066 - 067 CYCLE TOURING THE UAE & OMAN

66 - 67 THE UNITED ARAB EMIRATES & OMAN
548 Kilometres – 20 Days
2 February - 22 February 2015

MAP

PHOTOS - Oman

PHOTOS - UAE

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66 THE EMIRATE OF DUBAI

325 Kilometres – 9 Days

2 February – 22 February 2015

 

2 February - Cape Town, South Africa – Dubai, UAE (by plane)

The flight from Cape Town, South Africa to Dubai, UAE via Doha was uneventful, except for arriving in Dubai at the ungodly hour of 3 a.m. Mercifully, Anton and Andre, friends of my friend, Lois, who lived in Oman at the time, collected me from the airport. I was extremely grateful to them as Dubai was mightily expensive. If not for them, I would’ve had a somewhat pricey start to the UAE. Once at their home, our chatter continued until 5 a.m. before finally turning in for the night.

 

3 February - Dubai

As expected, following our late night, we were slow to emerge. Dubai (the biggest and most populous city in the United Arab Emirates (UAE) and the capital of the Emirate of Dubai, one of seven emirates forming the UAE) was undoubtedly the money capital of the world, and it was hard not to be in awe of all money could buy.

Almost everything was the biggest in the world, from shopping centres to aquariums. The water bus provided a unique way to explore the marina. So was roaming around the famous Dubai Mall, Golden Souq and impressive aquarium. A stroll along the downtown area worked up an appetite, and we enjoyed a late lunch watching the dancing fountains. The fountains were impressive against the backdrop of the Burj Khalifa, the highest building in the world (at the time). Then, we went home to watch a 3D movie while enjoying popcorn and wine. What a novel way to end a fabulous day in this world-famous city.

 

4 February - Dubai

Although awake slightly earlier than the previous day, it was already half-past eleven when I finished reassembling the bicycle. Our first stop was the bike shop to purchase a few bits and bobs.

Our next destination was Souq Madinat Jumeirah, where we spent a few hours sauntering through the gold and spice markets. Next, I was treated to a canal-side lunch at the Noodle House, where we had a great view of the famous Burj Al Arab Hotel. Afterwards, we visited Elvira, a friend of Anton and Andre, where we could access the top of her 83-storey building, which sports a fantastic city view. Elvira ordered pizzas, and we had a great time socialising.

 

5 February - Dubai

An additional day was spent in Dubai, and Anton and Andre drove me to the Miracle Garden. In this fantastic flower garden, the whole shebang, including the buildings, was covered by plants and flowers—a remarkable feat considering this is a desert country.

Afterwards, we drove to the world-famous Palm Island with its mega-expensive accommodation. Though immensely sought after, Palm Island wasn’t where I wanted to find myself during a tsunami. Hunger pains drove us to the excellent Carluccio restaurant offering authentic Italian cuisine.

Our next stop was at the metro station where, to my surprise, one could board a driverless train. Our driverless train scooted us off to the Spice and Gold Souq.

Towards the end of the day, Carrefour made convenient shopping to pick up the necessary ingredients as Anton planned on making a traditional Uzbek dish, plov — an extremely suitable way to wrap up another intriguing day in the city of Dubai. As always, the longer I stayed, the more interesting the city became.

 

6 February - Dubai – Al Rama - 100 km

I was all Dubai-ed out and happy to be back on the bike again. A big grin crossed my face as I cycled off doing one of my favourite things - pedalling off in a direction I wasn’t quite sure where it would lead was exciting and relaxing.

I was immensely thankful to Anton and Andre, who gave me a bed, fed me, and carted me all over Dubai. However, the warnings regarding drivers in Dubai slightly concerned me. Excellent wide highways and fast cars aren’t the best places to cycle. Therefore, I was surprised to find vehicles slowing and waving me across a busy motorway. Maybe it was simply out of sheer amazement to see a woman on a bicycle.

