Even refilling a lighter has become a difficult task in Cuba due to the fuel shortage
14ymedio, Havana/Holguín, Darío Hernández and Miguel García, January 11, 2026 — Under the uneven shade of a tree in a park in Holguín, Genaro waits for someone to approach with a lighter. The scene has repeated itself for more than a decade: a folding table, several gas sprays, screwdrivers, and pliers. For years, that small family business, refilling disposable lighters, allowed them to put food on the table. Today, however, the lack of fuel threatens to extinguish even that minimal flame. “Now it’s cheaper to buy a new one than to repair it because gas has become incredibly expensive,” he says, arranging his tools with a mechanical gesture.
Genaro charges 100 pesos for each lighter he refills and 50 more if the flint has to be replaced. Until recently, that fee guaranteed a steady trickle of customers. Today, the flow has dropped sharply. “This is no longer profitable, and if things get worse,” he warns, “I’ll have to find something else.” His occupation—salvaging what in other countries is thrown away—becomes unviable in a context where even the gas used to refill lighters has turned into a luxury.
The problem is not limited to his improvised table. At home, he explains, they cook with firewood and with liquefied gas “when it shows up.” The balita—the small gas cylinder that sustains the domestic life of thousands of families—now costs 50,000 Cuban pesos on the informal market in Holguín. “You almost never find it, and when someone does offer it to you, they can sit back and demand whatever they want, because people are desperate.” At state-run sales points, the supply was suspended weeks ago, with no date for resumption.
The cutoff of Venezuelan oil supplies, following the capture of Nicolás Maduro by U.S. troops, has further strained a daily life already marked by shortages. What happens in Caracas translates almost immediately into extinguished stoves, paralyzed businesses, and reduced transportation in Cuba. The Island’s energy dependence turns any shock in the South American country into a domestic tremor.
In Havana, the situation is reflected in empty gas stations and in the conversations repeated under the roofs of the state company Cupet. In Telegram groups where virtual lines are organized, discouragement is palpable. This Saturday, in East Havana only 11 gas stations were offering service; another 10 were completely out of fuel. In the west of the capital, seven service stations had closed on Friday. No one dares to predict an improvement in the short term.
The mechanism for buying gasoline has become a digital maze. To even aspire to a turn, one must register in the Ticket app, enter an ID number, vehicle registration details, and the license plate. With luck, confirmation arrives in two or three months. But even then, the result can be frustrating: on the scheduled day, there may only be motor or regular gasoline of lower octane, unusable for many vehicles.
A tour of several Havana service stations confirms the picture. The central station at G and 25, in El Vedado, opened without fuel. The same scene repeats at its neighbor on La Rampa. Only at the nearby Tángana station was there still some supply for those waiting with a Ticket appointment, and in the entire central area only the station at L and 17 continued dispensing with some regularity.
The majority of gas stations in Havana are not operating.
Under the red sign reading “Your friend 24 hours a day” at G and 25, three men talk. They begin by discussing gasoline, but the conversation soon drifts toward Caracas, Washington’s warnings, and Marco Rubio’s statements urging Havana to choose between “change and collapse.” International politics seep into their words as yet another explanation for the empty tank.
“The situation is tight; I’ve never seen it this bad,” says a motorcyclist who came to Cupet just to confirm the obvious. He has a generator at home and urgently needs fuel. “My mother is bedridden with a relapse of chikungunya,” he explains. “At home we’re preparing for the worst, because this is just the beginning.”
At the Cupet stations on Vía Blanca and La Coubre, dispensing was limited to state vehicles, as it was at the station at the La Shell roundabout in Guanabacoa. Rafael, a Spanish businessman temporarily based in Cuba, described his fruitless tour of several stations in the Playa municipality. “They have no idea when fuel will come in again. They look lost,” he said.
One worker was more direct and, in a mocking tone, summed it up in four words: “Maduro abandoned us.” A tremor in Caracas is an earthquake in Havana.
In El Cerro, two brothers in the moving business have halted all operations. Their truck sits immobile while requests pile up unanswered. “With what happened in Venezuela, I don’t think this will be fixed quickly,” they say.
Early Sunday, many woke up glued to their phones after Donald Trump posted a message urging the Cuban regime to reach “an agreement, before it’s too late,” warning: “There will be no more oil or money for Cuba: zero!” For many, that message sealed the certainty that the severe fuel shortage will not be temporary.
On Havana’s Malecón, some look out to sea hoping for the silhouette of a tanker. For a young man singing boleros and guarachas to tourists, the definitive collapse will come “when El Morro goes dark.” Perhaps it will not require a mass exodus—only the absence of fuel and a wait that stretches on, like Genaro’s under the tree, with an empty lighter in his hand.
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