
2/8 Bayamo (rode 48 miles)
For the first time since we walked off the airplane on Friday night, I was truly happy. We rode the first few miles out of Holguin as a strung out peloton behind Manuelito, our charismatic guide. A group of four teenaged girls joined us for a few miles, showing off their riding skills by standing up on the small hills and riding without hands.
Soon we were on a quiet, rural highway, the Carretera Central. Occasionally, a lumbering truck or old sedan would carefully pass us, but mostly it was us and a throng of folks either walking or riding down the road. You really felt like you were supersonic, as you continually pulled out to pass horse drawn carts, heavily laden bicycles or simply people ambling towards their destination. At one point I flew by a man who was transporting a small dressing table on the back of his bicycle.
At times the asphalt was nothing but a maze of worn out, bumpy patches, but for the most part, it was smooth as the best bike path in America. For one reason or another, the Cubans have not found the need to chip seal. This may be the single greatest attribute I’ve found about the Cuban government.
Perhaps the highlight of the day came at a small school next to the highway, where Kim and I were greeted as rock stars. Each boy insisted on an earnest hand shake and each girl demanded a kiss on her cheek.
After we made our way to our hotel, the guides loaded us into the bus to go to a performance by a Cuban band. We danced Salsa, drank a rum fruit concoction and then visited the nearby city square, where we saw the birthplace of Cuba’s founding father, Carlos Manuel de Cespedes.
My day ended very poorly, as I was hit by your typical Latin American stomach ailment that comes from ingesting fruit or vegetables that have been washed using the local, untreated water. I spent most of the night perched over the toilet, violently expelling the small amount of nutrition that I had eaten during the day.
2/9 El Salton (rode 50 miles, 98 total)
It was the day of a fine, misting rain, an afternoon of monstrously steep inclines and in the end, riding a partially washed out, muddy cow path into our hotel. In other words, it was an adventure.
The first 28 miles into Contramaestra was just “ok.” It seemed like there were way more ancient, diesel spewing trucks on the road, and that, coupled with the misting rain, made it significantly less enjoyable. Every time I came upon a truck coming the other direction, I stopped pedaling and held my breath until I had rolled through the majority of the black cloud of exhaust. It was much harder when they passed me, as I had to ride longer in the ugly, toxic, black air. My lungs, which complained bitterly by expelling a vile phelgm, hated it.
The real fun of the day started with our climb into the Sierra Maestra Mountain Range. The road twisted and turned, jutting up at ridiculously steep angles, some over 14%, and then dropped with wild, hair pin turns into sleepy villages. My legs burned and my mood darkened every time we would sweep around another corner to find one more impossibly steep incline.
The visuals improved dramatically in the mountains. Even though the rolling peaks were mostly cloud covered, the variety of glowing green flora was a huge improvement over the endless sugar cane fields of the plains. Flowering bougainvilleas, huge Royal Palms, which is the national tree of Cuba, and intermittent fields of banana trees covered the hillsides. There would be large sections of natural forest and then small pastures would be carved out in the flatter areas.
All day long the road side was filled with propaganda. At first it was nice, as the party was celebrating heroes who had given their lives in the revolution or in the fight against Spain. Every kilometer would have a small stone monument, stating the life span of the person and the action that they had been involved in. The afternoon ride through the mountains was filled with large billboards exhorting the people to defend the revolution and were filled with pictures of the rock star images of Che and his fellow revolutionaries.
The last two miles were crazy. It was raining harder, and we had to navigate up a circuitous, muddy snake of Hell to to get to our hotel, the El Salton. About half way there, the guides pulled us off our bikes and into a small grass shack along side the road, where we met 74 year old Maria. She soon had several members of our group grinding her roasted coffee beans in the Cuban way, using a large wooden pestle and mortar. She then ran boiling water through the beans and then the coffee back though the beans again. The end result was a smokey flavored, full bodied cup of coffee that was laced with a good deal of Cuban sugar from the cane in her back yard. I’m not typically a fan of sugar in my jet fuel, but I must admit that the concoction raised my heart rate and energy level significantly.
Once we made it to the El Salton, which is rumored to have been built as a high altitude summer get away for the party elite, Jim and I accompanied our guides back to the village to retrieve out luggage out of the bus, which could not make it up the muddy, twisting trail that some would mistakingly call a road.
