LEAVING ON A JETPLANE

7am, Havana airport.

It's unfortunate when notable thoughts coincide with sitting on the toilet, because it's never particularly distinguished to say "I was sitting on the toilet and suddenly I thought...". Having said that, the toilet does seem to be over-represented as a location for realisations and epiphanies.

I am sitting on the toilet when I realise a weight is slipping off me, like heavy chain-mail coming off after battle.

The almost impossible task of conducting journalism in a totalitarian country is OVER.

It is relief, to drop these defenses. I can stop worrying about losing my discs, or having them taken from me. That nagging concern that I may not be able to deliver what I have promised is gone.

It was surprisingly easy - straight through immigration, where a thin black woman failed to say hello or goodbye, or anything in between. Straight through the metal detectors, where I thanked the Lord and J that I had decided against putting my memory stick in a tampon and inserting it. My bag went through without so much as a glance.

It makes having stayed up the whole night to delete photos and hide mini-disc tracks seem a little over-zealous. I've also thrown out half the contacts I made, rather than have them discovered in the exit process.

On the toilet, I also realise that this diet of bread and honey, special as it's been, is starting to affect my bowels. I have been hungry for two weeks, sometimes managing to stifle the pangs with bread. More on that in other entries.

On the way out, I look at the clocks of the world, seeing everyone's respective times always makes you feel so profoundly far from them doesn't it?



Especially when they get your city wrong.

Two young Norweigan girls are sharing their chips and regaling me with escapades in Trinidad when a man wearing a khaki uniform and a mono-brow comes up and asks for my ID.

"Maybe this is his job, checking on people in the waiting area", I think, "much like much of the other completely redundant 'employment' like the women who press the buttons in lifts for you, or the men in Mexico who wave their arms while you're parking the car and then ask for a tip."

I figure I may as well run on this premise, so I ask him what gate we're boarding from. We have a brief discussion about this, before he tells me to come with him.

I pick up my bag, and follow him. Hopes that he's one of the redundant-job people checking on my gate start fading when we turn down into a dark flight of steps into the bowels of the airport. We reach a room filled with florescent light and people in uniform.

There are four men and a woman, sitting beside my slightly limp backpack.

"Is this yours?" he says. Mate, we both know it's mine, why ask.

He opens the bag, and goes straight for my toiletries bag. F@*k. I guess I completely underestimated the Cuban X-ray system when I put a memory stick in my conditioner bottle.

In this moment, I know exactly how Renee Lawrence must have felt. With the minor exception that I don't have nine kilos of heroin strapped to my body, and that pictures of my torso won't be flashed across national tv for the next year.

It's the feeling that someone is looking for something that you have, that you've hidden. That thing is sitting between you, just waiting to be found. I can feel my heart, I didn't know it could beat so fast. I am so hot with this panic that I want to take my jumper off. I resist.

As he goes through my toiletries bag, I thank myself for not having embedded mini-discs in the lining, as I'd considered. Originally I'd planned to put the most sensitive ones under the orthodics in my running shoes, but discovered that they made a completely unavoidable and obvious rattling sound. Then I thought about the lining, but nothing says, "I DIDN'T WANT TO BE FOUND" like something hidden in lining. It's hard to pass something off as innocuous musical recordings when it's embedded in your toiletries bag.

Finally I decided on the pockets of my jeans, which I then rolled up.

He puts down my first toiletries bag, and picks up the second one with the conditioner bottle in it. He puts it aside.

He then shifts his attention to my hand luggage. He opens my wallet, and I realise that in all my deleting and throwing out, I completely forgot about it. It's full of business cards of people I interviewed.

I watch in slow motion as the woman pulls out the business card of a formerly-jailed dissident, who's out on provisional release. If his failing health improves, or he puts a foot out of line... police can show up at his house any day and take him back to prison.

She lines up all the business cards in vertical rows, and I pick up two of them and look confused. One is of the crazy lesbian who I decided against interviewing, and the other is of the dissident. Under the watchful eye of the three men in the corner, who seem to have no role other than monitoring my reactions, I somehow manage to slip it in the pocket of my cargos.

As the woman sets about the tasks of writing down all the names and numbers of everyone in my wallet, the man goes back to my backpack. He picks up my jeans, and is about to put them aside when he feels something hard. The discs. He takes them out and asks where he can watch them. "They're just audio," I tell him, "they go in this." and I pull out my recorder. He'll find it anyway, I may as well appear as if I have nothing to hide.

I start strapping up the earpiece, but he moves on. He reads the gay sexuality mag that Raul gave me, looks at my CDs, which are blank. "Why do you have these?". I tell him I'd planned to burn CDs, and neglect to add that Cuba could do with more than two CD burners in the whole country.

The heat coming from my body is overwhelming, this experience adds a whole new meaning to 'hot under the collar'. I actually have to take my jumper off. I'm wearing a low-cut top which doesn't help, as my breasts have shrunk due to lack of food for the past two weeks.

