069 CYCLING THAILAND (3) - BANGKOK TO MAE SOT

Bangkok to Mae Sot and the Myanmar border

69 THAILAND (3)
572 Kilometres – 15 Days
16 March – 29 March 2015

MAP

PHOTOS

 VOICEOVER

  PDF

 FLIP-BOOK

Prelude

There comes a moment in every long bicycle journey when you realise you’ve pedalled yourself neatly into a corner and must now fly out of it. Mine arrived in Colombo, where—having triumphantly circled Sri Lanka—I found myself booking a 7:20 a.m. flight to Bangkok, a time chosen by airlines specifically to test human resilience.

By 3:00 a.m. I was in a taxi, bleary‑eyed, clutching a bicycle box the size of a small shed, and wondering, not for the first time, why I couldn’t have taken up a sensible hobby like knitting.

Bangkok promised temples, street food, and—most importantly—a Myanmar visa. I had no idea what the next two weeks would hold, but I suspected it would involve sweating, wheezing, and at least one encounter with an animal that wanted to steal my lunch. I was right on all counts.

 

 

Colombo to Bangkok: A Visa, a Skytrain, and Scorpions on Sticks

I finished my cycle around Sri Lanka by rolling triumphantly into Colombo, where I immediately booked a flight to Bangkok—mostly because Myanmar insisted on a visa and Bangkok insisted on being the place to get it. My taxi collected me at the ungodly hour of 3:00 a.m., which is the sort of time normally reserved for bakers, burglars, and people fleeing the country.

Banglamphu—also known as Backpackerville—was exactly as I remembered it from six years earlier: loud, colourful, and selling everything a traveller could possibly need, plus several things no traveller should ever need, including fake IDs and deep‑fried scorpions on sticks. I checked into a guesthouse on Phra Athit Road, which became my temporary home and, more importantly, my temporary laundry facility.

The next morning I submitted my passport to the Myanmar Embassy, where it disappeared for several days. With nothing else to do, I wandered Bangkok, taking the Skytrain like a seasoned local who pretends to know where she’s going. I even attempted to buy a phone charger, which in Bangkok is a quest of heroic proportions.

I visited temples, because in Thailand it is physically impossible not to. They are everywhere—glittering, ornate, colourful, and apparently designed by people who thought subtlety was a character flaw.

Naturally, I popped into Wat Pho to see the famous Reclining Buddha, who is 46 metres long, 15 metres high, and looks like he’s having the best nap in human history. Unfortunately, the hall was packed with tourists, all of whom seemed determined to stand exactly where I wanted to walk. I fled before I became a cautionary tale.

Outside, I passed a cart selling second‑hand false teeth. I thought: When someone sells used dentures, you cannot accuse them of lacking entrepreneurial spirit.

A few days later, my passport reappeared with a Myanmar visa inside, and I was ready to pedal out of Bangkok toward Mae Sot. The border was a week away, and the route promised temples, ruins, and the occasional monkey. I was in no hurry.

 

Rice Paddies and Ancient Glory (90 km)

Cycling out of Bangkok was easy but slow, thanks to roadworks that appeared to be designed by someone who hated bicycles. Eventually I escaped onto a rural canal path, where bright green rice paddies stretched out like someone had ironed the countryside.

Ayutthaya welcomed me with affordable accommodation and a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Founded in 1350, destroyed in 1767, and still managing to look better than most modern cities, Ayutthaya was once one of the wealthiest places in the East. Today it is mostly ruins, but very dignified ruins—the kind that make you feel underdressed.

I spent an extra day exploring temples and crumbling structures, pedalling around like a sweaty Indiana Jones.

 

The Monkey Kingdom (65 km)

Lopburi was a short, pleasant ride away. I checked into NooM Guesthouse, which caters to backpackers and therefore has seen things.

The town’s main attraction is Prang Sam Yot temple, home to a troop of monkeys who behave like they own the place—and, frankly, they do. According to Hindu‑Buddhist beliefs, monkeys have divine connections, which means they cannot be harmed, only tolerated. Tourists adore them. Shopkeepers do not. The monkeys steal anything not nailed down, and possibly some things that are.

 

Rivers and Rice in Bamboo (131 km)

The day was overcast, which made cycling pleasant and gave me the illusion that I was fitter than I actually am. I reached Nakhon Sawan, a town with few attractions but a very convenient hotel, P.A. Place, which had ground‑floor rooms and nearby restaurants—two things that make a cyclist weep with joy.

Nakhon Sawan sits at the confluence of the Ping and Nan Rivers, which join to form the mighty Chao Phraya. I admired this geographical fact briefly before collapsing into bed.

