The chords still reach the bedroom when the dawn slips away, even though it is played several blocks away from the house; it has as its accomplice the calm of the night and the extreme passivity of cultural life in this region.
The music continues if you can call the throbbing noise (tun-tun-tun) and the vulgar lyrics that recite to the wind phrases like: "Your weak points I know them/ I lick your neck/ I kiss your..." (An obscene word follows).
Who allows it, you ask yourself from the sofa, because the heat, the blackout, and the mosquitoes make you a bit philosophical: does nobody listen to this filth amplified in all directions, who monitors the megawatts of current they use, does nobody control the orgy of sound that some corners have become almost habitual, and then, always in the heat, the blackout and the mosquitoes make you a bit philosophical?
And then, always in the heat of the context, you remember.
A friend's recent rage comes to mind because the loud noise at 11:00 p.m., on any given Tuesday, prevented his eleven-month-old son from sleeping; or the unlimited anger of the neighbors of a building at a 15th birthday party that lasted three days, with its three nights and three full dawns to the rhythm of bachata and fiery reggaeton.
The recent conversation with Zenia Ross, programmer of the Provincial Directorate of Culture in Las Tunas, also comes to mind. The director, as hurt by this situation as anyone, clarified that those who show off their discotheques in public spaces, with obscene songs until the early hours of the morning, do not belong to the cultural sector in Las Tunas.
"They are natural persons, new economic actors, who rent certain spaces from the government to sell their products and use the music as a hook to market, most of the time beer and other types of drinks, as well as confectionery and light food in general.
"We have a body of inspectors for that; they are the ones who approach these people because it is their job; but they have come to tell them that since they pay for that place, they play the music they want. It's as simple as that.
Niliam Rodríguez Escobar, the director here of the Centro Comercializador de la Música y los Espectáculos, recently said something similar. "It's disrespectful the type of lyrics they spread, the time they use, the volume at which they play it; it's a situation that happens, above all, in the municipality of Las Tunas.
"These discotheques are created to have background music and we have had very unpleasant experiences, like, for example, last May Day, with one of these marquees playing loudly in front of one of our groups, which could barely be heard because of the noise".
The rage contained in the arguments of both women (who, by the way, hopefully, belong to another circuit) says a lot about how much remains to be done and how much support the institutions they represent need in the face of this sensitive issue.
But they are not the only sad examples of such a situation. The problem was also experienced here during the Winter Fair until 19 May. On that day, while the Plaza Cultural commemorated the 128th anniversary of the death of José Martí, in the Estadio Chiquito, people were dancing Bad Bunny "perreo" style, without half measures.
Yes, there is a long way to go before we can say that we are, as a society, on the road to fulfilling Cuba's long-standing music policy. But this issue, marked by so many crucial aspects, has in this particular case a crossroads that transcends the cultural framework and urgently requires control and discipline.
Hopefully, in the heat of the night, in the middle of a blackout, this reporter can stop asking herself the sad and everlasting question: in Las Tunas, who allows?
