Since last Friday we’ve only had a few hours of electricity each day, and in my mind, the days are strung together as if it were all one long, unbearable day.
14ymedio, Yoani Sánchez, Havana, June 8, 2026 / Three in the morning. There’s electricity and water, so I set up the electric pressure cooker with some beans, fill the washing machine with everything that’s piled up, and jump in the shower. Some Mondays feel like Wednesdays because of the weariness they carry. Weeks that start already old and exhausted. Since last Friday, we’ve only had a few hours of electricity each day, and in my mind, the days are strung together as if it were all one long, unbearable day.
The water revives me. I recover the thread of hope that had been lost to me on Sunday, or perhaps it was Saturday. I don’t remember. It’s barely dawn, and I set off for Old Havana. I prefer to go on foot. The price of private taxis has risen so much, due to the fuel crisis, that I have to choose between taking an almendrón* there or back, because the whole circuit would be crazy for my wallet. A long lament echoes down Ayestarán Street, which also seems like a single voice emanating from different faces.
“Everything went bad,” one elderly woman tells another. “I had to eat the chicken I had in a single day because it wouldn’t last until today,” grumbles a man chatting with two others on a street corner. “Call her and see if there’s electricity in her building so we can bring her the baby’s milk so it won’t spoil,” a woman, holding a baby, shouts to a young man leaving on a motorcycle. In the nearest garbage bin, a package of pork steaks, already turning green, can be seen—slices that were meant to be a meal for some family.
“I don’t care if they come from the US or Burundi, just come now!” shouts a woman leaning out of her balcony.
I turn onto Desagüe Street. “I don’t care if they come from the US or Burundi, just come now!” shouts a woman leaning out of her balcony. She’s wearing a threadbare housecoat and has a desperate look on her face. “My refrigerator is wide open because it’s useless,” she explains. Below, several neighbors add their own dramas, also shouting. “No one has slept in my house for three days because of the heat and the mosquitoes,” one explains. “I already told my work not to expect me back, that I haven’t been able to shower since Thursday.”
I head out onto Carlos III Avenue, and the street vendors are starting to set up their stalls. It’s the same old stuff: tubes of toothpaste, packs of cigarettes, cell phone chargers salvaged from the trash, and over-the-counter medications. But as I approach Reina Street, I see something I initially struggle to identify. It’s a mannequin representing a girl a little a bit over ten years old. It’s naked and wearing a black wig. Next to it, a man is offering the doll without a clear price. “How much will you give me?” he asks when he sees me looking curious.
The figure is like the mannequins that filled the shops of my childhood. Unattractive, just like the clothes we could only buy with a ration book voucher or coupon designated for “industrial products.” I hated those clothes. They were always too big or too small, the fabric itched, or on the day we were supposed to shop, the blouse I wanted was sold out, and I had to go home in pants that seemed more suitable for working in agriculture than for going out with my friends. The 80s were such a bad time for fashion in Cuba that sometimes I don’t even want to look at my photos from that decade.
The mannequin has some chipped paint. “If you give me 5,000 pesos, you can have it,” the vendor insists. I imagine myself carrying the little girl with the black wig through the streets of Havana on my way home. I have to laugh when I get to the part where I carry her up the 14 flights of stairs and we rest together on some landing while passing neighbors ask about her origins and what I’ll use her for. My dogs would burst out barking at the sight of the figure, a little over a meter tall, entering the doorway. I shake off the daydream and tell the vendor that I would only buy her to make a horror movie, but I already live in one; I don’t need to film one.
I lengthen my stride and finally reach Old Havana. Outside the once glamorous Mercado del Oriente, a woman is on the phone, pleading to be able to store some food in a friend’s freezer. She eventually manages to get some space in the refrigerator, which is also off due to a power outage, but “still keeps things somewhat cold.” I don’t see a single tourist along the entire route. I only see people in long lines outside the banks, the Etecsa office, and the Commerce Market Building, where there’s an office of the Spanish Consulate in Havana.
Two women dressed in brightly colored traditional costumes and headscarves walk ahead of me. They scan the room, searching for a foreign visitor who will pay them for a photo, which they can then take back to their country and show off with a sly grin. They are like mannequins in a shop window that no one passes by.
*Almendrón: A classic American car operating as a shared tai, generally on a fixed route. The name references the car’s ‘almond’ shape
Previous Havana Chronicles:
“We Used to Complain About the ‘CUC’, But Now We Miss It”
The Roar of Despair of a Cuban Woman Returning to Her Country After Many Years
The Tulipán Market Closed: “They’ve Given the Order To Go to the March for Raúl”
Along Carlos III Street and towards Ethiopia
Sleeping Is Also a Privilege in Havana
A Desperate Plea in the Middle of the Dark Havana Night: ‘Light!’
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
Havana, in Critical Condition
______________________
COLLABORATE WITH OUR WORK: The 14ymedio team is committed to practicing serious journalism that reflects Cuba’s reality in all its depth. Thank you for joining us on this long journey. We invite you to continue supporting us by becoming a member of 14ymedio now. Together we can continue transforming journalism in Cuba.