I've also got a new appreciation for the term 'shitting myself' because I really need to go to the toilet. There's the constipation problem solved, anyway.

If I go to the toilet, they'll think I'm stashing stuff and search me. So I can't do that because they'll find the business card that's in my pocket.

The woman is making progress, every now and then she asks for clarification. "Who's this?" the man asks, holding up the snippet of paper with the Bar de las Estrellas number. On the back is the name Rojelio.

Interesting. It's a drag bar, which is actually illegal. Every now and then it gets closed down for a month or two. If the police find out they've been doing interviews, it could be bad for them.... something I clock up as cosmic justice, as they charged me $150 dollars to take recording gear in, which is probably more than I'll earn for the story.

I hated Rojelio.

He finds the poem written by the boy in the street. I ask if he'd like to translate it for me. It's my only moment of 'fuck you' and he looks at me with disdain.

When he's finished with all my things, he picks up my camera. He doesn't know how to work it, so I show him. He goes through all my photos asking about various people and then gives the camera to one of the men in the corner, for his titilation. He then settles back with my diary.

He starts at the beginning. All my innermost thoughts and fears, leaving Australia, are now in his domain. He reads and reads, and I wonder whether I talked about work back then. Filing, the international desk, all those keywords.

Looks like he's settled in for the long haul, so I ask whether there's a chance I'll miss my plane. He assures me I won't and keeps reading but doesn't laugh at any opportune moments. Tough crowd, the secret police.

Finally he announces to the others that all I write about is food and music, and closes the diary. He starts putting everything back in my bags and we have a little struggle to close the zip. He tells me to settle down or everything will fall out.

Settle down??? It's taking all my willpower not to grab my stuff and run out of here. Finally we're done.

"Wait," he says, "Give me another look at the camera."

For fuck's sake.

I've had airport security incidents before, like the time I was arriving in Vancouver from Rio and accidentally admitted to having tried drugs at some stage of my life. I spent hours watching a cute customs officer in plastic gloves turning my entire luggage inside out. But this is different. This is a feeling of complete powerlessness in the face of some great force that's reached down to pick apart every part of my life and put the pieces back together in a bigger puzzle, a puzzle that affects Cubans I've met as well. I can't lie, because they can check everything. The simple fact is that everything I've done in Cuba is outside what the regime permits, and there is a net... gradually closing around this. They'll call the people on the business cards, visit the houses, follow all the trails. And I'll never get a visa again.

Right now, that doesn't seem like such a crying shame.

Finally I am strapped up, guitar in hand, mini-discs intact and ready to walk out. He holds out my passport, I take it.. and just to remind me of the score, he holds it for a second longer and then lets go.

I ask him whether I have to 'irme corriendo' (go running) for my plane. Really, that's what I want to do anyway. He tells me maybe just irte camindo rapido (go walking quickly), and I laugh, a little too loudly.

"Sorry for the molestation," he says. And I walk out into the darkness.

On the plane, I am freezing. I assume it's the shock but there's nothing I can do to warm up. The flight is a daze of sleep and hunger and shock.

And finally, when my feet are on Mexican soil, I permit myself a sigh of relief. I buy a Starbucks coffee just to say 'fuck you, Cuba', and yes, I light up a cigarette.

The ordeal is over.

SHINING THROUGH DIRT

This is the view from my new room.

I spend the morning lying on my bed with thoughts churning around in my head. My room feels like a hospital ward, with harsh light and beds covered in white sheets. Everything is white in this room, except the red fabric flowers on the mantle.

Now that the police are monitoring me, I'm not exactly sure what to do next. Also, judging by my foetal position, I think I might be a bit traumatised.

I don't dare to go interviewing people now, and I have no idea how I'm going to leave with my material. I have to make backup copies, but how?

The internet rooms in hotels are monitored and cost up to $15 an hour. I have about nine hours of material. Also, I have to download an editing program and hook up my mini-disc recorder in order to transfer everything in real time, before exporting MP3s to memory stick. And I could be wrong, but I'm pretty sure this whole process might not go unnoticed.

I go and email, and wander the streets for a while in search of food. Cuba regularly fumigates all its buildings, it's choking. I'm starting to develop a conspiracy theory about what's in the billowing smoke, but really, conspiracy theories are so 1980s.



When I get home, J has rung. So I call her back and explain the situation with I a slight wobble in my voice when I get to the bit about "..and I'm not really coping".

"Use my laptop," she says. Oh my God, I'd forgotten she has one here.. this is great news. I go over and we sit talking about where to put the memory stick. I suggest my tampon idea, but she points out that I won't get through the metal detector. Thank Christ I ran it by her, that could have been really embarrassing.

The conditioner bottle seems the best idea, because everything is X-rayed on mass in the cargo luggage, so it's less likely to be detected.

I spend six hours transferring material, J goes to a BBQ. At 11pm, I call it a night and pack my things. I don't have the patience to try to flag a taxi tonight, but I have to walk some dark streets to get home, so I put the memory stick in my bra and set off.

