Saturday, 17 December 2011
IN SEARCH OF A REVOLUTION 4
It's getting hotter and we're all getting thirsty.We carry on wandering, hoping we'll soon reach the Havana Rum factory. Ainsley greets two young women dressed in khaki short skirts and introduces them to the family.
'These women are working to eliminate Denghe Fever.'
'Bloody hell,' I think.'That's one disease we didn't get vaccinated for. Isn't it a killer?'
He reads my mind.
'It's a killer. The mosquito lives in clean still water. These girls go round houses and have the right to demand entry to fumigate. It's an offence not to let them in. There's no known cure.'
The girls take out their cleaning materials from their bag to show us. We later meet a guy on the street mending what looks like a back-firing vacuum cleaner. It's the fumigator.
I now realise I never asked an obvious basic question. Do homes in the old town have running water? Presumably not. We were probably told. Ainsley would be disappointed with me. Like so much of the information about Cuba we were given in those early days it washed over me in a haze of Havana rum.
We did the tour of the Rum Factory, saw a model of the process, the story of slavery short-circuited, and tasted samples of three and seven year old rums. The seven year old tastes like a single malt whisky, warming the cockles but not quenching the thirst. You need a mojito to do that. Now, where are the cigars?
'These women are working to eliminate Denghe Fever.'
'Bloody hell,' I think.'That's one disease we didn't get vaccinated for. Isn't it a killer?'
He reads my mind.
'It's a killer. The mosquito lives in clean still water. These girls go round houses and have the right to demand entry to fumigate. It's an offence not to let them in. There's no known cure.'
The girls take out their cleaning materials from their bag to show us. We later meet a guy on the street mending what looks like a back-firing vacuum cleaner. It's the fumigator.
I now realise I never asked an obvious basic question. Do homes in the old town have running water? Presumably not. We were probably told. Ainsley would be disappointed with me. Like so much of the information about Cuba we were given in those early days it washed over me in a haze of Havana rum.
We did the tour of the Rum Factory, saw a model of the process, the story of slavery short-circuited, and tasted samples of three and seven year old rums. The seven year old tastes like a single malt whisky, warming the cockles but not quenching the thirst. You need a mojito to do that. Now, where are the cigars?
IN SEARCH OF A REVOLUTION 3
We tumbled out into the sunshine of Havana Vieja, the Old Town, following the loping walk of our guide, Ainsley. It's winter and not yet 10am but the temperature is in the mid-twenties and Ainsley's shaven head is already glistening. His name of course isn't Ainsley but he's the spitting image of the 'Ready, Steady, Cook' chef. He even has the same shoulder gestures as he towers over us and laughs.
Havana's success and riches were founded on the strength and position of its harbour in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries built on the sugar trade and slavery. As the conquistadors plundered the treasures of the Americas, Havana became a regular port of call, also attracting merchants and pirates, such as the infamous Welsh pirate, Harry Morgan. The Spanish built a protective fortress around the harbour and city that survives today.
The nineteenth century was a period of growth when some of the most elegant and beautiful buildings in the colonial style were constructed around shady squares. At the same time crime and corruption pushed the bourgeoisie into the suburbs leaving the old town to the poor.
In the first half of the twentieth century Americans invested in the City, building palaces in the Art Deco style devoted to drinking, gambling and the tourist industry. Gangsters and the mob ruled the roost until the Revolution in 1959 led by Fidel Castro & Che Guevara. The socialist capital and the old town was cleaned up of crime and prostitution, land nationalised and the houses of the rich handed over to their servants. With an emphasis on improving conditions in the countryside for the rural poor, many fine buildings in the capital were left to crumble and residential overcrowding increased. It wasn't until the 1990s when Havana was declared a UNESCO heritage site that many architectural treasures-churches, houses, and government buildings were restored to their former status.
Ainsley stops every few metres to greet an old friend, flirt with an older woman, stroke the head of a younger one, put his arm around the shoulder of an old man selling peanuts, and laugh at a mother-in-law joke with another guide dressed in the red T-shirt of Cubanacan-the government tourist agency they both work for. He wants us to get the feel of the 'real' Cuba. Fourteen digital and one analogue camera snap in 360 degree circles at his every stop.
