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CUBA
527 Kilometres – 29 Days
29 October – 26 November 2014
CUBA
527 Kilometres – 29 Days
29 October – 26 November 2014
Photos
29 October - Montego Bay, Jamaica – Havana, Cuba - By plane
The taxi ride to Montego Bay
airport couldn't have been more than five kilometres. Mercifully, the airport
had a wrapping service as I doubted whether my homemade bike box, held together
with duct tape, would last.
Right from the start, Cuba was
a different cup of tea. The first thing noticed was the abundance of space on
the plane, quite a rarity in this day and age. One could even spread out to
enjoy a little snooze before descending into Cuba. Approaching Cuba, a highly unusual
sunset greeted us and one could see well-organised farmlands below (I guess
they were tobacco fields).
Clearing
customs and immigration was exceptionally easy. Afterwards, I excitedly hailed
a taxi to Hostal Peregrino, situated in an old building in Centro Havana. You
can imagine my surprise when I rang the doorbell and a key, tied to a string,
was lowered from the window above. This
marked the start of a remarkable visit to fascinating Cuba. Unfortunately,
the hotel didn't receive my email, and all rooms were fully booked; luckily,
their neighbour still had space. It, in fact, turned out more convenient with
the bike. The family was highly welcoming but, regrettably, only spoke limited
English and me even less Spanish. The place was comfortable with a fan,
air-con, private bathroom and even a little bar fridge.
Most
confusing was the Cuban money. Cuba had two currencies: CUC (1 CUC = 1 US$) and
pesos (Moneda Nacional MN) (1 CUC = 25 pesos). The accommodation and taxi fare were
quoted in CUC and I guessed it standard practice to quote tourists in CUC.
30
- 31 October - Havana
Following
a breakfast of fruit and scrambled eggs, I set out, camera in hand, to explore
Havana, referred to as "La Habana". As always, nothing was as
envisaged, and not all the media reports are accurate.
The
50-year-old American trade embargo was still in place, but that didn't mean
Cuba didn't trade with other countries. Havana had a fair number of new
vehicles; the taxi from the airport was a brand-new Toyota van. Virtually all
cars, however, date back to the 1960s. Of course, not all buildings were old
and falling apart either. Still, the old ones were far more photogenic, and
one, consequently, got the idea that the entire country was falling apart.
Investigating
the old part was best done on foot as the old quarters were blessed with an
ensemble of old pre-communist era buildings. The best part of the day was spent
admiring these old buildings and exploring the narrow lanes.
I
would have been foolish not to drive along the Malecon sea drive in an old
convertible, and thought the only thing missing was a bottle of rum.
The
next day was spent much the same, only in a different part where gracious old
buildings, several already restored, lined the streets. My walkabout took me
past colourful cigar-chewing ladies, horse carts and bicycle taxis (not only
for the use of tourists). I passed the most realistic human statue ever encountered;
made even more surprising by his placement next to an identical statue. Only
donating money in his collection box made him move.
Giggling,
I made my way along narrow lanes, where front doors led directly onto pavements
and where salsa music emanated from about every doorway. Music, dance and art were
everywhere in Havana, and practically everyone could play an instrument.
The
waterfront made a perfect spot to snap a few pics and grab a bite to eat at
sunset. With such an abundance to see, one could easily spend a few days in
Havana. I was however keen to get going and planned to return to Havana for a
few days before flying out.
1
November - Havana – Bahia Honda - 132 km
The
section between Havana and Bahia Honda made less exciting cycling. Still, I was
delighted to be back on my trusted old iron horse (or iron camel). The mild
headwind encountered made the going slow but kept me cool at the same time.
Though
the map indicated the road as an "Autopista", the surface was in poor
condition and the going slow. The best part of the day was spent cycling past farmlands
where farmers still used oxen to plough the land, and the horse and cart remained
in daily use. The aroma from a roadside "panaderia" lured me in, and freshly
baked rolls made a good snack while snaking along narrow country lanes. A wave
of gratitude and joy washed over me for the opportunity to cycle in this fascinating
country.
In
Bahia Honda, a "hospedaje" owned by Beysi and her family was a real
treat. They fed me copious amounts of food, and in broken Spanish, I tried communicating,
letting them know where I was from and where I was going - not that I knew exactly
where that was.
