Julio César Contreras – Translating Cuba

La Cumbre, a Neighborhood in Matanzas Where the Streets Stayed in the Last Century

Potholes, stones, and dust complicate the daily lives of residents, who have been waiting for decades for repairs that never come

In some blocks, the streets have lost even the appearance of streets. They are dirt tracks, gravel and stones, dotted with ditches that widen with rain and deepen with neglect. / 14ymedio.

14ymedio, Julio César Contreras, Matanzas, October 31, 2026 / The morning sun falls on the loose stones and remnants of asphalt in La Cumbre, a neighborhood in Matanzas where walking demands as much attention as crossing rugged terrain. The dew still dampens the grass growing on both sides of the streets, while mothers send their children off with a warning repeated every day: watch out for the hole on the corner, don’t get to school with your shoes full of mud.

On some blocks, the streets have lost even the appearance of streets. They are paths of dirt, gravel, and stones, dotted with ditches that the rains widen and neglect deepens. Among cinder-block houses, rusty metal gates, and makeshift fences, residents make their way around the obstacles. A man pushes a bicycle up a stony slope. Another drags a cart loaded with sacks, accompanied by a dog that seems to know every dip and bump in the path by heart.

Among cinder-block houses, rusty metal gates, and makeshift fences, residents make their way around the obstacles

“When I have to go in and out of my block without being able to ride my bicycle, it feels like I’m living in the countryside and not in the city,” complains Argelio, as he tries to control the handlebars shaking over the stones. For those who depend on bicycles or mopeds, every outing can end with a flat tire, a fall, or a visit to the mechanic. continue reading

Although the shortest route to the Vía Blanca runs through here, some stretches have been impassable for four-wheeled vehicles for decades. “There are places where bits of sidewalk are still left, but on this block we step straight out onto grass and dirt. No shoe sole lasts six months like this,” adds Argelio.

La Cumbre also displays its social differences. Alongside humble homes, roofed with fiber cement and surrounded by weeds, there are two-story buildings, freshly painted facades, ornamental grilles, and water tanks on the rooftops. However, not even a comfortable house guarantees a decent way in. From the porch outward, everyone shares the same landscape of neglect.

Some sections have been closed to four-wheeled vehicles for decades. / 14ymedio

Freddy, a private taxi driver, knows this contradiction well. Every month he pays rent on a garage eight blocks from his home because his old Moskvich can no longer get to his door. The last few times he braved the potholes, he ended up in a repair shop. Now, one of the most troublesome holes is right in front of his house.

The self-employed worker says that successive Government officials have ignored the neighborhood’s complaints. Accountability meetings and letters sent to the Citizen Services office of the Municipal People’s Power have not managed to bring the pavement back to La Cumbre.

“I want to sell my house or swap it, but when interested people come to see the place, they then vanish,” laments Freddy. The deterioration of the streets also ends up hurting the value of homes and the chances of moving.

When it doesn’t rain, the few vehicles that manage to get through the passable stretches raise a cloud of dust that seeps in through doors and windows. When a downpour comes, the holes turn into small ponds of uncertain depth. Residents swing between wishing for rain to relieve the dust and dreading it for the mud it leaves behind.

When it doesn’t rain, the few vehicles that manage to get through the passable stretches raise a cloud of dust that seeps in through doors and windows

“Not long ago, turning the corner here, my moped slid into a ditch and I had to react fast, because I almost fell,” recalls a social worker who keeps her windows closed to stop the dirt from invading her home.

The young woman says that, months ago, work began on a house on an empty lot. A rumor then spread that it would be for an important official, and some residents got excited. Perhaps, they thought, the arrival of a boss would achieve what years of neighborhood complaints had not. But the hope soon faded when it became known that the house was not for an official.

“Meanwhile, we’ll keep waiting for the 2030 plan to pave all this for us, which will then be postponed to 2040 because of the tightening of the blockade,” the woman says ironically.

In La Cumbre there are still those who carefully dust the ornaments on their shelves, sweep their porches, and put on their best shoes to go out. But they only have to step out the door for that effort to stumble against reality. The neighborhood keeps its lofty name [cumbre means “summit”], although its residents have been waiting far too long for the authorities to rise to the level of their needs.

Translated by GH

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At the Matanzas Pediatric Hospital, There’s Not Even Anyone to Give an Injection

The shortage of nurses leaves children and their families waiting for hours in a hospital hit by the exodus of health workers

La falta de personal sanitario se ha convertido en uno de los agujeros más visibles del sistema de salud cubano. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Julio César Contreras, Havana, October 15, 2026 / In the emergency room of the Eliseo Noel Caamaño Pediatric Hospital, health workers can hardly be seen moving back and forth anymore. Along the hallway that leads to the inpatient wards, every now and then someone in a white coat comes out of a consulting room, closes the door and hurries off to avoid questions. On the metal benches sit children and their relatives, looking toward the nursing station and waiting for an employee who, they are told, has gone for a snack.

Standing in front of that door, Yanelis has less patience. Her four-year-old son needs an injection to bring down a persistent fever. “First I had to send someone to buy the acetaminophen on the street, because there isn’t any in here. The doctor saw us more than an hour ago and we still haven’t been able to get it done because the nurse has disappeared,” she tells 14ymedio. The young woman threatens to go to the hospital administration.

Her son needs an injection to bring down a persistent fever / 14ymedio

The shortage of health personnel has become one of the most visible holes in the Cuban health system. In December 2024, even a commission of deputies that toured 39 municipalities in the 15 provinces acknowledged that the departure of professionals to other sectors and the migratory stampede had turned the worker deficit into one of the most alarming problems in Public Health. Years earlier, the authorities themselves had admitted that professionals and technicians were leaving for other economic activities, inside and outside the country. The deficit has only grown worse.

At the Matanzas Pediatric Hospital, that statistic takes on real faces. A young mother wipes the sweat from her daughter’s face with a handkerchief. At 8:30 in the morning she asked who was last in line for injections. It is now past ten, and she has seen elderly people selling roasted peanuts and medical students chatting openly about the lack of professors at the University of Medical Sciences pass through the emergency room, but not a single nurse has entered the nursing station. continue reading

“It’s hard to believe that in this hospital there isn’t a nurse to be found to give an injection,” she protests. The syringe and the amoxicillin are still in her bag when the antibiotic should already be taking effect in the girl’s body. What is missing is something that used to be taken for granted: the skilled hand to administer it.

A child bursts into tears and the impatience grows. The receptionist finally looks up from her phone and says someone has already gone to fetch the nurse. Then she offers an explanation that causes more worry than relief: “She’s been working alone for 72 hours and you have to understand that she gets tired, because she’s a human being.” The employee thanks God that no emergency has come in.

Since the child cannot climb stairs because he is in a wheelchair, she has had to leave him alone while she searches the hospital. / 14ymedio

That remark sums up the problem. It is not just a matter of missing medicines, broken equipment or run-down buildings. In a system that for decades turned its abundance of white coats into a propaganda banner, there is now also a shortage of people who know how to give an injection, take a blood pressure reading or prepare a nebulizer. Last July, several health workers consulted by 14ymedio described a picture of low salaries, a lack of resources and official statistics that, according to their complaints, was driving many to leave the sector.

Another mother walks the second floor of the pediatric hospital looking for help. “I couldn’t find anyone who could see us,” she says. Since her son cannot climb stairs because he is in a wheelchair, she has had to leave him alone while she searches the hospital. She is already thinking of another solution: tracking down a nurse she knows to come to her house. “I’ll surely have to pay him something, but that’s better than spending the week the treatment lasts chasing after these people.”