My route followed the dead, monotonous, and mind-numbing road to Abu Dhabi, a massive 4-lane highway. At least the numerous petrol stations were a welcome distraction and not one was passed without stopping. Long conversations with fellow travellers made it an enjoyable first day. All enquired about my origin and destination, followed by the inevitable photo shoot: leaving Dubai late and with all the stopping and chatting, the sun soon started dipping towards the horizon. Still winter, the sun disappeared at around 6 o’clock. Luckily, Al Raga sported a room that was costly but convenient.

 

7 February - Al Rama – Abu Dhabi - 40 km

The ride into Abu Dhabi, the bustling capital of the UAE’s biggest emirate, was shorter than anticipated. Shortly before the city centre, my route unexpectedly spat me out in the fast lane of a busy highway, leaving no means of getting to the opposite side. Eventually, police helped me across, and two kind Samaritans stopped and gave me a ride into town. It was a good thing too, as the police didn’t want to let me go, and only once they saw all of us in the car did they drive off.

The GPS on my phone didn’t work without a SIM card, and being my only form of navigation, I searched for a local SIM. Returning to my abode, I grabbed a bag of falafel and a few samosas for only a few dirhams.

 

8 February - Abu Dhabi – Ramah rest area - 125 km

My first stop was at the imposing Sheikh Zayed Grand Mosque to snatch a few photos. Afterwards, I pointed the bike in the direction of Oman. Initially, my plan was to cycle halfway to the border, but I couldn’t find a suitable camping spot.

Again, nothing significant happened, and again, service stations broke the monotony. These stations made filling my water bottles and buying snacks convenient, as chewing while riding kept me occupied. As a result, I slinked into the Ramah rest area long past sunset and in darkness.

The thoughtful gift from Andre, a solar-powered flashing light, proved incredibly useful. Its automatic activation in low-light conditions made it the perfect companion for cycle touring, providing just the right illumination when needed.

 

9 - 10 February - Ramah rest area – Al Ain - 60 km

The ride to Al Ain was straight into the wind, but there was nothing one could do. I put my head down, adjusted the bicycle gears, and soldiered on. Truly, nothing happened - even the service stations weren’t equipped with shops selling snacks or drinks. Then, out of the blue, a stranger stopped and gave me a small souvenir. I was completely gobsmacked, and I wonder if I ever thanked him for his kindness.

The oasis town of Al Ain rolled into view shortly beyond midday. My early arrival left me enough time to investigate the nearby Al Ain Oasis which sported a labyrinthine of cobbled streets. The entire area was walled and fitted with an ancient underground irrigation system dating back thousands of years. The nearly 150,000 date palms within the walled area made it a relaxed and shady meander. Falafel and samosas from the cafeteria, once again, made a quick meal.

Al Ain offered several places of interest and the city was a great place to spend the following day. The Palace Museum was fascinating, and so was the old fort. Al Jahili Fort was constructed in 1891 as a fort and a summer residence for Sheikh Zayed the First. I believed it customary in those days for Abu Dhabi leaders to escape the summer's coastal humidity in favour of Al Ain's dryer climate. The oasis, offering plenty of water, must have added to its popularity.

Carrefour supermarket was a great place to stock up. As the camel market was right behind the shopping centre, the market was easy to explore before returning to my wonderfully comfortable abode. For the third night in a row, supper was falafel and more samosas before turning in.

 

 

67 OMAN

223 Kilometres – 11 Days

11 February – 22 February 2015

 

11 February - Al Ain, UAE – Sobar, Oman - 110 km

Certain days were more challenging to get going than others, and this day was one of them. After packing up and a cup of coffee, the time was already past 10h00 before I got underway. The Omani border crossing was 10 kilometres away and a leisurely cycle through the town of Al Ain.

Once on the Omani side, my first stop was at an ATM, then a quick breakfast before picking up a new SIM card. As a result, it was past 12h00 before I headed into Oman and over the Hajar Mountains toward Muscat. Once out of the city and in the desert, the road became a shimmering mirage. Besides barren mountains and a few camels, the scenery remained unchanged. Oddly, the Omani border was 50 kilometres further, making it a sizeable no-man’s land.

