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June 29, 2006
Mob rule
Later, I'd tell the police it was bad luck that led me to that street in Central Havana. But that's not entirely true.
I'd been watching the final game of the Cuban baseball season on an old black and white television in a cafe near the National Capital building. Like the Japanese, the Cubans are baseball crazy (word has it that Castro himself is an avid fan). Tonight's game saw local heroes Havana Industriales face off against arch-rivals Santiago del Cuba in the hope of earning an eleventh national title.
It was after midnight when, amid shouts and cheers from the cafe's staff, the television showed Havana players running excitedly onto the field. Havana had won! What had been a sleepy hole-in-the-wall quickly sprang to life. A group of fans wandered in talking excitedly about the result. Someone turned up the radio. Car sirens sang in the street outside. Observing the sudden rush on the bar, I considered staying for another drink.
“Do you... understand?” a man at the next table was asking in halting English. “Its the baseball. Habana won. This place...” He waved his arm in the air. “It is a place for the fan.” This made sense. Above the counter were several items of baseball memorabilia: a signed shirt, a faded baseball cap, photos of players posing. Although I hadn't really noticed when I came in, I'd stumbled across one of those places which, were it not for a regular influx of sports fans, would most likely have faded away long ago. I congratulated my neighbor and reluctantly finished off my drink. It was late, and probably time I went back to my hotel.
No sooner had I walked outside than I heard what sounded like drumming and cheering a street or two away. Despite the late hour, I could see people draining out of the surrounding apartment buildings and moving toward the commotion. Now my curiosity got the better of me. I had to see what was going on. I followed the others toward the increasingly loud noise.
Rounding a corner, the full violence of the sound finally hit me. BOOM-BOOM, BOOM-BOOM-BOOM! BOOM-BOOM, BOOM-BOOM-BOOM!!
My jaw dropped. There must have been hundreds of people, mostly young men, jumping up and down and banging drums made of everything from water bottles to plastic piping. In a scene worthy of Kurtz and his jungle followers, it appeared more religious ritual than mere post-match celebration. Outstretched arms swayed in unison. Bodies shook. Nobody seemed to be leading the crowd, yet they moved as if following some prearranged choreography. Only children moved freely amongst the throng as their parents joined the other marchers.
I tried to get closer to the action. This was incredible. The crowd began a new chant. "Pa-la-tee-no! Pa-la-tee-no!" On the sidelines, people to old to join in with the dancers looked on silently. I half expected to see a mud-caked Martin Sheen appear from the shadows with a 7-inch Bowie knife.
My next thought was for my camera. I dug into my bag and quickly jettisoned the lens cap. Power? Check. Flash? Check.
The crowd began to surge forward, jumping, stamping and jostling toward a more narrow street in front of us. I reached up with the camera and snapped a photo. A brilliant flash lit it up the dark street ahead. In front of me, some of the young men span around to see where the light had come from. Smiling broadly, they paused momentarily before resuming their noisy march.
I took a quick look at the LCD on the back of the camera. It was a good shot. The crowd were frozen, fists pounding the air. In the foreground, a boy was staring back into the camera lens. I checked the camera settings, reached into the air and took another shot. This time the camera's flash really caught the crowd's attention. Maybe throwing myself into the thick of things wasn't such a hot idea after all. I began looking for a way off the street.
Just then a young man in his early twenties turned and smiled. He calmly placed his hand on the lens of my camera. A moment seemed to slip by. Then he pulled at it while lunging at me. All of this took place as if choreographed to the drumming and the movement of the crowd.
I tried to keep hold of my camera. The man, who had moved behind me, was trying to pull the strap from over my head. I raised my hands to keep hold of the camera strap which was threatning to slip from around my neck. In an effort to lift the camera from around my head, he jammed it against my face and worked on getting a a good grip of the strap.
Suddenly, another man moved out of the crowd. Roughly the same age as the guy who by now had his hands around my neck, this second man lunged at the lens and pulled in the opposite direction, so that I was in the middle of a tug-of-war between the two. Somebody hit me in the ribs. I bit down on my lip. The crowd continued chanting, drums still beating.
