eine weitere Super-Story, bei der holländische und deutsche Radfahrer-Touristen recht lustig, aber absolut treffend charkterisiert werden.
"Back at ground zero I spot a pair of Dutch backpackers hanging out for a lift to the top. Both young, blond, and carrying an air of worldly arrogance many pack especially for trips to third-world countries, then throw off when they go back home. Their problem, as is mine, is the lack of passing traffic on this day, and the curious unwillingness of those passing to stop. I notice this seemingly un-Cuban attitude is more pronounced near heavily touristed regions. The Dutch double
have been waiting for over two hours, and when I suggest they try holding out a dollar note for attention, they look at me as if I’d suggested they surrender their virginity to the next truckload of banana pickers.
‘Veef nefer had to pay, and ve are not gunna start,’ sniff s the long haired, bespectacled one.
They inform me that they are converting everything to pesos to make sure they get the cheapest deal. Typical stingy Dutch, I find myself thinking in a flash of pure and unblessed bigotry, and hope I never run into them again."
"I haven’t been pedalling long when a distinct hum catches my ear. Then it’s gone. Then it’s back. I strain my ears to catch it but the breeze eats it. I hear it again, louder. A vision of a giant cloud of Cuban stalker bees leaps to mind.
I look behind me and see nothing, just fields and ocean and sky. Then something enters the corner of my eye, a fuzzy glinting blob moving along the ribbon of highway in my wake. It disappears behind a rise in the road, then reappears on the crest. It is the unmistakeable purr of a peloton of cyclists.
Das machine, as I coin this group of five German cyclists, catches up with my small wheels, hovering briefly like a space probe, its five pilots nodding imperceptibly. Then it rockets past like a spray of Lycra bullets shot from a red and yellow spotted gun. Immediately ahead they slow again, they nod to each other, turn around and pedal back towards me.
In a moment I am enveloped by the mother ship, safely docked among precision-engineered fat aluminium tubes, tinted eyeglasses, German-made waterproof panniers and the whirr of five pairs of wheels as we accelerate to somewhere near 50 kilometres per hour.
Whew. It is hopeless. After five minutes in hyperspace I realise I cannot not keep up and fall away like a loose cog, motioning for them to continue without me. I see
them close ranks, wave auf wiedersehen, and my guard of honour hums down the highway.
I am suddenly pedalling alone as before."
Dazu noch eine billige Anmache von ein paar Guajiros.
Wirklich voll auf den Punkt gebracht!
http://www.bikefriday.com/images/news/cuba-19-loiter-too-far.pdf
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