Up on the roof

I ruin my last full day in Havana with a monumental hangover, though the previous evening (I believe) was well worth the price, even though my recollections of it are now as hazy as the face of the girl who appeared from the shadows in the dimly-lit doorway of a former hotel. She was very direct, and in my inebriated state I wonder just how (or why) I resisted her unsubtle charms — and you may well ask just what I was doing there in the first place. 

However, redemption is at hand, a peace offering in the form of a solo violin — not an unheard instrument in this city but not a common one either. 

I get up, rather unsteadily, pull back the curtains and look out over the now familiar landscape of buildings and flat rooftops stretching out before me. 

Gradually I am able to stabilise the horizontals, make sense of the shapes and colours, control the feeling of nausea, and focus my vision. 

There is a man in a bright-blue boiler suit tending one of the many clusters of racing pigeon cages set out on the roofs of central Havana. There is also a woman in a red top and purple shorts, on the same roof, hanging out washing. 

I keep looking but I can’t see anyone playing a violin, maybe whoever-it-is, is inside, or I’m having an audio hallucination to augment the other effects of my over indulgence.

A pigeon lands and retreats inside one of the open cages. The man in the bright-blue boiler suit, who has been hiding behind a wall, sneaks up, reaches inside the cage, grabs the pigeon and throws it back into the air, where of course, because it is a bird, and has wings has wings, is able to fly, unlike me.

I see another boiler suit, a dark blue one this time, but there’s no one inside —it hangs from a washing line, swaying slightly in the breeze. 

And there, close by, I see a young girl playing her violin in the shade. She can be no more than 10-12, and wears a neat yellow and black checked shorts and top combination. 

Another girl about the same age (sisters perhaps) stands nearby in the sunlight. There is a basket of washing that (presumably) she is meant to be hanging on the line to dry, but she is more interested in her mp3 player, which I suspect is an entirely different style of music to the classical repertoire her sister is practising on her violin.

Hotel Inglaterra

The street-level terrace of the Hotel Inglaterra has a row of plants set out between the columns that border the colonnade, deterring the riff-raff from straying into the gringo zone, and the punters from leaving without paying their tab. People come and go via the two columns opposite the main entrance, where a doorman keeps a watchful eye on things.

I am greeted with a friendly smile, "Buenas tardes señor," and then take a seat at one of the heavy metal tables topped with hand-painted ceramic tiles.

On Paseo de Marti, buses crammed with people returning from work pass by in the cool dusk of a stormy day, reminding me of my privileged status, that I am just another tourist passing through, drinking beer and smoking a cigar.

The pavement traffic is also heavy, hands holding hoisted umbrellas, and feet trying to avoid the puddles from the recent showers. A few people stop and listen to the salsa band, peering over the wall of plants. A girl delivers me air-blown kisses, eyes sparkling. An out-stretched hand reaches through the plants, "Just one peso señor…" before the doorman moves him on. A man stands with a small pad of paper drawing quick sketches of the punters, hoping to receive a peso or two for his efforts. He passes the finished sketch across the plants and waits patiently. It is not very good, but at least he is trying.

Che Guevara makes an appearance, this being one of his regular haunts on his daily rounds. He also stops and peers over the foliage, eyes beaming, unlit cigar stub in his mouth, ever confident that that the tourists will want their picture taken with him despite his scruffy appearance — the beret with the star, the beard and the cigar will pass for the real thing, at least when showing the holiday snaps back home, or when posted on Facebook.

Two foreign girls are ushered in by the smiling doorman, and saunter to the table near the band. Soon they are sipping their mojitos and tapping their high heels to the salsa rhythm. 
The band is a regular fixture here, and even though it's a hotel terrace gig and not the Tropicana, there is no reason to play with any less enthusiasm, despite the same daily repertoire, and the transitory audience. The trumpet player, a cool looking guy in a grey suit and a black pork-pie hat, shuffles his feet from side to side and twists his torso between blows, dancing with his trumpet. He steps forward and beckons one of the girls to get up and dance, but she resists, arms folded tightly and shaking her head. He tries again, but she's rooted to the chair, her inhibitions in full control.

Meanwhile a young woman stands at the entrance, on her own. She wears a smart white jacket and clutches a replica Louis Vuitton handbag. But unlike the two foreign girls, she has to wait for approval from the doorman before she can enter. She sits at a table on her own sipping her Daiquiri through a straw and exchanging glances with two American men at a nearby table.

I finish my beer, stub out my cigar, and get up to leave. But as I step out of the gringo zone onto the rain-soaked pavement, Che Guevara grabs my arm and holds onto me firmly, hoping that at any second my face will melt in recognition and I will be only too happy to have my photo taken with him, for a couple of Pesos of course.

I manage to shake him off, even though he had latched on with determination, and I take off down San Martin into the gathering Havana night.

A final glance down the terrace reveals that the girl in the white jacket had joined the two American men at their table, and has a fresh Daiquiri in front of her.

A — Z of Havana

A is for ancient American automobiles, atrophied architecture, and absent anchovies.

B is for broken and battered, but beautiful.

C is for cracked, crumbling, cockerels crowing in the city, chess in the shade of the colonnade, Chan Chan, and “Cigar-cigar — Cohiba, very good price no problem.”