A man comes in carrying a little girl and asks who is last in line for injections. He has come from the polyclinic assigned to him, where he found a similar situation. He sits down and keeps his eyes fixed on a door, waiting for someone in a white coat to appear.

Translated by GH

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Between Two Banks and a Garbage Dump, Matanzas’s Forgotten Bridge

Lack of maintenance and the accumulation of waste are deteriorating the pedestrian crossing that connects Versalles with La Marina.

In the city known for its bridges, some have ceased to be a source of pride and have become a daily concern. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Julio César Contreras, Matanzas, October 11, 2026 — The woman shields herself from the sun with an umbrella as she makes her way toward the Yumurí River. A few steps away, a young man dodges the uneven pavement. Both are heading toward the pedestrian bridge connecting the neighborhoods of Versalles and La Marina, a structure where rust, garbage, and lack of maintenance have become constant companions for passersby.

When Matanzas celebrates its 333rd anniversary of founding on October 12, this walkway is unlikely to appear among the images selected to commemorate the occasion. In the city known for its bridges, some have ceased to be a source of pride and have become a daily concern. The so-called Pipe Bridge, located just a few meters from the iconic La Concordia Bridge, is one of them.

Before reaching its stairs, pedestrians must confront a garbage dump occupying much of the entrance. Plastic bottles, cardboard, rusty cans, dry branches, and household waste form a mountain beside a ditch through which sewage flows. The stench mingles with the heat and attracts insects. A few meters away, facades covered with vines and palm trees offer a tropical postcard that contrasts with so much filth.

“I’ve always liked this little bridge because there’s no risk of getting into an accident with cars, but the truth is that the situation with the garbage dump is unbearable,” says Filiberto, a retiree who crosses it daily to visit his grandchildren in La Marina. continue reading

“Since the people from Communal Services don’t come to clean up, the garbage has been steadily encroaching on the area.” / 14ymedio

“I know for a fact that the neighbors have complained as much as they can. However, since the people from Communal Services don’t come to clean up, the garbage has been steadily encroaching on the area. It started with a little patch, and now it’s getting closer and closer to the stairs,” he laments.

The garbage dump is not the only obstacle. The steps are uneven, and handrails are missing in some sections. On the bridge, a thick metal pipe, used for decades to supply drinking water to nearby neighborhoods and now out of service, is covered in a thick layer of rust. Around it, the structure shows cracks, and sections of the railings have disappeared.

“To go up and down, I have to take it slowly, one step at a time, because otherwise I lose my balance,” explains Filiberto, who fears that a misstep could end in a fall.

The deterioration goes back a long way. In July 2019, a report by Radio 26 warned that nearly three meters of railing had ended up in the river and pointed to fishermen who used the walkway as a platform from which to cast their nets. The publication also described the dirt and foul odors that accompanied pedestrians. Seven years later, the images show that those problems persist and have worsened.

“There’s a long stretch that no longer has railings, and if you’re not careful, you could end up in the river, which is pretty dirty.” / 14ymedio

“I walk as close to the pipe as I can. There’s a long stretch that no longer has railings, and if you’re not careful, you could end up in the river, which is pretty dirty,” the retiree warns. “If they keep stealing the metal rods and don’t carry out proper repairs, before long no elderly person will be able to cross here.”

Younger people do not cross the area without anxiety either. Melissa, a high school student, lives one block away and knows the stories of muggings that circulate among the neighbors. At night, she says, the darkness makes the crossing an even more unsettling place.

“It gets darker than the inside of a wolf’s mouth,” she comments. Even during the day, she prefers to walk along the side where the railings remain intact, although the space is narrower.

“I have no idea what the structure might be like underneath, but I refuse to believe there could be a danger and that they would still leave the crossing open,” she adds.

From the nearby La Concordia Bridge, the concrete pillars appear to be holding up without difficulty. However, the actual condition of their supports requires a specialized assessment. In the meantime, dozens of people continue to cross every day, because deterioration does not eliminate the need to reach the other neighborhood.

On the eve of the anniversary, Matanzas will once again celebrate its history, its rivers, and its architecture. The Pipe Bridge, without monumental arches or commemorative plaques, will continue to serve the public amid waste and rusted metal. A city can boast about its bridges, but it should also ensure that its residents reach the other bank safe and sound.

Translated by Regina Anavy

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Much Advertising and Few Goods at Matanzas’s New Neighborhood Market

The establishment, now managed by a micro, small, and medium-sized enterprise (mipyme), retains the shortages of the former state-run grocery store and limits electronic payments to five customers a day.

El Rincón has a new manager, scales, and QR codes, but it retains an old specialty of Cuban commerce: explaining why the item the customer needs is missing. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Julio César Contreras, Matanzas, October 10, 2026 — With a dark cloth shopping bag tucked under his arm and walking with difficulty, a man crosses at the Versalles traffic light toward the newly opened Neighborhood Market. There are no lines on the corner, no trucks unloading goods, and no crowds of neighbors gathered in front of the doors. A small sign on the façade, partially hidden by a traffic sign, serves as a reminder that the El Rincón grocery store, well known in Matanzas, once operated there. The building is now leased to a mipyme and is part of one of the Cuban government’s latest experiments aimed at trying to revive retail commerce.

Several illuminated lamps catch the eye from the sidewalk. They operate thanks to a solar panel and stand in contrast to the blackout that has left much of 51st Street in darkness this Wednesday. However, even all that light cannot dispel the establishment’s dreary appearance. The sky-blue walls, columns painted a more intense shade, and long granite counter retain the atmosphere of a state-run grocery store where the scarce goods available through the ration book were distributed for decades.

Two electronic scales, immaculate and ready for use, sit on the counter. Behind them, shelves display products spaced far enough apart to make the emptiness all the more obvious. There are bottles of cooking oil, cans of beer, packages of cookies, toiletries, and a few canned goods. Nothing suggests the abundance promised for these new establishments.

“This place is just as empty as before,” the man with the shopping bag remarks to the clerk, who greets him with his arms crossed. Without wasting time examining the offerings written in chalk on a blackboard, he begins his questioning: Is there chicken in packages or by the pound? Mortadella? Cooking oil? Disposable razors? Each question is met with a shake of the head. continue reading

The sky-blue walls, columns painted a more intense shade, and long granite counter retain the atmosphere of a state-run grocery store. / 14ymedio

“I just can’t understand why they promise so many things if, when it comes down to it, the only thing that changes is the name of what they do,” he complains as he looks over the prices. A tube of Colgate toothpaste costs 500 pesos, honey costs 750, Mayabe beer costs 520, and toilet bleach costs 350. Filling a shopping bag requires several thousand pesos and a fair amount of imagination.

“Well, then get me an espresso, if the coffee machine works. How much does it cost?” he asks resignedly. The cup costs 40 pesos, but once again he has no luck: the coffee beans have run out, and they are not making any. The machine sits on a small shelf, for the moment as useless as the scales with no merchandise to weigh.

“The problem is that we’re just getting started. Tomorrow or the day after, we should receive cooking oil and some meat products. It’s a gradual process,” the employee explains. From the street, a motorcyclist interrupts the conversation to remind him to set aside a package of croquettes for him until later. At least someone seems to have found something to buy.

El Rincón was renovated in 2025 by the Municipal Directorate of Commerce. The state investment ended up refurbishing a premises now operated by the private sector under the Neighborhood Markets program. Among the advertised advantages is the option of paying by electronic transfer, although reality once again adds fine print to the promise.

