068 CYCLE TOURING SRI LANKA

Coconuts, Chaos & the Kindness of Strangers: A Cyclist’s Sri Lankan Misadventure

68 SRI LANKA
1045 Km – 22 Days
22 February – 16 March 2015

MAP
Photos
 PDF
FLIP-BOOK

VOICEOVER 

Prelude

Sri Lanka arrived in my life the way a sudden monsoon does: warm, chaotic, and impossible to ignore. I landed with a bicycle, half a plan, and the naïve belief that luggage always follows its owner. What I found instead was an island humming with colour and kindness, where tuk‑tuks behaved like caffeinated insects, monks drifted past in saffron robes, and every road promised either enlightenment or mild terror. I didn’t know it yet, but this small teardrop of land would become one of those rare places that feels instantly familiar, even as it surprises you at every turn.

 

 

Arrival in Sri Lanka - Missing Luggage & Snake Charmers

The flight from Muscat to Colombo touched down in the bleary, pre‑coffee hours of 22 February, a time of day when no one should be expected to make life decisions, let alone locate luggage. SriLankan Airlines, clearly agreeing with this philosophy, had misplaced my bag entirely. The bike, however, arrived—because of course the one object shaped like a small industrial machine makes it through, while the bag containing my worldly possessions vanishes into the ether.

After drawing a few rupees and acquiring a SIM card from a man who looked genuinely surprised anyone would want one at that hour.

Still, I left the airport—minus luggage—and hailed a taxi into Colombo.

Sri Lanka was love at first sight. As the taxi rattled toward town, I realised I had entered the land of tuk‑tuks, paan, Buddhas, monks, and traffic that behaved like a large, excitable family reunion. Everything was green and humid and slightly chaotic, and I felt instantly at home. 

The next morning, the airline phoned to say they had located my bag, presumably in the same place it had been all along. It was delivered to the Clock Inn hostel, my temporary Colombo residence. The bag had been opened, but only my Swiss Army knife was missing, which suggested someone had rummaged through my belongings, discovered nothing but tattered cycling gear, and thought, “Well, at least I can take the knife.” I imagined them sighing in disappointment. I reassembled the bike and set off to explore the historic part of town.

The old market was impossible to cycle through. It was the kind of place where even pedestrians walked single‑file. I pushed the bike along narrow lanes while vendors shouted, chickens objected loudly to their existence, and the smell of spices drifted through the air like a warm invitation.

Later I ambled to the beachfront, where the sunset itself was unremarkable—more of a polite dimming of the sky—but a snake charmer appeared, apparently hypnotising a snake with a pungi. I didn’t know snake charmers still existed outside of cartoons. The snake looked unimpressed, but the charmer was having a wonderful time.

 

Traffic, Temples & Tropical Rain (80 km)

Sri Lanka is small enough that one needn’t race around it like a contestant on a reality show. After breakfast, I loaded the bike and headed south toward Galle.

Cycling in Sri Lanka is an adrenaline sport. My hands were permanently on the brakes, and my eyes were glued to the road. I wove through tuk‑tuks, buses, trucks, ox carts, and the occasional holy cow who clearly believed traffic laws did not apply to her. The coastal route passed temples and fruit juice stands, and I felt as though I never truly left Colombo—the traffic simply continued, like a long, unbroken conversation.

I reached Bentota shortly after midday. The village offered everything a weary cyclist could want: accommodation, food vendors, a river, a beach stretching for miles, and the Galapata Vihara Temple with its underground tunnels that looked suspiciously like they were designed for people much smaller than me.

Then the rain arrived—tropical, theatrical, unapologetic. I put my feet up, opened a beer, and watched it pour down in biblical quantities. It was perfect.

 

Temples & Tourist Pricing in Galle(70 km)

Sri Lanka is a country of many religions, all of which seem to coexist with admirable patience. Every village had a church, a Buddhist stupa, a mosque, and a Hindu temple, as though the town planners had simply decided to include one of everything.

The Hindu temples were my favourite—immensely ornate, colourful, and impossible to pass without taking a photo. Buddhist monks drifted past in saffron robes, looking serene while I looked sweaty and dishevelled.

Galle, famous for its Old Dutch fort, was more of a citadel than a fort. Today it’s a bustling town within ancient walls. Accommodation inside the fort was pricey, but I found a room for 2000 rupees. Food was equally expensive, so I wandered to the main gate where traders sold snacks for 10 rupees apiece. I ate several, partly because they were delicious and partly because I felt triumphant at having outsmarted tourist pricing.

 

Unawatuna Coconuts & Hippies (7 km)

Stacks of yellow coconuts lined the roadside, ready to be machete‑opened by vendors who wielded their blades with alarming enthusiasm. I usually stopped for one. After drinking the coconut water, the vendor would crack it open and fashion a spoon from the shell so I could scrape out the meat. It was a small act of craftsmanship that made me absurdly happy.

A sign pointed toward Unawatuna, the old hippie town, so I veered off and found a lively tourist village full of clothes, jewellery, and slightly overpriced everything. I located a room and set off exploring. It was pleasant, colourful, and unapologetically touristy.

