Havana/“You really slept with electricity last night,” a straw seller on the outskirts of the Tulipán market reproaches me. The woman, who lives on the other side of Rancho Boyeros Avenue, was able to see from her neighborhood that our building remained illuminated while darkness reigned on her block. The new reason for tension between Cubans is no longer politics, or even food: it is the number of hours that some enjoy electricity while others learn to live in the dark.
Just a few months ago, the Facebook accounts of the Unión Eléctrica were filled with comments demanding that Havana residents be subjected to the same endless blackouts that punished the rest of the country. The wish was fulfilled, but only half. Now in the capital we also suffer outages that exceed 24 hours in a row and, however, in the provinces nothing has improved. Our time without electricity has not served to turn on a single more light bulb in Santiago de Cuba, Holguín or Pinar del Río. He has only distributed the darkness more equitably.
Dividing and confronting each other seems to have been too effective a strategy. While we argue about who was hotter the night before, who lost the contents of the refrigerator, or who managed to charge their cell phone, we stop looking at those who mismanage a crumbling electrical system. That’s why I avoid responding defensively. I tell the woman that the Antonio Guiteras thermoelectric plant has just gone out of service and that it is most likely that next morning everyone, she and I, will end up trying to fall asleep, drowning in sweat and harassed by mosquitoes.
The reduction is not due to an increase in production or an economic improvement. It is simply the result of a lack of energy to refrigerate food.
I say goodbye and continue towards Ayestarán until arriving at Carlos III. Then I take Aramburu in the direction of San Lázaro. The walk brings a surprise. The blackouts have achieved something that neither price controls nor state inspections had achieved: making the egg carton cheaper. Just a couple of weeks ago it cost 3,200 pesos; Now it has dropped to 2,400 and in some private businesses a sign announces the “offer of the day”: 2,300 pesos for 30 units. The reduction is not due to an increase in production or an economic improvement. It is simply the result of a lack of energy to refrigerate food.
With so many hours without electricity, few risk buying large quantities of food. An unlit refrigerator turns any investment into a bet against the clock and the tropical heat. Merchants need to sell before the merchandise spoils and customers only buy what they are sure to consume as soon as possible.
As I look at the boxes of eggs stacked at the entrance of a small store, I remember how much the destiny of that food has changed. In the 80s, when the Soviet subsidy fed the mirage of an abundance that seemed eternal, in primary schools it was a source of ridicule to tell a classmate that at home “they only ate eggs.” The product overflowed the markets, it appeared too frequently in the workers’ canteens and many rejected it with reluctance. Nobody would have imagined then that it would end up becoming a luxury item.
During the Mariel exodus, hundreds of people were hit in the face or against the facades of their houses for the simple fact of wanting to leave the supposed socialist paradise.
It was also political ammunition. During the Mariel exodus, hundreds of people were beaten in the face or against the facades of their houses for the simple fact of wanting to leave the supposed socialist paradise. What was abundant in the pantries then served to humiliate those who left.
More than four decades later, no trace remains of that contempt. The egg has climbed positions to occupy a privileged place on the Cuban table. You dream of it fried, boiled, poached or turned into an omelet that is enough for the whole family. Its price also marks that of many other foods. When it rises, birthday cakes, pastries, croquettes, breaded foods, cold salads and any recipe that needs a little egg white or yolk to sustain themselves become more expensive.
Round and fragile, the egg now behaves like an aristocrat who only visits tables capable of paying his demanding fee. Those children who one day made fun of their classmate because at home they had a mess for lunch several times a week probably today long to be able to give a dish like that to their children. But to achieve this they not only need to cover the high price of that food, but also have enough electricity to preserve it.
Finally, when I return from my long journey through Central Havana, the jaba seller is no longer on the outskirts of the market on Tulipán Street. Tonight, for sure, he will look at our building again to see if they have also cut off our electricity. In your refrigerator and mine, most likely, there is not a single egg left for fear of a blackout.
