World's Greatest Journeys: Stroll around historic Harlem

Paul Bloomfield pens a hymn to New york City's key African-American neighbourhood

I was walking on 125th Street when I had the vision. Nelson Mandela appeared before me, clad in vivid robes and wreathed in that hallmark beatific smile; “Welcome to heavenly Harlem!” he beamed. Martin Luther King Jr thoughtfully stroked his chin to Mandela’s left; on his right hand Malcolm X radiated brooding authority. Yet around me the tide of passers-by continued chatting on mobile phones or striding, heads down, indifferent or unaware.

To the locals, rubbing shoulders with the shining lights of the civil rights movement is an everyday occurrence – they’re an integral part of Harlem’s cartography and landscape. Reminders of the greats of African-American culture and society are all around: in the street names – 125th St is also called Martin Luther King Jr Boulevard, for example – and in other clues: a statue of Duke Ellington, Marcus Garvey Park, and the painting of Mandela, King and Malcolm X on a shop’s shutters that so captivated me.

The other thing that Harlem folk are getting used to is tourists – coachloads of them. An area that was, until perhaps a decade ago, a virtual 60-block no-go zone thanks to a reputation for crime, crack and crumbling housing, has become a hot ticket.

Some visitors are black, from elsewhere in the US, keen to see the spots where jazz greats crooned and tinkled the ivories. Others, mostly liberal up-staters, Europeans and Japanese, come to feel the vibe and hear the Baptist gospel choirs. If they’re expecting jive-talkin’ brothers and sisters cookin’ up collard greens at open windows, they’re disappointed, though tour guides do their best to build the atmosphere.

“It can be a little unnerving for residents to see crowds of white people walking through their neighbourhood, so please be discreet.” So declared my theatrically larger-than-life guide, James. But this wasn’t a trek through a minority village in a far-flung corner of China.

Among the tenements and graffiti this speech could be rehearsed playacting or an honest concern for local sensibilities. If the former, the alert had the desired effect: a wave of whispers and a meerkat-style bobbing as the tour group scanned the streets for unnerved residents. If the latter, it’s hard to imagine how a coachload of tourists disgorged on a short terraced street could be anything approaching discreet.

Founded by Dutch settlers in the mid-17th century as Nieuw Haarlem, the district became popular with wealthy farmers and merchants. In the 19th century, developers built handsome apartment blocks and the trademark ‘brownstones’, anticipating an influx of middle-class suburbanites that never materialised. Black tenants were accepted for the first time in 1904, paving the way for a tide of African-American settlers, largely pushed out of southern New York by resentment from European immigrants, and forming the basis of Harlem’s population today.

The late 1920s saw the flourishing of a ‘Harlem Renaissance’, a time when black authors, playwrights, painters and – most of all – musicians came to the fore; nightclubs like the Cotton Club became jazz Meccas, with Duke Ellington, Louis Armstrong and Cab Calloway on the bill (though not in the audience, which was white-only). Post-Depression, Harlem again became a hotbed for political activity – not least through the work of Malcolm X in the 50s and 60s – but poverty and poor housing left the district stricken during the 70s and 80s.

But big chapters don’t make the deepest impression; it’s the small, personal tales that stick in the memory. Passing 125th Street again, James recalled an episode from his mother’s youth. “That’s Blumstein’s department store, where for many years only the lightest-coloured blacks were permitted to work – and then only out of sight. When, as a girl, my mother went to buy new shoes, she wasn’t even allowed to try them on; she was forced to stand on sheets of white paper, on which the shapes of her feet were traced to check size.”

Blumstein’s was boycotted by blacks in 1934 and forced to adjust its employment policy; later, it was the first store to hire a black Santa.

Now Harlem is on the upswing, with reduced crime and commercial investment adding lustre to its residents’ pride; brownstones are being reconverted from apartments to single homes, and community focal points like the Apollo Theater have been given a new lease of life.

But while Amateur Night at the Apollo again draws the crowds, it’s another kind of talent that’s the biggest pull on Sunday mornings: the gospel choirs of Harlem’s Baptist churches. Sat in the balcony of Mount Neboh Baptist Church, surrounded by ornate azulejo-like tiling and a hundred or so other tourists, I felt both elated and voyeuristic, like peering down into a goldfish bowl.

The congregation, though clearly moved by the spirit – there was no Blues-Brother-esque cartwheeling down the aisles, but the more frisky members of the choir were limbering up – were clearly aware of the curious eyes of the tourists on their billowing robes and sweat-glistening faces (fans sponsored by George H Weldon Funeral Home, Inc – “For a wel-don funeral”).

But when the hallelujahs rang out, and ay-men!s echoed from the body of the church, there was no time for questioning or quibbling. As I tried (and failed) to clap in time with the chorus, that image of Mandela sprang vividly to mind. Welcome to heavenly Harlem, indeed.