Julio César Contreras – Page 2

Due to a Lack of Teachers in Cuba, Recess Is Permanent at a School in San José De Las Lajas

Staff shortages turn afternoons into lost teaching hours at Camilo Cienfuegos Elementary School

A grandfather approaches on his bicycle and chats with his granddaughter. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Julio César Contreras, San José de las Lajas, 23 December 2025 –At four in the afternoon, the air on Avenida 40 is thick with smoke in front of the Camilo Cienfuegos Elementary School in San José de las Lajas. Under the dense shade of the flamboyant trees, parents gather in front of the fence that separates the street from the inner courtyard. They balance patience and frustration as they watch the children run haphazardly among loose stones, puddles, abandoned backpacks, and trees with roots protruding from the ground. It doesn’t seem like school time. There are no blackboards or notebooks, only impromptu races, wads of paper, games of hide-and-seek, and noise. Lots of noise

Among the parents stands Marlén, her son’s uniform folded over her arm, her face weary. “When he’s not covered in dirt, his shirt’s missing a button,” she says, her gaze fixed on the little boy playing at the edge of the fence. “They force him to come in the afternoon, supposedly because he has classes, but most of the time they spend those two hours playing in the playground, with no one to supervise them, much less teach them.” Since last year, her son hasn’t had a regular teacher. What used to be routine now seems like improvisation: a school without teaching, a schedule without content.

Since last year, her son hasn’t had a regular teacher. What used to be routine now seems like improvisation.

The surrounding scenes confirm it. A grandfather approaches on his bicycle and, through the fence, talks to his granddaughter, who shows him a crumpled folder. Further on, a mother leans against the metal fence and barely blinks as she watches her daughter run after a group that has turned the courtyard into a maze. Two children are throwing small stones, another is juggling a stick, and a teenager, her headscarf undone, kicks up dust with her shoes that are no longer so white. A few meters away, the only teaching assistant who should be keeping order is looking at her phone screen.

Through the fence, the old painting of the school mural can be seen, almost erased by the sun / 14ymedio

“Before, there were teachers in every classroom here,” recalls Marlén, who studied there in the 1990s. Now, every day is marked by absences: there’s a lack of teaching staff, a lack of teachers, a lack of classes. And, meanwhile, those children who should be learning their multiplication tables, spelling, or reading comprehension spend hours in the sun, during an extended recess continue reading

that no parent asked for.

The school celebrated its 70th anniversary this year. It received a Lifetime Achievement Award from the local government. But none of that changes the scene that repeats itself every afternoon: first-grade students with no activities, no proper supervision, and no security. The state institution, founded in 1956 as the Eliodoro García School, seems to be stuck in an indefinite limbo.

A few meters away, the only teaching assistant who should be in control is looking at the screen on her phone.

“In their eagerness to change everything and solve nothing, the government has even lost the educators,” says Marino, the grandfather of a fifth-grade student. He speaks while waiting, bicycle in hand, for the main gate to open. “My granddaughter has to come in the afternoons five days a week, and they don’t even give her physical education. If this continues, I won’t bring her after noon anymore.”

Many family members arrive before four o’clock. They line up in front of the metal fence waiting for the dismissal signal, which should theoretically come at 4:20. Although they can see and even talk to the children from the street, the gate remains locked. “They make the rules arbitrarily, because the Ministry of Education mandates it, even though not even the teachers agree,” Marino insists.

While they wait, street vendors appear with sweets and cookies. A mother takes the opportunity to briefly feed her daughter through the fence, who complains about the school lunch menu: “What they serve here isn’t even fit for pigs,” she says bluntly.

Her daughter’s teacher, she says, is 67 years old and by 11:00 in the morning “she can’t do any more”

At the far end of the courtyard rises the building’s facade: columns, open corridors, and peeling walls. The flag seems small compared to the magnitude of the problem. Where there should be books, there is disorder; where the dictation of a prayer should be heard, there are shouts. “They’re trying to cover the teaching with university students,” says Marisol, who now takes care of two nephews because her sister emigrated. “The few old teachers who are still left are teaching because they have no other choice.” Her daughter’s teacher, she says, is 67 years old and by 11:00 in the morning “she can’t go on anymore.”

Through the fence, the old paint of the school mural is visible, almost faded by the sun. “Every day they come with the story that the teachers are asking for the parents’ help,” Marisol sighs. “That means bringing brooms, floor mats, chalk, money for the Teacher’s Day party… everything.” But what weighs most heavily on her isn’t the list of supplies, but what she sees every afternoon from the street: “The children doing everything but studying. And in the end, there’s no one to complain to.”

When the gate finally opens, the parents are able to hug their children. The yard is left behind, full of dust kicked up by the running.

The state institution, founded in 1956 as the Eliodoro García school, seems trapped in an indefinite pause today / 14ymedio

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Cuba’s Matanzas Business Fair: Lots of Hype, Little Substance

The owner of a local MSME — micro, small, or medium-sized enterprise — laments the exclusion of the most dynamic private companies from an event dominated by bankrupt state-owned enterprises.

The stands, lined up in an apathetic uniformity, offered little more than poorly printed banners. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Julio César Contreras, Matanzas, Cuba, December 15, 2025 — The Business Fair opened its doors in Matanzas like almost all official events in Cuba are announced: with institutional enthusiasm, grandiose headlines and promises of productive chains that, at least on paper, seemed capable of boosting the local economy. For three days, the former Palace of Justice – now under the administration of the Office of the Conservator – became the venue for the third edition of a meeting that intended to showcase business muscle and modernity. However, you only had to cross the threshold for the story to begin to unravel.

In the wide corridors, the echo of footsteps was more eloquent than any slogan. The stands, lined up in apathetic uniformity, offered little more than poorly printed banners, bottles of rum placed listlessly on decorative barrels, and tables where representatives sat waiting for an audience that never arrived. The contrast between the official account and reality was difficult to ignore.

“They gave participation to their companies and a few private ones that respond to their interests,” Karel, owner of an MSME dedicated to furniture manufacturing, told 14ymedio. Since the middle of the year, he had tried unsuccessfully to obtain an exhibition space. He submitted documents, described his business purpose, and met every requirement. The final response was a bureaucratic phrase: all capacities were covered. Walking around the fair, however, it was difficult to understand what those capacities were.

The decoration included state-owned companies and entities that survive thanks to the official monopoly on certain sectors. / 14ymedio

The province has 137 state-owned companies, more than 600 micro, small and medium-sized enterprises, almost 300 local development projects and tens of thousands of self-employed workers. That diversity was not reflected in the event. “Who are you supposed to form alliances with here?” Karel asked as he pointed to an empty stand. “I can’t even hang a banner with basic information about my business. This isn’t a fair, it’s a stage set.” continue reading

The decoration included, of course, the state-owned companies and entities that survive thanks to the official monopoly on certain sectors. The Banco de Crédito y Comercio (Bandec) and the Banco Popular de Ahorro occupied visible spaces, although their presence was limited more to promoting digital platforms than to solving specific problems. “I came because I read that they were going to hand out magnetic cards,” says Ania, a resident of the historic centre. “All they do is install Transfermóvil and EnZona. I’ve had those for a long time. There was no need to set up a fair for that.”

