066 - 067 CYCLE TOURING THE UAE & OMAN

From Skyscrapers to Sand Dunes: My Two‑Country Desert Ramble

THE UNITED ARAB EMIRATES & OMAN

548 Kilometres – 20 Days

2 February - 22 February 2015

MAP

PHOTOS - Oman

PHOTOS - UAE

FLIP-BOOK

PDF

UNITED ARAB EMIRATES

  

Prelude

The United Arab Emirates was never on my list of “places I absolutely must cycle through before I die,” mostly because I assumed it consisted entirely of skyscrapers, shopping malls, and people who could buy and sell me before breakfast. But travel has a way of nudging one into unexpected corners of the world, and so I found myself flying into Dubai at an hour normally reserved for insomniacs and international criminals. What followed was a whirlwind of glittering towers, gold‑laden souqs, improbable gardens, and the kind of hospitality that makes you wonder if you’ve accidentally become royalty. It was dazzling, bewildering, occasionally exhausting—and, as always, far more entertaining than anything I could have planned.

 

THE EMIRATE OF DUBAI

 

Arrival at the Hour of the Undead

There are few things more disorienting than landing in Dubai at 3 a.m., a time of day normally reserved for bakers, burglars, and people making life‑altering mistakes on the Internet. My flight from Cape Town via Doha was uneventful, unless you count the slow erosion of one’s will to live that accompanies long‑haul travel.

Mercifully, Anton and Andre—friends of my friend Lois, who lived in Oman—rescued me from the airport. Without them, I would’ve been forced to confront Dubai’s prices, which are so astronomical they should really be listed on the stock exchange.

We chatted until 5 a.m., which is the hour when even owls start thinking about bed. Then we collapsed into sleep, grateful for friendship, hospitality, and the absence of hotel bills.

 

Dubai: Where Everything Is the Biggest, Shiniest, and Most Likely to Bankrupt You

We emerged late, blinking like moles. Dubai, the UAE’s glittering metropolis, is essentially what happens when a city is given unlimited money and told to go wild. Everything is the biggest in the world—shopping centres, aquariums, egos.

We took a water bus around the marina, which felt like a gondola designed by someone who thought Venice lacked ambition. Then we wandered through the Dubai Mall, the Gold Souk, and an aquarium so large it probably has its own weather system.

We enjoyed lunch beside the dancing fountains, which performed enthusiastically against the backdrop of the Burj Khalifa—the tallest building in the world at the time and possibly visible from Mars.

We ended the day with a 3D movie, popcorn, and wine.

 

Souqs, Skyscrapers, and the Reassembly of a Bicycle

I woke earlier, though “earlier” is relative when one only finishes breakfast at half‑past eleven. I reassembled my bicycle, a task that always feels like performing delicate surgery with the wrong tools.

We visited a bike shop for bits and bobs, then wandered through Souq Madinat Jumeirah, a place where gold, spices, and tourists mingle in equal measure. Lunch at the Noodle House came with a view of the Burj Al Arab, a hotel shaped like a sail and priced like a small nation.

Later, we visited Elvira, who lives in an 83‑storey building. From the top, Dubai stretched out like a futuristic Lego set built by a child with unlimited bricks. We ate pizza and socialised, which is the correct way to spend time in a city where everything else costs the GDP of a medium‑sized island.

 

Miracle Gardens and Palm‑Shaped Questionable Decisions

We spent another day exploring Dubai, beginning with the Miracle Garden—a place so improbable it feels like someone tried to outwit nature and succeeded. Buildings covered entirely in flowers, in a desert. It’s the botanical equivalent of a magic trick.

Next came Palm Island, the world‑famous palm‑shaped development where accommodation is so expensive you need a financial advisor just to look at it. I couldn’t help thinking it wasn’t the ideal place to be during a tsunami, but perhaps that’s not mentioned in the brochures.

Lunch at Carluccio’s restored my faith in Italian cuisine, and then we boarded a driverless metro train. It whisked us off to the Spice and Gold Souq, proving that Dubai trusts robots more than I trust myself with a toaster.

We ended the day at Carrefour, gathering ingredients for Anton’s traditional Uzbek plov (or palov). It was the perfect end to yet another day in a city that seems determined to out‑glitter the rest of the planet.

 

THE EMIRATE OF ABU DHABI

The Great Escape

After several days of Dubai’s relentless shininess, I was delighted to be back on my bicycle. There’s nothing quite like pedalling off in a direction you’re not entirely sure about—it’s freedom with a hint of mild panic.

Anton and Andre had been wonderfully generous, but their warnings about Dubai’s drivers lingered ominously. Surprisingly, motorists slowed down and waved me across busy highways, possibly out of sheer astonishment at seeing a woman cycling in the UAE.

