Time on my side.....

Photos: The Rest of Yemen

hopehill — Mon, 18 Apr 2011 09:23:00 GMT

Sway- Santiago de Cuba

hopehill — Thu, 14 Apr 2011 00:10:00 GMT

The hand painted sign says ‘Casa de la Tradiciones’ but there is nothing else to suggest this house is a bastion of traditional Cuban music. Clinging to the sharp gradients of the Tivoli district in Santiago de Cuba, it looks no bigger than any of the other pastel two-rooms-for-everything constructions surrounding it. An old man sitting at the top of the houses rickety stairs dismisses our confusion by chuckling, “You found it.”

The music house consists of just two rooms and a miniature lean-to bar that serves only four drinks: cuba libres, mojitos, canned beer and white rum by the bottle. A kitchen, two toilets and a small courtyard complete the venue. Despite the size, a constant stream of new people all find space to socialise. This is a Sunday afternoon institution so they greet each other with the intimacy of a private house party.

A seven-piece female ensemble emerges from the building’s tardis-like depths touting an orchestra’s worth of instruments. Each member sports a satin pink corset and black thigh-gripping Capri pants. Their calves are wrapped in the ribbons that secure wedge sandals to rainbow pedicures. They are here to sing Son, a tradition form of Cuban music that combines the rhythms of Africa with the guitars of Spain and draws it all together with soul.

There are no formalities; the singer’s voice draws us in. The audience groans knowingly or laughs at bitter ironies; a master class in storytelling set to music. Some of us don’t even understand Spanish but we understand body language and the cadence of heartache, revenge, outrage and a wicked sense of humour. The singer’s voice reverberates in the small space with such power that everybody sways physically and emotionally in sync with her ebb.

The audience is never static throughout the two sets offered. Moaning, laugher, leaning forward for punch lines, comments to neighbours, comments to the singer (who delivers quick-witted responses like a comic pro) and a full acrobatic workout of facial features accompanies the rhythm. If the mood takes them, they dance. Bottles of white rum are brought and shot down fast to fuel the atmosphere. No age barrier is applied to this behaviour; lack of participation only makes you a target for rehabilitation. Everybody is pulled up to dance even if they lack the ability that Cubans seem to possess for sultry, sexy, syncopated swaying and swivelling.

Somewhere in the afternoon, the pink ladies give way to other performances. An old man takes the microphone in a way that suggests it is made of lead and swings the mood to one of contemplation with a haunting ballad. A great, great grandmother (or so I am told) picks up the tempo again with powerhouse force and then a duelling duo of guitars pick out a story. Everybody helps belt out the chorus lyrics.

Another shot of rum is offered, another beer is emptied. Impromptu salsa lessons are given because, “You need to move to feel.” Leaving is hard but keeping up is harder.

Photos: Favorite pics of China

hopehill — Wed, 13 Apr 2011 23:42:00 GMT

From all over the great land

My Travel Writing Scholarship 2011 entry - Journey in an Unknown Culture

hopehill — Sun, 13 Mar 2011 18:42:00 GMT

YEMEN- SPACES IN-BETWEEN

Khalid swings a nine-inch dagger above his head and sings to the gyrating quiver crackling from a favourite cassette. His other hand rolls a ball of qat to add to the wad already protruding from his cheek. The less important task of driving is delegated to elbows.

“You like my music? Good, no?”

“Good!” Patrick and I chime in high-pitched tandem. Khalid’s toothy smile turns back to the road as he swerves to avoid a renegade donkey. We will the jagged Hajar Mountains above us to divert our attention.

Stopping on the outskirts of an almost-village for a security check, my New Zealand passport creates confusion.

“How do you say it?”

“Where is this place?”

Well, where is this place? I want to ask, but the comfort with which the soldiers exist in the midst of this desolate space suggests the answer would simply be ‘home’.

The almost-village is a row of stone huts that look organic in construction. Khalid pulls to a stop, “Market. Good qat. We buy.”

A seller appears, gesturing frantically.

I smile in defence; “No thanks, no qat.”

Do my trousers make me proxy-male in Yemen? I’ve been invited to sit and chew the afternoon away a few times already but haven’t acquired a taste for the bitter, numbing leaves.

Khalid interprets, “No buying, he just wants you to see.”

The seller flourishes his hands over the hut walls like a car model. Men bearing guns and well-waxed moustaches stare back at me. Here they all are, the many guises of Saddam Hussein: over-striped general, suit-clad intellectual, suave wearer of fedoras. The curator dons a satisfied grin for his foreign audience; now people beyond this market will know his historical sympathies.

Three teenage boys are drawn to my camera. They look similar, all voluminous suit jacket held up by lanky limbs, but the lens captures individual ambitions: the Conqueror holding his victory bouquet of qat; the Politician’s tense hands resting on authoritative knees; the Playboy of the Eastern World lounging in a doorway. I leave with these imagined entities; they stay where reality is brewing in the dust they long to shake off.

In the middle of nowhere (but very definitely somewhere, according to Khalid), five women wearing black abayat punctuate a honey-brown hillside. Each is crowned with a bundle of hay, thus necessitating slow, purposeful movements. The flowing gowns and synchronized steps create an optical illusion: the women skim the earth’s surface rather than leave footprints. Hypnotized, we watch these apparitions until they shimmer and become one entity, a black question mark, in the glare of the afternoon sun.

At some point, the conversation turns to family. Khalid has one wife and three children but wants more of both. When we mention that we’ve no children, Khalid lowers his voice and advises Patrick of the right to a girlfriend if I’m barren. So my proxy-maleness is an illusion; instead, I’m a silent apparition but can’t seem to fade away.

Photos: Men of Yemen

hopehill — Wed, 13 Oct 2010 02:58:00 GMT

November in Yemen