“I just can’t understand why they promise so many things if, when it comes down to it, the only thing that changes is the name of what they do.” / 14ymedio

A sign displaying QR codes presides over the counter, but the clerk explains that, for now, they only accept payments through Transfermóvil from the first five customers each day. “We’re short of cash, but a solution will be found for everything,” he assures the customer.

Another shopper asks whether a carton of eggs still costs 3,800 pesos. The employee nods and clarifies that only one tray remains. “That’s practically my monthly salary,” comments the man with the shopping bag, who still has not found anything to take home for a meal.

Outside, Versalles continues its daily routine amid motorcycles, faded façades, and power outages. Inside, El Rincón has a new manager, scales, and QR codes, but it retains an old specialty of Cuban commerce: explaining why the item the customer needs is missing.

Translated by Regina Anavy

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To Find Out How the Dollar Is Doing in Cuba, You Have To Ask How Much a Beer Costs.

Imported brands dominate the shelves in Matanzas, Cuba, and pass on to the consumer every shock of the informal currency market.

Behind the bars, foreign brands dominate the shelves, a scene repeated in numerous shops throughout the city. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Julio César Contreras, Matanzas, October 4, 2026 / Inside the freezer, behind the bars protecting a small business in Matanzas, cans of beer appear to Eduardo as the most immediate solution to the dryness that gnaws at his throat. Before arriving home in El Naranjal and plunging into the daily blackout, the surgeon wants to drink something cold. In his refrigerator, the bottles of water have long since become indistinguishable from the ambient temperature.

“My preferred is Bucanero, but you can’t even find that in spiritual centers anymore. Right now, to quench my thirst, anything will do,” he jokes, holding three 200-peso bills in his hand. Behind the bars, foreign brands dominate the shelves, a scene repeated in numerous stores throughout the city: imported beer has taken over the space left by Cristal, Bucanero, and other increasingly difficult-to-find national brands.

Eduardo thought that with his 600 pesos he could also buy his son two or three chocolates. But he looks at the prices and discovers they’ve changed since last week. “It can’t be that Hollandia costs 500 pesos when I just bought it here last Saturday for 450,” he protests. The clerk blames the suppliers and inflation. The doctor then looks at Frank País’s face on the bills and starts doing the math.

“Those of us who live on a salary or a pension, if we want something cold, will have to settle for those sugary sodas that make us even thirstier.” / 14ymedio

Beer serves as a particularly sensitive economic barometer in Cuba. This Sunday, with the informal rate of 785 pesos to the dollar, a 600-peso can is less than a dollar—a price that would seem like a bargain in Madrid or Miami. For a Cuban earning the minimum wage, however, it represents a fifth of a month’s salary. continue reading

And the temperature rises in tandem with the currency. A large portion of the beers that fill private refrigerators is purchased abroad with hard currency, so every jump in the dollar’s value ends up affecting the price at the counter. Adding to this dependence in March was a special tax of $0.30 per liter on beer and other imported alcoholic beverages, a cost that inevitably ends up being passed on to the consumer.

“We still have it at 520 in Mayabe, but in other places it’s around 580,” explains the saleswoman, a former hotel waitress, who is now getting used to her new job. The owner, she says, has decided to cut back on buying alcoholic beverages because “there’s no electricity to keep them cold, and it’s getting harder and harder to buy them from the supplier.”

A man cools off standing by a window while a Barcelona flag hangs in the background. / 14ymedio

Even Parranda, the cheaper, domestically produced alternative, reflects the market distortions. Produced in Mariel by a joint venture and packaged in plastic bottles, the brand has been promoted as a substitute for more domestic options more preferred by the comsumers. Its quality provokes frequent criticism, and in Matanzas, it was even mandated in some hotels to boost sales.

Where it is opened also affects the price. A bottle of Parranda that costs 1,500 pesos at the Hotel Velasco can be found for 1,400 at a café on Calzada de Tirry. “A cold beer would be nice in this heat, but in this country even that’s a luxury,” Migdalia laments. Her cigarette addiction doesn’t leave her much choice either: “I’m forced to choose between a can of Cristal or a pack of Popular Rojo.”

The retiree, who receives 3,200 pesos a month and some help from her grandson, has really gone out to buy a pound of mortadella. Even so, she asks about prices at the Los Chamas micro-business. “It says here that Lobo costs 460 and you’re telling me 480. What’s the deal?” The clerk apologizes: the numbers change so fast that the price stickers become outdated before the merchandise.

Even Parranda, the cheaper, locally made alternative, shows the market distortions. / 14ymedio

In another establishment, a man stands by a window, cooling off while a Barcelona flag hangs in the background. In a nearly empty bar, a plastic bottle of Parranda beer takes center stage on a table. The images encapsulate a time when enjoying a cold one requires calculation, comparison, and, for many, sacrifice.

Migdalia looks at the cans behind the glass as if they were museum pieces. “Those of us who live on a salary or a pension, if we want something cold, will have to settle for those sugary sodas that make us even thirstier.”

In Matanzas, you no longer need to check the dollar to know where the economy is headed: just ask how much beer costs.

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‘She Has a Craving for a Salad’

A retiree walks around the city of Matanzas, appalled by the prohibitive prices of tomatoes, avocados, and green beans.

En Matanzas, un plato con tomates o aguacate se ha convertido en un lujo para un jubilado que recibe 4.000 pesos mensuales. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Julio César Contreras, Matanzas, September 20, 2026 – As if he were fulfilling his wife’s last wish, Anselmo went out into the street on Friday with an errand that years ago would have been simple in Matanzas: to find some vegetable so they would not have to repeat the same old meal over the weekend. “She has a craving for a salad,” he says. But a dish with tomatoes or avocado has become a luxury for a retiree who receives 4,000 pesos a month.

A block and a half from his home, on San Luis Road, a private stand displays enough vegetables to delight the eye and sadden the pocketbook. Anselmo preferred to keep walking in search of a street vendor, one of those who still have a reputation for having lower prices than the market stalls.

In San Juan de Dios he found tomatoes. “I cleaned my glasses because I thought they were fogged up,” he recalls. A pound, with small, poor-quality fruit, cost 800 pesos. “I took a picture to show my wife, so she won’t think I didn’t want to make the effort.”

El problema comienza cuando el cliente pregunta el precio. Entonces se mira, se calcula y, muchas veces, se sigue de largo. / 14ymedio

Tomatoes, avocados, cucumbers, green beans, and carrots have been disappearing from the tables of numerous residents of Matanzas, victims of an inflation that turns the recommendation to eat vegetables every day into a nutritional fantasy. The contrast is particularly painful in a province traditionally known for producing fruits, root vegetables, and green vegetables. continue reading

The market stalls can still look splendid. Green peppers, red tomatoes, citrus fruits, potatoes, and pumpkins form mountains of color that seem to announce abundance. The problem begins when the customer asks the price. Then they look, calculate, and, many times, keep walking.

“Every day they come by my house selling avocados for 250 pesos. My mouth waters, but I have to choose between pleasure and necessity,” laments Anselmo, who after working for the State for more than half a century has gone months without serving one of these fruits at his table.

On the way to Camilo Cienfuegos Avenue, he found a truck from an agricultural cooperative in Jovellanos. A line of customers quickly formed around it, several with carts to carry their purchases. Some thought they would find price-capped goods. “They were just as expensive as the offerings of any private seller.”

Cuando el dinero escasea, la dieta se encoge: primero desaparecen los extras y después alimentos que deberían ser cotidianos. / 14ymedio

Anselmo counted ten-peso bills until he had gathered 120 to buy a bunch of green beans so meager that he calculates it will be enough for two small portions. There were also bunches of plantains and pumpkins on some sacks. He looked at them, but did not even ask how much they cost.

