When the Lights Go Out

It’s raining and the electricity is out. I’m wearing two pairs of socks, loose convertible pants over jeans, a singlet, shirt, polar fleece and raincoat with the hood up. I’m inside. June and July are the months of rain here. Streets flood, the electricity goes, school becomes optional, cooking is done by candlelight.

In the U.S., as I told my host mom, I believe blackouts are a good opportunity to consider how the presence of electricity shapes our lives. From TVs to computers, from electric stoves to microwaves (without which there is little we Americans can cook) and from light bulbs to cordless phones (who hasn’t dusted off an 1980s vintage corded phone during a power outage?). In fact, I continue, sometimes as kids we got excited when there was a power outage. It meant candles at dinner followed by squinting games of Monopoly. It meant spooky shadows and not leaving the refrigerator door open. Yet, I tell her, now concluding, power outs can be a pain too—nearly all of our house’s clocks are electric.

Her response: when Hurricane Stan stampeded through Guatemala in the 90s, it took with it the electricity—but it also knocked out the bridges. The bridges from Mexico to Xela, from Xela to the capital, from the capital to the beach, from the beach to Honduras, from Honduras back to the capital; in short, from everywhere to everywhere else. With one storm, the country broke into islands. And with time, the privations grew.

There was, of course, no power. But quickly there was also no gas—the trucks couldn’t ford the bridgeless rivers. Then there was no bread—same problem. Then there was no pork, no chicken, no eggs, no beans, no corn—no corn in a culture where you eat a tortilla or tamale made from the grain with every meal. There was too much water and there was no water. That which fell from the sky snuffed out any attempts at a fire, yet they had nothing to drink—the purified supplies were cut off. This went on for weeks. “We suffered a lot,” she said, matter-of-factly.

I think of my childish giddiness at the prospect of a dark house. Then I think of my current philosophical conception: the power out as philosophical moment. Then I think of how much time it really took to reprogram all those clocks, all three of them. Then I realize, I came to Mexico, to Guatemala, to Central America, to Latin America for moments like these. To get my lights turned off.