Julio César Contreras – Translating Cuba

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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A Mother’s Day Without Flowers or Gifts

“This year, the only thing I can buy for the mothers in my family is a bar of bath soap for each of them,” Dianet admits with a mixture of shame and resignation.

Mother’s Day seems to have become more of an exercise in economic survival than a celebration. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Julio César Contreras, San José de las Lajas (Mayabeque), May 9, 2026 / Gone are the days of making the bed with the best sheets available and placing gifts for Mom on it every second Sunday of May: perfume, a housecoat, new slippers, or a box of chocolates that remained untouched until after the family lunch. In San José de las Lajas, just days before the second Sunday of May, Mother’s Day seems to have become more of an exercise in economic survival than a celebration.

“This is what we have left of the little money my son sent from abroad,” says 74-year-old Georgina, clutching a debit card with barely nine dollars remaining. In front of her, the shelves of the La Época store display the same familiar scene: packages of detergent, bottles of shampoo, napkins, spaghetti, and a few imported soaps with prices that seem out of this world. The retiree scans the shelves again and again as if, by persisting, a miraculous sale might appear. But no. “It’s vanished like smoke, and we’ve barely bought anything, and there’s a holiday coming up that we should be celebrating.”

Inside the store, the air conditioning is only partially working, offering little resistance to the humid heat that seeps in from the street. Leaning against the cash registers, the clerks chat about the power outages, the price of rice, and the latest blackout in Jamaica, the outlying neighborhood where many have built makeshift homes of concrete and asbestos cement. No one mentions Mother’s Day promotions. There are no plastic flowers, no pink ribbons, not even a hastily written sign with a marker saying “Happy Mother’s Day.” Everything feels as cold as a government office.

“All the stores have the same old things, with the same exorbitant prices.”

“All the stores have the same old things, with the same exorbitant prices,” Georgina complains. She does mental calculations as she looks at a product priced at $2.50. If she buys that for a granddaughter who just gave birth, then her daughter and niece will be left with nothing. “Pensions are around five or six dollars a month, and here any little thing costs half of that,” she laments. continue reading

Inflation has blurred the lines between necessity and sentimentality. / 14ymedio

Among the customers is Dianet, recently arrived from Palma Soriano and now living in a llega y pon [‘shanty town’] on the outskirts of town. She walks with a small child in tow and an impossible list running through her head: soap, deodorant, something for her mother in Oriente, and, if she can afford it, a little something for her cousins and sisters who live nearby. “This year, the only thing I can buy for the mothers in my family is a bar of soap each,” she admits with a mixture of shame and resignation.

As she speaks, an elderly woman examines packages of toilet paper as if appraising fine jewelry. In another corner, two young women argue about whether it’s worth spending seven dollars on shampoo or buying better cooking oil. Inflation has blurred the lines between necessity and sentimentality. A bottle of cologne can cost several days’ worth of food; a simple postcard, if it were to appear, would be almost a luxury.

“A one-way ticket costs 5,000 pesos. Instead of celebrating Mother’s Day, we’re living in times of hardship.”

For Dianet, going into a dollar store is reminiscent of the story of Martina the Cockroach: choosing between too many necessities with barely a few coins in her purse. “Before Friday, I plan to send my mom a money order for 200 or 300 pesos,” she explains. A trip to the East is out of the question. “A one-way ticket costs 5,000 pesos. Instead of celebrating Mother’s Day, we’re living in times of hardship.”

In the private shops downtown, the scene isn’t much different. The shop windows display bottles of rum, packets of coffee, a few imported sweets, and small perfumes that look like relics. The prices, however, are shocking. Twelve dollars for a modest fragrance, almost ten for a body cream, more than 1,000 pesos for a mug decorated with artificial flowers.

Aimé, a worker at the Banco Popular de Ahorro and a new grandmother, has spent days visiting state-run stores and micro-enterprises without making a decision. “I can’t spend $12 on perfume for my daughter, and besides, giving her spaghetti or condensed milk seems tacky for this occasion,” she says. She’s looking for something “that she’ll like and that will be useful,” a combination that has become almost impossible in today’s Cuba.