The crisis hits retirees especially hard, although not only them. In a city closely tied to tourism, many families have lost income because one of their members became unemployed or barely retains customers in activities related to a sector that has fallen on hard times. When money is scarce, the diet shrinks: first the extras disappear, and then foods that should be everyday staples.

After almost two hours walking under the sun, Anselmo finally accepted that his wife was right when she recommended buying three or four cucumbers at the stand near their home. “They’re the same price here as there, 60 pesos a pound,” he complains. It also bothers him that seven carrots can cost 850 pesos.

With the bunch of green beans in his bag, he headed home. His wife was waiting for him there with flour and Creole seasoning for lunch. As he crossed Maceo Park, he discovered an agricultural stand he had not seen before. He did not ask whether it was state-run or private. He did not ask about the prices either. What for?

Translated by Regina Anavy

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Three Wheels Are Not Enough to Solve Transportation in Matanzas, Cuba

Electric tricycles are multiplying on the city’s streets, but their fares put many passengers off.

In Matanzas, getting around has become a daily negotiation between one’s wallet, necessity, and patience. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Julio César Contreras, Matanzas, September 8, 2026 – Early on, when the sun is still shining sideways through the streets of Matanzas, the tricycles begin going up Contreras and down Milanés. They pass by the José Luis Dubrocq Pre-University School, some with Lada steering wheels, others with solar panels on the roof, and many covered with tarps that only partially protect against the heat. Within a few blocks, various models, colors, and modifications can be seen. They are already part of the landscape of a city where getting around has become a daily negotiation between one’s wallet, necessity, and patience.

There is no shortage of passengers. Small groups form on the sidewalks, waiting for a bus, a taxi, or anything with wheels that will bring them closer to their destination. However, some tricycles pass by with empty seats. Their drivers prefer not to stop halfway because, according to their logic, they would have to charge less. Without slowing down, they claim that they have been hired or that they are turning at the next corner, an updated version of that old habit among state-owned cars of justifying why they did not pick anyone up.

Small groups form on the sidewalks, waiting for a bus, a taxi, or anything with wheels that will bring them closer to their destination. / 14ymedio

“Back there, on América Street, they have a pickup point. They are charging 125 pesos to Versailles and 250 to Peñas Altas. Anyone who gets off at an intermediate point has to pay as if they were going all the way to the end,” complains one customer. For a day’s work, the woman from Matanzas earns less than it costs to get home in one of these three-wheeled contraptions. continue reading

Inside, the passengers look like contortionists. Their legs brush against one another, more bodies are squeezed onto the hard seats than can comfortably fit, and they sweat beneath a tarp that trembles with every pothole. The advantage, however, is obvious: in the face of the crisis in state transportation, these vehicles have taken over streets and routes abandoned by other means of transportation.

“They are charging 125 pesos to Versailles and 250 to Peñas Altas. Anyone who gets off at an intermediate point has to pay as if they were going all the way to the end”

On the other side are the drivers, dealing with maintenance, taxes and, in the hybrid models, fuel. “When I arrive at the pickup point and see that there are 20 drivers ahead of me, I think that I have to find money for my household and, in addition, pay the commission owed to the owner because this tricycle isn’t mine,” Yordanis tells 14ymedio.

The young self-employed worker drives a six-seat vehicle. There are days when he barely manages to fill it three or four times. He therefore prefers hired trips to outlying areas. “For a trip to Pastorita, Cañímar or Gelpis, they are charging between 5,000 and 10,000 pesos, depending on the departure point and the time of day.” A service like that, he says, can make up for an entire week of poor earnings.

In Milanés, meanwhile, the sun climbs higher and those waiting press themselves against the walls, looking for the narrow strip of shade. An elderly man with knee problems watches the tricycles go by and does his calculations. “Don’t they realize that if they lower the price a little, they have a better chance of people being able to afford it and, therefore, of making more trips?”

The tricycles occupied the space, but the price did not decrease: the trip costs more than before, when it was made at greater speed and in more comfortable seats

The almendrones, shared taxis, that until a few months ago traveled the streets near the Pre as far as Peñas Altas have retreated to other routes. The tricycles occupied the space, but the price did not decrease: the trip costs more than before, when it was made at greater speed and in more comfortable seats.

The elderly man raises his hand and asks a driver if he can drop him off six blocks farther for 50 pesos. The driver refuses. The electric vehicle continues silently with half of its seats empty, while the frustrated customer remains leaning against the pole.

Translated by Regina Anavy

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In Matanzas, Cuba, the School Opens, but the Teacher Has To Be Found Elsewhere

Families in Matanzas pay up to 300 pesos a week for private tutors amid an unstable teaching staff and reduced class hours.

Mártires del Goicuría School Center, in the city of Matanzas, this Tuesday. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Julio César Contreras, Matanzas, September 2, 2026 – At eight o’clock Tuesday morning, September 1, at the Mártires del Goicuría School Center in the city of Matanzas, one of the sounds most closely associated with the beginning of classes was missing: the bell. There was no electricity to make it ring. The students arrived little by little. Some were still tired from the overnight blackout, accompanied by parents carrying backpacks, bottles of water and, above all, questions.

At the spacious entrance of the former military barracks there were also no banners, podium or welcome sign. In front of the white doors, the children’s red-and-white uniforms added some color to a morning that was much less festive than usual. The adults talked about an issue that seems to have become a permanent part of the family budget: how much a good private tutor costs and which of the private teachers in the area still has room for new students.

Damaris was looking for more basic answers. Her daughter is starting third grade, and the previous week, when she went to correct the enrollment information, no one could tell her which teacher would be in charge of the classroom. “That mess has been going on since last school year,” she complains. The girl spent about three and a half months without a permanent teacher and, according to her mother, only the help of a retired educator who tutored her from Monday to Friday prevented her from falling further behind. continue reading

Some were still tired from the overnight blackout, accompanied by parents carrying backpacks, bottles of water and, above all, questions. / 14ymedio

Since her daughter began first grade, Damaris and her husband have taken on that expense as an essential sacrifice.

Another grandfather arrived holding his grandson’s hand after crossing at the traffic light at Versailles, which was out. Three of his descendants have studied at Mártires del Goicuría, and he says he has watched the stability of the teaching staff deteriorate. His grandson even says he understands the private tutor better than his teacher.

The man pays 300 pesos a week. “It’s worth it. With him, the children learn, whereas here most of the time they are only getting half a school day, and it’s poorly used.” The private teacher does more than review the subjects: he helps with practical assignments, provides individual attention to difficulties, and even teaches basic lessons in civics and social etiquette.

On the building’s walls there are bullet impacts from another era remaining. Now the wounds are less visible things: a shortage of teachers, reduced schedules, and families who doubt that the school can guarantee basic knowledge of reading, spelling or math without outside help.

“On the News, the Education Minister speaks very nicely, but in reality even the educators she oversees are tired of so much talk that is not reflected in the monthly salary,” protests Dayana, the mother of a sixth-grade student.

She is also looking for a private tutor. She has already called two, but both have their classes completely full. “This isn’t easy,” she sums up.

Around the Mártires del Goicuría school, the activity continues. Mothers arrive holding their children’s hands, other children walk along with backpacks that already survived the previous school year, and some parents take advantage of the moment to snap the inevitable first-day-of-school photo. “This is the one I’m going to send to his aunt, who was the one who bought him the uniform in Hialeah,” one of them says proudly out loud, pointing to the impeccable white shirt worn by her son as he enters preschool.

