We love what traveling has done to us. How it’s shaped our lives and made us into the people we are today. Which is why it’s so irritating that it also makes us into people we don’t want to be.
While we were ready to leave, a big part of us wanted to stay, and we’ve promised ourselves that we will return one day. And yes, the bikes will come with us.
We’re getting close to civilization again. More cars are passing us, which is a bit unnerving, considering the past three days have seen hardly any cars at all.
The ride would take us west and then south along Cuba’s coast toward Santiago de Cuba, along empty stretches of road adjacent to beautiful blue waters, and through quiet and unassuming villages.
It’s the oldest trick in the book, right? You arrive somewhere and touts are telling you “lies”, that the hotels in town are closed and you should go with them to their casas.
We made reservations at a casa particular but when we arrived, she apologized and said the people who were staying there decided to stay longer, so she had no room for us.
At the Casa de la Musica, people sit on the stone steps sipping a drink, watching the band play. When the dancing gets going, Cubans search the audience with their eyes and pick out ladies to dance with.
The emergency foil blanket we carry with us wasn’t cutting it anymore as a rain shelter. It was a torrential downpour, and as we huddled under this thin piece of aluminium, we looked down to watch a flow of water cascading around our feet, like boulders in a river.
I’m cycling alone in the small town of San Cristobal in search of a taxi. Yvonne sits and waits near a shop, guarding her fully loaded bike and my bags. Every few people on the street I ask where I can find a taxi; I’m always pointed down the road.
Even though it’s only 25 km to Soroa from Las Terrazas, it was the toughest ride for us. The hills were very steep, forcing us off our bikes to push for some of them, and it also rained a little on us.
Along the North Road, a highway that runs parallel to Cuba’s north coast, we would pass through the industrial town of Mariel. Entering it was abysmal; we were greeted with a huge cement factory. Mariel, though, is more famous for the Mariel boatlift.
The old man struggles up the hill, his overflowing rear basket obscuring most of his frail body. His bicycle is swaying side-to-side as he pedals. Left. Right. Left. Right.
