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Cuba Solidarity Campaign |
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Cuba Solidarity Campaign |
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CubaConnect |
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CSC BIKE RIDE |
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CUBA: THE BICYCLE REVOLUTION Cuba Solidarity Campaign member and cycle activist reports back on a 2-week guided group tour of the island. In the cool shade of the large Cieba tree, in Bayamo’s charming Parque Cespedes, the young men playing Sunday League dominoes were convinced that we had been cycling for too long with the sun on our backs. "Sigue creyendo que la cucaracha coge FM, porque tiene antena." Keep thinking that the cockroach can receive FM because it has an antenna! This was the consensus of informed opinion about our prospective route into the looming Sierra Maestra, Cuba’s largest mountain range. We had tried to convince them that we were on holiday. It was a hard sell. We were ten days into a two week guided cycle tour of this enchanting island. The brochure had not exaggerated when it talked of a "comprehensive back-up service". We were free to cycle at our own pace while experiencing a rural Cuba not often seen. Somebody else carried the luggage and sorted out the accommodation and food. There was a physiotherapist to restore tired calf muscles each evening and Miquel, a Cuban national cycle team mechanic, who lovingly maintained our chainstays con cariño. We instinctively held a minutes’ silence as we remembered the cyclist of the 2% body fat variety, nerves frayed, anxiously waiting at the check-in desk at Gatwick with pannier bags conspicuously toting his kitchen, bedroom and tool shed. As the clock clicked 450 Ks I had the unmistakable feeling of dying and waking up in paradise-an ordinary paradise where people on bikes come first, days always get longer and cyclists get younger by the mile. This was Cuba, and this was a cycle tour where the culture, the people and the landscape were as significant as any biking I had done. The crisp sound of dominoes slamming onto a makeshift metal table had long faded as we finally reached the 950 metre Providencia Pass, high in the Sierra Maestra, where coffee trees blended with royal palms and bougainvillea. I peered into the distance at the awesome Pico Real del Turquino, Cuba’s highest peak, plumed with white clouds. "No we don’t cycle to the top", Israel, our informative Cuban guide, said reassuringly. Further relief was provided when he told us that it was not going to rain. Michael Fish may have thought otherwise, but rumour had it that Israel was "in" with the "Big Guy". Climbing since leaving Bartolomé Masó, 15 miles and numerous watering holes behind us, meant that the drop was approaching. The icing on the cake. The reward for all that blood, sweat and gears. The downhill. All one needed was the necessary cojónes to negotiate the switchbacks and hairpins. The downhill run that blotted out the hills we had just struggled to climb. Good to see the old reflexes were not [quite] dead: lean, jump, brake, pedal, shift down, shift up, scream with laughter. But we did not have it all our own way. We rolled into the small village of Santo Domingo, rather deflated. A "Flying Pigeon", loaded with rider, passenger and Soviet TV, had dropped us on the final stretch. The rider and his younger brother had more urgent business. Cuba were playing Italy in the Men’s World Volleyball series and the game was due to start in 5 minutes. Their family was patiently waiting for the TV to arrive from La Sierrita, over seven miles away. These sturdy bicycles had been imported from China to help resolve the acute transport problems when the supply of oil from the Soviet bloc started to dry up in 1991. The Granma, Cuba’s newspaper, called it the "bicycle revolution". Everywhere we ran into these innovative workbikes that had been transformed from single-speed Chinese bicycles to movers of commerce. In an hour there would be a glorious sunset, shot from the bridge high above the river Yara. But first we had to locate the hotel. Navigation was a no-brainer thanks to terrific maps which had been leading us through a maze of scenic back roads and small, busy rural villages. Nevertheless, we were not short of offers of help to locate our destinations. At that moment a motor cycle and sidecar Ministry of the Interior man, dressed in the now familiar mustard coloured uniform of the Inspección Estatal, came along and volunteered to guide us. During the day these inspectors co-ordinated state vehicles picking up Cubans hitching between towns, due to public transport shortages. We turned and tucked in as he led us through dusty side streets. Occasionally he waved to people he knew and once popped in a house, presumably to tell someone he would be late home and to keep the congrí, a local speciality of black beans and rice, warm. A friendly welcome awaited us at the Villa Santo Domingo. That night we lost power and dined by dozens of candles. This was carbo loading at its finest as we eagerly piled into the buffet of pork, sweat potato, rice and beans, plantain, yucca, malanga, salad, cheese and coconut. We relaxed to a local son trio singing "Comandante Che Guevara", practising our best trip stories on each other, honing them for the audiences back home. The following day was of the two legged variety as we climbed over rocks and mud along a precipitous, narrow track to Fidel Castro’s hidden revolutionary headquarters on the edge of a deep ravine. Back on our beloved tarmac our wheels hummed along the route. We had learned fast to hold our own piece of the road, and the trucks and wheezing buses were remarkably considerate. Cooling air, the sound of a waterfall and pure blue sky. There was more scenery here than you could shake a tyre lever at. The country schools filled with happy healthy children in bright reds and whites. A cattle drive led by shy, smiling cowboys. Rural houses, all with electricity, their wooden fences decorated with brightly covered laundry drying in the sun. At each turning we were compelled to slow down and absorb the heady mix of sights, sounds and rhythms. An invitation to coffee from a family doctor who had just finished making her preventative house calls was an added bonus. She proudly informed us that Cuba had 56,925 doctors, 1 for every 193 inhabitants, and 94% of the population is under the family doctor programme. A unique achievement in Latin America. Back in Havana and sipping a cool killer mojito-a smooth mix of rum, a sprig of mint, sugar, lime juice and soda-I leaned back and soaked up the atmosphere. The music of the breeze through the trees sounded more melodic, the freshly cut sugar cane smelt sweeter and the children greeted us more enthusiastically. Somewhere in the distance I could hear that Cuba had won the Volleyball World Series and just maybe that cockroach did have a radio antenna. Join the 2000 CSC sponsored bike ride to Cuba departing on 22nd April 2000 and raise funds for medical projects in Cuba. The CSC cyclists have also been invited to join the May Day Parade in Havana this year. Cyclists must raise a minimum of £1000. This will pay for all accommodation, full board and all back-up support. Contact |
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