I am walking down the median strip where the street lights are the strongest, when
I remember something Michel said, "Blah blah blah.. and you've got a good walk". Since when was your walk another factor in the equation as to whether you're sexy?


More to the point, I'm less likely to get mugged if I look like a Cuban, and you can always pick a tourist because they walk without the grace of locals. We walk as if it's a means to an end, they walk as if it's the end in itself.

So in the choking night air, I work on my walk. I notice that my head is down and I'm striding quickly so I slow my feet and sway my hips. Ironically, a more sexy walk should help abate the relentless whistles and hisses of appreciation that seem to be part of parcel of being a gringa. Then I see the street sweeper.

Last week I interviewed a street cleaner, and when he mentioned his job I assumed he went around with a broom made out of sticks like the street sweepers in Mexico. But this is a big, industrial truck with spinning bristles and water. And I need to get the sound for my story on the street sweeper.

An internal battle ensues.
"I have to get this sound."
"But I'd have to hook up my mini-disc and record in public. Not tonight, I'll do it some other time"
"But this is your only chance."
"No it's not, I'll go in the morning and find one."
" Find one? How? You know you're not going in search of a street sweeper in the morning. Besides, it's just THERE."
"But I'm soooooo tired. I actually just can't be bothered. I'll get the sound in Mexico."
"No. You won't."

Fuck it.

Despite myself, I find my hands hooking up the mic and holding it out of the bag. By now the street sweeper is far behind me, all that time I was having an internal chat, it was driving in the opposite direction.

So, I run. My legs don't want to move and my thongs flap about. I can feel the sweat on my face, mixing with the grime of a day in this pollution. My mascara has ventured from my eyelashes to the skin under my eyes. I am wearing the green dress that someone mistook for a uniform last week, when they asked me a question in the internet room.

I'm following the truck with my mic when it stops. Shit, he's seen me. I keep walking and he gets out and removes a plank of wood from the path of the truck. This gives me enough time to get ahead and record the sound perfectly.

I retrace my steps, back along the median strip.

I hear a hiss. Ignore. Hiss. Ignore. Hisssssss. I look sideways with fury, and see a young man walking across the road, carrying a notebook and pen. Great, just what I need.

Then I notice he's in civilian clothing, with one of those bags you buy in Guatemala or Ecuador. He gets to the median strip and says something, "What?"

"I need to show you what I'm writing," he says.

Oh no, maybe he's an informant. Hence, the secrecy. Am I getting paranoid.

In short, yes.

I watch as he writes, his pen moving unhurriedly across the paper. Finally he rips it off, and hands it to me. It's a poem.

Due to extenuating circumstances:

a) it's dark
b) his handwriting is illegible
c) the words are unfamiliar

I can't read it, but I suspect going through it word by word may shatter the moment. So, I assume it's a nice poem, and act accordingly. "Oh, thankyou," I say, shakily. He explains that he has had to follow me back and forth with all my changes in direction, but he seems to be coming my way so as he walks me home I get him to tell me about his life.

He's a Jewish computer programmer who's qualified in sports science but there's no work in that so he works at the Jewish centre. He's one of the few Cubans who can leave, because there's some setup with Israel that all the Jews can go back. He has a high-pitched nervous laugh that doesn't match his beautiful face, and he seems very shy.

We reach my place and I brace myself for the usual, "When will I see you again, what's your phone number, I invite you for a softdrink", but it doesn't come. He kisses my cheek and I worry that he can smell the day of trauma in the sweat and grime on me. I wonder if seeing me up close has shattered whatever the hell inspired his poetry.

My house mother translates the poem into Spanish I can understand:

You pass,
You walk the world
leaving a sensation of sweetness

Without memory
And leave in your wake
Rays of the dawn

What, I wonder, about me running down the street could inspire this? In sweat and grime, fatigue and fear. Matted hair (no water this morning) and smudged mascara.

Maybe because at the moment, when you're in flight running towards your goal with gritted teeth against all your urges to stop... maybe that's when you shine.

But who knows, maybe he writes that poem five times a day.

EL DIA MAS LARGO

I wake early, today will be busy. Yesterday I went to the festivities in Callejo de Hamel, the street dedicated to the Santeria faith. Santeria is the product of traditional african faiths morphing with Catholocism when slaves were brought to Cuba. On a Sunday, there is dancing in the street with musicians pumping out the rhumba music.

The artist who painted the whole street in amazing, complex colours is called Salvador. I met him in the Bar de Las Estrellas while I was interviewing Barbara, the only trannie there with real fake boobs. We arranged an interview for yesterday, which he unceremoniously bumped to today .. but only after I'd made the trek over to see him.


I arrive right on time, and then wait an hour for him to appear. Eventually he comes and does a fairly self-congratulatory interview, in which I have trouble pinning him on anything concrete about his faith.

I then interview Tonito, who has to wear all white clothing for a year as part of his faith. He then insists that we have to meet again, he didn't come all this way for an interview if he wasn't going to get another date. Anyone who gives an interview thinks I owe them something, usually in the vein of sex/marriage/love or money.

