Slightly Roundabout Arrival
CUBA
527 Kilometres – 29 Days
29 October – 26 November 2014
FLIP-BOOK
VOICEOVER
Prelude
I
decided to visit Cuba the way I make most travel decisions: with enthusiasm,
minimal logic, and no map. After cycling the length of the Americas, Cuba
hovered temptingly nearby — a place of music, revolution, rum, and people who
could fix a 1957 Chevy with a spoon and a philosophical shrug.
Getting
there required a 2,000-kilometre detour via Panama, because airlines operate in
a different reality. But once I accepted that flying south to go north was
somehow the cheapest option, I packed my bicycle into a duct tape-reinforced
box, crossed my fingers, and boarded the plane.
I
knew Cuba would be contradictory, colourful, and occasionally baffling —
exactly the sort of place that rewards curiosity and punishes tidy
expectations. In other words, perfect.
A
2,000 Kilometre Shortcut
After
a blissful Jamaican interlude, I set off for Cuba, which lay a mere 400
kilometres north. Naturally, the cheapest route was a 2,000-kilometre detour
via Panama. This is the sort of logic only airlines and quantum physicists
understand.
At
Montego Bay airport, I discovered a wrapping service — a godsend, as my
homemade bike box was held together with duct tape, optimism, and the faint
hope that gravity might take the day off.
The
flight itself was a revelation: legroom. I stretched out luxuriously, like a
cat in a sunbeam, and drifted off while a sunset painted the sky over what I
imagined were tobacco fields. (They could have been anything, really — potatoes,
solar panels, small goats — but tobacco felt more poetic.)
Immigration
was a breeze, and soon I was in a taxi heading to Hostal Peregrino. Upon
ringing the bell, a key descended from a window on a string, as though I had
stumbled into a Cuban Rapunzel scenario. Sadly, the hotel had missed my email,
but their neighbour had space — and, crucially, room for the bike.
The
family spoke limited English; I spoke even less Spanish. We communicated
through smiles, gestures, and the universal language of “Where can I put this
bicycle?”
Cuban
money was baffling: two currencies, one worth 25 of the other, and both used
depending on whether you looked like a tourist. (I did.) In 2021 they unified
the currencies, presumably after someone finally said, “This is ridiculous.”
Havana:
A City Held Together by Music and Sheer Willpower
Breakfast
was fresh fruit and scrambled eggs — the sort of meal that makes you believe
you’re about to have a productive day. And Havana delivered.
The
American embargo had been in place for 50 years, but Cuba had clearly been
shopping elsewhere. My airport taxi was a brand new Toyota van, though most
cars on the road were from the 1960s, held together by paint, nostalgia, and
whatever the Cuban equivalent of duct tape is.
The
old quarters were best explored on foot. Pre communist buildings leaned
charmingly in all directions, as though they’d had one too many mojitos. I
spent hours wandering narrow lanes, admiring architecture, and dodging
horse-drawn carriages.
Naturally,
I took a ride along the Malecón in an old convertible. The only thing missing
was a bottle of rum and perhaps a soundtrack of dramatic bolero music.
The
next day brought more wandering, more restored buildings, and more Cubans doing
wonderfully Cuban things: colourful ladies smoking cigars, bicycle taxis, and a
human statue so lifelike he had a twin. Only when you donated money did he come
to life — capitalism at its finest.
Salsa
music poured from every doorway. Havana felt like a place where even the dogs
could play percussion.
Sunset
at the waterfront was perfect, and I could easily have stayed longer — but the
road was calling.
Havana
to Bahía Honda (132 km)
The
road out of Havana was labelled an autopista, which in Cuba apparently
means “a road that once had dreams.” The surface was patchy, the headwind
persistent, and progress slow.
But
the scenery made up for it: farmers ploughing with oxen, horse carts clopping
along, and the irresistible smell of a panadería luring me in for fresh
rolls. I snacked happily while pedalling through farmland, feeling absurdly
grateful to be cycling in such a fascinating place.
Bahía
Honda offered a hospedaje run by Beysi and her family, who fed me enough food
to sustain a small army. Through broken Spanish, I explained where I was from
and where I was going — although I wasn’t entirely sure myself.
