Our man in Tokyo

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.

Next week: Havana