Fifteenth Birthday, Sixteenth Century

by Anne Rothwell

I watched the young girl climb carefully out of the car and smooth down her dress. She looked stunning. I was sure she must be a bridesmaid, but there was no-one else around looking dressy. Then a photographer appeared and followed her to the centre of the beautiful square, where he proceeded to pose her to his satisfaction.

Car, Trinidad de Cuba

A local man explained to me that, when a girl reaches her 15th birthday, she officially becomes a woman. She gets dressed up, wears make-up for the first time, has her hair done and then has a photographic portfolio taken in a scenic spot.

I was in Trinidad de Cuba, a gorgeous intact 16th century Spanish city, which is a World Heritage Site. I wandered into a museum, paid to climb the rickety spiral staircase up into the tower to look at the view and was given a tiny yellow scrap of paper with strict instructions to return it when I left. Clearly, a missing slip at the end of the day could mean a suicide.

Afterwards, I strolled along the quiet street where there was no traffic, just the occasional cherished 1950s car parked, and I stopped on a corner to watch a group of men playing dominoes. This is a great country, where the people are really friendly, but give you no hassle. The only movement in the torpor of the day, where even the dogs were dozing in the shade, was the flurry of an occasional horseman riding through and showing a great deal of bravado as he saw the admiration of the watchers.

An elderly gentleman sitting in a doorway beckoned me inside his house. Instinct told me this was safe and I followed him. He indicated the bathroom and conveyed that I could use it. What a shame that I’d just used the scruffy one in the museum! He then offered me a small glass of tea from a flask (clearly prepared for the unsuspecting travellers, who were few and far between at this time of year). We chatted as best we could with his limited English and my limited Spanish, then I got up to leave and handed him a dollar; he, overwhelmed, presented me with a necklace.

I soon found the destination I’d been seeking: the Casa de la Trova or Troubadour House. These were to be found in every town and were the venue for both organised and impromptu music sessions. “Oh,” I said in disappointment as I saw that they’d just finished for the day. “No problem. Come,” said a man, welcoming me inside, where he got the other musicians together and put a chair in front of them for me, before bursting into happy sound. Before I left, one had even dragged me up to dance. I had to agree with their view that music lifts the spirit.

First published in VISA issue 65 (Feb 2006)