2
- 3 November - Bahia Honda – Vinales - 85 km
After
a healthy breakfast of fruit juice, fruit, coffee, egg, and bread, I left my
generous family. The bumpy route continued along a minor path, filled with
cigar-chewing Cubans on horse carts or ox wagons. As the previous day, the
going was slow as the route slowly led uphill along the Vinales valley. The
valley was fertile, and my path, hence, littered with fruit stalls where offers,
not only of papaya juice but also pineapples, were received, none of which were
refused. It felt like I'd a constant smile as my path took me past tobacco
plantations and vast limestone karsts until, eventually, reaching Vinales.
Vinales
was touristy with literally hundreds of places advertising rooms to let and almost
the same number of restaurants, quite a feat for such a small settlement. People
came to Vinales to explore nearby Vinales National Park and the valley that has
been declared a UNESCO site. A 100 million years ago underground rivers ate
away at the limestone bedrock, creating vast caverns. Eventually, the roof
collapsed, leaving only the eroded walls we see today.
Finding
accommodation was effortless, and the one located was a large and comfortable abode.
The establishment had a restaurant that served delicious vegetable soup (and,
of course, a "Cristal", the Cuban beer). Plans were on staying in
Vinales the following day. Therefore, it was late before falling asleep to a
salsa beat in the far-off distance.
The
next morning was spent investigating a nearby cave and a tobacco farm where
some of Cuba's finest cigars were still hand-rolled. The cave was interesting and
said an ancient indigenous dwelling. After a short walk, I came to an
underground river where motorboats took one the rest of the way.
By
evening, I located an internet café and
uploaded a few pics before falling too far behind. The internet was expensive
but far worse was the long queue waiting to use the only seven machines in
town. By the time my turn came, I’d scarcely started and was told they were closing.
More
frustrating than the long queue at the internet was the hissing sound from the
touts. They had a habit of hissing like snakes when wanting your attention, quite
annoying, but this was Cuba where things worked differently.
4
November - Vinales – San Cristobal - 110 km
Departing
my comfortable abode, I followed my nose in an easterly direction, unsure where
the road led. The area wasn't especially picturesque and I pushed onwards until
reaching San Cristobal. A headwind prevailed all day and hence a relief to reach
the tiny village of San Cristobal. Whether the town would offer accommodation was
doubtful but, sure enough, it did. The abode had a mirror on the ceiling and I surmised
it might not have been intended for a single person.
Still,
the family was typical Cuban with trinkets displayed in the cabinet, and photos
in old frames hanging askew on the wall. The Cubans had the same family values
as the South Americans. Family members and friends were thus constantly popping
in, resulting in an endless flow of comings and goings. San Cristobal was a
pleasant rural area, nearly like a big farm, where there always seemed a cock
crowing and a dog barking in the distance.
5
November - San Christobal – San Antonio de los Banos - 85 km
Records
showed 24% of the population was of mixed race, 65% White, 10% Black and 1%
Asian. Of course, one could easily question these figures as I barely ever saw “White”
people in Cuba. Still, then again, race is very much a social construct. If you
ask me, the old model for classifying people goes back to the 18th century and
is slightly outdated. The so-called “White” people were, obviously, of Spanish descent
and many French immigrants who came to Cuba in the early part of the 19th
century. Even so, it remained surprising to see blond-haired women in these
tiny villages who looked kind of out of place. Maybe I’d been in Jamaica too
long.
The
way to San Antonio headed past small communities where people went about their
daily business. People seemed continuously busy fixing things, and the word
“resolver” was easily the most used word in Cuba. These settlements had
numerous hole-in-the-wall type shops selling bread rolls, juice or pizzas, all at
a few pesos.
The
plan was to head to Batabane where one could get a ferry to the nearby Isla de
la Juventud. The diving was particularly good off the west coast of the island,
but halfway through the day I learned getting a ferry ticket in Batabane could
be challenging as tickets were generally sold in Havana as a bus-and-boat
combo.
At
Guira de Melena, a change of plans made me head the 13 kilometres north to San Antonio
instead. San Antonio had a few interesting things to see. Still, I missed the
town and landed at a hotel along the highway outside of town. This wasn’t a
major disaster and I stayed put. Upon returning to my place, the restaurant
served good food and discovered the only English TV channel showed the American
election. What a circus! The Cubans must have thanked their lucky stars; they
didn’t have to deal with such a spectacle – it could have been precisely why authorities
broadcasted it.
6
November - San Antonio de los Banos – Nueva Paz - 90 km app
The
days were slowly getting a rhythm of their own as I biked up and down hills,
through the countryside past tiny settlements, all (seemingly) identical with
horse carts, hole-in-the-wall pastry shops, the odd peso pizza joint and
“refrescos” stand, where one could fill your bottle with juice at a mere three pesos.
