Trinidad

We began with a 40km bus ride to Sancti Spiritus where we visited an embroidery shop that also entertained us wth dancing. Down side was that we began riding at 1.00pm in the heat of the day across teh plains and the valleys towards Trinidad. We stopped for a toilet break at a roadside cafe and were told that the owners waited 20 years for a licence to operate. 

Everywhere along our route were huge posters of Che and Fidel. Seems that Cubans need constant reminders of the glorious revolution in the same way that we endure huge signs advertising McDonalds. Added to the revolutionary billboards were reminders that Cuba weathered the Spanish invasion in the 1890s. 

Arley said that all government workers need to belong to the communist party. There's only one party, a characteristic of all communist states as far as I know, which makes the people's will a bit hard to listen to and act upon. He referred to the regime as socialism but it's certainly not socialist as the ordinary people are not being looked after. However it as clearly a command economy and by everything I have read, a corrupt government whose wealth knows no bounds while people eke out a living as best they can.

Cuba had a global reputation for education and health care once. Now, the hospitals are crumbling, there is no medicine or modern equipment; and the schools are dusty, cramped and poorly equipped. She of our riders gave stationery to kids we met along the way. Literacy is still extremely high however, measured at approximately 98%.

On our arrival in Trinidad we were treated to a lesson on cocktail making. Choices were mojitos and canchanchara. Yummo.

Our lessons didn't stop there. The next morning walked to a pottery factory/studio where we met the founding 82 year-old potter and got our chance to make a pot. Everything is prepared on site - clay, glazes and so on, and the walls of the large indoor/outdoor complex are lined with all manner of pots.

We were then joined by Trinidad's' bike shop owner and rider. He took us to his workshop; a few tools and pieces of equipment housed in his garage. In the sitting room he showed us some trophies and medals he'd won as a road racer.

From there we rode to a beach - Playa Ancon right past a waterway where flamingo and other water birds in residence. Lovely warm water, golden sand, palm trees waving in the breeze.. General lazing about in and out of the water, a packed lunch and a cold beer. Perfect.

Before dinner we walked up town to the old part of the city. Large and stately homes that wealthy families built along wide streets. Big open-air bars with musicians playing; horse-drawn carts waiting for passengers; people bustling around. Lovely city.

 

On to Palma Soriano - "The Mountain", Bayamo and back to Camaguey

We left Santiago in a cloud of diesel and other assorted fumes for a climb, climb, climb. At least the diesel fumes became less the further away from the city we rode.

We went to a church with the endearing name of Church of the Yellow Virgin where there was a pilgrimage of sorts going on, people resplendent in hues of yellow paying homage. Various prosthetic items had been left as thank you gifts from people who felt their prayers had been answered. The pile of armbands and stethoscopes was however a bit puzzling. Along the way to the church people sold bunches of huge sunflowers and other yellow flowers; other roadside stalls sold religious artefacts.

The diarrhoea that had been plaguing me since we set off from Havana was getting more serious and by the time we reached the church I was totally fatigued so stayed in the bus and slept until we reached our lunch spot in a dusty village. As per usual our packaged lunch contained twice as much as we could eat and so we usually distributed it to any locals who were nearby. 

Palma Soriano, nestled high in the hills, rain falling, waterfalls gushing and darkness descending we sat in a covered outdoor eating area for dinner. Joelle our driver took our bus slowly up hills, roads potholed and water running every which way.

I had previously ordered fish for dinner, Arley phoning the hotel ahead of time as we would be the only guests. Little did I know that the fish woudl be a can of not very good quality tuna in brine. Fortunately there was a cat prowling and I was most relieved the next morning to see it was still alive, failing to explode overnight from the generous helping of tuna.

After a plentiful breakfast the group set off for Bayamo, but not me, still recovering or trying to from the explosive diarrhoea. Since learning that mushroom cook, Erin Patterson suffered from the same complaint, I was careful not to wear white pants in case anyone suspected me of malingering. Our trip into the city to yet another stately hotel set on a spacious square, was by horse drawn and/or bicycle powered carriages built for two. I did feel very sorry for the bike rider who sweated Des and I to the hotel's front steps. A big ask on a hot day. 

