CUBA BY BIKE

 

Day one February 19

The ordeal of getting from the United States to Cuba makes one wonder at times if it's worth the
effort. Going as a tourist it seems as if someone wants to squeeze you every step of the way. If
you pay in Cancun for an air fare and hotel room in Havana you may get fleeced. Sure, the
airplane gets you there in an hour after you've waited all day in the Cancun airport, but the hotel
room can be very pricey and not worth the money.

But the passport control people in Havana might want to know that you're staying at one of their
government run hotels before they stamp your visa. A package deal gets you a lift from the
airport into town. The Englaterra hotel has seen better days. The staff, whose only chance is to
earn some dollars in tip money still need to learn the ropes on service. But this is a real
introduction to Cuba, a country that is in some ways still 25 years behind some other Caribbean
destinations on tourist comfort.


DAY 2, Feb 20
Yet travel has to be real to be meaningful, and so some hardship and uncertainty is part of the
price for such a trip. After the first grueling day, we were able to assert some independence of
transport. Since we paid $150 for a room that was probably worth $30 we didn't feel bad about
unpacking our bikes and assembling them in the hotel room, then transporting them vertically in
the 4 person elevator to the lobby. Just outside the front door of this once ostentatious but now
somewhat seedy establishment we loaded on our travel bags with paniers and bungy cords and
said "Hasta Luego" to the Englaterra.

It was a short ride to the Museum of Music, to see a friend of ours working there. Fortunately,
she advised us on how to get out of the city. You have to load your bike on a "Camel", a strange
looking hump-backed bus with no seats that takes you under the bay going east from Havana.
We were already with the real people going about their daily business. About 10KM out of town
the bus dispatched us at a suburban stop and we were ready to ride again. Since it was already
mid-afternoon we decided to try to reach Santa Cruz del Norte by evening. Traveling mostly
along the coast with rolling hills we managed to make the approximately 50 km trek by early
evening.

The roads near Havana are crowded with noisy smelly trucks that belch black smoke and
passenger cars headed for suburban destinations. The last part of the ride found the road dotted
with oil refining units and a barren landscape, the industrial economy at work. It was good to
finally reach Santa Cruz del Norte and pour a cold beer down my neck at a roadside stop. While
stopped there trying to see about where to spend the night I was approached by a sad looking
youth wearing a threadbare pullover who wanted to know if I could give him a replacement. The
best I could offer him was some beer, which he refused.

Santa Cruz del Norte is the site of a major rum distillery, in former times property of the Baccardi
family. We were not really interested in going into the town and spending too much money for a
noisy accommodation, so we opted for a place off the road that was quieter and cheaper too. The room was $17.50, which could have easily been a price in pesos. It couldn't have come up to the
standard even of one of our low down and dirty motels of the southwest in a place like Grants,
New Mexico. Our toilet ran constantly and was inhabited by a green toad with big eyes. The
dining room provided adequate food and we had an early night. We really didn't expect much out
of this stop and we weren't disappointed. Early the next morning one of the workers brought a
sweet fruit drink and some crackers for "breakfast". I thought he was being very nice, but he later
asked for "four". He must have meant pesos because I explained to him the four dollars would be
too much for such a paltry " meal". I gave him a dollar and he gave me 10 pesos change. At the
"official" exchange rate of 20 pesos to a dollar I figure he got a 6 peso tip. He didn't complain,
so I guess it was OK with him.

The next day we planned to make it to Varadero and we managed to get to Matanzas in time for
Lunch. On entering the city I asked a few people about a palladar (a family run restaurant
licensed by the government). We were shown to a conventional restaurant, the ruins of some old
Spanish fort with enough atmosphere and adequate food. But we found the price somewhat steep
and felt that we were being taken advantage of by the friendly proprietor. But this was a
government run place and the policy in these kinds of places often is to soak the tourists. During
the meal a fellow showed up and started drawing caricatures of us. We engaged in friendly
conversation, knowing all the while that we were being hustled to buy his drawing. I will say this,
he didn't make us look like tourists. The caricatures made us look like affluent locals.

We knew that sooner or later we would have to get some good value for our money, and we
hoped that it would be sooner.

Carolyn's Diary, DAY 1
CMF starts her diary April 2,'98 (A frustrating day with lots of snow, and lack of progress in
"Juliette".

February 19 3:30 a.m

I've been dozing off and on since 11:30 in anticipation of getting up and going to the airport at
the ungodly hour of 4:00 a.m. Somehow, we manage to get bodies and bags in the van, and Jack
is kind enough to drive us to DIA. Ticketing is a detached experience at 5:00 a.m., and after we
are fleeced the first time for the bicycles (i.e. excess baggage) by Allegro Airlines, we board the
plane for a pleasant enough ride to Cancun. An intermediate stop in Cozumel has us herded off
the plane into a "holding area" for a half-hour or so, then we are allowed back on the plane for
Cancun. Somehow that "holding area" ritual might have been Mexican customs, but the
significance was lost on me. The only thing I did notice were a few dissolute looking Americans
smoking in the lounge, ready to drink, drink, drink, once they arrived in Cancun. One man was
pushing 50 maybe, but his liver and ravine lined face were pushing an unhealthy 90. I did enjoy
the blast of 85 degree heat which greeted us when we deplaned. And I was also impressed by the
dense forest covering the entire peninsula save the resort area and roads.

Cancun Airport was our home for 7 hours. We sat on the floor near the ticket counter for the
AeroCaribe flight to Havana. I watched a steady parade of Americans, Europeans, South
Americans walk by with suntans and luggage to the boarding area upstairs. Later in the day,
Frank is asked by a dentist from Alabama to help him translate arrival time for someone on the
phone in Havana. Dennis (I think that was his name) has been to Cuba several times, donating a
week of his time fixing teeth and absorbing whatever culture excited him while on the island. We
all agree that Cuba is a world unto itself, and expensive to visit. Drinks and a sandwich are
offered for our short flight to Havana. We arrive in Havana around 9:30 and after a wait to get
through customs, we are met by our friend, Mariano, and a Havantur taxi driver to take us to our
overpriced dump called the Inglaterra. Its 11:30 before our bikes and bags are in the room and
we are trying not to fall asleep talking to Mariano in the bar. He seems to understand that we are
exhausted but extraction from his company is a ritual that takes a little time. We "enjoy" a
shower, turn on the AC full blast to drown out the noise from the inner courtyard, and eventually
fall asleep on our deluxe twin beds. (Readers note: accommodations and food in Cuba are rarely
"deluxe", particularly in hotels that don't give a damn about you).