Speaking of which, Salvador summons me back to 'show me something'. We weave through his house and come to a room full of his pictures. I gush at a suitable level about his work, and he agrees that it's all wonderful.

"I want to exhibit this in Australia," he says, pointing at a painting somewhere up near the ceiling. "I need you to take a photo and send it to the relevant people there."

"But I'm not in the art world," I want to say, "I'm a journalist. In radio." Journalists are forgiven for knowing a small amount about everything, because that's their job, but I can't use the word journalist here, so everyone thinks I'm a specialist in their area.

He promises to get a better light, and call me when the picture is ready. "I'll pass by your house and get you," he says, "Here, write your address."

I hate the idea of anyone having all my details, but what can I do? I feel trapped. Trapped by the guy in white who's like a terrier with a very firm hold on my ankle, and trapped by the man here, who's holding out pen a paper and nodding.

I set off to my next interview. Two journalists, one of whom was jailed in the 2003 blitz. I arrive an hour early, and not having eaten yet today, decide to get food.

The only place around is a state-run pizza joint. Pizza is the staple here and comes with one topping and lashings of oil.

I join the line, and a half-hour wait ensues, during which time I eavesdrop on the woman behind me, who is trying to push in.

"Capitalists may make more money," she says, "But they have to work like dogs. What kind of a life is that?"

It's a life where they don't have to spend most of the day waiting in line for absolutely everything, only to find out that it's not in stock, that's what.

Finally we enter the pizzeria. There is a long, tiled bar with chairs lined up along it. Kind of like a military kitchen. Every place has a plastic placemat with pictures of pizzas bearing toppings that we all know will not be on our own. There is army cutlery and a glass at each place. No music, no decorations.

A waitress with a short blue skirt and fat legs goes along the line pouring water into the glasses. Two people take softdrink. We pass two foodcoated plastic menus along the line, each person decides and then hands it on.

The choices are:
- spaghetti: tuna, chorizo, ham
- pizza: tuna chorizo, ham or salami
- juice: mango, orange, pear or pineapple
- softdrink: cola, orange, lemon

I order pineapple juice. "We don't have any," the waitress says. "Ok, orange thanks."

"We don't have any."

"Ok, whatever you've got," I says. "Right, it's pear."

"And a salami pizza."

"We don't have any salami."

"Ok, chorizo." She moves on.

My popper of pear juice comes out and we spend another half hour waiting for the food. Plates of spaghetti are going past, it's over-cooked, florescent white with a blob of tomato paste on the side and three strips of ham next to a lump of grated cheese.

I'm trying to get a glimpse past the mission brown doors right in front of me, from which emerge wait-staff every now and then. Every time the door swing open, I see antiquated cooking equipment, like scales with weights and measures. There are a lot of people in the kitchen standing and doing absolutely nothing, which would tend to explain why we're all sitting out here doing absolutely nothing eg. eating.

Finally the waitress comes and says there's a problem with the pizzas. The anti-capitalist woman is actually very nice, and explains the problem to me in equally indecipherable terms. I am now 15 minutes lates so I pay for my juice and leave, very very hungry.

I walk into a loungeroom to find two middle-aged people sitting in rocking chairs, rocking. The room seems to be brimming over with books, they's piled to the ceiling all along the wall. They both look perfectly harmless, it's hard to imagine this guy spending two years in prison. He explains that he's out on provisional leave and any day the police could come and take him away. Prison sounds like it was pretty nasty, he was in with all the hardened criminals.

Now, their phones are tapped, email is read and someone is always watching the house.

"So, the government knows you are here." they add, casually.

Oh, great. Does the government know how hungry I am too?

"We just try to live as though everything we say is not being watched and listened to. We try to live a normal life, otherwise we'd just be taking pills all day for the stress."

"Why are you still talking to journalists if it's so dangerous?" I ask.

"Because I owe it to the men who are still in prison, and to my country."

I am about to be running late for my next interview when they start showing me pictures of X's arrest, lots and lots of pictures. Eventually, when I have lost all chance of reaching my the poet on time, I mention my next destination. They freeze. "Pablo Armando Fernandez?" they say, "he's incredibly important. You can't keep him waiting."

Out on the street, waiting for a cab that doesn't seem to exist, I curse the Cuban licencing system. Why are there so few taxis in this country?

Eventually I spot one across the 5-way intersection and go running in front of lanes of cars to tell the cabbie I'm desparate. Bad move. He doubles the price, takes the existing passenger to her place, and then proceeds to get lost...all the while telling me how important Pablo Armando Fernandez is.

I sprint from the car to the gate, ring the bell. Nothing. Ring again. Nothing. Oh no, he's got so pissed off he's not going to answer the door.

I ask a little delivery fellow in brown clothing and a che guevara hat what I'm doing wrong and he emphatically rings the bell, and the front door opens.

An old man walks unhurriedly towards the gate, and I start apologising profusely.

"A thousand sorries," I say, "I am so sorry to keep you waiting."

