SCENE TWO "Havana Vieja's Sexonomics"

Walking the streets of Havana alone is an amazing experience, a complete bombarding of the senses. Once you acclimatize yourself to the people harassing you everywhere you go, with the constant verbal patter and banter of below-radar advertising - “amigo, amigo”, “casa particular”, “taxi, taxi”, “cigar”,”ron”, “te gusta muchacha?” – you can begin to absorb Havana`s immense beauty and uniqueness.

Anywhere in the city, at any hour, you can hear the rolling fever of Afro-Cuban beats; layered with a chance sighting of a 1950`s Chev cruising by, in finest shining condition; or a glance off to one side into the doorway of

a majestic old Spanish colonial building that you realize has been repossessed by the revolution & is now a school, saturated with the bright atmosphere of children playing and learning, complete with an ornate marble stair-case for them to climb each day. The contrasts here can be found nowhere else. When one travels to Cuba it’s not a matter of being subject to a culture shock – but to an entire culture shock continuum. Every question answered is met by a lengthening cascade of more questions; so that the longer you stay, the deeper you plunge into the current of all things Cuban, trying to make sense of all the madness and bewildering beauty.

In the evening, the streets of `Old Havana` become a smouldering sea of `spandex sex` & the vintage vehicles & 17^th Century architecture become backdrops for bodies beautifully clad in fluorescent fabrics, clinging to the curves of countless beautiful women. When on ‘the Gringo Trail’, the merest glance at one of these women is an open invitation as far as she`ll be concerned. Before you know it you’ll be buying drinks, dinner & getting married in the morning after a marathon evening of sleepless ‘activity’. So, while you`re thinking of sex, I must make something clear, or perhaps more confusing: prostitution is illegal in Cuba & officially does not exist. Obviously this is untrue. Having been in the company of friends in Sydney, Australia who were sex workers - since I was 15 years of age, I have a sense for `the game`& those involved in it. While many girls in the streets of Old Havana are obviously sex workers, I must disagree with, or at least question, the impressions that many people form about these Cuban women. I`ve heard statements flung bluntly about that, for example, 9 out of 10 girls in Cuba are working or ‘being exploited’ in the sex trade. I myself believe such statements are utter nonsense.

Sexual openness is rampant in Cuba, yes, but what is wrong with that? What converts that openness, in the westerners eye, into prostitution is the typically distorted and sexually oppressive society that he or she has come from in the West. Cuban girls that do `work` - do so for very different reasons than the majority of their western counter-parts. For example, a dentist in Cuba will receive a monthly salary equivalent to $12US. A plain pair of flat shoes costs $30US. It is not possible for that dentist, (or psychologist, or engineer, or bio-chemist, as the case may be), to save enough money after her subsistence-living expenses to afford that pair of simple shoes.

One night of the month, then, she might descend the stairwell of her building & hit the street, dressed in her finest attire, to acquire the shoes by way of spending her evening with a tourist. She can receive between $15US & $20US for a friendly encounter, perhaps much more if she likes the guy & decides to hang around for the night, which happens often. Is this blatant business or carried out in the hope of finding a likeble tourist who`s generous enough to speed up the preliminaries of a romantic encounter & offer her little something to help out? Go see for yourself. However, there are a number of very obviously hardened workers in the same streets who know the trade well & who need to be dealt with using much caution, as the following incident will reveal.

My Spanish was improving, as I had been in Havana already 2 weeks.

I was waiting to interview a friend, an Englishman - & full-blown Communist – who lives full-time in Cuba & coaches soccer at a local high school; a very colourful character indeed. Waiting outside a café, downing a cool `refresco`, as I waited for Billy I amused myself watching three professional `jinateras` ply their trade nearby.

With salsa rythyms filtering out of the adjacent café, they gyrated their hips seductively, trying to catch the attention of passing `gringos`.

But it was I who seemed to be paying them the most attention. One in particular had caught my interest, an Afro-Cuban girl, with braids & great curves, clad in spandex. She fixed eye-contact with me, opened her repitoire of provocative moves & the Seduction was in process. I was none the wiser. She invited herself over for a drink & her two friends followed.

In broken Spanish I explained: “ I am waiting for my friend (who was by then late). I`ll buy you a drink but I am not interested in going with you”. She introduced herself as America – and proceeded with such questions as where was I from, was I travelling alone etc. Without further ado she blatantly asked if I`d like to `foky foky` with her. I replied that I was just waiting for my friend and that I had no money to give to her, even as a gift. She insisted that both points were irrelevant & that she simply like me ‘a lot’. Before I knew it her hands had crept crotch-wards & she was sitting on my lap starting up a salsa-style lap-dance – in full view of passers by & the café`s clientele.

There was no denying my arousal but neither was there any denying that I was uneasy, she seemed perhaps a little more than sneaky. I just had to stay cool, after all, nothing was going to happen, right? Without much delay she asked if we could go back to my place to `foky foky`. I told her that it was not possible because the family at my `casa particular` were very respectful & would not appreciate me bringing unknown girls to the house`. This slowed her verbal pestering – but not her wandering hands. A bit of time went by, with no sign of Billy.

The seduction process slid up a gear or two as she suggested we go back to her place. I was reluctant, yes, but a stiff dick knows no conscience - & certainly no common-sense. By now it was night & “ what the fuck”, I thought to myself, “ it`ll be an experience!”. That it was, without a doubt.

SCENE ONE "A Donde Es Cuba?"

