Julio César Contreras – Translating Cuba

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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The End of Price Caps Brings More Inflation Than Liberalization to Matanzas, Cuba

Private businesses charge different prices for the same product, and customers visit several stores before deciding what to buy.

“Customers only see that a liter of cooking oil cost 1,300 pesos yesterday and 1,500 today. But we don’t know how much it costs the store owner to put that bottle on the shelf.” / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Julio César Contreras, Matanzas, July 8, 2026 – “Last week I bought bologna right here for 550 pesos. Today they’re selling it for 680, and by the time I come back it’ll probably be over 700,” complains Silvia, without taking her eyes off the refrigerator where the cold cuts are displayed. Cubans had grown accustomed to the price caps imposed in 2024 on six essential products, and now they are watching in astonishment as prices fluctuate in a way more typical of runaway inflation than of a free market.

With 500 pesos more than usual in her purse, Silvia left her home in Pueblo Nuevo (Matanzas) this Tuesday determined to face another day of shopping. It was not optimism that drove her, but caution. “Prices have gotten completely out of control now that everyone is allowed to set their own rules. Every time they impose or remove a measure, the people are the ones who lose, even though the speeches say otherwise,” she laments.

The first stop in her search for the best price before it changed was a neighborhood store whose shelves were well stocked with cookies, canned goods, personal hygiene products, and beverages. However, the small handwritten price tags displayed figures that seemed to have changed only hours earlier. Behind the counter, a young sales clerk waited for customers while a long row of packages of hot dogs hung beside the candy and detergents.

The routine is repeated in many neighborhoods across Matanzas: the customer asks the price, pauses, does the math mentally, and, more often than not, continues on to the next store

After leaving without buying anything, Silvia enters another small shop just across the street. From the sidewalk, a simple counter can be seen, several cartons of eggs stacked by the entrance, and shelves filled with imported continue reading

products. The routine repeats itself over and over again in many Matanzas neighborhoods: the customer asks, hears the price, pauses, calculates mentally, and often keeps walking to the next business.

“The problem is that every product goes up by 50 or 100 pesos, and when you add it all up, you end up having to choose between half a carton of eggs or three pounds of rice. Nobody can live like this,” Silvia says as she puts the money back into her purse.

The prices of refrigerated meat products remain relatively stable in stores that are still suffering the full impact of the blackouts and do not have solar panels or generators. The need to sell goods quickly before they spoil sometimes forces businesses to limit price increases.

“I just bought a package of hot dogs for 680 pesos. The store next door had them for 640, but according to the clerk they’d been without electricity for more than 48 hours,” says Ignacio after leaving a private business where only a single fan powered by a small battery was operating. For weeks now, he admits, before asking about a product he first checks whether the store has its lights on. “That already tells you a lot about how they’re probably handling their merchandise.”

For this Matanzas resident, blaming entrepreneurs alone for the latest wave of price hikes oversimplifies a much more complex reality. “Customers only see that a liter of cooking oil cost 1,300 pesos yesterday and 1,500 today. But we don’t know how much it costs the store owner to put that bottle on the shelf, with blackouts, expensive transportation, scarce fuel, and a dollar that just keeps rising,” he reflects.

Ignacio does not completely absolve the private sector either. He believes some merchants are taking advantage of the new environment to increase their profit margins, but insists that this is only part of the problem. “The Government is the main source of losses for private businesses, directly or indirectly. Even if many entrepreneurs wanted to keep competitive prices, they’d end up going bankrupt.”

“It’s hard for me to understand how a package of cookies can have different prices within just a few days”

The removal of price caps on the six products previously protected—hot dogs, powdered milk, pasta, and cooking oil—has spread to the rest of the market, causing prices to rise even for products that had never been subject to government price controls, such as beverages, cookies, candy, and other everyday consumer goods.

“It’s hard for me to understand how a package of cookies can have different prices within just a few days,” says Damaris outside a kiosk on Calzada de Tirry, illustrating how unfamiliar ordinary Cubans are with the laws of supply and demand. From the window protected by heavy bars, she looks at the well-stocked shelves, but also at the constantly changing price tags. “I live next door to a private business, and I see everything continuing to go up, even when no new merchandise has arrived. I think some private business owners are contributing to this disorder in some way because they’re afraid of losing their investments.”

