How to feel alive

by Chiara Leone Ganado (Ireland)

A leap into the unknown Cuba

It was rumoured to be the worst Atlantic hurricane in recorded history. We read on the news that it would be severely impacting Florida and several Caribbean islands: among them, Cuba, where my siblings and I had booked a three-week holiday, due to begin the day before the hurricane was set to arrive. Flights to Cuba were being cancelled, cruise ships were being diverted, and tourists were being evacuated. In the days leading up to our departure, we each got numerous phonecalls and texts from friends and family, urging us to cancel the trip altogether. Truthfully, this was no minor gust of wind. Hurricane Irma was a Category 5 monster that was ripping through the Caribbean, leaving mass ruin in her wake. So, naturally, we decided to fly straight towards her. We were greeted by blue skies and bustling streets in Havana. Nobody was hiding away, as I had expected; the only cries to be heard in the street were “Hello there! Where you from?” and “Come to my bar, good price!” In spite of the flood (pardon the pun) of concerned messages we were receiving – no doubt as a result of what was being reported on the news – the people in Havana went about their daily lives seemingly unfazed by the inexorable hurricane that was hurtling their way. Time refused to stand still for Irma, however big and menacing she made herself out to be. The next day, we were told by our AirBnB host that Irma had landed, and that a city-wide curfew would be implemented at 5pm. We were not to leave the house, and we were likely to lose electricity after that time. As our hosts began boarding up the windows, we climbed up to the rooftop terrace, and we waited. It was now 4pm. The house was fully stocked (the boys had ventured beyond the confines of the boarded-up house, returning shortly afterwards with a kilo of ham, a kilo of cheese, three bags of crackers, and a litre of HavanaClub rum: we were well-prepared) and we had enough games and books to keep us entertained for the long evening ahead. We were ready to settle in for the night. That is, until I mentioned to our host that I would have loved to see the enormous waves crashing against the Malecón. “Let’s go, then,” he said to me. I laughed. “No, seriously.” I laughed again. “We’ll leave in five minutes.” Still certain he was joking, I continued to sway back and forth in the rocking chair on the front terrace, as he disappeared indoors. Five minutes later, we were sprinting down the central strip in Vedado, straight towards the Malecón. “Stay indoors and you’ll be fine,” I’d been told. This was the opposite. This was exactly what everybody had advised me not to do. We were to run down the middle of the street in order to avoid the trees (“The trees could be uprooted and crush you,” our host informed me) and skip under the electric cables hurriedly (“The wind could snap them and they could electrocute you”). As we got closer to the Malecón, we were met by patrolling policemen, who whistled at us to stop because it was too dangerous. Okay, great, time to head back. “We’ll go around them,” our host said. I shook my head. This was a bit too much: the winds were getting so strong that I was struggling to keep myself balanced. It was time to head back. “Come on, I thought you were adventurous.” That did it. I couldn’t turn back now. We managed to ninja ourselves out of the police situation by taking a detour down a side street, and shortly afterwards I was standing at the seafront, fully exposed to Irma’s wrath. I witnessed her fling seawater mercilessly at the jagged rocks. I watched as she engulfed the streets and made the branches bow before her. I heard her screeching through the air, heard the whimper of her victims. I felt her smack against my cheeks and my chest, felt her tremors surging through my arms, my legs, my entire being. And in that moment, I felt truly alive.