“A picture postcard accompanied by another item would be a decent gift,” she adds, while looking at some patterned napkins that she might end up buying for lack of alternatives. “But there aren’t even any postcards. Sometimes it’s better not to go into these places, because you leave empty-handed and disappointed.”

Outside, in the central park, a few artisans are trying to salvage the season by selling crocheted flowers, inexpensive jewelry, and varnished wooden frames. Several women stop, ask prices, and continue walking. Most are silently calculating their cash.

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Old Age Without Rest at the La Micro Market in San José de las Lajas, Cuba

Elderly people sell nylon bags, guard their turns in line, and hope for opportunities in the doorways of this municipality in Mayabeque.

Every morning, retirees go to the La Micro market to try and make a living. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Julio César Contreras, San José de las Lajas (Mayabeque), May 3, 2026 / Under the peeling roof of the arcades at La Micro market in San José de las Lajas (Mayabeque), the morning unfolds with a leisurely pace that seems tailor-made for those who are no longer in a hurry, but neither are they restful. Seated on empty crates, on pieces of cardboard, or leaning against the peeling blue wall, several elderly men while away the time while they wait for a customer, an opportunity, or at least someone willing to offer them a cup of coffee. The market, which once bustled from early morning, is now more of an improvised refuge for retirees who have traded the tranquility of old age for the uncertainty of daily survival.

Away from the hustle and bustle of the town center, but within easy reach of those living in the microbrigade buildings, Rodrigo and his companions have found a fixed place in these doorways where they spend eight to nine hours a day. There they sell whatever they can get their hands on: plastic bags, recycled bottles, chili peppers, loose cigarettes, or any merchandise that can be exchanged for a few pesos. The scene repeats itself every morning. Some arrive before seven, shuffling along, carrying a worn-out bag or pushing a rusty wheelbarrow. Others appear later, when the sun has already warmed the cement and the shadows begin to dwindle.

Our presence here is an open secret. Everyone knows it, but they leave us alone so we can ‘escape’ however we can.

“Here, we’re not trying to avoid the inspectors, just pretending. This isn’t about getting rich,” Rodrigo says, carefully checking the contents of a plastic crate where he keeps his merchandise. His voice is measured, as if weighing each word. “We have plastic bags for 20 pesos and jars of chili peppers for 120. I keep the cheap cigarettes hidden, because if they catch me selling the cartons for 340 pesos, I could be in trouble.” Around him, other men nod silently, used to this tightrope walk between necessity and illegality. “Our presence here is an open secret. Everyone knows it, but they leave us alone so we can slip away however we can. That’s how the system works: on one side, they tighten the gasket, and on the other, they release pressure so it doesn’t explode,” he adds.

At the La Micro market it has been more than a month since anything for the regular ‘family basket’ has arrived / 14ymedio

A few meters away, a dog stretches out on a piece of cardboard, indifferent to the comings and goings of people. The animal seems like just another resident of the doorway, another survivor of the daily grind. Nearby, Andrés intently watches the street, alert to any movement. For decades he worked continue reading

as a locksmith in a state-run workshop and still keeps a master key, which he guards like a talisman. “People come to us to take out their trash, unclog a drain, or, in my case, to open their front door,” he explains, proud of the skills that allowed him to earn a living for years.

“We have a single checkbook worth 3,000 pesos. We are diabetic and are not on any social security benefits list.”

The market popularly known as La Micro hasn’t received any food rations for over a month. The empty stalls and dusty shelves are the best testament to this neglect. “A clerk told me they’re going to start giving out two pounds of rice to vulnerable people tomorrow,” Rodrigo says, shrugging his shoulders. “Of course, that concept of ‘vulnerable’ is convenient for the government. My wife and I live alone in a crumbling tile house. We have a single checkbook worth 3,000 pesos. We’re diabetic and we’re not on any social security coverage list.”

