Tag Archives: caribbean

Havana Update/Emergency Aid for Cuba

Hello from Havana everyone. If you haven’t heard the news of Cuba going dark and then getting Oscarized, cue my envy: what we are living here is duro, and more difficult still due to the world’s longest, strongest sanctions (a friend calls it ‘the slow Gaza’), decimated support systems (no one is immune to emigration and loss), and the hate emanating from here, there and everywhere zooming around the Internet.

Anyone who is not on the ground cannot know what we are going through, so here’s a quick summary, followed by ideas of what you can do to help during different stages of the recovery process.

Why the italics? For you newbies, I’ve lived and worked in Havana for 22 years as a journalist and volunteered in the Cuban campo in August 1993: I tasted the ‘special’ in Special Period. I’ve reported through many hurricanes here, and accompanied Cuba’s Henry Reeve medical team in post-earthquake Pakistan (2005) and Haiti (2010). I lived through 9-11 in my hometown. I know what disaster looks, feels and smells like. When the national electrical grid crashed last Friday morning, and several times again after that, we were plunged into disaster.

The first 72 hours of any disaster are critical. It depends on the type and scale obviously, but some disasters give you warning – like hurricanes. Others – earthquakes for instance – hit suddenly and hard, like an anarchist’s brick through a Starbucks window. This was the latter. There’s little anyone outside can do to help in these first days, especially on an island – unless you’re like, Joe Biden. Oh wait! [Duuuuuuude. Where is your humanity?]  

We’ve been having scheduled (and not) blackouts for a couple of years now. The city is divided into sections called bloques;  the electric company publicizes the weekly schedule widely. Before Friday, Havana was typically without lights 5 hours a day, a couple, three times a week. We managed and adjusted our washing, charging, cooking, reading, whatever-takes-electricity schedules and maintained families, businesses, sanity (or tried to).

This was different. This was the entire island for days. Some longer, some shorter (and as I write this, some places are still without). Every single electronic apparatus ground to a halt, lost its charge or waited for a generator to kick in. For days in Havana, no water was being pumped and there was no refrigeration – in a tropical metropolis with a violent trash collection (and creation) problem. As food rotted beyond redemption, it was thrown out. And it kept piling on and piling on. We have a friend who was horribly sick with dengue when the country shut down. She lives on the 10th floor. She had no water except what we hauled up those 10 flights. I wondered aloud how many people had been stuck in elevators when the grid collapsed? Cuban friends shared Special Period horror stories.

We switched into disaster response mode: the able-bodied hauled buckets of water from cisterns, others collected rain to bathe and flush. We treated drinking water and brought it to friends, whether we had to bike or walk or hoof up 10 flights of stairs. With our cell phones dead and no connection, we relied on landlines. Remember those? Handy during the attack on the Twin Towers, handy this past weekend. We kept fridges shut, cooking furiously when the food was just about to go bad and only opening big freezers to safeguard neighbors’ meat. Assuring water and food and attending the most vulnerable: this is what the first hours of a disaster are about.

After 72 hours, the situation looks different. Generators have run out of gas, perishable food is toast, nerves are frayed and frustration high. And that’s when Hurricane Oscar hit the eastern part of the country. Disaster heaped upon disaster.

As a starting point for this ‘what can I do?’ conversation, I ask you to consider the following. Can you send your family or friends a generator, food, or phone chargers? Yes. How about solar panels and glucometers? Those too. This will help your immediate circle and those they choose to help (if they choose to help). But what about everyone else? To paraphrase the Cuban Ambassador to the US: most Cuban families don’t have this option. What about them? Thinking about the whole, together with your personal loved ones, is critical right now – Cuba, and Havana especially, are experiencing rapacious individualism of unprecedented proportions.  

Vamos al grano: here is how you can help in the next weeks/months both in the macro and the micro:

MACRO  

 – What’s the best nation? DO-nation: You can’t save the electrical grid, collect the garbage or rebuild the bridge that collapsed in Guantanamo. Contact your nearest Cuban embassy or consulate to make monetary donations to the emergency fund or to organize large donations and shipments.

Leave it to the pros: Many organizations, foundations and projects have been supporting Cuba for years, in good times and bad. They already have the necessary paperwork, connections, shipping partners, experience and, in the case of USA-based entities, legal ability to make large donations, now. This includes Let Cuba Live, which launched an emergency fundraising campaign this week, Global Links, MEDICC, and Global Health Partners in the health sector, and Hope for Cuba in the education sector and for general humanitarian aid.

Take to the streets/Internet to change inhumane US Policy: US sanctions are killing Cubans, encouraging people to emigrate, destroying families, and causing trauma. Plus, they’ve shown they don’t work. Biden has 90 days to make good on his campaign promises (grrrr) to revert to Obama-era policies – he can achieve this with the stroke of a pen.

MICRO

The mental health toll is real: Call or write your loved ones to let them know you care. Don’t ask what they need, offer to fix what you can’t or expect a rapid response – this is all a burden in a traumatic, post-disaster situation. Just call and listen. Accompany.

