Cycle News

VOL. 56 ISSUE 3 JANUARY 22, 2019 P117 These little smokers are strong as an ox and give a tinny soundtrack to the atmosphere thanks to the straight-shot exhaust pipe that's got a hint of Walter Kaaden genius to it. Havana, indeed greater Cuba, has been left in the proverbial Stone Age for motorcycles. The fall of the Soviet Union meant an end to the import of almost any motorcycle to come from Europe to the Carib- bean island, although the odd Jawa and numerous Russian two-stroke sidecars can be found cruising the streets. You can also find the occasional Suzuki GN250 parallel- twin four-stroke, and, if you're really lucky, a Yamaha Virago. You can also rent vintage (pre- 1960) Harley-Davidsons from any number of tour companies in Havana, but in the week I am there I don't see a single big twin from Milwaukee. The European, Japanese and Russian bikes might be from multiple generations ago, but there's one country taking up the slack. Predictably so, this is fellow communist country, China, who has flooded the Cuban streets with ultra-cheap electric scooters under the Mishozuki label. The tagline for Mishozuki is "Made For Japan," but these scooters lack the, err, quality, one would expect from China's neighbors to the east. A quick search on Alibaba has the Mishozuki going for between $599-$999 (so long as you buy nine or more), so you can't argue about the price for a country whose population has a tragically low aver- age income of around $25 U.S. per month. That's why the Cuban people must make do with what they have, and in Havana there are several back-alley machine shops using, again, extremely old metal working tools and machines to keep these bikes on the road. There's an art to the tradesman's work as they manufacture and refurbish parts with consummate ease, but it's hard not to feel like the citizens of Cuba are being given the raw end of the deal when the police are riding bikes like CFMoto 650MT and the ambulances are Mercedes Sprinter vans. This feeling gets reinforced when I chat to a young Cuban at a bar late one night on the Malecon. In near perfect English, he tells me he's sick of not just old bikes and cars, but of the simple things, like not being able to have easily acces- sible internet, and how the beautiful Spanish-style buildings in his home city seem to be falling down around him because no money is put into their maintenance. "We want what you have," he tells me emphatically. It's hard to argue with him. There's a definite charm to doing your own little time travel as a tourist, but I also like my new motorcycles, my (somewhat) current model car and being able to chat to my kid on FaceTime while I'm traveling for work. This being the case, the resil- ience of the Cubans I meet during my stay makes me feel like a bit of a wimp. Not being able to just pur- chase new stuff makes them have to think and create on their feet, and I can imagine the undoubted Cuban flair for design would make this place a hotbed of custom motorcycle culture if newer and dif- ferent bikes ever get there. On my final night, staring at the Gulf of Mexico smashing into the walls of the Malecon with rum in hand, I'm left feeling a little per- plexed about my time in Cuba. The people are some of the most lovely and friendly I've met on tour anywhere in the world, the food gets about a three out of 10 at best and the cars are cool remnants of a time the West forgot several generations ago. Yet in an increasingly connected world, Cuba is in the dark ages, and I wonder how much longer that can last for its people. I can only image how the bike culture would explode with greater access to ideas and influence from outside its borders, because this is a country perfectly designed for riding. Cuba is a stunning place and one that offers a totally differ- ent experience to your average holiday, but don't go there expect- ing any great motorcycle culture revelations. The relaxing of travel restrictions for U.S. citizens means those here with a travel itch can more easily scratch it while sipping Havana Club 7 and smoking a fat Cohiba, reciting lines from Hem- mingway and basking in the glory of a bevy of convertible 1950s American cars, and listening to the cackle of communist two-strokes. It's a place you won't forget. CN

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