Bikemum

Ciego de Ávila to Sancti Spiritu

48 miles a bus ride to Havana

I am sitting in the bus terminal in Sancti Spiritus willing a bus to come into existence. They are few and far between right now because of the United States strangle hold on oil coming into Cuba, so the best I can do is hope that the kind man behind the counter will squeeze me in one, one way or another.

I was hoping to spend the night here and wander along the pedestrian boulevard after what was actually, not a very difficult day, but with transportation such as it is, I need to be at it’s beck and call. If all goes well, I will land in Havana at midnight.

The reason I am heading there is because I am picking up two friends that will hopefully be cycling with me on the second half of this adventure. We will continue on to the western tip of Cuba and then loop around back to Havana. This is a section of Cuba that I have seen before, when I cycled around it with my partner in crime last year, Louise. It is beautiful and I hope that this difficult year hasn’t had too many negative impacts. I will revisit many of the Casa Particulares that I stayed in to check in.

The bus does indeed come, three hours late, and it is overly full. Still, the driver finds a way to cram my bike below and I cram my sweaty body in amongst all the other sweaty bodies. There are three passengers boarding and only one seat available in the very back row between two other travelers. I am told to take it, and fold myself into this little cubby, amidst a litany of “Con permisos” and “Discúlpames” Suddenly, I am very aware that even an easy 45 mile day bicycling has left me rather ripe. It is a long six hour ride, hip to hip with my seat mates, bouncing along in the dark.

By the time we arrive in Havana it is 2 AM. It is dark and I have somehow miss-placed my bike lights. Being left on the curb in Havana with all my cash in my pocket and no idea where to go in the middle of the night does not feel right, so as exhausted and bleary-eyed as I am, I jump upon my bike and ride off into the streets, the panic of my situation jolting me awake like a strong shot of Cafe Cubano. I don’t even take the time to get out my tools and raise my seat that had been lowered for transport, because I don’t want to be a sitting duck. So I pedal furiously through the dark, knees to chin, feeling like it is safer to be moving than not.

When I get to the city center, I see a tall building with lights all about it and I focus on that as my destination—sure enough it is a hotel. A very high-end luxury hotel with 26 floors and a palatial lobby. I wheel my bike across the polished marble floors and ask how much for a room, knowing it doesn’t matter. Nobody cuts me a break and it is more than I ever dreamed of.

So now, here I am on the 23rd floor, looking out over the Habana and using every towel I can, every bit of WiFi, every shampoo, drinking the “free” bottled water and gorging on my included breakfast, happy to be alive and well. Sometimes life hands you lemons, and in that case I know just what to do.

Camagüey to Ceigo de Avila

66 punishing miles

The word that keeps popping to mind is desiccated. The land between Camagüey and Ceigo de Avila is just that, and so am I.

There is a reason that tourists don’t frequent this area, at least not the rural country outside the oasis-like city centers. It is because they would shrivel up and blow away like the husks of seeds on the easterly breeze and there would be no one there to notice.

I mean no disrespect to the people here, in fact, quite the opposite. The farmers here are made of tough sinewy stuff, far tougher than little old me. Today’s stretch took me through parched cattle land, dusty pig farms and some suffering sugar and plantain fields. I saw leathery farmers out about on their horses and motor bikes and they would give me looks of incredulity before shooting out some sort of encouraging word.

There were only towns every 25 miles or so, and 25 miles is nearly two hours at my speed, so I had to pull out all my tricks.

I sang every single song I could think of until my throat got too dry. I didn’t let myself stop and check distance until I had gone at least an hour at a time. I made mixtures of protein powder and instant coffee and slurped this disgusting combination with a wrinkled nose. I used precious phone battery listening to the world’s worst downloaded music—Uptown Girl by Billy Joel and various Stevie Nicks tunes—I have no idea why they were on my phone but they saved me nonetheless.

When I passed through small towns (intersections really) there would reliably be a vendor selling dried beans and green plantains. Very unhelpful.

Sometimes, it is not about me engaging in the culture, it is simply about finding my inner will to put one pedal down and then the next.

However, tonight when I limped into town, I was met with yet another festive atmosphere, as if all the color and life missing in the countryside was bottled up and poured out here. The buildings are all painted with bright Caribbean pastels and the streets are brimming with rollerbladers, cyclists, ice cream vendors, pedestrian walkways and shady parks.

I found an outdoor cafe and I feasted on Yucca and Ensalada Mixta for dinner and treated myself to the finest of hotels for 20 dollars. I feel like a queen. A queen with very sore knees.

Neuvitas to Camagüey

48 miles

Camagüey is alive with culture and color, music and good cheer, just not with electricity. There are visitors here from other parts of the world. I have heard a good deal of French and German layered on top of the constant cresting and falling of the Spanish language. I am loving the bustle after so many quiet days.

