Julio César Contreras – Page 2

The Ghost Gas Station of Peñas Altas in Matanzas, Cuba

Without fuel since February, rumors are circulating that this service station will soon switch to dollars, as is happening throughout the country.

An improvised chain surrounds the pumps, and the place is dominated by silence. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Julio César Contreras, Matanzas, March 11, 2026 – Under a cloudless sky, the two fuel pumps at the Cupet station in Peñas Altas, Matanzas, look more like an abandoned facility than a functioning service station. An improvised chain surrounds the pumps and silence dominates the place. No lines, no impatient drivers, no usual smell of gasoline in the air.

The lack of fuel keeps the service station’s equipment practically unused, and the employees pass the time chatting while waiting for the end of their workday.

“Since last month I haven’t seen the tanker truck unload fuel here,” a motorcyclist watching the scene from a nearby cafe tells 14ymedio. His motorcycle rests against the curb while he keeps an eye on the Cupet station with a mixture of resignation and distrust.

According to the young man, this gas station was for years a mandatory refueling point for buses carrying workers to and from Varadero. The Yutong buses of the National Bus Company, whose repair workshop is located just a few meters away, also refueled here.

Today, however, the place remains almost empty. The province of Matanzas has the largest number of gas stations open in the country, but they sell fuel in dollars, operate with only a few shifts per day, and have strict orders not to dispense more than 20 liters per person.

“Until now, this Cupet sold in national currency,” the motorcyclist adds. Then he lowers his voice, as if sharing a secret everyone already knows. “But they say that very soon they will dispense only in dollars.” The dollarization of fuel has been spreading across the Island, but even paying in foreign currency does not guarantee getting any gasoline. continue reading

The motorcyclist has had to look for alternative solutions due to the shortages in the state service station network: buying gasoline at inflated prices at a house in Reparto Iglesias, one of the many informal points that have proliferated amid the scarcity.

Located between the Central Highway and the Vía Blanca, for decades it was a strategic stop for those entering or leaving the city of Matanzas. / 14ymedio

The privileged location of this Cupet explains why its decline is so visible. Located between the Central Highway and the Vía Blanca, for decades it was a strategic stop for those entering or leaving the city of Matanzas.

In the 1950s, older residents say, the place operated day and night. “My father used to tell me it had fuel 365 days a year, 24 hours a day,” recalls Felipe, a 61-year-old driver who has pulled his Chevrolet over to the side of the station.

Felipe looks at the inactive pumps with a frustrated expression.

“Now it’s completely bankrupt,” he regrets. For the driver, the decline of the place is not only a consequence of the energy crisis hitting the country but also of years of poor management.

The most recent episode happened just a few days ago. “When I tried to enter the service station, an employee stopped me saying they were closed,” he recounts. Up to that point, nothing surprising in these times of shortage.

But what happened afterward left him outraged. “I asked if they knew when fuel would arrive, and he told me he could let me know… if I gave him 2,000 pesos for the favor.” Felipe shakes his head while recalling the scene. “I’m too old for them to make money off me in such a dirty way.”

Now, the cars passing along the Central Highway no longer stop at the Peñas Altas gas station. They simply drive past, as if the place had ceased to exist.

Translated by Regina Anavy

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The Most Difficult Trip: Getting to the Maternal Hospital in Matanzas, Cuba

Without buses or state taxis, pregnant women and relatives depend on motorcycles and tricycles to reach the José Ramón López Tabrane Gynecology and Obstetrics Hospital.

Entrance to the José Ramón López Tabrane Gynecology and Obstetrics Hospital in Matanzas. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Matanzas, Julio César Contreras, March 10, 2026 – Getting to or leaving the José Ramón López Tabrane Gynecology and Obstetrics Hospital, in the Versalles neighborhood, has become a daily ordeal for patients and their relatives in the city of Matanzas. In front of the main entrance of the well-known Maternal Hospital, pregnant women, companions carrying bags, and young people persistently searching for transportation that rarely appears all mingle together.

At the building’s entrance, several people sit waiting on the edge of the steps. Some check their phones with resignation, others speak quietly while looking toward the street as if a lifesaving taxi might turn the corner at any moment. But the asphalt remains almost empty. From time to time a motorcycle or an electric tricycle passes by and is immediately surrounded by people trying to negotiate a seat.