Her six-year-old daughter had asked for a package of sweet cookies before they left home. Damaris looks at the price again, sighs, and decides to leave them for another day.

“I have to stretch the food as much as possible and save the little piece of meat or the egg for my daughter,” she confesses. “It breaks my heart when she asks for some little treat and I can’t give it to her. With this unstoppable inflation, the rich get richer and the poor get poorer. I can’t even remember the last time I drank a cola because buying one means not having enough money left for something more important.”

Translated by Regina Anavy

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When a Line Means There’s Still Bread Left

The irregular operations of bakeries and the high prices on the informal market are worsening the finances of households in Matanzas.

“I’m not going to get into that mob only to end up with nothing. Around here, you never know when there will be bread or how much they’re going to take out.” / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Julio César Contreras, Matanzas, July 5, 2026 — Teresa breathed a sigh of relief when she turned the corner and saw a line outside the neighborhood bakery in the Versalles district of Matanzas. In today’s Cuba, a line is no longer always a reason to complain; sometimes it’s the only sign that there is still something left to buy. She clutched her shopping bag to her chest and quickened her pace. At home, her grandson was waiting for her on his school vacation, with the endless appetite that children have that knows nothing of inflation or shortages.

“Now I have the boy with me, and he’s asking for something to eat at all hours,” she says as she settles in at the back of the line. “Street vendors come through here every day, but a loaf of bread for 200 pesos is something a pensioner living on my pension simply can’t afford. If only this bakery had special offerings more often, at least we’d have some way of getting by.”

The scenes around her seem to summarize household economics in Matanzas. An elderly man stands with his hands on his hips, staring intently at the bakery door. A woman shields herself from the sun with a fuchsia umbrella. Two children sit on the grass, resigned to the boredom of waiting in line, which for adults means much more than wasting time: it represents the chance to bring something home to the table.

The news spreads by word of mouth even before the first customer comes out. They baked only ten trays of crusty baguette-style bread, the only item available, priced at continue reading

120 pesos a loaf with no purchase limit. The calculation is immediate. There are far too many people waiting for such a small production.

“When there’s nothing here, I have to go to a private business and buy a bag with ten little rolls for 400 pesos.”

“Before they even opened, they had already sold a whole bunch of loaves to resellers, who then mark them up by another 20 or 30 pesos,” Teresa protests, unable to hide her frustration. “That makes it impossible for ordinary people to get any. The poor are never part of that business.”

The scene is repeated frequently at this bakery, which was leased to private entrepreneurs some time ago. Many neighbors imagined the change would bring display cases full of bread, different varieties, and steady production. The reality has been far less promising. Baking takes place only once or twice a week and depends above all on the arrival of flour.

Luis Antonio, who lives in a nearby microbrigade apartment building, watches the activity while leaning on his bicycle. He is the father of two children and knows exactly how much a loaf of bread weighs on the family budget.

“When there’s nothing here, I have to go to a private business and buy a bag with ten little rolls for 400 pesos,” he explains. “The problem is that they’re so small I even have to hide them. If my kids come with me, they’ll eat them in three bites before we get home.”

He says that even the bakery’s own employees have looked for other ways to earn a living.

“For them, the bakery salary is just extra income. Most of the time the ovens are off because there’s no flour. At least this electrical circuit has power because it’s connected to the maternity hospital, but having electricity doesn’t help if there’s nothing to produce.”

Some customers remain motionless, staring toward the door as if waiting for a last-minute miracle. / 14ymedio

Inside the bakery, someone announces that there will be no more bread. The words land like a slammed door. Some customers stand frozen, looking toward the entrance as if hoping for a last-minute miracle. Others quietly leave the line with the resignation that comes only from getting used to returning home empty-handed.

Alfredo, a retiree carefully holding his wallet, had set out determined to spend the 250 pesos he had with him.