Bahía
Honda to Viñales (85 km)
Breakfast
was fruit, coffee, eggs, and bread — the Cuban cyclist’s fuel. The road climbed
gradually into the Viñales valley, past cigar-chewing Cubans on ox carts and
fruit stalls offering papaya juice and pineapples. I smiled so much my face
hurt.
Viñales
was touristy, with more casas and restaurants than seemed reasonable for such a
small town. But it was charming, and my accommodation came with vegetable soup
and Cristal beer — a winning combination.
The
next day I explored a cave once used by indigenous people. A motorboat ferried
me along an underground river, which felt like something out of an adventure
film, minus the dramatic soundtrack and imminent danger.
The
Internet café was less thrilling: seven machines, a long queue, and closing
time arriving just as I logged in. Cuba teaches patience, whether you want it
or not.
More
irritating were the touts who hissed to get your attention. Being summoned like
a cat was… novel.
Viñales
to San Cristóbal (110 km)
I
set off eastward, following my nose — not always the most reliable navigation
tool. The scenery was unremarkable, the headwind relentless, and I was relieved
to reach tiny San Cristóbal.
Accommodation
existed, miraculously. The room had a mirror on the ceiling, suggesting it
wasn’t designed for solo travellers. The family was quintessentially Cuban:
trinkets everywhere, crooked photo frames, and a constant parade of relatives
popping in.
It
felt like staying on a very large farm, complete with distant crowing roosters
and barking dogs.
San
Cristóbal to San Antonio de los Baños (85 km)
Cuba’s
racial statistics claimed 65% White, 24% mixed, 10% Black, and 1% Asian. I
wasn’t convinced — I hardly saw anyone who fit the “White” category. Race is a
social construct anyway, and Cuba seemed to have constructed its own version.
Blond
women occasionally appeared in tiny villages, looking as though they’d taken a
wrong turn somewhere in Europe. Perhaps I’d been in Jamaica too long.
The
road passed through small communities where people were perpetually fixing things.
The word resolver — “to sort it out” — seemed to be Cuba’s national motto.
Shops
sold bread rolls, juice, and peso pizzas for a few pesos. I planned to reach
Batabanó for a ferry to Isla de la Juventud, but learned tickets were sold in
Havana as a bus-and-boat combo. Cuba loves a system, especially one that makes
no sense.
I
changed course to San Antonio, missed the town entirely, and ended up at a
highway hotel. Not ideal, but serviceable. The only English TV channel was
showing the American election — a circus so chaotic the Cubans must have
watched it for entertainment.
San
Antonio to Nueva Paz (90 km)
The
days developed a rhythm: horse carts, pastry shops, peso pizza stands, and
refrescos stalls selling juice for three pesos. It was cycling heaven, if
heaven had potholes.
Nueva
Paz was tiny, and the villagers were astonished to see a foreigner arrive by
bicycle. Even more astonishing: the village was in the middle of a festival,
and both casas were full.
A
family took me in, offering a room that required someone to give up their bed.
Privacy was theoretical — one entrance had a curtain, the other a rickety
concertina door. The bathroom had a bucket shower, and toilet paper was
replaced by newspaper. (The headlines were riveting.)
Dinner
was enormous, and I was fed first while the family waited. I hoped it wasn’t
their only food.
The
daughter, who had achondroplasia, proudly offered me her cosmetics — precious
items in Cuba, where beggars ask for soap rather than money. She was sweet, and
the family was wonderfully kind.
They
were stunned that anyone could cycle such distances. Honestly, sometimes I am
too.
The
Highway to Hair Products (and Unexpected Diving)
The
road to Playa Larga was smooth enough to make me suspicious. Cuba rarely hands
you good tarmac without demanding something in return. But the ride was easy,
the restaurants few but welcome, and eventually I stuck my iPod in my ears and
pedalled into Playa Larga — one of the two beaches invaded by the US in 1961.
Cuba keeps the memory alive with monuments, signboards, and the general vibe of
“Don’t try that again.”
My
casa sat right on the shore, and I could eat, nap, and stare at the bay without
moving more than a few centimetres. Bliss.
The
next morning was laundry day, followed by a quest for a comb. Losing things is
my superpower; I excel at it. Instead of a comb, I found a dive shop — and
somehow ended up doing two dives. This is the sort of thing that happens in
Cuba: you go out for hair products and return having explored a 300-metre
abyss.
