Mercedes García – Translating Cuba

Dollars Don’t Save Viazul from the Deterioration of Transportation

Broken-down buses, replacement vehicles that take hours to arrive, and closed snack bars now accompany interprovincial trips.

For years, Viazul was an expensive but fairly reliable alternative for traveling between provinces. / Mesa Redonda

14ymedio, Mercedes García, Sancti Spíritus, September 8, 2026 – In the Viazul waiting room in Havana, the information windows are deserted, and on the highways, the state company’s white-and-blue buses continue to circulate, but the polished exterior image is deceptive. Behind the service that charges in dollars, breakdowns, delays, and vehicles whose deterioration has turned every trip into a gamble are piling up.

For years, Viazul was an expensive but fairly reliable alternative for traveling between provinces. Created primarily for foreign tourists, it offered air-conditioned buses, routes with defined schedules, and punctuality that contrasted with the battered state transportation system used by Cubans. Now, amid the energy crisis and the reduction of other options, it has also become a lifeline for nationals.

However, buying a ticket requires foreign currency and access to payment methods that a large part of the population does not have. Hence, its customers include many Cubans residing abroad who visit the Island and people who live in the country but have relatives abroad who can pay for their ticket.

Yutong buses “rescuing” passengers stranded on a broken-down Viazul. / 14ymedio

“On the trip to Havana, the Viazul bus broke down in Jagüey Grande,” a customer from Sancti Spíritus who frequently uses the company tells 14ymedio. The bad experience was repeated on the return trip. “It broke down leaving Mayabeque and we had to continue reading

wait more than two hours. It’s now unusual for a trip to go by without some kind of failure.”

Each leg between Sancti Spíritus and Havana cost him 29 dollars. Despite the breakdowns and the time lost, he did not receive a cent in reimbursement. The price retains the standard of a service designed to bring in foreign currency, but the amenities increasingly resemble those of the transportation paid for in Cuban pesos.

The deterioration does not end with the vehicles. The traditional roadside stops also reflect the collapse. “Before, the driver would stop so that passengers could eat something, but now many of those snack bars are closed because of all the problems with fuel and supplies,” the man from Sancti Spíritus explains.

In Aguada de Pasajeros, the famous Conejito offers a telling scene: tables and chairs remain empty in front of a closed cafeteria. / 14ymedio

In Aguada de Pasajeros, the famous Conejito offers a telling scene. Tables and chairs remain empty in front of a closed cafeteria, with signs for pizzas, snacks, and soft drinks still advertising a nonexistent abundance. “There was nothing on offer, just flies,” the traveler sums up.

When a Viazul bus breaks down, another uncertainty begins as well: finding a replacement vehicle. Sometimes a Yutong appears to pick up some of the passengers, while luggage and travelers have to be reorganized on the fly. Other times, the wait lasts for hours.

For two Italian tourists, a breakdown had much more costly consequences. Last week they missed their flight to Madrid after the Viazul that was supposed to take them to Terminal 3 of José Martí Airport was delayed two hours because of a technical problem. The replacement vehicle also failed to arrive in time to take them to Havana.

There is little left in the company’s waiting rooms of the distinction that for years separated Viazul from ordinary transportation. / 14ymedio

The breakdowns are compounded by roads increasingly battered by potholes, lack of maintenance, and poor nighttime lighting. Vehicles subjected to constant wear and tear must travel hundreds of kilometers over that pavement, in a country where obtaining spare parts, tires, and fuel has become an everyday problem. Traffic accidents add another element of insecurity to interprovincial journeys.

The paradox is especially visible because Viazul continues to be a company designed to bring in hard currency. The traveler pays in dollars, but can no longer take for granted either punctuality, comfort, or even that the same bus will complete the entire journey.

There is little left in the company’s waiting rooms of the distinction that for years separated Viazul from ordinary transportation. There are cafeterias without food, half-empty waiting rooms, darkened screens, and passengers listening for any strange noise the engine might make before setting off.

Translated by Regina Anavy

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Price Controls and Fines Are Causing the Little Oil That Available in Cuba To Disappear From Stores

Authorities issue alert over the sale of adulterated oil in Mayabeque

A crowd gathered at the doors of the Perla del Caribe state-run store in Sancti Spíritus. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Mercedes García/Miguel García, Sancti Spíritus/Holguín, August 23, 2026 / The shortage of cooking oil has once again sparked riots at the few stores where it is available. In Sancti Spíritus, this occurred on two consecutive days, the first on Friday at the La Época store, where, according to eyewitnesses, “people started fighting.”

This Saturday, the state-run Perla de Cuba store offered a liter of at $2.85, with a limit of two bottles per person, and the police had to intervene to control the situation. A large crowd of people gathered in two lines, one on each side of the store’s entrance—which belongs to the Caribe corporation, part of the Gaesa military conglomerate—while two officers allowed people inside.

