A Day Like So Many Others in Cuba
By Eduardo N. Cordovi Hernandez
HAVANA TIMES – Many believe that being a night owl is an attribute of artists. Not only of those who perform on theater stages, in night clubs and cabarets, but also because it is associated with literary and painters’ gatherings that extend past midnight. It is the time when the fantastic manifests itself, when inspiration awakens and from the ether emanate poetic dampness, the sensitivity of feelings, the voluptuousness of emotions…
In this way, since those early years of the first century of the so-called third millennium, I began to hear many people in the neighborhood talk about their longings and recollections of pleasant experiences lived during Havana’s long blackouts.
I can say that I have more than once been part of that informal group where we shared complaints about life, commented, or let loose with things we didn’t want to say in a more open setting—whether or not there were reasons or suspicions that it might be dangerous. And suddenly someone would raise a finger and deliver “a little speech” about the charms and virtues of nights without electricity.
The fact is, more than one person raised their head and looked at the neighbor as if to ask, or at the speaker as if he were the devil. And there were those who, without saying a word, simply left. Either to their home or out of the country.
The truth is that it’s one thing for this to be real, and quite another that by saying so you are giving your approval of the blackouts, much less of the cause that produces them. Those who argue that current circumstances don’t allow for such benevolent commentary are right, since all that enchantment cannot compete with the overwhelming reality of heat and mosquitoes, possible roof leaks… Not being able to make coffee, not being able to socialize because there is no gas or sugar, or needing to save water for more essential uses, or not even having candles! And walking in the darkness is like “risking your life.” At a time when there aren’t even aspirin in the pharmacies (and that is no exaggeration).
In short, a day like so many others, with variations, comes down to waking up at eight in the morning and finding there’s no electricity. Although it is worse to rejoice that there is power, only to know it will likely be cut off at nine, or maybe ten. Because if you start cooking lunch and depend only on an electric burner since your gas has run out—you might not have lunch. If the power doesn’t go out in the morning, they might cut it at two in the afternoon and restore it at six, or seven, or maybe eight at night. But if they put it back on at six, it is almost certain they will cut it again at eight.
Now that is a romantic blackout! Especially in summer. With luck, it will come back between eleven p.m. and one a.m. If you are not in the mood to enjoy the benefits of nocturnal darkness, you will go to bed. And if you manage to sleep, because you have Repelex for the mosquitoes, or exhaustion or boredom—or both—overcome you, you will wake up sweaty around one-thirty or two in the morning, startled by the fan turning back on or by a light left on by forgetfulness.
After that, you’ve slept a little, but not enough. So—hurry up and sleep! Because it is very likely the power will be cut again from four until eight a.m., when the new cycle begins. All programmed punctually, scientifically, and weekly, and distributed by the newscasts and other media. Though never strictly complied with, there are always new anomalies, unforeseen causes, accidents—after all, the power plants are old… and the Blockade. But who doesn’t know that?
I remember that, after such talk, an old friend always says: “But how marvelous!” and another, if present, concludes: “This is a great country.” (At the request of my friends, I do not reveal their names for security reasons.)