Towards
the end of the day, and reaching Nueva Paz, the map didn’t show another village
apart from tiny Nueva Paz. To the villagers’ surprise, a foreigner cycled into
their little town enquiring about a casa. More surprised than the villagers, I discovered
the village amid a festival. I wasn’t sure what the celebration was about, but I
assumed the event was important as the only two places with rooms to rent were full.
A
hospitable family invited me in, and as can be expected, my stay turned out
quite a novelty. Casa particulars or homestays catered to travellers and generally
consisted of separate quarters with an en-suite bathroom – all extremely
luxurious compared to typical family life in Cuba. Staying in a Cuban home was
totally different. Firstly, someone had to give up their bed, and there wasn’t a
great deal of privacy as the bedroom had two entrances. One was blocked off
with a curtain and led to the dining room. The other one led to the
lounge/kitchen area and was fitted with a rickety concertina door. The bathroom
consisted of a bucket shower, which I didn’t mind. Toilet paper was far too
luxurious, and good ol’ newspaper did the trick. A meal, large enough to feed
an army, was prepared and encouraged by the family, I ate far too much. Embarrassingly,
I was fed first, and the family only ate afterwards. I hoped it wasn’t their
only food.
The
family consisted of a mum, dad, grandmother (whom they took care of) and a dwarf
daughter. This is only mentioned as it came as a surprise to spot at least
three dwarfs in Jamaica (considered excessive for such a small island). The
family was super kind, and I regretted not being fluent in Spanish, but at
least I could tell them where I was from and showed them the map of my cycle
route. They were stunned one could do such a distance on a bicycle (at times, I
am equally stunned).
The
daughter’s room became mine. Fortunately, the room had a regular bed; only the
mirror was tricky. She later offered me the use of her soap, powder and other
cosmetics - too sweet. She was immensely proud of having these items. In Cuba,
any cosmetic items, including soap and creams, was valuable, and beggars typically
asked for soap and lotions instead of money.
7-8
November - Nueva Paz – Playa Larga - 100 app km
The
way to Playa Larga was along a highway, and the road surface was significantly
better, making effortless cycling. Not a great deal was happening, except a few
restaurants which made a welcome distraction. Eventually, I stuck the iPod in
my ears and turned off to Playa Larga.
Larga
was one of the two beaches invaded by the US in April 1961. One could see
monuments and signboards keeping memories of the revolution alive. Playa Larga
had a bunch of casa particulars lining the shore and, as a result, not challenging
to find a bed. The casa chosen provided food, and thus not necessary to move
one step; all I had to do was sit on the veranda and watch the bay.
The
following morning was laundry day after which I took off searching for a shop
selling hair stuff as I lost my comb. Losing things became my superpower, and I
was particularly good at it. Instead of a comb, a diving shop was spotted and I
was just in time to join them for two dives. Teaming up with two very pleasant
and experienced divers, we happily plunged into the crystal-clear waters of the
Bay of Pigs. It turned out two beautiful dives, and I was incredibly pleased with
the opportunity. The dive was an easy shore entry. About 30 metres offshore was
a massive drop-off that reportedly bottomed out at a depth of 300 metres. I
didn’t check! Visibility was crystal clear, which made peering over the edge,
into the abyss immensely exciting. Fantastic stuff, all at CUC25.
The
Bay of Pigs (known as “the Bay of Pigs fiasco”) had a fascinating history. The
Bay was where mighty America tried to invade tiny Cuba in 1961. One thousand
four hundred CIA-trained men, financed by a US$13 million military budget,
landed in Playa Giron intending to wipe out the Cuban Air Force. Castro had
been forewarned and had moved his Air Force the previous week. To make matters
worse, the Cubans sunk the two US supply ships leaving 1,400 men stranded on
the beach. The US government didn’t rescue the poor stranded soldiers: 114 were
killed. Later the remaining soldiers were captured and traded at US53$ million
worth of food and medicine. A genuine David and Goliath tale, if you ask me.
9
November - Playa Larga – Playa Giron - 34 km
At
my casa, I met two cyclists who’d come from Cienfuegos. They informed me of a considerably
shorter coastal route between Cienfuegos and Playa Larga but, in the process,
they picked up 15 punctures between them. I, there and then, decided to take
the roundabout way (approx. 130 kilometres). Not being in any hurry, a slow
cycle led along the coast to Playa Giron where an “all-inclusive” resort at
CUC42 made comfortable digs. Albeit more costly than the CUC20 casas, the price
included—three meals and all drinks, from beer to cocktails.
