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.