1000 WORDS

I strike out for Cayo Jutias, an island off the north-west coast accessible by a causeway, with high expectations. I have a copy of Lonely Planet’s Cycling Cuba and the beaches of Cayo Jutias are described in it as wild and pristine.

As I cross the causeway towards the island, thunder rumbles around me and a huge storm front hovers over head. I take the first turn off I can onto the beach and my immediate impression is favourable. Only a few people are visible in the distance, at the other end of the beach. Being – however reluctantly – of Australian origin, I am always vaguely affronted by the idea of having to share a beach with anyone at all.

Eventually I emerge from the sea and set about trying to find a suitable place to camp and, more importantly, something to eat but the sky opens and rain pours down. In an instant I am soaking wet and a stiff wind combines to make me quite chilly* so eventually I strip off again and return to the water, which is comfortably warm, under these circumstances, at around 32 degrees.

Thunderstorm skies. Moments later the cloud drops its burden of water and drenches me and my belongings completely.

As the rain eases a little, I decide to go on my way as it is getting quite late in the day. I return to the paved road and can see buildings and cars less than a kilometre away but things go suddenly awry. I am not really aware of any mishap before I find myself sliding down the road on the palms of my hands. As I come to a halt, I glance, first, at my hands and, second, at my bike which is some distance behind me. Both palms have deep gashes, with the left hand in a considerably worse state than the right, but the bike and my belongings appear unscathed. As I study my wounds I remember that, in my efforts to travel light in Cuba, I have left my first aid kit in Mexico; I have carried the damn thing over mountains for 16 000 kilometres without incident and now, when I finally need it, is not here.

I pick up the bike and gauge the depth of the water-filled pot hole the front wheel was swallowed up by with my foot – it’s deep – and, in reasonable pain, I make my way towards the buildings down the road.

The restaurant is full of people sheltering from the rain. I manoeuver my bike as best I can towards the verandah and display my bleeding hands to the a couple of bus drivers standing by the entrance. One looks queasily away but the other one hurriedly directs me to the bar where I again demonstrate, without the need for any words, my problem. A member of the staff rushes me to the dive centre where a man with a large bottle of iodine splashes it liberally over the wounds.

Once treated I return to the verandah restaurant and sit shivering in my wet clothes. A loud group of young drunken Americans stumble about trying to organise themselves to get back on their tour bus. I strike up a conversation with an Italian couple as gradually the crowd things.

I am very hungry but the restaurant has, apparently already closed. I explain to the men behind the bar counting the days takings that I was intending to camp here and have nothing of substance with me to eat. The security man seems to take pity on my plight and offers me a plate of chicken, rice and beans for 4 CUC. I realise later that he has probably sold me his own dinner.

Ouch! That hurts.

Once fed, I feel considerably better although I am still in pain and the site of my injuries make doing anything much quite problematic. The two security guards responsible for the area hover around me but their intentions seem more sleazy than solicitous. Eventually, as the day tourists disappear one by one, I go to change into some dry clothes. I am relieved when I return to the bar to find a couple sitting at one of the table, and delighted when I spy their matching handle bar bags.

“Cyclists?”

“Yes!”

“Are you staying the night?”

“Yes.”

We pitch our tents on the sand amongst the white plastic lounges and piles of litter left by the day tourists. As a the sun sets a family of pigs appears trotting down the beach and clouds of mosquitoes and sand-flies swarm around us along with the increasingly drunk security guards. We are somewhat unimpressed with our tropical seaside idyll and after a brief shared meal of tinned tuna, avocado and bread we take refuge in our tents.

Tropical sunset. Who believes that pictures don't lie? Looks like paradise, doesn't it, but there are clouds of sand-flies and mosquitoes to contend with, not to mention a team of sleazy security guards to fend off.

Dawn also looks good...

... until it reveals the litter left by yesterday's beach lovers. A family of pigs appears to function as the only beach cleaning device.

* This is the only time I am remotely cold in a month of travelling in Cuba.