Send supplies: Every family can use something and donation packages can be purchased via any online retailer and sent via Crowley shipping direct to recipient’s door. They have different options, but donations cost $1.99/lb, plus a small handling charge and a minimum customs charge in pesos cubanos, paid by the recipient. There are a minimum of 4 sailings a month. This is an efficient, professional service with over 20 years’ experience. Tip: don’t ship what you think your friends or family need, ask first. They know best. For instance, a generator is typically less useful than an inverter (one takes gasoline, the other runs off a moto/car/truck battery).

Bring supplies: Individual travelers can bring items for their friends and family, as long as they do not run afoul of Cuban customs regulations. All customs duties are waived for people coming in with food and medicine until the end of the year.

Cuba Libro has been administering targeted donation programs since 2014. We maintain a list of the most-needed ‘regular’ crisis items, updated regularly with our community and counterparts, on our website. With the grid failure and hurricane double whammy, we’ve also created an Amazon list for those items most needed during this super crisis.

Send food, medicines and more to individuals: Since pandemic lockdowns, several reliable e-tailers deliver food, medicines and more direct to homes across the country. These are the ones we have used:

Travel to Cuba: You’ve been here or you’ve dreamt of coming. Now is the time. We will mutually lift each other’s spirits. Laugh and joke (one going around right now is ‘at least in the Special Period we had milordo. Now we’re without sugar AND water!’) and connect as humans. Don’t believe what you read on the Internet, experience it in the flesh, while helping a person, a family, a barrio, a country, to feel more whole.

Cuba Libro volunteer prepares donation for Guantanamo hurricane victims

Compost: This is for everyone reading this on the ground and for those visiting who can convince their friends what a big, immediate impact this can have for us here. A typical Cuban home generates about 75% organic waste, 100% of which goes into dumpsters, improvised garbage piles and landfill. It is heavy and creates methane. It overflows our bins and creates rivers of garbage and more work for the already over-worked. If even a fraction of households and restaurants started composting, we could reduce waste, improve health and hygiene, and create super enriched soil at the same time. It isn’t a resource barrier that keeps people from composting, it’s cultural. Here are over a dozen different DIY compost bins, some of which are perfect for our context.

Will write more soon.

Sending everyone much love from Havana where the lights are on (fingers crossed), garbage is being bulldozed into open trucks and taken away, and we’ve finally been able to shower. Basically, we are doing whatever we can to return to some sort of normalcy (and not go mad trying).

[Disclosure: I’ve received no compensation whatsoever for products recommended in the links here]  

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Filed under Americans in cuba, Cuban economy, health system, Living Abroad, Travel to Cuba, Uncategorized

Todavia Queda Gente Buena

Come morning in Cuba, you don’t know if you’ll have electricity. Or water. Or friends – they’re leaving in droves. You may not even have access to your hard-earned (or ill-gotten) funds.

The outpost of Banco Metropolitano in my neighborhood is a repurposed shipping container. It has two broken ATMs and no money for the teller to disburse. A famous artist who lives nearby had to come to the rescue, depositing 70,000 pesos in a unique-to-me public/private bailout which warms the heart (but troubles the mind). Naturally, I opt to bank at a proper branch, where at least one ATM should work and there’s actual cash. But nothing is assured in today’s Cuba; when I arrive, the whole area is in a blackout. No banking today.

I return the following day. There is electricity and a longer line than usual as a result. People exiting the bank have to elbow through the crowd waiting to gain access. The sun blazes. There is nowhere to sit. We are used to it. We have no choice.

For many reasons, standing in a Cuban line is bad for your mental health. The generalized national lament about ‘la cosa’ – everything from blackouts and mountains of festering garbage, to dismal public transport, inflation, and more. Even when you withstand an hours-long line and the sad stories of those in it, there’s no guarantee you’ll be served, met, or able to conduct the business you came for. The lights could snap off, the bread could run out, the one person in the office might be picking up their child or have a doctor’s appointment. Maybe they’re taking a leisurely lunch. Any manner of things could happen that prevent the line from moving.

When this is your day-to-day, you have to be strong, yet flexible, resilient while remaining human, and take concrete steps to keep yourself sane. Happiness is a luxury reserved for other contexts. This is survival. And some people aren’t making it. Loneliness. Helplessness. Hunger. Fatigue and frustration. Friends whisper to me about suicide. Therapists are in high demand and short supply. Yesterday, a doctor friend told me she was ‘in critical condition, but stable,’ which is an accurate diagnosis for the country as a whole right now.    

Cuba has been in acute, more-than-usual crisis for the past several years. We’ve all been sick without medication and lost friends to emigration. We struggle to get where we’re going and pay out the nose for necessities. But I reject the ad nauseum crisis dialogue and beeline elsewhere when someone starts in with it. I try to remain calm on every line. I breathe deep with each new bureaucratic odyssey and expect the least, hoping I will be pleasantly surprised. I realize lowering expectations is succumbing, a soft surrender. Still, I decline to participate in the national lament. Sometimes I fail.