By the time I received my entry stamp, it was well past midday, and I had covered only a minimal distance. I filled my water bottles and headed for the hills. Like the previous day, the weather was windy but the wind didn’t bother me, and a strange peacefulness prevailed. Sunset was between  6 and 6.30 p.m. and, soon afterwards, darkness fell. To my delight, streetlights lined the entire road.

I was a bit taken aback on reaching Sobar as I didn’t envisage Sobar quite as substantial. The traffic was horrendous, and the roadworks and detours scared me off the road. A taxi driver pointed me to a nameless hotel which suited me fine. Once in a room, I cooked pasta, but being a terrible cook, the pasta was awful, and I should’ve settled for falafel instead.

 

12 February - Sobar – The Millennium Resort - 113 km

My friend Lois had arranged to meet at the upmarket Millennium Hotel and Resort for a drink. With a cold beer in mind, I ground into the wind until I finally crawled into the resort shortly after 6h00 p.m. Lois was already there and, to my delight, I learned she had organised a room. It’s good to have friends.

A great deal of babbling took place over a drink, as we had years of catching up to do. The jabbering continued over supper and until late in the night. A few beers were consumed before retreating to our luxury room overlooking the Gulf of Oman.

 

13 February - The Millennium Resort – Seeb

We had a relaxing start to the day, followed by a massive breakfast overlooking the Gulf of Oman, and was midday before we eventually headed out. Lois persuaded me to load the bike in the car and join her for a sightseeing ride to Muscat.

Our first stop was at Al Sawadi, a beautiful beach where boats departed to the nearby island for a day of leisure. From Al Sawadi, we resumed our slow drive to Barka, hoping to catch a glimpse of the famous “bull-butting”. Regrettably, the event wasn’t taking place until much later. Lunch was in true Arabic style and then onto Seeb, where Lois lived.

 

14 - 20 February - Muscat and surrounding areas

Lois hauled me out of bed and announced we were driving up the mountain. The drive was spectacular and featured hazy views far in the distance, and I was grateful for being in a car and not on a bicycle. A long, steep walk down the mountain brought us to an old, abandoned village where well-preserved mud-brick houses clung desperately to the mountainside. Then, a hot, sweaty walk finally spat us out at the car.

Later, we had refreshments at an upmarket hotel offering spectacular views of the mountains and the small villages far below. One could barely make out the tiny, luminous green terraces used for farming.

We then proceeded along the nearly vertical mountain road to Nizwa, sporting an imposing fort and fascinating souq. This huge souq sold the whole caboodle, from vegetables to livestock and almost anything in-between, from beautiful pottery products to antique-looking jewellery, and even guns.

Back in Muscat, the days came and went, and I spent my time mostly sampling all of Oman’s exotic dishes. The hop-on-hop-off Big Bus city tour around Muscat was money well spent as one got to see all Muscat had to offer in a matter of a day. In the process, I met another cyclist biking around Oman, mainly following the Oman Cycle Tour.

Soon, the 19^th arrived and Lois took the day off work, loaded the car, and we made our way south along the coast. The landscape was typically desert-like and dotted by unexpected little gems. Our first stop was the Bimmah Sinkhole, also known as Hawiyat Najm or The Falling Star. According to legend, the crater was a result of a meteor. The experts, however, have a less romantic story, claiming natural causes of dissolving limestone formed the hole.

Our next stop was in Sur with its famous dhow building yard. The area was old and traditional where no one referred to a sketch or blueprint. But, surprisingly, in this modern age of technology, dhows were still handmade, a process that appeared slow and labour-intensive.

