Stormy weather. The power goes out as the streets begin to fill and then flow like mountain rivers through this concrete jungle. Sparks sputter from chandeliers and appliances as the grid surges. Blades of lightening streak down towards Soviet-era architecture slicing the grey sky into pieces. Explosive thunder erupts over the roof like good friends’ laughter at an unexpected joke.
Despite all of this destructive energy, the rain brings relief. Havana gets hot in the summers. The torrential downpour wipes humidity from the air with the same ease that condensation is stripped from the side of a cool glass. As the water pounds down on the smells of gasoline and exhaust that generally dominate Havana’ streets, other scents are liberated and cautiously take their place. Soft veils of pollen wash through windows, freshly knocked from their hosts. Sweet and salty wisps of sea-breeze. The unassuming odor of recently soaked soil.
This summer storm was the most violent we’ve seen yet. The water in the streets continued to rise reducing the crossings of intersections into simple acts of faith. Closer to the sea wall, cars hydroplaned up hills hoping their motors wouldn’t flood. But it was still tame by Cuban standards. The two Habaneros whom I was sitting with both spoke respectfully of the rains. They reassured me that the aqueous onslaught was nothing like hurricanes from previous years. The winds were too low. The water was rising much slower. We could feel grateful to be sitting indoors.
As a small Caribbean island nation, Cuba has been hit by more than one hurricane. In both 2004 and 2005 the island was rocked by multiple cyclones each summer. As high voltage power lines were torn to the ground and the country’s handful of thermoelectric plants were badly damaged, over one million Cubans were left without electricity for ten full days. It is a tremendous privilege to be able to romanticize these storms as a protected observer. This country’s history and lived reality, however, require that we as quasi-tourists constantly balance out our enchantment. Urban decay, old American cars, even attractive ideals such as socialism at large. Cuba is filled with these contradictions, and effectively navigating them often requires taking a step or two back.
I love this island, despite its plethora of imperfections. In my limited experiences, coming to terms with the contradictions has been a necessary part of the bargain. Thus, living in Havana has been unparalleled practice in ensuring that excitement doesn’t overcome understanding. It has also continued to teach me that we can love that which we so often disagree with. La perfección es encontrado sólo en el progreso.