“Local buses are not coming to this part of the city,” says Sandra, a young pregnant woman who has just gotten off a red motorcycle taxi. The driver has not even started the engine again when she is already mentally calculating the money she will have to spend to return home.

From time to time a motorcycle or an electric tricycle passes by and is immediately surrounded by people trying to negotiate a seat. / 14ymedio

“I just paid 1,000 pesos to bring me from my house, which is about three kilometers from here. If I don’t make that sacrifice I miss the genetics appointment,” she explains while adjusting her bag on her shoulder.

Sandra is in her third month of pregnancy and has already had to go to the hospital several times for checkups with the obstetrician. During none of those visits has she been able to find public transportation or any official vehicle associated with the Maternal Hospital taxi stand.

“I haven’t seen a state taxi parked in front of the emergency entrance even by chance,” she says. According to what she has been told, there is a car available 24 hours a day to assist with transporting patients, but it almost never appears. “They always say it’s on the road or attending an emergency.” continue reading

The scene surrounding the hospital entrance reflects the energy crisis the country is experiencing. The fuel shortage has reduced the circulation of buses and state taxis to a minimum, forcing people in Matanzas to rely on motorcycles, electric tricycles, or any vehicle that does not require fuel to move.

In one corner of the doorway, several women talk while waiting for news about possible transportation. One of them is Idania, who holds a bag full of baby clothes. Her niece has just been discharged after giving birth.

“There’s no ambulance here, no taxi, and no shame from the Public Health bosses. They go around in cars everywhere.” / 14ymedio

“She gave birth the day before yesterday and today she’s going home,” she explains. “The question is how we’re going to get there.” The woman looks toward the street with clear frustration. “There’s no ambulance here, no taxi, and no shame from the Public Health bosses. They go around in cars everywhere.”

Sitting on a concrete bench, Idania says she has spent the morning trying to avoid a solution she considers excessive: paying 50 dollars for a private taxi to take the mother and the newborn to Santa Marta.

“When it was time for the birth a neighbor did us the favor of bringing us,” she recalls. “At least in our case, the guarantee of institutional transport has been completely absent. We came on our own and we will leave on our own.”

For her the problem goes beyond the lack of fuel. “Here the answer is always that there isn’t any,” she complains. “But what there also isn’t is sensitivity.”

A few meters away, Lizandra watches the scene with concern. The young university student studies psychology and is going through her first pregnancy. While waiting to be called for an appointment, she calculates what each visit to the hospital costs her.

“Just to get here and then return home you need at least 2,000 pesos,” she explains. That is if you are lucky and a motorcycle or tricycle appears with space available.

The uncertainty about transportation adds to the normal fears of pregnancy. / 14ymedio

The uncertainty about transportation adds to the normal fears of pregnancy. “You already are nervous, as with any medical appointment, and on top of that you have to think about how you are going to get here and how you will get back home,” she says.

For pregnant women who live outside the provincial capital the situation is even more complicated.

“I have friends who have practically gone through their entire pregnancy at home because they have no way to come from Ceiba Mocha or from Pedro Betancourt,” Lizandra says. Getting to the hospital means organizing an uncertain trip, and, many times, one that is too expensive.

Meanwhile, in front of the Maternal Hospital the small group of people waiting for transportation continues to grow. A green tricycle stops for a few seconds and immediately several relatives approach to ask if there is space.

The driver shakes his head and starts moving again.

A motorcyclist stops shortly afterward, with his helmet raised and the engine still running. Two women approach to negotiate the price. The driver raises three fingers.

“1,500 pesos,” he says.

The women look at each other. One sighs and finally nods.

In the hospital no one seems surprised by these scenes. State taxis, recognizable by their yellow color, are nowhere to be seen. Ambulances only appear when there is a medical emergency. The rest of the time, patients and companions must manage on their own.

In the hospital doorway, Sandra looks at her phone again before entering her appointment. In a few hours she will have to repeat the same process: go out to the street, raise her hand, and wait for some motorcycle or tricycle to agree to take her.

In today’s Matanzas, even getting to the hospital can become an uncertain journey. And returning home often simply depends on having enough money to pay for the trip.

Translated by Regina Anavy

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In Matanzas, Cuba, No One Asks Anymore Why the Power Went Out

The collapse of the National Electric Power System adds to months of endless blackouts that have forced residents to reorganize their lives around darkness.