The product could be paid for with the Classic card or in cash, but many didn’t make it. “It’s a nightmare trying to get a number,” an elderly woman told 14ymedio as, in despair, she ended up leaving after a two-and-a-half-hour wait. Like her, there were many others, not without first complaining about everything.

“People suddenly arrive with three people and cut in front of me. I’ve been standing in the sun for hours and I’m starving, I’m going home,” explained one young man. “This country is a shithole,” another blurted out, before getting on his electric scooter and speeding off.

A retiree responded loudly to the entire rally: “That’s how it is, but it’s nothing new. This country has always been the same, no matter what anyone says. People say we lived better under the USSR, but we didn’t live better at all: there were shortages and it was awful, and they supported us.”

In Holguín, this past Saturday, they enforced a “forced sale” of cooking oil at 2,200 pesos per liter at the Correo del Pueblo Nuevo market. “The inspectors showed up unannounced and found everything in an uproar, with people selling bottles on the black market,” a private merchant told this newspaper, detailing the extent of the inspections. “They’re conducting large-scale raids in continue reading

several areas of Holguín.”

A crowd of people gathered in two lines, one on each side of the store entrance, while two officers allowed people inside.

The result of the new monitoring, established in the last two weeks to try to curb inflation, especially of basic necessities such as oil or eggs, has only two types of effect for the moment: either higher prices in the informal market or, directly, the disappearance of the products from every establishment.

“You can’t even find an egg in this city, let alone cooking oil,” asserts a resident of the Havana neighborhood of Luyanó. From El Vedado, also in the capital, another resident recounts: “I just got a bottle of Brazilian cooking oil for 4,500 bolivars, and it was hidden like it was drugs.”

Even worse is the sale of adulterated oil, as shown in the alert issued this Saturday by the General Directorate of Public Health of Mayabeque. In a post disseminated by official media, it is reported that “you should not consume oil sold at the El Rodeo Fairgrounds” in the provincial capital, “since it was determined after testing that it is crude vegetable oil for animal consumption and not for human consumption.”

“People suddenly arrive with three people and cut in front of me. I’ve been standing in the sun for hours and I’m starving, I’m going home.” / 14ymedio

Several local residents have told 14ymedio about the offers of this “dark” oil. “It’s supposed to be for cooking, but it’s dark and thick,” says a woman from Mayabeque. “I wouldn’t buy that for anything; I’d rather boil everything in water.”

Since August 11, various provinces have implemented restrictive measures aimed at controlling prices, such as establishing a 30% profit margin for private businesses and increasing inspections and fines for those who violate the regulations. These measures represent a blatant step backward from the economic liberalization reforms announced by the government last June .

President Miguel Díaz-Canel himself declared at the time in a public appearance: “Price caps, in practice, failed to contain inflation: many times they caused the disappearance of products, diversions towards illegality, higher prices, less tax collection and an impossible race between real prices and administrative decisions that always arrived late.
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The Sun is Also Quoted in Dollars in Cuba

On a street in Sancti Spíritus, solar panels at $320 each put a price on the dream of escaping blackouts.

How much does it cost to escape, even partially, from blackouts? The sign reads: ‘Panels for Sale’ / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Mercedes García, Sancti Spiritus, August 9, 2026 / On a street in Sancti Spíritus a solar panel is on display. It is not behind a shop window, nor under the lights of a specialized store. It rests directly on the sidewalk, leaning against the facade of a house, with a piece of cardboard in the center that announces, in improvised calligraphy: “Panels for sale.”

In a country where every day people have to calculate the cost of rice, eggs, oil, transportation, and even phone credit, Cubans now have another figure to add to their mental calculators. How much does it cost to escape, even partially, the blackouts? The answer starts, in the case of Sancti Spíritus, with a price that this Saturday reached $320, but it can continue to rise with batteries, inverters, controllers, cables, and other components needed to convert a rectangle of sunlight into a few hours of domestic autonomy.

“Soon they’ll be more expensive than batteries,” a neighbor complains as she walks past the panel. She doesn’t linger. She glances, asks a question, and continues on her way with that familiar expression of someone who has just confirmed that something they need is far beyond their budget.

The energy crisis has even changed the landscape of Cuban cities.

Others slow down. They examine the dark panels the way people used to look at an electric motorcycle or an air conditioner behind a shop window. Each person seems to place their own wish list before them: keeping the refrigerator running so the food doesn’t spoil, recharging a fan to relieve continue reading

the sweltering nights, turning on some lights, or making sure their cell phone still works the next morning.

The energy crisis has even changed the landscape of Cuban cities. Electric generators, so-called power stations, batteries, and solar panels have gone from being specialized equipment to becoming part of the domestic vocabulary. Watts, amperes, and storage capacity are discussed with the same naturalness as discussions about pounds of rice or shared taxis. Necessity has resulted in a crash course in electricity nationwide.

