Day 19: Matanzas to Guanabo

I felt like a posh, rich westerner at my business-hotel breakfast, tortilla, bacon, eggs, fresh fruit, proper coffee and all (pic).

Then I saw myself in the mirror, and felt like a scruffy cycle tourist again.



Another sunny morning, another tailwind. I headed on the coast road along a ridge: at last, scenery that didn’t look ironed (pic).

But Bacunayagua bridge, impressively spanning the gorge at the border of Matanzas and Mayabeque provinces, came as a bit of a shock (pic).

Not the civil engineering, but the motorway services: this is an obligatory spending stop on the package-holiday coach transfer between Havana and the airbrushed, tourist-dollar resort of Varadero (which I wanted to avoid like I want to avoid mosquitoes, for similar reasons).

After two weeks of quiet, slow-paced – and yes, cheap – everyday Cuba, it was bewildering to swim in a tourist tide again. Goodness knows how many selfies I ruined: smiling professionals in their holiday best, carefully snapped by the taxi driver, rudely photobombed by a haggard middle-aged bloke in a Sports Direct T-shirt and M&S shorts.



Anyway, after plenty of rolling, long-gentle-up, long-gentle-down roads, a final coastal stretch past working factories and active industry got me to Guanabo: a packed, lively, approachable beach resort (pic). But Varadero this ain’t. The only visitors I saw here were Cubans, presumably Havaneros with a few pesos in their pocket and a need to escape the city for a weekend.

Another lordly casa from my guidebook: $25 for an apartment suite across the road from the beach, with sitting room, kitchen, bathroom, bedroom, even luggage room for my bike.

I strolled the beach, had a paddle, and grazed on cheap pizza, fruit juice and ice cream (jmagua flavour, whatever that is, Google has no idea: fruit? predatory big cat? disinfectant?) in local places full of women and daughters.

At sunset I had beers at a local cafe by the beach, planning more bike trips in other world-renowned cycle-touring destinations such as Yorkshire, and then hunted for food.

Two buns with pork bits proved cracking value, literally, as a chunk of bone in one of them chipped off another bit of my steadily crumbling molars (an ongoing process: teeth as metaphor for life).

I greedily finished with another pizza from another peso stall and ambled back to enjoy an evening relaxing, reading, balcony-gazing in my extensive casa. Like, yeah. I was asleep before it even got dark.

Miles today: 53
Miles since Baracoa: 908

Day 18: Australia to Matanzas

Yet another day of easy, fast, pleasant cycling, though the main roads are getting noticeably busier now we’re nearing Havana, with the traffic all going much faster than me (pic).



There were the usual refreshment stops en route, notably at the untouristed Jovellanos, where I pushed round for half an hour enjoying the obscure-small-town vibe.

From a stall I enjoyed guarapo and pan con minuta, fresh fish battered and fried right there, with a bread roll, for five pesos.

It may look like she’s wringing out a bit of floor cloth in a pot of paint, but I can promise you, it was delicious.



I headed for Matanzas, a small town off the main tourist trail. The name means ‘Massacres’, a grisly reminder of colonial genocide. Perhaps they should found some other event to mark, such as the town's bloody slave uprisings. Some call it the Athens of Cuba for its poetic tradition, others the Venice of Cuba for its small network of canals (pic); it reminded me of neither, having both clean air and half-decent pizzas.

Anyway, I treat myself to a hotel room in the main square (¡free wifi!), and had my bike stowed in a back room by a rather reluctant concierge. Their staple clientele of business travellers don’t tend to leave trails of sand and dried mud.

The town was interesting enough to explore: gritty bridges, fine buildings refurbed (pic) or, more usually, ruined.

I had beers and pizza in the cafe opposite the refurbishment works of the Teatro Sauto, Cuba’s finest.



I strolled round the scruffy, decaying, but populated and active backstreets, eventually end up having two five-peso pan con bistec de cerdos at local place in Plaza Libertad (pic).

I finished with a beer on the hotel patio watching the sunset. Another day, another dollar, as my US friends say. I like the fact that on the road in Cuba, that’s about all I do spend a day.