14ymedio, Matanzas, Julio César Contreras, March 5, 2026 – The blackout came again without warning, like a visitor who no longer even needs to knock on the door. This Wednesday, a new disconnection of the National Electric Power System (SEN) left much of the country without electricity and once again pushed Matanzas into the gloom in which it has learned to live for months. However, during the first hours, many residents did not even notice that it was a general collapse of the system. In this city accustomed to long blackouts, darkness has become part of the landscape.

On San Ignacio Street, in the Pueblo Nuevo neighborhood, several people remain sitting in the doorways of their homes as if time had stopped. A woman repeatedly checks her phone, waiting for the data signal that also disappeared with the electrical collapse to return. On the sidewalk a thin stream of dirty water runs out of a house and disappears into the drain. No one seems to be in a hurry. When electricity disappears for so many hours, daily life slows down until it is almost suspended.

“How long is this going to last!” shouts Adriana from the doorway of her house so the whole neighborhood can hear her. The single mother has gone two days without being able to give her youngest child a hot meal. “There isn’t even enough time to cook the rice. Between the times they cut it off and turn it back on, we don’t even get an hour with electricity,” she laments. The little food she had in the refrigerator ended up stored in a neighbor’s freezer to keep it from spoiling.

“There isn’t even enough time to cook the rice. Between the times they cut it off and turn it back on, we don’t even get an hour with electricity.”

In recent weeks, blackouts in Matanzas have exceeded 30 continuous hours. People go out to sleep in their doorways, on balconies, or in the entrances of their homes to take advantage of the cool early-morning air, an image many believed had been buried with the hardest years of the Special Period. But now it returns like a collective déjà vu. continue reading

On a nearby block, two neighbors talk while sitting in front of a peeling facade. The man, wearing yellow shorts and flip-flops, wipes the sweat from his face while trying to guess when the electricity will return. Next to him, a woman holds a warm can of soda. Neither speaks about the blackout as something extraordinary. In Matanzas, losing electricity no longer causes surprise, only resignation.

The same thing happens a few houses away, where an elderly man sits in the doorway of his home with a bag beside him. He looks toward the almost empty street while waiting for time to pass. Without television, without a fan, and without radio, the hours become longer. The only distraction is watching the few pedestrians who cross the sidewalk under the sun.

The collapse of the SEN also left much of the mobile connectivity out of service. Hilda, a retiree who lives near Plaza de la Vigía, suddenly lost the video call she was having with her grandson in Spain. “Etecsa raised its rates, but it hasn’t been able to buy new batteries for its towers,” the woman complains. Many times she has to walk almost a kilometer to the square to find a signal.

“But I’m already retired and I don’t qualify for any of those solar panels they say they’re handing out.”

“I’m a teacher by profession, with more than 30 years of experience,” she says. “But I’m already retired and I don’t qualify for any of those solar panels they say they’re handing out,” she explains, referring to the modules that are sold on installment plans to outstanding professionals in their sector. In her home she also does not know when electricity will return or how long it will last once it does.

The instability of voltage in recent weeks has further punished household appliances. “My daughter in Cárdenas had a freezer burn out,” Hilda explains. “In half an hour they turned the power off and on five times. No appliance can withstand that.”

For Ricardo, a machinist who has a small private workshop in Pueblo Nuevo, the national outage means another day without income. “I thought today I might be able to catch up on some of the delayed orders, because lately they turn the power on for a little while in the afternoon,” he explains. But with the total shutdown of the system he cannot do anything at all.

He also hasn’t slept well for days. “My wife and I can’t get any sleep. When the power comes on in the early morning we jump out of bed to cook, run the washing machine, or charge the phones.” Then morning arrives and the exhaustion follows them like a shadow.

“My wife and I can’t get any sleep. When the power comes on in the early morning we jump out of bed to cook, run the washing machine, or charge the phones.”

In Matanzas, that scene repeats itself in hundreds of homes: families who get up at two or three in the morning when they hear the hum of the refrigerator or the sudden start of a fan. In that brief interval of electricity, food is cooked, laundry is washed, phones are charged, and any pending household task is rushed.

Meanwhile, on San Ignacio Street the silence slowly settles in. Without phone coverage or clear news, neighbors inform themselves by asking from doorway to doorway. No one knows when the power will return.