 

Stilt Fishermen & Paradise Bays (80 km)

The going was slow because Sri Lanka kept throwing interesting things at me: Buddha statues, old forts, temples, and the famous stilt fishermen perched on poles like philosophical seabirds. I believe these spots remain in families for generations, which must make for interesting inheritance conversations.

Tangalle appeared like a postcard—paradise‑like bay, cheap beach accommodation, and a general air of “Why don’t you stay forever?” The New Beach House was not new, but at $10 a night, it was perfect. I parked myself down, beer in hand, and congratulated myself on excellent life choices.

 

The Safari That Wasn’t (100 km)

Bundala National Park looked promising, and the Lagoon Inn, set in a lush garden, seemed ideal. Unfortunately, one couldn’t cycle into the park. A mandatory jeep was required, and hiring one for a single person was priced as though I were renting the entire vehicle for a safari expedition of 40. I settled for cycling the short entrance road, which was scenic but not exactly the wildlife adventure I’d imagined.

 

Coconuts, Elephants & Frangipani Air (40 km)

The short ride to Kataragama, the holiest town in Sri Lanka, made for an early arrival. The town was sacred to Buddhists, Muslims, and Hindus alike. A massive park stretched along the Menik Ganga river, where people bathed, washed laundry, and occasionally scrubbed an elephant, which is not something one sees every day.

The Maha Devale shrine featured two enormous boulders where pilgrims smashed coconuts while muttering prayers. I found the whole ritual strangely mesmerising—half spiritual, half enthusiastic coconut destruction.

Theravada Buddhism is the religion of roughly 70% of Sri Lankans. At the temples, the scent of frangipani and incense hung thick in the air. Families brought offerings of flowers and fruit to their preferred deities. It was colourful, intriguing, and utterly captivating.

 

The Jungle Road & Imaginary Elephants (65km)

The road from Kataragama to Monaragala was known locally as “the jungle road,” which sounded thrilling until villagers began asking whether I wasn’t scared. They didn’t specify of what, which left me wondering whether I should fear the people, the animals, or perhaps some mysterious third category of danger unique to Sri Lanka.

In the end, the ride was uneventful. I kept an eye out for elephants—dangerous ones, preferably, so I’d have a story—but saw none. Not even a mildly irritated one.

The weather was boiling, the kind of heat that makes you question your life choices, but thankfully the road was dotted with small shops selling water. When I finally spotted a cheap‑looking guesthouse, I staggered inside and enjoyed the relative coolness of a room that was only slightly cooler than the outdoors.

 

Heartburn & Ancient Ruins (80km)

Breakfast consisted of leftover spicy fried rice, which promptly declared war on my oesophagus. I never learn.

Shortly before Arugam Bay, I veered off to the Magul Maha Vihara Ruins—a 5th‑century BC site tucked into dense forest. Built by King Dhatusena, it was most likely part of a royal compound, though today it mostly serves as a place where tourists wander around trying to look knowledgeable.

Sri Lanka (or Lanka, as locals call it) is a street‑food paradise. I popped into roadside stalls for prawn vadai—best eaten straight from the pan while still crunchy—and dipped in sambal, chutney, or curd. At night, the streets came alive with kothu stalls. Kothu is made by chopping roti, vegetables, meat, eggs, and unidentifiable sauces with two metal blades in a rhythmic clanging that sounds like someone trying to play the drums with kitchen utensils. The result is delicious.

Arugam Bay itself was a swing‑in‑a‑hammock kind of place. I swam in the lukewarm Indian Ocean and ate chickpeas with chilli, coconut, and curry leaves—a perfect snack.

 

Batticaloa — Blistering Heat & Dutch Forts (115 km)

The next day was long, blisteringly hot, and the kind of ride where you begin to suspect the sun has a personal vendetta. I crawled into Batticaloa and found a basic room with a fan that moved air in the same way a depressed butterfly might.

A walk across the bridge revealed food and an ATM—two things I desperately needed. The following day I explored the Old Dutch Fort and other historical sites before retreating to my not‑so‑cool digs to melt quietly.

 

The Pied Piper of Sri Lanka(115km)

The road hugged the coast past rice paddies and tiny settlements. Every child with a bicycle decided to follow me, giggling, as though I were leading a parade. I felt like the Pied Piper.

Colourful Hindu temples dotted the way, each more ornate than the last. The heat was oppressive, the humidity worse, and by the time I reached Mutur I was ready to collapse—even though Trinco was only 30 kilometres further.

My guesthouse had clearly never hosted a foreign tourist. Other occupants came to observe this unusual event. The owner arrived later to check whether I was still alive, then sent his “house boy” to fetch me fried rice from a restaurant. It was oddly touching.

 

Relaxing in Uppuveli (40km)

The ride to Trincomalee—Trinco to everyone except mapmakers—was flat and scenic, past China Bay with its colourful fishing boats. Trinco itself didn’t grab me, but six kilometres further the beach village of Uppuveli rolled into view like a pleasant surprise.