D is for Daiquiri, dirt, dust and debris, but immaculately dressed school children.

E is for erosion, effulgence, erstwhile elegance, exhaust efflux, Eddie, Egrem, and (Saint) Ernesto (Che Guevara).

F is for fading façades, fabulous, fun, fast girls and friendly (sometimes a bit too friendly).

G is for gringo-savvy, gyrating gesticulations, and gold teeth.

H is for (Cuban) high heels, Hemingway haunts, “Hello my friend…” and hot hot hot.

I is for incredible, impossible, irresistible and indescribable.

J is for joyful, juicy, jalopy and jaded jalousies.

K is for kool, krazy and kooky.

L is for laughter, love, and life!

M is for make-do-and-mend, music, the Malecon, music on the Malecon, Mojitos, maracas, and MAD AS HELL.

N is for no holes bared.

O is for oblique, open doorways and Oye Como Va.

P is for peeling paintwork, palm trees, potholes in the pavements, and promenading on the Prado.
 

Q is for quixotic, quirky and (Cuban style) queuing (an amusing take on an informal gathering).

R is for Rumba, rum, rice and beans, roadside repairs, and Rumberos De Cuba.

S is for seductive, sexy, Salsa, and sunset on the seafront.

T is for tantalising, taped-up trombones and “Taxi amigo?”

U is for unusual, unique and unabashed.

V is for vultures circling over the city hospital, and hasta la Victoria.

W is for waves washing over the Malecon wall, white marble staircases (behind open doorways), and “Where are you from?”

X is for x-traordinary, and MaXimo.

Y is for Yosvani (there is only one).

Z is for zanily zany, zeal, and zealously zealous.

 

The Three Amigos

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.

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.

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?

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.

Black coffee

Now that I no longer have milk in my coffee and there is no chocolate-dusted frothy foam on top, the venue for this particular cup is clearly revealed in the oily-black surface of my beverage. 
At least the roof of the venue is, but it is no ordinary roof. 
This was as unexpected and pleasing find, and a strong contrast to the white porcelain cup and Formica tabletop.

 














The Great Court, British Museum London. Foster and Partners

The Bishop of Oxford

 I was invited to a lunch party one Sunday afternoon a while back to which the Bishop of Oxford was also a guest. (I do move in these exalted circles now and then you know). Now, unlike the Bishop of Norwich, the Bishop of Oxford turned out to be a real person, not a euphemism to pass the Port. 

I didn't get to speak to his purple-shirted reverence; he was otherwise engaged in conversation with more learned men than I. However, I did get to speak to his charming wife, who, during our idle conversation revealed that she was reading the new Ian McEwan, and it was 'absolutely marvellous'. 

Later, driving home through the Buckinghamshire countryside I saw a plump and perfectly formed green mound of a hill, and decided on the spur of the moment to stop there and go for a walk.

But about half way up a police helicopter suddenly buzzed round from behind the hill and flew so close I could just about see the white of the pilot's eyes. A police Land Rover had also appeared and was approaching two other walkers who were ahead of me nearer the top. Intrigued, I continued, and as I reached the top of the hill four armed police officers from the Land Rover were interviewing other walkers. 

“So you live round here then?” I overheard one of the police officers say.  

“Oh yes, we're locals,” was the reply. 

They were then dismissed and the focus of attention turned to me. 

“And what about you sir? Do you live locally?” 

“No, I live about thirty miles away,” I replied, which I thought was reasonably local. 

“Have you any idea where you are?” He asked. 

By this time I was wondering just what I'd walked into — perhaps there was a biological weapons testing plant nearby that had reported an escapee. 

“Well,” he said, turning a pointing. “Just down there the other side of those trees is Chequers.” 

The penny suddenly dropped. David Cameron had just become Prime Minister, and this very weekend he was choosing his new cabinet. Checkers would therefore be crawling with senior politicians coming too and fro to find out which departments they had been assigned. 

I said that I had crossed no fences and there were no keep out signs, or even gates.

They bluffed this one over by saying something like — yeah but you can't be too careful, and some thing about Fathers 4 Justice.

Another penny dropped. They obviously assumed that I was wearing a super hero costume concealed beneath my clothes and a banner rolled up in my underpants and that I was a potential embarrassment to the fledgling government, if not an outright threat to national security. 

One of the policemen radioed my name through to 'control' from the Land Rover. There was a crackle at the other end, the sound of tapping on a keyboard, and then a pause. 

Surely 'possession of marijuana' circa 1973 wouldn't still show up, I wondered...?

For some reason I didn't get to hear what 'control' had to say, and as my name wasn't on their list I was told I was free to go.

Well, it is a free country... isn't it?

Biggles Flies Again!

 

Having long wanted to experience flying in an old biplane with open cockpit (going all the way back to reading Biggles books as a kid), I get to tick this one off the bucket list. 

Arranged for me by amigo Allan, who knows the pilot, Pete, who took me for a spin, including loop the loops, and barrel rolls.

Not the Sopwith Camel I had imagined, but a Bücker Yungmann, a German designed plane. This one was made under licence in Spain, from where Pete bought it, and flew it back to the UK, and which apparently was once part of Franco's Airforce!

Smoke me a kipper, I'll be back for breakfast!