I capped off the day with a $15, hour long massage, which was great, other than having no place to comfortably place your head on the table. It seems like everything in Cuba is old and cheaply made, which included my rickety massage table.
The El Salton is very rustic, borderline run down and has all of the charm of a 40 year old, dilapidated Hotel 6. I would say that it proves that Fidel did believe in equality between the high ranking party officials and the proletariat below them. Even so, I loved the place, even though the shower drain didn’t work and the chinking was gone from the lip of the shower stall, leading to a small lake of water on our bathroom floor. The staff at the hotel were extremely friendly and helpful, and most importantly, the food prepared by the chef was actually delicious. I loved every bite of my dinner.
2/10 El Salton (walked 6 miles, 11 total)
The fun continued as we left our bicycles parked and laced up our walking shoes for a short trek into the Sierra Maestre.
Richardo, our guide, had exceptional English skills and was a fountain of information. As we slowly worked our way up the muddy trail, he would stop to tell us about everything from the local flora to the nuts and bolts of life in Cuba. The highlight of the tour was stopping at a local farm, where the 80 year matriarch prepared coffee. The house, a tiny, crude, cinder block structure, surrounded by two grass shacks which were used as kitchen and dining room, was neat and clean, but very spartan in nature. The family all seemed extremely welcoming, as our small tips would make a significant difference in their standard of living.
Richardo told us that he is only paid $15 a month by the government for his job at the hotel, where he serves as a handy man and night clerk. My $3.00 tip for a half a days tour is a huge windfall for him.
One memory of this walk was meeting a beautiful Cuban woman, probably in her 20’s, on the trail. Richardo stopped and visited with her in Spanish and then explained to us that she was on her way to the village below for shopping. As I looked down at her bare feet, which were paritally covered by trail mud, I noticed that she had a professional pedicure, with her nails painted a bright pink with little yellow designs. Richardo explained that she was carrying her shoes to protect them from the trail conditions. It all seemed so crazy. These people resided in grass shacks, lived a subsistence farmer's existence, and had little in the way of material possessions, but yet this woman had toe nails that would rock Hollywood during the Oscars.
Cuba is the antithesis of the United States. Where we define our status by our material possessions, they have nothing. Consumerism is the cancer that drives our culture. They have state owned stores that have a very limited inventory and the consumers have very little money to buy the limited inventory on those shelves.
Our world is about efficiency and economy. Cubans often spend a good deal of their day in line, waiting patiently in the heat to get money at the ATM or to buy a can of pop at the store. Nothing is well tuned or runs efficiently in Cuba.
2/11 Santiago (39 miles, 137 total)
We left the mountaiins in the bus, staring out our windows at an oppressively dark gray sky and light drizzle. Unfortunately, my mood pretty much matched the weather, which was dismal.
Once we climbed on our bikes again in Contrmaestre, and the ugly, chaotic little town faded away in the rear view mirror, my attitude towards the world improved significantly.
The first part of the ride was only “tolerable,” with way too much traffic, meaning that we essentially spent the morning hours pedaling through the omnipresent black cloud of exhaust that so defines Cuban highways.
Lunch was a pleasant surprise. We enjoyed two delicious pizzas and and couple of colas at a small restaurant in the bustling little city of Palma Soriano. Amazingly, it was only $3 CUCs, which is the tourist dollar used by visitors. Residents of Cuba use CUPs, which are worth much less in their purchasing power. This meal would have been a big deal for your average Cuban, as it was valued at 41 CUPs. It’s crazy how currencies are valued. It doesn’t seem to make any sense at all.
The next chapter in our adventure started with another long climb into the mountains, this time headed for El Cobre, an old copper mining town with Cuba’s most elaborate and celebrated Catholic cathedral. I loved the afternoon shift, as the mountain grades were reasonable and traffic was nonexistent.
The final destination was the Basilica del Cobre, which is known as the Santuary for the Virgin Mary. Apparently, she had been spotted in this little mining town, so the good Catholics of Cuba built a beautiful cathedral in her honor. The inside of the church was beautiful, but for me, the most interesting monument was a glass case filled with professional baseball paraphernalia. Apparently many star player’s prayers had been answered and to show their thanks to the Virgin, they donated jerseys, bats and balls with their autographs.