We wander up dusty narrow streets filled with wooden scaffolding and peer through double doorways into courtyards. Washing hangs from grimy balconies, small dogs lie on their backs in the sunshine, good-looking young men with their backs to the wall hang round doing nothing, and children ask for pens.
'Come on, family!' Ainsley shouts, as we linger at a taxi rank admiring the 1950's Chevrolet Bel Air in maroon and chrome. ' I hate those American cars,' he says.'There's much more I want to show you.'
Havana's success and riches were founded on the strength and position of its harbour in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries built on the sugar trade and slavery. As the conquistadors plundered the treasures of the Americas, Havana became a regular port of call, also attracting merchants and pirates, such as the infamous Welsh pirate, Harry Morgan. The Spanish built a protective fortress around the harbour and city that survives today.
The nineteenth century was a period of growth when some of the most elegant and beautiful buildings in the colonial style were constructed around shady squares. At the same time crime and corruption pushed the bourgeoisie into the suburbs leaving the old town to the poor.
In the first half of the twentieth century Americans invested in the City, building palaces in the Art Deco style devoted to drinking, gambling and the tourist industry. Gangsters and the mob ruled the roost until the Revolution in 1959 led by Fidel Castro & Che Guevara. The socialist capital and the old town was cleaned up of crime and prostitution, land nationalised and the houses of the rich handed over to their servants. With an emphasis on improving conditions in the countryside for the rural poor, many fine buildings in the capital were left to crumble and residential overcrowding increased. It wasn't until the 1990s when Havana was declared a UNESCO heritage site that many architectural treasures-churches, houses, and government buildings were restored to their former status.
Ainsley stops every few metres to greet an old friend, flirt with an older woman, stroke the head of a younger one, put his arm around the shoulder of an old man selling peanuts, and laugh at a mother-in-law joke with another guide dressed in the red T-shirt of Cubanacan-the government tourist agency they both work for. He wants us to get the feel of the 'real' Cuba. Fourteen digital and one analogue camera snap in 360 degree circles at his every stop.
We wander up dusty narrow streets filled with wooden scaffolding and peer through double doorways into courtyards. Washing hangs from grimy balconies, small dogs lie on their backs in the sunshine, good-looking young men with their backs to the wall hang round doing nothing, and children ask for pens.
'Come on, family!' Ainsley shouts, as we linger at a taxi rank admiring the 1950's Chevrolet Bel Air in maroon and chrome. ' I hate those American cars,' he says.'There's much more I want to show you.'
Friday, 16 December 2011
IN SEARCH OF A REVOLUTION 2
The Ambos Mundos Hotel, situated on the corner of Obispo, in Havana, combined the grandeur and faded glory of the Conquistadores with the grime of last month's tourists. The pregnant woman pointed out she could write her name in the dust on the bedside table. Funny place to leave your autograph. But that wasn't her only gripe. Because of over-booking and the sex ratio of single people, she and her husband had been separated and invited to sleep with two complete strangers. She with the blonde bombshell and he with an older gentleman. Strangely, they weren't keen on wife-swapping on the first night of their holiday. But isn't it always the way? Depending on your outlook, some people always seem to get runs of bad or good luck.
The following night she didn't have any hot water, the night after she had an army of ants running across the back of the bed, and later she found a toe-nail on the floor of her cabin. Not sure if that was the result of the torture she seemed to feel being in a group of rowdy old people. To be fair, although she felt sick and tired most of the holiday she kept a low profile. In fact, so low you could hardly see or hear her. On the other hand, her husband was extremely generous. He treated us all to lashings of 7 year old Havana rum and frequent rum cocktails. They maintained their status by sitting in the front seat of the bus for the whole holiday. Even when it broke down.