"I'll just go and get Pablo," he says.

Woops.

I enter a cool oasis of opulence, with lots of art on the wall. Pablo is quite charming, and mildly evasive on the question of his relationship with his country. I want him to talk in concrete terms, but he keeps mentioning history and ... well, history.

I leave and walk 40 minutes before finding a cab to take me home. Home, thank Christ. Home where I feel safe and happy and love the people with whom I share my house.

I realise there is something wrong the moment I enter the house. Mainly because Georgina grabs my arm and says 'sit down', before I've had a chance to even go to the toilet.

"You have to tell me the truth," she says in an urgent tone. "What are you doing with that microphone? Are you doing anything political?"

I look shocked, largely because I am.

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"The police came here this afternoon. They know your name and where you were staying. We hadn't registered you, so how did they get your name? Honestly, have you been talking to political people?"

I've always told them I'm recording music and art, because that's true. Lying by ommission was fine, but lying to their faces is something I cannot do.

"A little tiny bit...?" I venture. My stomach has dropped out. It was fine when I was only affecting myself, but these are good people and I am now affecting them. The thing is, they are not registered to have two guests and I am their second guest so they are now facing a huge fine, apart from anything else.

"You have to leave running." Georgina says, "I'm sorry, but we have to get you in a legal room. We've found a place, but don't tell them anything. Don't mention your recorder, or any interviews you do. Don't tell them anything. And wipe any interviews you have."

Are they putting me in a house of the state? Is that why I have to be so secretive?

Raul and I make the trek to the other side of the apartment block. My new room looks like a hospital ward, it's all white with harsh florescent lighting, and beds with white sheets and no covers. The house is full of smoke and my new house mum has a massive stomach that looks like there might be a baby inside, but I'm pretty sure there's not. There's an old man with a flap of material over his throat and no voice.

He tells me to sit down starts filling out my registration. In the background, staterun TV is puming out a very long and unchallenging interview with Eva Morales. Half an hour later, he is still filling out the two very small forms and I'm trying to work out what is taking so long. He takes my visa and tells me he has to keep it for the night. No way.

"Noone else had to take my visa," I say.

The only thing more difficult than understanding your second language with background noise, is understanding your second language with background noise and no voicebox. Whatever his reply is, I am still completely in the dark.

He hands me the first form to sign and I notice the 't' and 'h' are around the wrong way, so I correct it. He looks startled, then upset, and then runs a red pen through the whole thing and writes 'anulado'. Anulled. We're starting again.

Eventually we reach the second form, and he notices the mistake has been repeated. Just as he is cheerfully running a red line through it, I realise I can't take another minute of this, and tell him abruptly that I have to go and eat. It's been 24 hours since my last meal.

I don't dare leave my discs in this new place, so I take them all with me. On the way out, the old woman on the door whose job is to watch everyone who comes and goes, tells me to be careful. Going out at night is dangerous, your bag will get stolen, she says.

The electricity is out, so I walk the dark streets to Hotel Presidente, and order a club sandwich.

"There's no chicken," the charming waiter says, "How about tuna?"

Sure, anything but ham.

"What's wrong?" he asks, "You look worried."

"Just a long day," I say, and melt for a moment in his beautiful brown eyes and sincere concern. "Just a very long day."

RANDOM SHOTS TO BREAK UP THE PRINT...

Salsa on a Sunday afternoon...

IT'S A MAN'S WORLD

Squirmer's found someone who'll pay more for the room. So, without ceremony, she gets me out of bed and packing my bags before I can recover for the previous night's glory.

The maid's daughter was in the house last night. She has exactly the same hair as mine, and her mother proudly explained that it had been down below her waist before she cut it off.

"The heat?" I ask.

"No, she was using too much shampoo and conditioner. Too expensive."

So, as I'm packing I set aside my big bottle of shampoo for curly hair, and go to the next room to give it to her. I can hear her in the bathroom so I accidentally burst in her on the toilet, peeing. She's surprisingly casual about this, and delighted at the shampoo.

"Pantene," she says, "that's wonderful. I'll have to show it to Irma, or she'll accuse me of stealing it. My husband is a doctor, he works in the hospital across the road. And I've got a lovely son, he's very serious... you'll have to come to our house. It's ugly, but you're most welcome."

Doctors in Cuba earn a fraction of what taxi drivers do, it's all upside down and back to front here. Margorie has to wipe the floors and take the shit from awful, ignorant Irma.

She's still casually mentioning her son when I leave. Marrying your way out of Cuba is a hell of a lot safer than braving the Florida Straights.

I trudge a few blocks to a large apartment building, with peeling green paint and louvers on all the windows. There's a black woman waiting outside, with pitch-black hair and grey roots even though she can't be more than about 35. She takes me up to my room and tells me not to mention to the other man staying here that I'm only paying 25CUC because he's paying 40CUC. And if I get mugged, I can't go to the police. She's only registered for one room, so there'll be a massive fine if the government finds out.