Well, after considering spending a few thousand bucks stomping around Europe - only to be able to tell similar stories to the hoards of Aussies & Poms gone before me – I opted instead for the unknown & often misrepresented: CUBA. Being a bit of a lefty at heart & not trusting the crap I`d heard or read before, I decided to do a little research via the Net - & was glad I did, discovering there was a great deal of varied info to be found from many a seasoned traveller – although the most useful site was the Cuba-Junky.com.

So it was that, with a little background knowledge & some key words in Spanish I boarded a Cubana Aviation midday flight to Havana from Cancun, Mexico. It was a Russian-built petrodactyl, complete with rust, cracked windows & seats that fell forward when hitting mild turbulence.

Upon landing, the equivalent of a standing ovation was given the pilot by the passengers for his skill in flying one of those dinosaurs.

Waiting in line at immigration consisted of listening to all the yanks practising: “no stampe mi pasaport porfavor”. Yes, there are many Americans that travel to Cuba, not many – but enough. The ones I met? Rum, women & cigars seemed to be the sum total of their motivations for breaking the Embargo, still, I admire them for thumbing-up Uncle Sam`s restrictions. On the other side of customs I negotiate a taxi ride to Havana, 20 mins away. Starting at $20US & eventually down to $12US after rejecting several offers, I`m on my way.

It was late, raining and - for early afternoon - noticebly dark on the road to Havana. The air smelt sweet though & the streets were busy with people criss-crossing in their comings and goings. I checked into my `casa particular`, an alternative to the $60-a-night State-run Hotels,where people rent their homes to travellers for a fraction of the Hotel prices. For anywhere between $10 & $25 you can get a nice room, or sometimes an entire apartment, depending on whether the `casa particular` is a liscenced or an illegal one. The illegal `casas` are naturally cheaper as they don`t pay the huge taxes foisted on the liscenced ones.

Settling-in was an easy-going formality, as Cubans are by far the most hospitable & friendly people in the world; in no time at all I felt part of the family. I ventured out on that first night – only to be robbed by a teenager wielding a hair-comb, hoping I wouldn`t notice that it wasn`t a knife. Instead of participating in what could have become an altercation, I parted with $5, a gesture of thanks to him for `not combing my hair`.

I realized the boy must really need the money. `I hope he buys a real knife`, I thought, as I walked off into the darkness.

Not having much electricity makes Havana appear rather murky at night but despite this – and despite the hair-comb stand-up story – Cuba is in my opinion one of the safest places in the world to travel. The people have an undeniably friendly nature & furthermore, the fact that they can be locked up to serve a 2 year sentence for just `pestering` a tourist, is a great deterrent for them.

The next day saw me being hijacked – albeit, yes, in a very friendly manner – by a young man named Etian. Though I spoke no Spanish & Etian, no English, he insisted, with great charm & professionalism, on being `my friend`, my professional friend. Guiding me to a near-by `paladar` (private restaurant) a co-ordinated attempt at having me charged &10 for a bowl of rice & beans was underway. Having done my research I knew that in this situation the price of the meal translated to a meal-ticket for Etian, who would have been cut a commission for taking me to the `paladar`. I left immediately, on the way explaining – as best I could – to my professional friend that there was no way a bowl of rice & beans could cost $10 in Cuba – but it was useless. I knew I had to cut Etian loose which I only managed with great difficulty, as I did not want to offend him.

A Story by Naranjo

The fundamental rythms of a hundred genres of music can be traced back to Africa and half way there is where I found myself. Naranjo, In Cuba on a musical mission that has become my life’s nightmare ambition immersed in many a wild fantasy come true.
Cuba !!! yeh, like a pseudo socialist in a Che cap sucking down mojito’s in Havanas hot sun. Not quiet, after my delusions of the utopian peoples revolution were destroyed by my own sense of logical analysis. I soon found myself much preferring to be sucked down to empty via the gyrating hips of reggaeton fueled sex frenzied Mulata, whom no doubt, realizes I am slightly more genuine towards her situation than the droves of Italian & Canadian men on the two week banging bonanza. The same goes for the jet streams of Che fans seeking salsa lessons and some Cuban post card credibility with mates back home.
Now I am neither proud nor ashamed to say that there is not much I have not engaged in on a street level in Havana that a regular Cuban hustler trying to survive on a communist diet, hasn’t done. From shaving tourists for private casa & palada commissions, to sale of fake and genuine cigars and even the outright forbidden. Like reluctantly introducing my girlfriend at the time to a financially better off foreigner, as “my friend” so she can gyrate for him for a night so as to feed her family for a month. As opposed to once a week on my then budget.
After some years in this frail amusement I realized no matter what’s for sale in Cuba or the deep emotional pain that comes with it, there is one thing that sedates all shame and heart ache. Music !!! Music is the great liberator. And if there is an epicenter for musical talent it is definitely Cuba.
Many years had passed since my hustling days and before long I found myself embedded in the underbelly of urban Cuban music. So many people I meet find it easy to assume it’s full of glamor and high rolling but the realities I have experienced are nothing like. Of course the girls are hot and the music is slamming but the levels of degradation and manipulation to make it all happen is seldom revealed. The hustles, the counter hustles, the hostage taking, the technical obstacles and the forever impeding state regulations make the facilitation of urban music production in Cuba for the commercial world, one of the most difficult creative situations music has ever faced.

Over the next coming months, you’ll be given a fly on the wall insight into the most bizarre, tragic & triumphant times of this hustler’s evolution into the cut throat world of music from the bottom of the communist food chain to the clawing my way up to scraps of US network TV music placements. They call me Naranjo ! Naranjo is what they call me. That’s Orange in Spanish.