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“Every day I have to keep all these receipts with me,” the man explains, and recalls that once he had to spend three nights in the police station because the data base of traffic fines hadn’t been updated with his information. “They work very badly, sometimes after paying, your name still shows up on the list of the defaulters,” comments Felix.

While he details the police harassment they receive, another pedicab driver arrives. The driver, Alejandro, joins the conversation and points out that even though they pay for a license to do their work, they don’t have “the right to travel on many of the important streets, like Galiano, Reina and Monte.”

Those three major arteries connect several districts and for decades have been the principal thoroughfares for this mode of transport, greatly used by Cubans for short distances. However, the pedicab drivers complain that the travel restrictions have been imposed on them under the justification of moving traffic at a higher speed on the avenues.

Yaseil Rodriguez, who has made his living pedaling for nearly a decade, says that the authorities have informed them that these vehicles move “very slowly.” A justification that does not convince him. “We aren’t allowed on these streets and the horse-drawn carts full of tourists managed by Eusebio Leal are?”

Rodriguez enumerates the streets where it is no longer possible to travel in a pedicab: “Monte, Monserrate, Zulueta, Prado, Egido, Industria, San Lázaro, la Avenida del Puerto y Cuba.” This latter “was a street in Old Havana where we were always able to travel without problems.”

The fines imposed for violating these restrictions range from 700 to 1,500 Cuban pesos. The police pay special attention to keeping the pedicabs outside the area around Fraternity Park. But the fines are not the most severe punishment; the worst is having the vehicle held at the police station until the driver pays or clarifies the situation.

Many pedicab drivers consider the application of the law “excessive.” This disagreement led to some forty of them traveling in a caravan to the Plaza of the Revolution on 10 May, with the intention to demand an end “to the abuse” against the drivers. So far they have received no response from the authorities.

For Nolsen Lopez, another young pedicab drivers, the pressure has become unbearable. “You have to travel looking on all sides as if you were transporting arms or drugs,” he said, explaining the stress he experiences during the workday. The man complains of the excessive cost to keep pedaling, because “you have to pay these fines, pay for the license, pay into social security, insurance, and if I get sick I have to use my savings because they don’t give you anything in these cases.”

Among the demands these self-employed workers are championing is also a reopening of the licenses to practice the occupation. The young man says that at the National Tax Administration Office (ONAT) it’s been ”four and a half years without their issuing permission to drive a pedicab.” For that reason they must work under the category of “helper,” a condition that limits their work even more.

“If the authorities do not respond on this issue, on Tuesday we will go to the Plaza again,” said Lopez, who did not take part in the first protest. “This time I’ll go because abuse has to end, if more of us go, it’s much better.”

 

The driver of a truck loaded with mangos almost begged the custodians of El Trigal to let him sell his merchandise. “I came from Santiago de Cuba and now the whole trip is wasted,” complained the man. “I’m a farmer,” he clarified, to avoid being labeled an “intermediary.” An inspector warned him that if he stayed in the vicinity he would be fined and his product would be confiscated.

After noon the place is a beehive of dissatisfaction and complaints. “Boris Fuentes, the wine writer for Cuba Dice was here,” said one of the carters, a man who until Thursday made a living carrying merchandise from the trucks to the stalls and pallets. The young man recalled when an official reporter wanted to record a program about the high prices of food in a market conceived to lower the cost of basic food supplies.

“People insulted him and asked him why he didn’t do a story about the high prices in the [officially-named] Hard Currency Collection Stores run by the State,” said a carter. A few yards away, Diosbel Castro Rodriguez, 24, can’t quite believe he has lost the job that supports his family. “As long as I work and can feed my family everything is fine. But I have two kids and now without work I can’t stop thinking about what I can do,” insinuates the man.

Rodriguez Castro repeated the claim of many others in El Trigal: “They can’t do this from one day to the next, they have to give us some time, so we can look for other work,” he laments.

Yerandy Diaz, a resident of Fortuna, believes that it was on purpose that the place was closed without any notice to users and facility workers so they “did not have time for anything, for protests or to go anywhere.” According to him, the president of the cooperative that managed the market, Carlos Sablon Sosa, was called to an emergency meeting late on Thursday afternoon.

While Sablon Sosa was in the meeting a group of inspectors showed up and passed out a paper confirming the closure. “They came here with two police cars to intimidate people and make sure there wasn’t any hassle,” recalls Yerandy Diaz.

