"We could fight a revolution in the USA; we started it in Cuba with less than a hundred men!" said Jose, wild-eyed, as his wife made the finger-round-the-ear "loco" sign. Flanked by photos of his heroes Che Guevara and Fidel Castro, this 76 year-old villager and veteran of Cuba's pre-Communist sugar-factory strikes was offering to help liberate America's poor.

Jose represented just one voice - tinted with past glory - defining Cuba as it struggles to reinvent itself. I went there in search of its stories and its heart; I'd seen too many portrayals based on brief Havana visits; of the tired facades, proliferating prostitutes, and run-down American cars from the fifties. I wanted to see the rest of Cuba, meet farmers and entrepreneurs, learn what holds this isolated historical anachronism together in the midst of shopworn Communism and decades-old ostracism by my own country's government.

I'm no stranger to Communism. I studied Marxian economics in graduate school, and lived in Prague for eighteen months after witnessing Czechoslovakia's Velvet Revolution in l989. I have travelled extensively in Communist nations, including Albania, China, and the Soviet Union before, during, and after the upheavals of the nineties. I knew what to expect in Cuba. But I still wanted to know: How does Cuba endure despite contorted doctrine and U.S.-led efforts to undermine it? How are those in the rural areas, adapting to the post-Soviet era? Perhaps most importantly, why is Castro still in charge? Dogged obedience born of inertia? Fear of the police? Another reason?

A bicycle was the logical choice for this quest; Cubans bike by the millions, and the land is relatively flat. The countryside is not served by the trains that link major cities, rural buses are scarce, and private car rental, though inexpensive by privileged-world standards, didn't fit the philosophy of this low budget trip. I've always found economy to be the mother of adventure anyway.

For two weeks I pedalled 20-50 miles a day with Pablo, an artist from the Havana Bicycle Club. Our frequent stops for drinks and meals gave me ample opportunity to question Cubans about their lives. We also took a few ferries, and sometimes flagged down trucks to cover more ground. Because of limited transport, trucks are required by law to take passengers. These rides were sometimes festive; I jammed on my harmonica with guitarists on a couple and was offered rum on others.

We stayed in private homes, or "casas" (some officially licensed for foreigners, some not), ate with families, and talked about Cubans' lives and hopes for the future. Though we visited cities, the frank-speaking country people offered the best insights. I discovered that of necessity Cubans are skilled in resourceful austerity. I met nobody desperate to "escape." Noticing the slow economic recovery, most were optimistic for better times ahead.

In the scenic hills near south central Trinidad, we stopped one day at a village cafe offering dishes of chocolate pudding in addition to basic foods and cigarettes. "With the [U.S.-led] blockade, sometimes we don't have any food to sell," the female proprietor told me. "In l993 we didn't even have cigarettes. Things are good now. Fidel is a good president."

Later, after stopping for water at a village school, we piled into a passing truck - the day's school bus - with twenty boisterous school kids heading for the community farm to work in the fields. "There's work to do and we need to help," 12-year-old Lucia explained, "It's fun!" Their happy, selfless, Nintendo-free energy was refreshing.

We stopped to share a juicy, organic pineapple at a roadside stand. Organic farms dot the countryside, more in response to shortages of chemical fertilizers and pesticides than to health concerns. The proprietor at this one said his work there was "much better than the job I had before, in the cane fields."

Other business people are impatient, even pessimistic. When we stopped for pizza at her roadside stand, Maria said, "Business is bad; things are getting worse here." Moments later and out of mom's earshot, her early-twenties son confessed. "She is never happy. Business is improving little by little. We work hard, but we earn more than we did on the government farm." I sensed in his optimism an emerging generation gap, one pitting tired resignation against youthful and entrepreneurial hope.

I encountered only two problems, both petty, both arising from my attire. Denied entry to Santa Clara's ornate Che Guevara museum--no tank tops allowed--I accepted a Che T-shirt offered on loan by an attendant. As I tipped her, I smiled at the opportunism of the transaction. The museum is tastefully stuffed with memorabilia from Che's days as Cuban liberator; uniforms, journals, his old thermos. Later I discovered Che shirts for $3--half the museum's price--on Santa Clara's central square.

We saw surprisingly few uniformed police, all unarmed. My second "problem" arose during an outdoor lunch stop in a western town, when a police officer told me to "be decent" and put on my shirt. We were told he was also the town's priest; his authority was clear, but its source was not.

Though adapted to life without Soviet subsidies, Cuba still exhibits stark evidence of its previous dependency. When we biked along the southern edge of Cienfuegos Bay, we explored the town of Juragua. Its partly-built, windowless apartment buildings glowered down over the grounds of an unfinished nuclear power facility - it was to be Cuba's first - abandoned along with the half-completed Juragua itself in l992 after the last of the Soviet aid dried up and blew away in the crosswinds of global change.

