On an island that is sinking, the arrival of a Russian oil tanker dominates all conversations in the streets of Havana.

14ymedio,Yoani Sánchez, Havana, March 30, 2026 — “The ship is coming!” a flower vendor on Estancia Street greets me as I pass by his buckets of sunflowers and gladioli. After days of uncertainty, it is now known that the Anatoly Kolodkin has arrived in Cuba with a cargo of 730,000 barrels of oil. The tanker’s arrival has become a topic of conversation on the streets this Monday, in a country where the downpour of bad news hasn’t let up for weeks.
At the traffic light at Boyeros and Tulipán, the energy crisis is more noticeable than in previous days. I cross all the lanes without stopping, while thinking about another occasion when we were waiting for a ship. It was in September 2019, when President Miguel Díaz-Canel announced that we were entering a “juncture” and that we shouldn’t worry too much since an oil tanker was about to arrive. Seven years have passed, and, as a neighbor said, “this doesn’t even have a name anymore.” The ability to assign a bureaucratic label to what we’re experiencing has also been exhausted up there.

Until yesterday, Cuba seemed like an island perched on an electric tricycle, but today we’ve all climbed onto the bow of the Russian ship that’s coming here. “Do you think they’ll refuel the gas stations?” a friend asks me hopefully. She has a small shop in Alamar where she sells costume jewelry and other imported goods. Last year, this lawyer-turned-shopkeeper and her husband bought a used Volkswagen. “I could only use it for the first three months because the fuel ran out,” she tells me. Since then, the car has been “sleeping the eternal sleep” in the family garage.
For each person, the ship takes the shape of their desires. “It’ll go, and they won’t cut off our electricity so much after it arrives,” I overhear in a doorway on Carlos III Avenue as I venture deeper into Central Havana. Vendors of items salvaged from the trash have scattered their wares on top of the wall of a fountain that hasn’t flowed for years. Are there any working fountains left in Havana? In my long walks, I haven’t seen a single one. This political model seems to have a fight with water and cleanliness.

When I was a girl, before leaving the house, my mother would warn us not to use the bathroom or drink water in the street. This strict rule almost gave me a kidney infection, but I eventually came to understand: public restrooms in Cuba are a journey to hell most of the time, and the liquid that comes out of the pipes is best consumed only after being treated or boiled. To this day, I always carry a bottle of water with me to quench my thirst and hold my urine until I get home. The traumas of Castro’s regime last a lifetime.
“Do you think we’ll get any of that oil?” one employee asks another outside a government building, plunged into darkness by the blackout. The response is a grimace of sulking lips and raised eyebrows that sums up the people’s distrust of any official promise of improvement. “Let’s paddle! Let’s see who gets to that boat first,” taunts a cart vendor selling papayas and peppers near the corner of Marqués González.
Everyone wants at least a drop of the combustible brought in by the Anatoly Kolodkin. But skepticism casts a shadow over any celebration. “That oil is all for them; we won’t get a drop,” grumbles an old man in the long line outside a state-run bakery on Reina Street. “Today I’m going to bet big,” says an old woman, her ration book folded in her hands. Anything related to the sea will see a lot of betting these days on the illegal bolita, the lottery. Woe to the bookies if one of those numbers comes up.

A few meters from the bakery, the door to the Cuba cinema has been left open. Where the rows of seats once stood, where I used to sit as a child, there is now dust, rust, and the twisted machinery of a makeshift workshop. I can only make out an arch that, on the stage, marked the threshold where fiction began and reality ended. I was captivated by that place, so close to my house, where hardly a month went by without me going to see a movie. Scaffolding blocks my way, right where the lobby used to be .
The ship that the Cuba cinema needed didn’t arrive in time. Part of its structure collapsed, the sewer pipes burst, and one day it closed. Almost all the cinemas of my childhood suffered the same fate: Astor, Negrete, Duplex, and Rex. It wasn’t during this particular crisis. It happened with the previous one, or the one before that. I don’t remember exactly because we’ve spent decades lurching from one crisis to another, a long sequence of setbacks and collapses.
I approach the Aldama Palace. Several street vendors offer me medicine. One enumerates for me that he has antibiotics of every kind, painkillers, and pills to make me feel “nice and sedated.” I run into some friends in Fraternity Park who almost cut me off mid-sentence when they receive a call from home. “They’ve turned the power back on, and I have to go back and do the laundry,” she apologizes. “I have to finish some work on my laptop, now that there’s electricity,” he adds.

To get home, I manage to hitch a ride on a pisicorre, one of the few jeeps adapted for passenger transport that still makes the trip to Santiago de las Vegas. “It’s 400 pesos to Tulipán,” the driver explains. The fare has gone up 100 pesos since the last time I took one of these cars last week. But I don’t complain. Another passenger is going near the psychiatric hospital, and the driver specifies: “To Mazorra it’s one mile (1,000 pesos).” Nobody protests the price increase. There’s no point in complaining now.
Near Quinta de los Molinos, the driver tells us we’re lucky because he’s going to stop driving this afternoon. “I don’t believe that story about the ship,” he says. He says he’s stepping away from the wheel until “everything goes back to normal” and he can go to the gas station to buy fuel without waiting in line or being pushed around. I don’t remember what “normal” means. Was it a period before the current situation?
Previous Havana Chronicles:
Havana Seen From ‘The Control Tower’
In Havana, the Only Ones Who Move Are the Mosquitoes
Reina, the Stately Street Where Garbage is Sold
Searching for Light Through the Deserted Streets of Havana
The Death Throes of ‘Granma’, the Mouthpiece of a Regime Cornered by Crisis
The Anxiety of the Disconnected Cuban
One Mella, Three Mellas, Life in Cuba Is Measured in Thousands of Pesos
It Is Forbidden To Leave Home in Cuba Today Because It Is a “Counter-Revolutionary Day”
Vedado, the Heart of Havana’s Nightlife, Is Now Converted Into a Desert
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