It's all a matter of expectations, I suppose. They had been on adventure holidays before and had clean rooms and good facilities. We, on the other hand, had been independent travellers staying in some really grotty places over the years. We hadn't expected swimming pools and hot water. So when they appeared it was a huge bonus. Not sure I would have wanted to have been split up from Rhys though, not on the first night. Not without our lock knife.
The following night she didn't have any hot water, the night after she had an army of ants running across the back of the bed, and later she found a toe-nail on the floor of her cabin. Not sure if that was the result of the torture she seemed to feel being in a group of rowdy old people. To be fair, although she felt sick and tired most of the holiday she kept a low profile. In fact, so low you could hardly see or hear her. On the other hand, her husband was extremely generous. He treated us all to lashings of 7 year old Havana rum and frequent rum cocktails. They maintained their status by sitting in the front seat of the bus for the whole holiday. Even when it broke down.
It's all a matter of expectations, I suppose. They had been on adventure holidays before and had clean rooms and good facilities. We, on the other hand, had been independent travellers staying in some really grotty places over the years. We hadn't expected swimming pools and hot water. So when they appeared it was a huge bonus. Not sure I would have wanted to have been split up from Rhys though, not on the first night. Not without our lock knife.
IN SEARCH OF A REVOLUTION 1
'Madam, are you sure you don't have anything sharp in your hand luggage?'
'No, my husband has a knife but he packed it.'
'Well, we'll just put your bag through for the third time.'
The Security Guard emptied everything out, felt the corners of my grubby bag, and hey presto! Rhys's knife fell out. Just like that.
'Err. . ., but he said he'd packed it in his ruck sack.'
The man examined the knife we'd bought in Mexico last year to peel fruit. He gave me an 'Oh, yeah?' look.
'You know it's an offence to carry a lock knife like this in a public place, don't you?'
'No, but...'
'The funny thing is it's not illegal to own one.' He clicked it open. The blade glinted. ''But I'm afraid I'll have to call the police.'
'Yes, but . . .'
So our search for a revolution began... in Gatwick.
15 hours later at Havana Airport, wondering how we'd manage without our flick knife, we staggered to the bus, our rucksacks on curved backs like endangered turtles, wishing we hadn't brought so much stuff. We noticed with envy soft cases on wheels and purveyed their owners who would be our travel companions. They looked a random bunch of white middle aged to older adventurers with a few exceptions: a young woman with jet eyes and infectious laugh, a blonde Czech woman, a pregnant Brummie couple, and a tall Indian man with presence-possibly gay. Together with our chocolate (his description), basketball net-high Cuban guide, it would seem we would tick all the boxes for a good mix. All that was left was to spend two weeks together to see if it would work.
'No, my husband has a knife but he packed it.'
'Well, we'll just put your bag through for the third time.'
The Security Guard emptied everything out, felt the corners of my grubby bag, and hey presto! Rhys's knife fell out. Just like that.
'Err. . ., but he said he'd packed it in his ruck sack.'
The man examined the knife we'd bought in Mexico last year to peel fruit. He gave me an 'Oh, yeah?' look.
'You know it's an offence to carry a lock knife like this in a public place, don't you?'
'No, but...'
'The funny thing is it's not illegal to own one.' He clicked it open. The blade glinted. ''But I'm afraid I'll have to call the police.'
'Yes, but . . .'
So our search for a revolution began... in Gatwick.
15 hours later at Havana Airport, wondering how we'd manage without our flick knife, we staggered to the bus, our rucksacks on curved backs like endangered turtles, wishing we hadn't brought so much stuff. We noticed with envy soft cases on wheels and purveyed their owners who would be our travel companions. They looked a random bunch of white middle aged to older adventurers with a few exceptions: a young woman with jet eyes and infectious laugh, a blonde Czech woman, a pregnant Brummie couple, and a tall Indian man with presence-possibly gay. Together with our chocolate (his description), basketball net-high Cuban guide, it would seem we would tick all the boxes for a good mix. All that was left was to spend two weeks together to see if it would work.