But learning the theory doesn’t mean being able to afford the practics. The $320 per panel represents a huge fortune for someone who earns their salary in Cuban pesos. And they don’t even solve the problem on their own: they’re just one piece of the puzzle that allows for some independence from an increasingly unstable national energy grid.

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“Never Before Has There Been So Much Lying in Public Health, Everything Is Inflated, Nothing Is True”

Cuban doctors denounce the lack of resources, their low salaries, and the poor working conditions.

The line for X-rays at Calixto García Hospital in Havana. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Natalia López Moya/Mercedes García, Havana/Sancti Spíritus, July 27, 2026 / “With what I earn at my job, plus the classes I teach and the occasional participation in a scientific event, I don’t even make $25 a month in salary.” Dante, a name changed to avoid reprisals against this Cuban neurologist, is speaking. Neurology is a prestigious profession in any country, but in Cuba, it’s an incentive to flee . “I live with my mother, and she helps me a lot by preparing snacks and lunches for me to take to work, but I wouldn’t have any of that if it weren’t for the help of my sister, who deserted from her mission in Brazil and helps us a lot from there,” he says.

A specialist at one of the most important hospitals in Havana’s Vedado district, the doctor believes his work is “at half capacity every day.” A resident of the eastern zone of the Cuban capital, he must cross the bay tunnel daily to reach his practice. “They say they guarantee us transportation, but everything is very unreliable . The schedules always clash with our free time because it’s almost always late getting us home.”

“I can’t detect a problem just by looking at the patient. I need to have devices on hand to measure and review neurological responses.”

The low salary and the poor conditions for getting to work each day are not, in any case, the worst of it. “My work is with the brain. I can’t detect a problem just by looking at the patient. I need to have devices on hand to measure and review neurological responses,” he explains to this newspaper. “I can’t just improvise, put a piece of wood on a fracture to immobilize it, or recommend chamomile tea to my patient to soothe their itchy skin. My specialty often doesn’t allow for substituting diagnostic methods, much less medications.”

His short-term goal is “to finish this stage of direct patient care, try to find an academic position that will relieve me of having to deal with hospital problems every day, and from there, look for a scholarship abroad.” He concludes, “I’d rather never see urban healthcare centers again, not even in photos.” It’s the same path that thousands upon thousands of professionals like him have taken.

In 2021, the year of the pandemic, Cuba had 106,131 registered doctors, but the catastrophe, which overwhelmed healthcare systems across much of the world, marked a before and after for Cuba. Just two years later, there were only continue reading

80,763 doctors in Cuba. The most recent data, from 2024, indicates that there are 75,364 registered doctors on the island, but the figures for 2025 and the current year promise to be catastrophic. The crisis is worsening, resources are increasingly inadequate, and staff cannot endure grueling shifts without the means to combat disease.

“They force us, for example, to do more than 20 consultations a day, which nobody believes can be done under these conditions.”

“I spend all day filling out paperwork, and almost everything I have to write is a lie. They force us, for example, to do more than 20 consultations a day, which no one can believe is possible under these conditions,” denounces Elsa. She is a nurse at a family doctor’s office in Nuevo Vedado, and she complains about the excessive forms and bureaucratic reports she has to fill out every day, which are killing the enthusiasm she felt for her profession a few years ago.

“We also have to report some 15 cases in the field every day, whether we have to visit a bedridden patient or go to the home of a newborn to check on them, but even that number isn’t credible; it’s never met, but we have to record that it was done.” For Elsa, “never before has there been so much lying in Public Health; everything is inflated, nothing is the truth.” She believes that these falsehoods not only distort the figures that health authorities present regarding primary care in Cuba but also “have the staff very upset and frustrated.” In her case, she is also seriously considering resigning. “I feel ashamed to face patients anymore; I no longer have the energy to keep lying so much.”

The occupation of these premises, intended for the Family Doctor program, has become a common practice throughout the Island

The same thing is happening to Yadira, a nurse at a medical clinic in the city of Sancti Spíritus. The doctor, who graduated more than a decade ago, arrived last week at the clinic where she has worked for the past five years. “We haven’t had a doctor at the clinic for a while, but I’ve continued to see patients in the area, taking their blood pressure, treating some diabetics in the neighborhood, and also taking care of some of the pregnant women,” she told 14ymedio.

“That Wednesday, when I arrived at the clinic, it turned out that the night before, a homeless family had broken in by breaking down the door.” The occupation of these premises, designated for the Family Doctor program, has become a common practice across the island. “It was a very tense situation because I had to do my job, and they were there, lying on the floor on a mat with small children who were very distressed by everything they were experiencing.” The nurse called the police, but “they didn’t arrive until after I had finished my shift.” Yadira had to treat the patients “in a small corner of the doorway.”