The aesthetics did not help much either. The exhibition stands seemed improvised, with no clear visual line or minimal effort to communicate efficiency. “If they give design awards here, they can give them to anyone,” said a university professor who walked around the venue with a sceptical look on her face. The woman gave up on calling her son to get banking advice: “This is not the place to talk about a serious loan.”

The Banco de Crédito y Comercio (Bandec) and the Banco Popular de Ahorro occupied visible spaces, although their presence was limited more to the promotion of digital platforms. / 14ymedio

Initially scheduled for October, coinciding with the anniversary of the founding of the city of Matanzas, the Fair was suspended at least twice. This organisational back-and-forth left a trail of mistrust among those invited. Some gave up on participating; others attended more out of curiosity than real expectations. The result was an event where one could walk around comfortably, something unthinkable in any space that truly connects supply and demand.

Meanwhile, the “window dressing” was evident. State-owned companies with supply problems, financial deficits or impaired services presented themselves as efficient cogs in a moving economy. Not even this self-promotion could hide the fact that many are bankrupt and others survive because there are no alternatives. In key sectors – banking, commerce, paperwork – the customer does not choose: they accept.

At the close, provincial authorities described the Fair as a business success, but for those who walked those aisles, the assessment is different. There was no real variety of services, no effective interrelation between economic actors, and no signs of an expanding productive environment. There was, however, a staging designed for the photo and the report.

The slogan for this edition was “Matanzas, more productive every day.” The phrase hung in the air, without tangible backing. Outside the Fair, the city continued to grapple with power cuts, shortages and businesses that survive in spite of the system, not because of it.

Translated by GH

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At the San José De Las Lajas Bus Stop, No One Shouts ‘Havana, Havana!’ Anymore

The ‘almendrones’ that used to travel the 30 kilometres to the capital have almost disappeared since prices rose from 20 to 500 pesos.

The boss doesn’t care how many trips have been made… he just wants to see the money / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Julio César Contreras, San José de las Lajas, Cuba, 27 November 2025 — Virginia is surprised by the silence. It is not complete silence—in Cuba it never is—but it is a strange silence, unfamiliar, uncharacteristic of the San José de las Lajas station. In front of the old train terminal, the building that seems to resist falling down while it is losing bits and pieces, there are hardly five or six people waiting. No one shouts “Havana, Havana!” or fights over seats as they did in the past. Even the parking attendants seem to have been struck dumb.

The woman asks who is last in line for the capital, with that tone that is half resignation, half urgency that you put on when you have a sick mother on the other side of the road. The wind carries the smell of stale fried food from the fast food kiosks, which are half empty today. On the street, oil stains form dark circles around the almendrones*, as if marking the territory of an endangered species. A silver one — perhaps a 1950s Dodge with customised wheels — gleams sadly under the cloudy sky.

“Before COVID, when the fare was 20 pesos, there was one car after another,” recalls Virginia. It is a simple, direct nostalgia that does not idealise the past but compares and concludes: this is worse, much worse. “First they put it up to 100, then to 200… and so on until it reached 500 pesos today.” She does not know all the reasons behind the increase, but she knows what hurts. “It is the people who pay for it,” she repeats.

Before COVID, when the fare was 20 pesos, there was one taxi after another.” / 14ymedio

Some 30 kilometres separate San José from Havana, but today they seem like a world apart. Inflation not only empties pockets: it also empties spaces. The taxi rank shows it. Passengers are scattered, in no hurry, knowing that rushing is pointless when there are hardly any continue reading

private taxis. On a corner, a tall man in a cap and blue jumper leans against the door of a car.

“Many of the drivers are not owners,” says a man of medium height, arms crossed and weather-beaten face, who claims to be first in line. “My cousin has to pay the owner 15,000 a day. The boss doesn’t care how many trips have been made… he just wants his money.” The phrase hangs in the air like a dry echo, a reminder that even a struggle has to be rented.

A few metres away, a blue truck adapted for public transport roars into life. Inside, people travel crammed together, their bodies trained to balance without falling. For many, this is the only option. Manuel, a self-employed worker, sums it up bluntly: “Here you spend an hour or two waiting for a vehicle, if it shows up. And when it does, there aren’t enough people to fill it and finally get it going.” He knows that for those who travel several times a week, paying 500 pesos is almost an insult.

Inside, people travel crammed together, their bodies trained to balance without falling. For many, this is the only option. / 14ymedio

A young man wearing a star-patterned cap checks his watch, while another man puts his backpack in the back seat of an old private taxi, waiting for more passengers willing to pay the high price for a trip to the Cuban capital. According to Manuel, after midday things get worse: taxis to Güines, if they show up at all, go up to 600 or even 700 pesos. And if you want to hire a whole car, the figure can reach 10,000. “Who can understand that?” he asks aloud, but no one answers because everyone understands, and that’s the problem.

Desperation begins to set in when a Chevrolet pulls into the forecourt. It is light blue, old but elegant. “Come on! Go and find 500 pesos!” shouts a parking attendant coming out of a kiosk, as if the mere presence of the car justifies rushing to pick up their bags. “Come on, taxi to Havana,” he adds, knowing that before the car is full, he will have already collected his commission.

Virginia sighs. The initial silence is gone: now it is filled with murmurs, impatience, the sound of the lorry driving away, the car park attendant repeating his line, the rattling of the old car as it revs its engine, the faint hope that the journey will start before midday.

In San José de las Lajas, the bus stop has always been a crossroads: of routes and of lives, but today it is also a hub where rising prices and the urgency to travel collide.

*Translator’s note: Many classic American cars continue to provide taxi service in Cuba, and are known as “almendrones”, a reference to their ‘almond shape.”

Translated by GH

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Cuba: Mosquitoes, Garbage, and Chikungunya Are Rampant in the Military Neighborhood of San José De Las Lajas

The municipality of Mayabeque is experiencing one of its worst hygiene crises in decades

In the streets—if you can even call these shreds of torn-up asphalt streets—the garbage forms mountains that seem to have taken root. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, San José de las Lajas (Mayabeque), Julio César Contreras, November 22, 2025 — At five in the afternoon, when a reddish light falls on the crumbling buildings of the Military Housing Complex in San José de las Lajas (Mayabeque), the same ritual occurs: doors close, windows are boarded up with cardboard, and neighbours hurry inside before the swarm of mosquitoes takes over the neighbourhood. There’s no need to look at the clock. The buzzing announces it.

In the streets—if you can even call these shreds of torn-up asphalt streets—trash forms mountains that seem to have taken root. Plastic bags, used diapers, food scraps, pieces of wood, and even broken furniture accumulate for days and weeks. A dog rummages through the garbage as if searching for an improbable treasure, while a neighbour rides by on a bicycle, dodging green puddles where the stagnant water reeks of feces and neglect.

San José de las Lajas is experiencing one of its worst sanitation crises in decades, but in the Military Housing Complex—an aging complex with inadequate infrastructure—the situation has reached unbearable levels. According to the official press in Mayabeque province, the province is seeing an increase in cases of fever associated with chikungunya and dengue, which has prompted “intensive fumigation efforts” in several municipalities. But these “efforts” have not reached their area, according to residents.