Our day’s destination was the turtle reserve at Ras al-Jinz. The night was spent at a conveniently located hotel, a short walk from the famous turtle breeding ground. I don’t know what I expected. Still, it wasn’t seeing giant, pre-historic-looking turtles slowly making their way out of the water. Mesmerised, we watched them dig metre-deep holes with their short fins. Then, very slowly, they placed themselves over the hole and laid roughly 100 perfectly round golf-ball-sized eggs. Once done, they meticulously closed everything up, but this wasn’t the end of their duties. They then dug a fake hole next to the real one to mislead predators. Only once all was done did they drag their weary bodies back to the ocean — poor things.

We returned to the beach in the morning to see if we could spot more turtles. Unfortunately, we only came upon one returning to the water after her busy night on the beach. Still, we spotted newly hatched ones appearing from their sandy nest and scurrying to the water’s edge. The whole process was captivating - what a fantastic experience. Thank you, Lois.

After breakfast, Lois and I headed inland, stopping at a wadi high up in the mountains for lunch. Next, we headed to our beautiful desert camp—a haven amidst the arid landscape. The camp, adorned with rustic reeds, is nestled in the heart of the desert, surrounded by magnificent sand dunes.

 

21-22 February - Muscat

Too soon it all ended, and it was time to return to Muscat. Once in Muscat, I packed my belongings, and Lois drove me to the airport for my flight to Sri Lanka, my next destination. En route to the airport, we had time to have one more memorable meal consisting of a camel-meat burger, a first for me.

I cannot thank Lois enough for all she did. I had a most enjoyable time and saw more than I would ever have seen. She also covered all expenses. I will forever be indebted to her.

065 CYCLE TOURING CUBA

CUBA

 527 Kilometres – 29 Days

29 October – 26 November 2014

Photos

29 October - Montego Bay, Jamaica – Havana, Cuba - By plane

My obvious next destination from Jamaica was Cuba, barely 400 kilometres north of Jamaica. The most economical flight to Havana, Cuba, nevertheless went via Panama, a relatively long 2,000-kilometre detour.

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.

In the morning, I emerged to the hustle and bustle of people peddling wares from bicycles in the street outside. In a sing-song way, they announced whatever they had to sell. I hurried to the window and smiled at the scene of brightly coloured buildings, cobblestone streets and old men selling bread from bicycles calling “El pan, el pan!” This was Cuba at its absolute best.

 

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.

064 CYCLE TOURING JAMAICA

To the Rhythm of Reggae:

JAMAICA

724 Kilometres - 21 Days
1 October – 28 October 2014

MAP

PHOTOS

 PDF

VOICEOVER

FLIPBOOK 

 

Prelude

After months of travelling through the Americas, the lure of warmer weather and Caribbean horizons drew me south to Jamaica. What followed was a remarkable 21-day cycling journey covering 724 kilometres around an island famed for its reggae rhythms, vibrant culture, tropical coastline, and warm-hearted people. From the beaches of Montego Bay and the crystal-clear waters of Ocho Rios to the hills above Treasure Beach and the laid-back communities scattered along the coast, every day brought new encounters, unexpected kindness, and unforgettable scenery. Travelling at the pace of a bicycle allowed me to experience Jamaica far beyond its tourist façade—through its villages, history, cuisine, music, and the easy-going spirit of its people.

 

Leaving the Americas – a Flight from Boston to Montego Bay.

This was the day I triumphantly fled the northern latitudes in search of warmer weather—preferably the kind that doesn’t require three layers and a moral pep talk. I packed everything into a single bag, feeling very smug and minimalist, until Delta Airlines promptly punished me for it.

According to their pricing philosophy, only one carry‑on bag was free; the first checked bag cost $25, while the bike cost an additional $150! I stared at the agent, wondering if the bike fee included a small share in the airline. It did not. But at least they didn’t weigh the luggage, which felt like a tiny, unexpected act of mercy.

The flight itself was spectacular. The ocean below looked so clear you could practically see disgruntled fish complaining about airline baggage fees. Tiny islands drifted past like postcards someone had dropped into the sea. And then—Jamaica! A sudden, glorious splash of green in the blue.

