Godzilla arrives in Havana

Rafael has just acquired a new clutch of guinea fowl. The first lot didn’t last long because Dinky, the overexcitable rottweiler, loved to play with them. The louder their squeaking and chirping, the more excited he got. That’s how the first clutch died. The second lot didn’t last long either. This time the culprit is not Dinky, it is Charley, Hurricane Charley. This is not my first experience of a hurricane in Cuba, but it is the worst. Others have threatened Havana, but have lost momentum or changed course as they approached, usually veering north and west, up to Florida. Charley, however, is steadfast. He comes up from the Caribbean, devastating the Isle of Youth, and then moves inland, crossing Havana with winds of 150 kilometresper hour or more. Evacuations are taking place throughout the city; buses are commandeered to move the elderly, the young and those in particularly unsafe buildings, to more secure locations. 

In the hours prior to Charley’s arrival, I watch the people of my neighbourhood, Jaimanitas, mounting a defence, securing their homes as best they can. All day long, I hear hammering as nails are driven into planks of wood that crisscross windows and doors. Rooftop water tanks are lashed to the cement blocks that support them. A couple of nearby palm trees – young enough to be uprooted by Charley’s fury - are hastily chopped down. Potential missiles in hurricane-force winds - loose building material, washing machines, patio furniture and plants - are brought indoors. Washing lines are taken down; pigs and goats find themselves sealed into the darkness of their pens, queues form outside the local bodegas for candles and for rum. The old men have been through this before and swear the best remedy for a hurricane is la borrachera, to get blind drunk.

 All of this frantic activity is proceeding while the sun shines benignly on Jaimanitas and a gentle easterly breeze lifts my hair. There is no hint that the weather is about to betray all of us. I’m caught between disbelief and denial. Only the constant sound of hammering and the roar of buses evacuating people tell me that something ominous is indeed happening. Then the power supply is cut. It’s a precaution. My imagination flashes me an image of live wires whipped loose by the storm, thrashing manically, like the tentacles of a deadly Portuguese Man-of-War.

 With no electricity and the shutters nailed down across my windows, I have to sit outside for light. I read but mostly I follow the activity of my neighbours. The street is empty of cars and is emptying of people. The bakery is boarded up and Lucia’s goat, usually tethered to the nearby lamp post, is nowhere to be seen. Rafael has placed sheets of corrugated metal around the guinea fowl pen, lashing them to the wire with my washing line.  Their cries are muffled now. And still there is no hint of Charley. I feel foolish, like the bewildered host of an elaborately prepared party, wondering whether my guests will arrive. I test the wind with my saliva-wettened finger. Has it changed course? Is it any stronger? I can’t remember what direction it was blowing in an hour ago. I believe that not a breath is stirring, but it’s hard to tell.

A couple of hours later and there is no doubt that our sinister guest is arriving. Fierce gusts race at me from all directions, ushering in mud-coloured clouds that rapidly turn gun metal grey. I don’t know this sea any longer. The panorama is transformed. Gone is the innocent and predictable lapping of wavelet upon wavelet. The key has vanished beneath the water, beneath a furious maelstrom bearing no resemblance to any movement of water I have ever seen. The spray splashes me, leaving a taste of salt in my mouth. It’s time to move indoors. From the front of the house, I see objects hurtling along the street, poltergeist-like, borne by the vehemence of the wind. An umbrella flies by somersaulting wildly. I look down at the spot where my washing machine stood until a couple of hours ago, and shudder at the strength of wind capable of lifting such a weight. Rafael calls up to me. I can barely hear what he’s saying, “Go indoors! It’s too dangerous to be outside now.

Alexis’ only pair of good shoes is parked on the balcony and, on impulse, I stoop to pick them up. This morning, he announced that he wanted to be with his parents in their home, defending it from Charley. He is rarely ever away from them and I’m beginning to wonder whether he is really living with me or not. I pause, swear, and kick the shoes carelessly to one side, leaving them to their fate.

Indoors is dark and noisy. I’m sealed in and I feel trapped. The flame of my candle is flickering wildly, threatening to vanish each time the more violent gusts penetrate my defences. Thin rivulets of water - that could be rain or sea – seep in through the louvre slats and run down the walls under the windows. I take the candle into the bedroom and commandeer every towel I have, wedging them into the gaps between the slats. Now there’s nothing to do but wait and keep on waiting until Charley moves on. I can’t read in the semi darkness and even if I could, the roar of the storm makes it impossible to concentrate. There’s nothing I can do to kill time. I get bored. The noise intensifies as waves crash heavily onto my flat roof with frightening regularity. I imagine this wall of seawater, fifteen metres high, rising up, Godzilla-like and advancing on my refuge, decimating it in seconds.  

Unable to bear the sensation of being trapped and fearful of how my imagination could turn anxiety into panic, I decide to opt out altogether. The old men are probably all drunk now and I decide to follow the same course, regardless of whether or not it is irresponsible. I gather up my cat, Patricio, and we withdraw to the spare bedroom, the only room in the flat with no windows, and pour myself a generous measure of Havana Club. Then I pour myself another one, and another. After a third, I don’t remember any more.

When I open my eyes, it is still dark, but silent. I stumble out of the spare bedroom along the corridor and open the front door. There is sunlight. It’s mid-morning and there are people dotted about the street, assessing the damage and collecting debris. Then I remember. The old men were right, the borrachera is an effective remedy for fear, but my head is pounding…

Rafael is standing in the front yard looking glum. He announces that three of the guinea fowl are dead. “They were either drowned by one of the waves or battered by the corrugated iron defences I erected around them.” I clamber down the wooden staircase leading to the front porch to have a closer look. The remaining three guinea fowl are bunched together in one corner of the pen, subdued and morose looking. All the hens have survived. He tells me that his wife, Sonia, is cleaning the kitchen, which was flooded early on by a wave that crashed in through the back door and swept up along the corridor. It lifted up the fridge and carried it along, like a surfer.” I glance over at Rafael. He isn’t smiling.

Rafael goes on to say, “Dinky normally sleeps in the kitchen. Luckily, Miriam had him ensconced in her bedroom, otherwise he’d be out at sea now.” For the rest of the morning people dismantle their defences. Planks are yanked off windows and doors, outdoor furniture repopulates patios and balconies and Lucía’s goat is put out to tether. By mid afternoon buses are unloading evacuees, who complain of cramped conditions in the refuges. The soothing rhythm of normality prevails again in Jaimanitas, by evening, friends and neighbours are gathered around, sharing anecdotes about their experience of Hurricane Charley, who is now heading along the east coast of the United States.

Over the next few days and weeks, I discover I have a greater appreciation of the tranquillity and predictability of my daily routine. Memories of Charley and my fear of what could have happened lead me to take a quiet delight in feeling safe. I sit on the balcony, drinking my coffee and staring out to sea, grateful that I didn’t witness the full fury of Charley, grateful that the house remained intact. My elderly neighbours, Margarita, Viviana and Delia, who live just a few metres from the shore, have lost their roof, lifted in its entirety by a single powerful gust of wind. All they can do to protect their home from the rain is arrange plastic sheets over every piece of furniture, beds, wardrobes, tables and chairs. It may take up to three months for the local CDR* to coordinate structural repairs. None of the women complain, they are grateful to have survived.