Several minutes have passed since eight o’clock. There are no anthems or slogans. The bell remains silent. For many families in Matanzas, the new school year begins this way: with the school open, but looking outside for the teacher who can ensure that their children learn.

Translated by Regina Anavy

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The Food Stalls in the Sacristy Alley in Matanzas, Cuba, are Retreating

In this prime area for private trade, customers no longer appear, and vendors grapple with shortages and inspectors.

Stalls in the alley of the Sacristy, in the city of Matanzas. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Matanzas, Julio César Contreras / In the alleyway of the Sacristy in Matanzas, there are timbiriches (food carts) that seem to be waiting for better times. Under their zinc roofs, among parked motorcycles and walls weathered by damp, some remain closed and others survive with minimal offerings. The place, behind the San Carlos Borromeo Cathedral and a few steps from Medio Street, retains the privilege of being in the heart of the city, but it no longer guarantees the flow of customers that once made every square meter a coveted space.

José Alfredo knows all too well how much that wait can cost. After struggling for almost a year to obtain authorization for the space, his mobile stand is now tucked away in a corner alongside others like it. His project to sell hamburgers and soft drinks has been trapped between a lack of suppliers and power outages. “Just buying the cart, including some repairs I made, cost me 60,000 pesos, which I haven’t been able to recoup,” he laments.

He has tried almost everything: running an extension cord from a nearby house, adapting a gas cylinder, and carrying a cooler every day to keep the drinks as cold as possible. Nothing has brought him stability. “For one reason or another, I haven’t been able to work continuously for even two months. I’m paying the license fee, the rent to the Registrar’s Office, the bank security guards who watch over the place at night, and I still can’t get sales back on track.”

“For one reason or another, I haven’t been able to work continuously for even two months.”

José Alfredo is already considering selling everything. It wouldn’t be unusual in an alley where some closed shops are starting to look like part of the street furniture.

Before money became so scarce in the wallets of Matanzas residents, selling anything in this area was practically continue reading

a guarantee. Its dual access to the historic center ensured a constant flow of people. “I’ve been selling pan con minutas [fried fish sandwiches] and shaved ice on this very corner since the end of the Covid pandemic. On bad days, by eleven in the morning I’d make at least 3,000 pesos. Now, I rarely make that much by four in the afternoon,” says Roberto from his small, makeshift griddle.

Keeping the stove burning is a feat. Roberto works with six different supply sources. “Sometimes even the small businesses aren’t making bread, oil is scarce, there’s no fish, and even the ketchup goes to waste. Many times I’m up until ten at night looking for things so I can work the next day.”

Inflation does the rest. “If the supplier raises the price of the merchandise, I have no choice but to raise the price to make a profit.” When he started, he recalls, a fish sandwich cost 50 pesos. Now he sells it for 250. “We’ll see how far we can go.”

Under their zinc roofs, among parked motorcycles and damp-damaged walls, some remain closed while others survive with a minimal offering. / 14ymedio

This price race has been compounded by another shock: the crackdown by inspectors to enforce electronic payments and price caps on certain basic goods. Hefty fines have forced many retailers to scale back, reduce their offerings, or remain closed. For those who depend on suppliers who charge increasingly higher prices, adhering to a maximum price can mean operating on minimal margins or even at a loss.

In the alley by the Sacristy, the retreat is palpable. There are empty metal structures, counters without merchandise, and vendors who have radically changed their offerings. Manuel is one of them. He’s better known as El Chino than by his name.

“Nothing can be kept refrigerated, and there’s nothing to fry with either. So, for now, the solution is to sell popcorn and plastic bags. The investment is minimal, so I can manage to survive. Something is better than nothing,” she explains.

“From time to time they come by to collect what’s theirs in order to maintain the proper silence.”

He says his grandfather taught him to persevere, a lesson Manuel now applies to street vending. He has also learned to navigate a gray area where regulations change and inspectors, he says, “occasionally come around to collect their dues to maintain silence.”

All around, the scene sums up these times: a bicycle leaning against a wall, motorcycles weaving between the stalls, a pizza cart barely moving, and another business that seems to have closed the shutters for good. Those who are still open must arm themselves with patience t while waiting for customers. Because in the alleyway by the Sacristy, every closed cart is a stagnant investment, and every one that opens is a daily gamble.

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With Prices of $20 to $50 per Bucket, Cimex Sells Cuban-Made Paint in Foreign Currency

The state-run store in Matanzas offers all the colors needed for the city’s peeling façades; all that is missing are the customers.

La Casa del Pintor store, popularly known as El Fuego, in the city of Matanzas. / 14ymedio

Julio César Contreras, Matanzas, August 17, 2026 – The saleswoman extends her arm toward shelves packed with buckets of paint as if she were displaying a collection of valuable pieces. White, black, terracotta, yellow. At La Casa del Pintor store, popularly known as El Fuego, in the city of Matanzas, there are enough colors to imagine a city different from the one waiting just outside the door: peeling façades, walls eaten away by dampness, and homes that have not seen a paintbrush in years. The establishment, belonging to the Cimex Corporation, linked to the military conglomerate Gaesa, looks more like a paint museum than a store intended to sell it.

“We accept payment in cash dollars and by bank transfer,” the employee explains, somewhat surprised by the arrival of a customer, when serving buyers should be part of her routine. “I can guarantee the product’s excellent quality and good coverage,” she adds. She later admits, however, that she herself has not been able to buy a bucket, even to give the façade of her home a single coat.

The explanation lies in some small stickers placed on the shelves. Prices range from $20 to $50, depending on the color and size of the container. A figure that helps explain why, during the eight hours the store remains open, the premises are practically empty.

The establishment, belonging to the Cimex corporation, linked to Gaesa, looks more like a paint museum than a store intended to sell it. / 14ymedio

“Those who have been able to buy it have confirmed to me that it adheres very well to the walls. I would have to put together four salaries just to try the cheapest one,” the worker laments.

There is something surreal about the scene. Dozens of perfectly aligned buckets, with their red lids and intact labels, wait for customers who almost never arrive. Outside, Matanzas displays a very different palette: the gray of crumbling plaster, the green of dampness, and that indefinable shade that walls acquire after years without maintenance.

Customers are also not allowed to open the containers to check the product before taking it home. They must rely on the lot number, expiration date, and information on the label. “It’s a shame that, being a product made in Cuba, it is sold in U.S. dollars,” comments a customer who continue reading

, surprisingly, arrives in the middle of the morning.

From the street, El Fuego looks like a store intended for the newly wealthy, although inside, the air conditioning can do little during blackouts. The door remains open, but many passersby do not even turn their heads. They know in advance that what is sold behind the glass is not intended for their wallets.

“Those who have been able to buy it have confirmed to me that it adheres very well to the walls. I would have to put together four salaries just to try the cheapest one”

“Certainly, it is a lack of respect toward the population, especially in this La Marina neighborhood, which is falling to pieces,” complains Argelio, a local resident. “Only people who have family abroad or those who run big businesses can buy there. Meanwhile, the poor have to continue living with walls blackened by grime.”

A 67-year-old retiree from the state Commerce sector, Argelio points out another peculiarity. Less than two blocks away, vinyl paint is sold at a private business. “The other day I was curious enough to take a look, and they have almost the same colors in both places. The difference is that the private seller charges 3,500 pesos per liter and, as you would expect, they add something to it so that the product goes further.”

He also criticizes the fact that a store specializing in paint does not have different types of brushes or other accessories needed to complete the job. The irony goes so far that it was the saleswoman herself who told him where he could find cheaper paint.