After more than a day without electricity, some have even stopped waiting. Sitting on improvised chairs or on the edge of the sidewalk, they let time pass.

“You have to stay grounded,” says Ricardo, shrugging his shoulders. “Because if you start thinking too much about this, you go crazy.”

Translated by Regina Anavy

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“I Can’t Waste Time Assembling and Disassembling Old Rifles,” Complains an MTT Reservist

In Matanzas, with daily blackouts lasting 18 hours and endless lines to get a bit of cooking gas or some chicken, nobody seems willing to sign up for a mock battle against the US

“This time I really told them not to count on me anymore.” / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Julio César Contreras, Matanzas, February 22, 2026 –On a dusty street corner in Los Mangos, near the Pediatric Hospital of Matanzas, Yosvany wipes the sweat with the back of his hand and stares down the block as if expecting someone from the Military Committee to show up any second. It’s not the first time they’ve come looking for him. Every so often, when Havana announces strategic exercises, “mobilizations,” or National Defense Days, his name pops back up on the list of Territorial Troops Militia reservists.

“This time I really told them not to count on me anymore,” he says, standing in front of a faded house while a neighbor on the sidewalk fans herself with her hand and another sits watching the street from a plastic chair. “I’ve got five plates to fill every single day. I can’t waste time assembling and disassembling old rifles.”

The latest reservist call-up, announced after the worsening energy crisis and rising tensions between Havana and Washington—made worse since Nicolás Maduro’s capture in early January—has brought back memories of similar previous mobilizations. On state television they talk about “combat readiness” and “defense of sovereignty,” but in the neighborhoods the conversation mixes with 18-hour blackouts and endless lines just to get cooking gas or a little chicken.

Yosvany became surplus—unemployed—as an accountant at the Provincial Commerce Directorate two years ago. Since then he’s fished tilapia in the San Juan River, pushed a wheelbarrow of root vegetables along Calzada de Tirry, and even worked as a line-holder at the Banco Popular de Ahorro on Calle Medio. “Short of stealing, I’ll do whatever it takes,” he insists. “My war is finding money so my kids don’t go without the basics. I’m not going to be just another number so the bosses can say everybody’s ready to fight here.”

“I do resist, yeah—but during an 18-hour blackout, eating four spoonfuls of plain white rice and saving the little bread ball for breakfast.” / 14ymedio

In Pueblo Nuevo, Magalis hears these stories and nods. At 73 years old, she lives on 3,000 pesos a month that barely cover rice, some beans, and the rationed bread from the market. Sitting at the entrance of a small neighborhood pizzeria, under a faded mural continue reading

of a smiling chef holding a steaming tray, the woman looks out at the street where the sun beats down hard.

“On the news they come out with those perfectly ironed olive-green uniforms, calling for resistance,” she says. “I do resist, yeah—but during an 18-hour blackout, eating four spoonfuls of plain white rice and saving the little bread ball for breakfast.” For her, these mobilizations don’t fix the lack of fuel or the leaking roof she’s been waiting years to repair.

Daily life in the city contradicts the epic tone of official reports about military exercises. On a bridge over the river a man tries to catch something to take home; on another corner two old men chat in the shade of a peeling wall, under a sign advertising a shoemaker. Further on, a woman wearing a mask hurries by, dodging potholes and loose wires.

“I served on an internationalist mission and came back with my life dismantled.” / 14ymedio

Antonio, almost 65, has also been called up before. A veteran of five years in Angola, survivor of a landmine that damaged one eye and left him with psychological aftereffects, he looks at any new call with suspicion. “I served on an internationalist mission and came back with my life dismantled,” he says, sitting on the porch of his house. “After that nobody remembered us.”

He says a few years ago he asked to leave the Communist Party and the Association of Combatants. “They only call you to meetings and collect dues.” For him, the word “mobilization” has a bitter echo. “Thousands of us gave everything we had and more. Now that I’m old, all I want is some peace and quiet.”

The energy crisis has provided the backdrop for this new call to arms. The lack of fuel has paralyzed buses, slowed production, and multiplied blackouts. From the government they insist on the need to “prepare for any scenario,” while Washington toughens its rhetoric toward Havana and social media circulates versions of a possible domino effect after the fall of the Venezuelan leader.