Since I have been off my bike for a while, I decide, before setting off around the island, to warm up by taking a quick spin around Casablanca and Cojimar, suburbs of Havana which lies across the harbour from the old city. A short ferry ride deposits me on the opposite shore where I am greeted by a giant statue of Jesus standing on the hill above me.

Jesus stands on the hill, framed by urban paraphernalia.

I climb the hill where I stand at Jesus’ feet to admire the view.

Standing at Jesus' feet affords a great view of Havana across the water.

Passing through Casablanca, I cross the freeway and explore an enormous sports stadium. This edifice is quite recent, built to host the 1991 Pan American Game, but it doesn’t appear to have had an additional coat of paint since and so it has a faded, dilapidated, abandoned air.

An impressive sports stadium, in shades of Caribbean blue, built to host the 1991 Pan American Games.

However I climb a tower next to the stadium and my bird’s eye perspective reveals athletes training on a well maintained track.

A runner on the track - I like its delicate shades of blue which complement the exterior paintwork.

I also get a nice aerial view of a huge fountain and sculpture complex in the form of a giant five pointed star in front of the stadium and climb down the rusty rickety ladder of my tower to get a closer look.

The glory of sport is celebrated by a series of statues gracing the extensive grounds outside the stadium. Baseball is Cuba's national passion.

The statues surround an enormous fountain in the form of a five pointed star that has been dry long enough to grow an impressive crop of weeds in its empty pools which a team of people seem helpless to keep under control. The runners lend one of the gardeners a helping hand by holding his bag for him while he works.

Cycling on into the suburb of Cojimar, I come across urban ‘farms’ which give the place a laid-back rural feel.

Cojimar's urban farms...

... and rustic transport give this suburb of Havana a distinctly rural feel.

When I return to the coast, I pass the place where Ernest Hemmingway used to moor his boat. The local fishermen, apparently, chipped in and had this memorial built to honour him.

A memorial to Ernest Hemmingway offers a small patch of shade to a group of locals waiting for the arrival of the next tour bus. At its appearance they all leap up to play some cool Cuban tunes.

Cuba’s African heritage is clear in the widely visible practice of Santeria, a syncretic religion found in various forms, and known by different names, in many places that are populated by ex-slave communities of West African origin. I pass a group of women, dressed in blue and white, performing a ceremony by the sea. The ocean is home of Iemanya, one of the most important Santeria deities. She is mother of all and queen of the seven seas.

I throw a white flower, fortuitously given to me by the gardener at the stadium, into the sea for Iemanya, who I am familiar with from my time living in Brazil. Iemanya is particularly partial to white flowers.

Some woman perform a Santeria ceremony by the sea - a petition of some sort, probably, to Iemanya, the goddess of the sea.

Further along the coast, as I circle back towards Havana, I come across an extensive housing project overlooking the ocean.

These public housing apartment blocks are sited on prime coastal real estate and enjoy splendid ocean views.

Finally, I follow an unpaved path along a short stretch of undeveloped coast towards Castillo de Tres Santos Reyes de Morro, the first of two forts on the cliffs at the entrance to Havana’s harbour.

The view out to sea from Castillo de Morro, on the cliffs of Casablanca.

The view from the fort across the bay to Havana.

A second fort, Fortaleza de San Carlos de la Cabaña, sits a little further along the cliffs.  Both forts house museums, which I decline to enter. However, as I ride back down the hill, past Jesus, on my way to the ferry terminal, I pass a huge metal gate propped open by a large wooden beam and on impulse wander inside to explore.

Fortaleza de San Carlos de la Cabaña was built in the late 1700s following a successful attack by the British on El Morro. La Cabaña was the biggest colonial military installation of its day. A cannon which used to signal the closing of the city for the night is still fired from its walls at nine o'clock each evening.

I find myself traversing the dry moat at the foot of the fortified walls and discover that they are adorned with various cryptic marks and sketches which, I assume, are evidence of, or refer to, the various historic conflicts that the fort has withstood.

Bullet holes and cryptic sketches.

I wish I knew what these images referred to...

...and who created them.