That night we all met at the poolside bar at our hotel complex, which is another Soviet style, characterless box, for happy hour. The $3 a bottle, seven year old Cuban rum provided just the right amount of social lubricant and pain killer after another long day.
2/12 Santiago (walked 3 miles, 14 total)
Canbicuba’s city tour of Santiago was a pleasant experience, but in all truth, I would have preferred to be out in the countryside streaking down some vacant highway. Nevertheless, Kim and I made the best out of the day.
Our first stop was at Revolution Square, home of a mammoth statue of a patriot charging on his horse surrounded by 20-30 immense machete blades. According to our guide, the party ordered these monster sized monuments built after the Soviet Union ended all support for Cuba in 1990. Apparently, the idea was to build a spirit of patriotism for their nation, as Cuba dealt with some very troubling times economically.
Next it was off to see the barracks where the communists staged a 1956 attack that ended in failure. At this point, Fidel was arrested and sent to prison for a year, prior to his eventual expulsion to Mexico.
Then we went to the national cemetery to see the resting place of Jose Marti, the father of Cuba. We watched the changing of the guard and had a very interesting, but short tour given by an independent guide.
After visiting a rum and cigar store, we were off to lunch, the highlight of the day. The food was great, but really, the best part was walking the walls of the first Spanish fort (1533) to be constructed in the Western Hemisphere, which overlooked the city’s harbor.
Santiago, a city of over a million, seems much more dynamic than Havana. There are more businesses and the buildings, as a general rule, are in much better repair than the capitol. Motorcycles have replaced cars here and serve as the taxi of choice. Each cycle has an extra helmet strapped on it for the customer. The streets are chaotic and the stench of diesel exhaust permeates the air. It is oppressively hot and humid, but still the sidewalks are filled with people hustling about, doing their business. Each square is jammed with young people, sitting on every available bench, where they surf the internet on their smart phones. Public parks are the only place in Cuba where the general public can access the internet. You must use your identity card to purchase the card, which is then used to monitor your browsing history.
Yes, I’m an old man, but I can’t help but to have noticed the young Cuban women. They are very, very beautiful. Generally a mixture of African, Native and Spanish blood, they wear skin tight spandex skirts and tops that accentuate every curve. As a general rule, they also tend to show a great deal of cleavage. It is damned hard not to stare.
2/13 Las Brisas (38 miles, 165 total)
It was an amazing day to be alive and on the road in Cuba. Today’s ride was one of the great bike experiences of my life time.
After the bus took us to the edge of the city of Santiago, we hopped on our steeds for a scorching, wind blown pedal down a silky smooth, undulating, two lane coastal highway. My red Pocket Rocket screamed up the hills and then flew down the other side, roaring around corners, as if it had grown a 750 cc motor overnight.
The scenery was gorgeous. On one side was a rugged, coral infested coastline, and on the other the steep foothills of the coastal range. Majestic Royal palms, small herds of goats grazing next to the road, and small settlements of grass huts and cinderblock houses filled the lenses of my sunglasses.
Within minutes we were having lunch in a little coastal village’s park. Jim Taylor pulled out a bag of balloons and soon we were all blowing them up for the children crowded around us. It was fun to see their eyes brighten and the smiles flash widely across their faces.
During our break, Fred and our guide, the ever colorful Manuelito, lost to the local village sharks in a highly contested game of dominos.
Las Brisas, our beach front resort, turned out to be typical Cuban. Even though it was only 10 years old, its crumbling structure was embarrassing. Our room’s door only opened about a foot and a half at its widest, the hot water was luke warm at best, nearly all of the elevators were out of commission, and the tile floor had been patched with a totally different color. The walls had no, or very little sound board between rooms, there was mold in corners and the furniture was old, cheap and worn. Just the same, we loved it.
Perhaps the highlight of the day came on the beach. We were all sitting around visiting when one of our Cuban guides, Diuvan, came up to say hello. He sat down and started talking with us, really giving us an insight of what life is like for your average Cuban. It was fun to get to know him and learn about his life in Cuba.
2/14 Manzanillo (50 miles, 215 total)
Old man “Sol,” the ever devastatingly powerful Cuban sun whipped my ass today. He threw me down, kicked me in the ribs and spat on my frail carcass.