 

Ruins, Rice, and a Lost Phone (126 km)

The partly cloudy weather continued, so I pedalled toward Kamphaeng Phet, another UNESCO site. On the way I met Mel and Lee, an Australian‑Thai couple who had cycle‑toured for three years and now lived in Chiang Mai. They looked fit and cheerful, which made me suspicious.

I bought rice cooked in bamboo from a roadside stall, and it was so delicious I briefly considered abandoning my bicycle and dedicating my life to bamboo‑rice appreciation.

Kamphaeng Phet’s Three J Guesthouse had quirky rooms, which I always enjoy because they make me feel like I’m living inside someone’s eccentric hobby.

I spent the next day exploring 14th‑century ruins, running around like a famous explorer—until I lost my phone. Nothing kills the romance of ancient history faster than modern stupidity.

 

Eight Years of Madness (70 km)

This day marked my eighth year of cycle touring. In that time, I had crossed deserts, mountains, and several questionable borders. I had eaten things that should never be eaten and met people who restored my faith in humanity. I had also questioned my sanity on a near‑daily basis.

Fortunately, the ride to Tak was gentle, following the Ping River. Tak was the perfect place to rest before tackling the mountain range ahead—the final obstacle between me and Myanmar.

 

Mountains, Wheezing, and a Very Fast Descent (90km)

I left Tak without breakfast, assuming I’d find food along the way. This was optimistic. The day turned into a slow, hungry slog over steep mountains. Every time I reached what I thought was the top, another incline appeared, smirking at me.

Cars honked as they passed, which I assumed was a good‑luck gesture, though it might have been encouragement, sympathy, or a warning that I looked like I was about to keel over.

Eventually I reached a temple perched on a hill—the unofficial sign that the worst was over. The descent was thrillingly steep, and I hurtled into Mae Sot at nearly 60 km/h, which is faster than I travel intentionally.

Mae Sot’s First Hotel was old, enormous, and filled with Burmese teak furniture. Even the corridors had wooden carvings, giving the impression that the building had been decorated by a very enthusiastic forest.

I spent the next day doing laundry and eating enough food to alarm the staff.

Mae Sot is a fascinating border town. I had lunch at Khrua Canadian, run by Dave and his wife for 17 years. Dave knew everything—food, local history, politics, gossip. If he didn’t know it, it probably wasn’t worth knowing.

 

Crossing the Line (10 km)

The Friendship Bridge was only five kilometres away. With my visa already sorted, all I needed was a stamp and a sense of adventure.

It never ceases to amaze me how crossing a line on a map can change everything. Myanmar was immediately different—people, clothing, food, currency, language. Even the air felt different, though that might have been my imagination or the lingering scent of paan.

I withdrew kyats from an ATM. The exchange rate was 1,000 kyats to 1 USD, so I suddenly possessed a wallet thick enough to stun a small animal.

Men wore longyi, many had red‑stained teeth from chewing paan, and almost everyone wore face paint. Myanmar was clearly going to be interesting.

 

Epilogue

Crossing from Mae Sot into Myanmar felt like stepping through a portal into an entirely different universe—one with longyi, paan‑stained smiles, and an ATM that spat out so many kyats notes I had to buy a new wallet just to cope with the bulk.

It struck me, not for the first time, how absurdly magical borders can be. One moment you’re in Thailand, dodging monkeys and eating bamboo rice; the next you’re in Myanmar, surrounded by face paint, new customs, and a currency that makes you feel briefly wealthy until you try to buy lunch.

I pedalled away from the Friendship Bridge with my overloaded wallet, my newly stamped passport, and the familiar sense that I had absolutely no idea what I was doing—but was delighted to be doing it anyway.

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

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

MAP

PHOTOS - Oman

PHOTOS - UAE

PDF 

66 THE EMIRATE OF DUBAI

325 Kilometres – 9 Days

2 February – 22 February 2015

 

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

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

 

3 February - Dubai

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

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

 

4 February - Dubai

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

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

 

5 February - Dubai

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

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

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

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

 

6 February - Dubai – Al Rama - 100 km

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

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

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

 

7 February - Al Rama – Abu Dhabi - 40 km

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

67 OMAN

223 Kilometres – 11 Days

11 February – 22 February 2015

 

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

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

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

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

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

 

12 February - Sobar – The Millennium Resort - 113 km

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

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

 

13 February - The Millennium Resort – Seeb

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

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

 

14 - 20 February - Muscat and surrounding areas

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

21-22 February - Muscat

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

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

065 CYCLE TOURING CUBA

Cuba: 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.