February 20

There is no clock in the our room, and we sleep in past the usual breakfast hour. Mariano is
already downstairs waiting for us. We are told by the underworked restaurant staff that breakfast
is over but Frank is insistent, and we manage to choke down some indifferent fruit, lukewarm
coffee and awful white rolls. The ordeal of getting the bikes assembled and ready for the road
consumes at least two sweaty hours in the room. Its funny to think of it now, but neither one of
us were laughing with chain grease all over Frank's traveling clothes, and the damn bikes not
cooperating, and let's just get the hell out of noisy, in-your-face Havana with its faded grandiose
architecture from days gone by. With assistance from Raquel at the Museum of Music and a
"Camel" (see Frank's notes) we are dropped off outside the city and on our bikes at 2:30 in the
afternoon. Despite the traffic, we are so happy to be wheeling on the road, and not sure where
we will spend the night, stopping just before dark at Santa Cruz del Norte. Its quickly apparent
that our sunscreen will be no match for the Caribbean sun.
Santa Cruz del Norte: We ride into the town stopping at a roadside bar for a beer and to ask
about accommodations for the night. After a few minutes of discussion, we choose a campesino
cabana for $17.00 a night. The location is good, off the road a bit, next to a lake, but I'm not
sure the room is worth $17.00. It has a refrigerator, an air conditioner, and a lovely, simply lovely
bathroom, with a leaky shower head, which drips only a little more forcefully when it is turned on.
Its just enough, somehow!, to clean our smelly, road infested pores. Twin beds with 2 sorry
looking bedspreads apiece, no mas. The toilet has a frog in the tank, hanging out on the side
above the 2 inches of water. There is some water coming out of the sink, but the whole
bathroom is unclean, and we make do. A huge cockroach, of course, makes an appearance later
in the evening.

DAY 3
Our host, Romero, is quite courteous and helpful, and brings us a couple crackers and
juice in the morning as I am filtering our water from the pump outside the room. Our real
breakfast is Cytomax and energy bars, supplemented by fresh bananas hocked aggressively on the
side of the road. $1.00 buys a bunch of short, but the sweetest banana I've ever had. The
roadside traders are also selling garlic, cheese, and more bananas. One of the more pleasant
aspects of this trip will turn out to be the time spent on the bike, despite the headwinds, the
relentless sun, and the hills, because, rolling along past countryside, or seashore, we are removed
from the harsh reality of life in Cuba. The people are hospitable, glad to meet you, but will
generally charge up the limit for variable quality of food, and accommodation. They need your
money, despite not really being ready for tourists, due to infrastructure problems. The more
forward thinking of Cubans are a bit ashamed of the shabbiness, but there is also a Caribbean
laziness exemplified by not working too hard to improve things. A more stellar experience awaits
the moneyed tourists from Canada and Europe who stay only in the few posh resort areas where
everything works and looks nice. Life off the road is a bit different, yet I can say we did all right
except for a few truly rough days.

Eight hours on the bike, Saturday, February 21 : From Santa Cruz del Norte to Varadero, 100 k.
Many hills between S.C.d N. and Varadero, most of them before we stop for lunch in Matanzas, a
port town and natural gas refinery. Sunburnt, and inflamed with heat rash as well, and saddle
sore, we are hustled by a 3rd rate portrait artist at a "Rumbos" lunch cafe in Matanzas. We are
charged $30.00 for lunch which is a shocker, but we didn't "shop" a better bargain due to fatigue.
Our bikes are a constant source of comment, and Frank's bike in particular, is considered very
cool. The young Cubans begging for a dollar from the tourists are common and I lose my
patience with them today. Its all I can do to get back on the bike, negotiate the rest of Matanzas,
and head out to the hills once more. Many Cubans spend their day on the side of the road,
waiting for any opportunity, a ride, or to shout at the tourists passing by. "Amigo!, Amiga!
greeted us everywhere as we passed on through. After a punishing afternoon absorbing the sun,
and pedaling towards Varadero, we stop for shade on the east side of billboards, sipping
Cytomax, and cussing at our weariness. Finally we come into the "upscale" outskirts of
Varadero where the locals live, the dwellings look a bit more prosperous and not so run down and
uninviting. After 5 more miles, we are in the resort area and lean our bikes against a tree in the
shade on a grassy stretch next to an inland channel for boat docking. We snack on dried apricots
and beef jerky to see us through the next several miles before we stop for the night. Our first
glimpse of the beautiful aquamarine water and white beach is breathtaking. It is very fine, and a
boost to our weariness. We cruise into the residential area and stop to ask directions. We finally
locate the house where our friend, Mariano, is living, but he is not home, and we are directed to
another house by . After being greeted by the owner, Luis Ramon, we are shown to an
apartment in the back of the patio area. $40.00 buys a clean, furnished 2 bedroom apartment with
a functioning bathroom (flush toilet with a seat, hot water in the shower head), kitchen, dining
area and a front room with rocking chairs. Its great. For $12.00 more, per person, a complete
lobster dinner with a local sweet wine. Luis is gregarious, and very hospitable. It doesn't take us
long to decide on a second night here, as this is a real deal in the premier tourist area of Cuba.

Sunday morning, February 22:

After a long comfortable sleep in our double bed with the AC on all night, we slowly emerge from
our apartment and make it across the street to the shore. What a beach! Absolutely fine soft
white sand and striations of turquoise and deep blue water. After a fruit drink at a bar stand in
the sand, we are in the water, one at a time. There is no possibility of leaving anything of value
unattended on the beach. The mood is mellow and tolerant here, a mix of Cubans and white
people from Canada and Europe relishing this paradise. There is of course, the usual hustle
merchants on the street, but the scene here is not overwhelming, more like any tourist town in the
Caribbean.