But not today. I approach the line with a buenos días and a smile, taking the ‘último’ from a middle-aged woman and giving it to a hunched 92-year-old with cloudy eyes who ambles up next. A fellow arrives, asks for the last person in line, and inquires how fast it’s moving.

“It isn’t, but we’re hopeful,” I say.

“YES!” says the woman in front of me. “This is the corner of hope. We will get in!”

Within moments, the door opens and five people are granted passage. We smile and back clap. Score one for the hopeful crew.

_____

Ostensibly, this post is about hope in Cuba, autumn 2024. I’m on the lookout, my antenna swiveling towards those good people, doing charitable acts guided by ethics, not greed or individualism. The young man who helps a little old lady configure her phone while they wait for the bus. The single mother who rescues dogs abandoned by their owners when they split for El Norte. The neighbor who plants trees instead of cutting down yours under the cloak of night (true story, like everything I write here). Local Development Projects that put people before profit like Bacoretto and Armonía. I’m collecting these stories so that the world knows that todavia queda gente buena in Cuba. Here, there are still good people. If anyone tells you different, send them this link.

For reasons too complex (and boring) to go into here, I found myself in the Comunales office last week. Comunales is a strange administrative division charged with garbage collection, keeping green areas tidy and other mortal matters like cremation and freezer rental for cadavers. I was there about garbage: how and when we dispose of it and our right as a Local Development Project to do so. Even though garbage collection is largely theoretical these days (the bulldozer and convict brigade shoveling the rubbish into an open truck haven’t been by in a while; there is rotting garbage half a block long), community projects like ours have to pay to use the dumpsters.

I arrived with a smile and my ‘hopefully I can achieve something today’ attitude. Every person in that dim and doleful office where they earn in a month what a coffee and donut cost at Starbucks, was incredibly kind, friendly, and professional. As I sat with the garbage specialist, she multi-tasked in a way that is shocking for a Cuban bureaucrat, taking calls from her daughter (Supermarket 23 was at their door with a delivery), fielding questions from colleagues about garbage paperwork, and deftly sifting through contracts old, new, and out-of-date on her dented metal desk. We were laughing at one of her jokes when a man entered, holding aloft the keys to my e-bike.

“Are these yours? They were in the street beside your moto.”

“Oh, my god. Yes!” I hadn’t even noticed I’d dropped them.

“Anyone could have taken it.”

We were stunned. He was right. Anyone could have taken it. HE could have taken it. If he hadn’t done the right thing and hunted me down behind the hallway of closed doors, anyone else WOULD have taken it…todavía queda gente buena.

_____

The chance to steal an e-bike and he didn’t?! I shared this unbelievable story with Alfredo which prompted him to share his own: cruising in a collective taxi recently between Vedado and Centro Habana, the four other passengers disembarked one by one between the University and Ameijeiras. Barreling down San Lazaro, it was just Alfredo and the driver when a young man waved down the hulking car. Accompanied by three foreign women, the tout offered the driver $5 USD to go the dozen blocks to the Capitolio. The driver nodded ascent and motioned for them to get in the back.

“Five dollars for the entire car. Without other passengers,” he said, looking at Alfredo.

My friend sighed, preparing to get out.

“Keep your five dollars. He was my fare first,” the driver said before speeding off. He wouldn’t even take the 300 extra pesos Alfredo offered him. Todavía queda gente buena.

People around me are clamoring for these human stories. We crave an uplifting, a pause from the crisis lament in which we wallow. When friends hear I’m writing this post, they offer their own tales. Dr Laura tells of taxi drivers who refuse to charge her on her morning commute and José was able to recover his wallet, left on an incoming American flight and found by aircraft cleaning crew. Drivers have saved Dr Laura thousands of pesos and the money in José’s wallet was more than a year’s salary for one of those cleaning people.

Aldito offers another gente buena story to the collection: A neighbor came to his door to change US dollars for Cuban pesos. Sounds straightforward but in reality, involves rucksacks of bills, big numbers, and some risk. A calculator is always involved and a bill counter as well, but only when there’s electricity. The neighbor is selling $50 USD, for which he’ll receive 16,000 pesos. But Aldito had been conducting business all morning and his brain was a bit frazzled. He had $100 USD/32,000 pesos stuck in his head and this is what he gave the neighbor, who suffers from bad eyesight and perhaps a touch of dementia. They sealed the deal with a handshake.

Fast forward a few hours and Aldito realizes his mistake. He has no way of contacting the neighbor and though he’s from the barrio, Aldito doesn’t know where he lives. Swear words are uttered and self-loathing gallops headlong into the evening. Suddenly, there’s a knock on the door.

“I’m not good with money or numbers, but as I was paying me bills, I realized I had a lot left over. You must have given me more. I think you made a mistake.” He handed a stack of bills to Aldito totaling 15,650 pesos. Todavía queda gente buena.

Lend a hand. Give a lift. Slow down. Cede way. Walk in your neighbors’ shoes. Be mindful. Join us in making each day somehow better.

¡Gente buena! Do you know some or a good story? Please share!

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Filed under Americans in cuba, Cuban economy, Cuban idiosyncracies, Cuban Revolution, Expat life, Living Abroad, Travel to Cuba