At the Central Post Office in Cienfuegos, a Single Employee Serves the Public

“Today it will take two hours, at least,” estimates Antonio, a retiree who comes to collect his pension

The post office on San Carlos Street in Cienfuegos is buzzing with dissatisfied customers. / 14ymedio

14ymedio bigger14ymedio, Julio César Contreras, Cienfuegos, 30 September 2024 — A few blocks from Cienfuegos Bay, the post office office on San Carlos Street is buzzing with dissatisfied customers. They have no place to sit, and as the sun hits the avenue, tension and annoyance increase. People come to transact business or to buy stamps, but before asking who’s the last in line*, they have to calculate if they have enough time and patience.

“Today it will be two hours, at least,” estimates Antonio, a retiree who comes to collect his pension, perceiving the long line as a field of cane that he has to cut with a machete. He has plenty of time and has acquired patience – as a remedy – over the years. Now he has his “door jamb”; that is, a space on the sidewalk where he sits with great difficulty. From there, the line advances. The sun and the discomfort too.

If the post office put its employees in more than one window, the story would be different, says Antonio. On the contrary, there are a series of “trenches” – a counter, a glass sideboard, an empty armchair – that prevent passage and regulate the movement of the line. Everyone must go “through the channel” to the only available window.

The office is gloomy. Several burned-out light bulbs hang from the ceiling, which don’t improve the appearance of the premises. The paint – a greenish gray – absorbs the light and gives the place a suffocating atmosphere. The windows of the facade are covered with tinted plastic, the well-known and not very useful measure against cyclones, and someone – it is difficult to imagine why – stole the plastic cabin of one of the public telephones.

Everyone must go “through the channel” to the only available window

In a place like this, the “coleros” [people paid by others to stand in line for them] thrive with their “little deals,” but Antonio – out of embarrassment, he says – does not get involved. “I wouldn’t have the nerve to get in line with five or six people behind me.” Not without some sadness, he says that saving a place in line is paid at 500 pesos per person. It is the price he pays for avoiding discomfort, embarrassment and not infrequently the insults of those who do suffer the wait.

It’s not often that elderly retirees with pension books pay a colero. The business deal is not economical if it has to be repeated every month, and for a meager state pension it’s not worth it. “Those who do pay want to buy stamps, so it’s normal for another person to save a place in line to collect a pension and at the same time ’resolve’ the purchase of something else. So you wait and earn a little money,” explains Antonio.

But there is no money in the world that justifies the “ordeal” of being in the post office. When there is only one worker at the window – which is usually the case – you have to start lining up at 5:00 am in order to leave, hopefully, by 10:00 or 11:00 am. It’s not worth it, the retiree insists, and he returns to his “door jamb” spot.

To Vilma – self-employed and with much less patience than Antonio when it comes to lines – what bothers her is that two blocks from the Post Office “a man” has all the stamps there have been and will be for an informal sale. “Where do you get them?” she asks. She gives the answer at the same time as those around her, pointing to the post office: “From right there.”

The office is gloomy. Several burned out light bulbs hang from the ceiling, which do not improve the appearance of the premises. / 14ymedio

The corruption is remarkable, she says, because the person selling stamps also has ways of doing business with the National Office of the Tax Administration (ONAT), according to Vilma. For years, she has preferred not to settle her accounts with ONAT through the post office. Every procedure is cumbersome, and the only stamp that the office is quick to put on its papers, she says, is “that of inefficiency.”

The post office is no longer even useful for her to receive the national newspaper at home, she points out. “I canceled my contract,” she says proudly. “In addition to putting up with the newspapers only publishing what suits them, they arrived three and four days late. When I came to complain about the bad service, they justified themselves by telling me that the workers are insufficient to meet the city’s demand.” Now I get the news through social networks.

It would take too many words to describe the deficiencies in the parcel service, Vilma continues. “Someone recently sent me a package from Spain. After three months passed and it hadn’t arrived, I made a claim. They blamed the lack of fuel, transportation and, of course, the blockade.” The matter didn’t stop there. If the package was, as she supposed, in national territory, she was told she could “motivate influence.” Once money changed hands, the package immediately appeared.

Defeating the line does not guarantee anything, since the attention at the window brings properly institutional obstacles

On San Carlos Street, it doesn’t matter if you come to collect your pension, send a letter – a practice that is increasingly disappearing – or do a national transfer: the line, warns the guard, is “only one person at a time.” The defense by blood and fire of that “unit” seems to be the real concern of the staff, says Antonio.

Defeating the line does not guarantee anything, since the attention at the window brings institutional obstacles, such as the fact of not being able to send more than 2,100 pesos in a transfer. “It’s one limit after another,” Vilma complains.

The post office on San Carlos is the “central one” in Cienfuegos. If its operation leaves much to be desired, the booths are even more alarming. Closed firmly, they have only one function: to give shade to those who, overwhelmed by the incompetence and heat of Cienfuegos, seek a moment of truce.

*Translator’s note: Cubans join lines by asking “who’s last” and then, as soon as the next person joins behind them, they can move around freely without anyone ’losing their place’.

Translated by Regina Anavy

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