“The truth is I’m standing in this line for my wife,” he says. “I wanted to bring her something for lunch besides the same boiled plantains we eat every day. The bread doesn’t look very good, with the crust all cracked, but it’s what there is.” In the end, the elderly man gets nothing and avoids joining the scramble at the door as some customers try to persuade the clerks to sell more.

“I’m not going to get into that mob only to end up with nothing. Around here, you never know when there will be bread or how much they’re going to put out.”

He walks slowly down the sidewalk as the line begins to dissolve. The palm tree shading the corner remains still in the morning heat, and the neighborhood gradually returns to its routine. Only a small group remains, talking about when another batch of bread might come out. No one knows.

As he leaves, Alfredo has already made a decision that sums up the food reality facing thousands of Cuban families. “I’m going to buy a little loaf from the first street vendor who passes my house, even if it costs me 200 pesos. One day is one day. If I wait for this bakery, I may have to come back in another week and find the same line and the same ending all over again.”

Translated by Regina Anavy

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The Cuban Railway Terminal Where Trains No Longer Come

The fuel crisis and the disappearance of state-run routes turn every journey between San Jose de las Lajas and Guines into a battle

14ymedio, Julio César Contreras, San José de las Lajas (Mayabeque), 21 June 2026 / Although Fernando and Marianne were both born and raised in Guines, they met at the old train station in San Jose de las Lajas, in the daily struggle to travel back to their municipality. The two often find themselves together beneath the potholed roof of the platform, where no locomotive whistle is heard any more, nor the screech of carriages on rails. In their place predominate the resigned conversations of those waiting, the shouts of private taxi drivers calling out their destinations, and the murmur of a crowd that seems to have taken up permanent residence there.

The old railway terminal has become a kind of improvised refuge for travellers caught between the lack of fuel, the disappearance of state-run routes, and the constant rise in the cost of private transport. The rails still cut across the ground, but they jut up through the grass like a relic of better times. Sitting on the walls of the building, dozens of people wait under the midday sun with shopping bags, backpacks, plastic buckets, and even sacks of root vegetables. Some have been there for hours.

“With all this fuel shortage, even private cars are nowhere to be seen. Sometimes hours go by without anything appearing for us to get on,” says Marianne.

A specialist at the Mayabeque Electric Company, the young woman admits that she can rarely complete her full working hours. The problem is not the work itself, but getting home.

The young woman admits that she can rarely complete her full working hours

“After two in the afternoon it’s practically impossible to get on anything heading to Guines. Right now there’s only one lorry leaving from there at six in the morning, which is the same one I take at midday. If I miss that chance I have to pay 600, 700, even 1,000 pesos for a car. At that rate my salary wouldn’t last me a week, and it’s 5,200 pesos that have to cover everything for the whole month.”

As she speaks, she watches the road anxiously. Every time a cloud of dust appears or the engine of some vehicle is heard, several people leap to their feet thinking that the lorry has finally arrived. Almost always it is a false alarm.

The same scenes repeat themselves every day at the station. / 14ymedio

The waiting has something of a collective ritual about it. An elderly woman continue reading

shields herself from the sun with a red umbrella, worn out by the years. A young man holds a bicycle wheel he has just repaired. Several students in uniform sit chatting on their backpacks. Near them, a pregnant woman searches for shade while shifting the weight of her body. All share the same uncertainty.

The most the sole employee who remains in the old building can do is try to manage the queue.

“In their desperation to get on, people resort to the law of the strongest, pushing and shoving included”

“In the end, there’s no point getting in last, because when the lorry arrives, people in their desperation to get on resort to the law of the strongest, pushing and shoving included,” Marianne complains, growing worried as she realises she should already be on her way home. “Today I really can’t take a shared taxi. I’ve got just enough money.”

The same scenes repeat themselves every day. When a lorry adapted for passengers finally shows up, people cluster around the door even before the vehicle has finished stopping. Boarding becomes a silent competition where every second counts. No one wants to be left behind to face several more hours of uncertainty.

When it comes to economic hardship, Fernando has his own stories.