Immigration insisted I buy an onward ticket before they’d let me in, presumably to ensure I didn’t become a permanent beach ornament. So, I bought a ticket to Miami for late November, hoping it would give me enough time to cycle through Jamaica and Cuba. The United States, in its infinite creativity, had decided one could not fly to and from Cuba, so I had to plan my escape routes like a Cold War spy.

Once liberated, I collected my bag and bike, hailed a taxi to Gloriana’s, and opened the bike box—only to discover the bike shop had disassembled the bicycle with the enthusiasm of a toddler taking apart a toaster. I didn’t have the tools or the knowledge to reassemble it, so I did what any sensible person would do: panicked quietly, then went in search of a bicycle shop.

 

Montego Bay, Where I Nearly Acquired Dreadlocks

Early the next morning, I marched my pile of bike parts to a shop, where a man reattached the derailleur with the casual ease of someone buttering toast. Feeling victorious, I went off to buy a swimsuit—because being in Jamaica without one is like being in Italy without pasta: technically possible, but socially unacceptable.

I also visited a hairdresser, which nearly resulted in dreadlocks. The conversation was entirely in Jamaican patois, and I understood none of it. To this day, I have no idea whether they were discussing my hair, the weather, or the geopolitical situation in the Caribbean.

The next morning, I sat at a Hibiscus‑adorned table, savouring Blue Mountain coffee and feeling like a million dollars. So good was it that I stayed an additional day. This is how Jamaica works: you sit down for coffee, and suddenly you discover you have lived there for three months.

Downtown Montego Bay offered a smidgen of Jamaican history and a supermarket where I stocked up on essentials. The history, however, was sobering. Jamaica’s past is steeped in the brutal legacy of slavery. By the 18th century, Jamaica was one of the most valuable British colonies… The life expectancy of an enslaved West African in Jamaica was only seven years! It’s impossible to read this without feeling both horrified and furious.

After contemplating the Europeans’ astonishing capacity for cruelty, I wandered back past beach bars where rum came in all colours, shapes, and sizes. I wasn’t in the mood for rum, which is probably the least Jamaican sentence ever written.

 

Montego Bay to Fisherman’s Inn (42 km), Failing to See Anything Glow

I set off early, cycling out of Montego Bay in sweltering heat that made me question every life choice leading up to this moment. Progress was slow because I kept stopping at beachside bars—not for rum, but for water and conversation with villagers, who were far more cheerful than the temperature warranted.

Falmouth appeared, a typical Jamaican town with a long history and a few old buildings. It was still too hot to explore, so I continued along the coast, melting gently.

The village of Rock is home to a phosphorescent lagoon, where one can see magical glowing water at night. I checked into the Fisherman’s Inn, which was charming in the way abandoned buildings in travel documentaries are charming. The room was inexpensive, right on the lagoon, and had a lovely pool. The convenience store at the gas station provided dinner, proving once again that gas stations are the unsung heroes of travel.

I waited eagerly for darkness, ready to witness the glowing lagoon. Then the rain began. Not polite rain—biblical rain. The boat never went out. I was immensely sad about the missed opportunity. I had come all this way to see glowing water, and instead I saw glowing disappointment.

 

Diving the Crystal-clear Water of Jamaica - Fisherman’s Inn to Ocho Rios (77 km)

True to my nature, I couldn’t wait another day and pedalled off toward Ocho Rios, bravely entering what felt like the inside of a malfunctioning oven. The heat was blistering, the hills were endless, and I moved at the speed of a philosophical snail. But at least butterflies darted around my head, not flies as in other parts of the world, which made me feel like a Disney princess who had accidentally wandered into a Bikram yoga class.

Past Runaway Bay and Discovery Bay I cycled, where vendors sold jerk chicken accompanied by rice and beans. The smell alone could make a vegetarian reconsider their life choices. In Jamaica, stopping anywhere is an invitation for conversation. Within minutes, I was offered a place to stay, a meal, and possibly marriage. I politely declined and continued to Ocho Rios.