The much anticipated, the much feared, Canbicuba ride along the south coast was everything that was advertised. Since the road is in such poor condition, our bus could not follow us. It had to back track all the way to Santiago and then drive a huge ten hour long horse shoe shaped route to collect us at the end of our ride.
The first few miles were actually wonderful, as we had new asphalt and only two or three cars on the road. Soon we found our first damaged bridge, which had been hammered by the same Sandy that devastated New Jersey and New York. It was rideable, and our accompanying Suzuki Samurais drove over it, but with its heavy tilt and caving in side, it would have been condemned and closed in the states. In Cuba it was better than the alternative..... no road at all. We rode over more collapsing bridges, some rough stretches of gravel and when we did find asphalt, it was typically potholed or incredibly bumpy due to the continuous patching.
Even so, I would say that it was one of the top travel adventures I’ve had in my years on the road. The Caribbean was stunning. The shallow areas along the shore were almost green and where the sea deepened, we found an electric shade of blue.
As we worked our way west along the coast the flora seemed to change from tropical to cactus. The steep mountain slopes ran into the ocean, and any flat spot that wasn’t a rock strewn flood plain, had either a village or series of small farms.
The last thirty miles of the ride were tough. We encountered many steep pitches, the entire day had approximately 3000 feet of elevation gained, and the ride down each of the coastal headlands wasn’t easy cruising either, as one had to ride his brakes and constantly swerve his bike to miss obstacles.
The real pain of the day started when we finished our epic ride at 3:00 P.M., which was at another coastal, all-inclusive resort. When I pulled into the parking lot, I was so, so happy, thinking that it was to be our home for the night. Then, unfortunately, my little private fantasy land evaporated as I recalled that we needed to bus to our next hotel. I had just finished my first beer when our guide, Manuelito, hit us with the bad news; it was going to be at least two hours before our bus was going to arrive, and to throw more salt on the wound, it would be another two hours minimum to bus to our hotel.
Thankfully, some very friendly and generous Canadians attached themselves to us, and like a gift from Heaven, the man kept going back to the bar to secure more and more free beer for us. After drowning the bad news about the bus with at least four plastic glasses of Cuban lager, I laid down on the grass, where my buddy Marse provided a life saving back massage. Soon after I joined Bill Buchanan in slumberland. Kim stated that we sawed some heavy timber on that lawn, sounding like two chainsaws in heaven.
We finally pulled into our hotel, the two star Hotel Guacanayabo, shortly before 9:00 P.M. Dinner was adequate, a tough beef steak served in a sauce, but then the really bad news started. First of all, the hot water had been turned off and there was hardly enough water pressure to wet our yellow utility towel to take a sponge bath. Then the music started. The windows rattled and the walls quaked from the booming bass of the big Valentines Day dance being held at the hotel’s poolside bar. I was beyond exhausted from the beating that “Old Man Sol” had administered to my delicate body, yet I knew there was no way I would ever be able to sleep. It felt like the disco floor was six inches from my pillow. I had found the ultimate definition of the travel blues. It was HELL, pure HELL. Could life be any worse?
Just when it was all was too depressing, and I was laying there feeling sorry for myself to the heavy beat of Latin salsa music, an amazing thing happened. I fell asleep, into so heavy of a slumber that I didn’t wake until the next morning’s sun started to shine through our window shades. It was a miracle so amazing that I knew it had to have happened because of my visit to the El Cobre Catholic Cathedral, where signs of the Virgin Mary had been spotted in the last century. Some day I will return to El Cobre to give thanks to the Virgin for answering my prayers, for granting me this incredible miracle, this night of badly needed sleep.
2/15 Manzanillo (40 miles, 265 total)
Our guides loaded us up and drove to a small town about a half hour out of Manzanillo to our start our day. The ride was simply wonderful. The road, a narrow, winding snake that slithered through the sugarcane fields, was smooth and had little traffic. A brisk wind blew at our backs, propelling us between 18-24 mph for the bulk of the day. And for the first time since day one, everyone rode, as both Lori and Yvonne had rebounded from their stomach maladies.
Our destination was the site where Fidel Castro and his small group of revolutionaries landed on the ship, the Granma. The park itself, with a very modest museum, wasn’t much, but we enjoyed the presentation by the park ranger, which was interpreted by Yuban. Seeing the two kilometers of mangrove forest and coastal swamp that Fidel’s group had crossed to make dry land was very impressive. Considering that they were carrying 70 lb. packs and carrying rifles made it seem superhuman.