Miles today: 58
Miles since Baracoa: 855

Day 17: Playa Girón to Australia

The best breakfast so far: the casa is apparently renowned for its grub. Ham’n’cheese omelette, orange juice, coffee, fresh fruit (pineapple, papaya, banana, melon), a bowl of shredded coconut, a plate of guava puree, pancakes, cakes, rolls, sausage, cheese, tomato... a snip at $5.

However, in a country where doctors earn about $60 a month, that represents two days’ wages for a health professional. No wonder they were so keen for us all to buy one.

So I ate in the spirit of this high-status, high-cost project: lavishly, and slipping away the surplus for use later on. The cycle-touring Brits I’d met in Trinidad were here for breakfast too, having stayed an extra day yesterday to dive.



Diving – or for me, snorkelling – is why we’re all here. The shallow, clear tropical waters here have corals and technicolour fish galore. And, unusually in the world, it’s not a boat trip away, but right there off the shore (pic). No fees, no organisation, simply put your gear on and wade in.



Which is what I did. I cycled the ten k or so along to Punta Perdiz and hired snorkel gear from a little hut on the water’s edge (pic): $3 for an hour. With my bike and panniers under the watchful eye of the owner – though opportunist theft seemed unlikely, as we were clearly the only people around for miles; how did he make a living? – I slipped straight off into the clear water.


I didn’t have an underwater camera. This photo of Punta Perdiz (pic) shows the sort of thing I saw. It’s courtesy of Tripadvisor, and was taken by Roberlynn.

It was astounding, one of the great experiences of my life. So far, anyway. Zillions of fish, all hues and sizes, great banks of coral forest, a trippy swirl of silent colour and motion (pic). Perfect visibility, perfect temperate, windless, waveless. And I had it all to myself.

Until the tour groups arrived just as I was getting out, anyway. Ah, so that’s how he makes a living.

I dried off without needing a towel and was back on road by half nine. Medium length today: pleasant, flat, wind-neutral roll along through Playa Larga (refresco stop) and past a touristy looking complex full of a pretend Taino native-village recreation and lots of coaches. I didn’t go in.

‘Encountered the other cyclists again’, says my diary, which I suspect means ‘overtaken again by the other cyclists’. I struck on, making good time, and enjoyed a five-peso ice cream the size of a football as I cycled along the A1.



I was heading for one of those amusingly-named places to add to my list of ‘villages I’ve cycled through named after countries in different countries’, which so far includes Wales in Yorkshire; Egypt in Surrey; the near-miss of Las Cubas, Spain; and now, welcome to Australia, Cuba (pic).



Last night’s casa owner had booked me, and the other cyclists, into a motel of thatched wooden cabins away from the (for Cuba, relatively busy) road (pic). They turned up as I was checking in.



The finca tourist complex near the motel was pricey and artificial, but a few minutes’ walk back into Australia was the real, everyday, rather ramshackle Cuban small town (pic). I had a couple of plastic mugs of beer from a local restaurant, which had several locals sitting round doing the same.



The village was the first place to abolish slavery, and served as Castro’s hangout in the late 1950s: we’re firmly in the Bay of Pigs here. The ‘main square’ was a rather forlorn place with crumbling buildings behind the long-disused sugar mill buildings (pic).

I had a couple of refrescos from a cafeteria and a ‘burger’, which frankly deserved a few more layers of inverted commas, then a sugarcane juice from the stall across the square. Hah! 16 pesos in all for my afternoon of beer, food and drink in town!

After my siesta, the other cyclists popped over and suggested a run on our bikes into town to find dinner. However, everywhere seemed as closed as the old mill buildings (pic), with nothing available in the dusty village-hall bar except rum.

One of the cyclists, who had been talking confidently about his important and responsible job in the London media, realised he’d lost his key and needed to find the concierge before he went home, so we all trundled back to the motel.

Just as well: the mighty thunderstorm that had been spoiling for a fight all evening broke. The cycle-touring Brits had been good company, and it had been a welcome change to converse in jokey, middle-class professional English. But it was time for solitude again. I happily retreated to my room, snacked on emergency shortbread and chocolate, and let the sparking fury of the tropical rain lull me to sleep.

