30 hours without electricity. A new record. Not happy. No. Not sleep much in the heat and darkness, wondering if the kids are OK …
I’ve walked down to the Shell station twice in the last 24 hours, going down to fill my jerry cans with petrol for my thirsty little generator. I only fill the cans half full because I can’t carry them back otherwise. On my second visit, it seemed as if there were more people filling jerry cans than vehicles, which makes me feel a little less victimized in my blacked out neighbourhood.
It got me wondering. Maybe the government used up the last reserves of oil to keep the current flowing for the end-of-Ramadan festivities, and now the tanks are dry. It would not surprise me, given the chronic myopia in planning.
And to think that there are places where … stuff works, works all the time, or if it doesn’t, someone competent, experienced and equipped will fix it.
Somewhere … over the rainbow …
Afterthought: it’s lucky for those in power that people here are so passive and fatalistic — my rants about incompetence, nepotism and corruption are too often met with soft shrugs and wistful smiles, Eh oui, c’est comme ça …
Bwoy! Try leaving Kingston without power for 30 hours and there’d be riots in the streets, and rightly so. People here need to get angry and demand more from those in power. Just because you’re poor doesn’t mean you have to take crap. Just because the elite fucks up in a hundred different ways doesn’t mean everyone else has to suffer.
If I stay here much longer I’m gonna go revolutionary.