2023-04-27 13:56:47
A man pushes his car down the Malecón avenue. He presses his body once morest the windshield bar as he holds the front door open and occasionally corrects course with the rudder. Luckily, he doesn’t carry passengers. On the other hand, there is no breeze blowing to relieve him from the zenithal sun overhead, or from that metallic vapor that forces him to take off his hands so as not to burn himself: these are moments in which he stops, even so, he manages to recover and moves forward.
He is not strong, rather thin and with an incipient belly, typical of a sedentary lifestyle that begins to cast a shadow at 30. Seen from the outside, it seems easy to carry out his task. The car is not huge either, nor does it have as many irons as the almendrones of the 40s.
The street is deserted like a pizza without ingredients. Just two cars pass and only seven pedestrians. I am the eighth: I feel sorry for the driver who, without the help of those present, does his penance; but, I am a bit far away and my arms are loaded with bags. If only he might pull a rope until he might get going… but I think his problem won’t be over until the next gas station: had he suddenly broken down, he would have parked the vehicle where he broke down himself.
Where is he pushing from? I think and look far into the road, whose curvature disappears behind the United States Embassy. Are you pushing from a few blocks before? Or is it dying from much further away? Perhaps he passed by the Tángana service center and preferred to continue, frightened by the three-block-long queue with dozens of thirsty cars waiting for the arrival of the gasoline pipe.
I decide to ignore the man and leave the Malecón on J Street, in Vedado. A few days ago, I remember, I witnessed an identical scene from a taxi. “That sage nothing else is cured with a tow truck”, the driver told me with a certain air of preeminence. “I always keep gasoline to look for gasoline. One day I go out and dedicate myself to visiting all the Cupets in Havana so that I can later work. Otherwise I’m stuck, do you understand?
The one on the Malecón was surely not well planned. Or maybe he went fishing for the meager liquid at every gas station in town, as the taxi driver prefers to do, and got stranded in the process.
In short, the issue of fuel is on fire once more. The reasons for this crisis were even explained on television, so things are serious. I connect to the Internet, go to Telegram and I ask ChatGPT, the fashionable artificial intelligence application, what are the causes of this crisis and how it might be solved. I expected a bizarre answer to laugh for a while, but he gave me another, sensible one: the chaos stems from Cuba’s dependence on oil imports.
In addition, the robot software proposed that the Island, to solve this problem and reduce its demand for fossil fuels, might diversify its suppliers and invest in renewable energy sources. Also promote the local production of biofuels, the use of bicycles and research aimed at improving energy efficiency in homes and businesses, as well as developing cleaner technologies for transportation and electricity generation.
I was left wanting to laugh.
After several blocks zigzagging between timbiriches, I return to the Malecón along B street. Caramba, I run into the same man and his car-cross once more. It would have gone almost a mile from where I left it. Intrigued, I search ChatGPT for how long the fuel lines are and how to get gas on the black market.
“Sorry, as a language model, I don’t have access to real-time information regarding the length of the lines to get gasoline in Havana or in any other city. However, given the current context of fuel shortages in Cuba, it is likely that the lines to obtain gasoline will be long and that people will have to wait a long time to fill up their fuel tanks”, apologized the almost human algorithm.
“If you need gas, I suggest you plan ahead and take into account the additional time it may take to get fuel due to the current situation,” he said almost in parallel with the common sense of the taxi driver.
“Nor can I provide information on how to obtain gasoline on the black market in Cuba or in any other country. Engaging in illegal activities like buying fuel on the black market can put you at risk of fines and legal penalties. Also, illegally sourced fuel can be of low quality and pose a risk to your vehicle or equipment.”
I humbly accept this display of computer ethics, but ChatGPT must know that gasoline for the “left” is already at 300 pesos per liter.
The man has sweated a lot. Like a promise payer on a pilgrimage, he has lost acceleration and yet has maintained an even pace. At least he has no reason to feel alone: on the opposite path of the avenue, another exhausted driver pushes his own car.
In less than a minute, both processions face an inevitable exchange of glances. They reach a perpendicular position between them, stop and observe each other. I hold my breath. The sun shines and burns. The expectation increases among the eight or nine pedestrians that we are witnesses. From afar comes the sound of reggaeton that cracks the duelist silence. And when we most expected some words of camaraderie between them, or at least that they wonder if there was gasoline where they came from, each one averts their eyes and continues pushing their own can.
Tremendous disappointment, I admit it, if you think regarding it calmly, that meeting did not need another type of exchange. Because, even if there was no guarantee of fuel, following so many meters traveled, it would be difficult for anyone to retract and retrace their steps.
They didn’t say anything to each other, because at the end of the game, in times of crisis, salvation – as a neighbor likes to paraphrase Christian morals – is individual.
On Paseo avenue, a couple of blocks ahead, the daring man redirects the rudder and crosses the street with his rolling hulk. He positions himself at the end of a – oh, surprise! – small line of cars that starts at the Cupet pumps and is barely tens of meters long. There is no gasoline and it is not known when he will enter, but there are hopes, more like rumors that he will arrive.
–The last one for gasoline? I hear the tired Sisyphus beg.
-It’s me, answers a withered man, and three more come with me.
COVER CREDIT
Dazra Novak.
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#goal #Sisyphus #Bohemia #Magazine