“I was moved by an elderly woman who had just asked me for 100 pesos to make up her fare. In just a few days the cost has gone up four times, from 200 to 500 pesos. If the driver arrives today and charges more, there’s no choice but to pay whatever he asks. It’s true that diesel is hard to come by, but it’s also true that we poor people are being squeezed from every direction.”

Fernando travels daily to San Jose to care for his father, bedridden with a chronic illness. Every journey brings an added worry for his budget.

A trained industrial engineer now working for himself, Fernando travels daily to San Jose to care for his father, bedridden with a chronic illness. Every journey brings an added worry for his budget.

It is lunchtime and in front of the terminal, several kiosks are selling pizzas and soft drinks. Few people, however, go up to buy anything. For most, every peso must be kept back for transport. Eating has become a secondary expense when there is a chance that the next journey might cost even more.

“From five daily bus routes that at one point existed between Guines and San Jose, we’ve ended up with none,” Fernando recalls. “The worst of it is that in this country, things that disappear never come back. I myself am lucky enough to earn more than any professional’s salary, and yet I can’t afford to hire a taxi regularly, not even to ride one throughout the whole week.”

Many workers leave in the small hours to guarantee their return journey / 14ymedio

The transport crisis has ended up reshaping habits, schedules, and even family relationships. Many workers leave in the small hours to guarantee their return journey. Others have cut back on visits to sick relatives or have given up jobs that involve moving between municipalities. The distance between Guines and San Jose de las Lajas has not changed on the map, but for those who depend on public transport it seems today far greater than it did a few years ago.

The distance between Guines and San Jose de las Lajas has not changed on the map, but for those who depend on public transport it seems far greater today

Both Fernando and Marianne are working out ways to travel less and less. Logic has won out over desire.

“State buses are already out of service and the price of fares in private cars is going to keep rising without limit. So the best thing you can do is go as little as possible beyond the area where you live, because even with the money in your hand you can’t be sure of getting where you’re going in peace.”

As she speaks, the long-awaited lorry finally appears. The crowd gets to its feet almost all at once. Conversations break off, shopping bags change hands, and the queue dissolves into disorder within seconds. At the old train station in San Jose de las Lajas, where trains stopped coming years ago, there are still people waiting. They are no longer waiting for a train. They are waiting for something far more basic: the chance to get home.

Translated by GH.

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The Soaring Rise of the Dollar Complicates Cubans’ Arithmetic of Survival

Families are reducing their purchases as the national currency loses value, while small businesses struggle to avoid bankruptcy.

From a conventional business perspective, changing prices so frequently is a mistake. In Cuba, it is survival. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, San José de Las Lajas (Mayabeque), Julio César Contreras, June 16, 2026 – By mid-morning, activity in the small private shops of San José de Las Lajas increasingly resembles a scene of shared uncertainty. Customers come in, ask the price of a product, do the math in their heads, and often leave empty-handed. On the other side of the counter, vendors do not have definitive answers either: they know how much the merchandise cost a week ago, but they cannot say for sure how much it will be worth in a few days.

The dizzying rise of the dollar in Cuba’s informal market has turned even the simplest purchase into a daily exercise in household arithmetic. In a municipality where, as in the rest of the country, salaries are paid in pesos while many products are imported and paid for in foreign currency, every jump in the exchange rate triggers a new wave of price increases in national currency.

At a cafeteria near the main park, a young woman checks the contents of her wallet several times before deciding what to buy. Behind the counter, beneath a chalkboard with hand-written prices, pastries and candies wait for customers who are buying less and less.

Behind the counter, beneath a chalkboard with hand-written prices, pastries and candies wait for customers who are buying less and less. / 14ymedio

“The tube of mortadella that cost 500 pesos less than a month ago was 600 last week and today it’s 650. I used to rely on that a lot for my children’s snacks. However, everything has become so expensive that I’m only giving them a small piece of bread with continue reading

whatever I can find. It breaks my heart,” laments Yaritza, as she tries to manage the money she has available to buy the most urgent necessities.

A single mother and teaching assistant, she says she no longer knows which small private business to turn to for cooking oil or meat products that have not increased by at least 50 pesos over the last month.