“Since I live on my pension, I don’t have the money to indulge in painting my house with products sold in dollars,” he admits. Nevertheless, he says that if he could afford it, he would prefer to buy the sealed container at El Fuego rather than take a chance on discounted or adulterated products that are abundant on the informal market.

Translated by Regina Anavy

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‘The Game is Over’ for Small Businesses in Matanzas, Cuba

Amid increasingly expensive merchandise, impoverished customers, and price caps, many private businesses are operating on razor-thin margins or surviving thanks to remittances.

“People are buying the bare essentials to survive.” / 14ymedio / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Julio César Contreras, Matanzas, August 16, 2026 — When the armchairs disappeared from the porch and Milagros replaced them with two wooden shelves, she thought she had found a way to shore up the family finances without leaving home. In Pueblo Nuevo, Matanzas, where the steady flow of neighbors ensures constant attention to any storefront, she began with sweets, cleaning products, and some basic goods. Seven years later, the shelves are still there, but the initial optimism has shrunk almost at the same rate as her customers’ purchases.

“My sister, who lives abroad, gave me an initial contribution of $200, which in 2019 was enough to open a small business,” she recalls. Now, after years behind the counter, Milagros is torn between continuing and temporarily closing. “For quite some time now, I’ve barely managed to recover what I invested in buying merchandise.”

The scene is repeated throughout Matanzas. Porches converted into cafés, garages transformed into shops, and windows protected by bars that serve as counters display soft drinks, packages of cookies, canned goods, and jars of mayonnaise. The merchandise is there, but customers arrive only in dribs and drabs. Some ask about prices and walk away; others buy just one thing.

“The prices of all products in the MSMEs that import goods are constantly rising.” / 14ymedio

Milagros explains the arithmetic that is suffocating her. “The prices of all products in the MSMEs that import goods are constantly rising. A package of spaghetti, for example, now costs me 100 pesos more than it did last month, which means 50 pesos less in profit.” On top of that, there is an increasingly impoverished customer base. “People are buying the bare essentials to survive. Before buying cookies, parents have to put at least a boiled egg on their children’s plates.”

The recent pricing policy has added another dose of uncertainty. In June, the Government eliminated the nationwide price caps that had been imposed since 2024 on five imported food products, including chicken and cooking oil, after admitting that the measure had failed to contain inflation and had contributed to shortages. However, in Matanzas, authorities have once again tightened the screws on continue reading

small businesses and reintroduced maximum prices. Local inspections have also multiplied, with threats of fines of up to 60,000 pesos and even closure for those who refuse electronic payments. The offensive has gone so far as to introduce a slogan for inspectors: “Territorial inspection, a weapon of the Revolution!”

For merchants like Milagros, every new regulation ultimately collides with an elementary reality: authorities can limit her selling price, but no one guarantees how much she will be able to pay for merchandise tomorrow. Sales at her small business, even with inflation, are “well below 5,000 pesos a day,” less than eight dollars. After the pandemic, she had to let go of the employee she had hired. “The good thing is that since I’m at home, I don’t have to pay rent.”

“For quite some time now, I’ve barely managed to recover what I invested in buying merchandise.” / 14ymedio

A few streets away, Mariano knows that other expense well. He is 71 and has been selling merchandise since the days when “street hustler” was a phrase uttered with official disdain. “I’ve never had as much trouble as I do now getting merchandise,” he says.

In his shop, some products seem to be waiting indefinitely for a buyer. Mariano tries to lower prices until they are barely above the minimum profit, but he knows that food is what sells best. He has considered taking advantage of a good refrigerator to sell meat products and eggs, although the power outages turn any investment in refrigeration into a dangerous gamble. “I’ve thought a lot about how to get out of this situation, and the truth is that the dominoes are closed.”

For the past three months, Mariano has been paying his employee with part of the money his son sends him from the United States. The business, conceived to generate income, now survives thanks to a remittance. The garage rental alone costs him 30,000 pesos a month. Perfumes, deodorants, and other items remain stuck on the shelves, capital tied up in goods that cannot be converted back into cash.

In the porches of Pueblo Nuevo, improvised counters can still be found behind balustrades and bars. / 14ymedio

“If it weren’t for the fact that my pension isn’t enough even to get through a week, I would sell whatever is left, including the display cases, and go home to rest,” he confesses.

In the doorways of Pueblo Nuevo, improvised counters can still be found behind balustrades and bars. There are cans carefully lined up, bread hanging in transparent bags, and small signs for electronic payments, which are often there simply to satisfy inspectors. What is scarce is the customer capable of sustaining this network of tiny businesses.

Milagros looks at her shelves and thinks about the additional assistance her sister wanted to send her to relaunch the business. She chose to stop her. “With things as bad as they are, it’s better not to start making purchases that end up sitting unsold.”

Mariano sums it up in fewer words, with no entrepreneurial hope left: “This isn’t about a bad spell, nor is it that the location isn’t good for that type of sales. What’s happening is that Cubans are hitting rock bottom.”

Translated by Regina Anavy

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‘Just as I Was About To Get In, the Driver Asked for 500 Pesos: It Was a Lada With State License Plates’

In Matanzas, drivers who agree to give free rides are scarce; getting around depends much more on patience than on transport.

A yellow taxi slows down only to accelerate again a few meters later. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Julio César Contreras, Matanzas, August 14, 2026 / Among the drivers offering trips only to Varadero, a shaved ice vendor, and a traffic light that no one expects to see working anymore, dozens of people raise their arms hoping that some driver will be kind enough to stop. The Viaduct bus stop is just a few meters away, but seeking refuge from the sun under that shelter can turn into an ordeal of several hours.

The images repeat themselves over and over again in front of the newly renovated Plaza Milanés. Men with backpacks slung over their shoulders scan the horizon every time a car appears; a woman shields herself with an umbrella while calculating how much longer she can endure the sun; an elderly man and a young man share the same wait by the side of the road. Behind them, the city seems to carry on as usual, but a few minutes of reflection reveal that public transportation is going through one of its worst periods, exacerbated by the energy crisis and fuel shortages.

“I’ve been here for almost two hours, and in all this time, if nine or ten cars have passed, that’s a lot. A moment ago a Lada with state license plates stopped for me. Just as I was about to get in, the driver told me it was 500 pesos to Peñas Altas, so I immediately told him to go away, not out of pride, but because I don’t have the money to pay him,” a woman from Matanzas, who knows this boarding point very well, where local buses have completely disappeared, told 14ymedio.

A woman shields herself with an umbrella while calculating how much longer she can endure the sun. / 14ymedio

“Sometimes, when there’s a transport inspector around, getting on a bus is a little easier. However, lately they haven’t been showing up at the bus stop either,” the woman adds, as she watches a yellow taxi slow down only to accelerate again a few meters later.

As she explains, places like this abound within the city, where electric tricycles pass by packed to capacity, private taxis drive right past, and state vehicles avoid stopping. “When the kids have school, it gets really bad for getting on the bus, especially around midday. To get to the university, where I work, on time I have to be here before seven in the morning. If I don’t, it can get to be nine o’clock by then.”

The uncertainty of raising a hand to a car that might never stop grips hundreds of people every day on both sides of the Vía Blanca. Some prefer to move away from the group and position themselves a few meters ahead, taking advantage of the fact that vehicles slow down as they cross the railway line, where trains to the industrial zone stopped running years ago. There, each driver represents a possibility, and each acceleration a new disappointment.

“Since I got married four years ago, I’ve lived in the town of Carbonera, but I still work for a small business here in Matanzas. Coming here is just as complicated as making the return trip, always with the pressure of trying to spend as little as possible,” says Andrés, while trucks, machinery, and private cars continue to pass by without even looking at him.