It seems like our Manzanillo hotel is mostly for “Cuban” tourists, meaning that it is extra shabby, was built with the cheapest materials possible and hasn’t been maintained for 20 years. Nevertheless, we had fun gathering at the poolside bar for beers and enjoyed the simple meals served by the restaurant. Diuvan always had a big smile on his face when he asked what we wanted for dinner each night, as the options were always the same. “Pork, chicken, beef or fish?” he would query. The hotel even provided an extra bonus - luke warm water for showers between the hours of 6-9:00 P.M.
2/16 Bayamo (walked 4 miles, 18 total)
Again, it was the Cuban story of hurry up and wait. And this time.... wait we did!
After hustling through another pack up, eat a quick breakfast and hop on the bus for a two hour ride, we sat and sat and paced and paced. “For what?” you ask.
The five hours of waiting, sitting around, and spinning our wheels was to see Fidel’s hide out high in the Sierra Maestra Mountains. Even though it didn’t seem worth it when we were suffering, sitting on curb watching the sweat streaming down our bodies in the dual Hells of Cuba - 90 degree heat, 90% humidity, I must admit that it was ultimately worth the pain.
The first part of the experience entailed having all 20 of us crammed into two medium sized Korean SUVs, and then taken up one of the steepest, craziest roads I’ve experienced in my lifetime. At times the incline was 45 degrees.
Once we made it to the end of the road, we were met by a Cuban guide who had learned English and educated himself in his own mountain top village. He was an absolute gem. He had better English than most of us and was a walking encyclopedia on the revolution and Fidel. He took us on a six kilometer hike through the mountainside. The trail featured huge steps, some rock hopping and muddy, slippery surfaces. Amazingly, only one of us, Lynn, took a tumble, but she popped straight up like she was ready for another 15 rounds with Mike Tyson. Since we were hiking at over 5000 feet, the temperatures were actually quite comfortable, which was a real blessing after being partially melted by the morning sun during the “Big Wait.”
The actual hideout was spartan, with Fidel’s two room cabin featuring a refrigerator and bed. However, considering where it was located, at the top of an incredibly steep sided mountain range, all I could think about was the poor men who had to bring up the propane tanks and food to keep his life relatively luxurious, when you knew they were sleeping in mud holes all over the mountainside.
The terrain we hiked through did a lot to explain the success of the revolution. The mountains were impossibly steep and covered with dense vegetation. It would have been extremely difficult to fight your way to the top and once you started, you would have been easy pickings for the guerrillas hiding above.
2/17 Manzanillo (rode 36, 301 total)
It was another rocking pedal through the flat Cuban countryside. Again, the road surface was relatively smooth, the wind was at our backs and with the glowing green of the rice paddies and sugar cane fields, and the towering Sierra Maestra in the background, it was easy on the eyes.
It is obvious that Socialism and the Cuban Revolution has failed economically. People may be content with their lives, but from the perspective of an outsider, life looks to be very bleak for the average citizen.
Many rely on 19th century horse and buggy taxis, and you see more small wagons pulled by a single horse than you see the ancient, 1950’s vintage trucks.
All of the horses and cattle in the country are owned by the state. Sadly, most of the horses are undersized, emaciated and look like they are on their last lap. Since there is no private ownership, the numbers of these animals are small and their condition is marginal. On the other hand, pigs, sheep and goats can be owned by the farmers. You see them everywhere and for the most part, they look pleasantly plump.
Some of the old trucks have been converted from farm work to serve as taxis, with benches filling the grain box where grain or cane was once hauled. As we roar down the rural roads on our bikes, we see people waiting patiently to be picked up. The old trucks stop, a ladder is dropped from the tailgate, people climb in and off they go into the bright lights of the city. Of course, every time the trucks take off again, you see a blue-black cloud of exhaust the size of Rhode Island added to our atmosphere.
The farmer’s homes are typically cinder block dwellings with metal roofs. None have glass windows, but have crude wooden shutters to let air or light in when needed. Every home that we were in had a dirt floor, which has been compacted and was swept to keep things neat. Grass shacks serve as the outbuildings for kitchens and dining rooms or as storage areas. A campesino told me that the government provided the materials for these small homes, and that the old style grass shack was preferable during the hot months, as it is much cooler.
