Km 14436
I wasn't 100% convinced that I was taking the right decision when I boarded the cubana de aviacion flight to La Havana. It would be just over an hour flight but the 320 dollars the ticket cost me plus 20 dollars for the bicycle, was a bit over my tight budget, and besides that, I was a bit reluctant to put my "Burra" on an aircraft. But I Wouldn't have another opportunity that soon to cycle in the last of the Truly socialist countries before it collapsed.
When the Russian tupolev took off from Cancun airport and a strange smoke appeared over my feet it Didn't help to fortify my decision.
-It's from the ventilation, said an American tourist next to me.
She was also going to cycle in Cuba , but part of a package tour. She was using Mexico as a boarding platform, because American citizens are forbidden by its government to visit the island, part of the embargo that that country has with Cuba.
-Ventilation??. it looks more like we all going to blow off!!!
The bicycle appeared miraculously intact together with other passengers luggage. I grab the bike and all my stuff and join the queue for emigration. My only worry was that the Cuban government requires all tourist to make a previous reservation of at least 3 days in a government hotel before arrival. A way of forcing tourist to spend money in government owned hotels and to discourage independent travellers. I didn't make a reservation and if I was asked for a voucher to prove it, and didn't have one to show, would have to make a reservation on the spot before passing trough customs, witch would cost me probably more then the air fare itself.
The customs official a man of obvious Spanish descendant, bold, tobacco yellowed moustache and prudent look, asked me for the passport and during a period of time that seemed like an eternity, looked at my passport photo with short air, shaven, white skin and tired eyes; with the individual in front of him with long air, unshaven and darkened skin by the many hours spent cycling under a hot sun, and eyes that couldn't hide a certain stress. He lowered his eyes and started to introduce some details on the computer deliberately hidden under the desk that separated us.
-Where are you going to stay in Cuba?
I knew that was the key question.
I could not say that I was going to stay at Chino's house, my long time friend in La Havana, because he hasn't done the necessary paperwork with the Cuban authorities to host a foreigner, making my stay in his house illegal and with certain consequences if he was caught.
-Es lo hotel...En la Havana...just a moment!
I pretended to look for the voucher amongst other papers.
- Ah, hotel Santa Isabel, I said.
During the flight I looked at my travel guide for the name and address of one of the most luxurious hotels in la Havana. He stamped my visa for 30 days and pushed the bottom that opened the door to the socialist world.
But before I soaked myself in the hot and humid air of the island I had to learn about the complicated monetary system of the country. With my current account's card I redraw 300 convertible pesos and with 50 of those pesos I exchanged them into Cuban pesos, for wish I received 120 crispy new notes of 10 pesos, two fingers thick.
In Cuba there are 2 currencies in circulation. The convertible peso or, CUC also called "chavito" Divisa or some times just dollar. Its worth roughly the same as the American dollar minus exaggerated commissions and its used by tourist to pay almost everything, but its used by Cubans too, mainly to pay for goods considered superfluous or imported ones. The Cuban peso is a de-valorised currency (1 peso is 0.027 euros) used by Cubans to buy basic food transports, etc. Cuban salaries are paid in Cuban pesos. Foreigners also can use Cuban pesos in most places. To know where to use what currency can be a bit confusion in the beginning, but one learns fast with his own mistakes.
I stayed 3 days in la Havana at Chino's house (Hector Perez), a Cuban artist that I met in London years back when he visited England at the invitation of a friend of ours. Cubans are only allowed to leave the island by invitation of a foreign person or organization. Several of his works still decorate the walls of my flat in London.
Right on my first night in Cuba I was going to have an introduction to the main factors that attract and delight visitors to the island: the warm hospitality of the Cuban people and the effects the socialist system have in the Cuban society. There are also the one who came to the island only to relax in the golden sands of the many beautiful beaches. But how can those people know the real Cuba if they stay in resorts where, expect employees, Cubans are not allowed? And that are taken on excursions to places previous selected by the government?
Armed with a bottle of rum we went to Chino's neighbour in 10 de Outubro, south of la Havana. Tomas and his wife where military of a high rank and both members of the CDR of the area, of wish president was Tomas himself.
The CDR "comitee de defensa de la revolution" or committee for the defence of the revolution, its an organization supposedly non-governmental, with more then 7 million members (the country has 11 million), with works in the fields of education and health. But its great success is in a "neighbourhood watch" system extremely efficient that, using Chino's words: "the CDR is the revolution foundation and its success". Every town, village quarter or street of the country has several members of the CDR that spy on the daily routine of its citizens and that are discussed in local assemblies with certain regularity. The CDR would be ever present on my cycling trip throughout Cuba, either in the form of road side billboards, conversation with the locals or in situations that imply its name.
During the night in between several bottles of rum ( I counted at least 3), Chino was called aside and questioned by Tomas about my presence. They where all friends but that didn't meat that my presence was not putting Tomas reputation at risk. But as the sugar cane distilled liquid levels increased in our blood, the tensions disappeared and the night passed without one to notice it. Several plates of food appeared on the table and all seemed to be placed always in front of me.
