Triblog

After our tour of Cienfuegos, we hopped on our bikes just outside of town,  and began a three hour, 85 kilometer cruise heading towards Playa Giron. Most of the ride was across a desolate swampy plain, along a nearly deserted road barely the width of two trucks. Cotton-ball cumulus clouds surrounded us, but the sun shone relentlessly, with temperatures into the low 30s (nearly 90F). By this time, despite daily applications of sunscreen, my forearms were getting a deep, crinkly brown, tender to the touch. Among the many items I did not bring, I own a pair of thin white nylon arm “coolers”, which could have served as superb sun shields. In desperation, I turned to the pair of compression calf sleeves I’d worn on the flights over. Inside out, they looked a bit like a fluffy tuxedo shirt under my cycling kit.

I spent much of the day riding with the “boys” (a group of 60-something ex-bike racers and endurance athletes), but the bleakness of the road and balmy air conspired to drop me off the back after after 15-30 minutes. I’d catch up every time we re-started, but much of the time, it was just me, the donkey carts, a few pedestrians, an old Lada or two, and the occasional truck bus crammed with passengers.

We rode through San Blas, headed towards Playa Giron. The final 15 miles were due south towards the Sea. About 30 minutes out of Giron, we began to see sandstone-red blotches atop the tarmac, about 4 or 5 inches across, looking a lot like discarded bubble gum was which had been spit out and run over by endless vehicles.

We pulled into a small outdoor café and gathered under the palapa, sharing generic colas and Bucaneros (Cuba is one of the few places on earth you won’t find Coke for sale).

“What were those red blobs we’ve been riding over?” someone asked.

“They look like chewing gum somebody spit out, but they’re too big,“ I ventured.

“No, I think those are crabs,” someone else offered.

“Crabs?”

“Yeah, I read they grow all over the beach around the bays in southern Cuba. They have to go inland to lay their eggs or something, or maybe that’s where they make their babies, I forget. Anyway, there are so few cars and trucks, they haven’t had enough selection pressure to keep them out of harm’s way, and they keep getting smashed.”

“Huh. Crabs. I thought this was the Bay of ‘Pigs’.”

The Bay of Pigs. To those of us of a certain age, this was a legendary fiasco. After Castro took control of the country in January, 1959, he was at first embraced by some in our country as a democratic savior for the Cuban people, overthrowing the repressive dictator Batista. Over the next year or so, as more middle and upper class Cubans fled their country for Miami, it became apparent that he had meant what he said about changing the power structure on the island. More and more firms were nationalized, houses of the rich were seized, large landholdings were absorbed into government control. The ex-patriates descending on Florida included some who wanted to “take back” their country. They looked to Castro himself for their inspiration. Fidel and a small band of rebels had fled the country after an ignominious defeat in 1953, ending up in Veracruz, Mexico. They purchased a small boat, the “Granma”, overloaded it with fighters and supplies, and barely escaped into the mountains when they landed on the island’s southern shores several years later.

When President Eisenhower recognized the change in Castro’s political tone, he authorized the CIA to join forces with Florida-based anti-Castro groups, and a fighting force was assembled, trained, and eventually sent to Cuba by President Kennedy in April of 1961. They landed in the Bahia de Cochinos, and the rest, as they say is history.

At the southern end of the Bay, near our seaside hotel in Giron, the Cuban government has proudly established a museum dedicated to telling their side of the story. Several tanks and a propeller plane flank the entrance. Alejandro assembled our little peloton, and urged us to visit the place. I shuddered at the thought, and stayed outside.

Castro’s revolution was founded in part on a belief that the United States wanted to subjugate the Cuban people, and supported the Batista regime as it battled against the rebels. It was Castro’s belief that the US government needed a pliable island government to enable American corporations to control the Cuban economy for their own benefit, through agriculture and tourism. The small number of well-connected rich did very well, at the expense of most of the populace, with the bulk of profits ending up offshore to the north.

Thus, the US was depicted as a foreign enemy of the Cuban people. The foiled invasion in the Bay of Pigs, coming early in the Castro regime, served to cement that view with actual proof of the US intentions towards the new Cuban government. Ever since, it has held a solemn place in the hearts of true believers there, much as, say, the War of 1812, where our national anthem was penned, has in ours.