The
Bay of Pigs was stunning underwater, and the history above water was equally
dramatic: 1,400 CIA-trained men, two sunken supply ships, Castro moving his Air
Force just in time, and the US eventually trading the captured soldiers for
US$53 million worth of food and medicine—a true David and Goliath tale.
Playa
Larga to Playa Girón (34 km)
Two
cyclists informed me of a shorter coastal route to Cienfuegos. They also
informed me they’d collected 15 punctures between them. I immediately chose the
longer route.
Playa
Girón offered an all-inclusive resort for CUC42 — three meals, unlimited
drinks, and the general ambience of a once grand place now maintained by
ghosts. The beach was neglected, the lawn knee-high, and most facilities
non-functional. But the cocktails were excellent, and the buffet was delicious.
One can forgive a lot when handed unlimited rum.
Playa
Girón to Cienfuegos (70 km)
The
road to Cienfuegos was flat, swampy, and easy. Occasionally I had to dodge cows
or ride on the opposite lane because half the road was being used to dry rice.
Cuba is nothing if not resourceful.
A
shortcut appeared, and I arrived earlier than expected. Several people tried to
lure me to their casa, but the prices and rooms were identical, so I picked the
friendliest face.
Cienfuegos
was lively, and during an evening stroll I met Jen and Jeff from Canada, who
recognised me from Viñales. I’m always impressed by people who can identify
cyclists off the bike — without the disguise of helmet, cap, and general
dishevelment.
Cienfuegos
to Trinidad (80 km)
I
woke to the clip clop of horses, ate a hearty breakfast, and cycled toward
Trinidad, Cuba’s best preserved colonial town. The route was scenic, the beaches
lovely, and I met a charming Swiss couple along the way.
Trinidad
was bursting at the seams with tourists, buses, bicycle taxis, and horse carts.
The cobblestones were doing their best to survive the onslaught. I found a
roomy casa with a veranda and joined the masses wandering the 500-year-old
streets.
Morning
brought vendors singing out their wares, old men selling bread from bicycles,
and colourful buildings glowing in the sun. It was Cuba at its absolute best.
Trinidad
to Sancti Spíritus (70 km)
The
Valle de los Ingenios was dotted with remnants of the sugar era — mills, slave
quarters, manor houses. The Manaca Iznaga tower was swarmed with tour buses, so
I took a few photos and fled.
Sancti
Spíritus, Cuba’s oldest European settlement, was a gem: smaller, quieter, and
beautifully restored. Unfortunately, I came down with a stomach bug and spent
the night communing with the toilet bowl. Hostal Paraíso lived up to its name
by being comfortable enough to recover in.
Sancti
Spíritus to Ciego de Ávila (76 km)
Still
weak, I set off toward Ciego de Ávila. A mild headwind slowed me down until I
caught the slipstream of a horse cart. We travelled together like an unlikely
convoy, laughing and waving.
Ciego
de Ávila was tiny, and my hotel was in dire need of TLC: no hot water, but
unbeatable price. The theatre was packed, and people still arrived by horse
cart — a detail that delighted me more than it should.
Dinner
was a five-peso pizza, which was exactly as large as five pesos suggests.
Ciego
de Ávila to Morón (40 km)
Rain
arrived and refused to leave. I cycled north to Morón, arriving soaked but
relieved to find many casas.
Morón
was wonderfully old-fashioned: colonial buildings, a grand 1923 railway
station, horse carriages waiting outside, music drifting from doorways,
bicycles leaning against walls, and payphones still mounted like relics. It
felt like stepping into a time warp — and I adored it.
By
evening, villagers placed chairs outside to chat and watch the world go by.
Cake and popcorn were sold as street food. Any country where cake is a street
snack is doing something right.
Morón
to San José del Lago (60 km)
I
turned my bike toward Havana but detoured to San José del Lago, rumoured to
have a spa. The tailwind was kind, and I arrived early.
The
spa was dilapidated but charming. The pool sat directly over the spring’s eye,
bubbling like a tiny underwater volcano. Later I met two Canadian cyclists
who’d been travelling for a year. We shared a meal and a bottle of wine —
courtesy of my hosts.