As he speaks, the old man nods his chin toward the street, where another man is slowly pushing a wheelbarrow loaded with crushed cans and dirty sacks. The effort is evident in the stoop of his back and the sweat trickling down his forehead. Each step seems like a battle against exhaustion. Behind him, a little girl pedals a small bicycle, oblivious to the scene, as if time had two different speeds in that very place: one for the old who endure and another for the children who still play.

As if time had two different speeds in that same place: one for the old who endure and another for the children who still play. / 14ymedio

As former day laborers, the elderly men gather every morning at their “command post,” as they call it, to try and make a living. Sitting on the ground, they share stories of times when work was hard but secure; they complain about current needs and remain alert for any opportunity to earn a few pesos. When someone appears seeking help carrying a sack, cleaning a yard, or holding a place in line, the group springs into action immediately.

According to Andrés, when liquefied gas is available in the area, business is usually a little better. “It’s true that we go two or three nights without sleep, but we pocket 1,000 pesos for each person who requests our gas cylinder delivery service,” he says. “We divide the numbers among ourselves so that everyone wins. The problem is that there’s almost never any gas, and while the gas is coming and going, we struggle to make three or four pesos, which isn’t enough for anything.”

My father taught me that things don’t fall from the sky and that, being a poor black man, I would have to work very hard so I wouldn’t go to bed on an empty stomach.

The hours in the market’s doorways drag on with agonizing slowness. Sometimes they share a sliver of stale bread to stave off hunger; other times, a shot of rum that appears suddenly, passed from hand to hand. Conversation is punctuated by long silences, vacant stares, and resigned sighs.

“My father taught me that things don’t fall from the sky and that, being a poor Black man, I’d have to work very hard to avoid going to bed hungry,” says Andrés, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “At 72 years old, I’ve chosen not to give up. As long as I have a master key and my hands still work, I’ll keep opening doors and selling whatever needs selling.”

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Cuba: Three Wheels and a Lot of Bills To Pay

Electric tricycle drivers in San José de las Lajas face long waiting times, few passengers, and rising costs that threaten their daily sustenance.

Tricycles at their starting point at the old train station in San José de las Lajas. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Julio César Contreras, San José de las Lajas (Mayabeque), April 29, 2026 / The taxi stand at the old train station in San José de las Lajas wakes up before the rest of the city. At that early hour, when the sun is just beginning to warm the asphalt and the first bicycles listlessly cross the avenue, several electric tricycles are already lined up as if waiting for the order to leave. Under the green, blue, or red tarpaulins, the drivers converse in hushed tones, drink coffee from small plastic cups, and anxiously watch the road, waiting for the first customer of the day to appear.

“Most people have no idea how much time and money it takes to earn four pesos on these three-wheeled critters,” says Alexander, a tricycle driver who arrives early every day at the taxi stand without a fixed route. His vehicle, painted a bright blue and with a freshly charged battery, sits alongside others like it, forming an irregular line, like a small, makeshift parking lot.

Alexander explains that he always tries to arrive before 6:00 a.m. so the line of drivers isn’t too long and he has enough time to make a few trips before noon, when passenger numbers drop considerably. At that early hour, there’s still some activity: workers heading to their jobs, students with backpacks, and elderly people walking slowly to the pharmacy or clinic. But after nine or ten, the scene changes, and the taxi stand falls into a kind of lethargy. continue reading

“Although there are very few cars on the road, people can’t afford the luxury of spending 300 or 400 pesos either.”

His daily route can take him anywhere from Cotorro to Catalina de Güines, or even as far as Madruga, if he can find enough customers willing to pay the fare. Sometimes, these longer trips are the only way to make ends meet, because within the city itself, the rides are short and customers haggle over every peso. “Even though you see very few cars on the road, people can’t afford to spend 300 or 400 pesos to go from the farmers market to the Pastorita neighborhood,” he says. “We can’t ask for less than that either, because then it doesn’t add up. It’s a vicious cycle where everyone, in some way, loses out.”