Eventually, I rode back to the hotel parking lot, and helped Juan and a few other resistors line up the bikes for the group‘s eventual return. We planned to head north along the Bay that morning, to meet up in Playa Larga, and a promised alligator farm.

(To Be Cont’d)

Tacoma, Washington; Etzatlan, Mexico; Cambridge, Massachusetts; Kingston, Ontario; Bahia Blanca, Argentina; Saint-Nazaire, France; Contagem, Brazil. What could they possibly have in common? All are “Sister Cities” of Cienfuegos, Cuba. Which means our visit there was high on the must-see list, seeing as how we’ve spent half our lives just across the Narrows from Tacoma, and have attended the local conclave honoring that relationship several times. We’d heard a lot about the local baseball team, as one of our friends has played with the Tacoma side in the annual exhibition matches. So when our tour bus rolled by the local baseball stadium – every town of any size in Cuba has a local baseball stadium – I rushed to the window, just in time to capture the proud mascot – a trumpeting elephant?

After our beach stay the previous night, we drove up and through Trinidad, to a load-out on the outskirts of town. After an hour cruising along the Caribbean shore in sultry morning breezes (all at our back, of course) we turned inland over some low hills, heading for Our Mandatory Cultural Stop, the Jardin Botanica at Pepito Tey.

The hills and rising heat had taken some of the friskiness out of our crew, who were ready not for a tour of local flora, but a few rounds of Bucaneros. Our bikes ended up strewn haphazardly across the entrance to a little open air café attached to the Jardin, where a lone guitarist tried to raise our spirits.

From there, of course, we slithered back down hill towards the Sea, across some lonely flats, heading for the hotel at Rancho Playa Luna, which turned out to be another Soviet block two story monstrosity.

I had pacelined in with two others and Yoany, and we enjoyed a languid wait for the bus, our day clothes, and remaining ride companions.

Next morning we headed back into Cienfuegos, where Alejandro tried manfully to direct our attention to the sumptuous Spanish Colonial architecture everywhere on display. We dutifully took a few pictures, but at the final stop, he found himself all alone when no one followed him into some forgettable edifice hard by the bay.

Juan turned the bus around, and we ended the Tour at Plaza Jose Marti (like baseball stadia, there’s one in every town.) Jose, the “George Washington of Cuba”, stares into the middle distance from his pedestal.

On our short walking tour out from the Plaza, Aly again attempted to relate the history of the town and its importance in Cuban history, but all I had eyes for were these three cars: a Purple Jaguar, and black ’59 Plymouth with archetypal fins, and (in my mind), the piece de resistance, a 1955 red and white Chevrolet.

Back in the early ‘70s, when cars from the ‘50s were still quite common in the US, I moved from the Northeast to Southern California. There, a subset of the local Hispanic culture venerated this particular model, modifying it to iconic status. With lights in the wheel wheels, little fuzzy balls dangling from the inside of the windshield, hydraulically controlled rear shocks with raised and lowered the rear end (giving the “low-rider” effect), the “Pipty-Pibe Chebby” was every young Chicano’s dream car.

Above the carefully maintained and gloriously painted vehicles surrounding the Plaza, Che rose beatifically above it all.

Cuba is an island. A very big island, sure, but it’s completely surrounded by the Gulf of Mexico, on the northwest, the Caribbean, on the south, and the Atlantic, to the northeast. That means literally thousands of miles of beaches, all of them basking in tropical sunshine, flanked by palm trees. It should be a tourist’s paradise, right? Especially with 320,000,000 of the richest people on the planet just a short plane hop away.

Since the Communist revolution, though, the major source of tourism was, first, the Soviet Union, and now, Canadians. Both are famed for their frozen tundra and prolonged winters. So they flocked to the sunshine. In the 70s, the Soviets built a whole chain of massive hotels, in the major towns and along the nearby beaches. Unlike American tourist resorts, these are fortress-like, housing the sun-seekers in concrete blocks with cafeteria eateries and shoddy workmanship. Every bathroom, it seemed, was set at a slight tilt to the main floor, resulting in doors which never closed properly. Many toilets lacked seats (though they do flush). But given the proclivities of both the Cuban and Russian peoples, bars are plentiful – 2 or 3 in every lobby.