After a quick bite at a snack stand, and a few words with a Canadian Cuban about Varadero
(he prefers to be here in the winter, escaping the harsher climate of Toronto and distancing
himself from his expensive divorce), we are off towards the superluxe resorts at the far end of the
Varadero spit. We are on our bikes once again, and I am wearing a dress tucked under my seat as
there is a lusty headwind all the way. Past the golf course and manicured entrance we check our
bikes in the Melia de las Americas hotel and proceed through a cool, very comfy reception area
down the steps to the beach. Around the corner we encounter two pools and stop one of the bar
lunch areas to hear our friends, The Septeto Tropical perform for the grumpy Germans, the picky
French, and other good-natured people on holiday. We are very conscious of making our in
pocket finances last the entire trip, as Americans there is no possibility of using a credit card for
services or more cash while in Cuba. Frank orders a pair of Mojitos, which we nurse while
listening to the group. Its quite relaxing, sitting in the shade, gazing at the beautiful water, but an
afternoon nap beckons us to make our way back to the apartment. Later we have a fish dinner
served by Luis and his daughter, and its almost as good as the lobster the night before. My
understanding of Spanish is improving as I listen to Frank and Luis communicate, and finally get
the nerve to ask Luis how long he has been living in Varadero, etc. Later that evening after our
washed clothes are packed for tomorrow's journey into the interior, we mosey on over to
Mariano's place, for the obligatory rum, and a chat. After a rest, and prolonged departure with
gifts exchanged and best wishes proffered with our host family, we leave "paradise" for the
interior.



FRANK DAY 3
The trek from Matanzas to Varadero is not an easy one, with headwind most of the way. But we
are able to stop several times along the way and the four-lane road is well kept in order to get the
busloads of tourists to Varadero. As we near the town it is necessary to stop for water and we
are accommodated by a kindly group who offer us water that has been cooled in their refrigerator.
Approaching Varadero we see signs of industriousness, people with the money and the inclination
to fix up their houses or even build new structures or additions to existing ones.

Our first view of Varadero's prosperity is the harbor hosting boats and yachts from everywhere.
The anxiety besetting the rest of Cuba seems to melt away as we make our way into the town on a
well-traveled road. Now we see orderliness and cleanliness with people going about their
business and leisure pursuits. As we get closer into the town a cyclist asks us if we need a room
in a private home or a "casa particular" as it is called in Cuba. We are searching for the address
where Mariano lives and another cyclist who has offered to steer us to an accommodation helps
us locate it. But no one is home and we are tired from a full day's journey, so we accept his offer
to find us a place nearby to stay.

We are guided a few blocks away to a house with an apartment in the back to rent. I wait on the
sidewalk while Carolyn investigates and returns to report that it is a nice place. It is actually a
two-bedroom apartment with kitchen, bathroom and completely functioning plumbing. While I
have waited our guide who is called "Chino" explains that we don't need to fear about our bikes
and equipment in Varadero. "Here is not Havana. Havana has a lot of thieves, but not in
Varadero." Mariano had explained earlier that Varadero was Cuba's version of Miami, and the
place really has the look of middle class prosperity about it. Amazing what a little money can do
for people.

Our house host, Luis, arranges dinner and drinks for us, seeing that we are beat from our trip and
a sumptuous lobster feast is brought right to our apartment, having been prepared in the front of
the house by Luis' wife and daughter. Now everything is right with the world. We have time to
bathe and relax having arrived at this oasis, where the air conditioning and fans run all the time.

Later in the evening we go to the address Mariano has given us and we meet his neighbor. Later
Mariano and Luisito, the bassist arrive. The house they are occupying has the look of early 20th
century New Orleans, a small place with a dirt floor where they sleep after many long hours of
work at the Hotel Las Americas. We are encouraged to visit the hotel, which we will do the next
day. We pass the remainder of the evening in their modest one-room domicile drinking rum,
smoking cigars and listening to music. It is a delight to return to our apartment for a good night's
sleep.

Sunday, February 22:

Once our house hosts know we are awake and stirring a cup of hot sweet Cuban coffee is shortly
arriving. The beach is just a couple of blocks away and we go there for an early morning swim
and a couple of soft drinks and the palm-leaf-covered bar. A group of older Europeans is seated
at one of the tables near by, getting a early start on some rum drinks. The water is turquoise and
warm, with a very gradual drop off. A life guard is vigilant on the beach, but this water and tide
look completely harmless. The beach is a parade of mostly Cuban leisure people. I assume that
many visitors from Florida are here to spread some prosperity around among their families and
friends. There seem to be plenty of attractions in the residential part of Varadero where we are
staying. Farther up the beach Canadian and European tourists are living in relative isolation at
overpriced hotels, where service may be so-so. Officially, visitors staying in private homes in
Varadero is discouraged because all the state-run hotels want all the tourist money. I am told that
Varadero is the only city in Cuba where this policy is supposed to be in force. But food and
service is far superior in a private home and more economical as well, and if anyone asks about
your accommodation you should merely tell them that you are visiting friends in town.


We had contemplated taking a bus up the beach to the Hotel Las Americas because our butts
were sore from two days riding. But our host has said it would be crazy to take a bus when our
bikes are so much more reliable and we concur that it is really not so bad to ride around town
without all our travel baggage. On the way up the beach to the hotel we stop for a little snack at
a small outdoor bar where sandwiches are served. There I encounter a Cuban expatriate who has
lived in Canada for many years. " I don't really like the states," he says, and after reciting a list of
eastern states he has visited I begin to understand his point. " I just got a divorce" (presumably he
had been married to a Canadian woman) , " and I think I'll stay here, I don't want to go back to
Toronto". During the conversation someone in the street shouts at us, apparently asking for the
time. Later, the man explains that the black fellow had been very rude in so addressing us.
" Really, these people were slaves in the old time and now they want to run everything, so I said
to him: Hey, you fucking nigger, can't you see I'm talking to this white guy here? If you want to
ask me what time it is why don't you come over here and ask me politely instead of shouting at
me from the street?" All this conversation had taken place way over my head in some kind of
street lingo, and I didn't pay much attention to it, figuring these two guys knew each other. We
finished our sandwiches and drinks and said "Hasta Luego" to this little bar scene.

