Power cuts in Cuba do more than leave people in the dark; they also leave taps dry. As the country’s energy crisis deepens, electricity shortages prevent many pumping stations from operating, while an ageing distribution network and chronic fuel shortages leave millions struggling to access water.
According to Cuba’s National Institute of Hydraulic Resources, nearly 3 million Cubans are experiencing difficulties accessing water. The country’s water system is operating with just 37% of the fuel it requires, while up to 70% of Havana’s water is lost through leaks before it can reach households.
Daily struggle for water
In the cramped kitchen of her flat in Havana’s Chinatown, Mirella Martínez pushes an old metal trolley stacked with empty jerrycans. Wiping the sweat from her forehead, she fans herself gently. “It’s so hot!” she says, as the electric fans remain still due to another power outage. The 61-year-old former security guard has had no reliable running water for almost three years. She walks about half a mile to her daughter’s workplace, one of the few buildings nearby where water still flows regularly, three times a day.
“This water is used for everything. We count every litre. I make this journey three times a day even though I’m retired. At my age, I shouldn’t be carrying these jerrycans, but I have no choice,” she says. “I often wonder how elderly people who live alone manage.” She boils and filters part of the water for drinking; the rest is rationed for cooking, washing and laundry.
Waiting for electricity and water
In Centro Habana, Dhayamis Hernández Díaz watches a thin stream of water slowly fill a plastic bucket. Cigarette in hand, she waits until it is full before emptying it into the rooftop tank serving her building. “I’m exhausted. As soon as the electricity comes back – sometimes in the middle of the night – we get up to fill the tank, cook and charge our phones. Our whole lives depend on those few hours of electricity. This isn’t living.” Along with her sister, she earns a modest income operating an electric three-wheeled taxi. Hiring a private water truck is far beyond what they can afford. “So we fill the tank ourselves, bucket after bucket. At night, I barely sleep because of the heat. We just wait for the electricity to come back.”
An informal water economy
Wealthier families can afford private water trucks. Everyone else waits for deliveries, hauls water home themselves or pays informal water carriers. Juan Miguel Reyes, a former intensive care physician, pushes a heavy cart through the streets of Los Sitios with his brother and uncle. They fill containers at a pumping station and sell water to residents. “I never imagined I’d end up selling water. Now we spend hours walking under the blazing sun before carrying buckets up staircases,” he says. “It’s exhausting, but at least we always have something to eat.” Each 200-litre tank sells for 1,500 pesos (about £1.75 at the informal exchange rate). Reyes earns between 3,000 and 4,000 pesos a day. “Demand keeps growing. Every week we have to fetch water from further away, and we never know whether the pumping station will still be working tomorrow,” he says. “People often thank us because many are too old to collect water themselves. Here, without neighbours, nobody would make it.”
Near Havana’s ferry terminal, Carlos Sánchez collects water spilling from a broken pipeline. He fills a 200-litre tank mounted on his bicycle. “The whole network is falling apart. All this water is being wasted while so many people need it. I collect it and sell it to people who don’t have the strength or the time to come here themselves.” Once the tank is full, he covers it with a tarpaulin and pushes his bicycle into Havana’s historic centre. Helped by his nephew, he carries buckets up the staircases of a crumbling building. “My back is starting to give out, but I have no choice. I earn more transporting water than I did working as a funeral technician,” he says. “My children have left the country. I stayed behind.”
Hope for a normal life
By evening, Martínez is home again. The jerrycans line the walls of her living room. “We never know when the power will come back. Water and electricity should be basic rights, but here they’ve become luxuries. I no longer go out after dark, and I don’t let my daughters go out either,” she says. “When the streets go dark, everything becomes more dangerous. I just hope that one day we’ll have a normal life again.”
