With Fidel Castro apparently on his deathbed, is Cuba heading for another revolution?
It is midnight in Havana. Even at this hour the steaming heat and humidity are tangible, a thick, dark, velvet blanket. An evening stroll is like walking through oxtail soup. As we emerge from the restaurant into the barely lit street it begins to rain: big, fat, hot, tropical droplets. There are no taxis, but we knew that before we left home. In the past few days half the city’s cab drivers have had their driving licences confiscated by traffic police. Everyone says this has to do with the summit of non-aligned nations in Havana the following week, but no one can explain what. So we wait for our alternative means of transport, and it duly arrives: a 40ft, bright yellow, 60-seater traditional American school bus. For £2 the neighbour whose day job is to drive it has agreed to bring us here and take us home. The night is young, so we ask him to drive us to the Casa de la Música in nearby Miramar, where the salsa band Bamboleo are playing. That will be OK, he says, but he can’t take Fift
