extending ourselves

The road is nothing more than pebbles, shingle, stones rounded by the pounding sea, all ground into a track.  We have to push to get around the foot of the cliff where the sea has been trying to reclaim the road.  And then back on tarmac for a few hundred metres.  Pass two men on horses, nod hola.  At the top of a slope the tarmac cracks up and disappears on the slope down the other side.   

there's a couple of abandoned tunnels

A rental car is coming towards us, navigating huge muddy ruts and potholes in the track.  The car pulls up.  "You must be mad!" "And you too!" comes the reply from the driver.  They are a young Russian couple.  "It's a bit tricky ahead, but if you get through the next bit, the rest of the road is clear", we tell them. "Uh, until you reach the bridge that is collapsing." The bridge in question is tilting at a precipitous angle.  The concrete slabs that make up the road surface are disjointed and split asunder at the joints.  We thought crossing it on the bikes looked dangerous until we saw other earlier tracks. The Russians smile and wave goodbye as they crawl uphill on the broken road.  We don't see them again so we assume they made it through.

would you drive over this?

This road is in theory impassable although we did see a bus go past - the kind that you sometimes see here with a truck chassis and the body of the bus stuck on top. Still, we can't imagine much getting around that bit disappearing into the sea.  The road leaving Santiago de Cuba gives no indication of the trouble ahead.  We have read about this coastal road as being one of the great bike rides in the world along a road no longer maintained and thus hardly used.  It's a beautiful, peaceful ride.  Eventually we reach the coast again and head west to Chivrico. 

Here we find a casa after a bit of searching.  We arrive early afternoon just in time before a big rainstorm passes over.  So much for the dry side of the island.  At sunset we take a short walk around the small town and find the state-run restaurant on the main road still open.  What do you have? Chicken and rice. How much is it? 12 - we sit and wonder while we wait for it to come.  12 pesos is about 50 cents.  The chicken comes quickly - it's stewed in a nice sauce, the rice plain boiled, no beans.  It's hot, it's filling, it's all we need.

The sun is out again in the morning as we set off.  Up to the town of Uvero it's a fun ride and we pause for an early morning snack. The road then finally deteriorates to a point where the pot holes are greater in area than the remaining tarmac.  After a very bad stretch the perfect tarmac magically resumes.  And then randomly disappears again.  And so it goes all day.  

 

We ride over headlands and down into tight little coves or wide arcing bays.  There are villages beside every river, farms dotting the beautiful landscape.  Ahead we can see some of the peaks of the Sierra Maestra where Castro and his few surviving guerillas hid from the army.   After we meet the Russians the road seems to relax and stretch out a little flatter and a little straighter and soon we realise we can reach Pilon before sunset.  It's been a long day but thoroughly enjoyable.

It rains in the night again and for the second night running there's a power cut.  We assume it's load-shedding but our hostess tells us they are making repairs.
The government insists that every casa particuar provide hot water and air-conditioning, for which we are grateful - although we generally prefer a fan.  It's all moot when there's no electricity.

today we see rice being grown and huge fields of sugarcane being harvested by hand

We have to keep moving, on to Manzanillo, because our visa is about to expire and we've read you can only extend it in provincial capitals. The nearest is Bayamo.  Happily our next host tells us that we can do it in Manzanillo.  She and her husband have a three storey house on a hill overlooking the funky, dusty town.  We instantly find the careworn streets and buildings charming.  
 

There's a sense of being off the main tourist route here, somewhere where time forgot.  Cuba has a few towns like this, that sprung up around a sugar mill, processing the sugar cane grown all around.  After the revolution the sugar was mostly exported to Russia, in exchange for food.  When the USSR collapsed, so did the sugar trade.  It seems Cuba is still weaning itself from this monoculture, judging by the paucity of food on offer in the city market hall, a delapidated grand old building.  We check out the handful of stalls and find a couple of farmers with some tasty looking fresh veg.  Bingo.