But in Matanzas the conversation stays close to the ground. In front of houses, on makeshift chairs, people talk about rising prices, packages that never arrive, and children who have emigrated. The epic dissolves in the face of daily urgency.

“If they want me to defend something, they should start by giving me reasons to stay,” says Yosvany before saying goodbye. The afternoon sun reflects off the blue walls and tired faces. Nobody seems willing to sign up for a mock battle; they’ve got enough just trying to survive.

Translated by GH

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Well-Placed Greenbacks Speed Up the Paperwork To Obtain an Identity Card

Those without dollars must wake up at dawn, endure long hours of waiting, and return when a blackout interrupts the work

Getting or correcting an identity document is no longer just a procedure: it’s a test of endurance. / Cubadebate

14ymedio, Julio César Contreras, San José de las Lajas, February 14, 2025 — At seven in the morning, when the identity card office in San José de las Lajas should be getting into rhythm, fatigue has already spread through the waiting room. The metal chairs, lined up with a discipline that contrasts with the disorder of the procedures, are occupied by resigned bodies: men in caps, women with large handbags, elderly people staring at the floor, and young people passing the time on their phones. In one corner, two little girls swipe at a screen, unaware of the errand that brought their mothers there. The ceiling fan turns slowly, as if it too were rationing energy.

Handling any paperwork at this Ministry of the Interior office has become an exercise in endurance. Not only because of the usual bureaucracy, but because administrative collapse is now compounded by the so-called “reorganization program” the Government has imposed in response to the energy crisis. In practice, this means unexpected blackouts, interrupted schedules, computers shutting down in the middle of a procedure, and employees who frequently ask for patience as the only possible response.

Yesenia knows this well. She lives in the Jamaica neighborhood at the other end of town, and this is the third time she has repeated the same routine. “I come at five in the morning to get in line, spend three or four hours making sure no one cuts in front of me, and when I finally sit down at the computer, the power goes out or they tell me there’s no material to make the ID,” she says. She has been without identification for nearly a month after losing all her documents. Just getting to the office on 13th Avenue costs her no less than 500 pesos in transportation. “Once is complicated. Three times is disrespectful,” she sums up. continue reading

Just getting to the office on 13th Avenue costs her no less than 500 pesos in transportation.

At eleven in the morning, Yesenia finally manages to sit at the desk. The employee listens halfway and then gets up to go to another department, leaving her hanging. “It’s taking about forty minutes per procedure,” she comments, glancing at the clock. “You need infinite patience.” The official hours, from seven in the morning to four in the afternoon, are more of a theoretical reference. Blackouts, broken equipment, and lack of connectivity turn each day into a game of Russian roulette.

In this uneven game, not everyone is playing with the same cards. Sergio waits calmly in the room, with no sign of having arrived at dawn. “One of the girls here is going to help me,” he says quietly. He is applying for a passport and knows the process can take a month and a half or more, but he also knows there are shortcuts. “If you’re in a hurry, you have no choice but to pay for the stamps at whatever price they ask on the street and let something drop in here,” he explains. His son sent him dollars for that. “It’s the only way not to spend another New Year’s in Cuba.”

The gesture with which he greets the clerk when she enters the room confirms there are unwritten rules. Sergio expects to have his passport in about ten days. He doesn’t know exactly how his acquaintance speeds things up, but he is sure he’s not the only beneficiary. Meanwhile, others keep counting how many times they have come without resolving anything.

Isis carries a different story, though just as exhausting. She is trying to correct an error on her daughter’s ID card. First it was a misspelled last name. Then an accent mark missing from the first name. Now, a wrong number in the birth date. “I check the data on the screen and everything is fine, but when they print it, it comes out wrong,” she says, unable to hide her frustration. For her, the problem is not only the lack of resources but the total absence of empathy. “They don’t put any care into what they do,” she laments.

In four months she has been attended by different employees, almost all with evident difficulties handling the computer.

In four months she has been attended by different employees, almost all with evident difficulties handling the computer. “I don’t think they are properly trained,” she says. And she makes it clear that her case is not an exception. “You end up making new friends here from running into the same people so many times, all of us trapped by the bureaucracy.”

The images in the waiting room reinforce that sense of endless waiting. A television at the back plays without sound; the blinds let in a dull light that does little to ease the heat. Outside, the city continues at its slow pace, also marked by blackouts and fuel shortages.