The Reggae Hostel was perfectly located — a stone’s throw from the beach and right in the town centre — and had the kind of laid‑back vibe where people came for one night and stayed until their visas expired. I booked a dive for the next day, because that’s what one does when surrounded by people who look permanently sun‑kissed and spiritually hydrated.

The scuba diving was extraordinary. The water was so clear it felt like swimming in a giant bottle of Evian. Fish of every colour darted around, looking like they’d been painted by an overenthusiastic art student. So fabulous was the dive that I straightaway booked one for the next day because apparently I had become someone who makes financially irresponsible decisions underwater.

Back at the hostel, Sheldon and his girlfriend presented me with a bracelet in Jamaican colours. It was such a sweet gesture that I momentarily forgot how sweaty I was.

 

Jamaica, Where all women are Addressed Like a Jamaican Princess - Ocho Rios to Port Maria (45 km).

I couldn’t stay in Ocho Rios forever — although the hostel’s atmosphere suggested many had tried — so I cycled along the coast. I didn’t get far before being flagged down and offered accommodation. Jamaicans have the most charming way of addressing people. You often hear: “Be careful, young lady” or “Hello, pretty girl, you need a room?” even to an old hag like me. It’s not literal; it’s simply their way of being warm and delightful.

The place I stayed was rural but surprisingly modern, with stunning views and reggae drifting through the air like a national fragrance. I watched Jamaicans roll and smoke their joints, swaying gently to the rhythm. I love the Jamaican way — slow to move but quick to smile.

Later, I biked the three kilometres into Port Maria to pick up food, only to discover the entire town already knew my whereabouts. A white woman on a bicycle is apparently the Jamaican equivalent of a UFO sighting.

 

Port Maria to Port Antonio (78 km), on a Misbehaving Bike

The route swung inland over hills and past rural settlements untouched by the coast’s tourist trade. Eventually, the path spat me out at a beach and then led toward Port Antonio. My bike was having problems, so I looked for a shop — but it was closed, and the town was a bit of a dump because roadworks had turned everything into a muddy mess. I cycled through it, looking like a creature recently excavated from a bog.

The next day, the bike shop staff adjusted the gears as best they could, which is never a reassuring phrase.

Despite being in Jamaica for barely two weeks, I could easily see myself living there. The scenery, the people, the food, the music — everything felt like a warm hug. I wandered to the marina, savouring not just the occasional waft of marijuana but the aromatic smoke from innumerable jerk stands. Jamaica is a place where even the air feels seasoned.

 

Failing to Resemble Brooke Shields - Port Antonio to Morant Bay (75 km)

Breakfast in Jamaica is a hearty affair: saltfish and ackee, callaloo, yam, dumplings, plantain — a meal clearly designed for people who do manual labour, not for vegetarians on bicycles.

The road hugged the coast for 40 kilometres before veering inland over hills toward Morant Bay. Along the way, I passed the famous Blue Lagoon and stopped for a dip. Sadly, I did not resemble the 14‑year‑old Brooke Shields in the movie. Instead, I resembled the bedraggled 60-odd-year-old woman I was, who had cycled 75 kilometres in tropical humidity. But the water was as crystal clear as portrayed in the film, and that was consolation enough.

 

Morant Bay to Kingston, Home of Reggae Music (65 km)

Loading the bike was leisurely, as the distance to Kingston was short. The day, however, was another stinker, and the road deteriorated the closer I got to the city. While slaving up one of the few nasty hills, a bee flew under my cap and stung me on the eyelid. I yelped, swore, and briefly considered abandoning cycling forever.

Once in Kingston, I found the Reggae Hostel and was delighted to recognise travellers I’d met in Ocho Rios. Jamaica is a small island, but apparently my social circle was even smaller.

The next morning, I woke with my eye swollen shut. A pharmacy gave me antihistamine syrup, which made me sleepy, so I refrained from taking it again. Apart from partying, there wasn’t much to do in Kingston, so I stayed one more day, doing routine chores and discovering all there was to see in famous Kingston Town.

