A Wee Yarn
It’s the middle of July 2023 and I’m in Havana, anxious to tie up a loose end. For several years now, I’ve been hoping to record a few of the members of the Conjunto Folklórico Nacional de Cuba (the country’s national folkloric troupe) as they perform the percussion parts employed in the conga habanera, the music that accompanies the annual carnival parades as played in Havana. I had made similar recordings with the members of folkloric ensembles in both Santiago de Cuba and Matanzas a number of years earlier, but at that time the CFNC was on tour outside the country and a variety of factors—not least among them the COVID-19 pandemic—have meant that I’ve not been able to get back here until now. Even if it is only for my own edification, I’m keen to finally complete this modest survey of the island’s conga de comparsa traditions.
Every day for a week I take lessons from Guillermo, my primary contact in the CFNC, who, in a very methodical fashion, is able to lay out all of the basic parts and the rules for generating their seemingly infinite variations. With some difficulty, I’m able to convey, in my rudimentary Spanish, that I would like to make a recording of the percussionists playing the parts together and Guillermo is kind enough to schedule a small group demonstration on the last day that I’m in town.
That morning, I make my way across the city. By the time I arrive at the CFNC rehearsal space in the Vedado neighborhood, I’m close to bursting, but not just with excitement. I’ve been doing my best to stay well hydrated in the summer heat and, as I walk through the front doors of the mid-century building, I feel like I’m on the verge of emptying my very full bladder right there on the tile floor. I hastily jettison my recording equipment and tell Guillermo that I have to make a quick run to the restroom before we get started. I dash across the courtyard where the company holds its Saturday afternoon performances to the washroom and shut the door behind me. After relieving myself, I realize that, unfortunately, the recent renovations to the site haven’t extended to the bathrooms: the toilet won’t flush and there’s no running water. No matter. These are far from the worst conditions I’ve encountered in my travels and I always have some hand sanitizer with me. Finally, I’m ready to go. Except that the door is locked and, as far as I can tell, there is no doorknob or handle or mechanism of any kind on either side for releasing the latch, which I can just barely make out between the door and the frame.
The only item I have on my person with the potential to get me out of my predicament is a set of keys to the place where I’m staying, and I try to use them to release the latch. I’m able to get it to move a little bit, but any more than that and I risk snapping off one of the keys, which would present me with a whole new set of problems.
After ten minutes of this futile effort to free myself, I try to catch the eye of a bartender who is working at a patio connected to the rehearsal space. Sticking my whole arm out the slotted window and waving vigorously, I start shouting, “¡Ayúdame!” He either doesn’t hear me or pretends not to, which I can understand. I would also be very wary of wading into such a situation. After a further five minutes of this, the sun beating down on the tiny cinder block cell I am trapped in, me sweating buckets attempting to get someone’s attention so I can engineer my escape, I finally break down and pull out my phone to make the call I have been hoping to avoid. I dial the number. “Guillermo. I’m locked in the toilet.”
A few minutes later Guillermo comes and through the window passes me a flimsy steak knife. I’m able to pop the lock on the first try.
As we walk back to the rehearsal space, Guillermo is laughing heartily. “You were gone so long, I thought you went to take a piss in another country.” He tells one of the other percussionists what happened, which elicits the response, “Oh, yeah. If you’re going to the bathroom, you’ve got to take the knife.”
The news of my misadventure seems to lighten the mood. I’m not sure it has any effect on the recording session itself, but it certainly doesn’t hurt. The musicians’ performance is inspiring. Both the audio and video turn out really well. All in all, it’s about as good as I could ever ask for.
~~~
At the time, this little episode was for me a humbling reminder that, often, rather than attempting to avoid humiliation in such situations, I should just swallow my pride and reach out to ask for help. Later, when relating these events to family members and a few close friends, the emphasis tended to be on the resilience and ingenuity of the Cuban people in the face of systemic failures and crumbling infrastructure: so many things in the country are broken that sometimes the best you can hope for is a work-around fashioned from whatever is close at hand. Returning to the story now, for this publication, I realize that what is perhaps the most obvious interpretation has been patiently waiting to be articulated all along: as ethnomusicologists, we rely heavily on the musicians with whom we work to open doors for us. Sometimes, those doors are metaphorical. Sometimes, they are quite literal.
Notes:
[1] In Scottish vernacular English, a “wee yarn” is a short story; “wee” can also refer to urination.