I dreamt of tropical fishes.

Miles today: 39
Miles since Baracoa: 797

Day 16: Cienfuegos to Playa Girón

After two weeks I’m beginning to get a bit of ennui. The days are becoming samey, and I’m feeling adrift. I woke from a nightmare at two in the morning, and panicked when unable to find the light switch in my pitch-black, unfamiliar room.

I laid awake till six, when I managed to retrieve my bike stored in the casa opposite and slip out of lovely Cienfuegos (pic).

Cubans are remarkably easy-going about getting up to help travellers who have very early starts. The casa owner, Dr Victor, was waiting nonchalantly in his car for me outside with a novel. I suspected he’d been there all night.

Yes, ‘Dr’: he told me that running a B&B is what earns his living, and he’s a medic at the local hospital essentially as a socially responsible hobby.



I was back on the main road out by 7am (pic). I hope my shadow is this shape because I’m taking a picture, not because I’m holding my head in my hands, The Scream-like.

From here it was a half-day of long, hot, empty roads through endless flat fields. Lincolnshire teleported to the Caribbean. Norfolk after climate change.



Traffic was sparse: just the odd car, and the odder horse- or ox-cart (pic). Eventually – after some pleasant relief through woods and tame forests, still on flat empty roads – came the final tedious straight couple of miles into the sea-breeze headwind to get me to the tiny beach resort of Playa Girón.

I found a decent casa and picked up tips from the other guests on how best to go snorkelling tomorrow – this is one of the world’s best places to do it – but there was little to do in the village. I didn’t fancy the touristy hotel, so ate at the locals’ slightly forlorn beach restaurant with straw canopies and a menu in biro.

And then the long afternoon to fill, and not much to fill it with. No internet, no guitar, no books, no shops. I resolved not to fill it with beer, as I’ve done too much of that so far. So I filled it with rum instead.

Miles today: 51
Miles since Baracoa: 758

Day 15: Trinidad to Cienfuegos

How many Cuban bureaucrats does it take to change a light bulb? Makes no difference, we don’t have a light bulb...

Anyway, I spent the morning at the visa office, extending my stay, and the officials were all helpful enough.

First, I had to get special stamps to pay with, involving a trip to Bandec bank.

Second, though it appeared I needed a paper copy of my medical insurance, the officials were happy enough with the PDF version displayed onscreen on my laptop. (This despite the newly cracked screen, which made everything appear as if viewed through a cobweb.) Just as well, as I hadn’t been able to organise a printout anywhere in town.

Relieved, I could at last get back on the bike, setting off two hours later than usual, and two hours hotter.



Still, it was mostly tailwind for my scenic ride with the water’s edge to my left (pic), mountains to my right, cloudless sky above, and somewhere ahead, a can of Bucanero with my name on it. There was little traffic and few settlements, though enough for me to get a couple of refrescos and buy a bottle of water.

I stopped at a ‘motorway services’ to say hello to various tour parties being dispensed from coaches, setting up for a day’s bike ride on chunky MTBs (pic). (Hmm; Cuban roads aren’t that bad.)

I was pleased to be going the opposite way to them, partly because I don’t enjoy groups, but mainly because they were heading east, into the prevailing wind.

I got my own chance to experience headwind soon though, as the road wound inland and ultimately headed into sparse scrub south of Cienfuegos (pic). It felt a bit of a slog but I got to the city about twoish.

I enjoyed a cold drink for a couple of pesos from a stall run by a rep for the CDR (Committee for the Defence of the Revolution). They monitor anti-government activity, such as tourists paying for drinks at stalls in pesos, instead of tourist dollars for twenty times as much.

I promised to keep an eye out for any such behaviour and we toasted the Cuban people with fresh pineapple juice. Then I ordered another for two pesos.



As usual, my chosen casa was full but the host found me a room, actually right opposite, a short walk from the central square (pic). I had a shower and strolled to the square’s only bar, swigging a two-peso guarapo en route.