 

Kingston to Milk River Spa,“The Best Hotel in the World” – Not (65 km)

I opted for the seldom‑travelled coastal route, which turned out to be even more seldom‑travelled than expected. The comments and looks I received indicated that not only was this a less‑visited area, but a white woman on a bicycle was a rarity bordering on myth.

Milk River, a tiny community with a few churches and a large school, signalled the end of the day’s ride. A sign indicated a hotel and spa — “The best hotel in the world”. Judging by the condition of the signs, I didn’t expect much, but I investigated anyway.

The hotel was intriguing: private baths in an old wooden building, sparsely decorated rooms along a creaky veranda, and water rumoured to cure numerous ailments. I wasted no time submerging myself. The room rate included breakfast and dinner, which thrilled me, as I was ravenous. Being the sole guest, I was treated like royalty — albeit slightly sweaty royalty.

 

Milk River Spa to Junction - Meet Ghosts, and Ignore Sensible Advice (65 km)

Before departing, I had one final dip in the hot spring — partly for nostalgia, partly because I suspected it might be the last warm water I encountered for a while. Then I followed the coastal path west, pedalling past God’s Well, a deep sinkhole rumoured to be inhabited by the ghosts of a Taino maiden and a scuba diver who drowned there while trying to establish the depth. Jamaica is full of stories like this: tragic, mysterious, and delivered with such casual cheer that you begin to suspect the ghosts are considered part of the local tourism economy.

A short while later, I stopped at Alligator Pond for lunch. Little Ochi was a popular restaurant where one could order freshly caught fish on the beach. The tables sat in brightly painted boats on stilts, reggae blaring from a rickety timber bar. It felt like dining inside a cheerful hallucination.

Following lunch, I set off up the mountain in the stinking midday heat. The climb was steep, the road was in poor condition, and my enthusiasm evaporated somewhere around the second switchback. People called me in to rest and advised me to take a taxi, insisting Treasure Beach wasn’t reachable by bicycle. I very nearly believed them — the going was dreadfully slow and exhausting — but stubbornness is a powerful motivator. Upon slinking into Junction, I spotted a guesthouse and called it a day. It was cheap but comfortable, and I was profoundly grateful for the pool in the oppressive heat.

 

Junction to Treasure Beach - There Is No Such Thing as “Cool Morning Air” (30 km)

I emerged at first light to tackle the remainder of the climb in what I naively hoped would be cooler morning air. Unfortunately, I soon discovered there was no such thing as “cooler morning air”, as the weather was already sweltering. There were days I doubted my sanity, and this was one of them.

Villagers again informed me that Treasure Beach was unreachable by bicycle, which made me wonder whether Treasure Beach was actually a metaphor. Fortunately, only one hill remained, and I descended to the coast.

The landscape was surprisingly dry and barren, looking distinctly African, with thorn trees and goats roaming about. Treasure Beach itself was refreshingly un‑resort‑like: a few beachside restaurants, a handful of guesthouses, no lounge chairs, just fishing boats and shade. I found a place on the beach and kicked back for the remainder of the day, feeling like a lizard on a warm rock.

 

Treasure Beach to Black River- In search of Crocodiles (30 km)

A short cycle brought me to Black River, where I bunked down at Waterloo Guesthouse, built in 1819 and reputed to be the first place in Jamaica to have electricity. The town was tiny but interesting, with a smidgen of promenade and a few old wooden buildings dating back to Jamaica’s early days.

I overnighted in Black River to take a boat up the river and into the Great Morass — a swampy wonderland featuring plenty of birdlife and a fair share of crocodiles. It was the kind of excursion where you spend half the time admiring nature and the other half calculating how fast you could paddle if the crocodiles suddenly developed ambitions.

 

Black River to Negril, - Jamaica’s Party Town (75 km)

The following day, I continued along the coast to Negril, Jamaica’s party town, where everything was overpriced and immensely touristy. Still, the Caribbean Sea’s crystal‑clear water lured me in, and I spent the remainder of the day floating like a blissful piece of driftwood.