While out on my afternoon stroll, I was stopped by a Canadian man stepping out of a high class hotel.

“Miss, are you from the United States?” I stopped in mid stride and turned. This has been the first English I had heard spoken and I was eager for news of the world. After quick introductions, and an agreement about the lunacy of my president, we fell into a talk about Cuba’s current state.

“I come here for two or three months every year, but now I have to leave. Canada is calling everyone off the island.”

I told him that I had two weeks left of my bicycle trip and he sucked his teeth.

“I don’t know, two weeks is a long time. So much is happening, so fast. You should do some research.”

The concierge of the hotel, who had been listening in the entrence way stepped forward.

“Comeback tonight at six and I will get you WiFi, you need to know.” It was his worry that made me feel ill.

I spend much of my time on these trips convincing myself that people are good, working on embracing the goodness in humanity regardless of cultural differences and now I realize that what I am most afraid of is my home land and what is happening there. The Cubans make me feel more than welcome and safe. It is our country I am fearing.

What a sickening thought.

Manatí to Neuvitas

45 miles

I am not going to lie, today was tough. It was not that those were the longest 45 of my life, cycling along a partially paved and partially deeply rutted, rocky dirt track. Nor was it because of the wind, sometimes at my back, but other times charging me with a rhinoceros’s fury. It was because I was lonely. All there was to comfort me were Acacia trees, cattle and sugar cane.

When I came upon a lone three-wheeled taxi heading my direction I stuck to it like a frightened fawn, not wanting to let it out of my sight lest I became abandoned out in the nothingness. I took water breaks when they took bush bathroom breaks, I kept their pace, I even drafted them for a while. I wasn’t scared, just very alone and struggling with homesickness.

I have not heard English spoken since I left the airport five days ago and I am not skilled enough in Spanish to have any meaningful conversations. A girl’s head starts to start to spin after a few days of reviewing her every thought while pedaling in the middle of nowhere. I get bored with myself. I miss my family and friends and especially my granddaughter. She is the best. Being away from her makes my heart sag.

When I arrived in Nuevitas, I collapsed on my bed for an hour and then made myself rouse and walk dutifully through the town.

I came upon a boy training a pelican to take fish from his hand. I saw a herd of girls training for some sort of rollar skating derby whipping themselves around and around the town square at lightening speed. I saw a few boys flying homemade kites made from colorful paper on the malecón (a walkway along the seaside).

I thought about all the people these Cubans are missing. The husbands, wives, sons and daughters that have left in order to find a better life and to support their families here. I thought about their heartsickness and it put mind to shame.

I ate a huge plate of spaghetti and a beverage for the equivalent of two dollars and felt better. Sometimes that is all it takes. I am simple and lucky in that way.

Jesus Menéndez to Manati

60 miles (with some of those lost!)

When I am lying in my bed at night, I can get disheartened. My knees ache and I am over tired and I wonder what I am doing this for. It is sometimes really hard.

But, then the morning comes and my despair dissipates. I suppose that happens to everyone.

With the rising of the sun, I remember why I am here and I jump on my bicycle and am on my way, this time with the added inspiration of finding some food.

I bumped along dirt roads heading towards Puente Padre and was swept up into a parade of of horses, bicycles, mopeds, three-wheeled taxis and buggies all jostling alongside each other, politely passing or giving way, as we pranced around the potholes like a bunch of young fillies.

I was struck by how hard the Cuban people work. Everywhere around me, people were toting heavy bags, hammering in tin roofs, spreading crushed cement, hurrying off to school, or setting up their road side markets. One of the mottos here is “First Work.” I could see it in the spirit of the morning bustle. In the next town, there was still very limited food, but I found a little strawberry ice cream and paired it with one of my protein bars.

It was a good thing too, because from there I turned onto a rural route that stretched through 35 miles of nothing but sugar cane. It was actually rather intense. No cars, no people, no nothing, but a narrow strip of pavement shimmering brightly in front of me as far as the horizon.

When I finally popped out, I found myself in Manatí. A town built on sugar. The homes are simple, wooden structures with identical front stoops, all obviously built to house the sugar mill workers. The non-working mill stands like a huge beamoth it the center.

I asked a passerby where I could find food and lodging and was escorted by bicycle again to both these things.

Now I am fed, showered and rested. My host just served me an enormous plate of the most delicious papaya I have ever had. I have never felt so well cared for anywhere. We have a lot to learn from Cuba.

Santiago de Cuba to Cueto

64 Miles

I am tired! That was a long day fresh off the couch, but it was beautiful. Finding my way out of the city took me about an hour, but then it was up over the lush Sierra Maestra mountains and down through verdant, rustling sugar cane fields. Mile after mile of them, at once beautiful and also a stark reminder of all the enslaved people brought here to work them.

