The road crossing the railway line broken by water is very dry. There is plenty of dust. The sun is punishing and I can’t look at my phone. The glow prevents you from seeing. I cover the screen with my hand. I’ve put my phone into airplane mode a thousand times, it’s exhausting; I press and again I press the data. Nothing. I do not communicate. There will be no tweet.
To the side is a calm river, which, like a snake, encircles the surroundings, today it seems to be tame. The place is called Punta Brava, and until a few days ago everything was under water. Some say that up to the chest, others that the draft covered them completely, one points to the second floor of the house and says that the trace of moisture is proof of this.
I watch and calculate. At least two people, one on top of the other, to get to the yellow line. I don’t think he’s exaggerating. These were the most intense rains in the last 30 years. He’s finished, mijita, a woman tells me, who won’t stop filming with her cell phone and screams: Good God, look who’s coming.
And yes, Lord, no one drowned, although the party leader who has been stomping this place for days now tells me that they cannot explain how the tragedy was not greater. The water rose at night, the horror was in the dark. Worst.
I run, a crowd of people comes out of the houses. Incredible, everyone is filming. The sidewalks are clogged with damp yellow cotton wool, what was a warm bed a few nights ago is tattered and stinks today. I look out the window of the house, and the smell of wet cotton wool is almost unbearable. “This must smell like poverty,” my friend, who is a metaphor machine, whispers in my ear. I understand Stand back tell me a man comes in. I start backing away to see the man and I stumble. The man came in, I didn’t.
Outside in the middle of the street are piles of books. Everyone puts on the sun the treasure that he has left. There is a bag for records, a school folder, a wedding album. The most beautiful photo of the bride’s face is not visible. Water kills and erases. Behind her is a chest of drawers, a stained bed, a baby carriage. People seem to live on the street. There are your things. The ones that remain
We are alive, the lady from the portal shouts. All glory to God, supported by others. Hey, what a beautiful target, throw one there. Long live the revolution, Fidel, Raul. People smile, at least for a while. Not everything boils. A lady comes screaming and with a piece of paper in her hand. I have come to convey this to you, to shout, wave your hands and denounce that there are local leaders who do not work well, you should always go with the truth in front of you and quote Fidel. He talks about a combatant living in appalling conditions. He says it not in the best way, there is no “better way” when tragedy knocks at the door. They listen to her. The man takes a paper, which he then takes out and reads at a meeting with his superiors. It requires, above all, sensitivity. Those were difficult days and they will continue.
A friend tells me about the hell of this world, about the chronicles born in Port-au-Prince, shaken by the earthquake that takes lives. There is no comparison, I think as I watch President Diaz-Canel walk down the street. There is peace and command. Two large women run the party and the government there, and they accompany him to this place, one of the most beaten in Jiguan. They put their breasts on problems. And it encourages. No one will be left without protection, he is convinced, giving instructions on what to do. I’ll be back in a few days,” says a survivor of yet another tragedy.
Source: Juventud Rebelde