In San José de las Lajas, getting or correcting an identity document is no longer just a procedure: it is a test of endurance. The “contingency plan,” as the authorities also call it, has added another layer of uncertainty to a system already full of obstacles. Between predawn lines, blackouts, repeated errors, and paid favors, residents learn that in order to exist on paper, they must first survive the wait.

Translated by Regina Anavy

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Paying for Your Reservation in Dollars Does Not Guarantee Better Food at Hotels in Varadero Cuba

Customers complain that they have to give extra money to employees to access more food despite the “all-inclusive” offer

“To eat without so much hassle, you have to come as soon as the restaurant opens. Those who arrive late, with or without money, don’t get much.” / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Julio César Contreras, Matanzas, January 9, 2025 — In Varadero, paying for an “all-inclusive” hotel is no longer a guarantee of a hearty meal. Those who arrive on the Hicacos Peninsula seeking a few days free from domestic worries discover this, sometimes with bewilderment and other times with resignation. At the Barceló Solymar, one of the best-known hotels in the area, the price—$62 per night—doesn’t always translate into full plates

On the buffet trays, side dishes abound; the meats, on the other hand, seem like museum pieces, guarded by employees who react with surgical precision. “When I walked past the roast pork, the employee tossed me such tiny pieces that they were barely visible on the empty plate,” says Iván, a Cuban resident of Miami who returned to the island to give his family a worry-free New Year’s Eve.

The learning curve was quick. “With a 500-peso bill, the waiter will serve you whatever you want. There’s no need to hide giving him the money. It’s like an advance tip so you can eat without going hungry,” explains Iván, who hadn’t been to Cuba in seven years and had never stayed at this hotel. The shock of reality was twofold: even paying for the room in dollars doesn’t protect you from shortages, and the “all-inclusive” concept isn’t immune to the logic of the informal market that permeates daily life in the country today.

Before taking their first course, some diners hold a banknote in their hand to give them the impression of being at a buffet

The scene repeats itself table after table. Before taking their first course, some diners hold up a bill, hoping to give themselves the impression, at least for a little while, of being at a buffet. “The food here cost me more than if I’d gone to a restaurant on the street,” says Eddy, his desire for a variety of desserts unfulfilled. “The only thing you can eat as much as you want of without paying extra is the rice continue reading

and beans. Everything else is rationed or runs out quickly, like the chocolate ice cream that ran out and they didn’t replenish it. To eat without so much hassle, you have to come when the restaurant opens. Anyone who arrives late, with or without money, doesn’t get much.”

Among the guests, a Cuban accent predominates. Families residing on the island and emigrants who have returned to share vacations occupy most of the tables; a few Canadian tourists complete the scene. Emma, one of them, isn’t willing to pay more. “For a four-star hotel, the buffet is very limited,” she says. “The main courses only have pork, ground beef, and fried chicken. It’s paltry for what you’d expect from a place like this.” She also finds no variety in salads or seasonal dishes, and she’s already considering leaving earlier than planned. “I’ve spent two nights eating boiled tomatoes and plantains. It’s not what I expected.”

Breakfast offers no respite. “In front of me, a Russian tourist was given an omelet with only one egg. I gave the cook 200 pesos and even then I had to demand he make mine with ham,” Eddy recounts. He came hoping for a variety of yogurts; lacking them, he ended up drinking milk. “It’s the same story as lunch and dinner. To get the best, you have to pay for it. If I had known I’d be eating bread and butter here, I would have stayed home.”

During meals, some vacationers also pay to ensure they get cold beer at the table. Tipping ceases to be a voluntary gesture and becomes a requirement to avoid being left watching other dishes go by. “My two children were so excited; I’d never been able to bring them to a hotel like this before,” says Eddy. “Thanks to my father-in-law, who made the reservation from abroad, we were able to come. He paid $496 so the four of us could spend two and a half days eating whatever we wanted, not being restricted like this.”

The contradiction becomes clear when a public relations representative approaches with a survey about the hotel’s operations. While the form asks about customer satisfaction, the table waits for the waiter to return with another round of drinks, previously “arranged.” In Varadero, even under the all-inclusive label, scarcity has found its way onto the table, reminding visitors that, even now, eating well in Cuba remains exorbitantly expensive, even on vacation.

