From the crumbling doorways of Monte Street to the neighborhoods without electricity, the Cuban capital displays the physical and emotional toll of the crisis

14ymedio, Havana, May doesn’t feel like May. It has the face of July and the temperament of August. I know this from the irritability I encounter at every step. Social fatigue often manifests as fights over anything, a shout here and a shove there that add a little more anxiety to the already harsh daily grind. A shoe unintentionally stepped-on, a phrase spoken to the wrong person, or an indiscrete glance can unleash anything.
But I’m lucky. Amid the widespread discomfort caused by the long blackouts that have returned with a vengeance, the lack of water that makes our skin sticky and our smells unbearable, I always find a helping hand. Like the man who helps me pick up the cachucha peppers I dropped on a corner because the plastic bag couldn’t hold them, or the young woman who helps me get onto the electric tricycle without stumbling, and the elderly woman who stands beside me and shields me with her umbrella because “this sun is unbearable.”

They’re barely turning on the electricity in my neighborhood anymore. Not in my neighborhood, not in the rest of Cuba. A neighbor says we have to eat everything that needs refrigeration this weekend because we won’t have any more power. We’ll have to say goodbye to the electrical outlets in every house, bid a well-deserved farewell to the light switches, hold a wake for all those wires strung between poles, all those silenced appliances, all those LED lights above our heads. We’ll have to close the door on modernity and swallow the key to begin the total return to darkness.
In our apartment, we open windows, doors, and cracks every night. We’re lucky to live on a high floor facing the northeast trade winds. The only thing left to do is peel off our skin to see if that cools things down a bit. In the middle of the night, I always think about the people who live in the tenement in Central Havana where I was born. With hardly any ventilation, living in tiny rooms with a wall from the neighboring tenement blocking any breeze, they have few options. If I’m like this, I’m afraid they must be slowly roasting in that tenement on Jesús Peregrino Street.
Last night a desperate voice cried out in my neighborhood. It said something like “light” and then a swear word. I was drenched in sweat and paralyzed after several nights with barely three or four hours of sleep. When I woke up, I didn’t know if that cry had been real, but a neighbor confirmed it. I feel guilty for not having supported the lone protester, but I was exhausted. The day before, I had been given a grueling task: to go to an area of the city that stirs up memories.

Monte Street, now that’s a whole other story. So I had to take a deep breath before plunging onto its sidewalks after crossing Fraternity Park. The long inhalation wasn’t just because of the foul smells emanating from its doorways, but also to numb my emotions at the sight of one of the many routes from my childhood, now a ruin. “Let’s go there,” I told myself, not quite believing my own enthusiasm.
No Havana street is as dilapidated and its people as broken as Monte. Traveling along it is like stepping into a Cuba of gritty realism or ghost stories. There’s nothing to inspire optimism along this avenue that cuts through some of the most densely populated neighborhoods of the Cuban capital. They haven’t even touched the occasional fresh coat of paint applied to the facades where foreign dignitaries or popes pass by. Nor has the garbage been collected, unlike in those places visited by government officials for photo ops.

The faded names of former businesses are visible on the portals. The shop windows, their broken panes covered with boards, exhibit in the few pieces intact merchandise covered with dust and and containers of cleaning products that promise to fill the house with fragrance and shine. A store overflowing with imported trinkets has a long line of people buying to take all that single-use plastic and cheap silicone back to some small town on the island to resell.
If Monte is a cadver, the alleyways that lead into it are already dust. I venture into one of them. At the end of a passageway, I see a child playing with a flattened plastic bottle as a ball. Two women are arguing over who gets to fill buckets of water at a sink that’s practically touching the ground. Further on, a man sleeps on a damp piece of cardboard, and a portable radio blasts a song from the nineties, as if the whole place were frozen in time. Nowhere on my journey do I have internet service on my phone.
When I finally leave that avenue behind, I feel like I’ve returned from a war zone. But the truce is short-lived. As soon as I enter my neighborhood, I hear the hum of the Ministry of Transportation’s generator, announcing that there’s no electricity. I run into several neighbors with long faces. Could one of them be the one who, a few hours later, shouted “light!” in the middle of the night?
Previous Havana Chronicles:
Under a Picture-Postcard Blue Sky, the Country is Crumbling
Fatigue Barely Allows One to Enjoy the ‘Lights On’ in Havana
Dollars, the Classic Card, and a Havana Without Tourists
A Journey Through the Lost Names of Havana
The Shipwreck of a Ship Called “Cuba”
Havana Seen From ‘The Control Tower’
In Havana, the Only Ones Who Move Are the Mosquitoes
Reina, the Stately Street Where Garbage is Sold
Searching for Light Through the Deserted Streets of Havana
The Death Throes of ‘Granma’, the Mouthpiece of a Regime Cornered by Crisis
The Anxiety of the Disconnected Cuban
One Mella, Three Mellas, Life in Cuba Is Measured in Thousands of Pesos
It Is Forbidden To Leave Home in Cuba Today Because It Is a “Counter-Revolutionary Day”
Vedado, the Heart of Havana’s Nightlife, Is Now Converted Into a Desert
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