The road to Abu Dhabi was a dead‑straight, mind‑numbing four‑lane highway. Petrol stations became my entertainment, and I stopped at every single one, chatting with travellers who inevitably asked where I was from and where I was going. Then came the photo shoots—because apparently a lone cyclist is more exciting than the Burj Khalifa.

I reached Rahba (not sure if that was the name of a town) at sunset and found a room that was costly but convenient—Dubai’s influence clearly extends beyond its borders.

 

Rahba to Abu Dhabi: A Short Ride and Unexpected Police Escort

The ride into Abu Dhabi was shorter than expected, but the city had one last surprise for me. My route spat me out into the fast lane of a busy highway, leaving me stranded like a bewildered chicken. The police eventually helped me across, and two kind Samaritans gave me a lift into town. The police only left once they saw me safely inside the car, presumably relieved they wouldn’t have to scrape me off the motorway.

My phone’s GPS refused to work without a local SIM card, so I hunted one down. Dinner was falafel and samosas for a few dirhams—proof that not everything in the UAE requires a trust fund.

 

Abu Dhabi to Ramah: Mosques and Monotony

I stopped at the magnificent Sheikh Zayed Grand Mosque for photos, then pointed my bicycle toward Oman. I planned to cycle halfway to the border, but camping spots were non-existent unless one enjoys sleeping on gravel beside a highway.

Service stations once again became my lifeline—water, snacks, and the comforting illusion of civilisation. I arrived at the Ramah rest area long after sunset, guided by the solar‑powered flashing light Andre had gifted me. It switched on automatically in low light, making it far more intelligent than I am after a long day of cycling.

 

Wind, Date Palms, and Camel Markets

The ride to Al Ain was straight into the wind, which is nature’s way of reminding cyclists who’s in charge. Even the service stations had given up and no longer sold snacks. Then, out of nowhere, a stranger stopped and handed me a small souvenir. I was so surprised I’m not sure I even thanked him properly.

Al Ain appeared around midday, a welcome oasis town with shady date palms and ancient irrigation systems. The Al Ain Oasis offered a maze of cobbled streets and nearly 150,000 date palms—excellent for wandering, less excellent for navigation.

I visited the Palace Museum, the old fort, and Al Jahili Fort, built in 1891 as a summer residence for Sheikh Zayed the First. Apparently, escaping coastal humidity was a tradition long before air‑conditioning.

Carrefour provided supplies, and the nearby camel market provided entertainment. Dinner was falafel and samosas for the third night running. At this point, I was practically chickpea‑powered.

 

OMAN

Prelude

There are countries one drifts into gently, like slipping into a warm bath. And then there is Oman, which I entered in my usual fashion: late, slightly disorganised, and already behind schedule. I had been promised mountains, deserts, camels, and the kind of hospitality that makes you wonder if you’ve accidentally wandered into a fairy tale. What I didn’t expect was how quickly Oman would charm me—wind, heat, border oddities and all. It was a place where ancient traditions met modern kindness, and where every day seemed to offer something quietly extraordinary. Or loudly extraordinary, depending on how close one stood to a turtle.

 

Into Oman, Eventually

Some days one springs out of bed, ready to conquer mountains. Other days one stares at the tent ceiling wondering why bicycles exist. This was the latter. By the time I’d packed up and coaxed myself into motion, it was already past 10 a.m.

The Omani border was a mere 10 kilometres away—a gentle roll through Al Ain. On the Omani side, I performed the usual traveller’s ritual: ATM, breakfast, SIM card. By the time I actually entered Oman, it was noon, and I had achieved approximately nothing.

The road into the Hajar Mountains shimmered like a mirage, and the scenery consisted of barren mountains, desert, and camels who looked at me with the pity only camels can muster. Oddly, the real Omani border was another 50 kilometres further, making the entire stretch a sort of diplomatic no‑man’s land. I half expected tumbleweed to ask for my passport.

Once stamped in, I filled my water bottles and headed for the hills. The wind blew, but in a strangely peaceful way—like nature whispering, “You chose this, remember?”

Darkness fell soon after sunset, but to my delight, streetlights lined the entire road. Oman, it seemed, was determined to illuminate my suffering.

Sobar appeared unexpectedly large, chaotic, and full of roadworks. A taxi driver pointed me toward a nameless hotel, which suited me perfectly. I cooked pasta in the room—an act of culinary violence I regretted immediately. I should’ve stuck with falafel.

 

The Lure of Cold Beer

My friend Lois had arranged to meet me at the Millennium Resort for a drink. The promise of a cold beer is a powerful motivator, and I pedalled into the wind with the determination of a woman who has suffered one too many bowls of terrible pasta.