The sugar cane plantations were notoriously dangerous and the average life expectancy of the slaves working on them was just seven years. It was the United States that bought most of the sugar they produced for their rum and it was also the United States who purchased the slaves that had been “seasoned” here.

When I was at the airport, waiting in line for customs, a group of folks from North Carolina sidled up behind me. They told me that they were on a humanitarian mission and were going to help a group of pastors who were negatively affected by the hurricane. We passed through the checkpoint were an official asked the typical questions about one’s visit. Where are you going? How long do you intend to stay? What is the purpose of your visit?

The official took his time with me, asking many friendly questions about bicycling. When I emerged, my North Carolinian friends made a show of how relieved they were that I made it through. “I thought he was going to put you in jail!”, blanched one bird like woman.

Just then an agent approached the group and told them there was a problem. They clustered together nervously. He didn’t speak English and so with my limited Spanish, I tried to help. Turns out they had told them that they were staying in a church, which isn’t an acceptable address for a place to stay. I told him that they were on a church mission and he immediately understood and waved them on. One of the gentleman proudly told the rest of the group that he was told to pretend not to be able to speak any Spanish, even if you can a little, because then people will just take advantage of you. I began to want to make as much distance between us as possible.

As we made our way up to the metal detectors, one of the men tucked his hands in his belt loops, leaned back and said, “I can’t believe they are screening us. They are the ones who need to be screened, with all the drugs they bring to America.” The others nodded their assent. I was flabbergasted.

Not only was he embarrassingly rude, but he was wrong. There are very little drugs here and the penalties for even possession of marijuana can land you in jail for a years time.

Humanitarian mission my foot. How about starting with treating people as humans.

Santiago de Cuba

I am sitting on a park bench in one of the leafy squares that dot the city, eating a big hunk of white bread and a slice of squeaky cheese. There really isn’t a lot of food to choose from. There is rice, pizza and bread everywhere, but already, on day one, I feel my body yearning for something with a bit more fiber, and truthfully a bit more flavor.

“Where are you from?”, comes a beckoning call from across the park. I inwardly grown, expecting to be bamboozled by offers of cheap taxi rides, bargain socks for sale or a tour that I can’t miss.

“Estados Unidos.” I call back, trying to be polite and uninterested at the same time.

A lanky, dark skinned man ambles over and introduces himself. “I am Ariel, a teacher. May I speak with you here in the shade?”

I start to stutter out an excuse in Spanish about how I was just leaving, when he interrupts me and corrects my Spanish. I try again, and again he stops me, slowing me down and making me use the correct conjugations.

He smiles warmly and tells me that he just wants to practice English and it seems as though I could practice my Spanish as well. He projects respect and kindness, so I laugh and move over on the bench to make room for him.

We discuss the usual subjects like how crazy Trump is, why I like Cuba so much and what he does for a living.

“For a job, I teach fencing. One of my students has gone to the Olympics. But for a living, all day, all any of us can think about is how to find food. That is how we make a living.“

To be clear, there is food, at least where I am, but it is devoid of nutritional value. White bread, and only little scraps of other bits. I don’t quite know what to say and grimace, feeling guilty by association.

“Life is hard here, but it is not your fault. People who beg from you, they have little choice. You have much more than them. People who come here from the United States are always kind. They are good people. You are not your politicians.” I have heard that many time while traveling Cuba. It seems incredibly forgiving. “Here, we are all family and we take care of each other. We suffer together, and celebrate together.”

This also rings true. The school children are out for lunch and they run down the sidewalks and through the park with their flip-flops flapping. There are several games of chess happening in this square and a game of cards. Women lean into each other when they speak. Everyone does seem like part of one large extended family.

After another few minutes, I rise to leave, having exhausted my Spanish brain, and Ariel takes my hand in his and kisses it warmly. It isn’t creepy or weird, just gentle and welcoming. “Buen viaje.”, he says and I know he means it. I am so glad to be here.

Last night I bedded down on the floor of the Miami airport, in the hallway above D15. It was loud, bright, cold and hard as cement—literally. Some might say perfect sleeping conditions. There were a few other fellow travelers lined up along the corridor, letting go of all noble pretenses, and wrapping themselves in blankets of jackets, open mouthed drooling onto their luggage that doubled as pillows. 

I was no better. I nestled into my sleeping bag liner that I bring with me when I travel, just in case the sheets somewhere are simply too nasty. I wore a fleece jacket with a hood cinched up around my head and cocooned  myself entirely. I am sure that the liner looked like some sort of body bag that made it appear like I was an abandoned corpse.

During these times, I try not to think lest I fall into despair about choosing to leave my cozy bed and loving family behind. Instead I find walls going up in my mind, allowing me only to think about immediate needs. Sleep. Lucky for me it happened.