I could feel the weight of the first guy's body against me, and his breath on my neck. Something had to give, and it turned out to be my camera. I'm not exactly sure if the second guy managed to find the lens release button, or if the lens sheared off mount and all, but in the event my camera broke apart and the lens flew into the air and over the head of the second man. The man quickly scooped it up and scurried off into the crowd, slipping on the street litter as he went.
Perhaps I lessened my grip on the camera in surprise at seeing the lens fly off - in an instant, the guy who had been behind me managed to finally get the camera strap over my head and run past me.
He was jumping up and down in time with the drumming, the camera held hight above his head like a trophy.
Was it over?
I was at the back of the parade and only a few stragglers remained. I stood dumbfounded. What the hell had just happened to me?
Inside my mouth, I could taste blood.
I stumbled in the direction of the crowd, which was by now far ahead of me and moving quickly down the street. I looked hopelessly for my assailants, but they were nowhere to be found. Instead, I spotted a police van only meters from where I had been relived of my camera.
Smarting at this (rather bitter) irony, I made my way up to the crossroads where they were stationed. I motioned to the closest officer.
“Habla Ingles?”
He paid me no attention. He was watching a suspect being frisked against the side of the police vehicle. The man seemed familiar with the routine, submitting to the officer's will without ever being spoken to.
“Perdon. Habla Ingles?”
The officer turned and paused before speaking.
"Go home senor."
Next week: Someone must have been telling lies about Ourmanintokyo
Posted by Marcus at 7:46 PM | Comments (4) | TrackBack
June 23, 2006
Liquid football!
Well, the world cup may be over for Japanese fans, but the games against Australia, Croatia and Brazil were great fun to watch.
I've posted a few photos to a new gallery, which can be found here.
Posted by Marcus at 11:32 PM | Comments (2) | TrackBack
June 20, 2006
Havana
Havana is everything people say and more. A unique combination of history, wonderful architecture and signage proclaiming the glories of the socialist revolution. Being a foreigner here is an experience akin to time travel. You descend from the plane clutching your camera and your cell phone, a visitor from the 21st century. Moments later, having passed through immigration and customs, you are sitting in the back seat of a taxi cab staring out at a antique Chrysler, the driver of which is wearing horn-rimmed glasses and a Fedora. Very Back to the Future.
My hotel was located in Habana Vieja, a Unesco World Heritage site and home to Havana's most celebrated colonial monuments – Catedral de San Cristobal de la Habana, the Iglesia y Monasterio de San Francisco de Asis and dozens of other churches, plazas and museums. Ironic then that it is here in the historic center of Havana where most of the restoration and development has been in recent years. Tourism spells money no matter where in the world you go.
Outside Habana Vieja, however, it is a different story. Everything is crumbling. Central Havana appears to have been hit by a magnitude 7 earthquake. Walking downtown means avoiding falling masonry, potholes, exposed pipes. Puddles of water and sewage share the streets with children, mangy dogs, slack-jawed jineteros and very occasionally some other dazed visitor from the 21st century.
Checking in, I was told that my room was being cleaned and asked if I could I come back in half an hour. I wasn't thrilled at the prospect of going back out into the heat and humidity without a shower and a change of clothes (I'd been up since 3am) but I figured I could relax with a beer at one of the restaurants that dot the nearby harborside. A few minutes later I was sucking back a Buccanero and taking in the view. In the distance I could see what appeared to be some kind of refinery. Thick black smoke poured from a chimney sever stories high. Beside me, the rocks along the sea wall were coated in a thick layer of oil. Unbelievable, then, that there were at least half a dozen men fishing in the inky black toxin-laden slime. How could anyone even contemplate eating something caught in waters so obviously polluted?
I was thinking about this when a man came up to my table and asked of he could join me. I quickly sized him up. He was in his late fifties, and (I was willing to bet) preparing to give me his cigar sales pitch. Alone, and with nothing better to do than to shout one of the locals a drink, I gestured for him to take a seat. What followed would, I guessed correctly, correspond to the template for most future exchanges with this particular brand of friendly local.
“Where you from, my friend?”
“Australia”
“Ahhh... Sydney, lovely place. I have a brother in Sydney. Hot. Kangaroos.”
“Yeah... actually I'm from Melbourne. Its in the south”
“Melbourne... Melbourne, eh?” My new friend looked confused. Obviously he didn't hear about our triumph in hosting the Commonwealth Games.