The Aqua Hotel sounded fancy but wasn’t. It was, however, a solid backpacker joint with a bar, a pool, and tables right on the beach. The kind of place where one could easily stay for days. I had no intention of doing so, but naturally stayed an extra day.

There wasn’t much to do besides chill or walk along the beach past rows of fishing boats and fishermen hauling in nets. The area had been hit hard by war and the 2004 tsunami, and many houses looked as though they couldn’t withstand a strong breeze, let alone another disaster.

The hotel’s internet allowed me to research my next move. I came up with no brilliant ideas except that returning to Thailand and cycling to Myanmar seemed feasible. Bangkok was rumoured to be the easiest place to obtain a Myanmar visa. I hoped the rumour would remain true long enough for me to get there.

 

Yoga, Tailwinds & Ancient Cities (120km)

After an early morning yoga session—my attempt at being a balanced human—I hopped on the bike and headed toward Anuradhapura. The road was mercifully flat with a slight tailwind, a rare and glorious combination.

Finding accommodation took some pedalling, but bicycle‑riding touts roamed the streets looking for lost tourists. I usually avoid them, but this time they proved useful, pointing me toward reasonably priced digs hidden in an alleyway.

Anuradhapura was meant to be a one‑night stop, but the city was overflowing with ancient relics. I spent the next day exploring the sacred city, built around a cutting of Buddha’s fig tree brought by Sanghamitta, a Buddhist nun, in the third century.

The Kingdom of Anuradhapura flourished for 1,300 years before being invaded in 993. Today it’s a sprawling complex of archaeological wonders, ruins, and monkeys who behave as though they own the place.

The Jetavanaramaya Stupa was astonishing. Built in the third century, it once stood 120 metres tall and contained more than 90 million bricks. A British guidebook from the early 1900s calculated that those bricks could build a three‑metre‑high wall from London to Edinburgh. I’m not sure why anyone would want to do that, but it’s an impressive statistic.

The sacred Bodhi tree, said to be the oldest plant in the world with a known planting date, was… scrawny. Much like the Mona Lisa, I expected something grand. Instead, I found a tree that looked as though it needed encouragement.

 

Puttalam — The Guesthouse I Absolutely Didn’t Need (80km)

The ride to Puttalam on the west coast was uneventful—pleasant, even. Shortly before reaching the A3 highway toward Colombo, a budget‑looking abode caught my eye. There was absolutely no reason to stay there. None. But I did anyway, mostly to drag my Sri Lankan ride out for one more day, like someone refusing to leave a party even after the host has started washing dishes.

I rinsed my cycling clothes, took a short walk to the shops, found food, and congratulated myself on my commitment to procrastination.

 

Fruit Stalls & Flying Juice (105km)

The road south was lined with colourful fruit stalls, each offering a refreshing drink and a brief escape from the sweltering heat. Watching these drinks being prepared was a performance worthy of a small stage and an enthusiastic audience.

First, the vendor sliced an orange or lime in half and squeezed it into a glass. Then came a pinch of salt, water, and crushed ice. Next, in a flourish that would impress a Las Vegas magician, the vendor switched the drink between glass and jug, tossing it through the air with alarming precision. The juice travelled a good metre, landing neatly in the pitcher every time. I half expected applause.

Temples appeared along the way, each decorated with peafowl—Sri Lanka’s favourite temple accessory. The birds gave the temples a festive, slightly flamboyant feel, as though they were perpetually ready for a parade.

The day stretched longer than expected, not that it mattered. I had no intention of reaching Colombo. A hundred kilometres in, the sky opened and rain came bucketing down. I pedalled to the nearest hotel, dripping like a disgruntled sponge.

 

Colombo Terror & a Timely Downpour (50km)

The next morning I rode into Colombo, where the traffic behaved like a large, chaotic family reunion—everyone shouting, no one listening, and tuk‑tuks darting around like hyperactive toddlers. It took all my concentration to stay alive.

I reached the Clock Inn hostel minutes before another tropical downpour. Fortunately, they had kept my bike box, sparing me the ordeal of hunting down a new one. I packed the bicycle, rearranged the panniers into one large bag, and visited a hairdresser who made me look almost normal.

 

Bangkok — Backpackerville & Deep‑Fried Scorpions

With a flight to Bangkok booked, I arranged a taxi and soon found myself airborne. A few hours later, the plane touched down in Bangkok, which looked exactly as I remembered it—chaotic, colourful, and slightly surreal.

I headed straight to Backpackerville, where one can stroll past ornate temples and buy deep‑fried scorpions on a stick. It’s the kind of place where you can have a spiritual awakening and a questionable snack within the same five minutes.

 

Epilogue

Leaving Sri Lanka felt a little like waking from a vivid dream—one filled with coconut water, temple bells, tropical downpours, and the constant hum of life unfolding in every direction. I packed my bike, rearranged my panniers, and stepped back into the world of airports and onward plans, carrying with me the scent of frangipani and the memory of roads where children pedalled behind me like a giggling entourage. Sri Lanka had been generous, bewildering, and endlessly alive. As my flight lifted toward Bangkok, I realised I wasn’t done chasing places that made me feel that way. Not yet.

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.