This summer I traveled to Cuba with my family. It was an experience I will never forget and mentally I am already planning a return although in some respects the first trip will be a hard act to follow.
For instance, we had the incredible fortune to be on stage with Son 14 in Santiago on the night of 26 July 2007, the anniversary of Castro’s assault on the Moncada Barracks and the Cuban equivalent of the American 4th of July (without the hot dogs and hideously fat people but with far better music). How do you beat that? It was a miracle and it only happened because the night before we met a very talented Cuban singer who needed a lift back to Chago (Santiago) from our hotel by the sea on the remote south west tip of Granma province.
So seven of us jumped into our hired van the following morning and took off, swerving around potholes and bypassing sinking bridges for 5 hours along the incredibly beautiful and completely undeveloped coastline of the Sierra Maestra. During the journey we learned that Julio was good friends with members of the band including the son of the Tiburon, co-founder and the original lead singer. “I will introduce you tonite”, he promised. I was ecstatic but it seemed too good to be true.
We arrived in Santiago and Julio took us to a rooftop restaurant full of mismatched couples (ie. elderly European men in floral shirts snuggling teenage Cuban beauties in tight jeans). The food looked good but it never arrived and I was getting nervous about missing Son 14 so I took a command decision and did something incredibly un-English: I paid the waiter for the meal we never had, but which had been “on its way” for an hour, and ordered everyone back into the van for our audience with Son 14.
With my wife and mother’s denunciations of my prolifigate behaviour passing through one ear and out the other, I obeyed Julio’s navigation which led us to a dingy and smelly alley. A few peso convertibles were flashed and some bored police were persuaded to do their duty and guard the car.
We walked a few metres to the back of the stage which had been constructed in the middle of a large street and Julio signaled us to wait while he climbed some steps and disappeared. He quickly re-appeared grinning and waving to us to join him.
We climbed the steps and joined the entourage of a dozen or so amigos and novias obliged to share space with the mammoth speakers, anaconda-sized cables and now a curious white family that appeared to have lost its tour guide.
I looked at the band. The singers were jumping up and down wildly as they sang, pointing to a poorly-lit sea of Cubans, nearly all black, who swayed and chanted in the street. The beat was ferocious and I kept saying to myself “Incredible. No one is going to believe this”.
The introductions were as warm as the night air. My throat got into the groove with a shot of Anejo Especial. The liquid fire soon reached the rest of my body and the God of Salsa began to cast his spell. My son began pounding some unused bongos. Suddenly my father was twirling with a Cubana. Flattered by the invitation of the locals, even the "Queens of Frugality" crumbled as brains started taking orders from hips and feet.
“Son 14! Fantastic!” I exclaimed. “No. This is the band before Son 14.” Julio explained. It no longer mattered. Everything and everyone was Son 14, a metaphor for the best of Cuba. We were part of the biggest and best family in the world. Eventually it was Son 14’s turn and we took a break, perching on some boxes inches away from the brass players (the heart of this amazing band) and speakers. Julio grabbed a guira and joined the percussionists. Later on he stepped forward to sing totally unfazed by the huge crowd, the miniscule band of Canadian tourists thawing out back in Mareo del Portillo by now a distant absurdity. The kids crashed out on our laps oblivious to the cruise ship horn intensity of the nearby speakers. It had been a exhausting journey but I could not bring myself to leave. What a crime that this day should come to an end!!
Around 3 am we called it quits and retreated to our hotel. Needless to say, we were the first to leave. On the way back I asked my mother, “What were the lyrics to that really cool song at the beginning?” She laughed with a hint of astonishment. “When they crouched down and pointed to the crowd, they were pointing an imaginary gun……”
If the Yankees go crazy and invade
Then pull out your gun
Take aim
And FIRE!!!
And if the Yankees go crazy, I think the Cubans will do just that. These people have incredible spirit.