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Whether to Buy Food or Medicine? The Dilemma for Cubans When They Stock Up at the Neighborhood Pharmacy

“The 1,000 pesos I had saved to buy a piece of meat are going to be spent on medicine,” says a retired woman in San José de las Lajas.

The pharmacy in La Micro is a small shop with worn walls and lighting that doesn’t dispel the gloom. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Julio César Contreras, San José de las Lajas — At seven in the morning, the green gate of the pharmacy in the La Micro neighborhood already had a line that stretched around the corner. There was no sign announcing the arrival of medicine, nor an official announcement, but in San José de las Lajas, important news spreads by word of mouth with the speed of necessity. It only took someone saying “something came in” for many to leave the stove lit, the broom leaning against the wall, or a grandchild in the care of a neighbor, and head out with the folded card in their pocket. The scene, repeated so many times in recent years, took on a particular air of urgency last Monday: it wasn’t about buying, but about not waiting any longer.

“It’s been over four months since we last got captopril,” says Mabel, a second-grade teacher, referring to a blood pressure medicine, as she fanned herself with a notebook she carries in her purse. During that time, she’s been buying it on the street for 500 pesos per blister pack, an amount that eats up a good chunk of her salary. To be in line at the pharmacy, she left her students with a teaching assistant and practically ran out. “This isn’t about getting ahead of ourselves, it’s about not running out,” she explains. In front of her, a couple of women check their prescriptions again and again, as if the paper might vanish before reaching the counter.

The pharmacy in La Micro is a small shop with worn walls and lighting that barely dispels the gloom. Sales proceed with the usual slowness, and each customer seems to take longer to be served than the last. Outside, those waiting make themselves comfortable as best they can: sitting on the wall, standing under the asbestos roof, or leaning against the rusted window bars. Most are middle-aged and elderly, carrying that accumulated weariness that not even continue reading

good news can dispel.

“I even brought a prescription for amoxicillin, although they told me no antibiotics were allowed in,” Mabel says in a low voice.

“I even have a prescription for amoxicillin, although they told me no antibiotics were delivered,” Mabel remarks quietly. The complaint is echoed among those present: “Other establishments in town get their supplies first; we get what’s left over.” The usual suspicions of favoritism and cronyism also hang in the air, a constant murmur that no one can quite confirm but that is part of the scene. The distrust, like the queue, is now ingrained.

Zenaida, a 67-year-old retired architect, got her place in line at five in the morning and is still number seven. “The 1,000 pesos I had saved to buy a little piece of meat are going to go toward medicine,” she says without raising her voice. She suffers from several chronic illnesses and knows the cruel arithmetic of these times all too well: either she eats better or she sleeps without pain. “I thought nothing would come in until January. I’d rather spend the 31st with just rice and beans than spend the night awake because of my joints,” she confesses as she takes two 500-peso bills, crumpled from being kept for so long, out of her purse.

Inside the pharmacy, an employee rigorously controls access to the counter. Looking out the barred window, he repeats the directive: three prescriptions per person, no more. “As long as I’m here, there won’t be any disorder,” he warns, aware that some see each shipment of medication as a business opportunity. His vigilance contrasts sharply with the precariousness of the system he’s trying to maintain: few medications, too many needs, and a distribution chain plagued by theft, diversion, and lack of oversight, as documented in recent months by investigations into the deterioration of the public health system.

The scene becomes almost ritualistic. Every time someone leaves with a bag in hand, the others ask what they managed to buy, how much there was, what’s already gone. The inventory is rebuilt in real time: captopril, some clonazepam, a few painkillers. Nowhere near enough for everyone waiting, nor anything that will last long. “This is a respite, not a solution,” a retiree remarks, adjusting his cap and looking at the ground. “Now they might bring it back in March or April. That’s why I came running.”

The approach of the end of the year is the topic of every conversation. No one is talking about celebrations, but about survival.

The approach of the end of the year is the topic of every conversation. No one talks about celebrations, but about survival. In the queue, stories of expired prescriptions, months without treatment, and exorbitant prices on the black market intertwine. Some remember when the pharmacy was a place for quick errands and not a test of physical endurance. Others prefer not to remember.