“At the current exchange rate, my salary doesn’t even reach 10 dollars a month. I say this because, while it’s true that the most basic things are still priced in pesos, the real value of food and essential goods has to be measured in dollars, since that is how private merchants pay for them.”

Although she describes herself as bad at math, Yaritza has mastered an operation that millions of Cubans perform every day: mentally converting the price of every product into its dollar value and comparing it to a salary that is rapidly losing purchasing power.

The situation is also hitting those who run businesses. A few meters from an elementary school, Abel manages a cafeteria whose regular customers are children and their relatives. For years, candies and sweets were a safe bet. Now, the constant rise in prices threatens the stability of his venture.

“Until now I’ve always had good profitability, but things are getting complicated because there is nothing worse for commerce than constantly changing product prices,” he explains to 14ymedio.

One of his star products was María cookies. “The kids used to run out of school and buy two or three packages each. Now a box of 24 units lasts me five days or more. What happened? I’ve been forced to raise the price because my suppliers have raised it on me too.”

Abel recalls that at the beginning of this year, with 500 pesos a customer could buy two packages. Today, it is barely enough for one, with some change left over that can hardly be spent on anything else. “I’m trying to find more affordable options so I don’t keep losing customers. My family’s livelihood depends on this cafeteria.”

In other businesses around the municipality, the concern is the same. Some owners have chosen to review their prices weekly to avoid losses caused by the depreciation of the Cuban peso.

“I restock my kiosk once a week. Then, depending on how the dollar is behaving, I raise the prices of certain products I sell to guarantee in advance a cost structure that allows me to remain profitable,” explains Delvys.

The merchant acknowledges that, from a conventional business perspective, changing prices so frequently is a mistake. “But in the harsh Cuban reality, it’s a way to avoid going bankrupt.” With a calculator always within reach, Delvys tries to stay ahead of fluctuations in the informal market.

At the entrance of some businesses, customers wait their turn leaning against freshly varnished wooden counters. / 14ymedio

“Putting myself in the customer’s position, I understand it’s difficult to buy a bottle of oil today for 1,300 pesos and see it cost 1,500 next week. People complain, and they are absolutely right.” He gives a recent example: Cristal beer, which a few days ago sold for 350 pesos and is now around 420. “If I don’t raise the price, with what money do I buy it again? How do I pay my employees, and where is my profit?”

At the entrance of some businesses, customers wait their turn leaning against freshly varnished wooden counters. Others talk about the latest dollar exchange rate, which has become as common a topic as the weather forecast or the blackouts.

“In this roller coaster where we all buy from someone else, we’re constantly on the verge of losing money,” Delvys sums up. “There are no winners here.”

In San José de Las Lajas, the price of the dollar is no longer just an economic indicator. It is the exact measure of how much a family can eat, how long merchandise remains on a shelf, and how many times someone must think before taking any product home.

Translated by Regina Anavy

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University Admissions Without Entrance Exams Raises More Questions Than Opportunities in Matanzas, Cuba

The elimination of these tests has left thousands of students who spent years preparing feeling frustrated and has fueled fears of favoritism and declining academic standards.

José Luis Dubrocq Pre-University School in Matanzas. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Julio César Contreras, Matanzas, June 15, 2026 — In the mornings, small groups of students still gather in front of the old Secondary Education Institute of Matanzas on 2 de Mayo Street. On a marble wall, two teenagers chat without much enthusiasm, while a few yards away several pre-university students walk down the sidewalk with backpacks slung over their shoulders. The scene looks like any other end of the school year, but this year there is something different: for the first time in a long while, students finishing twelfth grade will not have to take the traditional university entrance exams.

The news surprised some and confirmed the predictions of others. The Ministry of Higher Education announced that the Mathematics, Spanish, and Cuban History exams had been suspended and that admission to higher education would be determined by students’ cumulative academic averages throughout their pre-university years.

For Betty, a twelfth-grade student at José Luis Dubrocq Pre-University School, the decision came too late and in the worst possible way.

