SANGRE DE SALSA
It begins with your feet.
Before you even notice it they’re tapping away uncontrollably on the cobblestones beneath. The incessant, seductive beat demands it.
Four old men stand with four old instruments on a crumbling Cuban corner producing rhythmic magic. Their faces are as weathered as the decaying Havana streets, but their bodies are alive like the vivacious Havana streets.
The sounds of salsa fill the air as people go about their business. Some kids up the road are dodging the vintage American Chevrolets that interrupt their baseball game. A few ladies stir some steaming pots of rice and chicken. The men playing dominoes hardly notice what’s going on as they puff away on big cohibas. And a few of the onlookers have broken out into a flurry of spins, dancing like it’s in their blood.
For now I’m content just sitting in this doorway, taking in the scene while sharing a glass of Havana Club with my new friend Cesar.
Cuba’s enchanting capital is alive with music at every turn. The sounds of salsa, son and rumba are hypno`tising, like oxygen they accompany daily life. It feels like in Havana there is no walking, just music and dance. And never is that more evident than this week.
I’ve arrived just in time for the annual Havana Jazz Festival, a week-long celebration of music which draws many of Latin America’s most renowned musicians into one enthralling location. Havana breathes music year round, but for seven days it takes it one step further. Majestic concert halls, torch-lit plazas, underground jazz bars and decrepit alleyways – anywhere that will fit a few instruments becomes a stage.
In one day I found myself feeling every bit a part of a 1950’s movie, marvelling at the grandeur of the Hotel Nacional while the Buena Vista Social Club went about serenading the entranced audience. A few hours later I found myself in a back-street car park with 1000 new friends, enjoying a few mojitos and a 20-strong band that could make the stars dance.
Neither occasion is unusual in this city. Havana has earned a reputation for being famously intriguing and mysterious, it’s contradictions only heighten its romanticism.
On the way into Havana the first thing you notice is the heavily anti-American, propaganda filling the billboard – a reminder you’re in a country like no other. But upon arriving in the city, it’s impossible not get swept away in it’s old-world charm. Remnants of a majestic colonial past line the malecón, where now decaying mansions and impregnable forts meet the sparkling waters of the Caribbean. By day you’ll find long lines outside ration outlets, by night those lines migrate to the salsa houses to dance away until morning.
Cesar fills my glass as we sit on the doorstep of his guesthouse. Che watches us from the wall across the street, and the music keeps on going. On an unknown corner somewhere in Cuba, it’s a good place to sit. Just watching some ordinary guys play some incredible music.