Finding the driveway to Hotel Las Americas is a little complicated, since the whole thing is
surrounded by a huge complex replete with golf courses. Right next door is the famous Du Pont
mansion, vacated after the revolution when the millionaires fled Cuba. It is a huge white house
and museum today where you can pay enough money to view its interior. From outside, the
building appears to be beautifully preserved. But our destination is the hotel next door and so we
do not tarry. Now, we are no longer cycling road warriors, but rather European or Canadian
tourists like the rest of the inhabitants of the hotel and we are greeted and treated as such as we
stash our bikes in the baggage repository for departing travelers.

The hotel, which faces the beach appears to be quite a complex, with several bars and restaurants
and a large, elegant swimming pool. We are happy to avail ourselves of its clean restrooms. We
find our way to the Restaurant Barbacoa where Mariano is playing with his "Sexteto Tropical".
The restaurant is full and it is some time before we can find a table. My understanding is that the
place is full like this every day of the year. Opulence is everywhere, but service is slow and it
appears that there are not enough waiters for all the patrons. And of course, the usual tourist
complaining, particularly among German and French visitors is apparent.

But we are here only to enjoy the music and have a couple of drinks and the band sounds great in
this large, semi open room. They are completely unamplified with guitar, tres, bass, bongo, small
percussion and vocals and we can hear everything. The group also plays requests, relying on tips
from restaurant patrons, and selling a cassette of their music whenever possible. They receive
many requests for compact discs, but without the wherewithal for production of discs they are
losing a lot of business every day.

We enjoy the music for an hour or so before leaving. The group is here six days a week and very
often playing for eight hours or more each day. As a result they are very tight and well rehearsed,
with perhaps some tendencies toward laziness in the routine and daily grind of it all. A folklore
group sounding this good could have some opportunities on the world stage, but the maneuverings
and mechanisms of all this can be complicated, and they really must rely on the good will of the
state cultural agency that employs them, along with the generosity of the tourists who slip them
the dollars in tip money day in and day out. It is not an easy life, but it's a better situation than
most Cubans have, providing the basic necessities and a few luxuries like rum and cigarettes.
Things such as guitar strings and drum skins may be in short supply, however, and the climate
takes its toll on the musical instruments, particularly the metal parts so susceptible to corrosion.
Therefore, the materials for music making under these conditions of daily use, can be hard to
come by in Cuba.

We make our way back to our apartment and have time for an afternoon rest and swim before
enjoying a fish dinner. We have rested ourselves and regained our strength for the road ahead,
which we know only from looking at the map. What we will find along the way remains a
mystery.

Monday, February 23, to Jaguey Grande and Central Australia :

CAROLYN
Leaving Varadero is no picnic with the traffic and the wind, but we roll on and reach Cardenas in
an hour or so. I'm not too impressed with Cardenas, a non-descript commerce town of some
sort, with packed narrow streets, with the usual mixture of foul-belching trucks, carts and
donkeys (the covered carts are crammed with people staring at the foreigners with all the bags on
their bikes) pedestrians and lots of bicycles. Direction and route signs are very scarce in Cuba,
and here, as in most of the other cities and towns we pass through, one must ask directions to
negotiate the way out of town, sometimes asking twice for clarity. Often we will be escorted by
a man on a bicycle through the more confusing sections of town. People seem genuinely pleased
and a bit surprised that we are from the U.S., and I get the feeling some can't understand at all
why we choose to tour this way, suffering the heat and sun. Despite the travails of the road, I like
pedaling along through the countryside. Today we see fields of sugar cane, banana trees, and
orange groves. We wait out a rain storm in a bus shelter, talking with the people waiting for the
bus. Before we reach Jaguey Grande, we are hailed from the side of the road by men loading
oranges into trucks. They cut oranges open for us, and we are boosted by the juicy fruit. Its late
in the afternoon by the time we reach J.G. Another busy town, and we pass on the local hotel (it
looks like a real dive!) even resilient Frank won't bother with this one! A few kilometers away is
Central Australia a sugar processing town near the Autopista, the main highway in Cuba. We see
a Rumbos sign, and inquire at the gate regarding vacancy in the Campesino style thatch roofed
cabins. After some bureaucracy at the Rumbos office, we are told that no double cabins are left,
only quadruples, and of course those rent for the princely sum of $38.00. Frank starts to argue
as it is obvious that none of the cabins have been rented, but I tell him that we are tired, dusty,
and hungry, and we are not going on to save a few bucks. Throw in a bottle of rum and some
juice and we enter our commodious, modern, very clean cabin. A very pleasant spot, with the
hum of the autopista a few miles away. Dinner is in town, negotiated by the night watchman,
who must escort us to the road. After a delay, which we can't fathom, we reach a paladar.
After being greeted by the host, we are requested to wait in the living room, where we watch a
Brazilian soap opera, a ridiculous show, but on several times a week, which seems popular in
Cuba. Frank says $5.00 per person for dinner, no more, and the host agrees. Frank gets
crocodile and I get fish with a mound of rice and a tomato cabbage salad. Our host stays with us
while we eat, chatting about his relatives in the U.S., his experience in Angola ( I gather it was a
little taste of hell) as a soldier. Letters from relatives in the U.S. take two months to reach him in
Cuba, we joke that the letter must first go to the moon and fall down to earth before its delivered!
Its now around 10 p.m. we go back to our Campo, talk with the loquacious night watchman, who
will wakes us up at 7:00 a.m. in the morning. A very pleasant rest in our cabin. At 7:30 our
friend brings us strong sweet Cuban coffee, and with a balance energy bar we are on our way to
the south coast through part of the Zapata peninsula.

