It’s nearly two months since Donald Trump signed an executive order imposing a total oil blockade on Cuba, and life is becoming odder. At the weekend, in a down-island town called Moron, teenage kids burnt down the local Communist party headquarters. Meanwhile, here in Havana, we’re awaiting the arrival of the Irish hip-hoppers Kneecap at the head of a humanitarian relief armada carrying solar panels.

I live in a rooftop apartment. At night, it’s a good spot from which to look out over a city that once sent up music and light but is now as dark as a desert. The oil blockade, designed to either force the bankrupt Communist government into major reform or the population to rise up against them, is worsening what were already terrible blackouts. At night, I hear the sound of banging pans drifting in on the wind, residents taking to the streets to express their misery in having no fans to keep the heat and mosquitos at bay, as their food rots in useless fridges.

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