“The press says they’re using bazookas all over the city, but they haven’t come to my building.”

Orlando, a mechanical engineer and father of two, speaks to 14ymedio with a weariness evident in his eyes. “The press says they’re using bazookas [mosquito sprayers] all over the city, but they haven’t come to my building. Everyone in my house got it: first the boys, then my wife, and finally me. This virus finished us off.” continue reading

The neighbourhood, built decades ago by small groups of low-ranking officers, has changed drastically. “There’s hardly anyone left from those days,” says Orlando. “The military left, and now the civilians who remain get a garbage truck from the municipal services every three or four months. They come, empty a container—if it hasn’t been stolen—and leave. The rest of the garbage is left lying on the ground. Nobody picks up anything.”

The images tell the whole story: an improvised garbage dump stretching for meters, an overflowing container, and buildings whose facades have long since lost their color. On the ground, water forms puddles that resemble breeding grounds for the Aedes aegypti mosquito. The breeding grounds, say the residents, aren’t just outside. “Rotten pipes, cisterns without lids, rooftop tanks full of filth… that’s where they breed,” explains Orlando.

The disease is advancing like a shadow. “At least five buildings are sick. In mine, almost all of them,” the engineer estimates. “It’s a fence you can’t escape.”

The elderly woman claims that the delegate of People’s Power “is just a figurehead.”

Lucía, a retired woman who lives alone, displays a mixture of annoyance and resignation. She has called the local Communist Party headquarters, the government, and the municipal and provincial Public Health departments. “The answer is always the same: they’ll fumigate when the fuel arrives. I’ve been hearing that since August.” Finally, sick and exhausted, she opted for a paid solution: hiring a fumigator herself.

“I found him on Revolico, 600 pesos per visit. He came two days in a row with the bazooka. He told me himself that first he had to fumigate two blocks that were his responsibility near the East Polyclinic, and then he could come here. You can see how we are. I spent 1,200 pesos out of the 3,200 in my checkbook.”

The elderly woman asserts that the representative of the People’s Power “is just a figurehead.” She says it without anger, with the voice of someone exhausted from waiting for official solutions that never come.

Meanwhile, life in the Military Housing Complex is a succession of fevers, joint pain, vomiting, and sleepless nights. Every day, news breaks of someone else who has fallen ill. Outside, the children no longer play. The adults walk as best they can, their steps almost robotic due to the joint pain caused by chikungunya, their eyes fixed on the ground.

“The country that boasts of its medical prowess can’t even handle a mosquito.”

Authorities, for their part, report on television a decrease in cases and “greater vector control.” In practice, the epidemic remains out of control. Cuba’s Ministry of Public Health reported this Friday that 6,597 new cases of fever were registered the previous day, in addition to confirming 847 cases of dengue and 753 of chikungunya in a single day. Meanwhile, Durán explained, in his daily television address, that chikungunya, the main illness affecting the country, has now reached a total of 31,513 cases, including both confirmed and suspected cases.

“You feel embarrassed for them,” says Lucía. “A country that boasts of its medical prowess can’t even handle a mosquito.”

In the distance, a woman hangs a sheet out onto the balcony to dry. The wind carries a sour smell from the garbage. A truck drives by without stopping. The dog starts rummaging through the trash again. The neighbourhood settles into its routine of survival.

In the Military District, the only thing that moves with constant frequency is disease.

Translated by GH

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“Mission and Vision” of an Undersupplied Market in the City of Matanzas, Cuba

“If you want something, ask me and I’ll tell you if it’s available or not.”

Inside, the Ideal Market of Versailles, in Matanzas, shows its unvarnished reality. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Julio César Contreras, Matanzas, November 18, 2025 – At the entrance to the Versailles Ideal Market in Matanzas, the first impression is of a hastily assembled stage set. A sign welcomes customers with a list of 18 products: salt, sugar, rice, pork loin, oil… An inventory that, more than an offering, seems like an invocation. “They’re waiting here for some boss to visit,” Aurora, an elderly woman, quips ironically as she curiously examines the sign.

Inside, the shop reveals its stark reality: half-empty shelves, a few bottles of oil, a handful of cans of tomato sauce, seasoning packets, and jars of soy yogurt arranged more for decorative than commercial purposes. From behind the counter, the employee—looking weary—utters the phrase that shatters any illusion: “Ma’am, if you’d like something, just ask, and I’ll tell you if we have it or not.” Because in this market, the existence of certain products is real only in the ink on the sign.

Aurora presses on: “Do you have minced meat, mortadella, or chicken?” The response is a slow, decisive nod. “Maybe we’ll get some tomorrow,” the shop assistant murmurs. “It’s not certain. But come by and see what’s up.”

The place depends on the Matanzas Municipal Trading Company, which is experiencing fuel shortages that hinder the transport of goods.

The place depends on the Matanzas Municipal Trade Company, which is experiencing fuel shortages that hinder its ability to transport goods. The word “ideal” in its name has long since become a source of sarcasm for the locals. Marcelo, a father observing the scene from the entrance, sums up his experience: “The other day I bought four pounds of ground meat here, and it was spoiled because continue reading

they don’t have refrigeration; the refrigerator is broken.”

On the wall, two posters display the store’s “Mission” and “Vision,” hollow phrases in a place where even a simple “good morning” is rarely exchanged. Aurora finally buys a packet of cumin and tries to pay by bank transfer. The shop assistant responds with a smile that’s more of a warning than a friendly one: “It has to be cash.” Near the counter, a QR code promises to be a quick way to pay electronically. Just another sign out of touch with reality at the Versailles Ideal Market.

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Among Fries and Pizzas, the Kiosks Near the Hospital of Matanzas Sell All Kinds of Drugs

“Except for the blood for surgery, I had to buy everything else out here among the bread and jam”

“You can find aspirin made in Cuba and antidepressants from the United States. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Matanzas, Julio César Contreras, November 15, 2025 — As soon as the sun warms the pavement in front of the Faustino Pérez hospital in Matanzas, the sidewalk begins to fill with medical students, patients’ families and curious people who roam among the blue and red kiosks lined up on the street. The scene is familiar: a small hive where the smell of freshly made pizzas mixes with the noise of the mototaxis waiting for customers and the conversations of those looking for something to eat… or something much more urgent.

Sandra is one of them. After hours of trying to get from the hospital pharmacy tablets of paracetamol prescribed for her joint discomfort, she came out empty-handed. This Thursday she can be seen among the kiosks, adjusting her shoulder bag, breathing with exhaustion. “They are only giving some of the medicines to the hospitalized patients,” she says without imagining that, next to a juice and fries counter, she would find the solution that the public health system could not give her.

In one of these stalls, barely noticeable behind the poster for smoothies and pizzas, an employee holds a large bag where refreshments coexist with bottles of pills, blister packs and several packets of syringes. “She has vitamins, antibiotics and even needles,” says Sandra, while showing the 500 mg pack of paracetamol that she just bought for 900 pesos. “If I don’t do it like this, the pain kills me.” continue reading

“That’s why the government pharmacies are empty, because there is no one to control this illegal sale.” / 14ymedio

Sandra also needs Captopril for her mother, who has been unable to purchase it at the state pharmacy for more than six months. “I don’t have enough money to pay the 350 pesos that it costs there; otherwise I would have bought it.”