“This place,” he gestured to the bar “good for mojitos”.
Oh Yes. I'd only ever had this cocktail of rum, mint, lime juice, powdered sugar and soda water in Japan, and was eager to sample the real thing. I nodded and pointed to my rapidly emptying bottle of Buccanero.
“Go ahead if you want one” I offered.
“Yes, mojitos and a nice Cohiba. You like cigars?” As he asked he scratched his crotch with one hand and motioned to the waitress with the other.
Most of us are familiar with the hustler, the scam artist and the snake-oil salesman. Whether you're in New York, Bangkok, Amsterdam or Tokyo, you're bound to have run into a guy who's got 'a great deal for you'. When traveling, I don't have any great problem allowing myself to listen to the pitch and even perhaps offer the guy a drink. After all, chances are that you're average monthly income is well beyond his, and perhaps more importantly these guys are often a great way to glean information that can't be found in any guidebook.
And it turns out that my new friend Phillipe was a font of information about the city, its districts as well as the best places to buy Fidel's favorite brand of carcinogen (“my friend with the cigars... he lives just over there... not far”)
An hour or so later, having had my fill of mojitos, Cuban history and Phillipe's nasty habit of scratching himself, I said my goodbyes and made my way back to the hotel.
That evening, having finally showered and changed, I packed my camera in my backpack and made my way to one of Havana's most famous sights, the Malecon. All the guidebooks had described how, as the sun descends into ocean, all of Havana comes out to admire the view. And it is stunning. Caught in the fading light, the apartment buildings facing the ocean seem to change color every few minutes. Blazing red, then orange, then purple until the sun finally sets.
Cursing myself for leaving my good camera lenses back at the hotel, I marched along the strip shooting anything that caught my eye: lovers holding hands, men in military uniform, kids diving from the rocks and into the dirty water below. I had no doubt these would be some of the best images I'd ever taken.
Passing the Castillo de San Salvador de la Punta, I came across two musicians who were clearly waiting for an opportunity like me to blunder by and tip a demonstration of their musical skills.
“Where are you from?”
“Australia.”
“Australia? A long way. From Sydney?”
“Melbourne.”
This was feeling very familiar. The man closest adjusted the mouthpiece in his trombone.
“I was wondering if you guys would like to play something for me.”
I took up a position on the rock wall as the first of the two men leaned in to me and pointed to his trombone.
“Yes, but I have to use this.” The instrument, it was clear, had seen better days. It was badly beaten and held together by tape in parts. I offered a tip and asked what they play. Nodding at each other, the broke into “Let it be”. Nice, but not exactly what I was hoping to hear.
“Umm.." I searched my words, "I don't really wanna hear the tourist stuff. What do you want to play?”
“Its a problem...” the taller of the two said pointing again at his worn trombone. “No good.”
He now switched instruments with his partner. This trombone was in much better condition.
The tall musician began to play, alone this time, and it was great. It wasn't from the Buena Vista Social Club soundtrack, and it wasn't the Beatles. It was the real thing without the tourist-friendly packaging. A smooth sounding Cuban tune with a sexy latin rhythm As he finished I slid my camera from my backpack. Now was my chance. Any longer I might outstay my welcome. And I was running out of those funky 3 peso notes.
Swapping back to their own instruments, the duo finished up with a slow bit of 'son', a style of traditional Cuban music. I quietly zoomed in with my camera and tried to capture the expressions on their faces as the sought their cues.
Its true that everywhere you go in Cuba, you can hear music of some kind, be it salsa, son, flamenco or latin electronica. Even cheesy disco classics seem to attract an audience (what is it about the Bee Gee's Nightfever that makes otherwise musically sophisticated souls turn into your parents after one-too-many bottles of chardonnay at a cousin's wedding?)
My next stop was Cafe Paris, where I hoped to catch some latin jazz surrounded by fellow travelers and (what the guidebook described as) a "gregarious atmosphere". Well, the music was brilliant, even if the bar was a little low on gregariousness the night I visited. I arrived during a set break, and somehow managed to end up sitting alone at an empty table immediately in front of the band. What sound! But I felt a little too conspicuous sitting alone amongst the empty tables, like an injured player watching from the sidelines.
