Without transportation and without gasoline, La Rampa, 23rd Street, Coppelia and other iconic places suffer from the crisis affecting the entire country
14ymedio, Yoani Sánchez, Havana, Februay 22, 2016 — It’s Saturday and I’m heading out to Vedado. Just a few years ago, the combination of this day of the week with La Rampa, 23rd Street, and the area around the Hotel Habana Libre and the Coppelia ice cream parlor, for years mean fun, meeting up with friends and ending the night enjoying some shot. But this city no lonver exists. Now, the avenues are almost deserted, the clubs remain closed, and the familiar faces and names that once defined every corner have left. The only ones who remain are those who couldn’t leave.
I head through the La Timba neighborhood until I reach the edge of Revolution Square. Forget about catching a ride to the vicinity of avenida de los Presidentes. I’ll do the whole trip on foot. Paseo Street is deserted at ten in the morning. On a lamppost, someone has dared to hang a sign that says “Gasoline” and a cell phone number. I imagine that if I call, they’ll tell me the price of that liquid which, right now, monopolizes the dreams and anxieties of the entire country. Yesterday, a neighbor told me he had a liter of premium for 4,000 pesos, but it must have gone up by now. I imagine that if I call they’ll tell me the price of that liquid which, right now, monopolizes the dreams and anxieties of the entire country.
On one corner, several gaudy pink convertibles participate in the filming of a music video. The contrast is brutal. The passengers smile at the camera from the peculiar row of gleaming vehicles just a few meters from a vast garbage dump. As I watch the spectacle, a mosquito bites my ankle, a patch of skin I forgot to treat with repellent. Insecticides have become an inseparable part of our “war kit” before leaving home. We’re in a constant battle to avoid catching one of the arboviruses that are plaguing us.
My husband has been suffering for months from the aftereffects of chikungunya. Swollen hands, joint pain, weakness, and a slow gait that has become the hallmark of those who have had the disease. Ahead of me, on D Street, a woman walks with that robotic gait the illness has left her with. I can’t help but recall scenes from the film Juan de los muertos [Juan of the Dead], with a city full of zombies attacking those who are still breathing. But in Havana, there are no living people left to attack; we are all, in one way or another, already cadavers.
I am standing in front of Cuba’s tallest building. One would expect the areas around the Iberostar Selection Hotel, also known as Torre K, would be bustling with the comings and goings of taxis, tourists, and tour guides, but there’s nothing. The completely empty entrance lends an air of abandonment to this ugly block of concrete and glass. Only one man, delirious and shouting incoherent phrases, disturbs the lethargy that stretches along this stretch of sidewalk to what was once Havana’s most vibrant corner: 23rd and L.
I cross to the other side of the left atrium of the heart of Vedado, even though the pedestrian light is still red. It doesn’t matter. I could dance for a while in the middle of the popular intersection and I wouldn’t be in any danger of being run over. Two teenagers pass by on their scooters , and another lunatic waves his arms like the blades of a fan in front of the Yara movie theater. Losing your mind is easy in a reality that challenges us with new absurdities every day. The friends who haven’t left live on pills that anesthetize them. “I don’t want to go crazy,” a neighbor repeats to me while showing me the blister pack of tiny pills she carries in her wallet.
I reach Infanta Street. It smells of urine. I sit down in a doorway across from Radio Progreso. Within minutes, several elderly people file past, begging for money. A nearby business has hired two burly security guards who prevent the beggars from interacting with their customers. A family of tourists, the first I’ve seen on my journey, approaches to read the restaurant menu. The woman asks the employee if he can help her get internet access because the SIM card she bought from Etecsa “isn’t working.” The man explains that the service is unreliable and there are times of day when it doesn’t work. Her face is a poem: she doesn’t understand why she was charged for something that doesn’t work.
A gleaming yellow excavator drives past me. It’s the first vehicle I’ve seen in several minutes of sitting here. Five men are riding on the bucket. I’m going to have to ask my neighbor for one of those little pills to keep from going crazy.
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