“Along with a malt I bought the suture thread for my wife’s operation,” says Leonardo, a butcher who knows the informal circuit well. “The surgeon himself told me where to go and who I had to see.” His words do not surprise anyone: many in that area have gone through the same thing. “Except for the blood for surgery, I had to buy everything else out here. Among the bread and jam, if you have the money anything appears.”

El costo total de los insumos para la cirugía de su esposa rondó los 5.000 pesos: seis pares de guantes desechables –“a 250 pesos cada uno, vendidos por un tipo que hace pan con minuta de pescado”–, más antibióticos, más soluciones salinas, más suturas. “El colmo”, cuenta, “después de ser operada, mi esposa tenía fiebre. Como en la sala no había un termómetro, vine directo para acá y compré uno en 2.300 pesos”.

The total cost of supplies for his wife’s surgery was around 5,000 pesos: six pairs of disposable gloves — “at 250 pesos each, sold by a guy who makes bread with fish fillets” — plus antibiotics, more saline solutions, more sutures. “Then,” he says, “after being operated on, my wife had a fever. Since there was no thermometer in the room, I came straight here and bought one for 2,300 pesos.”

“As there was no thermometer in the room, I came straight here and bought one for 2,300 pesos.” / 14ymedio

Laura, a third-year medical student, takes advantage of a break between patients to get her father’s urgently needed Amoxicillin. The young woman, in her white coat, converses with other students and carries a folded bill between her fingers. “I’m going to wait for some people to leave. I know who sells it. I always check the expiration date before buying,” she says.

She herself explains what sells in those kiosks: “You can find aspirins made in Cuba and antidepressants from the United States.” Nothing appears on the price boards: neither Loratadina, nor Cefalexina, nor Rosefin, but everyone knows that they are available… at the price of the day. “The medicines go up as much or more than the food. Many come to eat a pizza and end up buying pills. It’s an option.”

As Laura discreetly walks away, more students arrive, more family members wait, more salesmen arrange boxes or discreetly check inside their backpacks. Between pizzas, soft drinks and endless lines, there is everything here that the state pharmacies cannot offer.

Translated by Regina Anavy

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“Sometimes I Think This Pain Will Last Forever”

In Matanzas, patients with symptoms of chikungunya do not find relief in the line at the hospital

Patients despair for the lack of relief from pain that they feel will not go away. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Julio César Contreras, Mantanzas,November 13, 2025 — The corridor at the Faustino Perez hospital seems to have no end. The white light is reflected in the worn-out tiles, and the air is still, saturated with disinfectant and resignation. It is 8:00 am, and the line in front of the post-arbovirosis clinic now stretches to the end of the corridor. Among those who wait, a woman, walking slowly with bandaged knees and tired eyes, asks if this is where they attend the patients with chikungunya. Her name is Yolanda, and she is 59 years old. For two months she has barely managed to walk.

“Since I got the virus, I haven’t been able to leave my house,” she says, leaning against the wall. “The swelling and pain in my knees are terrible. No one has explained to me if there is a cure or if I will stay like this forever.” Other patients hear her and nod in silence. They all share the same evil: the long aftermath of a fever that went away but left a broken body.

Yolanda says that in the La Playa polyclinic, the doctor could only refer her to the hospital: “She didn’t have a prescription for me.” In her neighborhood, Facebook groups and Google searches have become the new consultation rooms. “You learn on your own, because if you wait for them to guide you, you die of pain,” she complains. After a while, she finds a seat on a metal bench. Sitting down with difficulty, she takes a deep breath and watches as the other patients move slowly, dragging their feet.

In front of the intake window, the scene repeats itself: faces of fatigue, moans of pain and an employee who notes down names on an endless list. The health system tries to maintain the protocol, but the shortcomings are visible. Doctors repeat continue reading

the same recommendations over and over again –rest, painkillers, compresses — while patients look for answers.

The line in front of the post-arboviral consultation room now stretches to the end of the corridor. / 14ymedio

Tania, with swollen hands and red fingers, has been like this for five weeks. “I took a taxi from Limonar to get here, only to be told to take paracetamol,” she says. She was treated by three doctors, but none seemed to look beyond her file. “They talked to each other about their stuff, and in the end asked me if I had any risk factors. They don’t even know what virus I had. I spent eight days in bed without being able to get up. And now I arrive and leave the same way: no diagnosis and no relief.”

In the waiting room, an elderly woman wears a white robe printed with flowers and holds a phone in her hand. “Sometimes I think this is a test of endurance,” she whispers. She is accompanied by a young man who barely looks up. “Here the only thing that works without interruption are the lines,” she adds with an attempt at humor.

Sergio, a 52-year-old carpenter, managed to get a turn by calling the registration department directly. “Since the end of August I haven’t been able to pick up a hammer,” says this worker who makes baby furniture and cribs, rubbing his swollen hands. “I have spent more than 20,000 pesos on medicines, and neither paracetamol nor prednisone has worked for me.” The man speaks without anger, but with a resigned sadness. “I tried ice, exercises, massages… The only thing left is acupuncture. I don’t know if it will work, but I don’t have another option.” The silence of the corridor is interrupted by moans. Someone moves around in a wheelchair, another calls for help to find the consultation room.

The silence of the corridor is interrupted by moans. Someone moves around in a wheelchair, another calls for help to find the consultation room.

The most heard words are “rest” and “patience.” However, in the gestures of the sick there is more fatigue than hope. Arbovirosis has gone from being a seasonal news item to becoming a chronic disease of Cuban life. Not just for the viruses but for what comes with them: the after-effects and limitations to resume normal life.

Yolanda gets up when she hears her name. “At least today they will see me,” she says, although she knows that there will not be a treatment other than the one she already knows. Before entering, she says goodbye to those who are still waiting. “Beware of the mosquito,” she recommends with a faint smile.

When she leaves, more than a half-hour later, the line remains, with the same faces next to others who have arrived with similar symptoms. Only the time has changed. “I was told that I have to continue taking the same medications,” she says. She walks slowly towards the exit, clinging to the wall. “Sometimes I think this pain will last forever.”

Outside the hospital, the traffic noise reminds her that the day continues. “I’m going to take a taxi and go back home. I’ve done what I had to do.” She adjusts her backpack, takes a deep breath and crosses the street with slow and clumsy steps.

Translated by GH and Regina Anavy

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San José De Las Lajas, a Cuban City Condemned To Live Without Electricity

Every night, the neighbors gather around a small business with a halo of light and a glimmer of internet thanks to a generator.

Burger joint on the boulevard in San José de las Lajas (Mayabeque). / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Julio César Contreras, San José de las Lajas (Mayabeque, Cuba), November 6, 2025 — The clock strikes eight and San José de las Lajas has been swallowed by the night. Since the time change, with the blackouts that last more than ten hours at a time, the town sinks into a darkness so dense that even the dogs fall silent. Only a faint glow, that of the hamburger stand on the boulevard, breaks the blackness. The establishment’s generator, rented from a private individual, hums like a tired heart, powering two light bulbs and a small freezer.