As soon as our hostess suggests getting our visa extended here, we set off to try.  It's almost lunchtime when we step into the small immigration office.  A policewoman looks at our passports, asks us where we've been.  She's very friendly and helpful.  We explain we're on bikes.  We have a flight to Mexico booked.  Fine, first we need to go and pay at the bank.  She tells us which bank and suggests we go after 2pm when lunch is over.  We go straight to the bank.  Gratifyingly, but also embarrassingly, a bank greeter sends me to the first available cashier, ahead of a few locals waiting in chairs.  I hand over a form and our money and get given a couple of stamps in return.  We return to the immigration police.  Our friend is surprised.  She then explains that now we must go to another office to get the visa extension.  Again, she explains something about the time of day, but all we want to know is where.  We get directions and walk over town to the building.  It's empty.  Or at first look it is.  Then we peek into an office and find a woman at a desk behind a big dusty computer.  She tells us to wait.  We sit in a waiting room full of empty chairs.  Clearly this is a busy place at some time of day, but not in the middle of the siesta.  Incredibly we are called back soon after and another woman processes our visa extension.  The whole process has taken about an hour, including all our walking around.  Un milagro, a miracle.  We're so happy we stay two more nights.

from wet to dry

We take the mountain road south out of Baracoa, determined to get some views, and are well-rewarded after a long climb up to the pass.  These mountains mark a divide between the rainy humid northern side and the drier southern side.  It is only really noticeable when we reach the coast after a fast descent.  

Happily the road is flat and we arrive in the tidy village of Imias late afternoon, stopping at a casa particular that frequently hosts cycle tourists.  Flicking through the guestbook I count over 80 entries in the past two years.  That's pretty good considering how removed we are from the tourist hotspots.  Our host, Josue,  is a keen cyclist himself and has cycled the whole length of the island.  Which way did he go?  From east to west, of course.  We discovered today the wind on our backs for the first time.  It's a good feeling to know we'll have the wind with us all the way back to Havana.

Imias

Josue

Before we leave in the morning our host phones a casa particular in Guantanamo for us.  There are, it seems, informal networks of hosts who recommend guests to each other.

too much sloganeering, as if the revolution happened last week

in the cities there are not so many cyclists as in the small towns

The road is easy which is good because the sun's out and it's a very hot day.  We climb up to a shoulder of land that overlooks the huge Guantanamo bay.  It's quite bizarre that over there, at the entrance to the bay is an American naval base.  The Cubans keep everyone away from it.  We pass an army camp with an airstrip and lots of ineffective-looking defensive positions.  There's an assault course.  Barbed wire.  The usual nonsense.  As we cycle around the bay we pass a small kiosk at the entrance gates of a big estancia.  Three guys are stood in the shade of a small awning drinking something.  It's hot and our water is warm so we pull in.  And thus are we treated to the most wonderfully refreshing and filling drinking yoghurt.  It's so good we have a refill, as do the other customers.  It seems the best way to get good food in Cuba is to go direct to the source.

typical architecture

spot the difference - one is creme brulee and the other is milk pudding

must've been a sale at the army and navy store

Guantanamo city is awakening from its siesta when we arrive.  It's a pleasant city at first glance with plenty of the traditional original buildings.  French settlers from Haiti came here after the slaves took notice of the revolution in France and rebelled.  It's in the hills around here where coffee was planted.  We find the leafiest and shadiest plaza in the centre after first finding our casa particular.  We are accosted by the son, who speaks a little English - he has been expecting us.  The room is in the back courtyard and Gayle is reluctant at first because there's no window to the room, but the place is newly renovated and the family are very friendly.   There's an old Italian tourist next door and we chat a little in Spanish and the next day he invites us to join him in a pasta lunch he will prepare.  We accept and then Gayle spots the high heels just inside the door of his room.  Crossdresser? I ask.  Sex tourist, Gayle thinks.  Sure enough, later on we see a young Cuban emerge from his room. 

Lola, our casa owner, completely forgetting to ask for the key back

Because of the US presence it's not possible to cycle around the bay and along the coast to Santiago de Cuba. Instead we take the easiest alternative - the main highway, the Carretera Central.  At first we're on small back roads full of tractors and horse and trailers.  Then we join the highway and there's less traffic and a wide shoulder.  A group of six young Cubans overtake us on road bikes, zooming along.  We later stop to drink water and I discover I still have the room key in my pocket.  It's the only one.  I know this because the mum impressed this upon us when she gave it to us.  Somehow we have paid our bill and left without handing it over.  I'm mortified, but not mortified enough to ride back.  Happily the cyclists come back on their return leg and we flag them down.  We ask if they will return the key to the owners.  They say they will.  