The numerous small cities of Eastern Cuba are obviously more affluent than the countryside, but with their deteriorating buildings, crumbling sidewalks and lack of business enterprises (not many independent stores in Cuba), it really feels depressing to the outsider. It is as if the government is so worried about someone getting ahead in their society and having more than their peers, that they would prefer to keep everyone impoverished and to limit productivity.
Yet people are constantly on the go, pedaling rusted out, ancient single speed bikes with about 12 pounds of air in the tires, or simply walking down the side of the roads. You see them carrying heavy loads of wood or bags of vegetables. They appear to be doing everything possible to subsist in their world, which is limited to an area within a few miles of their home.
Many of the younger women will carry a parasol to shield themselves from the intense Cuban sun, which after 11:00 A.M. is absolutely crippling. It is amazing to see a family on a bike, as the husband sits on the seat and pedals, while the wife balances herself on the back, holding the baby in one arm and using her other arm for her parasol.
The men seem more utilitarian than the stylish, spandex wearing Cuban women in their clothing choices. Most wear faded jeans, old tee shirts and some sort of a hat.
2/18 Las Tunas (32 miles, 333 total)
Today’s ride was a certified ass buster. For the first time, our crew set us up to ride north and we found ourselves pedaling into a 15-25 mph trade wind.
We were met by the Las Tunas High School cycling team about 10 miles into the ride. From the moment we met these vivacious, beautiful, adolescent girls, I loved them. They were all huge smiles and exuded friendliness.
Immediately, I buddied up with 15 year old Greta. She rode along side me and continually attempted to query me about this and that in Spanish. I couldn’t really communicate with her, other than to banter in pathetic Spanish about the wind, the heat, the roughness of road and to ask basic questions about her family, but it was still fun to ride into the city with her in a strung out peloton.
It was interesting to see how it worked on the team. The best riders, they had two girls who had placed in nationals, rode the best bikes, older carbon Giants or Treks. Greta was on an elderly steel framed, Italian bike, which must have weighed at least 25 pounds. Some of the girl’s seats were torn, lacking padding, or they didn’t have handle bar tape. No one had computers or bike gloves.
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| Kim, Greta and I on the road to Las Tunas. |
Greta and the team mechanic, who could speak English, explained that they rode every morning, attended classes in the afternoon, and then lifted weights or ran at 5:00 P.M. Her total focus was on competition.
That evening we loaded up on the bus to be taken to the coach’s home, where they had prepared a slow roasted a pig on a spit. Soon our girls’ cycling team arrived and the party really started. Kim and I sat around visiting with Greta, as Manuelito translated for us. After we had enjoyed the best meal of the trip, roast pork and a wide variety of salads, the coach opened up our gifts for the team. I felt embarrassed by our offerings, a million old tires and other lame bicycling equipment, when I saw our girls’ eyes. They so wanted new jerseys, sexy cycling shorts or gloves and headbands. The pragmatism of tires, seats, and bar tape were boring for these teenaged Cuban beauties.
Amazingly, the fun didn’t stop there. I had mentioned that I wanted to see a Cuban professional baseball game to Manuelito, and being the best guide since the beginning of time, he offered to take us to watch the Havana team demolish the Las Tunas Loggers. We filled two horse taxis, and were soon bouncing over the rough Las Tunas streets in the back of a carriage. Kim was beside herself with glee, as she had really wanted to ride in a horse taxi during her Cuban experience. The game itself wasn’t that exciting, but simply being there was a thrill. We watched the Cuban fans as much as the game, as they were a colorful, enthusiastic crowd. The stadium, like all of Cuba, was lacking in creature comforts. The fans sat on cement bleachers, and the field lacked a bullpen for warming up relief pitchers. If a batter hit a foul ball or a home run, the fans were forced to throw back the ball so it could be used again. Cuba is too poor to allow the fans to keep the baseballs. When you contrast it with American sports, which are all about luxury boxes, $200 million player contracts and fans dressed in expensive uniform replicas, the Cuban game seemed more real and the fans more sincere. You really have to love the Loggers to sit on a slab of concrete for nine innings.
2/19 Villa Don Lino (27 miles, 360 total)
It was the day of the “Lost Souls.”