Working in the place were 66 carters who paid license fees to exercise their occupation, more than 30 vendors and a hundred people in the dining areas, and “over a thousand peasants who come here to sell every week,” said Diaz. All have been perplexed by the government’s decision to suspend sales.

“We have officially become unemployed, up in the air, they have not given us another alternative work,” Diaz complains facing the police as tempers begin to flare. The young man criticizes the lack of transparency because the TV news reported it was being closed “for illegalities but they didn’t detail them.”

The line of trucks continues to grow, spending hours in front of the door of El Trigal trying to convince the inspectors and the police that “at least give us one last chance to sell what we already brought here,” but authorities do not give in.

Yorenny Cobas, a resident of Fortuna, was carter at El Trigal and explains that he worked moving the product from one place to another. “We charge for the service at the time we provide it, depending on the load, it can be 10, 15 or 20 Cuban pesos; we pay for a license that costs 200 pesos a month, plus more than 87 pesos for social security and 60 pesos a day every time we work, for renting the cooperative’s truck.”

The carter, without much hope, questions an inspector. “Do you know how many families are now left with nothing?” He considers that what happened with El Trigal will bring out “more illegalities” because the farmers “will try to bring the merchandise and sell it.”

The evening falls and El Trigal remains closed, there is another police car and on the market access road a farmer tries, at a whisper, to sell his mangoes at a liquidation price.

On Tuesday afternoon, a long line extended under the sun outside what is commonly called the “Cathedral of Ice Cream.” However, those who knew the centrally located place in its first decades of life complained that the remodel has not been accompanied by an improvement in the products, either in its presentation or in its flavor and variety.

A man about 60 commented that the ice cream was “watered down,” he had tried the combination known as a “salad” which is five scoops and some cookies. The man couldn’t stop laughing when near his table a young man exclaimed he was amazed that Coppelia had returned with “a pile of flavors<’ because on the menu you could read that they are selling chocolate, curly chocolate, vanilla and strawberry.

Melancholy, the customer then evoked the original menu that distinguished the most famous Cuban ice cream parlor, when there were 26 flavors and 24 possible combinations. The difference is not in the quantity, but in the deterioration of the quality of the ice cream, that sometimes has bits of ice in it, little flavor and no pieces of natural fruit, like the strawberry, the orange pineapple and the mango they used to have.

To the annoyance of the customers, the place keeps some traces of the “workers diner” that it was during the Special Period. For example, you have to share the tables, there can’t be any vacant chairs, and it is not always pleasant to sit with strangers.

On the top floor, known as The Tower, and beautifully designed by the architect Mario Girona, they still limit sales to “two specialties per person” according to an employee. However, with a couple of bill slipped into the right hands, a customers can take home all the ice cream they want, always with the stealth of “not filling the cups in view of the bosses,” says the waitress.

One of the new features much appreciated after the closing is the white earthenware dishes in The Tower that replace the plastic ones, which, however, remain in the so-called “courts” down below. In the first week of the reopening, all the employees who serve the ice cream haven’t learned how to serve the ice cream in hollow scoops, a unique specialty of selling ice cream in Cuba, and that has characterized the celebrated ice cream parlor for years.

“Let’s see how it is three weeks from now,” said a distrustful mother who took her two little kids to have ice cream at 23^rd and L, the most famous corner in the capital, this Tuesday. The woman sneered that “the cookies that are supposed to go with the ice cream are where they’re supposed to be, on the plate,” but “in a few days they’ll be back in the hands of the resellers outside the courts selling for extortionate prices.

A group of tourists naively asked customers why they were lined up a few yards from a completely empty area selling the most varieties of ice cream. A young college student, who was with a group of students from the philosophy school, explained to the foreigners the difference between consuming things in Cuban pesos versus Convertible pesos. “The one in chavitos (convertible pesos) is better, but there’s no one who can afford it,” said the young man.

The areas that are refurbished now are the The Court and The Tower, along with the imposing white staircase that leads to the upper level, the dome, the roof, and the typical wood and glass windows, also located on the upper level. The refurbishment program includes spaces such as the bar on the ground floor and the bathrooms, which will begin to be restored in the coming weeks.

However, for many customers the improvements should not remain in the physical appearance of Coppelia, but should be targeted to recovering the prestige it once enjoyed, now “watered down” like its ice cream, poor quality, unprofessional treatment by its employees and the absurd measures implemented in its services, including the closure of the beautiful passage to passersby. From now on, you can only enter after standing in the long line outside the Cathedral of Ice Cream that seems to have lost its way.