The
resort was a strange place, about the size of a small village, right upon the
beach but neglected. Only a few bungalows were occupied, the lawn was knee-high,
and scarcely anything appeared in working order. The food was delicious and
consisted of a buffet lunch, dinner, and breakfast; the problem is one could
only eat until one had enough. However, the two genuinely nice cocktails made
up for the lack of other facilities.
10
November - Playa Giron – Cienfuegos - 70 km
Signboards
indicated 94 kilometres to Cienfuegos. The going was effortless as the majority
of the day was spent biking along a low-lying and swampy area where the road was
in good condition. Now and again, one had to give way to herds of cows or cycle
on the opposite side of the road as half the way was used to dry rice or wheat.
My odometer wasn’t working but I guessed I travelled about 40 kilometres until
reaching a new highway, which indicated Cienfuegos was only 30 kilometres
further. I’m always happy about a shortcut and arrived in Cienfuegos earlier
than anticipated.
A
good few people lured one to their casa particular, and it was a pleasure to give
them my business. The prices were all identical, and the accommodation almost similar.
The lady where I bunked down seemed pleased she had a guest and went out of her
way to put the bike away and made things as pleasurable as possible.
An
evening stroll along the waterfront and around the central plaza revealed hives
of activities. In the process, I met Jenn and Jeff from Canada (travelling by
bicycle). They mentioned they saw me in Vinales. I’m impressed by people who
can identify one off the bike without the disguise of a cap and shades. How incredibly
observant of them.
11-12
November - Cienfuegos – Trinidad - 80 km
I
woke to the clip-clop of horse’s hooves, had a hearty breakfast and hopped on
the bike to Trinidad, Cuba’s best-preserved colonial town. At first, the route
was slightly hilly, but levelled out on reaching the coast, and it became a
pleasant ride past scenic beaches and bays.
One
meets the most likeable people during one's travels, and this day was no
different. I stopped to chat with a lovely couple from Switzerland (if I remember
correctly).
Trinidad
(a UNESCO World Heritage Site) was swarming with tourists and tour buses. The
narrow cobblestoned streets could hardly accommodate all the busses, bicycle
taxis and horse carts. Hundreds of casa particulars lined the streets. Soon, I
was nestled in a roomy house with a great veranda leading to an enclosed
backyard.
A
quick shower and I were strolling, camera in hand, together with countless other
tourists down the narrow lanes of this 500-year-old Spanish colonial
settlement.
13
- 14 November - Trinidad – Sancti Spiritus - 70 km
My
path followed the Valle de Los Ingenios, where sugar was grown in the earlier
years. Today, one can still see a few of that brutal era's old sugar mills,
slave quarters, and manor houses. Unfortunately, the Manaca Iznaga with its 44-metre-high
tower, used for watching the slaves, had too many tour busses to my liking, and
I didn’t climb to the top; I only took a few pics and departed in a hurry. Nevertheless,
albeit several attractions were scattered about, I kept going due to my first
experience.
Sancti
Spiritus, the oldest European settlement in Cuba, turned out a hidden gem. Smaller
than Trinidad, and less visited, the village had several lovely, old buildings
from the colonial era. However, as the town had fewer buildings than Trinidad, almost
all were renovated and strolling the charming centre was a pleasure.
I
came down with a stomach bug during the night and spent nearly the entire night
hanging over the toilet bowl. When daylight broke, I was weak and tired and stayed
in bed. As the day progressed, I slowly recovered and by lunchtime could face a
cup of tea and a plate of fruit. Luckily, Hostal Paraiso was comfortable and
the owners accommodating.
15
November - Sancti Spiritus – Ciego de Avila - 76 km
Feeling
considerably better, although weak (seeing I only had a plate of fruit the
previous day), I loaded my mobile home to cycle the
short distance to Ciego de Avila. The ride came with a mild headwind, but I caught
the slipstream of a horse cart, and we slowly headed toward Ciega de Avila. By
the time I stopped to fill up with water, I assumed I’d lost them but soon caught
up. There was a considerable amount of laughing and waving, and I’d a distinct
feeling they waited.
Ciego de Avila was a tiny
place with a few old historical buildings. Unfortunately, a hotel in dire need
of TLC was home that night, and even without hot water in the shower, one couldn’t
beat the price.