I am immediately comfortable. The room has glorious old wooden furniture, the sort of rocking chair that would cost hundreds in a Surrey Hills antique store. There is a steady and very intrusive hum of airconditioners from the next building, and I can't work out why I keep sneezing.

"Oh, that's the fumigation," she says, "The government does it every Saturday for an hour."

Fumigating for what?

"Oh, insects or something."

Insects or free thought. Stop it.

I tell Georgina I'm going to a drag show tonight and she says I have to talk to her cousin. Uh oh. Awful Irma was always insisting I take her relatives out at night as 'friends for hire', and I don't need a friend for hire tonight thankyou very much.

The cousin, Raul appears from nowhere and starts chatting. I try to politely extricate myself but find myself drawn to him. We go and sit in the sunroom, with louvers that look out over all of Havana to the ocean. I'm wondering why he's got such an interest in my drag story, until he announces that he's gay. Brilliant. A man I can hang around with, without him trying to marry or shag me. This is a match made in heaven.

Raul insists on coming to the drag show, and bringing three friends. We now officially have a possie.

I've arranged my interviews for 9pm, so I decide to take a taxi rather than wait for the three friends to pick us up.

"No, no," Raul assures me, "They are five minutes away."

Half an hour later, things on the street corner are feeling a little desparate. Finally the car appears an we are propelled into a world of hair product. Now I understand what they've been doing for the last half hour, putting on perfume.

The old man driving the car must be about 65. His boyfriend is 18, and absolutely gorgeous. The other guy has yellow hair, and he's used the left-over peroxide on his eyebrows.

There's a battle of wills happening in the front over air temperature and music choice. As we set off for Lawton, it becomes gradually obvious that noone has any idea where we're going. The guy with orange eyebrows seems to have the best idea, but half an hour later, we're still not even in the suburb.

There is much discussion about the police. How to avoid the police, where the police are most likely to be. Later, I ask Raul why we were avoiding them, and he says that four gay guys going to an illegal drag club probably wouldn't have gone down well.

Still, Lawton is somewhere far off in the distance when the direction-asking stage of the journey begins. I watch the little clock on the dash leave 9pm further and further back in the past.

Generally it goes like this:
animated discussion-> mention of cops -> someone spots an innocent bystander -> car pulls over -> innocent bystander helpfully explains directions for at least five minutes with hand signals and waving of arms (waving of arms is to signify how far away Lawton is) -> we set off.

This process begins again every two blocks, and I'm not exaggerating. I am completely powerless.

I am gradually becoming extremely irritable.

Finally we arrive. The bar is actually a house, wrapped so tightly in fairy lights that it's like a beacon.

I am over an hour late, but I figure that's ok because I still have an hour to interview.

Rojelio (pron: Ro-hell-ee-o) treats me the appropriate level or sickly sweetness that you'd expect from someone who's just made 100CUC out of you.

I head into the makeup room - it's just like a hairdressing salon. Long benches with mirrors and some chairs, with lots of very manly looking men standing in front of them.

Drag IS amazing. That a man can wipe almost all traces of his sexuality is truly incredible.

I am interviewing a man with massive lips lined by almost black lipliner, and hair around his nipples. His voice is a normal man's voice, and he's pleasant.

"Now tell me if this question is too private," I say, "But exactly how do you get rid of the lump?"

These guys all get around in bikinis and the like, with no sign of their penises. And I know for a fact that they haven't had sex-change operations.

"Oh, not too private at all," he says. He's standing in stockings with a thick set of flesh coloured bike pantish-but-stronger thing over the top. He pulls open the bike pants, so we can see down his front, and half-crouches.

"So, you push it down," he says, pushing it down, "And then, stand up. And it stays between your legs. See? Completely flat??"

Oh. Glad I asked. I don't have a penis, but did somebody say ouch?

Jesus Christ, it'd be less painful to just chop it off. Sex change operations are illegal in Cuba, so this is the only option.

I then move onto an interview with Barbara. She is more than happy to chat, she makes up at home so is ready to rock'n'roll.

"Your breasts are amazing," I tell her, "Congratulations."

She's standing in the doorway to the house, where all the guests are entering. "I know," she says, "Look at this..."


And she lifts her silver sequined top to show a lacy bra encasing two perfect and enviable breasts.

Barbara and I chat for ages. She had her operation at dawn in a hospital, and now has a boyfriend, although he still has a wife and child somewhere else. Unlike the rest of the cast here, she spends the night and day as a woman, in woman's clothing with woman's hair. Just not a woman's voice.

I am just setting off downstairs to see the transformation process, when Rojelio appears. Or Moodswing Rojelio, as he will hence be known. Sure, my mic's phallic, but at the sight of it he starts flapping his arms around and shooshing me up the stairs. As in, UP the stairs.

I'd love to describe the miracle of trans-formation, but all I can give you is the before and after. Mofo. 100CUC, that's $150 AUD, and I get two lousy interviews, virtually no pics.

Rojelio can take his gold pincers and go to 'jel(io).

I head back upstairs and take in the show. Who knew drag could be so fun when you've got people to enjoy it with.

