It all comes together - even now

Interludes with friends aside, there were only two moments on that long day of travel and conversation in and around Havana when I felt that everything came together: during the regular broadcast of the nation’s favorite soap opera, and later on, at the police station. Apart from those two interludes, it was disjointed - in a normal way, like any series of encounters where people wonder if the other was really who he or she claimed to be, if the stated reason for being present was the guiding or subordinate thought and if the apparent pleasure in the other’s company was feigned or genuine. At the time, I was concerned that further disclosure of the police encounter could lead to problems for various parties. Enough time has passed, and now we could, in theory, all rub shoulders as we struggle to read a barely legible document.

The better part of the day had been devoted to a visit outside of the capital, where I saw medical facilities for foreigners and a small museum on the coast honoring local heroes. Conversations and background sound were recorded along the entire route. We made it back to the hotel in time for me to trot over to a street in the old part of the city where I was able to slowly walk along, microphone in hand, passing all of the windows open to private homes where, without exception, televisions were turned onto the favorite telenovela (soap opera) of the moment. Everyone had turned up the volume full blast and the dialogues resonated beautifully against the old walls. It was a very satisfying few minutes, and I now expect that this was the walk that triggered my interest in the acoustic properties of clay.

Later on that evening, I sat on the Malecon, the boulevard at the water’s rocky edge, talking with a friend, doing what everyone else was doing: enjoying conversation and a bit of a breeze after another day of intense heat. My bag with all notes and recording gear was at my side on the wall, and then suddenly it wasn’t, having been snatched by a large boy or small man who ran away and jumped onto the back of a waiting bicycle which wobbled off towards the old city center.

My friend ran after them in pursuit, but they were fast. They vanished into blocks of unlit streets, but not without dropping a shoe, and when the police arrived, the shoe was handed over to the sniffer dog unit. The healthiest-looking dog in Havana, a German Shepherd, picked up the scent and rushed to the entrance of one of the side streets. He then raised his head in confusion at the spot where the perp had lost contact with the ground by leaping onto the bicycle.

Several more attempts were made before the operation was called off. I was offered the opportunity of registering the event with the police. Down at the station at 2 a.m., we were received by a very tired policewoman who inserted paper into an ancient typewriter and began asking questions about the incident and pounding the keys. As the sheet of paper came to resemble an embossed monograph more than an official report, I understood why her efforts were so fierce: the typewriter ribbon was worn out and almost no ink was being hammered onto the paper by the keys. The veteran policewoman whipped the report out of the machine and laid it on the desk to acquire all needed signatures, telling me not to worry, that everything would be legible once a photocopy had been made of this original. This was the last passport theft I would report before becoming a dual national.