The everyday scene around the terminal confirms his words. By mid-morning, several tricycles are parked in the shade of a leafy tree while their drivers seek refuge from the sun. Some check their battery cables, others discuss the price of spare parts. A young man gets out of his vehicle, stretches his legs, and observes the almost empty road with resignation.

The tricycles parked at the taxi stand confirm, indeed, that passengers are scarce. The line of vehicles seems frozen in a prolonged wait that can last for hours. “Giving rides is getting worse and worse, because the number of tricycles keeps increasing and the number of passengers is decreasing day by day,” says Ismael, sitting under the tarp of his motorcycle, shielding himself from the blazing sun. “It doesn’t matter if it’s Wednesday or Sunday anymore, the taxi stand is empty, and you have to be a magician to have a few bills in your pocket at the end of the day, because they disappear like water.”

The daily wage I’m earning is barely enough to buy the essentials for the house.”

The driver explains that he is seriously considering giving up passenger transport and dedicating himself to hauling goods for a local small business. He says his current earnings barely cover basic expenses. “What I make each day is barely enough to buy the essentials for the house,” he says. “If the tricycle happens to break down, I don’t have the money to fix it right now.”

This uncertainty is echoed by many drivers who see how the business, which seemed promising just a few years ago, has become increasingly unstable. The proliferation of electric tricycles has saturated the market, while passengers’ purchasing power continues to decline. The result is fierce competition for every customer that appears on the street corner.

On the other side of the coin are those who approach the tricycles, sweating, trying to negotiate a price that will give them some breathing room. At the side of the road, a man stops in front of one of the vehicles to ask how much the ride to his neighborhood costs. The answer elicits a gesture of displeasure and a brief exchange before the customer decides to continue on foot.

“I don’t understand why electric tricycles are as expensive as those that run on gasoline or diesel,” says Mario, a self-employed worker who makes the daily commute from his home in Tapaste to San José de las Lajas. He explains that he has to use this mode of transportation two or three times a week out of necessity, and the cost, which started at 200 pesos, has been rising rapidly, reaching 800 or 1,000 pesos at certain times and days. “There’s no stopping this,” he complains.

“I don’t understand why electric tricycles cost as much as those that run on gasoline or oil.”

For Mario, the solution to the problem doesn’t necessarily lie in stabilizing fuel prices or increasing the presence of state inspectors who control the prices of fares. In his view, the key is to restore a public transportation system that offers real alternatives to citizens. “As long as transportation is in crisis, anyone with three or four wheels will think they have the right to charge whatever they want,” he emphasizes.

Meanwhile, daily life in San José de las Lajas remains marked by waiting. The electric tricycles sit lined up at the taxi stand as if they were part of the urban landscape, silent witnesses to an economy that barely moves. Under the relentless midday sun, the drivers gaze at the horizon with patience and resignation, hoping that the next passenger will appear at any moment and allow them to set off again.

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Madruga, a Cuban Town Stalled at the Bus Stop

The lack of transportation turns every trip into an odyssey of hours and money in the Mayabeque municipality

14ymedio, Julio César Contreras, Madruga (Mayabeque), April 12, 2026 – The traffic sign next to the bus stop has blank boxes. There could be no better symbol to define the lack of public transportation, the void that stretches along the central highway for those who have to travel. In Madruga, Mayabeque, the stop has become a place of waiting without promises, a point where time stretches and patience is tested under the clear sky and the dust kicked up by the few vehicles that manage to pass.

“The route that used to go to San José de las Lajas twice a day no longer exists. Now you have to go segment by segment, getting on whatever stops,” explains Ignacio, a self-employed worker who comes to the town frequently. The man, with a backpack slung over his shoulders and rubber boots still stained with dirt, watches the road as if salvation might appear at any moment in the form of a truck, scooter, or improvised pickup.