on the Carretera Central

each day there's some beautiful scenery

Approaching Santiago we pass through a busy market town on a hill where we pick up some lunch.  Then we turn off the main highway and have a swooping descent towards the coastal city.  This is Cuba's second city and arguably the one that holds Cuba's soul.  At it's heart is a built up hillside dropping down to the port and harbour.  There's a long pedestrianised street leading up to the main plaza.  The city is buzzing with people, locals and a few tourists, mostly in tour groups.  Happily we find a really nice casa, in one of the lovely old colonial-era houses.  The young family living there have family in the US.  They appear relatively wealthy with a well-stocked and equipped kitchen.  Remittances from the Cuban diaspora must make an enormous contribution to the economy. 

Santiago de Cuba backstreets

the original Bacardi factory was down by the port.  The family fled after the revolution.

Like Guantanamo, we really enjoy wandering around this city, but we are keen to move on and cycle the coast west of the city.

chocolate central

 

Baracoa harbour - in the whole of Cuba we never saw a boat with an engine - either because it's illegal or because they've all departed

After the arduous ride here, we decide to spend a few nights in Baracoa.  The town was the first Spanish settlement on the island and is also thought to be the place Colombus first set foot.  The town remained quite isolated, hemmed in by a mountain range through which a road was finally built in the 60's.  In this area they grow bananas and cacao and when we cycle into town we pass the chocolate factory.  It's not the stuff of Willy Wonka.

eating in a house-front restaurant called paladars, after a restaurant featuring in a popular Brazilian soap opera

beer colder than your ex's heart

The town is now a popular tourist destination for anyone willing to make the journey this far east and there's signs that the lovely old houses are being renovated, although, as with everywhere in Cuba, you really do feel like you're walking through an open museum.  So many of the old towns feel like they are caught in a different epoch, not necessarily of the 1950's.  Here the town might have looked much the same in the 1920's.  Out by the sea wall are two hideous concrete appartment blocks being demolished. It's hard to know why these have not stood the test of time when all around are wooden houses in various states of decay.  Last year's hurricane did hit this side of the island very hard, and we've been told the lack of fruit was caused by hurricane damage.

concrete appartments being demolished

more traditional houses

The main plaza is a small traingle connecting the church to a pedestrianised street.  There's sometimes a crowd here, but that's because the town's telecom office is here and there's always a queue for internet cards.  The only other crowds we see are outside the shops that have a chicken delivery.  The small supermarkets all have a security guard inside the door.  He's usually just minding people's bags and checking receipts when people leave.  The assumption is everyone will shoplift if they get the chance.  Presumably this is one hangover from the Special Period.  Often shoppers open the door and just shout in "Hay pollo?" Is there chicken?  But if there's chicken in the deep freezers then there is always a queue out the door.

music students perform in the main plaza

We find the best-stocked supermarket in Cuba here.  This probably reflects the level of poverty in the town, more than good management or supply chain.  Most of the products have come from Spain.  So the puzzle is, how come some things get through the US economic embargo?  The notion of good management is quickly dispelled.  Unbelievably we discover in one fridge display, the place usually reserved for Le Vache Que Rit (or is it Le Vache Que Mourit?) and bright red and pink sausages of dubious provenance, an entire Grano Padana cheese.  It is probably about 40kgs.  Who in Cuba is going to buy Grano Padana cheese?  Well, us, obviously.  I ask the man behind the counter if I can buy 100gms.  He smiles, laughs, and says no.  No, you must buy the whole cheese.  It's only 811 CUCs/dollars. So, who in Cuba is going to buy an entire Italian cheese that costs nearly three years average salary? A mystery we never resolved.

who will buy this cheese?

selling homemade cakes on the street

The town has an easy-going quiet rhythm.  In mid-afternoon when it is hottest the town seems to doze.  At night we can hear singing and bands playing from our rooftop balcony.  But this isn't rumba or ha-cha-cha.  It's gospel or rock and it's coming from a clutch of small churches dotted around the neighbourhood - Methodist, Baptist, evangelical.  The congregations are not huge but they're all well-dressed.

Christ alone saves

 

The house with the door open is a kisosk selling drinks, sweets and snacks

 There are signs of the small economic freedoms everywhere.  

a coffee stand

hardware store

bike repair

ubiquitous and hunger-quenching