Tuesday, Feburary 24:

Another sunny day in paradise. As we head out of the Rumbos campground, Frank asks the
morning guard directions about today's journey. This time we get a different figure of the
distance. I'm not sure anyone here really knows how far, or where a town actually is in relation
to another. We are anticipating that this detour down to the coast won't add too much to the
total miles to Cienfuegos. Around the bend by the sugar refinery in Central Australia, we turn left
and once out of town, its a straight shot south. For over an hour we are cruising evenly, passing
a small settlement or two, and we wave to another couple traveling by bike. They appear to be
prosperous middle-aged fit Canadians. A thick swamp forest parallels the road. I remember this
portion as unadulterated peace, nature as the great mind equalizer. Very little traffic, just the
bicycles rolling down the road, and the swamp on either side. By noon we are at the beach again,
Playa Larga the first stop today. The water looks inviting, and I change clothes in the scuba gear
room of the diving club. I wear my sport sandals in the water as the south coast has the coral
rock at the shore. The water is slightly cooler than the north shore, but still very warm to me.
I could stay here all day, but the miles beckon, the sun inflaming the heat rash on my thighs every
mile of the way. This is another great stretch for cycling, a few trucks and tourist busses pass by,
the coastline through a mess of growth on the right side. We're starting to fag out in the noon
day sun and heat, and take a beach access path to the water. Frank jumps off a "coral platform"
10 ft above the water, of colors most beautiful. Once I let go of my fear of jumping out into the
water, I'm in too, instantly refreshed. The water is extremely salty. Playa Giron awaits us an
hour away. Here is a big tourist hotel at the beach. We eat a big buffet lunch, lounge under a
palm umbrella, and watch a lizard climbing around upside down in the umbrella. I talk with a
young woman at the information table, who is eager to speak in English. She says our next stop,
Rodas, should take us the rest of the afternoon. It is now 3 p.m., and we anticipate being there
before 7 p.m. Reluctantly we climb back on our bikes, passing the Bay of Pigs Memorial
Museum, and head north. We pass through a couple towns, and the road gets rougher and
rougher as we are in the swamp again. Its tough going here, we don't know how much longer
we can ride, as it is obvious the maps we have and the information we received from 4 people are
all wrong. I'm bitching and moaning about the heat and I can barely tolerate sitting on the bicycle
seat any longer. This turns out to be a big detour and at the end of the day, we are in the middle
of nowhere, right after the swamp ends, in a backwater called Babiney.
Here we are in the bus shelter, completely spent from a full day on the bikes. 5 or 6 women are at
the shelter, Frank calls out, Donde estamos!? After telling us we are miles from where we want
to be, we exchange friendly interchange about where we are from, etc. Along comes a street
hustler country style, and we are persuaded to stay here for the night. We are completely wiped
out, but I want to at least get to the next town, despite the friendliness of these people. I just
can't see staying in Babiney, but we do, and it turns out to be the most uncomfortable, rustic, in
the primitive sense, and extremely noisy night of the trip. What a contrast to the previous night's
absolute comfort. Here is a hut, with a bucket of water for washing, and a smelly hole in the back
room to piss in, and a bachelor's not too clean double bed, not comfortable, with a thin blanket
for two people, and a mosquito net I refuse to put up. Of course, we are persuaded after dinner
to meet the family, and we meet everyone. We are an entity of great curiosity, and Frank brings
a bottle of rum to the house of the street hustler's parents house. We meet Mama, Papa, sisters,
sister in law, brother in law, grandkids. They stare and we try to be polite in our extremely tired
state. Its good to chat with the country bumpkins , they are friendly , quick to smile, laugh,
unaffected, with a practical, earthy sense of humor. After an hour we are escorted back to our
hut by the loquacious hustler, in the pitch black of night, with every dog in the village barking at
us along the way. I know I'm in for a long night, and I'm keeping my claustrophobia hysteria down
to a dull roar. Frank and I sleep fully dressed, doused with bug repellent, and wake up every 20
minutes, cold, and clinging like saran wrap to each other, warding off the chill, and trying to laugh
about the all night din. Tractors, people shouting, radios, TV and when all that died down, the
roosters started hooting at 3 a.m., which set the dogs off barking. I was oh so ready to get the
hell out of Babiney at 7 a.m. But breakfast with the family was the first order of business. Cuban
coffee, milk, bread, and a fried egg, which I can't eat without gagging anyway. Frank graciously
swallowed it for me, I saved face by explaining to our hosts that I can't eat so early in the
morning. After departing with $32.00 for our princely accommodations and meals, we give a
few gifts, enjoy extended goodbyes and a little ribbing, we are on our way down the road, with
Frank's padded bicycle shorts still on the bed in the hut, part of the "makeshift
pillow we leave behind.

Wednesday, February 25:

The road warriors roll on toward Cienfuegos, out into the ranchland and sugar cane fields. We
meet plenty of bicyclists on this trip, but 99.9% of them are Cubans on god awful Chinese
imports. They are remarkably good natured for all that they don't have. And always ready to
strike up a conversation. 90 kilometers today. Before midday we are hailed off our bikes by the
men working at the side of the cane fields. They offer us pieces of sugar cane to suck on as we
roll down the road. We reach Rodas around noon. I'm plenty hungry by now, but decline the
lunchtime hawkers in town. Its noisy and intense in this medium size town near Cienfuegos, and
all I want is to get to the city and have a decent sit down inside meal. Which we do as we
negotiate the city with an amigo's help. He takes us to a pallidar, and for 10$ a piece, another
variety of Caribbean lobster tail is served. Its quite an oasis in the restaurant, the hosts and their
friends are quite congenial, and eager to chat. Meanwhile our escort stands sentry outside the
door watching our bikes. The last thing I want to do is get back on the bike after lunch, but that
is what I do and within 10 miles, I'm bitching about the heat and the hills. All distances are
approximate, and I no longer trust what anyone tells me about how far, how long, etc. After
several more hours traveling towards the sea in a round about way ( a most exasperating thing
when one is consumed with heat rash and sun, and hills,) we reach Rancho Luna. We check in at
the desk of the sprawling motel complex to be told there are no rooms left. By now I'm in a
really fine mood, as I can't stand to get back on my bike and go god-knows- where else to find
accommodation. But we do, heading back east a few mile to Far Luna. There is another smaller
hotel here which is full of Canadians. Now, my company is really unbearable, I'm whining and
completely negative. A guard tells us houses are available for rent. Hooray!
We are escorted to the caretakers house, and for the modest sum of $35/night, a cute 3 bedroom
house 100 yards from the beach is ours. After the dismal night in Babiney, this is heaven, and we
know it. Our caretaker, Camalla, is a friendly, attractive tall blond 30ish Cuban, will also feed us
for a mere pittance. It takes us about 3 nano seconds to decide to stay another night as well, as I
really must stay out of the sun. My thighs are the color of red meat. And we're tired as hell.
This is a low key beachside settlement with no discos, and we luxuriate with our $7.00 bottle of
rum, Fanta, bottled sparking water, and beer. Adirondack chairs are on the front porch, and we
sip rum, congratulating ourselves for surviving a punishing day on the bikes. When the sun blazes
we move to the back patio, hanging out before our 5$ fish dinner with yummy grapefruit juice,
and an early night to bed in our palace.


