A Cuban City Condemned to Live Without Electricity
San Jose de las Lajas, Mayabeque
Every night, neighbors gather around a small business haloed in light and a faint whisper of internet thanks to a generator.
By Julio Cesar Contreras (14ymedio)
HAVANA TIMES – The clock strikes eight in the evening and San Jose de las Lajas is swallowed by night. Since the time change, and with blackouts lasting more than ten consecutive hours, the town sinks into a darkness so dense that even the dogs fall silent. Only a faint glow—the burger stand on the pedestrian boulevard—breaks through the blackness. The establishment’s generator, rented by a private operator, purrs like a tired heart, powering two light bulbs and a small freezer.
“When I was coming here on my bicycle, I hit a pothole in front of the Cultural Plaza. I almost fell, but when there’s no power this is the only place I can reach my daughter,” says David, a 58-year-old resident struggling unsuccessfully to send a WhatsApp message. “The Etecsa tower is nearby, but the connection is terrible. They imposed the rate hike, but we still have 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 only with the day’s exhaustion. The darkness thickens beyond the illuminated circle. No one sits by the dry fountain, which emits a sour smell. “On those dark benches, there could be a couple kissing or a pile of garbage,” says David, gazing into the shadows.
An old man crosses the threshold between light and dark, asking for twenty pesos to buy food. A woman uses the dim light to teach her daughter multiplication tables so she can do her homework. In the back, the employees move slowly. “This doesn’t feel like a business—it feels like a shelter,” remarks Samuel, a young man who arrived with two friends. “The sign says ‘Burger Joint,’ but there’s no bread or burgers. The only things they sell are Mayabe beer, cola, and some cookies.”
Samuel shrugs and smiles with resignation. “Inefficiency is everywhere—in the state and among private people, too. They don’t know how to take advantage of the fact that folks spend part of the blackout here. They could sell whatever they wanted, but they don’t.” His criticism, part bitter, part ironic, draws nods around him. No one argues.
The clerk listens from behind the counter. “The generator barely covers the freezer and the two bulbs,” she explains. “At least this way we can see each other’s faces, even if it’s just in these five or six meters. Everything else in town is dark.” She’s been working all day, yet she prefers not to walk home alone: “My husband can’t come pick me up, and I’m scared to walk in all that darkness. One time someone followed me to the corner.”
As she speaks, the murmur of voices grows. Some debate the price of the dollar on the informal market; others check their mobile balance. Someone says the power went out at eight in the morning. “And there’s still no sign it’s coming back,” he adds. Statistics from the past month confirm it: according to data from the Electric Company, the generation deficit has exceeded 1,500 megawatts per day. In Mayabeque, blackouts often stretch up to twelve straight hours.
The province is no exception to the national pattern: blackouts, paralyzed domestic life, and economic losses for businesses. In municipalities like Güines and San Nicolas, store owners report that their generators can’t keep food refrigerated.
On the boulevard in San Jose, the scene proves the point. A group of young people gather around an improvised table. “We come more for the light than for the beer,” jokes a boy barely twenty. The faint glow illuminates sweaty faces, phones with one bar of battery left, and plastic cups. The mosquitoes do their part: “If you stay home, they’ll eat you alive,” another one says.
Beyond the small circle of light, the night closes in again. The pedicab stand across from 40th Avenue begins to empty. “This looks like a wolf’s den,” mutters a man, switching on his flashlight to cross the street.
No one knows when the electricity will return, or which circuit will be “favored” first. The Electric Company releases only vague messages on its Telegram channel. “They say it’s because of a fuel shortage, but the real problem is that this has become normal,” says the clerk, pouring a room-temperature soda. At home, another task awaits her: washing her son’s school uniform. “Hopefully they’ll give us a little power before tomorrow.”
Around eleven, the hum of the generator stops. A heavy silence spreads through the town. “There goes the generator,” someone says—and darkness takes over completely. The few who remain rise slowly. In the shadows, San Jose de las Lajas disappears entirely.
First published in Spanish by 14ymedio and translated and posted in English by Havana Times.