After spending a peaceful hour or so exploring this forgotten zone at the foot of the fort, I get back on my bike and catch a ferry, returning across the bay to bustling Havana.

It is here, boarding the ferry, that I make my first currency mistake. Fishing in my tiny uncompartmentalised purse for the 2 CUP fare I drag out two likely looking notes and hand them to the impatient official. These notes disappear into his pocket with such lightning speed that my suspicions are instantly aroused but it is not until I am swept onto the ferry amongst the sea of passengers that I can confirm that I have just handed the man 2 CUC rather than 2 CUP and it is too late by then to do anything about it.

In the grand scheme of things it is not such a huge loss for me, and the incident probably made the man’s day, so I find it relatively easy to be philosophical about it but I make a mental note to do a better job of separating my two money stashes in the future.

Returning across the bay to Havana with afternoon showers threatening. Brooding cloud formations are a feature of my visit to Cuba.

Havana has got to be one of the most photographed travel destinations. Here is my contribution:

On the Malecon.

All those classic cars...

...almost all function as taxis.

Cubans, trying to make a few dollars, pose in the streets with cigars for eager camera touting tourists.

The heroes of the revolutions are ubiquitous...

... and Che...

...is everybody's favourite...

... revolutionary pin-up boy. I'm not quite sure who the others are, myself, but every Cuban knows them intimately.

Here they are, again.

The towering monument to Jose Marti provides a perfect perch for vultures when they tire of wheeling around it.

Grand old buildings like this cathedral grace the crumbling city.

Old city details.

A few squares in the old town have been restored and tidied up for the tourists...

...but most of the city is slowly crumbling.

The history of the revolution is celebrated everywhere. These tanks were created by modifying agricultural machinery.

Havana residents spend a lot of time fishing off the Malecon...

...which also provides a seat for musicians.

Kids do what kids do everywhere.

The heroes of carnival are refreshingly unpolitical...

... and Cuba's African heritage is clear.

Cuban's version of the Stasi's extensive informer network are the CDR, the Committee to Defend the Revolution. The CDR keep a watchful eye on people's revolutionary fervour.

Havana has its fair share of architectural monuments to the glory of socialism...

... and none is more imposing - or bizarre - than the Russian Embassy.

Extended blog entries might be a little while coming so, in the meantime, here is list of some of the highs and lows of cycling Cuba.

Highlights:

• Cuban smiles and warmth.
• Thunderstorm skies.
• Camping on beaches watching lightning over the sea.
• Random conversations.
• Meeting other cyclists.
• Gunanahacabibes Peninsula.
• Literate and well-informed children (and general population).
• Vinales valley.
• Cenotes and caves.
• Fresh fish. Lobster.
• Finding unpaved roads.
• Seven shades of Caribbean blue.
• A clandestine tour of an abandoned nuclear power station with four guys who are quietly (and illegally) dismantling it under the not so watchful eyes of the military.
• Camping on the beach with Cuban biology students watching for nesting giant turtles.
• Diving and snorkelling.

Lowlights:

• Riding through Havana when it was knee deep in stinking storm water and getting soaked: my clothes have never ever smelt so vile.
• Lousy food.
• Queuing up for hours at markets that only sell four items: unripe avocados, over-ripe bananas, yams, bell chillies.
• Giant speakers pumping out dance music at idiotic volumes on beaches and other public places.
• The Cuban conversation.
• Cuban vehicle exhaust.
• Camping by the freeway in a rainstorm.
• Pathetic mangy dogs.
• “Lady, where are you from? Want to rent room?”
• Literate and well-informed children (and general population) begging.
• Visits from the military in the middle of the night.
• Cuban pick up lines: “It’s my birthday…..” (I mean what, exactly is the expected response here? “Oh, OK, I’ll give you your birthday blow job, then.”)
• Cubana Airlines.

Things that get old, quickly:

• Socialist propaganda.
• Two currencies.

I am going to fly to Cuba on Sunday and I will stay for a month. I’m guessing my access to internet will be severely limited, if not entirely non-existent, while I’m there so there will be a little hiatus in the blog for the period.