Wednesday, 16 November 2011
'WE'RE OIL IN THIS TOGETHER'
Last night over 130 people turned out to take part or support an evening of music, drama and stories that launched Emily Johns' exhibition,'What the Oil is Thinking,' at Pontardawe Arts Centre. The Murdon Choir sang, Mess up the Mess, a youth theatre group, performed a physical piece of theatre, inter-spersed with facts about oil spills and the cost to us all. Members of Script Cafe had their five minute plays performed by professional actors. There was a communal piece,'We're going to see the Albatross,' devised by participants of 'Make a Play in a Day' using as their starting point Emily's print of an albatross hovering over a sea- city of plastic, the size of Texas.
Then a piece exploring how difficult it is when you're dealing with climate change and green issues, not to preach or lecture. Does making people feel guilty about using their cars or flying long distances work any better? If people know the scientific facts, will that help people change their thirst for oil? Should we start fining people for not re-cycling?
This is a really challenging area for those playwrights who want to tackle big issues. The conclusion was that it's the pictures and images that we hold within our mind's eye or stories told to us by others, that make an impact and influence us to change. But is it that simple? My experience working with people with disabilities, trying to challenge attitudes and behaviour made me realise that without legislation and enforcement, effecting change can be half-hearted and take a very long time. So what needs to happen when we know what we should be doing to save our resources but we're lazy or don't entirely believe that the future of the planet lies in our oil-stained hands?
Then a piece exploring how difficult it is when you're dealing with climate change and green issues, not to preach or lecture. Does making people feel guilty about using their cars or flying long distances work any better? If people know the scientific facts, will that help people change their thirst for oil? Should we start fining people for not re-cycling?
This is a really challenging area for those playwrights who want to tackle big issues. The conclusion was that it's the pictures and images that we hold within our mind's eye or stories told to us by others, that make an impact and influence us to change. But is it that simple? My experience working with people with disabilities, trying to challenge attitudes and behaviour made me realise that without legislation and enforcement, effecting change can be half-hearted and take a very long time. So what needs to happen when we know what we should be doing to save our resources but we're lazy or don't entirely believe that the future of the planet lies in our oil-stained hands?
Sunday, 13 November 2011
THE LAST ALBATROSS, BLAZIN' FIDDLES & A REUNION
Yesterday, November 12th, was Remembrance Day for Lost Species. Three species are lost to eternity every hour. Feral Theatre's Funeral for Lost Species considers the social significance of extinction and commemorates it as a social tragedy. We were invited to hold an event that remembered and celebrated lost species.
Over the past few months members of Pontardawe Script Cafe have been working on the theme, 'Conscious oil,' writing short plays in response to a set of dramatic prints created by Emily Johns on the theme of our historical relationship to oil. Yesterday we held an event,'Make a Play in a Day' where we responded to one of the prints, an endangered albatross with its wings spread, hovering over a city of abandoned plastic bottles. There used to be 21 species of albatross and now there are only three species left. We devised a communal piece that explores the issue. It's very difficult not to be preachy and we had some interesting discussions about how best to put our message across, what motivates people to change their behaviour and how can we adapt to survive climate change? Our inter-connectness with all species was again highlighted and reinforced. What kind of species will humans become? Will we become as extinct as a Dodo or what kind of mutation might we evolve into?
We'll be performing our piece on Tuesday 15th of November at 7pm at the Arts Centre. Professional actors, directed by Derek Cobley will be performing the individual short plays, and in addition, Mess up the Mess, a local youth theatre group will be performing, and the Murton Choir from Swansea will be singing. So now all I've got to do is learn my lines. Eeek!
On return from Pontardawe, we had a quick fish and chip supper and drove down to the Royal Welsh Theatre of Music and Drama. The building was only finished in June and is already a architectural icon overlooking Bute Park. 'Blazin' Fiddles,' a group of five fiddlers, an electric organ player and a guitarist from the Highlands and Islands of Scotland entertained us wholeheartedly for the evening. In the first half of the programme of jigs, reels, laments and marches, the Cardiff audience sat rather primly and politely. After the interval the mood changed and everyone was clapping, nodding and whooping for more. But sadly only a few of us responded to the call to get up and dance, led by a black woman groupie from London. We jumped, stamped and clapped to the wild, heart-stomping playing of the sweating Celtic musicians. Our spirits soar!
