Idael returns to the café he’s known all his life and finds, to his indignation, that all they have to offer are toilets with no water, and even that costs 20 pesos
14ymedio, Julio César Contreras, Matanzas, 23 August 2025 – Until he emigrated to Spain seven years ago Idael used to meet up with friends at the Vigía café on the square of the same name in Matanzas. That colonial building, with its wide entrance way and tall pillars was a refuge of shared beers and nighttime meals – which avoided the need to switch on the cooker at home. Today, visiting his native city, the IT engineer was hoping to relive these scenes but the half open doors of the establishment seem to indicate that time has not been merciful.
“My parents helped me to learn to walk right here on this wooden lounge floor, and later I used to lift my own son up onto one of the toy horses here”, he remembers, as he observes the staff members in the doorway, distracted, talking about anything but work. One of them asks him, almost with indifference, if he would like anything, as though he was speaking to a stranger, an intruder. No chalkboard here showing special offers of the day, nor any hustle and bustle of clientele: only tables occupied by people taking advantage of the shade, with nothing available to eat.
Looking inside, Idael sees a man seated in the half light of the lounge. “I asked him if I could use the toilets and he told me it would cost me 20 pesos”, he says. And then he realized that all that the Vigía had to offer had been reduced to a toilet and a washbasin with no water. Shortly after, another employee explained that there was no beer, because the place had been without power since the early hours. The coffee machine was broken and all they had were a few fruit juices past their sell by date: an interminable list of what used to be and now no longer is.
The scene infuriates the visitor. “The government ought to give these places over to private ownership who would make them productive”, he complains. “Here you have a bunch of workers who don’t produce anything, earning a miserable wage for opening up at nine and shutting at four. Where’s the economical purpose in that? Are they just waiting for the roof to fall in so they can close it down for good?” His questions resound around the cracked walls and the empty tables.
The area around Plaza de la Vigía, where the café is located, doesn’t help either: there are frequent power cuts, a lack of nighttime security and an overall ambience that has been deteriorated by the theft of such things as sound systems and general decoration. The surroundings themselves scare off any potential visitor as much as does the general inertia of a place that seems condemned to be forgotten.
For Idael, what remains is barely even a faded postcard. The Vigía is no longer the meeting place that brought together locals from any profession or salary: “The 20 pesos that used to be enough to get you a Mayabe beer will only be enough to use the toilet today”, he says bitterly. “There’s no Congrí rice or roast chicken anymore. Only silence, a silence that hurts”.
And perhaps what hurts the most is that all the friends are gone. All of them, like himself, have gone.
La Vigía ya no es el punto de encuentro que reunía a vecinos de cualquier oficio o salario. / 14ymedio[/caption]
Translated by Ricardo Recluso
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