Throughout Havana, tourists (of all denominations) pick their way through meals of pork, beans and rice while being entertained by musicians who (in any other country) would surely be able to secure multi-disc recording contracts and regular concert-hall performances. At the end of each set, a member of the group scours the room for tips, or preferably a buyer for the group's album.
I glanced around at my companions. Behind me, an elderly Chinese waiter in a red silk robe was reading the palms of a Cuban boy and his Canadian girlfriend. To my left, at the bar, I could see yet another jinetero working the room. The lone foreigner he was speaking to quickly paid his bill and left. In the far corner, another middle-aged couple seemed to be arguing over what to order. The band probably wouldn't be selling many CDs tonight.
Nevertheless, when the bass player swang past my table an hour or so later, I was intoxicated as much by the music as the mojitos. I put down 10 pesos and thanked him for a great night.
"But its still early" he replied.
Posted by Marcus at 7:07 AM | Comments (2) | TrackBack
June 19, 2006
Oh Canada!
I've added a new gallery to the site, this time for photos taken during my recent trip to Canada. I hope you like the pictures.
And if you're wondering why so many of the pictures feature members of Montreal's Fire Brigade, its because on the last day of my stay there the building behind my hotel caught fire! It seems there was an electrical fault somewhere near the roof. Thankfully nobody was hurt and any damage appeared to be minor.
Yes, it was an eventful trip.
Posted by Marcus at 6:04 PM | Comments (2) | TrackBack
June 17, 2006
Somewhere above Florida...
Posted by Marcus at 2:40 AM | Comments (3) | TrackBack
June 15, 2006
Who's game
How do you say "banana daiquiri"?
"Banana daiquiri."
At various times in my life I've found myself 'donating' to Kalashnikov-toting soldiers in Vietnam, negotiating peace agreements between drunken students in provincial Russia and sweating out cyclones in Fiji. I've been on all-night absinthe binges in Berlin, temporarily kidnapped by Thai cabdrivers and shared a beer and a story or two with the local yakuza in Tokyo.
Now I have another misadventure to add to that list: I got attacked and robbed by a mob in downtown Havana.
It all started months ago when my friend and drinking-partner Kent suggested we go traveling together, to "somewhere like Cuba" where we "could drink daiquiris and listen to some great music".
Ahhh... Cuba. Immediately I pictured cigar-chomping locals welcoming us with mojitos before driving us to salsa clubs in vintage sedans. Or perhaps brochure-friendly beaches lined with palm trees and mob-run casinos (who can forget Michael Corleone's rooftop meeting with Hymen Roth in The Godfather Part II?)
But beyond the fantasy, I also knew from the photos of Alex Webb that this would be the perfect place for me to get serious about the kind of street photography I'd been wanting to do. Rather than take the usual tourist pics, I hoped to capture something of the 'reality' of Cuban life. For all of its wonderful culture and sandy beaches, economically the country still languishes in the post-Soviet era doldrums. Webb's photographs show children playing baseball amid dilapidated buildings and families squeezed onto overcrowded trucks and buses. I saw this a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to see and photograph something that, should the political situation change, may disappear very quickly. I told my friend I was definitely in.
Then one night Kent gave me the bad news. He didn't think he could go, given he was supposed to be saving for a new apartment and the timing simply wasn't right.
For some reason I wasn't put off. Hell, I thought, it may just be a whole lot better for my liver to travel without a guy who earned his drinking stripes first in a band and later in the army.
I was going anyway. Just me, my camera and what little Spanish I'd managed to pick up from spaghetti westerns.
I caught my first glimpse of Havana as my plane pitched and rolled toward Jose Marti Airport. From above, the city seemed small and peaceful, at least when compared with the never ending sprawl of Asia. Staring out the window, I thought about how close Cuba is to the United States. Less than an hour earlier, the flight had been working its way south along the eastern coast of Florida. How could such a relatively small area of water equate to such a huge cultural and ideological divide?
Now, as the aircraft swung away from the city on its final approach, bright green countryside came into view. Below were green fields separated by dusty roads and palm trees. I could even make out a few men on horseback among the tractors and trucks.
On the ground, doors dis-armed, the pilot's voice came over the intercom. “Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to Havana”.
This was going to be fun.
Posted by Marcus at 12:19 PM | Comments (2) | TrackBack