At one stage, my first interviewee starts ripping off his eyelashes, then his fake nails and then his wig, then his dress. Oh my god, it's a strip show with a twist.

This is considered incredibly artistic and met with violent applause. I admit, it was really quite exhiliarating.

A fat guy sends a drink over and we're all perving on the incredibly gorgeous gay guy on the other side of the room.

On my way to the toilet, the fat dude greets me and pulls me down for a kiss - which I assume to be the usual Cuban cheek-kiss greeting, until he plants his big, wet lips all over my mouth. I extricate myself feeling violated, and then have to explain myself to the lesbians at the next table, who are berating me for letting him do it.

Oh this is all too much. In the toilet line, I find myself standing next to Mr Gorgeous Gay Man and the transexual from the table behind me instructs me to tell him that she's in love. With him. God, who's not.

I do so.

He turns out to be incredibly charming and proceeds to chat me up. Cripes, even gay guys can't resist women here.

Finally, it's my turn for the toilet. I walk in, and find myself looking at a bowel that is COVERED in blood. That's right, blood. Who died in here?

I walk back out, to find the Mr Gorgeous Guy of Questionable Sexuality explaining himself to his boyfriend.

This is all getting too much. We all end up on the dancefloor, with one of the lesbians fondling my waist during the human trains (you know where everyone runs around cheerfully clutching the person in front of them?) and before I know it I'm being dragged out to the car.

It's a man's world, for this noone's girl.

WHAT A DRAG

Friday, I make my way to a phone booth and call the Bar de las Estrellas.

A charming young fellow answers the phone and tells me it's fine to show up around 8pm to chat with the muchachas.

This time I find a cab that will do it for 5CUC, and Francisco turns out to be a lovely non-intrusive fellow who takes his cues from my limited conversation-making.

I go upstairs and meet the lovely George, who's got a mousey face and yellow streaks in his hair.

He introduces me to the DJ, Jose, who also has yellow streaks in his. The barman's hair is ALL yellow. Haven't they heard of toner here?

We all chat for a hour or so, as I wait for some magical sign to go downstairs and meet the muchachas.

Finally, George summons me to come and meet Rojelio (pronounced Ro-hell-ee-o). The name is said with some reverence.

I walk into a hairdressing salon, on the bottom level. There is a hairy-backed man just starting the makeup process. Looks like he might be a while.

Sitting in a makeup chair, but more giving the impression of a king (or queen) in a throne, is a very small, very angry-looking man with .. yellow hair.

He looks like a very camp Cuba Gooding Junior, with gold coating on each of his pincer teeth.

Rojelio. Now I get the yellow hair epidemic.

"You are under no circumstances, to bring ANY recording gear into the bar," he says, his gold pinchers flashing under the flouros.

"No microphones, no interviews. Nothing."

What about the good old days in Australia, where contacts were one keystroke away and anyone with anything resembling recording equipment was treated as an old friend.

Getting to this moment has taken days of dark streets, dodgy areas, detective skills, persistence... and I'm getting the 'under no circumstances' line?

I think we're like guitar strings. Without any tension we're slack and out of tune, we don't really fulfill our purpose. But at this very moment, I feel stretched so tight that I will snap.

Rojelio's nostrils are flaring, so I take a deep breath and tell him that under no circumstances do I want to do anything to upset him and his muchachas.

He keeps talking, mentioning something very subtle and roundabout regarding money. I'm sorry, I can't do subtle and roundabout in Spanish. It's blunt or nothing.

I look to George for clarification. "What, can't she even speak Spanish?" Rojelio explodes.

"Yes, but I don't speak Fuckwit," I want to reply. "Yes, but Cuban Spanish is a little different," I explain.

George explains that the Bar de las Estrellas is not actually legal, and gets shut down systematically so there would need to be a financial incentive for me to endanger their status.

"Well, let's talk terms," I say.

"Not here," Rojelio spits, "In private."

We arrive in a little room on the second level with a lot of red velvet couches, and china ornaments. Dalmations, angels, clocks, they're all china. There is a lot of light, coming from the many lamps that light the room. There's a wine-rack of liquor, which I consider stealing to recoup costs.

He disappears into a small room to yell at three of his staff for 15 minutes, while I wait outside with his mobile, which is ringing incessantly.

After I've explained how much I will earn for the story, and how much I have to pay for the air ticket, accommodation, and costs, not to mention labor, Rojelio goes to consider his price.

An hour later, George returns with the terms. It will be $150 dollars just to get in the door, more than I will earn for the story.

He knows he's got me by the proverbials and he's milking it for all it's worth.

It's too late tonight to interview, so I head upstairs and buy a beer. Just in case they haven't got enough cash out of my already. The yellow-haired gang all keep my company until swelling 50s instrumental music heralds the beginning of the show.

It's actually pretty good, but I am so drained it's all I can do to keep an enraptured expression on my face in case Rojelio looks over. At 1am I can't do it any more, so I ask George to call a cab.