I crawled into the resort shortly after 6 p.m., wind‑blown and mildly dehydrated. Lois was already there, and to my utter delight, she had organised a room. A luxury room. Overlooking the Gulf of Oman. It’s good to have friends—especially ones who understand the emotional importance of beer.

We babbled for hours, catching up on years of life, travel, and questionable decisions. Then we retreated to our plush room, where I slept like someone who had cycled 113 kilometres for a drink.

 

A Day of Leisurely Sightseeing

We began the day with a massive breakfast overlooking the Gulf of Oman—one of those breakfasts that makes you question why you ever eat anything else.

Lois persuaded me to load the bike into her car and join her for a sightseeing trip to Muscat. I agreed instantly; I am not above cheating when mountains are involved.

Our first stop was Al Sawadi, a beautiful beach where boats ferried people to a nearby island for a day of leisure. From there, we drove to Barka, hoping to witness the famous bull‑butting. Sadly, the bulls had other plans and wouldn’t be performing until much later.

Lunch was deliciously Arabic, and then we continued to Seeb, where Lois lived. My bicycle, meanwhile, enjoyed its day off.

 

Muscat: Mountains, Mud‑Brick Villages, and Turtles

Lois hauled me out of bed and announced we were driving up a mountain. The views were spectacular—hazy landscapes stretching into forever—and I was profoundly grateful to be in a car rather than pedalling up it like a lunatic.

A steep walk down brought us to an abandoned village clinging to the mountainside, its mud‑brick houses still stubbornly intact. After a hot, sweaty climb back up, we rewarded ourselves with refreshments at an upmarket hotel overlooking tiny green terraces far below.

Next came Nizwa, reached via a nearly vertical mountain road. The fort was imposing, and the Souq was enormous—selling everything from vegetables to livestock, pottery, jewellery, and guns. It was the kind of place where you could buy a chicken, a teapot, and a firearm in one convenient transaction.

Back in Muscat, days drifted by in a haze of exotic dishes and sightseeing. The hop‑on‑hop‑off Big Bus tour was money well spent, and I even met another cyclist following the Oman Cycle Tour. Misery loves company.

On the 19th, Lois took the day off work, loaded the car, and we headed south along the coast. The desert landscape was dotted with unexpected gems.

First stop: Bimmah Sinkhole, also known as Hawiyat Najm or The Falling Star. Legend says a meteor created it. Experts say limestone dissolved. I know which version I prefer.

Next: Sur, home to traditional dhow‑building. No sketches, no blueprints—just craftsmen building boats the way their ancestors did. It was oddly comforting.

Our destination was Ras al‑Jinz, the famous turtle reserve. We stayed at a nearby hotel and walked to the beach at night. I don’t know what I expected, but it certainly wasn’t giant prehistoric turtles hauling themselves ashore like weary dinosaurs.

We watched them dig metre‑deep holes, lay around 100 perfect golf‑ball eggs, then cover everything meticulously. Then they dug a fake hole to confuse predators—turtles are apparently smarter than most politicians.

In the morning, we returned to the beach and saw newly hatched turtles scurrying toward the water. It was magical. Thank you, Lois.

After breakfast, we headed inland, stopping at a wadi high in the mountains for lunch. Then we continued to a beautiful desert camp nestled among magnificent dunes—a rustic haven in the arid landscape.

 

Farewell to Oman

All too soon, it was time to return to Muscat. I packed my belongings, and Lois drove me to the airport for my flight to Sri Lanka. On the way, we stopped for one last memorable meal: a camel‑meat burger. A first for me. Surprisingly tasty. Possibly life‑changing.

I couldn’t thank Lois enough. She showed me more of Oman than I ever could’ve seen alone—and paid for everything. I will forever be indebted to her generosity, hospitality, and impeccable timing.

 

Epilogue

Oman slipped away far too quickly, like a good book you wish had a few more chapters. One moment I was wandering through souqs and watching turtles perform their prehistoric rituals, and the next I was packing my panniers and eating a camel‑meat burger on the way to the airport. Thanks to Lois—who fed me, housed me, chauffeured me, and generally ensured I didn’t perish in the desert—I saw more of the country than I ever could have managed alone. Oman left me sun‑kissed, well‑fed, and slightly in awe of turtles, mountains, and the improbable kindness of friends. Sri Lanka awaited, but a part of me stayed behind among the dunes.

065 CYCLE TOURING CUBA

Cuba: Rum, Revolutions and A

 Slightly Roundabout Arrival

CUBA

 527 Kilometres – 29 Days
29 October – 26 November 2014

PHOTOS

PDF

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.

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.