According to Ignacio, speaking to 14ymedio, he managed to get on an electric tricycle that charged him 500 pesos to Catalina de Güines, from where he managed to climb onto a cargo truck for another 600 pesos. “To get here I was lucky, but the return is very complicated. I’ve been here at the stop for four hours and not even flies are passing. My only hope is that by holding out a 1,000-peso bill, some driver will want to take me,” he laments, pacing restlessly back and forth along the sidewalk.

Only a woman with a small child shelters under the yellow roof of the terminal, trying to protect themselves from the heat and exhaustion. / 14ymedio

Next to the stop, the taxi stand from which private taxis used to depart is also deserted, leaving no way to travel to Ceiba Mocha or Matanzas. The metal bench, once contested by passengers, remains empty for long stretches of time. Only a woman with a small child shelters under the yellow roof of the terminal, trying to protect themselves from the heat and the fatigue accumulated after hours of waiting.

“It’s already past 2:00 in the afternoon and not a single car has come through today. Now things are really bad, because even with money in your pocket you can’t get out of here,” says a young man, for whom the municipality of Unión de Reyes feels farther away than ever. The man checks his phone frequently, although he knows the battery will run out continue reading

before a vehicle willing to pick up passengers appears. “The few that are circulating are from the same town. No private driver will go to Matanzas for less than 40,000 pesos. Honestly, it’s an abuse,” he complains.

Worried that night will fall without being able to leave, the man from Matanzas has gone several times with his four-year-old son to a nearby cafeteria, where tractor-trailers stop to eat. The child, sitting on the edge of a bench, plays with an empty cup while curiously watching the road. “Only two or three big trucks have passed. All the drivers tell me they’re loaded, that they can’t take me. My child keeps asking when we’re leaving. He asks for water, food, and we’re stuck in the middle of the road. We left San Nicolás de Bari before dawn and we’re still wandering around. Hopefully we won’t have to sleep on a bench,” says the young father, visibly exhausted.

“No official is concerned about the hardships the people go through, because they all have ways to get around.” / 14ymedio

You could cross the road without looking both ways, if not for the occasional electric scooter breaking the silence of the roadway. The sounds of combustion engines have practically disappeared from the central highway. There is little movement in the surroundings: a street vendor pushes a cart with agricultural products, a cyclist passes slowly, and occasionally a truck raises a cloud of dust that forces those present to cover their faces.

“I need to take medication to my mother who lives in Aguacate, just a few kilometers from here. A trip that can be done in minutes takes a whole day because there are no intermunicipal buses running,” says a woman, sitting in the same spot since mid-morning, without even leaving to get a coffee for fear of missing a vehicle that might stop. She grips her bag tightly and anxiously watches every point that appears on the horizon.

“The traffic sign is there for nothing. I got tired of raising in accountability meetings that this stop needs an inspector, but no official cares about the hardships people go through, because they all have ways to get around,” the woman argues, unable to hide her frustration.

As the afternoon goes on, the sun beats down on the sidewalk and the shadow of the yellow roof becomes the only refuge for travelers trapped in the wait. Time seems to stand still in Madruga. Only the young man with his son and four other people persist in trying to embark on a journey whose wait becomes unbearable due to the heat and uncertainty.

Translated by Regina Anavy

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Cuba: In the Bank Line, Customers Live With the Fear That the Power Will Go Out or That the Cash Will Run Out

When retirees collect their monthly pension, the services of the Popular Savings Bank of San José de las Lajas collapse.

Line at the Popular Savings Bank in San José de las Lajas / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Mayabeque, Julio César Contreras, March 29, 2026 – At seven in the morning there is already activity in front of the Popular Savings Bank of San José de las Lajas. The line begins to form long before the doors open, and as the minutes pass, it turns into a compact row of tired bodies, canes leaning against the wall, and eyes fixed on the entrance. Some retirees sit on the metal chairs in the entryway; others remain standing, holding their checkbooks as if they were a lifeline amid uncertainty.