“When I was coming here on my bike, I hit a pothole in front of the Cultural Plaza. I almost fell, but when there’s no electricity, this is the only place I can contact my daughter,” says David, a 58-year-old resident trying unsuccessfully to send a WhatsApp message. “The Etecsa tower is nearby, but the connection is terrible. They imposed the tarifazo [massive price hike], and we’re still having the same problems,” he laments.

The scene repeats itself every night: groups of people approach, seeking light, internet, or company. Some arrive with phones in hand, others simply weary from the day. The gloom thickens outside the illuminated circle. No one sits by the dry fountain, from which a sour smell rises. “On those dark benches, there might be a couple kissing or a mountain of garbage,” says David, gazing into the shadows. continue reading

The sign says ‘Hamburger Stand,’ but there’s no bread or hamburger. All they sell is Mayabe beer, cola, and some cookies.

An elderly man crosses the threshold between light and darkness, asking for twenty pesos for food. A woman teaches the multiplication tables to a little girl, taking advantage of the dim light that allows her to do her homework. In the background, the employees of the establishment move about leisurely. “This doesn’t look like a business, it looks like a refuge,” comments Samuel, a young man who arrived with two friends. “The sign says ‘Hamburger Stand,’ but there’s no bread or hamburger. The only things they sell are Mayabe beer, cola, and some cookies.”

Samuel shrugs his shoulders and smiles resignedly. “Inefficiency is everywhere, in the government and among private individuals too. They don’t know how to take advantage of the fact that people spend part of the blackout here. They could sell anything they wanted, and they don’t.” His criticism, somewhere between bitter and mocking, elicits nods of agreement from those around him. No one argues.

The employee listens from behind the counter. “The generator barely has enough power for the freezer and two light bulbs,” she explains. “At least this way we can see each other, even if it’s just within these five or six meters. Everything else in town is dark.” She’s been working all day, and even so, she prefers not to go home alone: ”My husband can’t come pick me up, and I’m afraid to walk in this darkness. Once, someone followed me to the corner.”

As she speaks, the murmur of the crowd grows. Some argue about the dollar’s exchange rate on the black market, others check their mobile phone balances. Someone mentions that the blackout began at eight in the morning. “And there’s still no sign that the power will be restored,” he adds. Statistics from the last month confirm this: according to data from the National Electric Union, the generation deficit has exceeded 1,500 megawatts per day. In Mayabeque, the outages often last up to 12 continuous hours.

Beyond the small illuminated circle, the night returns to a deep gloom in San José de las Lajas.

The province is no exception to the national pattern: blackouts, paralyzed domestic life, and a negative impact on businesses. In municipalities like Güines and San Nicolás, business owners report that generators are insufficient to keep food refrigerated.

On the Lajero boulevard, the scene confirms this diagnosis. A group of young people gather around a makeshift table. “People come here more for the light than the beer,” says a young man who looks to be no more than twenty, laughing. The dim glow illuminates sweaty faces, phones with barely a sliver of battery left, and plastic cups. The mosquitoes do their part: “If you stay home, they’ll devour you,” another one sums up.

Beyond the small illuminated circle, the night returns to a deep gloom. The bicycle taxi stand, across from 40th Avenue, begins to empty. “This looks like the mouth of a wolf,” a man murmurs as he turns on his flashlight to cross the street.

No one knows when the power will return or which circuit will be “benefitted” first. The electric company only issues vague statements in its Telegram group. “They say it’s due to a lack of fuel, but the problem is that this has become the norm,” says the employee as she pours a room-temperature soft drink. At home, another task awaits: washing her son’s school uniform. “Let’s hope they restore some power before tomorrow.”

Around eleven o’clock, the generator’s sound fades. A thick silence spreads through the town. “The generator’s gone,” someone says, and darkness envelops everything. The few remaining residents get up slowly. In the shadows, San José de las Lajas disappears completely.
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“I Don’t Know Where People Get the Dollars, But They’re Buying Them in Bulk”

Eggs imported from Brazil are priced in dollars in San José de las Lajas and sold in minutes.

Someone asks the price, another complains, and a third decides to take five cartons, with 30 units each. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Julio César Contreras, San José de Las Lajas (Mayabeque)/ The white lights of the La Época market in San José de las Lajas, Mayabeque, illuminate the rows of eggs stacked on the counter. Arriving customers observe and consider their options. Someone asks the price, another complains, and a third decides to buy five cartons, each containing 30 eggs. “I don’t know where people get the dollars, but they buy them in bulk,” confesses an employee at one of the two state-run stores in the municipality that sell their products in US currency.

The price—$5.25 per carton—is equivalent to about 2,572 pesos, according to the informal exchange rate reported daily by El Toque. If paying in cash, customers must hand over six dollars and they receive their change in candy. “Since I don’t have a Classic card, I have no other choice,” protests Tamara, a retiree who has brought a small plastic container to protect the eggs.

“These days in San José, eating an egg is a luxury, not only because of the price, but because they’re nowhere to be found.” Her purchase, which she’ll share with a friend, she tells 14ymedio, will allow her to have lunch for a few days. “The cost is equivalent to more than a third of my pension. You can’t buy five or six eggs; you have to buy the whole carton.” continue reading

“The cost is equivalent to more than a third of my pension. You can’t buy five or six units, you have to take the whole carton.”

The images inside the market, operated by the state-run Tiendas Caribe chain, speak for themselves: shelves full of wine, mayonnaise, imported cookies, and eggs with commercial labels in English and Portuguese. The boxes clearly state their origin: Brazil. The promised “food sovereignty” has yet to materialize, and the data reveals that Cuba has had to import increasing amounts of this product, primarily from the Dominican Republic and Brazil.

Last August, the state-run newspaper Trabajadores described the current situation as the worst in 60 years, noting that in just three decades Cuba’s egg production plummeted from 2.717 billion in 1991 to only 385 million in 2024. Traditionally egg-producing provinces, such as Mayabeque, have seen their output plummet by more than 60%. Poultry farms, plagued by feed shortages and frequent power outages, are barely managing to meet domestic consumption.

“Even money can’t solve the problem sometimes, because the shortages are total,” says Vladimir, a resident who pays in dollars thanks to the help of his sister who emigrated. “The refrigerators are empty for most of the month, and the stores that only accept MLC (freely convertible currency) are even worse,” the lajero admits.

In the Cuban diet, eggs have become the emergency animal protein: they replace pork, chicken, and fish.

In the Cuban diet, eggs have become the emergency animal protein: they replace pork, chicken, and fish, all of which are increasingly expensive, in a country where this October a pound of pork steak reached 1,000 pesos. But eggs aren’t cheap either: today a carton of 30 costs almost half the average monthly salary—about 6,500 pesos—a proportion that illustrates the crisis without needing additional figures. “Cartons of eggs are being sold on the street for up to 3,000 pesos, but that is when you can find them,” says Vladimir.