I asked Arley to see a doctor as I knew this persistedt gut issue was not going away without the assistance of antibiotics. In time a woman doctor and a plump nurse arrived at the hotel and after examine me for all the life signs prescribed mango root juice. I swallowed the requisite dose and promptly threw it all up again in the bathroom sink. The doctor and the nurse apologised - no medicine available in Bayamao apart from herbal remedies. I later strolled to the pharmacy with the nurse. There was a billboard on the footpath advertising what was available and once inside I gazed at the dark timber shelving in this lovely old shop. Not one thing in store. 

Paul gave me his prescription for antibiotics which was a life saver as it turned out and enabled me to ride on. I'd already finished all my lomotil and most of everyone else's supplies. I was tired of a diet of bread and rice by that stage.

We began our 70+km ride back to Camaguey after a short bus transfer. Flat riding, hot, sunny. We rode through rich agricultural land with sugar cane, rice paddies, tomatoes - banana sellers on the sides of the road. Much physical and manual labour involved and some oxen as well pulling plough shares, guided by a farmer. Rice was drying i every flat space - front yards, on the verges, on the roads themselves. We rode beside the drying rice; chooks pecked at it, and bad luck if a horse dropped dung on it.

Heavy rain in the afternoon which made the sky come alive with rainbows. 

Scenes from Havana

Malecon during the day. Water splashes over the sea wall. It comes alive at night.

Straight off the plane and onto the Buena Vista Social Club performance. What a blast!

Havana by night.

Cars and cars

Holguin to Santiago de Cuba

We were late leaving Camaguey in the bus, so it gave us lots of time to check out the hotel's environs. A wide plaza with galleries, restaurants and the street sculptures. We began riding at about 1.30pm towards Holguin but we stopped at about the 32km mark as there were some serious hills on the potholed roads and it was getting darker, everyone back in the bus before nightfall. 

Our hotel was stately, but nevertheless the electricity went off again. It does go off every day in Cuba. A bit annoying for us as travellers, but much more annoying for those who want to live a life and make a living in this country. 

Leaving Holguin we had a short bus trip followed by a 63km ride up hill and down dale. I was very thankful that Ralph rode beside me pedalling up La Gloria and talked about movies. Took my mind off climbing and it worked - I got to the top without stopping.

Lunch was beside a sugar cane field and Arley broke off some cane and we sucked the sugar out.

Next, we visited Fidel Castro's father's home before arriving in Santiago de Cuba. He was described as an opportunist capitalist, unlike his more communist-minded son. The house had been reconstructed as it burnt down due to father smoking a cigar and leaving it unattended. There was the car, the bedrooms, the grounds and a lot more to take a look at and imagine a life lived there. 

We took the bus into the city on the south coast of Cuba and checking into our once amazing but crumbling hotel right in the middle of the city's square. After a shower, cold naturally due to power shortages, we set off for dinner and salsa dancing class. But not before we were treated to a cup of canchanchara, Cuba's oldest cocktail, a heady mix of Vitamin R otherwise known as rum, or perhaps it was fermented sugarcane juice, honey and lime. Served in a terracotta cup over ice we were encouraged to drink it straight down. Quite a blast. Especially for Des whose stomach reacted poorly to this guest. Poor Des. He missed dinner and the subsequent salsa dancing. 

Day 2 in Santiago was full of cultural activities including a walk through the hot and humid city, a trip to the garrison museum where we learnt more about the 1959 revolution  before going to a cemetery where Castro's ashes are entombed in a rock from the Sierra Maestre. The graves can be adorned with two flags: one Cuban and the other a black and red 26 flag signifying that the person, and perhaps their families, who lie below were part of the revolutionary forces.

We took the bus to an oasis for lunch - full of greenery, beautiful furniture and an outdoor kitchen where our food was cooked over coals. There was a coffee roasting and grinding demonstration as well as cigar making from tobacco leaves - quite an art. We were also treated to some music - a woman sang while her partner played guitar. Wonderful in every way. One of the men presented us with portraits of ourselves drawn with coffee before we tasted the local rum. That evening there was a huge thunderstorm. We went to bed and slept the night away.

Havana to Camaguey November 2024

 Cuba is a place that evokes political feelings, literary feelings and musical feelings. I use the word "feelings" as a way of encapsulating views that I have held, despite any evidence to do so. Arranging a bike ride in Cuba with my riding buddies? Yeah. Why not?

Who was there? Ralph from Albuquerque. Lady Al from Idaho. Nelson from Vancouver. Michael and Angelika from Germany. Paul from Nova Scotia. Des, Maureen, Pauline and myself from Australia. And our fabulous guide Arley, bike mechanic Guillermo and bus driver G from Cuba.