The days set for paying pensions to retirees turn into a true ordeal for people who go to the bank in search of other services. Service no longer depends only on there being electricity but on there being employees available to handle the different operations. At any moment the power can go out and paralyze everything: the computers shut down, the fans stop turning, and a murmur of discontent runs through the line like a hot wind.

“The first problem is that it’s the same line for all procedures and, as expected, pensioners are the majority. I have no choice but to come back later,” comments Mayra, who practically has no cash left and therefore urgently needs to make a withdrawal. The woman looks at the door anxiously, aware that time is running against her and that, if she cannot withdraw money, she will have to postpone basic purchases such as bread or medicine. continue reading

Receiving her salary on a card keeps her enslaved to the bank, because on the street no one is accepting payment by transfer

According to the worker from the Commerce Company, receiving her salary on a card keeps her enslaved to the banking institution, because on the street no one is accepting payment by transfer. “Here at the bank the most I can withdraw is 1,000 pesos a day, but not even that small amount is guaranteed. Today, for example, all the money is earmarked for paying out the pensions. That means that until that is finished, the rest of us customers will have to look for other solutions, such as buying things through Transfermóvil at 10 or 20% above their original price,” the woman says.

At a glance, impatience is evident among those who ask who is last, peek toward the door, or leave frustrated at being unable to complete a transaction. An elderly man with a red cap and denim jacket moves forward with short steps toward the entrance, while a woman with white hair rests in a chair and fans herself with a folded sheet. No one wants to lose their place, because everyone knows that the money may run out before noon.

“There are only two tellers working, so they are forbidden from making deposits. All banking activity is concentrated in a single operation, as if they were just learning how to work now,” complains Mario, who urgently needs to deposit 20,000 pesos on his daughter’s card. “It’s true that the elderly deserve priority. However, concentrating the work in a single area goes against all logic,” he emphasizes.

For the accounting professor, his most difficult days of the month are precisely when the bank is paying out pensions. “I have to regularly send money to my daughter, who is studying in Havana. Sometimes when I leave here I have to take a pill because my blood pressure has shot up,” says Mario, after having a brief argument with an employee over the inefficiency of the banking institution.

It is incredible how time is wasted on a procedure that could be resolved with a bit of interest on the part of the bank. Anything in this country costs a lot of effort

Although it has nothing to do with the payment of pensions, Yesenia has been leaning against a column in the entryway for an hour and a half, waiting for her turn to go in. “I am in the process of applying for a loan to finish my house. In the line there is no one for that kind of thing, but they informed me that today only one commercial officer came to work and he is currently busy with other tasks. I don’t understand anything,” says the employee of a private cafeteria who can dedicate herself to these procedures twice a week. “It is incredible how time is wasted on a procedure that could be resolved with a little interest on the part of the bank. Anything one wants to do in this country costs a lot of effort,” she insists.

The atmosphere grows more tense as the morning goes on. Some retirees check their watches with concern. There are those who leave resigned, promising to return the next day, even though that means starting over from scratch.

Pressed by the time, Yasenia feels she is losing the morning without achieving her goal. The discomfort is shared by some people in the line who, sitting on a doorstep or with their hands resting against the wall, channel their frustration by talking. “The bank closes at 12:00 noon, even when there are still customers out here. It doesn’t matter who is left without collecting their money or who has to spend a month just to get a form filled out. I know the bank employees want to leave early to deal with their personal matters, but then, who takes care of ours?” the young woman asks.

In San José de las Lajas, collecting a pension is no longer a monthly procedure but a daily battle. For many retirees, the money they are waiting for is not just income, but the difference between eating or not, between buying medicine or staying home enduring the pain. That is why they return to the bank again and again, wake up before dawn, and endure hours of waiting amid uncertainty, hoping that this time there will be enough cash.

Translated by Regina Anavy

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Small Businesses in Matanzas, Cuba, Are Closing Due to Falling Sales: People Look, but They No Longer Buy

“For Cuban pockets, the priority is food. Everything else has to wait.”