In the aisles of the La Época market, a mixture of resignation and routine hangs in the air. No one argues, no one smiles. Each customer carries their carton as if it were something fragile and precious, a relic that will soon vanish. Outside, the heat beats down on the sidewalk, but inside, the air conditioning continues to hum above the well-lit shelves. For a few minutes, before the eyes of those arriving and seeing the stacks of the sought-after product, the scarcity seems to have been suspended. Then someone asks if there will be eggs next week, and the employee replies without looking up: “No one knows that.”

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The Agricultural Fair in San José de las Lajas, Cuba, is Shrinking Every Day

With colorful awnings, balloons and recorded music, the initiative is reduced to a few platforms with wilted and reheated soupy food.

An agricultural fair with anemia, in one of Cuba’s most agricultural provinces, is a painful irony. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Julio César Contreras, San José de las Lajas (Mayabeque), October 22, 2025 / The sun beats down on Avenida 40 in San José de las Lajas, Mayabeque, where a row of colorful awnings attempts to shade the shortages. Beneath the tarps, vendors fan themselves with pieces of cardboard, and shoppers amble along, carrying bags, umbrellas, and bottles of water. It is the third Saturday of the month, the day of the Provincial Agricultural Fair, although at first glance, you wouldn’t think the word “provincial” is so inappropriate.

The balloons tied to the tents fail to disguise the poverty of the scene. At one end, a blackboard announces the specials at La Casona kiosk: a soup for 40 pesos, a small pizza for 150, a pound of pre-boiled spaghetti with nothing added for 150. Behind the counter, the Cuban flag serves as a backdrop, and a small fan struggles to move the thick air.

“Anyone who wants to buy something good has to come early,” says Victor, a man who is already leaving with just a few yuccas and a bunch of plantains, speaking to 14ymedio. “At ten in the morning, this place is a desert,” he adds. “All that remains is what no one wanted.”

Years ago, he recalls, the fair took up six or seven blocks, from Camilo Cienfuegos School to the Youth Computer Club. Now, it only takes two to cover the entire area. “Before, there were trucks full of food, pallets of fresh produce, even pork. But with the price caps, the farmers don’t bring anything anymore. They come to comply,” explains the continue reading

university professor, wiping his sweat with a handkerchief.

Residents come more out of routine than hope. / 14ymedio

An agricultural fair with anemia, in one of Cuba’s most agricultural provinces, is a painful irony. But in San José de las Lajas, they’ve learned, through empty platforms and sky-high prices, that it’s not enough to select a space, give a rimbombante [flashy] name to a market day, and proclaim in the local media that there will be “a multitude of options” of available food.

In another tent in the run-down place, blue tarps flap over an empty table. The woman serving sighs. “If only we had electricity, we could sell cold sodas.” The phrase is lost in the murmur of recorded music distorted from a speaker. Neighbors come closer more out of routine than hope.

Nixa, a housewife from Mayabeque, examines some yuca with a distrustful expression. “At 17 pesos a pound, it’s not bad… if it were good,” she says, adding, after scanning the surroundings: “No rice, no beans, no oil. And this is a provincial fair? All they have here are squash and papayas, and all from the same truck in Güines.”

A few meters away, a man on a bicycle weaves through the crowd. He carries an empty plastic crate on the rear rack: he’ll use it if he can get his hands on some eggs. “I went to have a beer in the tent of El Chino restaurant,” he says, “but it wasn’t even cold.” “When I came to check, the eggs were gone. This can’t be fixed.”

A truck parked in front of a house sells the last bunches of plantains while a group of women discuss the price. / 14ymedio

It’s eleven o’clock, and the heat forces people to seek shade. People protect themselves with umbrellas, some rest on the sidewalk curbs. The air smells of stale fried food and reheated broth. The vendors, resigned, begin to clear away. A truck, parked in front of a house, sells the last bunches of plantains while a group of women argue over the price. Behind them, a girl holds an empty bag, watching everything disappear.

Five blocks closed to traffic, yet two would be enough to contain the entire fair. The music keeps playing, but no one dances. “This doesn’t feed anyone,” says Félix before walking away. “People come looking for food, not reggaeton or rum. What they need isn’t for sale.”

As the sun sets, vehicular traffic starts up again on Avenida 40. Balloons hang limply, awnings come down, and the smell of burnt grease mingles with the dust. The fair fades, like so many other things in Cuba, leaving behind an echo of exhaustion and a handful of empty bags.

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The Dentists at a Clinic in Matanzas, Cuba, Have Disappeared

A patient in pain discovers that no one is caring for her any more

The woman waiting to be seen presses the ice cubes against her left cheek and looks up at the ceiling. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Julio César Contreras, Matanzas, October 18, 2025 — At the “César Escalante” Dental Clinic in the city of Matanzas, not even the characteristic smell of the dentist remains. The echo of the hallways replaces the hum of the switched-off equipment, and the silence is broken only when a frustrated patient leaves, despairing. Despite its status as a teaching center, not a single student can be seen wandering through its halls, where generations of dentists were once trained.

On the corner of Zaragoza and Contreras, the establishment—which should serve more than 19,000 people—looks empty. “I found the reception empty and the hallways deserted; it gives the impression of abandonment,” a Matanzas resident told 14ymedio. This Wednesday, she arrived with a damaged tooth and a cloth with some ice cubes, almost melted, to help her cope with the sharp pain caused by an inflamed nerve.

With her eyes turned upward every time the intense discomfort escalated, the patient ran into a young woman after a while who informed her that they were only seeing urgent cases. “In the end, I couldn’t tell if I was talking to an employee or a patient because I had nothing to identify her,” she says, unsure whether her situation would fall under the “urgent” category. continue reading

“We’re practically working the same way we did a century ago.” / 14ymedio

To ensure treatment, she has arrived with some supplies that are in short supply at the facility. “I brought sterile gloves, gauze, lidocaine, and a syringe with one of those little needles you use for your mouth,” she explains to this newspaper. A roll of ham and cheese, wrapped in paper, and a cola complete the supplies she keeps in her bag. “In case the person treating me hasn’t been able to eat lunch,” she adds.

For the staff, the critical situation at the clinic, including prolonged power outages and a lack of dental supplies, is a serious problem. “The dissatisfaction is not only felt by the public, but also by those of us who love our profession. We’re practically working the way we did a century ago,” acknowledges a dentist who mostly goes to work “to waste time because there’s either no electricity or no water.”

Virtually all the doors are closed and unmanned. / 14ymedio

In the long hallway leading to the consulting rooms, virtually all the doors are closed and unstaffed. A few years ago, the dreaded sound of dental drills, the clatter of metal instruments, and the dentist’s voices urging a patient in pain to calm down would come from inside those cubicles. All of that is missed amid the silence that now pervades the entire room.

The woman waiting to be seen presses the ice cubes against her left cheek and stares at the ceiling. Her lips move in a very low prayer. A murmur in which she asks for someone in a white coat, a smile on their face, and the ability to take away the pain that keeps her from sleeping or living.