Now I am on the plane, heading to Santiago de Cuba. There are very few people speaking English and I think that is a testament that tourism is way down. The town where I am starting my ride is along the south-eastern coast. It is surrounded my the Sierra Maestra mountains, the tallest mountains in Cuba. It is known for being riotous and rebellious; this is the area that Castro’s revolution took hold. 

I hear there is excellent music and a vibrant art culture, but there has also been a terrible hurricane this year and there is no longer reliable electricity. I think the instability is keeping many away.

For some reason,  I am not nervous anymore. It seems like the leaving is the hard part for me. I am feeling ready. Now the adventure can unfold.

I am playing the accordion again; chest full of bravado and excitement one moment and clenched tight with worry the next. I am returning to Cuba again, this time to bicycle from Santiago de Cuba in the East, lengthwise to the western tip, but this time alone.

Well, that is not true. Not only will I be surrounded by the kind, forgiving and generous people of Cuba from day one, but I will also be joined halfway through by two friends in Havana. Two fellow Mainers, who will continue on with me and complete the western loop portion of the ride. The bicycle tour will cover 1,000 miles in entirety, I hope.

I was torn about returning to Cuba this time and vacillated to commit due to the actions of our current president and administration. The writing is on the wall in regards to the effort he is making to overthrow Cuba by making life there untenable. He is blocking needed oil and implementing tariffs that will effectively starve the already struggling country.

At first, I was selfishly worried about my own safety, but then I began corresponding with few people in Cuba and was told repeatedly that struggle is what defines Cuba.

“When have we not struggled? Come, we need people to come.”

“Don’t let fear mongering rule. That is part of the plan; to scare people away. We live here, it is the same. We make do.”

“You will be fine. It is only the Cubans that will suffer.”

So, I bought a ticket, got my visa and packed my bike. Now, I just worry about missing my family and how sore my bum is soon to be. I know food will be scarce, as well as electricity, but I feel comfortable in that situation now after so many bike tours. In fact I actually look forward to dabbling with having less. It makes life seem clearer. I live in relative opulence and I have a tendency to become a bit too comfortable. Within that comfort, I feel like I can start to lose my way. This time I intend to share as generously as possible.

Again, I will stay in Casa Particulares which are individuals homes, and steer way from resorts and hotels. I like to be immersed.

I will post when I can. I am incredibly lucky. I leave Thursday.

Cuba revisited, at least that was the plan for this winter. I was so taken by the people, the history and the culture of Cuba last winter when I bicycled around the Western half for a month, that I began to write a book. I have been laboring over it for months, going down one historical rabbit hole after the other because Cuba is full of stories and one cannot be told without being pulled into another and another and another.

The history of Cuba is one of torment and resilience, starting with Christopher Columbus landing on its coastline and claiming the land for Spain. Land that had been already claimed by its native inhabitants, but no matter. From then on, the control of Cuba has been ping-ponged between various nations, everybody wanting to use the small island nation as a pawn in a violent game of global supremacy. Despite this, the people of Cuba are some of the kindest I have met, welcoming visitors into their personal homes with warmth and generosity.

I have had strangers fix my bicycle on the side of a dirt road using cast off wire, responding to my bicycle problem as if it were their own. I have had someone literally run through the streets during a city wide blackout to procure me some food because he didn’t want me wandering about on my own, not knowing where to go in the dark. He came back sweaty and grinning with hamburgers in hand. I have been found when I was lost and personally escorted miles out of my hero’s way. He then took out maps and traced routes for me making sure that I stayed on good roads and saw his favorite sights. I have sat next to locals on porch swings and practiced my atrocious Spanish with them for hours while they smiled gamely, encouraging me to try to speak in complete sentences. And I have been greeted with the words “People before politics.” again and again when I have apologized for the behavior of the United States, embarrassed about how it would reflect on me.

So, yes Cuba revisited, that was the plan for the winter. I wanted to go to Eastern Cuba this time and learn more. I was going to bring a gaggle of female friends with me so that they could see how incredible this country is and spread the word so that others would visit and in this way support the people. Tourism has dropped precipitously low since Covid and tourist dollars are vital to the economy. There are restaurants, Casa Particulars (people’s homes) to stay in, museums and night clubs with music at the ready, but no one is coming and they stand empty. I just wanted to share it all, and I wanted to revisit the friends I have made.

After this week’s events, I am not so sure. I have heard that without Venezuelan oil, Cuba will likely experience a country wide blackout with no foreseeable end. No electricity may likely signal the end for this vibrant country. While before there was limited food, limited electricity, limited medical care, limited transportation and limited internet, now there may be none. How will they even know what is happening? I can see these people now and I feel sick that once again they will be made to suffer because of a political game of chess.

I have cancelled the group trip, but I am not sure about myself. It doesn’t look good, not for my own well-intentioned, but possibly misguided trip and definitely not for the Cuban people.