We began and ended in Havana, a three week bike ride plus all manner of cultural excursions. Bikes were supplied by a business, Cubania, that is based in the UK. The organisation was superb. Lucy from Cubania helped us plan a customised ride and organised for all our transport, accommodation, sightseeing and our fabulous three-person support staff.

We set off from Havana by bus after picking up our bikes and riding back into Havana along the famous Malecon, the waterfront where everything happens in Havana: fishing, nightlife, casual conversations between friends and strangers, embassies - or at least their remains, and and travelled to Santa Clara where Che Guevara was stationed and active during the 1959 Fidel Castro uprising against Batista. Stories of heroism, small forces with big strategies, a statue and other memorabilia from the time are dotted in the city.

Next stop was Camaguey, a spacious town of about 350,000 people. We rode into the town after visiting a communal farm at Sancti Spiritus with a few pigs, a few bits of farm machinery and not much else. The people are thin. This is observable all over Cuba. There is simply not enough food to go round. Apparently farmers are required to "sell" to the government 90% of their produce and keep the remainder. Doesn't matter what the percentage is that you keep, if it's not very much, it simply is still not very much.

It was in Camaguey that I discovered a rations store, and Arley showed us a ration book, neatly laid out month by month, that enables Cubans to obtain stapes such as chickpeas, meat, fish and other goods WHEN they are in stock. This store was selling minced up fish the morning of my visit and not much else. 

It finishes where it began

 There is quite a difference between Belgium and the Netherlands. The most important difference for me is the bike riding infrastructure. Scattered and not very well designed or used in Belgium; prolific, populated and smooth throughout the Netherlands. I’ve not been able to overcome my tendency for serious caution despite bikes frequently having right of way as cycle paths in excellent condition snake both sides of roadways. Roundabouts, terrifying encounters elsewhere, have separated bike lanes and again, vehicles give way.

The population seem to be much less reliant on mobility aids and overweight people are definitely in the minority. I’m assuming this is due to daily riding to and from school, work and the shops. Oh, and age is no barrier.

From Charleroi we pedalled to Namur, a clean and bustling place right on the Meuse. Our accommodation was in the middle of the evening jollity, hundreds of people sitting outside in the warmth of early October.

We rejoined the cycle way along the Meuse, stopping in Huy for a coffee and cake. Bars are full of usually older men and women taking a morning beer.

Liege was especially vibrant. People everywhere enjoying themselves and lots of students kicking up their heels to celebrate the start of the academic year. If you’re in Liege, don’t miss the railway station. Coloured glass panels form the roof. It’s so much not like Southern Cross.

Rain was forecast so we took in the gallery before catching a train to Maastricht. We then rode onto Gulpen and visited the place where three countries intersect.

Our last day was from Gulpen to Maastricht where we dumped our stuff and rode out to Bokrijk to ride through water. This feature was provided by the Limburg area to encourage tourism.

So here we are, returned to Maastricht from whence we ventured out. We’ve ridden 1624kms. Not a bad effort. And let’s hope there’s further posts to follow.

The Belgian Leg

 We’re 1372kms into our five weeks of riding and have only been wet once. That was navigating the last 10kms to our Airbnb in Charleroi. Not a bad record.

From Reims we rode to Laon, the former capital city of France. Perched high on a hill it was satisfying to ride to our gorgeous hotel using battery power to reach it. Pierre our host bought the rambling house and gave it new life with style and humour. I lit a candle for Jo in Notre Dame.

Riding to Hirson the following day was our first real food desert experience. Not a soul stirred in the villages we rode through. The farms were more akin to Australian stretching across broad plains. 

Hirson was unremarkable. Gritty and somewhat grimy. 

Onwards to Mons, a busy city, also unremarkable. Life was generated by the city’s students who outnumbered the old, poor and the workers. 

Charleroi was meant to be an easy ride along a canal. Detours however saw us crisscrossing the water many times and the expected distance of 42kms lengthened to close to 70. 

What a dispirited city it is. Grime, rubbish, people doing it tough. Best thing is to leave. I can’t imagine the lives lived here are full of optimism, opportunities and joy. We did however find the small and beautiful gallery. Not surprisingly we were the only visitors bar one other. Des and I also watched the Grand Final, albeit on an iPad after shelling out $46 to the AFL for the privilege. Bit hard to soak up the atmosphere but Des is very happy to take the win.

A few more days on the road is all that remains. Soon I’ll get the hang of the e-bike.