I got back to find an email from a person I'd mentored several years ago and with whom I lost touch when I went to Shetland for a year. He had been in care for most of his life and the future wasn't looking too bright for him. He'd re-found me through Google. I was delighted to read how he'd turned his life around, was working, had finally got his GCSE's, was in a relationship, and was off alone on a back-packing adventure to Australia. Inspiring!
What a Day!
Over the past few months members of Pontardawe Script Cafe have been working on the theme, 'Conscious oil,' writing short plays in response to a set of dramatic prints created by Emily Johns on the theme of our historical relationship to oil. Yesterday we held an event,'Make a Play in a Day' where we responded to one of the prints, an endangered albatross with its wings spread, hovering over a city of abandoned plastic bottles. There used to be 21 species of albatross and now there are only three species left. We devised a communal piece that explores the issue. It's very difficult not to be preachy and we had some interesting discussions about how best to put our message across, what motivates people to change their behaviour and how can we adapt to survive climate change? Our inter-connectness with all species was again highlighted and reinforced. What kind of species will humans become? Will we become as extinct as a Dodo or what kind of mutation might we evolve into?
We'll be performing our piece on Tuesday 15th of November at 7pm at the Arts Centre. Professional actors, directed by Derek Cobley will be performing the individual short plays, and in addition, Mess up the Mess, a local youth theatre group will be performing, and the Murton Choir from Swansea will be singing. So now all I've got to do is learn my lines. Eeek!
On return from Pontardawe, we had a quick fish and chip supper and drove down to the Royal Welsh Theatre of Music and Drama. The building was only finished in June and is already a architectural icon overlooking Bute Park. 'Blazin' Fiddles,' a group of five fiddlers, an electric organ player and a guitarist from the Highlands and Islands of Scotland entertained us wholeheartedly for the evening. In the first half of the programme of jigs, reels, laments and marches, the Cardiff audience sat rather primly and politely. After the interval the mood changed and everyone was clapping, nodding and whooping for more. But sadly only a few of us responded to the call to get up and dance, led by a black woman groupie from London. We jumped, stamped and clapped to the wild, heart-stomping playing of the sweating Celtic musicians. Our spirits soar!
I got back to find an email from a person I'd mentored several years ago and with whom I lost touch when I went to Shetland for a year. He had been in care for most of his life and the future wasn't looking too bright for him. He'd re-found me through Google. I was delighted to read how he'd turned his life around, was working, had finally got his GCSE's, was in a relationship, and was off alone on a back-packing adventure to Australia. Inspiring!
What a Day!
Tuesday, 1 November 2011
PONTARDAWE STRIKES OIL
There's Oil in Pontardawe!
As the price of oil rises, and as the temperature drops and we gear up for what is predicted to be another harsh winter, residents have struck oil in the Centre of Pontardawe - the Arts Centre. And they are singing about it, telling stories and generally creating a drama!
Just weeks after the ban on free plastic bags, Pontardawe Arts Centre is hosting a lively evening to launch the popular exhibition 'Conscious Oil' by Emily Johns. With stories from local miners, singing from the Murton choir, drama from Mess up the Mess and Pontardawe's own script cafe, this evening is set to get you thinking about where your next bag for life is coming from.
'We're oil in this together,' says Brian Cainen, a Swansea scriptwriter whose sketch sees two polar bears fighting over the last piece of ice in the arctic. 'Drama explores big issues,' he says, 'by bringing them down to a human story - or in my case a polar bear story.'
Energy charity Awel Aman Tawe, and Peacock Vein Scriptshop have joined forces to organise the event with funding from Countryside Council for Wales, Environment Wales and Literature Wales. As Jan Daniel (Chair of Script Cafe) says,
'We are oil addicts. But we all have to adapt to survive'.
Conscious Oil - an evening of music, theatre, art and stories.
Pontardawe Arts Centre - Tuesday 15th November 7.00 - 9.30
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