Cienfuegos can feel a touch Parisian: grand colonial buildings (pic), Haussmannesque streets, even a compact ‘arc de triomphe’...

...And a theatre named after the Venezuelan industrialist Tomás Terry (pic), though of course I couldn’t help thinking of Terry-Thomas, in full Carry On cad/ bounder mode.

I walked down pedestrian streets, grabbing a peso burger and beer en route, heading for the social hub of the waterside: down the Paseo and its fine colonnades, along the sunny Malecón, and down to Punta Gorda and its leisure park. Busy, social, lively, fun.

Hot, though. My body was telling me to get a cold drink, so of course I took heed. Something with ice, and water, and vitamins, such as C. And sugar, for energy. Hmm, what else...?

The idea of sipping a mojito at a touristy waterside Cuban bar is about as hoary a travel cliche as you can get. So it was clearly high time I did so, despite their being $3. (The name is a diminutive of mojar, ‘to wet’, so might translate as ‘little tipple’.)

I’d never had one before – I’m not a cocktails fan – but this sweet and lively concoction of rum, ice, tonic water, lime and mint certainly hit the target.

Unfortunately, a target is what I instantly became, as this extravagant display of wealth made me a magnet for jineteros (street hustlers). They offered me cigars and beautiful women. Then, when I irritably turned those down, drugs and beautiful men. In return I offered them some Spanish phrases I’d been given by one of my casa hosts which you wouldn’t find in a standard dictionary.



Still, I soaked up the otherwise friendly beach atmosphere (pic)...



...and walked back to town past the statue of 1950s bandleader Benny Moré (pic), which was in front of a mural of another 1950s bandleader, Che Guevara.

Back in the central square I had a few more smiley beers with a loquacious, engaging, Irish architect on holiday. I snagged ten-peso pizza on way back from local place, the best I’ve had in Cuba so far, munched it on the way back to the casa, and felt happy.

Miles today: 53
Miles since Baracoa: 707

Day 14: Around Trinidad

A day off. Or rather, a short bike trip to the seaside and back for lunch, and an afternoon lounging round Trinidad, while I waited for the visa office to reopen tomorrow morning.



I didn’t care much for Playa Ancón, a tourist beach (pic) by a hotel. Guards wanted $1 for me to use the cycle-parking infrastructure, viz. a tree. There was a bar full of rather glum-looking tourists with coach-passenger physiques being inattended to by bored staff. I tried to find a refresco in the hotel but got shooed away, I think for not being smartly-dressed enough.

I tried some other beaches between there and the village of La Boca, with similar results. I didn’t fancy a swim at any of them.



At La Boca itself, however, things were rather livelier: no tourists, no grumpy bar staff, but lots of locals out for the day (pic). This was a place I could do business with. And I wouldn’t be turned away for wearing T-shirt, shorts and a smile. So was everyone else.

Time to invest in the local economy. I sat in the sunshine and sipped three glasses of beer from the kiosk dispensing Tínima (pic).

Then I had a pizza at an upmarket restaurant, ‘upmarket’ being 25 pesos.



Battered but serviceable 1950s sedans are never far away in Cuba (pic). Unless perhaps you’re waiting for a lift in one.

Horse-drawn cabs are never in short supply either (pic), always a picturesque delight for this particular cycle tourist.

Some may think it’s cruel for a dumb animal to be hauling enormous loads all day in the hot sun, but that’s cycle touring for you.



All in all it was a lovely Cuban village Sunday by the sea (pic). But, now relaxed and well-fed, I still didn’t fancy a swim.

I plodded uphill back to Trinidad in the headwind and whiled away the day with more gluttony, ending with an evening jaunt to the Casa de la Trova for some more excellent live music.

All good fun, but I’m keen to get my visa sorted asap tomorrow and get back on my End to End. This is not some carefree jaunt, you know. This is serious business.

Miles today: 20
Miles since Baracoa: 635

Day 13: Sancti Spíritus to Trinidad

I had the casa’s grand courtyard all to myself for my splendid breakfast (pic).

With Vitamin C requirements for the coming week satisfied, I set off through the waking dawn streets, across that Yorkshire Bridge, to join the main road to Trinidad.