“Those who sell food are the ones most likely to survive.” / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Julio César Contreras,. Matanzas, March 22, 2026 / Taking stock of sales around noon, Yunia reviews a notebook where the numbers are written halfheartedly. The total doesn’t add up: barely 2,200 pesos all morning. Behind her, necklaces, bracelets, and keychains shine under a dim light that fails to attract customers. “No matter how much I try to promote the products, people come, look, and leave,” she says, without taking her eyes off the table.

At that small stand, a few blocks from Plaza de la Vigía, two eras intersect: that of a city that once lived off commercial bustle, and that of a present where every peso counts and is almost never enough. Yunia knows it. She also knows her stand is hanging by a thread. “It’s not my fault that a plastic broom costs 1,500 pesos, but in the end I’ll be the one who pays the consequences of these crazy prices,” she says. The business owner has already hinted that, if sales don’t improve, she herself will sit behind the table. For Yunia, that would mean losing her job.

Inflation, which gives no respite, has been pushing these small merchants into a kind of daily survival. Money loses value as quickly as prices rise, and what used to be a minor expense — a handbag, a decoration, a perfume — today competes directly with food. “For Cuban pockets, the priority is food. Everything else has to wait,” sums up Idael, an entrepreneur who recently closed her shop on Medio Street.

“Not even on dates like February 14 were there big profits.” / 14ymedio

Her story is not unique. For years she sold women’s clothing and men’s shoes in one of those spaces where constant foot traffic ensured customers. Today, that same flow has turned into a parade of glances that calculate, compare, and leave empty-handed. “There was a lot of money going out and very little coming in. Between rent, taxes, and merchandise, the numbers didn’t work,” she explains. The decision was drastic: she gave up continue reading

the license and left the premises.

Inside another store, not far away, a young woman rests her chin on her hand while watching the door. Around her, backpacks, underwear, and hygiene products share space on shelves that are full but motionless. The scene repeats itself: merchandise comes in but doesn’t go out. “Since the end of last year there’s been no need to restock anything,” Yunia comments. “Not even on dates like February 14 were there big profits.”

The city, meanwhile, seems to be slowing down. On streets like Milanés or Calzada de Tirry, activity drops sharply after midday. “Here, the little that gets sold happens at 1:00 in the afternoon . After that hour, this place is empty,” says another shopkeeper, who shares space in a large room with other trades that have been disappearing one by one. First it was the cellphone repairman, affected by blackouts that prevented him from working. Then the watchmaker. Then the jewelry seller. All of them closed.

She has held on, but only halfway. She has negotiated to pay only half a day’s rent for the space and has diversified her offerings over the limit of what is permitted. “My license doesn’t include selling hygiene products, but if I don’t take the risk, I’ll starve,” she admits. Thus, among handbags and wallets, she offers soap, toothpaste, and razors that end up being the most sought-after products.

The crisis has pushed many to reinvent themselves outside physical spaces. Idael, for example, now sells through social media. “I have a manager who posts on Facebook and Instagram. I pay her a commission for each sale,” she explains. Without a storefront, without fixed employees, and without the associated costs, she has managed to stay afloat. But she acknowledges that not everyone is as lucky. “Those who sell food are the ones most likely to survive.”

On a porch with brick columns, a young man scans a table full of perfumes, costume jewelry, and small imported items. He stops, picks up a bottle, asks the price, and puts it back. The gesture repeats at every counter. The walk is not for buying, it is for recognizing limits. Outside, the city continues at its slow pace, with fewer cars, fewer people, and less money circulating.

Yunia closes her notebook and puts away the pen. She looks again at the table, adjusts a bracelet, lines up some earrings. The gesture is almost automatic, a routine that tries to maintain order amid imbalance. “This used to guarantee sales,” she says, referring to the location of the shop. Today, it barely guarantees anything else than the certainty that, in an economy where the peso is worth less and less and prices keep rising, there is no one to buy what is not absolutely necessary.

Translated by Regina Anavy

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