While meandering the streets
in the cooler night air, I passed a theatre filled to the brim. The coolest thing
was theatregoers still made use of horse-and-cart taxis to and from the theatre.
How cool is that?
Still
not feeling 100% but having to eat something, I purchased a five-peso pizza, which,
as indicated by the price, wasn’t large (US$1 – 25 pesos).
16
November - Ciego de Avila – Moron - 40 km
Even
though tired, I loaded up and cycled north to Moron, a small town en route to
Cayo Coco. I’d no intention of going to Cayo Coco as it was understood the city
was packed with all-inclusive resorts. Unfortunately, the weather came in and
started raining, which turned out not the typical 30-minute storm. As a result,
I arrived in Moron sopping wet but mercifully uncovered a surprisingly large
amount of casa particulars.
The
Maron was a typical Cuban town. The main road was lined with old colonial
buildings, a central plaza, and a few hole-in-the-wall eateries. Yet, surprisingly
the town had a grand-looking railway station built in 1923, complete with horse
carriages waiting to cart passengers to and from the station; one could have
sworn it was 1923. A walk along the candy-coloured colonnade pavement, with music
coming from open doorways, was typical Cuban. Old bicycles were leaning
haphazardly against walls, and a good few pay-phones were still mounted upon
the walls. It felt as if caught in a time warp and I loved every single moment
of it.
By
evening, villagers placed chairs outside doorways and watched the world go by
while chatting with neighbours. What a social bunch the Cubans were. Street
vendors magically appeared selling cake and popcorn – one can’t fault a country
where cake is considered street food.
17
November - Moron – San Jose del Largo - 60 km app
I
turned my bike in the direction of Havana, and while a good few days remained on
my visa, the time had come to move in the direction of the capital. I read that
San Jose had a spa and searched for these magical baths.
The
mild tailwind made pleasurable cycling and an early arrival at San Jose del
Largo. The spa was slightly dilapidated as the majority of these types of places
were. Still, I spent a good hour in the bath, which consisted of a huge
undercover one. The pool was right over the spring's eye and had a sandy bottom
where one could see the water bubbling up from a tiny volcano.
Afterwards,
I met two cyclists from Canada. They had been travelling a year and planned on
cycling at least one more. We had a meal together and shared a bottle of wine,
compliments of my hosts.
18
November - San Jose del Largo – Remedios - 70 km
Mercifully,
I’d rid myself of the stomach bug and the day became effortless riding to
Remedios. Remedios was one of the first villages founded by the Spanish way
back in 1513 and I bedded down at a place right next to the central plaza. There
wasn’t much to do in this tiny village besides discovering old buildings scattered
around the square.
I’d
much time on my hands and, therefore, spent it using the internet before having
a bite to eat. Doing the laundry was a mistake as it started raining during the
night and nothing was quite dry by morning.
19
November - Remedios – Quemado de Guines - 110 km app
Packing
my still damp laundry, I headed south. The intention was to go to Santa Martha,
but I couldn’t face another touristy town and turned off and cycled along the
coast. I half regretted the decision when the rain came; rain which continued
the rest of the day. It rained so hard that water couldn’t drain fast enough, and
my path soon turned into a mini river. With no reason or place to stop, I proceeded
until reaching an area with accommodation. People pointed me to a “hotel” but it
had no rooms, only a restaurant, even though it was called a hotel.
In
bucketing rain, and sloshing through ankle-deep water, accommodation was
located. Still, with digs rented by the hour, I’d to wait until the occupants were
done. In the meantime, a restaurant made a good spot to while away the time;
besides that, I was starving. Upon my return, the room was available, and I could
hang out my wet clothes and change into something dry.
20
November - Quemado de Guines – Hotel Elguea and spa - 60 km
As
my abode was an hourly joint, no breakfast was included. Still, I was given coffee
and a few bananas before getting underway. It rained the entire way, and on
reaching the turnoff to a hot spring, turning in was a no-brainer and I headed
the eight kilometres down the path, where I arrived soaked to the bone.
The
government-run hotels were huge but usually without anyone in sight. Goats
roaming the garden looked up in surprise at someone disturbing the peace.
The
bedroom was huge and comfortable, and I couldn’t complain. However, the thermal
baths were in a separate building and quite hot (approx. 50°C). Hungry and with
the restaurant prices reasonable, I first had lunch before entering the baths. The
soak was short as the water was far too hot.
Later
I repacked my panniers and with little else to do had a beer or two ahead of supper.
