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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Like Guantanamo, we really enjoy wandering around this city, but we are keen to move on and cycle the coast west of the city.
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 |
 |
| too much sloganeering, as if the revolution happened last week |
 |
| in the cities there are not so many cyclists as in the small towns |
 |
| 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 |
 |
| on the Carretera Central |
 |
| each day there's some beautiful scenery |
 |
| 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.