Negril is also the epicentre of Jamaica’s “rent‑a‑dread” phenomenon. It’s not unusual in Jamaica to see middle‑aged ladies strolling hand in hand with a handsome young stud. Countless European women maintain ongoing relationships and return regularly, much like older European men who frequent Thailand. Jamaica, it seems, is a place where romance is available in convenient seasonal packages.

 

Negril to Montego Bay - A Downpour and a Visit to a 200‑Year‑Old Waterwheel (75 km)

My last day of cycling offered an easy and interesting ride to Montego Bay. The road hugged the coast, and I got caught in a heavy downpour — not bad, considering October is one of Jamaica’s wettest months. Curio sellers called me in to take shelter, and I wasted no time accepting their generosity.

Once the rain abated, I investigated the nearby Tryall waterwheel, approximately 200 years old and still turning. It looked like the sort of thing that should be in a museum, yet there it was, casually spinning away as if it had never heard of retirement.

Back in Montego Bay, I returned to Gloriana’s, the best‑priced abode I could find. My flight to Cuba was a week away, leaving me plenty of time to explore.

 

Montego Bay, Avoiding Cruise‑Ship Prices, and Building a Bike Box Out of Fridge Packaging

Jamaica’s temperatures scarcely change from one day to the next, hovering around 25–30°C year‑round. In October, clouds gather in the evenings, followed by thunderstorms that never last more than an hour or two — all with virtually no change in temperature. Jamaica is meteorologically consistent, like a country that has decided weather variation is unnecessary.

With time to spare, I visited a nursery offering colourful and exotic plants. Jamaica’s tropical climate facilitates a diverse ecosystem, though much of the original forest was cut down after the Spanish arrived in 1494. Thankfully, a few indigenous plants survived the European enthusiasm for clearing things.

I wandered the streets of Mobay, packed with curio stalls selling similar items. Prices almost doubled on cruise‑ship days, so shopping required strategic timing. Meanwhile, I searched for a bike box but couldn’t find any. In the end, I stuck two fridge boxes together, hoping they wouldn’t fall apart before arriving in Cuba. It looked like a cardboard Frankenstein, held together with optimism and duct tape.

 

The Long Way to Cuba

The most economical flight to Havana was via Panama — a 2000‑kilometre detour to reach a destination barely 400 kilometres away. Travel logic is a mysterious thing.

The taxi ride to the airport was short, and mercifully, the airport had a wrapping service, as I doubted my homemade bike box would last. It looked like something a child might build for a school project titled “Transportation in the Modern World.”

From the start, Cuba felt different. The plane had an abundance of space — a rarity today — and one could even snooze before descending. We witnessed an unusual sunset revealing well‑organised farmlands below, likely tobacco fields.

Clearing customs was exceptionally easy. Then, with formalities done, I excitedly hailed a taxi to Hostal Peregrino in Centro Havana. When I rang the bell, a key tied to a string was lowered from the window above. It was a wonderfully theatrical welcome, marking the start of a remarkable visit to the fascinating island of Cuba.

 

Epilogue

Jamaica left a far deeper impression on me than I had expected. The island’s breathtaking landscapes, infectious music, colourful culture, and exceptionally friendly people combined to create one of the most enjoyable chapters of my travels. Whether sharing conversations with villagers, cooling off in the Caribbean Sea, exploring historic towns, or struggling up steep hills in the tropical heat, every experience added to my appreciation of this unique country.

By the time I returned to Montego Bay, my bicycle and I had completed a memorable circuit of the island, rich in adventure and human connection. Jamaica was a place where strangers became friends, where life moved to the rhythm of reggae, and where a smile was never far away. As I packed my bike into a makeshift box and boarded a flight bound for Cuba, I carried with me not only memories of 724 kilometres on the road, but also a lasting affection for an island that had welcomed me with open arms.