I’m sitting on the Malecón in Havana looking out at the Gulf of Mexico, legs swinging over the sea wall. I’ve left my back unguarded and it’s not long before this strategic error is exploited.
Suddenly I’m attacked from behind. It’s not painful, in fact I welcome it, and I only have myself to blame for letting my guard down. For a few moments I remain staring at out to sea, trying to pretend that this is not happening to me and hoping they’ll just GO AWAY.
But I know resistance is useless, so I turn my back on the sea and face my attackers.
As hit squads go they are rather charming, but then, most Cubans are.
A young guy with interesting spiky hair and imitation Ray Ban Wayfarers strums his guitar and sings, and his slightly less-hip accomplice plays a pair of bongos attached by a waist harness.
I don’t immediately recognise the song, but it is not altogether unfamiliar either. I’ve recovered by now, and accepted that I’ve been well and truly ambushed.
They are playing as if their lives depended on it, and I am an audience of one.
When they finish they ask the inevitable question: “Where are you from?”
Cubans don’t have passports, can’t just go to airport and jump on a plane, and every visitor is from someplace else, someplace they can’t go. So it’s a fair enough question, and in any case, the world comes to Cuba.
Suddenly I’m attacked from behind. It’s not painful, in fact I welcome it, and I only have myself to blame for letting my guard down. For a few moments I remain staring at out to sea, trying to pretend that this is not happening to me and hoping they’ll just GO AWAY.
But I know resistance is useless, so I turn my back on the sea and face my attackers.
As hit squads go they are rather charming, but then, most Cubans are.
A young guy with interesting spiky hair and imitation Ray Ban Wayfarers strums his guitar and sings, and his slightly less-hip accomplice plays a pair of bongos attached by a waist harness.
I don’t immediately recognise the song, but it is not altogether unfamiliar either. I’ve recovered by now, and accepted that I’ve been well and truly ambushed.
They are playing as if their lives depended on it, and I am an audience of one.
When they finish they ask the inevitable question: “Where are you from?”
Cubans don’t have passports, can’t just go to airport and jump on a plane, and every visitor is from someplace else, someplace they can’t go. So it’s a fair enough question, and in any case, the world comes to Cuba.
They launch into another song and this time I do recognise it. I’m a tourist so I obviously want to hear something from the Buena Vista Social Club sound track. I tell them to stop (that I’ve already overdosed on Chan Chan) and to play something less well known. They are slightly thrown by this — a tourist who doesn’t want to hear Chan Chan?
They metaphorically pull their chins for a moment, confer briefly, decide on a tune, and then start up again. It’s a pretty little number, in which the word corazón appears several times, so I guess it’s a love song. Again the guitarist gives it all he’s got and the bongo player hits the skins with fluid precision.
They metaphorically pull their chins for a moment, confer briefly, decide on a tune, and then start up again. It’s a pretty little number, in which the word corazón appears several times, so I guess it’s a love song. Again the guitarist gives it all he’s got and the bongo player hits the skins with fluid precision.
Knowing full well that I’m going to have to shell out at least a couple of Pesos for this entertainment I ask if I can have a go on the bongos (I did used to be a drummer after all).
They indulge me, help strap them around my waist, and then I accompany the guitar player. Despite my amateurism and lack of technique, I like to think I don’t make too bad a job of it.
Afterwards they clap and cheer, tell me I was good (but they were hardly going to tell me I was rubbish were they?).
By this time the third amigo has sidled up (reinforcements). He’d been hanging back a few yards further down the sea wall observing developments.
He pulls out a handful of CDs from his bag, popular Cuban music recorded by Cuban musicians, “Only ten pesos each.” I assume they’re all chums, and in the same business, which is trying to extract some CUCs (peso convertibles) from tourists' wallets, which are worth twenty-four times their own national peso, the CUP, so who can blame them?
They indulge me, help strap them around my waist, and then I accompany the guitar player. Despite my amateurism and lack of technique, I like to think I don’t make too bad a job of it.
Afterwards they clap and cheer, tell me I was good (but they were hardly going to tell me I was rubbish were they?).
By this time the third amigo has sidled up (reinforcements). He’d been hanging back a few yards further down the sea wall observing developments.
He pulls out a handful of CDs from his bag, popular Cuban music recorded by Cuban musicians, “Only ten pesos each.” I assume they’re all chums, and in the same business, which is trying to extract some CUCs (peso convertibles) from tourists' wallets, which are worth twenty-four times their own national peso, the CUP, so who can blame them?
Bongos reunited with someone who knows how to play them and the third amigo on clave, they launch straight in to El Cuarto de Tula, which is also from the famous Buena Vista Social Club CD.
This time I don’t protest, just sit back and enjoy, after all, it’s not everyday you find yourself in Havana.
This time I don’t protest, just sit back and enjoy, after all, it’s not everyday you find yourself in Havana.
