and I see less food and more “Closed” signs

Faced with the choice of opening and risking a fine of thousands of pesos, owners prefer to suspend sales. / 14ymedio

The offensive against private businesses has reduced supplies in a city where finding a package of chicken has become quite an expedition.

By Yoani Sanchez

HAVANA TIMES – I went out after nearly three weeks of convalescence. I walked down the 14 flights of stairs like a woman over 80. When I reached the ground floor, I took a deep breath and consoled myself with the thought that by the time I returned, the electricity would surely be back and I could take the elevator upstairs. Wishful thinking.

I decided to walk along Conill Street, first stopping to say hello to the garbage dump on the corner, which, although it was collected once during that time, has already grown again to the size of a country, complete with its own ecosystem, its usual inhabitants, and people searching through the waste for food.

The steps of the Ministry of Agriculture were filled with people sitting and staring at their cellphone screens. The internet connection is so poor that customers of the state monopoly Etecsa go from block to block looking for a place where the mobile data signal works. At the entrance to the barely productive Ministry of Agriculture, they have struck a vein of 4G.

I cross Rancho Boyeros Avenue very cautiously. The last thing I need right now is to twist an ankle in one of the many potholes in the pavement or end up being hit by one of the few electric tricycles traveling along the avenue. When I reach the other side, I encounter the first of several signs I will see during my short journey. “Closed,” reads the sign in the window of a small shop that until a few days ago offered a small assortment of basic products. I turn onto Central Street. At the corner of Tulipán, another handwritten sign repeats the same word. Across the street, a garage where you could buy everything from cold water to soda crackers has its door shut.

“Closed,” reads the sign in the window of a small shop that until a few days ago offered a small assortment of basic products. / 14ymedio

The offensive against private businesses that fail to comply with the price caps ordered by the authorities or refuse electronic payments has reduced the number of small markets in my neighborhood to barely a handful of poorly stocked shops with long-faced employees. There is no chicken, sausage, vegetable oil, or ground meat, among so many other missing products. Faced with the choice of opening and risking a fine of thousands of pesos, owners prefer to suspend sales and endure days of zero income until the storm passes. “This is the country of 15 days,” a neighbor I run into tells me. “The inspectors will give up soon enough,” she adds.

Frustrated, I start back home. The market on Tulipan Street is on my way. “Surely I’ll find something there,” I tell myself encouragingly. My body, after so many days of rest, begins to show signs of exhaustion. I sit down on a wall, take out a bottle, and drink a long swig of the heavily sweetened guava juice I prepared before leaving home. The dose of sugar works quickly, and I manage to cross back over the wide avenue that connects El Vedado with the airport.

As I approach the Tulipán market, I notice the difference. There are fewer pushcart vendors outside, fewer merchants selling products on the sidewalks, and much less of the usual bustle. The refrigerators are turned off, several kiosks are closed, and the butcher shops’ board lists little more than pork lard. In the three weeks since I last came here, the place seems completely different.

I leave with my bag empty. On Estancia Street, a man and his son sit on the sidewalk, calling out quietly: “Chicken, chicken!” A package containing about seven or eight small drumsticks costs 3,000 pesos. There is no other choice. I take out the money and pay. The teenager hands me a dripping plastic bag, the meat completely thawed. I quicken my pace to get back to my building.

I call my husband from downstairs and ask him to meet me on the seventh floor and help me carry the groceries the rest of the way up. My legs are stiff, and I feel as though my fever has returned. I take another long drink of guava juice and make it halfway up the flights of stairs I have to climb. Reinaldo is there. I have to sit down and rest before continuing, limping, all the way to the top floor.

As soon as we get home, we start cooking some of the chicken. There is no time to wait: it is already thawed, and we have no way to keep it from spoiling. We have been without electricity for almost 24 hours.

First published in Spanish by 14ymedio and translated and posted in English by Havana Times.

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