Tuesday Feb 24,
FRANK

We're looking to get an early start and it appears we will succeed. We don't know where we will
finish today, because we have decided to take the "scenic route" instead of the Autopista and so
we are headed further south toward the Zapata peninsula. The road is flat and pleasant and our
early ride to Playa Larga is easy in the cool of the day. On the way we pass billboards with
smiling crocodiles advertising the Zapata peninsula and national park and wildlife preserve.

The road rolls on, and we begin to wonder about the distance, described to us as being "not that
much farther to Cienfuegos than on the autopista". This is only the first leg of our ride. We are
beginning to see signs of swamp country now. Occasionally an affluent looking restaurant or cafe
is seen on the side of the road. It is late morning when we arrive at Playa Larga, a pleasant
looking quiet beach town. We stop at a diving club and encounter some Europeans just leaving.
They also have been on bikes, but not in the way we are doing it. The dive club people are
friendly and allow us the use of their bathroom to change into swim wear. The beach is sandy and
the Bahia Larga is a very slow drop off into the Caribbean and this keeps in character with most
of the south coast beaches I have seen.

After refreshing ourselves we continue our journey to Playa Giron. Along the way we pull off the
road once more, as there are many trails leading out to the coast, which is mostly coral reefs with
steep drop-offs into the water. The water is the most crystal blue I have ever seen. We find a
diver's ladder to allow us access back to land after jumping off a coral ledge into the water.
Carolyn is timid and must overcome her fear to finally take the plunge. The water is warm and
very salty, allowing for good buoyancy.

We are on the road to Giron now, which we reach by 2 p.m. in time for a big lunch at the hotel
there. It's an all-you-can-eat for 10 bucks buffet and we chow down. The food is good and
there's plenty of it if you have the money. The hotel has a pool and a nice beach and it's time for
a post-lunch snooze before resuming our journey. It's already somewhat late in the day to
resume, but we are hopeful that we can reach a town close to the main road to Cienfuegos.
However, the map has deceived us once again and the road is not good, cracked due to frequent
flooding as often occurs in swamp country, and the sun is very low in the sky when we pull into a
small town.

"Donde estamos" ? I question the inhabitants. "Babiney" is the reply. We are too beat to
continue and must investigate some kind of accommodation for the night. This is a remote
backwater we have found ourselves in, but at appears we are stuck with it for the night. It is clear
that we are unlikely to find anything that could be considered to be a decent accommodation for
tourists, and we are correct in our assumption. Babiney is a farming village, so small it didn't
make it on to our map. A Guajiro (Cuban farmer) is conversing with us, trying to help us arrange
something. He asks if we have a tent, to which we reply no. The best he can do for us it to
arrange for us to stay in his brother's small house behind the houses facing the road and he soon
leads us there. What ever it is being offered, it is clear that we will have to accept it. The small
house with a thatched roof features a dirt floor, one small electric light, no running water, a dingy
bed with a small blanket and a drain to piss in in the back room: a true buck palace.

A bucket of water is brought for washing up, and later some food arrives. The young man is
insisting on being in the house to talk to me and it is difficult for Carolyn who wishes to bathe and
clean up. After eating, we are led to the family house of this man, who is the young man of his
family, but entrusted with certain responsibilities, such as dealing with strangers who come
through town and trying to get some money from them for basic necessities. I bring a half-
finished bottle of rum with me and it is mostly for the young man to drink. The rest of the family,
mother, father, sister and sister's husband and children are present and we pass the evening in
conversation. The family is endowed with a refrigerator, perhaps a small radio or television, and a
prize household possession, a Soviet made sewing machine for the women to make and mend
clothes. The family, like the town is entrusted with the important responsibility of growing food
to feed themselves, and some of the rest of the country as well. The growing season appears to
be all year and cultivation is a full-time job.

We return to our hovel to pass a miserable night to the accompaniment of a cacophony of noise
not fully ending till 2 a.m. Cuba is usually a warm country, but we find ourselves almost shivering
under our jackets and blanket. The cold and wet is all-pervasive here. The noise, which seems to
subside somewhat after 2 p.m. to small spaces of silence punctuated by barking dogs and crowing
roosters. The chug-a-chug of tractors resumes about 5 A.M. We are only waiting for the sun to
rise so we can get the hell out of here. Our host arrives early to lead us back to the family house
for a breakfast of always-reliable coffee plenty sweet served with some plenty salty fried eggs,
which I manage to choke down, since Carolyn can't eat them like that under any circumstances.
We bid our final goodbyes with small gifts of aspirin and give the young man too much money for
feeding and housing us. And we are glad to have this place at our backs as we pedal on down the
road.

We are moving away from swamp country now, and still in the rural agricultural heartland. We
make our way toward Cienfuegos and people sitting on the side of the road seem to know that as
they all say "A Cienfuegos?", and nod. But we have some miles to go and some towns to pass
through on the way. Running out of water we stop at a family house on the edge of one of these
towns and the lady obliglingly runs across the road to greet us. They give us nice cold water
from their refrigerator and I give them a buck to buy something for their kids. The sun is beating
down and it is a long morning. The kilometers go by slowly and we stop frequently to recoup our
depleted energy, which hasn't been helped much by a poor night's sleep. Carolyn is starting to
complain about fatigue and heat and heat rash but we push forward finally arriving in Cienfueguos
some time after one o'clock. We find ourselves on a wide boulevard with cars and bikes. This is
one of the major ports of the country and there is a lot of activity in the street. An older man on a
bicycle cruises up and asks us if we are looking for a "casa Particular" for eating and resting. I
tell him that we are interested in having lunch and he leads us through the streets to the home of
an acquaintance. He bids us to enter and not to worry about our bikes and gear as he will stay at
the door for the whole time we are there and mind our stuff. He is credible, so we enter the
house.