The uncertainty of reaching out to a car that may never stop is a daily reality for hundreds of people on both sides of the Vía Blanca. / 14ymedio

For the young man, there’s almost no difference left between state and private drivers. “They both try to make a living off the needs of others. The trucks going to Havana are useless to me now, because you have to pay the full fare. The tourist buses disappeared from this route a long time ago, and the Transmetro buses don’t stop because they’re chartered. Drivers who agree to take someone for free are becoming increasingly rare. That’s not because of a lack of fuel; it’s because of a lack of something else,” he says before signaling, once again, to a taxi that also doesn’t stop.

At this intersection, where the silhouette of the Sauto Theater is just steps away and the bay looms in the distance, coger botella [‘grabbing a bottle’, i.e. catching a ride] can become a daily ordeal. It doesn’t matter if your destination is Reparto Iglesias, Peñas Altas, Carbonera, or even Cárdenas. The combination of prolonged power outages, lack of diesel, and reduced public transportation has multiplied a problem that long ago ceased to be a mere annoyance and has become a permanent obstacle to working, studying, or simply getting home.

Meanwhile, the street vendor observes the scene with the serenity of someone who sees it every day. “Buy yourself a shaved ice, you don’t know how long you’ll be here,” he calls out to the newcomers. No one seems to take the phrase as a sales tactic. It sounds, rather, like advice born of experience. Around him, arms continue to be raised, vehicles pass by without stopping, and the traffic light remains off, as if it too has given up on bringing order to a city where, for months now, getting around depends much more on patience than on transportation.

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Blackouts Prevent Filling Building Water Tanks in Matanzas, Cuba

With the bay at their feet, many residents along Vía Blanca are forced to buy water from private tanker trucks

14ymedio, Matanzas, Julio César Contreras, July 29, 2026 / From the third-floor balcony of her apartment, Marianela looks out at the bay of Matanzas as if contemplating an irony. The water stretches out calmly until it disappears into the horizon, but in her kitchen there is barely anything left at the bottom of the plastic tank where she stores the water she uses for cooking, bathing, and cleaning. Leaning her elbows on the railing, she dials her son’s number. “Bring me at least a gallon,” she asks him. She has gone twenty days without a stable water supply, and every call is a mix of appeal and resignation.

In the multifamily buildings that line Vía Blanca, peeling façades, balconies left open to catch a bit of breeze, and gardens ravaged by neglect conceal a routine marked by scarcity. From the street it looks like any other neighborhood: a neighbor chatting under a doorway, a child crossing the hallway of a block, a motorcycle parked by the entrance. But just crossing the threshold of the buildings is enough to find rows of buckets, empty containers, and cisterns that no one expects to see full anymore.

“The power comes on for a little while every 48 hours, and there isn’t enough time to pump the water up to the rooftop tanks. No matter how quickly the pump switches on, there’s no way to supply the 24 apartments in this building,” Marianela tells 14ymedio. At 61, she lives alone and says she never imagined hygiene would become a luxury. “I bathe with a bucket, wash dishes with a little pitcher, and clean the house when I can. If I’m struggling, imagine what it’s like where four or five people live. If this keeps up, we’ll have to haul water from the bay, because the Government promises a lot and doesn’t send so much as continue reading

a single tanker truck.”

“The power comes on for a little while every 48 hours, and there isn’t enough time to pump the water up to the rooftop tanks. No matter how quickly the pump switches on, there’s no way to supply the 24 apartments in this building”

The desperation is made even more bitter by the fact that a water treatment plant stands just a few blocks away. And yet its proximity does nothing to stop many neighbors from having to buy five liters of water for 650 pesos or walk to an evangelical church where they are allowed to fill a couple of containers. The everyday landscape has filled with people carrying containers of every size, which have become an extension of their arms.

“There have been days when we’ve only washed our faces and the sweatiest parts of our bodies,” says a state employee, pointing to the four-story building where he lives with his wife and young daughter. “The elevated tanks should be filled every day, but with the blackouts they go two, even three weeks empty.” Only a few hours earlier the family had traveled across half the city to El Naranjal to shower at his in-laws’ house. “We at least have that option. But what do people who have nowhere to go do?” he asks.

In his building the problem doesn’t end with the lack of electricity. Water also fails to reach the cistern with enough pressure, so the entire supply chain breaks down. Complaints to the Poder Popular, he says, have only ever received the same explanation. “It all ends up running into the wall of the internal blockade,” he says wryly. Tired of waiting, several neighbors organized a collection to hire a tanker truck unofficially, off the books.

“It costs us 15,000 pesos each time,” he explains. “It’s a huge amount of money, but at least we fill the tanks and families have less to deal with. The sad part is that there are already people who can’t chip in and get left out. Now there are even social differences over something as basic as having water.”

In another nearby block, Arturo has lost count of how many times the building’s pump has been repaired. In the last quarter alone, he says, the unit has been fixed five times after breaking down due to the constant power outages and restorations, which often come with voltage surges.

“Sometimes they leave it uncovered and it ends up full of mosquitoes, frogs, and all sorts of bugs. That’s the water we bathe with and even cook with”

“I’ve had to fill buckets directly from the cistern,” says the interprovincial bus driver. “Sometimes they leave it uncovered and it ends up full of mosquitoes, frogs, and all sorts of bugs. That’s the water we bathe with and even cook with. You boil it, but you know that doesn’t solve every problem.”

As he speaks, an elderly woman slowly climbs the stairs with a small bucket in her hand. In another nearby building, a group of neighbors chats beside two parked mopeds. The façades show decades of wear from lack of upkeep, but it is inside the apartments where the crisis leaves its deepest marks: dishes piled on the counter, sticky floors, laundry waiting for a wash that never comes, and empty tanks turned into the symbol of a city surrounded by water yet unable to get it through its pipes.

Arturo remembers when coming home from work meant turning on the shower and letting the water run without a second thought. “In this country we’ve ended up folding into our routine the lines, the food shortages, the blackouts, and now the thirst as well,” he laments. Then he looks out toward the bay, so close it seems within arm’s reach.

Translated by GH.

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El Bahía, a Symbol of Matanzas, Fades Amid Padlocks and Blackouts

The iconic Peñas Altas recreational complex remains practically closed due to the energy crisis and poor state management

There, where orchestras once played and the buzz of young people mixed with the waves breaking against the rocks, faded railings now predominate. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Julio César Contreras, Matanzas, 20 July 2026 / The highway enters Matanzas along the coast, and before the bridges and the city skyline come into view, a building with modern lines still catches the eye. Painted blue and white, with large windows and the name of Matanzas crowning the roof in huge red letters, the gastronomic and cultural complex El Bahía retains the elegance of another era. From a distance, the photos are deceiving: it looks like a place ready to welcome tourists and families. Get closer, though, and it becomes clear that much of that splendor has been left locked behind padlocked doors.

Located in Peñas Altas, right on the coastline, El Bahía is no ordinary restaurant for the people of Matanzas. For decades it was a gathering place for family celebrations, concerts, dance nights, and dinners with one of the best views of Matanzas Bay. Today, however, the picture has gone silent.

“It’s a shame that such a beautiful place stays closed practically every day of the week. It only operates when there’s power,” Horacio, a local resident who collects empty beer and soda cans to sell to the state as raw materials, tells 14ymedio.

“It’s a shame that such a beautiful place stays closed practically every day of the week. It only operates when there’s power”

The man, his skin weathered by sun and sea salt, recalls when on weekend nights it was hard to find a spot to park an almendrón [a classic American car used as a private taxi] nearby. “Now you can walk through here and all you hear is the sea,” he says, pointing toward the ranchón continue reading

and the old Las Terrazas cabaret.

