Tuesday December 09 2008

The plane dips to begin its descent into Havana. Soon, my dream of almost 20 years will come to fruition, when I finally touch down on this Caribbean island. The first notes of Cuba’s siren call come at the airport: as I wait in the immigration queue, a sensuous rumba rings out over the PA.

There’s more than music in the air here; there’s change, too. Earlier this year, an ailing Fidel Castro stepped aside in favour of his brother, Raul. The shift at the top has ushered in a sea change that’s rippling across the nation, as Cuba shrugs off 50 years of communist austerity. These days, businessmen join planeloads of tourists landing at José Marti airport. Soon, local billboards may be advertising mobile phones instead of revolution. Yet one thing remains constant – the seductive beat at the core of the nation’s soul.

Havana’s streets pulse with rhythm. It emanates from every cafe and apartment block. Homegrown hip-hop even breaks the reverential silence of the Museo de la Revolucion, housed in a former presidential palace that’s now a tribute to Castro’s 1959 victory. Musicians chase the tourist peso with versions of classics made famous by the Buena Vista Social Club. This band of veteran performers became a worldwide phenomenon when an album and Oscar-nominated documentary of the same name were released to great acclaim in the 1990s, sparking renewed interest in the golden era of Cuban music.

It’s tempting to linger in the capital, but I am determined to save Havana until last. With a month to explore the country, I decide to travel down the island’s spine to Santiago de Cuba by bus, stopping at towns along the way, then fly back to Havana.

My best-laid plans fall apart at the bus station, however – the bus to Santa Clara has been cancelled. But in Cuba, it seems, there’s a solution to every problem. For a little less than the bus fare, I can share a taxi going south.

My vehicle screams alarmingly as we leave Havana behind. The driver, Ernesto, smiles at my broken Spanish. “I’ll teach you,” he promises as he swerves to avoid a donkey ambling across eight empty lanes of highway. “You learn by singing,” he adds. “It is best with music. You know Buena Vista Social Club?”

Of course. As Ernesto’s warm baritone drowns out the rattle of the Lada, I’m reminded of a quote from Ry Cooder, the American musician who championed the Buena Vista Social Club. Music, he said, flows like a river in Cuba. Ernesto urges me to sing along as he croons “Chan Chan”. Later, he wins a place in my heart by serenading me with a cha-cha-cha version of the Skippy theme tune. “Ah, Australia!” he exclaims. “Australia is Skippy!”

I have a handful of classic tunes under my belt by the time the gigantic bulk of Che Guevara’s statue comes into view, some five hours later. The pretty university city of Santa Clara is where Guevara struck the decisive military blow that resulted in the fall of Havana to Castro’s guerrilla forces. Today, Guevara’s mausoleum and memorial dominate the town centre. His stern-faced bronze statue looks over the Plaza de la Revolucion and draws most of the tourists who come here.

From Santa Clara I head down to Trinidad, this time by bus. Nestled on a Caribbean harbour, this beautifully preserved example of colonial Spanish architecture has been recognised as a UNESCO World Heritage site. Here, revolutionary severity has given way to the seductions of salsa.

The town’s nightlife centres on the Casa de la Música, an open-air salsa club off the picturesque Plaza Mayor. Some of the province’s best musicians take to the stage here, and the seductive beat makes it hard to resist the lure of the dancefloor, despite the cobblestone surface.

The hedonistic beat of reguetón – part Jamaican reggae, part rap, part Latin – holds sway at Disco Ayala. The venue is also known as La Cueva because the club, as the name suggests, is in a cave. It’s worth stumbling down the narrow steps carved into the cave’s mouth, if only for the novelty of seeing a mirror ball spinning between stalactites.

Things are somewhat calmer in the Casa de la Trova, a haven for a traditional Cuban song form, son. I join a table of locals at the courtyard table. Their good-natured heckles give way to requests, shouted out across the courtyard to the musicians, who oblige with a smile. Performer Félix Cintra strums the opening chords of Hasta Siempre Comandante, a homage to Che Guevara. The packed courtyard grows quiet, the crowd rises to its feet. And, as Cintra starts to sing, so does the audience. Even the bartender stops mixing mojitos to add his voice to the chorus.

A few days later I make my way to Santiago de Cuba, the island’s second city. It’s a beguiling place; sultry and sleazy in turn. In a rooftop bar at the Hotel Libertad, high above the hustlers on the Plaza de Marte, I look across the city to the sea. But I’m not here for the view – I’m here to hear son in the city of its birth. Earlier, an elderly street musician had told me I’d hear the best son in Cuba here. He’s right. Four elegant old men pick up battered instruments and with every note, they breathe new life into the Cuban canon.

Later, the singer joins me. “Where are you from?” he asks, in a raspy whisper. “Oh, Australia!” He returns to his compañeros. Percussion instruments clap out a familiar beat… the Skippy theme.

Some days later, back in Havana, I’m invited to a party on a rooftop in the city’s Old Town. A stuttering generator powers the DJ’s turntables and the speakers. Acoustic singalongs alternate with sets from a couple of local rappers. As the sun dips below the horizon, one of the rappers calls out to us, “This one’s for you!”

It’s Skippy again. A lo Cubano.

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