As the warm breeze drifts ashore and the sun shines down from a cloudless sky a group of young boys, black skin shining with sweat and mouths open wide, chase a rubber ball from one side of the alley to the other. Meanwhile a group of men and women look on while taking advantage of a few minutes respite from the scorching sun under the shade of the flower laden branches of a nearby tree.ÌýAlong the street sit groups of silver haired men, shirts open, cigars protruding from their mouths the smoke curling up and out from under the brims of their hats; first one and then the next slamming dominoes onto the rickety wooden table.Ìý High above the street a slim, scantily clad middle aged woman, a cigarette in her mouth and gold chains hanging from her neck hangs out a selection of string vests and luminous lycra.ÌýThe canary in a tiny cage perched precariously on the windowsill behind her sings loudly and attempts to beat its wings as if trying to free itself from the cage to find the freedom just beyond the bars.ÌýIt speaks to me of the Cuban people, trapped behind bars and longing for escape. I continue my way along "Obispo" or Bishop Street turning my head one way then another to peer through the open doors and barred windows that are free of glass and have shutters open wide to allow a through breeze. Occasionally I catch a glimpse of a pair of rocking chairs, a television and a sideboard filled with rows of kitsch pewter cats, dogs and children. Sometimes the chairs are occupied, an elderly man in his shorts smoking a cigar, young children, legs crossed, eyes glued to the cartoons, an overweight woman, curlers in her hair desperately flapping a paper fan to cool her face.ÌýPassing by it is almost as if I am in the parlour with them.ÌýThe colourful colonial buildings jostle each other for space along the narrow lanes of this UNESCO world heritage site. Stepping onto the foot wide pavement as a rusting crimson 1957 Buick squeezes past I nearly bump into a man seated on a camping stool offering to fill lighters with gas for passers by.ÌýA queue is forming.ÌýOpposite I notice people exiting a dark doorway carrying large loaves of shiny white bread.ÌýThe floor is filthy, litter and dirt piled up in the corner and a thin, disheveled, tired looking man hands over a loaf in exchange for a brown paper ticket, his dirty hands ungloved and unwashed, his once white shirt a dusty brown. Just as the claustrophobic street threatens to swallow me I turn the corner and a fresh breeze welcomes me to one of the many plazas that provide welcome relief and space to the inhabitants of this sleepy labyrinth city.ÌýA mural on the wall depicts a youthful Ché Guevara looking into the distance, his eyes displaying an enigmatic mixture of bravery and gentleness.ÌýThe accompanying slogan reads, "We have and always will have Socialism!" A circle of tall palms reach upwards competing for the sunlight, the smooth round, grey trunks topped by an explosion of green palms and yellow coconuts awaiting the time to fall earthwards and spill their milky water.ÌýAmid these giant plants stands a statue of Simon Bolivar "The Liberator"ÌýHe stands ready for battle his face displaying a determination and courage that led to the freeing of South America from the Spanish empire and his subsequent hero status. I take a moment to rest on one of the wooden benches that surround the plaza and watch the tourists, hands full of bags, cameras and bottled water being hassled by the "Jinteros", local men who initiate conversation by asking "Where you from?" in broken English before seeking to lead them unsuspectingly to a good restaurant or hotel where they will collect their fee.Ìý On the eastern corner is a small cafe/bar, wooden struts close it off from the busy street but allow the ever welcome sea breeze to enter and as the Rum flows the sound of Rumba is lifted into the air and spills out into the warren like street where an elderly woman, her thin legs skipping to the maraca beat and wrinkled smile revealing more gums than teeth takes a scared looking twenty something white girl by the hand and invites her to share a dance.ÌýThe sun is starting to set to the west as the day comes to a close but in Havana the fun is only just beginning... | 