There, where orchestras once played and the buzz of young people mixed with the waves breaking against the rocks, faded railings now predominate, weeds are growing across the outdoor areas, and a decline seems to be advancing faster than any recovery plan. “That whole area needs proper maintenance. If it keeps being neglected like this, it will end up costing twice as much to fix later. I think that before this keeps falling apart, the Provincial Lodging Company should lease it to someone willing to invest here,” Horacio suggests.

On the second floor, the restaurant El Mirador offered a privileged view of the bay. From its windows, diners could watch ships entering the port while they had lunch. For years, a meal service for vulnerable people also operated there.

Photo caption: Painted blue and white, with large windows and the name of Matanzas crowning the roof in huge red letters, the gastronomic and cultural complex El Bahía retains the elegance of another era / 14ymedio

“From Monday to Saturday they used to sell us a fairly decent meal for 20 pesos, but that’s stopped too,” Horacio laments. “They tell us they can’t cook because there’s no power or gas. The head chef assured me that lunches would come back once conditions improve, but I don’t put much faith in those promises anymore.”

The ongoing blackouts plaguing Cuba’s economy have ended up reaching even a place meant precisely for leisure. The energy crisis forces the site to close whenever there’s no electricity, but the problems go well beyond power outages.

A few steps away is another Matanzas resident, who for years worked cleaning the complex’s public restrooms. Today he sells pizzas for a private business.

“Especially on Saturdays, this place used to be packed until two or three in the morning,” the man recalls. “The electricity problem has hit us hard, but so has the lack of management. If people know they can come from downtown Matanzas and find the place closed or with nothing on offer, they simply stop coming.”

Both agree that the complex’s reputation has deteriorated at the same pace as its facilities. “Word has already gotten around all of Matanzas that the El Faro bar almost never has a variety of drinks and that the cocktails aren’t made the way they used to be,” adds the former employee. “Anyone with money wants to spend it somewhere worthwhile, not come here to try their luck.”

The paradox is even greater because just a few years ago the complex seemed to be starting a recovery. In October 2023, a modern Ocio Club with virtual reality equipment and video games was inaugurated there, presented by the state press as one of the main new recreational attractions to celebrate the city’s 330th anniversary. Authorities said at the time that the project would expand entertainment options for children and young people and revitalize the property.

However, the momentum appears to have quickly run out. The building, which still retains an attractive architecture and a prime seafront location, depends – like so many other things in Cuba – on an electrical supply that almost never arrives and on promises of recovery that have taken far too long to become reality.

Translated by GH

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The Most Difficult Journey for Doctors and Nurses Begins When the Shift Ends

The transportation crisis and blackouts turn the trip home into another shift of endurance for healthcare workers in Matanzas

The bus designated to transport healthcare workers to different municipalities in the province should have already picked up the staff from the Maternity, Pediatric, and Faustino Pérez hospitals. However, no one knows when it will arrive.

14ymedio, Julio César Contreras, Matanzas, July 18, 2026 / At 10:30 in the morning, the sun is already beating down on the Versalles neighborhood, and the shade of a leafy tree becomes the busiest waiting room in the Public Health system in Matanzas. There, on a concrete wall, doctors, nurses, and technicians rest with the same posture as someone who has been awake far too long. Some have taken off their shoes to relieve swollen feet after 24 hours on shift. Others hold their mobile phones, hoping for news about a bus that should have left a while ago and which, once again, is nowhere to be seen.

The white coats are still on, but they are no longer a symbol of medical authority – only of exhaustion.

The bus meant to carry healthcare workers to different municipalities in the province should already have picked up staff from the Materno, Pediátrico, and Faustino Pérez hospitals. Yet no one knows when it will arrive. The scene repeats so often that few are surprised anymore. Only the level of accumulated exhaustion changes. continue reading

The delay is “a mess” that happens practically every week, one the authorities seem to have grown accustomed to ignoring

Maricela, a nurse with 31 years of experience, watches the clock with a mixture of resignation and indignation. She says the delay is “a mess” that happens practically every week, one the authorities seem to have grown accustomed to ignoring.

“Given how critical the transportation situation is, this is the only way to manage it for those of us who depend on a salary. I’m about to request a transfer to the Jovellanos Polyclinic, because with this uncertainty over whether the bus will come or not, it’s impossible to work,” she tells 14ymedio. The hours without sleep are still visible on her face.

Around her, the conversations all turn on the same subject. They are not talking about diagnoses or patients, but about missed schedules, endless routes, and broken promises. One nurse absent-mindedly checks a backpack full of belongings; another fans herself with a yellow folder while calculating how long it will take her to get home.

“Those of us who work at the Materno never know what time in the morning we’ll get out of here. It’s at our own risk,” Maricela sums up. For many, the problem doesn’t end once the bus finally shows up. A doctor who makes the trip to Limonar twice a week says the journey has become a real ordeal.

“This very day, if the bus doesn’t come soon, I’ll have to go to the taxi stand at the terminal. It’s 2,000 pesos to Jagüey Grande, an amount I can’t afford to pay more than once on my salary.” / 14ymedio

“At the hospitals themselves, there are already people off the street who, without any shame, ride comfortably seated, while those of us who are supposed to be the ones benefiting from the service have to stand, packed in like sardines,” he says. According to him, the vehicle makes stops all along the way to pick up private passengers who pay the drivers directly.

“It picks up anyone it comes across, with backpacks, sacks, or goods. Their business is pocketing the money, without caring that the contract between Public Health and Ómnibus Transmetro was meant to meet our needs, not create more problems,” he complains.

When he manages to get on, he knows he will probably spend much of the trip standing by the door, surrounded by bags and bundles that other passengers are carrying to sell in rural communities.

Breakdowns, fuel shortages, and blackouts affect the operation of state transportation and end up extending the workday well beyond official hours. After a night attending to births, pediatric emergencies, or critical patients, many healthcare workers must spend several additional hours simply getting home, or be prepared to pay a private driver to take them.

Not even Elena, a well-known nurse who has completed three international missions, can hide the discouragement and indignation the transportation crisis causes her.

“After a shift full of hardships, we don’t even have safe transportation to get back to our towns. That’s the bare minimum the Government should guarantee.”

“I’m going to do everything I can to keep just one shift a month whose departure isn’t on a Monday or a Friday, because those are the most difficult days to get transportation,” she says. She explains that many professionals from outlying municipalities no longer want to work at the provincial hospitals precisely because of the uncertainty of getting home.

“After a shift full of hardships, we don’t even have safe transportation to get back to our towns. That’s the bare minimum the Government should guarantee.”

Her motivation, she admits, has been wearing thin from all the waiting.

More than once she has thought about requesting leave and looking for any other job that would let her earn more money and live with less frustration.

She always carries cash in her purse in case she has to resort to private transportation. “Thanks to my husband, who’s self-employed,” she clarifies.

“This very day, if the bus doesn’t come soon, I’ll have to go to the taxi stand at the terminal. It’s 2,000 pesos to Jagüey Grande, an amount I can’t afford to pay more than once on my salary. If I do, how do I make it to the end of the month?”

The question hangs unanswered beneath the trees of Versalles. No one responds. Perhaps because everyone already knows the answer. It is the same one that has led so many doctors and nurses to hang up their white coats for good, worn out not only by the shortages inside the hospitals, but also by the endless wait, week after week, for a bus that almost never arrives on time.

Translated by GH.

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