It was lovely cycling (pic). After the previous few days of rather perfunctory flat distance-making, I got some scenery at last, fulfilling the promise of the green-line road on the map. Hills, mountain backdrops, lush greenery. Easy climbs and delightful freewheels with good visibility, straight roads and little traffic. Pleasant little villages with refreshment kiosks, such as the lively little Saturday morning place of Banao.



There was even a tourist photostop: Torre de Iznaga (pic), the former watchtower of an old sugar plantation owner. Now, it’s easy to get the impression that the slave trade was some vast, evil empire used by the white European establishment to exploit and oppress black Africans. Well, that’s because it was. But today Iznaga Tower is a tourist tick-box, and I intended to tick it.



I climbed to the top with the coach parties to enjoy the view (pic). After nearly two weeks of being the only non-Cuban in the room or the street, I was suddenly the darkest-skinned person photobombing their selfies, thanks to twelve days’ accumulated suntan.

Just outside the approach to Trinidad was a pricey mirador bar. I admired the view here too, but we were now within tourist radius of Havana, with prices to match: $1.50 for a coke (pic).

But I was thirsty. I swallowed my pride. And the coke.

I was in Trinidad just after midday, but my first hour and a half there was a hot, bothersome challenge. Time to extend my tourist visa was running out, and I slogged between tourist agencies and information booths to see how it could be done.

I hadn’t bargained for the cobbled streets, which meant lots of bumpy pushing of a laden bike in blazing heat.

I found that I’d have to stay till Monday morning, when the visa office would reopen.

I would be marooned in a tourist honeypot famous for its colourfully restored colonial buildings (pic) and guest-friendly music, restaurants and bars.

OK. Sometimes you have to take the rough the smooth, as anyone who’s done a Sustrans route can tell you.



So I checked into a casa (pic) recommended by Janet, my hostess back in Ciego de Ávila, for two nights. I had the customary large double room with ancient furnishings and private bathroom. I hung out my laundry on the terrace and admired the rooftop view of the historic town centre.



The Plaza Mayor was deserted in the mid-afternoon heat (pic): ah, no bars here. I found little in the art gallery to detain me, either. I was the only customer in a restaurant on the virtually silent main drag, and tret myself to a $9 lobster dinner, the best so far.

I put my nose into the Iberosol hotel, but it was full of middle-class middle-aged middling-looking European couples.

Not the experience I was after. If I want to see a middle-class middle-aged middling-looking European I can look in a mirror. I was happy to find a more chaotic, more vibrant, edgier local bar in a side-street, with young and old Cubans getting on famously. I had a couple of pre-siesta beers there instead.



In the evening I did the guidebook’s recommended photo-walk. I got some nice snaps, but I was happiest just wandering through the back streets, watching life (pic). It was a couple of hundred yards away from the tourist ground zero, but light years different. Everybody was out sat on doorsteps, mending cars or bikes or horses, playing baseball or football, chatting, strolling.

Doors were open and their modest houses were entirely on view, the family sitting round the dinner table, kids doing homework, old telly showing the Isla de la Juventud—Ciego d’Avila game. ‘Poor but happy’: yes, the tourist’s trope, the dinner-party cliche of the teleported western visitor... but that’s how it seemed. It was all feelgood stuff.



I got lost (pic), but was given friendly directions, unprompted, from one guy. Not a hustler, not looking for a kickback, no them-and-us, just helping. We joked about the baseball game.

Back at the casa I chatted over dinner and a beer to some amusing thirtysomething English bike tourists. We swopped notes about cycling, drank, laughed. I realised how much I’d missed English culture, English banter, English humour.



Finally, about half nine, I got out to the Plaza de la Musica to see the outdoor salsa band (pic), and watched the slinky locals and less slinky tourists doing their dance moves. It was packed, every pavement restaurant table taken, every step sat on.

A lovely atmosphere; a signature experience of Trinidad; I’m glad I came to see it. But, well, a bit contrived, a bit touristy. Already my pedalling feet were itching. I’ll be happy to move on come Monday morning.

Miles today: 45
Miles since Baracoa: 654