Day 2: Imías to Guantánamo

Having slipped J— (pic) a few pesos for BIKE REPAIRS and not accomm or breakfast, oh no, I headed west. It was easy riding, flat, windless... and shopless and cafeless.



Still, there was some good oceanside riding, with the usual levels of traffic on Cuban main roads (pic).



With 25km to go – and pleased with ground covered before noon – I stopped at a viewpoint looking over Guantánamo Bay.

Yes, that one: the one owned and run by the US, hence lots of signs around telling you not to go here or do this or do that (pic).



Anyway, there was a tourist-price cafe at the top (pic). The staff were watching some dreadfully acted but entertaining telenovela. I got a tiny coffee and can of local coke for $1 each, but it was a fun stop, and I got a reasonably good panorama over the bay.

Once downhill it was a flat run into the town of Guantánamo itself, with a quick stop for two orange refrescos for 2 pesos each at a stall. J— had phoned ahead to book me a place at a casa particular (guesthouse): $25 for the frilly but impeccably clean ensuite, a fixed standard rate throughout the country.



I strolled round the town’s Marti Square, a fine place, and admired the colonial buildings (pic). They clearly had a thing about columns here.



I had a stodgy cheap pizza from peso stall and a quick beer in a corner bar on the ped street off the square, followed by my first Cuban rum (pic). It brought back so many memories: my brother’s birthday party in 1978; a yacht trip in NZ in 2000; both reasons why I've avoided rum ever since. Though, actually, this time it was good, smooth and pleasant, and halfway between whisky and brandy. In a good way. Brisky, maybe. In a good way.

I walked along Camilo Cienfuegos with its weird sculptures. Wow, I thought, I’m really in a Cuban town with its residential streets, more lively and pulsing than Baracoa or Imías. I stopped in La Ruina, a co-operative pub: 5 pesos admission, but a fab place, in a ruin indeed, stylish and full of young people whooping it up and dancing to streetwise music.

I could have been in some trendy hotspot in Brazil. There were beer towers everywhere (31, I counted). I had a can or two myself, or four, of Cristal ($1 each) and watched the baseball on telly (Granma lost to Ciego de Avila 3-0). I then had a bisteca de cerdo, $2.40, the offer of which on the outside board is what tempted me in in the first place. All rather good, with rice, grated white cabbage, fried plantain chips, and pork fillet with onions. A glimpse of Cuba’s future, maybe.

My future was more modest: I walked back to the casa and was happily tucked up in bed by eight.

Miles today: 53
Miles since Baracoa: 96

Day 1: Baracoa to Imías

After a 15-hour bus journey from Havana, during which the driver had entertainingly run the air conditioner settings through every climate type from tropics to permafrost, I enjoyed a couple of days in the laid-back port of Baracoa. It was a lovely sunny day when I arrived (pic), with locals and tourists out strolling the centre...



...but tropical rains came to empty the streets (pic)...



...and confined me to my guesthouse, the town’s internet cafe, and nearby music salons (pic). The local-tourist balance felt much more agreeable here than back in Havana, by which I mean cheap beer.

But today was the start of my trip proper. I slipped through town at dawn – mostly one-handed, thanks to a bump the size of a egg on my right elbow, the legacy of a tumble in York the day before I left. It was all very atmospheric: horse-drawn carts taking kids to school, cyclists riding cheap Chinese clunkers, the odd smoke-factory car, lots of walkers... a gentle human tide on this cool damp morning. Leaving town I saw three pigs on the road, one tugging some roadkill off the tarmac.

I’d been quite keen to start my End to End at the easternmost point, the tiny Punta del Maisi, 60km away. But the weather, wind, and cost of a taxi to get me there, seemed a high investment of resources for a photo of a lighthouse.

This junction (pic) was as near as I got to the extremity proper, though I did feel a bit guilty that a lot of people were evidently walking there.



I climbed La Farola, a dramatic road-on-stilts that vaults the mountains between north and south coasts. It was a long long ascent, all gentle and enjoyable (pic). Four hours flew by, and I loved it all.



The scenery was grand, Cuba-green forest all round, the road worming and snaking and serpenting its way up into the hillsides. I stopped briefly at a kiosk at a summit and got chatted to by three guys interested in my bike (pic) and wondering why I wasn’t chasing women if my wife wasn’t here.



The long descent after the summit was almost all delightful, with no traffic, decent sight lines and safe barriers, though I stopped a couple of times to let my rims cool. I finally got to the south coast and the flat seaside road, the ocean looking improbably blue and lovely. A fine tailwind blew me easily the 15km or so into Imías (pic), a little town which – I knew from internet research yesterday – had unofficial hosting possibilities. (Officially, you're not allowed to stay there as a foreigner.)

I asked at a kiosk in town where I had a two-peso batido (smoothie) and – via a few other intermediaries – soon found J—, a bike enthusiast and tour guide who puts up cyclists in his house, attic flat, dinner, breakfast and all, all totally free. Though I did, of course, give him a peso or two in return for some bike repairs he kindly did for me. Obviously I wouldn’t pay him for accomm. That would be illegal.

Imías is a one-street town with a dribble of shops and kiosks that don’t have much even when they do. I spent less than 20 pesos (under $1 US) in all, squeezing out just about every snacking possiblity, none more than two pesos – an ice cream; a pan con tomate; two guarapis, whatever they were; two batidos frios; two refrescos; two small croquetas de cerdo, clearly the Spanish for tasteless ‘grey sludge’.

There were no beers available, which was just as well. And I couldn’t fancy rum just yet. Back at J—’s I was humbled to be served with a dinner: the Cuban staple of rice’n’beans, plus real-tasting chicken legs, tomato salad, and plenty of much-needed water. I was tired, my elbow was throbbing, and I needed bed. I was asleep by eight.

Miles today: 43
Miles since Baracoa: 43

Day -3: Havana

I arrived in Cuba yesterday after a long, tedious flight from Madrid. My bike almost didn't make it on board with me, thanks to an officious and obstructive woman at Iberia's check in, determined that it shouldn't go on. The baggage man was fine with it though, and some friendly, smiley, but unyielding pressure on my part enabled it all. Hmm. I was never this effective a negotiator when I had a proper job, but where bikes are concerned, I can evidently make things happen...



Today was my induction day in Havana, waiting for my bus out east tomorrow. The ticket was secured by slipping $5 to a friend of my guesthouse who queued and bought it for me. A good deal for both of us, because she got a day's wages, and I had a day free to do touristy things – such as drink astoundingly expensive craft beer (in local terms, anyway: $3.50) in the well-scrubbed Plaza Vieja (pic), to the mellifluous sound of son bands.



I couldn't resist the temptation to have a lobster dinner in the tourist area of Obispo (pic). It was under $10, and tasted nothing like those insipid things you get in British supermarkets. This one tasted of proper lobster. And ammonia.

Bus to Santiago, and ultimately Baracoa, tomorrow...