This time a few more people were in the dining room as workers from the
electrical company who worked in the area stayed at the hotel. Even though the
restaurant had a menu, they only had one choice, similar to lunch: only chicken
instead of beef, everything else was identical.
According
to legend, a slave who had contracted a severe skin disease was banished by his
owner to what is known as Banos de Elguea. Later, the man returned cured
entirely, and a bathhouse was built on the spot.
21
November - Hotel Elguea and spa – Varadero - 110 km
Though
it rained throughout the night, by morning the weather had cleared. The route
was flooded, but a tailwind made pleasurable riding. The touristy beach town of
Varadero was situated along a narrow peninsula along Cuba’s north coast and
littered with hotels and casa particulars.
Sadly,
the weather never cleared, and thus no enjoying Varadero’s famous 20-kilometre-long
beach. So instead, I went in search of food, and returning, rain made me rush
back before becoming completely soaked. Varadero was only 140 kilometres from
Havana, and I was hoping the weather would be kind to me the next day.
22
November - Valadero – Playa Hermosa - 120 km
To
my dismay, I emerged, not to the tip-tip of raindrops upon the roof, but rain streaming
down, more resembling a tap left open. Loading up was with more care than usual,
making sure all my stuff would make it through yet one more rainy day. Thank
goodness, the rain had eased when I reached the corner shop to have a cup of
coffee and the (by then) ever-familiar toasted cheese sandwich.
A
tailwind made riding a pleasure, and I caught up to two cyclists from the
Netherlands holidaying in Cuba. This was only their second day of riding, and they
were taking it easy. We chatted as we pedalled along and, as they were heading
to Playas del Este, I followed suit. Then, in the dying moments of the day, it
started spitting, and I was happy to call it a day.
Villa
Playa Hermosa wasn’t much of a villa but was cheap at CUC13 per person. My room
had no hot water, and the TV didn’t work. The place was popular with people from
Habana; the music was going ten to a dozen and guests were already far into the
rum by the time I arrived.
23-25
November - Playa Hermosa – Havana - 25 km
The
ride into Havana was short, and, mercifully, it didn’t rain. On arrival at my casa
I discovered them fully booked. I considered this a misunderstanding as I
booked a room before heading out. The misunderstanding was cleared up when I
showed them the booking. All’s well that ends well. I’d two days in Havana to
repack my panniers and bike for the long and roundabout flight to Africa, where
I intended to spend time with my ageing mum before continuing my quest.
My
visit to Cuba was fascinating and it was interesting to talk with Cubans as
they were a highly educated nation. In fact, Cuba had about nine physicians per
1,000 people, whereas Africa only had approximately 0.2 doctors per 1,000, a
substantial difference. Albeit economically poor, I thought they were culturally
rich as theatres were well supported and it appeared everyone could play an
instrument.
26
November - Havana, Cuba – Montego Bay, Jamaica - By Plane
There
surely couldn’t be anything more inconvenient than a 5.30 a.m. flight which usually
meant a wakeup call of around 2.30 a.m. When flying with the bike, I preferred getting
to the airport early, allowing enough time to have the bike wrapped and pay the
bike fee, generally at an obscure office stuck away at the far side of the
airport.
My
casa owner assured me he arranged a taxi van to the airport. At 2.45 a.m. I
tiptoed downstairs and was relieved to find the taxi already there.
Alas,
the taxi turned out not a van but an old Mazda hatchback. One could only laugh
at the bizarreness of it all as the bicycle was half hanging out the back. I
giggled uncontrollably all the way to the airport. The shockless old Mazda
splattered, hiccupped and farted black fumes as we bounced over potholes in the
airport direction. I feared the bike could slide right out of its (by now)
sad-looking box. Not only was the box made from two boxes stuck together in
Jamaica and held together with an abundance of duct tape, but it was by then,
terribly out of shape and hardly capable of holding a bicycle. Fortunately, we
arrived on time and with the bike still in the box.
While
the airport had a wrapping service, it took convincing the operator wrapping a
bike box could be done. Eventually, the whole shebang was booked in. With
everything done, I could relax ahead of my long flight to South Africa. The
plan was to visit Cape Town for a month or so before heading to the Arabian
Peninsula to cycle a few of the countries on that exceedingly dry peninsula. With
this came to an end my cycle ride through the Americas. A journey which took me
from Ushuaia in southern Argentina to Seattle, USA and across the country to
Boston, with the islands of Jamaica and Cuba thrown in for good measure.