Like most of these private restaurants in the cities of Cuba, there is a friendly family atmosphere,
and our hosts tell us they have a lobster lunch for ten bucks a plate. We are tired and hungry and
glad to be out of the heat of the day in this cool high-ceilinged living room. One or two other
guests have also come to eat and greet us. The feel of Cienfuegos has none of the anxiety of
Habana and we are completely at ease. We have conversed with another visitor who is delighted
to learn that we are Americans. Once again it comes out that government is government and
people are people and we our sorry that friendly and neighborly relations have to be damaged by
antagonistic regimes.

We have decided to proceed a little farther down the coast after lunch to Rancho Luna Beach,
which looks to be about 30 km away. We are given directions for the way out of town and we
ask a few more people on the way just to make sure. And soon we are in the rustic countryside
again. Now the land has a more Spanish or even California like feel to it as we are close to the
coast. But the afternoon is hot and the sun burns bright and we make more than one rest stop.
Eating lunch has helped us somewhat, but we still have not recovered full vigor. Carolyn is
convinced that the ride is going to be at least 10KM more than it turns out to be. Finally, one last
hill and we see the signs for the beach hotel. We cruise down there and view a huge edifice. On
inquiry we find that all the rooms are taken, but that there is another hotel 500 meters down the
road. Our second hotel is also full, the gate keeper informs us, but he is sympathetic, seeing that
we are tired and asks us if we would perhaps consider a "casa particular". My answer is "of
course, in fact we would prefer such an arrangement". The gate keeper summons a girl who leads
me along a path to the home of the woman acting as caretaker of the house in question, which is
right adjacent to the hotel.

Camela, is a young, tall and slender housewife and returns with me to the road where Carolyn has
waited to open the house. It's a fine place with bedroom, living room, kitchen, and front and
back patios, one for morning and one for evening. It looks like we're going to be quite
comfortable here. As in all such houses in Cuba all the outdoor plants are well cared for . We are
situated about 100 yards from the sea and a short walk from Camela's house, where we will take
our meals. After two days of hard riding we have reached an oasis, and it doesn't take us long to
decide that we will stay here an extra day to recover our strength and enjoy the sunshine, beach,
and just lounging around the house, hanging out drinking rum and beer and smoking cigars.

Thursday, February 26:
CAROLYN
Luxuriating at home in the house by the sea. Goats wandering around in the lot next door, sea
breezes. A short walk to breakfast. More yummy grapefruit juice, coffee, milk, toast for $1.00
per person! At mid-morning Frank is cleaning the bikes, and I'm washing the clothes, hanging
them out to dry. Today is a casual day full of rest and minimal activity. We go over to the hotel
gift shop for a few souvenirs, and later on walk the half mile or so along the shore to Playa Luna.
We are "escorted" part of the way by a handsome, bikinied black man, who in tolerably good
English asks us if we have ever been to Jamaica. He has hustle written all over his forehead with
his lets be instant friends approach, and makes himself scarce when we decline to give him any
change. Then we pass naked babies in the sand, planted there by their parents begging for a
dollar. We lounge at the beach of Playa Luna for awhile, sit in the sun, go in the water, watch
the windsurfers. Then its time for a nap back at our palace. Sipping rum, Fanta on our porch.
We had talked with a 21 year old relative of Camalla's, who asked us about the lottery to get to
the U.S. We don't know anything about it. His English is good, and he desperately wants to get
out of Cuba. There is not much work for him here. Camalla, her husband, child, mother, father,
and grandmother all share the same modest house, serving meals to guests on the porch. Her
husband is a fisherman. What impresses me the most is their ability, born of necessity, to spend a
lot of time together peacefully. I haven't witnessed one "dysfunctional unit" yet despite the
hardships. Our $5 dinner consists of a whole mess of shrimp, rice, the ubiquitous
tomato/cake/cabbage combo, fried bananas, grapefruit juice. After dinner we stroll around the
headland, watching the waves crash into the rocks. Then we organize and pack our things for
the trip to Trinidad tomorrow. We are already sorry to leave this oasis.

FRANK
The neighboring hotel has a tienda so I go there to buy some beer and cigars. The attractive lady
behind the counter refers to an older woman standing there as "Inferma....y puta" Its a long-
standing joke among the Cubans that no one working as a nurse, doctor, or any other such public
service job has enough money to live on, and therefore a nurse would have to moonlight as a
prostitute. However, this older woman would have to be desperate to do so, and the idea was so
ludicrous that we all had a big laugh about it.

On the beach we are approached by the usual hustlers who want to sell us cigars. This particular
black fellow speaks good English and says he has spent some time in Jamaica, where it stands to
reason he would fit right in. We stroll down the beach to the other hotel and find a spot under a
tree to relax. It's a blustery day. El nino is still having an effect on the weather and some Cubans
want to know what happens when the nino becomes a hombre. I guess that's when all hell breaks
loose. The house has a barely functional short wave radio and I manage to get some Canadian
news about some couple stranded in a blizzard in Utah. Yes, it all seems so far away.

In the evening after our dinner Camela's husband asks me if I want to see a big fish. In the back
patio they are roasting a large fish he has caught just that day. A big group of family and friends
is coming to dinner after we leave. I manage to snap a photo of the fish, which I can hardly see,
but later the photo will prove to be good, since it was taken in the twilight with a flash.

Friday February 27

We had hoped for an early start, and manage to get underway by 8:30 or 9 o'clock. Coming out
of the beach and cutting back in land we find some formidable rolling hills which remind me of the
California coast line. On a bike it's tough going and we have a headwind most of the way. We
pass a horseman coming the other way as we climb another hill and he says "Lomita Brava". We
have been warned about the hills, but we press on. Again, the map is deceiving and the distances
seem to be greater than they appear. We again emerge close to the beach. A girl is selling some
kind of snack that has been fried in a lot of fat: just what we need after burning so much all
morning. Surprisingly, she asks me for national money and is selling these comestables for almost
nothing. I just give her a buck and she accepts it, but I get the feeling she doesn't know how
much it's worth. We are again in the remote country side.