“The way to earn a place in a good degree program was to get high scores on the exams. Now they’re changing the rules when we’re already at the finish line”

“I’ve been preparing for these tests since ninth grade. My parents have spent money on tutors, books, and study materials. Everyone knew that the way to get into a good degree program was to earn high marks on the entrance exams. Now they’re changing the rules when we’re already at the finish line,” she continue reading

complains.

She hopes to study Psychology. She has a grade-point average of 98.9 but fears that may not be enough.

“They say they’re going to take ‘overall development’ into account. I was never very involved in political events or extracurricular activities. Now I see classmates with lower grades ranked above me. That raises a lot of questions.”

The concerns are precisely the topic most frequently discussed in family conversations. For years, the entrance exams served as a kind of final referee. People could debate the quality of the tests or the inequalities between students who could afford tutors and those who could not, but in the end there was a common national evaluation for everyone.

Now, many parents believe the process will be more difficult to understand and, above all, harder to oversee.

Around the pre-university school on 2 de Mayo Street, where generations of Matanzas residents prepared for university admission, opinions are sharply divided.

“The best degree programs always end up in the hands of those with the most influence. That’s not just me saying it, everyone says it”

“My aunt has important connections in the Education Ministry and is already finding out how all of this works,” admits Magdiel, another senior-year student. “For me, it’s a good thing they got rid of the exams. What matters now is having the right contacts and being well positioned when it comes time to assign university places.”

The young man hopes to enter medical school and speaks with a frankness that makes some uncomfortable. “The best degree programs always end up in the hands of those with the most influence. That’s not just me saying it, everyone says it.”

Although some consider that perception exaggerated, it has spread among students and their families. The elimination of the exams has fueled suspicions that subjective factors may now carry greater weight in the allocation of university places.

A mathematics teacher, who prefers to remain anonymous, acknowledges that the change has caused dissatisfaction among many educators.

“I have outstanding students who spent years training for those exams. Some saw the tests as an opportunity to demonstrate what they knew regardless of their academic record or level of participation in school activities.”

The teacher believes the problem is not only the elimination of the exams. “What worries me is the message it sends. Tenth- and eleventh-grade students are seeing that the rules can change overnight. That affects academic motivation.”

Many teachers fear that the decision will deepen problems already affecting Cuban higher education

Authorities defend the measure by arguing that systematic evaluation over several years can reflect a student’s true performance better than an exam taken over a few hours. They also assure students that everyone will be guaranteed a university place, although not necessarily in the degree program of their choice.

In Matanzas, however, the debate has gone beyond the admissions process itself. Many teachers fear that the decision will aggravate existing problems in Cuban higher education: declining standards, a weakening culture of effort, and difficulties in selecting the best-prepared students.

Meanwhile, the school year is heading toward an early end. Classes will conclude several weeks ahead of schedule because of the energy and transportation difficulties facing the country.

In front of the old Secondary Education Institute building, now converted into a pre-university school, students continue to come and go on fragmented schedules. Some talk about university degree programs, others about blackouts, transportation, or emigration. Yet they all seem to share the same feeling: that they are living through a period of transition in which no one knows exactly what the rules of the game will be.

Translated by Regina Anavy

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Night-time Hunt for Megabytes in Matanzas Cuba

Near the telecommunications tower, the seafront promenade has become a kind of public video-call room

For months, this stretch of the Matanzas seafront promenade has become a kind of public video-call room / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Matanzas, Julio César Contreras, May 17, 2026 / At seven in the evening, when the sky over Matanzas Bay begins to turn grey and the cars thin out on the Vía Blanca, the Martí promenade fills with passers-by staring at their phone screens with the same intensity with which people once stared at the horizon. Some arrive alone, others as couples, others with small children running around near the granite benches while the adults try to catch an internet signal that appears and disappears like a mirage.

For months, this stretch of the Matanzas seafront promenade has become a kind of public video-call room, makeshift office and digital meeting point for those who, amid the blackouts and poor coverage, cannot get connected from home. The telecommunications tower in that part of the city is one of the few that still works, badly, when the connection goes down in the rest of the neighbourhoods.