San
José del Lago to Remedios (70 km)
Feeling
better, I cycled to Remedios, founded in 1513. My casa was right on the plaza.
There wasn’t much to do except admire old buildings and browse the Internet.
Laundry
was a mistake — it rained all night, and everything was still damp by morning.
Remedios
to Quemado de Güines (110 km)
I
headed south, avoiding touristy Santa Martha, and chose the coastal road. The
rain returned with enthusiasm. Soon the road became a river, and I pedalled
through ankle-deep water.
Accommodation
was elusive. One “hotel” had no rooms, only a restaurant. Eventually I found a
place — but the room was rented by the hour. I had to wait until the previous
occupants were finished. Cuba keeps you humble.
Quemado
de Güines to Elguea Spa (60 km)
Breakfast
was coffee and bananas — the perks of hourly accommodation. Rain persisted, but
I turned toward the hot spring without hesitation.
Legend
says a slave with a severe skin disease was banished here, only to return
cured. A bathhouse was built, and today it’s a government hotel with roaming
goats and near-empty halls.
The
thermal water was 50°C — too hot for lingering — but the room was cosy, the
food repetitive but edible, and the beer cold.
Elguea
to Varadero (110 km)
Flooded
roads and a tailwind carried me to Varadero, Cuba’s famous beach town.
Unfortunately, the weather refused to cooperate. I dashed out for food and
dashed back before the next downpour.
Varadero
was only 140 km from Havana. I prayed for better weather.
Varadero
to Playa Hermosa (120 km)
Rain
poured like a tap left open. I packed carefully, hoping my belongings would
survive yet another soaking.
A
tailwind pushed me along, and I met two Dutch cyclists on holiday. We chatted
as we pedalled toward Playas del Este. When the sky began spitting again, I
called it a day.
Villa
Playa Hermosa was cheap, loud, rum-soaked, and lacking hot water. The TV didn’t
work, but the music certainly did.
Playa
Hermosa to Havana (25 km)
The
final ride into Havana was mercifully dry. My casa was fully booked, but
showing my reservation cleared the misunderstanding.
I
spent two days repacking my panniers and preparing for the long flight to
Africa, where I’d visit my ageing mum before continuing my quest.
Cuba
had been fascinating — culturally rich, musically gifted, and full of educated,
warm people. Nine physicians per 1,000 people! Africa had 0.2. Theatres were
full, and everyone seemed able to play an instrument.
Havana
to Montego Bay
Nothing
is more inconvenient than a 5:30 a.m. flight, requiring a 2:30 a.m. wake-up. My
casa owner promised a taxi van. At 2:45 a.m., I tiptoed downstairs to find… an
old Mazda hatchback.
The
bike hung halfway out the back, the Mazda farted black fumes, and we bounced
over potholes like a carnival ride. I giggled uncontrollably the entire way.
The
bike box — made from two boxes taped together in Jamaica — was barely holding
shape. Miraculously, it survived.
Convincing
the airport wrapping service to wrap a bike box took effort, but eventually
everything was checked in. I could finally relax before my next destination –
The Arabian Peninsula, but first a stopover in Africa to see my mum.
My
ride through the Americas had come to an end — from Ushuaia to Seattle, across
to Boston, with Jamaica and Cuba thrown in for good measure. What a journey.
Still, this was not the end of the road.
Epilogue
Leaving
Cuba was as wonderfully chaotic as travelling through it. My 5:30 a.m. flight
meant waking up at an hour normally reserved for bakers and fugitives. We
rattled over potholes, the Mazda wheezing and puffing black fumes, while I
giggled helplessly at the absurdity of it all. Miraculously, both the
duct-taped bike box and I made it to the airport intact.
Cuba
had been unforgettable — a place where music spills from doorways, strangers
invite you in, cake is sold as street food, and even the smallest town has
someone who can play three instruments at once. Economically poor, culturally
rich, endlessly inventive.
With
my panniers repacked and my bike taped into submission, I boarded my flight to
Africa, closing the chapter on a journey that had taken me from Ushuaia to
Seattle, across to Boston, with Jamaica and Cuba stitched in like bright,
unruly patches.
Ahead
lay new roads, new deserts, new stories — but Cuba’s magic would travel with
me.