We left Las Tunas early, expecting a long bus ride across the Llanara de Camaguey – the vast central plain of the island. Mid-morning, we stopped in the town of Camaguey for an obligatory cultural tour, consisting primarily of a Mr. Toad’s wild ride in a careening collection of bici-taxis.

Eventually, we came to Sancti Spiritus, did a quick load out, and headed toward Trinidad, and its adjacent beach resort, Playa Ancon. It was on this leg that I first began to appreciate the wonder that is Cuban cycling, at least on our trip.  Because of the trades, the wind was usually at our back. And because we spent a lot of time heading for the beach each night, we ended up going downhill a lot.

Once at the beach, Cheryl and I realised we’d made a grave strategic error in planning the trip. We’d thought it was all about bicycling and getting to know Cuba. But we’d forgotten that part about it being an island. So while we had swim suits, of sorts, we’d neglected to bring swim goggles. Paddling around the salty waters was a little bit tougher without eye protection. But beach life beckoned, and we gave it a go. True to form, the water felt just like Hawaii. While returning from the beach, we chatted up another English-speaker. She was from Toronto, and raved about the package deals available. For under $600 Canadian (about $500 US), she’d gotten airfare, and a week’s stay at the Hotel Ancon. Given the deserted roads for cycling, the warm weather for running, and the endless ocean for swimming, it sounded like an ideal locale for someone to train in their final weeks before the Hawaii Ironman, all for the price of two nights’ in a condo on the Big Island.

That night, we had another obligatory cultural experience. Juan drove us all back into Trinidad, 15 kilometers inland, where we searched for the mythic Casa de Musica, which apparently exists in every Cuban town. All the seats were filled, so we headed a few doors down, to another Casa de Musica. About $5 to get in and less than that for a drink. A local band exuberantly filled the outdoor space with trumpet, bass, organ and drums. A few of the younger tourists (or were they locals?) got up to dance, and we felt a little closer to life in the Socialist Paradise.

We left Bayamo, The City Of Horse Carriages, mid-morning after driving from the carriage factory to the outskirts of town. Juan pulled into the “terminal” – a dusty wedge in a Y intersection – of Las Mangas. We milled around, checking bikes, sharing rumors. Today, in anticipation of our rendezvous with the local junior cycling team, we were all in our matching Cuba bike shirts.

Alejandro announced, “OK, today we ride with the cycling team, from Las Tunas. We meet them at Vado del Yeso.”

“Vado del Yeso…Vado del Yeso…” I mumbled over and over to myself. Cuba is bereft of signage, even the largest cities identified with a modest 2 foot long blue city limits sign on the way in. When leaving, there was always its sibling, the town name with a red slash through it, saying, “It’s all over now, Folks.”  They were easy to miss.

Vado del Yeso was about 30 kilometers away – a little over an hour at our pace. We were aided by the constant tailwind we enjoyed traveling east to west, and the ever-so-slight downhill the whole way. Our pace line made quick work across the crusty pavement, beneath the floating puffy clouds lining the horizon, enhancing the cotton-soft feel of the tropical low land air.

In Vado, we pulled off to the left, and waited for our slower companions, our bus, and the local team. Naturally, this required at least 4 Bucaneros shared by three of our riders. I was the designated driver, so I refrained. As more cyclists filled the lot, it became apparent that the team was … all girls. All teenagers. Young and vibrant, glowing in their varied kit, mostly donated from the States. Our beer-drinking pace line snuck back to the toilet. By the time we returned, the bulk of the group had already headed down the road. Not wanting to be dead last, I jumped on my bike, and turned on my camera.

The road turned from a gentle downhill to a false flat, every so slightly rising 100 meters over the final 32 kilometers. I saw a lean rider streak by me on the left – clearly not one of ours, she wore a dark shirt, and seemed on a mission to catch the front of the group. To my side, I noticed another young cyclist creeping up. She started asking me questions, in Spanish. I tried my best to explain how little I understood, but she persisted, She also stuck with me for the next few kilometers, until it finally dawned on me that she had been assigned to me. Each of us, apparently had our own minder, who was going to ride, however slow or fast with us the whole way into town.