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Even Natural Remedies are Disappearing From Cuban Pharmacies

“They don’t have any jars on the shelves, they don’t have anything”, say people who just want some plant-based syrups

Pharmacies of natural or alternative remedies that are well stocked with products are already a rarity in Cuba. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Julio César Contreras, Matanzas, 29 July 2025 (delayed translation) – A sign with huge capital letters saying “NO ENTRY” stops Ramón in his tracks as he approaches the door of the natural medicine chemist on Calle Milanés / 2 de Mayo in Matanzas. It’s not that he expected some modern shining establishment, but the accumulated dust on the windows, the cardboard signs hanging from a shabby table and the disinterested expression of the assistant, more absorbed in their phone, all give the impression of abandonment rather than a thriving health establishment.

“I’m looking for some ginger syrup for my digestive problem”, he says, quietly, as though asking for something clandestine. The reply comes back as hard as his stomach discomfort: “There isn’t any”. Ramón isn’t surprised. “If national sugar production isn’t even enough to meet normal everyday consumption needs, how can you expect it to be enough to make natural medicines?”, he says, more resigned than annoyed.

“If national sugar production isn’t even enough to meet normal everyday consumption needs, how can you expect it to be enough to make natural medicines?”

In the glass cabinets where there ought to have been jars containing extracts, packets of infusions or plant-based creams, the only thing to be seen are hand-written signs, some wrinkled up, others faded by the sun. The prices – still containing cents – are a rarity in a country with hyperinflation: sour broom extract at 6.67 pesos, rosemary, 12.67, plantain, 3.00. But the signs that have not yet been removed from the wall are like ghosts: products that used to be on sale but are no longer available and possibly never will be. The assistant, without looking up, mumbles that they can’t be produced for lack of raw materials. No jars, nor sugar nor alcohol. Nor technicians in the lab that remains closed like a poorly conserved continue reading

museum piece.

Consumers find low prices irrelevant if the products aren’t available. / 14ymedio

Miguel, another regular customer, came in search of camomile syrup, the only thing of its kind remaining in the shop. Beset by a dry cough, he recalls that: “they used to make the medicines themselves right here. There was a good variety and there was good customer treatment. All that’s gone now and there’s no courtesy to make you feel you’re at least being attended to”. As a regular consumer of the cough syrup Imefasma – the classic natural extract of ginger and honey – he complains that there aren’t even any containers to put it in. “They don’t have any jars, they don’t have anything”, he says. “What good are low prices if there’s nothing available to buy?”

The outlook for this small pharmacist reflects a more general, and major, collapse. According to official data, more than 70% of basic medications were affected in 2024 and the situation has been getting worse. Of 651 products reviewed, 461 are either unavailable or have only limited availability. And the problem extends to natural remedies too, which were earlier promoted by the authorities as “sovereign” alternatives in the face of the pharmaceutical industry crisis.

In provinces such as Camagüey the authorities have admitted publically that the production of onion, oregano and honey syrups has suffered along with the collapse of the national sugar cane crop

In provinces such as Camagüey the authorities have admitted publicly that the production of onion, oregano and honey syrups has suffered along with the collapse of the national sugar cane crop. The annual target of 370,000 jars of Imefasma has barely reached 26%. And more generally, only 56% of planned natural medication production has been achieved. The health authorities, which in earlier times incentivised the sowing of medicinal plants, are now seeing empty pharmacies gathering dust and traditional formulas disappearing from the laboratories.

To all of this is added the problem of electricity. The pharmacy on Calle Milanés / 2 de Mayo, like many others, cannot stock anything that requires refrigeration. The sentence “come back next month” has lost all logical sense after the months have rolled by and the shop windows remain empty. Some patients go into the mountains in search of plant leaves, others resign themselves to homemade infusions. “We’ll have to look for the herbs ourselves or die for lack of remedies”, says one lady leaving the shop empty handed.

Translated by Ricardo Recluso

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Matanzas, Cuba: “If You Want a Rental With Guaranteed Running Water, It Won’t Go For Less Than 20,000 Pesos a Month”

Between price increases and payments in dollars, Maura and her granddaughter carry their lives on their shoulders every few months in Matanzas.

Most landlords in Matanzas now require rent payments in dollars, even though the average salary barely exceeds 6,000 pesos. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Julio César Contreras, Matanzas, Cuba, September 23, 2025 — The boxes still hold clothes, and in one corner some kitchen utensils are piled up. Maura and her granddaughter’s life fits into suitcases and bags, always ready for the next move. Living from rental to rental means never completely unpacking, because all it takes is for the owner to raise the price, or decide to repossess their home, for the routine to once again become domestic exile. The rise of the dollar on the informal market has caused the price of other people’s housing to skyrocket.

In just six months, Maura has had to move twice. This Sunday, at age 64, the woman set out again to explore the neighborhoods of Matanzas in search of a space that meets their basic needs. “The only way to find something is like this, walking and asking around,” she says with resignation. She left her small house in the town of Carlos Rojas behind a long time ago. “There’s no future for my daughter there, and she’s studying at the university. My daughter, the one in the United States, is the one who pays the rent. But even with that help, we’ve had to look for something cheaper: we barely have enough for the basics.”

continue reading

In March, it seemed like luck was on her side: she managed to rent a detached house in Peñas Altas for 15,000 pesos a month. However, just a month and a half later, the landlord showed up demanding a rent increase of $50, a little over 21,000 pesos at the current exchange rate. “The house barely had the basics, and the worst part was that he gave us ten days to come up with the payment. Otherwise, we’d have to leave. In the end, we had to pack everything up again. Today, a similar place, with one bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, small living room, and a few appliances, costs twice as much,” she laments.

“Between my girlfriend and I, we earn 12,000 pesos a month, and that’s barely enough to live on in La Marina.”

The situation isn’t unique. Yordan, who moved from Jovellanos to work for an MSME [micro, small, medium-sized enterprise], knows the rules of the game well. “Between my girlfriend and me, we earn 12,000 pesos a month, and that’s barely enough to live on in La Marina,” he says. His rental: a house with a zinc roof, was handed over empty. “We even had to bring the bed. Now the owner asks for two months’ advance, but if we find something before then, we’ll leave. It’s a mess,” he admits.

The couple has found, during their search, that prices are rising overnight. “A month ago, we saw a small house near the pediatric ward: they were asking 8,000 pesos, and now it’s going for 10,000. It only has one room, one bed, and an electric stove, but the power doesn’t go out there often. That makes it expensive,” Yordan explains. The water supply is another factor: “Where we are, we have to store it, because they turn it on every four or five days. If you want a rental with guaranteed running water, it doesn’t go for less than 20,000 pesos a month.”

Without contracts, tenants are at the mercy of their landlords. Most now demand payment in dollars, even though the average salary barely exceeds 6,000 pesos. “I work in Versalles and I can’t even dream of living there,” adds Yordan. “Small houses cost $100, and the best-equipped ones, $150. Besides, since it’s an illegal business, there are no signs: they get it through contacts, almost secretly.”

Some opt for a desperate solution: sharing a roof with almost strangers to share expenses.

At the same time, scams are proliferating. Sandra, a nursing student, knows this from experience. “They post rentals on social media. When you write to them, they tell you that to access a WhatsApp group with many listings, and you have to pay between 500 and 1,000 pesos. Then you realize it’s a trap: they post two or three houses a week, with fake phone numbers. I fell for it once, it was enough,” she says.