When the browser on her phone starts going round and round in endless circles, Anays understands that, if she wants to speak to her sister, she will have to walk to the Martí promenade, about twelve blocks from where she lives, in the Versalles neighbourhood. “I have to do this every day at nightfall. If there’s no power, the coverage in my house drops almost completely. The problem is that at this time there is never any electricity,” complains the Matanzas resident, as she adjusts her mobile phone, looking for the exact angle where the video call will not freeze.

If there’s no power, the coverage in my house drops almost completely. The problem is that at this time there is never any electricity

The scene is repeated bench after bench. A woman in a pink dress anxiously checks the screen while a man beside her raises his head in resignation, as if expecting to find the signal floating among the clouds heavy with humidity. Farther on, beneath a flamboyant tree with spreading branches, a young man bent over his phone barely moves. His posture recalls the old fishermen of the shoreline, except that now no one is casting hooks into the sea, but trying to catch megabytes in the air.

As midnight approaches, dozens of people fight off mosquitoes around the antenna installed near the headquarters of the Municipal Committee of the Communist Party. “Even in this area the connection is sometimes terrible. Suddenly the call cuts off, the image freezes and, meanwhile, the minutes keep passing and the megabytes are being used up,” explains Anays, who still has not cooked the evening meal but gives priority continue reading

to the family conversation, even if that means going down and back up the hill in the dark every day.

In Matanzas, speaking over the internet has become a mixture of patience, strategy and physical endurance / 14ymedio

In Matanzas, speaking over the internet has become a mixture of patience, strategy and physical endurance. Some people leave home as soon as the power comes back in order to take advantage of the brief moment when the antennas work; others wait until the early hours because they say that “at that time you can browse a little better.” The younger ones know the exact spots where one extra bar of coverage comes in. “Here, close to the wall,” “under that palm tree,” “beside the bench,” are instructions heard as if they were coordinates.

“This country is getting worse all the time and now hepatitis is back,” says Tomás from another bench on the promenade while making a video call to his son, who has emigrated. “You sent me the top-up on Sunday and I only managed to receive it today, Monday. Now I’m going to try to save data as much as I can, because last month’s bonus was gone in less than a week.”

“This country is getting worse all the time and now hepatitis is back’

The man speaks loudly because there is a delay in the communication and he fears the call may drop at any moment. Near him, a dog sleeps on the cement while its owner stares fixedly at the phone connected to a pair of earphones. A few metres away, a young woman lights up her face with her mobile-phone screen in the growing gloom. The whole promenade seems to breathe to the rhythm of the intermittent connections.

“The truth is, I don’t know whether Etecsa has technical problems or is messing with us, but I get the impression that the amount of the top-up doesn’t match how long the mobile data is actually lasting,” Tomás insists. He then explains to his son that his wife could not come because it is her turn to look after the sick grandmother. “Don’t waste time calling me at home. Even if I climb onto the roof, I can’t hear you. Things are bad all over the city.”

The crisis makes no distinction between ages. “Your niece, to do a school assignment, spent more than an hour in Liberty Park downloading what she needed,” the man says, before again thanking him for the top-up sent from abroad. “If it weren’t for you, we’d be cut off.”

Getting connected on the Martí promenade is not a fashion, nor is it an excuse to look at the sea. Most people arrive exhausted after a day marked by blackouts, queues and heat. Yet, as night falls, the benches fill up again. The faces lit by the screens look like little modern bonfires in the middle of the darkness.

“I get the impression that the amount of the top-up doesn’t match how long the mobile data is actually lasting”

“My wife nearly fell the other day because of a pile of rubbish across the street after finishing the video call with our grandson,” says Eriberto, while making sure that his wife does not wander too far away with the phone in her hand. “The image freezes here too and you have to move around. But if we stay at home, we have no connection until after midnight.”

The old man looks around. There are already very few lights and the city begins to turn into one huge shadow. “Everything gets pitch black, and everywhere there’s a hole or a ditch full of rotten water,” he murmurs before getting up from the bench. Then he slowly puts away the phone, like someone protecting something too expensive and too fragile in a country where communicating with family has ended up looking more and more like a night-time expedition.

Translated by GH

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