I. A toque in El Cerro
I’ve grown accustomed to daily frisson during my first time in this city where my mother was born, where my grandparents met. I’ve been to the church where my mother was baptized and stood outside the house she lived in for the first six years of her life. For me, to sit on the Malecón is to wonder whether my abuelos ever shared this particular view of the Florida Straits.
Or, perhaps, a toque in the neighborhood of El Cerro. After a day spent wandering around Habana Vieja on foot, I was exhausted, and considered napping after I returned to my casa particular off of Ayestarán instead of attending the toque. But with a few swigs of water to get me through the blazing heat, I was back out the door and on my way to Calle Auditor, a few blocks down Ayestarán.
I turned onto Auditor and, not for the first time, followed the distant sound of drumming towards a house painted bright teal. Arriving at the source of the music, a religious ritual known as a toque, I found a handful of people already gathered: three percussionists saluting the spirits through batá drum rhythms, two men who seemed to be in charge standing off to the side, and a few early guests, including an Anglo-looking couple seated nearby. Other residents began to congregate on the balcony above, enjoying the music. Those involved in the toque flowed freely in and out of the house.
Incrementally, more and more people arrived on foot—members of the neighborhood, it seemed, mostly. The man seated next to the batá players rose and began leading everyone in call-and-response singing, frequently clapping out the beat or clave. Soon, one of the organizers of the toque was handing out plastic cups, pouring a few fingers of clear rum into each. As the toque went on, carloads more materialized, many dressed in their African-inspired best. About an hour and a half into the event, three figures covered head-to-toe in colorful fabric poured out of the housed and down the street, with attendees trailing after them. When they came back, we formed a circle around them, and they danced in front of the house.
I had planned to meet a friend that evening, so as dusk approached I had to leave, even though the drummers and singer were still going strong despite hours of continuous playing. As I headed off, I remembered that my abuelo’s childhood home had been in this exact neighborhood. His brother couldn’t remember the cross street they lived on off of Ayestarán, but he knew was that it was further south than where I was staying on Nestor Sardiñas. For a moment, I entertained the possibility that it was Calle Auditor on which they lived. I indulged myself even in imagining my abuelo—who has been dead now for more than a decade—shuffling his feet next to me to the strokes of the batá, winking at me as he takes a swig of sweet, clear rum.
II. Pachanga en la guagua: How to Get to Guanabo Beach and Back
To get to Playas del Este from Vedado you can hire a hard-currency taxi for 15 CUC or so. For 25 CUC, they will even drop you off at Guanabo beach and pick you up again a few hours later. Alternatively, you could catch the P1 bus for 40 centavos CUP, and get dropped off at Virgen del Camino. From there, you can find a camión—a monstrous, green, hulk outfitted with seats—and hop on for 10 CUP. You will be surrounded by young Cubans dressed in bathing suits and tank tops, passing around rum and helados. There will also be families, parents trying to keep their children entertained. The camión will lurch frequently, hum and vibrate, the door will often be opened and then closed again with the loud thwack of metal on metal.
In roughly half an hour, you will get to the beach and walk on the fine, white, powdery sand. The water will shimmer with a pantheon of blues—almost clear, teal, turquoise, cerulean, deep Mediterranean blue. The beach will be packed: young people drinking and dancing to music blaring from their mobile phones, children playing in the sand. You will sit down, catch some sun, and eventually bathe in the crystal clear water, not too hot and not too cold.
When you decide to leave, you can catch the 462 bus, which will drop you back off at Virgen del Camino, again for 40 centavos CUP. The bus will likely be full. You will struggle to fit inside the front doors as they close. A few blocks down the road, some people will shout from the back of the bus—someone has fallen off, as the rear doors weren’t closed. The chauffeur will stop, and the man will walk up to the bus, one arm covered in dirt, and get back on. Eventually, enough people will get off the bus that you can make your way back where you are less likely to be spontaneously ejected. There you will encounter more young people on their way home from the beach. One girl will play music on her phone, her friends singing and dancing along. The bus will spontaneously break into song when Los Desiguales’ “Eso es bola” comes on.
Getting off at the last stop in Virgen del Camino, you can wait again for the P1 and head home. Or you could stop by your friend’s place in la Víbora to visit her family and meet her sobrino. You can catch a máquina for 10 CUP, get off on Diez de Octubre, and walk down the street to your friend’s sister’s house, where you will be received warmly. Your friend’s sobrino will want to be picked up and danced with and photographed. Eventually, you will make your way out and catch a máquina to Vedado for 10 CUP. Exit the car at Coppelia, catch either the P1 or P5 for 40 centavos CUP, get off at Paseo and Línea, and you’re home.
Ida y vuelta, with a few stops, for 31.20 CUP—about 1.50 USD. Arguably, you could have also caught a máquina to Habana Vieja for 10 CUP and then one of the many taxis that will take you to the beach for 1 CUC. But perhaps you didn’t know this at the time. And had you done that, you never would have felt the tremble of the camión, you never would have sung along with the girls on the bus, and you likely would not have felt the weight of your friend’s twenty-three month old sobrino in your arms.”
— Matthew Leslie Santana
Matthew Leslie Santana is a violinist and ethnomusicologist currently pursuing a PhD at Harvard University
* All images, by Matthew Leslie Santana (copyright 2015)