Only in Cuba

My Plastic and Wind Hero

In Matanzas, the air thickens, it becomes solid. You can cut it with a knife, that heat that rises from the street slabs, that seeps through the cracks in the windows, that settles in your lungs like an illegal tenant. Blackouts last two, three days, and the silence of dead appliances is a collective lament.

I counted the money over and over, because a rechargeable fan that actually works, one of those that really move air and don't just make noise, costs quite a bit. These 2 cost me 120 USD and 5,000 pesos by transfer. And in Cuba, 120 USD is a year's salary. Madness. But the heat was a tyrant and I needed my small army of resistance.

Thanks to my good brother LEONARDO and my cousin ROSABEL, I was able to gather that money. They haven't forgotten what Cuban heat is like, what it is to sweat in the dark without knowing when the light will return. They also struggle over there; everything is expensive, rent eats up the salary, but they help me as if the sea that separates us didn't exist.

And then, like an angel appearing at just the right moment, Rosabel also made her contribution. They haven't forgotten where they come from, the nights of blackouts, the neighborhood where we grew up, the heat that clung to your skin like a second shirt.

And so, between the two of them, through the cold internet cable that crosses the ocean, they made the impossible possible. They are far away, but with their hearts set on this island that never stopped being theirs.

I gathered everything. I counted and recounted. 120 USD and 5,000 pesos by transfer. What in the United States is dinner for two, for me was an odyssey, an act of faith from a distance, a proof that love knows no borders. Them over there, with their new lives, their jobs, their routes and their giant supermarkets. Me here, in my house in Matanzas, with the same roof as always and the same heat as always. But love travels faster than any bank transfer.

When I finally had the two fans in my hands — two, two orange plastic devices that promised to move the air — I hugged them like prodigal sons. They were pretty, square, with a blue light that blinked like a cybernetic eye, but to me they were the Statue of Liberty. They were Leo and ROSABEL's sweat over there in Orlando, they were 120 USD and 5,000 pesos sent from 90 miles away.

Night came. The blackout, punctual as a bad habit, plunged us into darkness. The streets of Matanzas became a pool of ink, lit only by a few hesitant candles. I lay down on my bed, the sheet sticky against my skin, and pressed the button.

The fan came to life with a hum that sounded like a miracle. A small breeze, timid at first, began to caress my face. It wasn't the sea wind, it wasn't the promise of a cold front, but it was mine. It was the breath of my effort, the puff of solidarity from Leonardo and Rosabel, the result of 120 USD and 5,000 pesos turned into fresh air. It was Orlando arriving in Matanzas in the form of wind.

I closed my eyes and, for the first time in weeks, the heat wasn't a hostile presence. The fan spun and spun, its blue light dancing on the ceiling like a mechanical firefly. In its hum I heard the voices of my brother and my cousin, even though they were on the other side of the world: "You just worry about sleeping." I heard the traffic of Miami, the parks of Orlando, the noise of their lives that don't forget me. I heard the 120 USD and 5,000 pesos of the transfer, all that fortune of love that doesn't fit in any bank account and crosses oceans without needing a visa.

And I slept. I slept like I hadn't since the summer became a hell and blackouts a sentence. I dreamed of a sea of fans flying over Matanzas, each one bearing the name of someone who had helped another from afar. In my dream, my hero had no cape or sword. My hero was orange plastic, with blades that moved in perfect circles, and it cost 120 USD and 5,000 pesos that crossed the strait in the opposite direction, and it was worth every cent.

The next morning, I woke up fresh. The fans were still spinning, their batteries almost dead, but enough.

The answers came quickly:

I sat at the table with the coffee I had managed to make with charcoal and looked at my hero, the fan. Although I was physically alone, I felt my brother and my cousin with me, as if distance were just a number on a map.

That day, the heat was still a tyrant and the blackouts weren't going to disappear. But I had learned something: heroes come in all shapes. Sometimes they have plastic blades and a blue light, and they cost 120 USD and 5,000 pesos. Other times they're called Leonardo or Rosabel and they live in the United States, and they give you their money, even though they don't have much, from thousands of kilometers away; they give you their time when the time zone doesn't allow it; they give you their love even though the sea separates them. That night the fan would turn on again, and the following nights too, until its batteries gave everything they had. Because 120 USD and 5,000 pesos weren't just money. They were Leo's work hours, Rosabel's sacrifice in Orlando, the proof that even if distance is an ocean, Cuban love is stronger than any border.

Because in Matanzas, city of sun and hardship, heroism is everyday. It hides in an appliance that arrived thanks to international transfers, in a WhatsApp message that says "I love you," in a brother who shares his salary and a cousin who transfers her savings from Orlando without asking. It hides in 120 USD and 5,000 pesos that traveled in the opposite direction, from the promised land to the island, as proof that no wall is higher than family love.

The fans are still there, on my nightstand, waiting for the night to spin again. And I look at them and smile, because I know that even if the heat returns and the blackouts drag on, as long as there's someone willing to help from anywhere in the world, I'll always have a little wind to keep going.

And when someone asks me how much they cost, I don't say 120 USD and 5,000 pesos. I say: "They cost what my brother and my cousin in Orlando had. And that's priceless, because love isn't measured in dollars or kilometers."

Then I flip the switch, and the wind begins to blow. It's not just fresh air. It's the breath of those who love me, running across my skin from the other side of the world, reminding me that on the hottest days of life, there's always someone willing to give you a little of their breeze, even if they have to cross the sea to do it.

I look at the fan and I see Leo and ROSABEL, and then I understand that heroes don't need to be close. Sometimes, the freshest wind comes from afar, from those who decided that love is stronger than any border.