Cuba’s New Epidemic
By Eduardo N. Cordovi Hernandez
HAVANA TIMES – One morning last week – I don’t remember if it was Monday or Tuesday – I found myself near the home of an old friend. I hadn’t heard from him for some months, since he doesn’t have a cell phone nor do I often frequent the zone where he lives. The point is, I decided to drop in and say hello to him.
It was around 10 a.m., more or less, and incredibly he was at home. After the greetings and the volleys of “How’s it going?” “You’ve been missing!” “Like you can see,” or “Imagine that,” he decided to make coffee. We were getting ready to savor the dark beverage, when a noise was heard, like some boards being unloaded off a truck, followed by another like a drawer full of glasses falling from a certain height. Immediately afterwards came the sound of someone running down the hallway.
I stood up and said: “Hey! What the hell was that?” My friend signaled to me to be quiet, and I sat back down again. Later, yells were heard from the people living furthest in the back. I couldn’t understand anything they were saying – well, often these days, I understand almost nothing, since I’m going deaf, which is sometimes convenient, especially when there’s nothing good to hear.
It’s like that here constantly, my friend told me. Then, coming closer to me, he lowered his voice and continued: “It’s occurred to the neighbor next door, an old boy approaching forty, to get into the ‘chemical.’”
I imagined a prolonged fight between the kid in question and someone of the chemist’s profession. But when my friend realized that I had lost the thread, he clarified: “The chemical, compadre – that stuff the kids of today are smoking, or taking, I don’t really know. A kind of drug.”
“Ohhh, yeah, yeah,” I realized what he was saying. I’ve heard some talk about it.
In reality, people talk about many different things here, and people ponder a lot. I listen, but since I don’t have a lot of interest in the topic, nor do I believe I have a way of solving the problem, I let the load go by without holding on to it. Because, truthfully, I have enough of a weight just carrying the burdens that are mine, and I can’t even lighten my own load enough. Clearly, though, the experience impacted me, because it was no longer “just hearsay.”
On Wednesday afternoon, I set my course towards my youngest son’s house, with the idea of mooching lunch there. After passing the railroad line, which serves as the border between Lawton and Juanelo neighborhoods, you have to pass by what’s called the Iron Bridge, a small pedestrian bridge over a little river that empties into Havana Bay. Today, the bridge is also used by motorcyclists, as well as those on bicycles.
When I was at about the middle of the bridge, I saw a young man holding onto the bridge railing with one hand, as if to let me go by. It seemed strange to me, because he had time to go on ahead without having us both meet at the entrance, which is a bit narrower. But as I came closer, I saw that he had his eyes closed and his entire body was trembling. Whoa!
Further on, in the middle of the street, there was another kid kneeling on the ground in a similar condition. It was a super-depressing spectacle, and for those who don’t know – like me at the time – having to pass by so close to them can seem risky, because you don’t know what this story is about. I recalled the zombie movies that I detest, and I hastened my pace, stiff, expecting that he might suddenly jump on me. But no.
When I arrived at my son’s house, he wasn’t home, so I told the story to my daughter-in-law. She told me it was a normal thing. That not long ago, there were not less than five of them in front of the house, “exploded like stove-top coffeepots.” I thought that she was just giving an example, because five seemed to me like too many. I don’t know if she noticed the expression on my face, but she said, “wait a minute,” and searched through her iphone for the photo. “Look! In case you thought it was a lie. I took a picture for that very reason, because I knew that no one was going to believe it if I just told them.”
It’s horrible. I headed back and passed that place again a little over half an hour later, but they were no longer there.
However, this morning, after picking up my bread rolls at nine am, I took a walk around the neighborhood, searching for something cheap to make a salad for lunch. About seven blocks from my house, there was another person standing on the corner like a statue, but in a posture that had nothing artistic about it – the elbows slightly separated from the body, and his open hands at waist height in front.
When I was in my twenties, some neighborhood friends toked on “Mary Jane”, but that made them laugh. It didn’t do that for me though: it upset me, made me nervous, and felt pretty unpleasant. But not them, which let me think that many people might enjoy it. On the other hand, the effect of this substance they call “the chemical” doesn’t appear to be anything you’d want to repeat.
I can’t believe that could feel pleasant, and maybe that’s exactly the most pitiful, saddest, and, at the same time, most horrible aspect of this.