Our man in Tokyo

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.

Next week: Mob rule