I sped up; she sped up. I tried to catch the folks in front of me; she half-wheeled me into the pavement. It was frankly a bit embarrassing to be trying my hardest, and have this little spit of a kid keeping pace, waiting for me to actually get going.

I looked around frantically for a way out of this. I like riding in silence; I’m not one of those chatting roadies, who can’t shut up while pedaling. I tried explaining (in the meagre Spanish at my disposal) that my wife was behind me, and I would wait for her. I told my minder to go on ahead. She seemed to understand, and reluctantly rode off.

In less than two minutes, Cheryl rolled up, her bright orange vest hiding the “Cuba” emblazoned on her white cycling jersey, her cute little cycling skirt fluttering about her thighs.

“Thank God you’re here!”

“What?”

“Well, didn’t one of the girls ride with you?” I asked.

“No, I was the last one to leave I guess. I looked up, and everyone was gone!”

“I think each of the girls is riding with one of us. I tried talking with mine, but couldn’t get a mutual understanding. Maybe she’d rather ride with you. You can at least understand a little Spanish. You’ll like it – she just wants to go your speed, take you into town.”

We negotiated briefly, made the exchange, and off I went. Within minutes, I caught up to a clutch of our slower cyclists, each riding with his or her own minder. Flowing along two-by-two, they filled the entire lane of the narrow Cuban highway. No matter, as usual, they had no competition for the space, and the few trucks out driving moved all the way over into the opposite lane, confident no cars were coming for miles anyway.

The group looked a little stressed – it was over 30 C, and they seemed starting to melt. I zipped up to the head, and offered what little help I could with my puny draft. At 12 mph, up a hill, with a tail wind, I think it was more psychological than anything else. But we all got to the top together, and cruised in the last few miles to town.

At the hotel, Alejandro encouraged us to collect all the donations we had brought for the team. We piled in an eclectic collection of bike parts and uniforms: cranks, stems, chain rings, cassettes, lubes, bibs, shirts, socks, tires, tubes, spokes and assorted tools. We jammed it all into the largest duffel bag we had, and headed out to the bus.

Juan expertly moved left and right along the impossibly narrow lanes depositing us at a gated driveway in the middle of a warren of two story concrete homes. Music blared from the back yard, wafting along with smoke from a giant barbeque pit. We trundled out of the bus and through a rusted iron gate. To our left, on a small concrete patch covered by a corrugated metal roof, a wrinkled grey-haired woman, crooked with age, slowly rocked in a wicker chair. To our right, a narrow path guided us around back. There, an entire pig was slowly turning on a spit, constantly basted by an attentive chef, who had also been the girls’ coach.

They had transformed themselves from determined young athletes – they boasted the Cuban junior women’s champ among them – into shy and giggly teen-aged girls. Scrubbed and brushed and slithered into short shirts and scanty tops, they could have been out for a night on the town. Instead, they had to party with a bunch of geriatric sun-burnt cycling bums from the USA.

We opened up the duffel, and proudly displayed our motley collection of hand-me-downs. Given the onerous import restrictions in the Cuban economy, this was better than Christmas for the cycling team. They modestly acknowledged our gifts, and started discreetly fighting over who would wear what jerseys; size appeared to matter less than audacious color schemes.

We toasted each other with fruit juice (for the girls), ron and Bucaneros (for the old goats), and vowed eternal friendship. Large slabs of pork were handed all around, along with piles of bread and salad. I don’t know if they ate this way every day, but it’s certainly possible, given how hard and long they seemed to cycle – their ticket to another world, maybe, which drove them so hard.

Our party barely fit shoulder to shoulder in the tiny patio back behind the squat socialist-issue concrete house. The food was swept away, more drinks appeared, and a boom box cranked up with driving island beats. The girls swayed, some of our crowd actually danced, and somehow the group no longer seemed incongruous. Just a bunch of peole who liked to bike, have a good time, and party on a tropical isle. The Cubans didn’t seem to mind either us or the cramped quarters. Their eyes lit up the night, and their laughter echoed towards us as we filed back onto the bus, promising to guide us out of town the next morning.