We had passed several "Cuba Free and Democratic" billboards before I finally asked Pablo about them. "Well," he replied with a trace of sarcasm, "if you repeat a lie enough times, people will believe it. Besides, what is democracy? Do you have democracy in the USA, with rich people running everything?"

In the western province of Pinar del Rio, source of 80% of Cuba's tobacco, we met Pepe, 75, who claimed to have smoked three cigars daily since he was twelve. He's allowed to make cigars for his own use, and to sell to visitors at 40 cents each. Having successfully merged the official with the entrepreneurial, he said, "I've always been happy here."

The quaint town of Vinales lies nestled in the embrace of magical spire-like "mogote" hills, remnants of a now collapsed natural system of limestone caverns and underground rivers. Its surrounding valleys are a mosaic of streams, caves and old thatched-roof tobacco barns. During a water stop at his newly built farm home amidst the splendor, Armano told us, "Life is better now than a few years ago, and the future will be much better." Construction is booming in the countryside; people are building new homes despite chronic shortages of construction materials.

That evening at Dago's, a funky Vinales bar, we met Pedro, a saxophonist, and soon his band was playing for us. Feeling responsible, we bought them beers and fattened their tip jar. "We all have official jobs, of course," he said, "but music is our real passion."

The next day we encountered three rural men using oxen and burning wood to make low grade coal. Drinking at midday, they too were optimistic about their future. "More or less, things are better for us now than two, five, ten years ago," said the most coherent, offering me a pull on his rum. "But today we're working hard!"

Later over ice cream, sociology professor Uvaldo told me, "What feels like improvement may only be the result of people adapting to the hardships. Still, we want to believe in a better future, all of us." Relying only on his meager government salary, he still lived with his parents. "I cannot afford to get married... yet!" he said, smiling.

Further east, in La Guira National Park we were greeted by dense forests and many birds, including a colorful tocororo, Cuba's national bird. Arriving at a farmhouse locals said was a cafe, we were met with hesitation and denial. The women were worried we were from the police, coming to arrest them, but soon they broke out cookies and pineapple juice, served in cups resourcefully fashioned from empty beer cans.

Nearby, the manager of a rather dismal campground was quick to offer us his home for the night, unofficially, of course. He and his wife gave us, the dollar-paying visitors, the main bedroom of their run-down dwelling, gladly crowding their family of six into a bed and a couch. I pondered Cuba's l959 revolution and its goal of creating equality for the poor. Were we the new imperialists, bearing a history-repeats-itself message, born of wealth and privilege, or just responsible travellers paying well for our indulgences?

Perhaps out of desperation, Castro has evolved an ideological half-breed economy, with a lucrative private (and heavily taxed) tourist sector haphazardly duct-taped to an ailing, barely-functional government one. But it's working; officials often ignore the unapproved business ventures of citizens (payoffs and corruption are minimal), and life is slowly improving for most, if not all. A rift may exist between those with well-paying tourism or black market jobs, and those those without, but I heard no Cuban speak with jealousy or indignation about a fellow Cuban. Their humanity, not their incomes or work, makes them comrades.

Cubans clearly survive in spite of the trade embargo, while Castro survives because of it, using this convenient scapegoat to explain away any problems. It made me wonder whose side the American embargo supporters are really on. Among his own people Castro is marginalized but tolerated, sometimes affectionately, like the weird uncle upstairs who everyone knows won't be leaving except in a box, cold.

Cuba has weathered the recent Soviet pullout, but this crisis won't be their last. Facing the impositions of austerity, Cubans have learned to depend on family, community, and whatever networks they need to make ends meet. This nation sometimes viewed as an ideological leftover is very real for its eleven million citizens. Tomorrow, like always, they will simply sigh and persist, with or without Castro or his foes. From the seat of a bicycle, I learned that Cubans intimately know the challenges of unwieldy political doctrine. Yet they are far too aware and resilient to bow to the attempts of my government to bury them.

If You Go -- Bicycling Cuba

Flights to Cuba originate in in many countries; only the USA has none, due to their trade embargo. Cancun--about $190 US return, including visa--is the cheapest departure point; there are many flights from Latin American cities, making Cuba accessible as a side trip to this region.

U.S. dollars are widely used and easiest to exchange. Film and other privileged-world items can be found for dollars in cities and tourist hotels; some food and drinks are available for Cuban pesos. Unofficial and official exchange rates are the same, about 20 pesos per dollar. Though Cuba is very safe, petty crime occurs in the cities.

Roads are excellent, and traffic is light. The Bicycle Club has some bikes, but it's best to bring your own, with panniers and tools. All towns have bike shops to fix flats and minor repairs.

Guides speak English and have maps. Spanish is necessary if you're on your own. If you use a guide, the total cost will be around $20-25US per day, including food and accommodation. On your own you'll pay more, and spend more time on logistics.

Weather is warm - daytime highs in the 80s F - and often humid. The fairest months, November to May, still bring occasional rain. Carry a lightweight plastic poncho.

"An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth only makes us all blind."
-- Gandhi