In San José de las Lajas, as in the rest of the country, the shortage of medications has forced chronically ill patients to reorganize their lives around the scarcity. The pharmacy becomes a meeting point, a social barometer, a stage where the strain is measured. This Monday, the arrival of “a few” medications did not solve the problem, but it did raise a small, almost defensive hope: that of not being left completely unprotected.

As midday approaches and the queue begins to dwindle, some return home with the essentials; others, with empty hands.

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Is There Anyone [in Cuba!] Who Can Exchange Currency?

In the queue at the Cadeca in San José de las Lajas, people just want to collect their meagre pensions in pesos and no one is interested in the new floating dollar exchange rate.

“We are now in a state of tremendous confusion because many businesses are applying an intermediate exchange rate, between the one published by ‘El Toque’ and the state rate.” / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Julio César Contreras, San José de las Lajas (Mayabeque). 28 December 2025 — In San José de las Lajas, the new floating dollar exchange rate does not feel like a change, but rather like a number – 410 pesos – that is alien to the real life of the population.

In front of the municipality’s Cadeca [currency exchange], the morning is progressing slowly, with the sun beating down on the pavement and a line where almost no one talks about currency, even though the signs and figures are there for all to see.

Gisela arrived early to collect her mother’s pension. With the recent change in the exchange rate, she wondered if there would be longer lines and if the collection of checks would be separated from foreign currency exchange transactions. She asked the guard at the door and the answer was simple: everyone waiting is there for their retirement. The last to arrive is an elderly man in worn clothes, unhurried and with no intention of exchanging dollars.

“As far as I’m concerned, the government can set the dollar at whatever price it wants,” says the retiree, adjusting his cap emblazoned with the letters USA. “With my pension of 4,000 pesos, the most I can hope for is to eat for a week,” he explains, referring to a payment that is not even equivalent to $10, according to the official exchange rate. “Everything is more expensive on the street,” the man says, without raising his voice.

They want to compete with the informal market, but they don’t do that well either. / 14ymedio

The assistant pokes his head out from time to time and asks the usual question: “Is there anyone here to exchange currency?” No one responds. All morning, no one has stopped in front of the doorway with the intention of selling dollars. “They want to compete with the informal market, but they’re not doing that well either,” says Gisela, leaning against the wall. Her experience is not theoretical. “I signed up in February to buy $60 through the digital queue, and I’m still waiting. So it’s obvious that you have to sort out your dollars on the street.” continue reading

In San José de las Lajas, as in much of the country, you only need to open Facebook or Telegram to see that informal trading continues unabated. Ads appear one after another, rates change several times a day, and transactions are carried out without paperwork or blackboards. “If my brother sends me a few dollars, I’m not going to sell them to the government at a lower price than what others are offering me,” says Gisela. “You don’t have to be an economist,” she points out. For her, the new rate is just another chapter in a series of broken promises, too similar to those of the Tarea Ordenamiento (Ordering Task*).

“To make matters worse, we now have tremendous confusion because many businesses are using an intermediate exchange rate, between the one published by El Toque and the one used by the government, which means that now you have to do a lot of mental calculations to be able to pay directly with dollars or when selling them,” the woman tells 14ymedio.

“All we do is stand here praying that the cash doesn’t run out before we get to the window.” / 14ymedio

The line of pensioners moves slowly. There are no faces of relief, no optimistic comments. The weariness of those who live counting every penny is pervasive. Mario, a retired agricultural engineer, observes the board with irony. “This is a joke,” complains the man who spent most of his professional life in a Cuba “where the dollar was prohibited or frowned upon.” It was in the early 2000s that he first came into contact with the US currency, during a time when he worked in Venezuela and managed to save some money.

Mario doesn’t believe the measure announced by the Central Bank of Cuba will benefit most people. “That’s for a small group, not for ordinary people,” he says, leaning against his old bicycle. “All we do is stand here praying that the cash doesn’t run out before we get to the teller window.” Around him, several elderly people nod in agreement as they try to take advantage of the shade under the doorway.

*Translator’s note: The “Ordering Task” was a collection of measures that include eliminating the Cuban Convertible Peso (CUC), leaving the Cuban peso as the only national currency, raising prices, raising salaries (but not as much as prices), opening stores that take payment only in hard currency which must be in the form of specially issued pre-paid debit cards, and a broad range of other measures targeted to different elements of the Cuban economy.

Translated by GH

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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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