The young woman, a third-year student, is looking for a room near Faustino Pérez Hospital, fed up with the appalling conditions of the student residence. “The most I can pay is 10,000 pesos. But if I convert it, that’s barely $24. And with the peso falling every day, everything is more difficult.”

Some opt for a desperate solution: sharing a roof with near-strangers to share expenses. Sandra doesn’t rule out doing so with a school friend. “Anything,” she says, “rather than continuing in a bunk bed, eaten away by mosquitoes, unable to shower, and hungry.”

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At the Vigia Cafe in Matanzas, Cuba, There Is No Longer Any Beer Nor Roast Chicken, and Neither Are There Any Friends Left

Idael returns to the café he’s known all his life and finds, to his indignation, that all they have to offer are toilets with no water, and even that costs 20 pesos

Plaza de la Vigía, where the café is situated, suffers from constant power cuts and the clientele has diminished. / Facebook / Fotos de Matanzas

14ymedio, Julio César Contreras, Matanzas, 23 August 2025 – Until he emigrated to Spain seven years ago Idael used to meet up with friends at the Vigía café on the square of the same name in Matanzas. That colonial building, with its wide entrance way and tall pillars was a refuge of shared beers and nighttime meals – which avoided the need to switch on the cooker at home. Today, visiting his native city, the IT engineer was hoping to relive these scenes but the half open doors of the establishment seem to indicate that time has not been merciful.

“My parents helped me to learn to walk right here on this wooden lounge floor, and later I used to lift my own son up onto one of the toy horses here”, he remembers, as he observes the staff members in the doorway, distracted, talking about anything but work. One of them asks him, almost with indifference, if he would like anything, as though he was speaking to a stranger, an intruder. No chalkboard here showing special offers of the day, nor any hustle and bustle of clientele: only tables occupied by people taking advantage of the shade, with nothing available to eat.

Looking inside, Idael sees a man seated in the half light of the lounge. “I asked him if I could use the toilets and he told me it would cost me 20 pesos”, he says. And then he realized that all that the Vigía had to offer had been reduced to a toilet and a washbasin with no water. Shortly after, another employee explained that there was no beer, because the place had been without power since the early hours. The coffee machine was broken and all they had were a few fruit juices past their sell by date: an interminable list of what used to be and now no longer is.

No chalkboard here showing special offers of the day, nor any hustle and bustle of clientele: only tables occupied by people taking advantage of the shade, with nothing available to eat. / 14ymedio

The scene infuriates the visitor. “The government ought to give these places over to private ownership who would make them productive”, he complains. “Here you have a bunch of workers who don’t produce anything, earning a miserable wage for opening up at nine and shutting at four. continue reading

Where’s the economical purpose in that? Are they just waiting for the roof to fall in so they can close it down for good?” His questions resound around the cracked walls and the empty tables.

The area around Plaza de la Vigía, where the café is located, doesn’t help either: there are frequent power cuts, a lack of nighttime security and an overall ambience that has been deteriorated by the theft of such things as sound systems and general decoration. The surroundings themselves scare off any potential visitor as much as does the general inertia of a place that seems condemned to be forgotten.

For Idael, what remains is barely even a faded postcard. The Vigía is no longer the meeting place that brought together locals from any profession or salary: “The 20 pesos that used to be enough to get you a Mayabe beer will only be enough to use the toilet today”, he says bitterly. “There’s no Congrí rice or roast chicken anymore. Only silence, a silence that hurts”.

And perhaps what hurts the most is that all the friends are gone. All of them, like himself, have gone.

The Vigía is no longer the meeting place that brought together locals from any profession or salary. / 14ymedio

La Vigía ya no es el punto de encuentro que reunía a vecinos de cualquier oficio o salario. / 14ymedio[/caption]

Translated by Ricardo Recluso

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In Matanzas, a Teacher Swapped Chalk for Bricks To Build Her Own House

Yadira accepted a job as an official in the municipal construction union

This week, 98,000 students began the school year in Matanzas, but with poor teacher coverage. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Julio César Contreras, Matanzas, September 6, 2025 — Last Monday, Yadira was not in the classroom with her students, as she had been every year since graduating as a comprehensive general teacher in 2003. “Leaving teaching has been one of the most difficult decisions of my life, but I am tired of teaching being a profession so undervalued and poorly paid in this country,” says the teacher, who worked at two primary schools in Matanzas. After many years of sacrifice, she decided to change jobs.

Her new job as a municipal construction union employee will not earn her much more, but it will give her something she values more: free time for her family and access to building materials. She lives with her three children in Matanzas, while trying to finish her house, which was started in 2011 and still has a dirt floor. “I agreed to come in 2008 from Bayamo because they promised me a house that never arrived,” she explains to 14ymedio.

The provincial education landscape shows the cracks in the system. This week, 98,000 students began the school year in Matanzas, but with a deficient teaching coverage: of a planned staff of 9,511 places, only 7,478 have been covered. According to the provincial deputy director of education, Eledis Abreu Domech, the gap of more than 2,000 teachers is filled by hourly contracts and other patches. The most affected municipalities are Matanzas, Colón and Cárdenas.

The deficit is due not only to low wages but also to the very poor living conditions, especially the housing

The deficit is due not only to low wages but also to the very poor living conditions, especially the housing for those who have been transferred from other provinces to teach in the city. Yadira recalls spending three years in a teacher’s shelter, washing her clothes by hand and eating continue reading

whatever appeared, until members of her Baptist church helped her to get a small plot of land and to build one room of her own house.

Frustration accumulated: “It is not just the salary. Between absurd meetings and prohibitions, it is impossible to teach quality classes,” complains the woman.

According to the most recent salary scale, Yadira should receive 5,369 pesos plus an 80-peso seniority bonus. “I can’t support my children with that. I’m a single mother, and at 44 I still depend on the help of my parents,” she laments. She is thinking of doing private tutoring at home, something forbidden while working in the school.

Although in her new union job she will earn 400 pesos less, she gets more autonomy, less bureaucracy, more time for her family, and she can have time to be a leader in her Baptist Church. “I will try to continue working for the State, but I will not accept impositions against my faith or personal development. If something positive comes out of this decision it is that I will never work for someone who does not value my effort.”

As an added bonus, her new job brings her closer to a source of construction resources that can accelerate the completion of her home. As a teacher, it was virtually impossible for Yadira to buy anything, from electrical switches to sacks of cement, to complete a project that has already cost her more than a decade of work and worry.

During her work as a teacher, she felt that attention to the teaching staff was one of the great shortcomings of the Cuban educational system. The teachers’ list of duties is long, but the stimulus remains in some diploma or official act where they are given a flower or a picture with the face of some party leader. This lack of interest does not correspond to the importance that people like her have in the formation of new generations.

Yadira admits that she would like to return to teaching one day but finds it increasingly difficult: “They are running out of teachers, and the worst is that they do nothing to prevent it. It’s as if they don’t care,” she concludes.

Translated by Regina Anavy

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