To maximise the 4 weeks I had in Fidel's island and to take advantage of the trade winds that blow almost incessantly from East to West, I decided to take a bus to Baracoa, a town on the Eastern corner of the island, and start to cycle from there to Havana. My itinerary would deliberately excluded the resorts areas of Guardalavaca, Cayo Coco, and Varadero, as those where zones exclusive for foreigners , therefore without much of Cuba to see, expect for the golden sand and turquoise waters of the Caribbean. It's also in the East that are the biggest cycling challenges: The road "la Farola", one of the first engineering projects of the then young regime. The "sierra Maestra", brewing grounds for the revolution and home to the highest peak on the island; Pico Turquino at 1972 meters. And the "la gran Piedra", an ascend to 1200 metres in less then 14 kilometres.
On the 18 hours bus journey I met Isaac, another cyclist that would be my travel companion for the 2 weeks that followed.
Isaac was a young Canadian, a hunters guide in the northern regions of Canada and on his first touring bike adventure.
Baracoa is a lovely town. The first place where Christopher Columbus landed on the island. it has a strong African influence perpetuated by the several generations of slave descendants brought by the Spaniards or escaping prosecution on the neighbouring island of Haiti. It looks a bit like if Africa was looking at itself on the mirror over the other side of the Atlantic.
My first day of cycling in Cuba was also one of the hardest ones. the 78 km between Baracoa and Yacamo on the "la farola" road took me from tropical and lush forest with coconuts mango and cocoa trees, climbing the sierra del purial with very hard grades that some times reached the 20% until its highest point of just 546 meters. On the south side of the mountain the difference was dramatic. On the downhill the tropical forest disappeared giving away for cactus and dry scrub.
On the next day we continued cycling through the Guantanamo province world renowned by its American military base ( but also for the Guaguira guantamanera), we tried different ways to access the "mirador de molones", an observation point where one can see in the distance the most land mined military base in the western hemisphere, but all the access roads where blocked to foreigners, at least the ones on 2 wheels. Locals where very reluctant in give any sort of information. It was obvious that "Guantanamo bay" was considered taboo and one of the humiliating factors of the very deteriorated Cuban-American relations. We stay the night in a private house in Guantanamo city, 21 km north of the American base. "casas particulares" are private homes with licence to host foreigners. They charge between 10 and 20 CUC (8 and 16 euros) per room and are the best accommodation option for independent travellers on the island.
On the following day I made it to Santiago de Cuba by myself. Isaac stayed another night for some more free salsa classes offered by the young and beautiful house keeper, that has been introduced to us as a niece from Puerto padre. In Cuba the only official employer is the state. the hiring of employees by privately owned business is forbidden, witch explains why every housekeeper working in private homes where always introduced to us as cousins nieces or other members of the family.
It was Saturday night and me and Isaac where again together. The "santiaguera" night party that occurred every second Saturday in one of the avenues south of the Marte square, was in full swing. And we would be part of it. Hundreds of bodies sweated by the hot and humid air majority of them black, exposed by the little clothing, danced frenetically to the sounds of Regaton that came from the several DJ's setup on the sidewalks of the avenue. This was not just another street party. It was Santiago's Saturday night street party, renowned throughout the island as one of the best of its kind. The frenetic atmosphere reminded me the film "city of god", but without the violence. The very few tourist present camouflaged themselves amongst the crowds. Package tourist where probably in "casa de la trova", a cultural and traditional music house that one can found in any good sized town in the island. But forget "la trova", "son music" or Buena vista social club, the hot music trend at the moment is Regaton. A music style imported from Puerto Rico that took the Caribbean by storm. A mixture of reggae and salsa seasoned with a bit of techno.The result is a melody-less music style with a repetitive and rather irritant beat, but that its danced in a very sensual if not almost erotic way. We had a memorable night with Alberto and our recently made new friends, fuelled by copious amounts of rum and beer served from the tap into a one and half litre bottle of Tu-Kola (the Cuban version of coca-cola) with the top cut off and at 20 Cuban pesos each round (0.55 euros). Unlabeled rum was just at 40 pesos a litre (1.10 euros). Monica, one of alberto's friend was firmly decided to teach me the Regaton dance moves. With her gorgeous black body against mine with her harms up and body slightly reclined forward, her hips moved at a frenetic pace against my erected member while the rest of her body remained still.
-Dance! Dance!
She shouted, turning her head around to me showing her natural and spontaneous smile that I felt like steal and put on my panniers. I tried in vain to follow the movements but it was obvious that that dance was not on my DNA.
On the following day, slightly hangover, we continued our cycling journey.
I had been cycling only for 3 days in Cuba, time enough to found out that it would be a different kind of cycling from the continent. It would not be a cycling journey about beautiful landscapes, physic challenges or inner journeys. It would be a cycling journey trough the roots off the people that even been hostages on their own land and living under the umbrella of a system that stopped the clock of modernization, show without hesitation to the fortunate few that visit the island, the best they have to offer: human heat.
As one can ready in the t-shirts sold in the government shops: "soy cubano, soy mas humano". I'm Cuban I'm more human.
After the Santiaguera night, we decided to add a new element to our panniers. From then on we always would have a bottle of rum on our bags. And the idea didn't take to prove useful....
Nuno Brilhante Perosa
Santiago de cuba, Cuba.
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