Our chief cycling guide, Manuelito, woke up with a case of nuclear diarrhea, caused by enjoying a lime green slushy at the baseball game the night before. Since he was the last man to board the bus and wasn’t healthy enough to give us our usual briefing, we really didn’t have the day’s plan totally implanted in our minds.
Nevertheless, we took off from bus 3912 like a crazed covey of ptarmigan on Nescafe. We again faced a headwind, but it didn’t seem as mean spirited or hurtful as the previous day’s big blow.
We rolled down the undulating highway, which was surrounded by glowing green pastures and banana plantations on both sides of the road. Small road side stands, featuring all of your tropical fruits and some vegetables, begged for customers. Two small, jutting coastal mountains stood in the horizon.
In minutes Kim, Bill Warren and I were standing at a junction taking photographs of an ancient train engine parked next to an inspirational sign calling for all Cubans to protect the homeland from Imperialists. Just as we were about to hop back on our bikes and take off again, the Canbicuba bus pulled up and out rolled our guides. We were informed that we were to stay put and wait for our fellow bikers, as the route to our hotel was tricky. As I stood there milling about impatiently, I thought to myself, “Damn, if we had taken off just a minute earlier, we would have had no clue where we were going or how to find the bus once we were lost.” It could have been a certified disaster.
Trouble came as our fellow cyclists roared into the junction. We explained that our guides had warned us to wait, that we would continue the rest of the way as a group, as the route was complicated.
Bill Buchanan is allergic to horse dander, and since there were 8-10 horse drawn taxis waiting across the street, he wanted to leave immediately. He spoke with our bus driver, David, who speaks English almost as well as I speak Spanish. In other words, Bill was clueless. He took off down the road anyway, trying to put as much distance between the horses and his sinus cavities as possible.
Soon Gene and Nancy arrived, and since they had just taken a ten minute break, they elected to follow Bill.
Manuelito came into the scene a few moments later, telling us that we needed to follow the bus with our bikes. At first all was wonderful, but about a mile down the road we turned right. I knew that Bill, Gene and Nancy had all gone straight ahead, which meant that they were never going to be able to find our hotel. It was a disaster.
About two hours later the bus collected Bill, who had the good sense to sit by the road and wait for the bus to eventually find him.
Unfortunately, Gene and Nancy elected to find the hotel that Canbicuba had listed on their web site for this particular day. They rode there, another 20-25 kilometers, only to find that there were no bike tours staying at that hotel. They then visited other nearby hotels, again and again striking out. Since they had no idea of where we were staying, they sent us a message via email. However, we at Villa Don Lino had no internet.
We were panicking over our lost compadres at the resort, while Manuelito, Yuban and the crew were scouring the countryside with our elephantine Chinese bus, turning up every stone in search of the Hoefflings. They called hotels, drove up and down the road that our missing teammates had been last seen on and then did it again. It was all fruitless.
Finally, after it had turned dark, Kim and I accompanied the crew to the Brisas Hotel, where we would be able to check the internet. This very long, very painful episode ended when Diane, Nancy’s sister, opened her gmail account to find a plea for help. Within 20-30 minutes the missing bikers were loaded up and headed back to the gloriously wonderful world of Kim’s Tour. Our day had been stressful - their’s had been HELL.
2/20 Villa Don Lina (walked 4 miles, 22 total)
It was a gray, windy day on the Northeast coast of Cuba. We had hoped for one more ride, but waking up to seeing the palms bent over in half was enough to change the day’s plan.
As we were slowly ambling down the road towards the landing spot of Christopher Columbus, an elderly, stoop shouldered senora beckoned us into her yard. Soon we were on a personal tour of her dwelling, admiring her flowers, and the pigs and chickens scurrying about in the yard. She took us into her house, a shack built from assorted planks and scraps of tin. One could easily see gaping holes in the roof and walls, where rays of sunlight lit up the otherwise dark, depressing environment. There were no decorations, other than an old religious calendar and wooden boxes nailed to the walls to hold cups, glasses and other assorted tools, which were used for daily living. She pulled out her Bible to retrieve a few photos of her family. Unbelievably, her daughter’s wedding picture showed a beautiful blonde woman dressed in a conventional white wedding dress. Her appearance, which was so middle classed American, seemed such a contrast from her parent’s world in this little shack in rural Cuba.