The journey drags on, and we are forced to stop several times more. We meet a German from
Hamburg on a bike who has toured the east of the country Baracoa, Santiago, Holguin, and
points between. It is from him that we learn of the train stop in Guyos, a small town near the
provincial capital of Sancti Spriritus. The German has come from Trinidad today. We ask him
how far and he checks his equipment and says 40 kilometers. That is discouraging news. Soon
after, however, we find ourselves crossing into Sancti Spiritus province. A black woman on the
road mumbles what sounds like some kind of religious incantation about "Dios, Cuba y Sancti
Spiriti"as we pass her. There is a different feeling in the air now. Maybe people in this province
are more conservative, more religious. The coastline reminds me a bit of Mendocino in
California. Still some way out of Trinidad we stop for water and are again treated to fresh, cool,
refrigerated water. The woman who serves us hands us a card of a friend of hers with whom we
should stay in Trinidad. We press on.

As we enter the city, which is after a steady climb, Carolyn is grumpy. Several hustlers ask us if
we need a Casa Particular cheap. We have an address Camela has given us and finally ask
someone to take us there. He takes us to a house and we are invited in. We are so beat from the
trip that we are almost ready to collapse. The house has an attractive parlor with a high ceiling on
the ground floor. We are shown the rooms above, which are handsome. There is a firm bed , a
balcony, and a roof. The price of the accommodation is reasonable. We are offered some fresh
juice, with plenty of sugar added. I'm ready for a shower and a nap. It is still mid afternoon and I
begin to doze, looking off into the sky to the west and thinking of the Spanish colonial times.

After our nap we still have time to walk around before dinner. I am anxious to see the center of
this old colonial town. The city of Trinidad has a colorful colonial history replete with economic
exploitation and religious persecution. In the 17th or 18th century a provincial governor named
Lara conducted his own little mini Spanish inquisition with witch crucifixion ceremonies.
Although the guidebooks say otherwise, I see little evidence of Santeria in this historically and
culturally significant center.

In the central Plaza Mayor we are treated to the spectacle of a civilian clothed policeman
roughing up a misbehaving school kid who has been hassling some tourists. The kid is reminded
of his place by repeated kicks and blows and verbal abuse.

We visit the museum of the Contra Bandidos, which apparently was set up to commemorate an
abortive invasion of the island by some expatriots from Florida. There is a Russian Truck which
was instrumental in capturing an American-made tank. Plenty of pictures of Castro and the
revolutionaries from the 60's are hanging on the walls. The roof of this place offers one of the best
views of Trinidad. On leaving I indicate to the guards that we are "Yanquis...shh!" They just
laugh about it.

We hear music from a nearby cantina and follow its sound. A large group of German tourists is
being entertained by a local band. The Germans are acting like Germans, the Cubans making
music like Cubans, and we are quite observers. After the Germans leave I have a talk with the
band members. They are hard-up for all kinds of things like strings, drum skins, and hardware to
keep their instruments playing


Carolyn- Friday, February 27:

Around 8:30 we're on our bikes climbing out of Faro Luna to the main road, on to Trinidad.
It is rather steep going for the first hour, we pause for blasts of Cytomax, and wave to a few
cowboys on horses, and a few people on the road. It is hot early today. After we turn right at a
crossroads, we are pestered by young Cubans on skinny bikes, fooling us at first glance that they
are with a small pack of fast Italian racers. They are friendly, but my innate suspicion tells me
that they don't really want to escort us to Trinidad for the hell of it. And I'm right, Frank
eventually has to tell them to get lost in a nice way. Until we stop for a lunchtime snack under a
big shade tree with the coast a mile away, we plug away at the miles, stopping frequently. The
sun is really wearing me down today, and we are in a bus shelter in the shade just before we meet
a lone German cyclist, who has been touring Cuba for a month. We ask him how many more
kilometers it is to Trinidad, and he gives us a figure that turns out to be wrong as well. Luckily,
the distance to Trinidad isn't as far as he tell us, and we push on, pass little villages, with the
children, running out with their request for "Chicle, Chicle!." Just before the outskirts of town,
we stop for water at a roadside hotel, and I pause briefly in the cool foyer while Frank performs
his gentlemanly duty of filling up water bottles. By 3:00 p.m. we are climbing up into Trinidad,
and I'm in another really fine mood, exhausted by the sun, the heat and hills, and my thighs are
again "red meat". As soon as we hit the first wide street, the solicitations for food and rooms hit
us. I'm not at all hospitable to the street hustlers, but Frank doesn't mind, and we finally team up
with "Adonis", who is agreeable, and escorts us to the house recommended by our hostess in Faro
Luna. From the street, our guest house doesn't look too promising, but I am pleasantly
surprised when the front door is open and we step into a haven. A grand ol' Spanish style house,
with high ceilings, huge rocking chairs and a open way to the back inner courtyard. The entire up
stairs will be our quarters. I am beside myself, fatigued, dusty-dirty, with just enough energy to
babble somewhat comprehensible replies to our friendly twin sisters and their mama, as they make
the bed, explain about the toilet and water, and ask us if we want anything to eat. Of course, we
don't turn down a snack (after we shower and plop on the bed, and open the doors and sit out on
the tiny balcony overlooking the street). Not bad for $15.00/night. Its still early enough for a
little sightseeing in this 16th century Spanish ghost town. We head out late afternoon to see
what's to be seen. To the cathedral. To the museo de la Lucha contrabandidos. To a bar to hear
live music, with a tour of Germans. Frank spends a little time with the musicians, explaining
about the piano project. We fend off the rest of today's historic town hustlers and head back to
our apartment. At 8, we dine on lobster (again) this time fixed in a black sauce with rice. Early
to bed, with fitful but sometimes deep sleep. From the street the conga drums go on until 11
p.m., then rain, which quiets things down for awhile, then it's very noisy again in the early a.m.