Every night, the neighbors gather around a small business with a halo of light and a glimmer of internet thanks to a generator.
14ymedio, Julio César Contreras, San José de las Lajas (Mayabeque, Cuba), November 6, 2025 — The clock strikes eight and San José de las Lajas has been swallowed by the night. Since the time change, with the blackouts that last more than ten hours at a time, the town sinks into a darkness so dense that even the dogs fall silent. Only a faint glow, that of the hamburger stand on the boulevard, breaks the blackness. The establishment’s generator, rented from a private individual, hums like a tired heart, powering two light bulbs and a small freezer.
“When I was coming here on my bike, I hit a pothole in front of the Cultural Plaza. I almost fell, but when there’s no electricity, this is the only place I can contact my daughter,” says David, a 58-year-old resident trying unsuccessfully to send a WhatsApp message. “The Etecsa tower is nearby, but the connection is terrible. They imposed the tarifazo [massive price hike], and we’re still having the same problems,” he laments.
The scene repeats itself every night: groups of people approach, seeking light, internet, or company. Some arrive with phones in hand, others simply weary from the day. The gloom thickens outside the illuminated circle. No one sits by the dry fountain, from which a sour smell rises. “On those dark benches, there might be a couple kissing or a mountain of garbage,” says David, gazing into the shadows.
The sign says ‘Hamburger Stand,’ but there’s no bread or hamburger. All they sell is Mayabe beer, cola, and some cookies.
An elderly man crosses the threshold between light and darkness, asking for twenty pesos for food. A woman teaches the multiplication tables to a little girl, taking advantage of the dim light that allows her to do her homework. In the background, the employees of the establishment move about leisurely. “This doesn’t look like a business, it looks like a refuge,” comments Samuel, a young man who arrived with two friends. “The sign says ‘Hamburger Stand,’ but there’s no bread or hamburger. The only things they sell are Mayabe beer, cola, and some cookies.”
Samuel shrugs his shoulders and smiles resignedly. “Inefficiency is everywhere, in the government and among private individuals too. They don’t know how to take advantage of the fact that people spend part of the blackout here. They could sell anything they wanted, and they don’t.” His criticism, somewhere between bitter and mocking, elicits nods of agreement from those around him. No one argues.
The employee listens from behind the counter. “The generator barely has enough power for the freezer and two light bulbs,” she explains. “At least this way we can see each other, even if it’s just within these five or six meters. Everything else in town is dark.” She’s been working all day, and even so, she prefers not to go home alone: ”My husband can’t come pick me up, and I’m afraid to walk in this darkness. Once, someone followed me to the corner.”
As she speaks, the murmur of the crowd grows. Some argue about the dollar’s exchange rate on the black market, others check their mobile phone balances. Someone mentions that the blackout began at eight in the morning. “And there’s still no sign that the power will be restored,” he adds. Statistics from the last month confirm this: according to data from the National Electric Union, the generation deficit has exceeded 1,500 megawatts per day. In Mayabeque, the outages often last up to 12 continuous hours.
The province is no exception to the national pattern: blackouts, paralyzed domestic life, and a negative impact on businesses. In municipalities like Güines and San Nicolás, business owners report that generators are insufficient to keep food refrigerated.
On the Lajero boulevard, the scene confirms this diagnosis. A group of young people gather around a makeshift table. “People come here more for the light than the beer,” says a young man who looks to be no more than twenty, laughing. The dim glow illuminates sweaty faces, phones with barely a sliver of battery left, and plastic cups. The mosquitoes do their part: “If you stay home, they’ll devour you,” another one sums up.
Beyond the small illuminated circle, the night returns to a deep gloom. The bicycle taxi stand, across from 40th Avenue, begins to empty. “This looks like the mouth of a wolf,” a man murmurs as he turns on his flashlight to cross the street.
No one knows when the power will return or which circuit will be “benefitted” first. The electric company only issues vague statements in its Telegram group. “They say it’s due to a lack of fuel, but the problem is that this has become the norm,” says the employee as she pours a room-temperature soft drink. At home, another task awaits: washing her son’s school uniform. “Let’s hope they restore some power before tomorrow.”
Around eleven o’clock, the generator’s sound fades. A thick silence spreads through the town. “The generator’s gone,” someone says, and darkness envelops everything. The few remaining residents get up slowly. In the shadows, San José de las Lajas disappears completely.
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