The rest of the day was fairly mundane. I had a massage and we laid about the pool area reading and drinking free beer from the all inclusive bar. Thanks be to God, we had our last Cuban hotel buffet that night, and then sang “Happy Birthday” to the 77 year old living legend, Bill Buchanan.
2/21 Havana
It was 12 very long, very miserable hours on Intertour bus 3912 headed toward Havana. I finished one book, took several short slumbers until my head would be whiplashed by the swaying bus, and then made a great deal of headway on another book. It was painfully boring and my boney ass ached by the time we were rolling down the Malecon on our way to Cafe Ruta.
Even though we were to stay another two days in Havana, our Cuban tour was really over. We had experienced the best and most trying elements of the island nation, and the next few days in Havana would be treading water until our trip home.
In looking back at our short time in Cuba, I would say that the very best component of the trip was meeting the people. Even though they have been severely hamstrung by the Socialist government, they remain a pleasant, happy group of individuals who are fun to around. When they discovered that we were American tourists, they could hardly contain their glee at having us in their country. They repeatedly told us how much they love Americans.
Cubans are an amazingly resourceful group. For example, ancient Fords, Chevys and Dodges have been modified using parts from other makes and models to keep them on the road. At one point we talked with a man on the street in Havana who had slapped an old diesel Land Rover engine and drive train into his 1953 Chevy. They don’t work well, they belch enormous volumes of vile black exhaust, but they do get people from point “A” to point “B.”
Even though the outside of their 100 year old, government owned houses, which have been converted into several apartments, are falling apart, the insides are clean, functional and commonly decorated with old family photos. The furniture is threadbare, the 1950’s vintage tile floors are chipped and stained, the walls need a fresh paint job, but yet the people who live in these homes seem happy and make the best out of their situation.
From what I could see, the Cuban government only offers partial employment to their citizens. For example, Manuelito works during the winter months, having the entire summer off. It would be fine if he made enough money to live comfortably during the summer off his winter earnings, but this is an impossibility in Cuba. His wife paints nails in a salon, which is a valued position in Cuba, but not one to bring home enough money to survive on one income. In view of this situation, most Cubans are forced to take other employment to make ends meet. Some men we talked to worked three jobs.
Wages are ridiculously low. A doctor only makes $50 per month, a nurse $40, while one of the best jobs on the island is to be a waitress or waiter at a resort, earning tourist’s tips. The government takes a least half of these tips, pressuring the worker to cough up his share. They know that Americans often have the deepest pockets and tip liberally, so they expect more contributions when a worker is around the Yankee tourist. If the worker isn’t forthcoming with his/her contribution to the government, his/her job may in jeopardy.
The government food rations of rice, coffee, meat, flour and other staples are only enough for an average American to survive a few days. Therefore, somehow, someway, Cubans have to find extra money to buy food to survive. And the food, when you’re buying it at full market value, is very, very expensive on your government salary. I’m sure that many Cuban families subsist almost exclusively on beans and rice, and only have meat once or twice a month.
The internet is expensive, hard to connect to and closely monitored. One has to use his/her government identification to buy the $2.00 CUC card, which you can only use in a local park wi-fi zone. The card gives the user access for one hour and provides the authorities with a history of your internet use. Yet the parks are full of young people scrolling up and down the screens of their smart phones.
Considering the level of poverty in Cuba, we found it to be a very safe country. Some individuals may approach you in Havana, wanting to serve as your guide, hoping for a generous tip, but we never felt like we were in dangerous neighborhoods or had to protect our wallets and cameras with a death grip. We were told that illegal drugs are nonexistent and that petty theft is minimal.
Overall, Kim and I loved our trip to Cuba. The lodging was substandard, the food mediocre at best, the museums and historical sites lacking, but yet, we feel that it was one of our best trips ever. I don’t really know why we feel that way, as being a tourist in Cuba is not an easy job, but I do know that it is a trip I will always remember. Perhaps it was Manuelito’s crazy smile and fun loving personality, or maybe it was those wind aided, silky smooth rides through endless sugar cane fields. Maybe it was Gene and Fred’s happy hour gatherings, where the rum flowed and we laughed about each day’s adventures. Whatever it was, Cuba is a very special place that will forever touch me. Upon returning to my home, where we have so much, I still think about the Cubans I met and how I wish I could help them have more.