"No, no, there are cabs outside," he reassures me.

All the cabbies refuse to take me except an apparently-mute old man, who's leaning on a little new white car. I start to open the door when he points across the road.

The car he's pointing at looks more like one of those car bodies you see in a wrecker's yard. It's an old Chevy and I am shocked to discover it starts. There is a shuddering sound that suggests that at any moment the whole casing around us will just fall apart, and lots of squeaking.

Now, my sense of direction isn't that good, but I know backstreets when I see them. This is not the way I got here - either time.

Fuck. He's taking me around the corner where one of his mates is waiting to help him mug me. I sit rigid in flight-or-fight readiness, but really I know I'll opt for hand-it-over-and-then-how-am-I-going-to-get-home when it happens.

It's eery, peering through the curtain of cracks in the windscreen at these dark, deserted backstreets.

Five minutes later I still haven't been mugged so start formulating a back-up theory. Maybe he's taking the backstreets because he doesn't have a taxi licence (pay through the nose to carry passengers) and is avoiding the police.

Actually, yeeeeah. As if this car could get anything resembling a road-worthy .. let alone a taxi licence.

I settle back for the ride, and decide to capitalise on the great sound value and take a recording the miracle that is This Car In Motion. I very subtly move the microphone out of my bag, and make sure he can't see it.

When we arrive, he says his first words for the entire journey, "Pay me here, very discreetly, and don't draw any attention to yourself."

Judging by his car, I doubt he's got enough money to pay the fire for getting busted without a taxi licence. I pay, I drag myself up into Squirmer's Den, and I sleep. Soundly.

WILD TRANNIE CHASE

Before coming here, I read a very interesting article about a drag show in Cuba. The article kept the bar anonymous but mentioned the suburb so I figure I can put it together when I get there. So, I've promised a story on drag queens in Cuba.

For a few days now I have been asking around and the conversation remains consistently the same:

M: Have you heard of a drag club around here?
C: What?
M: You know, women who dress up as men.
C: (recoils) Oh, transvestites.
M: That's right.
C: No, they're banned here.
M: Well, what about a gay bar where I can ask around.
C: No, gay bars are banned too.

I'm not getting far. My new house mother is the awful Irma, whose names suits her perfectly. A cross between irksome and squirmer. She lies without hestitation, even when she doesn't need to and treats the cleaning lady like shit. She's sickly sweet with guests.

I start to mention that I need to go to Lawton but before I even get to the bit about men dressing up as women she screeches:
"Lawton!!!! You can't go to Lawton!!!! You can't go out at night. Not on your own. I mean, go to hotels, tourist hotels. But nowhere else. But LAWTON!!! There is a problem with drunks there. You'll be robbed."

Yes, Lawton is the lowest socio-economic suburb in Havana. I bet Squirma's never even been there.

There's a fine line between investing enough faith in humankind to receive the dividends, and gambling all your money on a bad hand.

I walk that line, from my house... down some dark streets where I can see families through the windows soaking up propoganda that's being churned out of the television. Kids playing on the front steps. Dogs runnign down the road. People buying beer at canteens.

I reach the malecon, an eerie stretch where a big forest of flags flaps in the wind and soldiers line the street.

I turn off to the Hotel Nationale and approach the last driver in a line of old souped up American cars that take tourists around.

He too has never heard of this bar, but proceeds to ask every man in the line until he returns with the information. His name is Miguel and he has a son and a grandson called Michel so we are firm friends by now.

"Street 16, across from the auto station." he announces proudly.

I think I'm in love.

I find a cab, and Orlando quotes me 7CUC to make the trip. He's got a pencil-thin moustache and a Billy Ocean fetish.

"Get Into My Car" is actually playing when I ... get into his car. We share a very special "When the Going Gets Tough", and he even lets me record some natural sound.

When we reach Destination Lawton, Orlando asks me what we're looking for? A house?

"Well, sort of. It's a drag show."
"A what?"
"Transvestites."

He giggles and starts asking passes-by where to find the poofs.

We find a house covered in fairy lights. Given that Cuba has an obsession with saving electricity, I'm not sure how they're working this level of energy consumption, really it's like the beacon of Lawton, but whatever.

I peer through the glare at a delightful woman who tells me the show is on tomorrow night and of course I can come and record some interviews. She gives me a little sliver of paper with the name Rojelio on the back, and I head back to Orlando.

"You have to go back anyway, Orlando. So what price can you do for me for the return trip?"
"Seven CUC."
"But...."
"I could be home with my wife and child. It's 7 or nothing"

On the return, Orlando showcases Kool and the Gang, as well as a glorious "Cherish the love", to which he sings falsetto with reckless abandon.

"This song always makes me feel like crying," he announces.

I happily pay the seven CUC: the cab ride has been my most enjoyable experience as yet in Cuba. I walk back to the house thinking Cuba may be homophobic, but it's far more camp than it realises.

FROZEN IN TIME

The buildings stay the same, and generations move between their walls. They grow up, they grow old. And the buildings remain.