A band performs in HavanaCredit:Getty Images
Storm clouds roll in over downtown Havana. In the streets,people scurry for cover,huddling beneath doorways or fumbling for umbrellas amid the first spits of rain.
A rumble of thunder soon turns to a torrential downpour. Bolting for shelter,I find myself in a packed corner bar where the rum and conversation flow thick and fast.
Ordering a beer from a surly waiter,I take a seat beside a guy reading a novel in a Panama hat. Behind us,a vintage,pastel green Buick hisses past the open window,tyres splashing torrents of water onto the pavement.
I've hardly had time to sip my drink when a man enters the bar. He's dressed in a sparkly-green dress,high heels and a cream feather boa around his waist. A chorus of wolf-whistles and cheers fills the bar. Raising a hand,he smiles appreciatively;he's clearly a much-loved local character. By now,the rain is pelting down. Rolling down the shutters,the staff - no strangers to extreme weather - batten down the hatches. For a short time at least,we are to be prisoners,strangers forced to take refuge against the elements.
From the corner,a group of musicians strike up a tune. A woman plays the flute,and there's a guy with a trilby pulled low on double bass,a leather-faced old-timer on bongos,and an assorted throng of vocalists.
They kick in with an uptempo number,the atmosphere instantly elevated. Leaping from his stool,the man in drag breaks into a salsa,the crowd whooping and urging him on. Soon,half the bar is on their feet,the entire room a blur of gyrating limbs.
Fleetingly,the man in the Panama looks up from his novel. Even the waiter brightens a little.
When the first few numbers end,the bass player works the room,shaking a basket of loose change under our noses. In Cuba,any situation turned to your advantage is a chance to make a fast buck.
Gradually,the rain dies off. As if following suit,the band plays a handful of slower-tempo numbers,and the mood shifts from electric to melancholy. Wandering between tables,a woman dressed in red slacks sings a soulful ballad,shaking a maraca in each hand.
Little by little,the place begins to clear. When the storm clouds finally dissipate,only a handful of punters are left,staring from bar stools into half-empty glasses of rum.
Perhaps for the first time,I'm keeping my fingers crossed for more rain.