So far, the family has not left the clinic, and the police have not been able to evict them. “I haven’t been able to work anymore because there are no suitable conditions there. I’m currently going to the Polyclinic to try to continue treating the diabetic patients I had under my care, but I don’t have a space; I’m practically doing it in a hallway. I can’t continue like this because I can’t. I have neither the resources nor a place to practice my profession.”

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Residents of Sancti Spíritus, Cuba, Donate More Than $10,000 to Etecsa to Buy Solar Panels

Residents of Zaza del Medio raised the money to restore communications to the town during the blackouts.

The blackouts kept the residents of Zaza del Medio, in Taguasco, Sancti Spíritus, cut off from communication almost all the time. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Mercedes García, Sancti Spíritus, July 18, 2026 – Faced with the lack of internet access, a group of residents raised $10,300 and 26,000 Cuban pesos to purchase solar panels and the rest of the photovoltaic kit needed to power the local radio base station of the state-owned telecommunications company Etecsa in the town of Zaza del Medio, in the municipality of Taguasco, Sancti Spíritus. The blackouts left residents cut off from communication almost all the time, as electricity returned for only a couple of hours between outages that could last more than a day.

According to residents, the initiative had its critics, who questioned why the residents themselves had to finance a state-owned company known for its abusive prices, poor service quality, and role in the government’s control of the internet. Even so, they raised the money to restore connectivity, above all so they could communicate with family members living abroad.

Installation of solar panels at Etecsa’s mobile radio base station in Zaza del Medio. / Radio Sancti Spíritus

The official press, however, in reporting on the installation of the photovoltaic system at the town’s radio base station, avoids explaining that the initiative originated with the residents themselves. The most it acknowledges is that “through a fundraising campaign carried out through different channels, all the financial support needed to obtain the solar panels was collected,” according to Luis Orlando Gómez Castro, president of the People’s Council, in statements to Radio Sancti Spíritus.

The official also admitted that much of the funding came from relatives living abroad: “We want to recognize those who, even from abroad, with Cuban blood still running through their veins, contributed the financial continue reading

support that was needed to restore communications in Zaza del Medio.”

“We want to recognize those who, even from abroad, with Cuban blood still running through their veins, contributed the financial support that was needed to restore communications in Zaza del Medio”

The state-run outlet acknowledges that the local government did not have the budget to finance “such a costly investment,” and while it highlights “the importance of public participation in securing the necessary funding,” it omits explaining where the initiative originated and how much money was contributed by the customers of a company that will continue charging them rates far above international standards for one of the worst internet services in the world.

Etecsa, Cuba’s only telecommunications operator, maintains a monopoly over telephone and internet services on the Island and is controlled by the military conglomerate Gaesa. The company has been the target of constant criticism for the poor quality of its services, its high prices, and its role in censorship and content filtering, as it is subordinated to the regime’s priorities rather than the needs of its customers. Numerous independent media websites and organizations critical of the Government remain blocked on its network, and users in Cuba can access them only through VPNs.

During periods of heightened political tension, the company has carried out Government orders to restrict internet access and block communications, as occurred during the massive protests of July 11, 2021, as well as through the selective blocking of the telephone lines of activists and opposition members.

Translated by Regina Anavy

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The Order To Sign “For the Fatherland” Has Been Given Throughout the Country in a Campaign Led by Díaz-Canel

In addition to setting up tables for the initiative, the Committees for the Defense of the Revolution are visiting citizens house by house.

Tables organized in Holguín for the initiative “My signature for the Homeland”, this Sunday. / Facebook/Alain Galbán Fernández

14ymedio, Mercedes García, Sancti Spíritus, April 20, 2026 / Cuba’s state workers have already been ordered to participate in the “process” called “My Signature for the Homeland,” initiated this Sunday with his own signature by President Miguel Díaz-Canel, with which the regime intends to counter the pressures of the United States for a change in Cuba.

“They didn’t set up sign-in points at the workplaces, but instead established locations at the library, the cultural center, and other places. Companies are now telling employees they have to go there to sign,” an employee from Sancti Spíritus, who preferred to remain anonymous, told 14ymedio. How do they verify that the workers went to sign? “They sign a list that they went to sign,” the man replied.

The Committees for the Defense of the Revolution (CDR) have also mobilized to go door-to-door. Another resident of Ciego de Ávila recounts: “They came to my mother’s door, and she, being very old, signed. I don’t know what they told her. I already told my husband not to even think about opening the door.”

The woman compares it to what happened in 2002, following the Varela Project launched by Oswaldo Payá , when then-President Fidel Castro ordered the Committees for the Defense of the Revolution (CDRs) to force citizens to sign a “counter-project” that ended up enshrining in the Constitution “the irrevocable and inviolable nature of socialism,” which popular humor dubbed “constitutional mummification.” “In my house, we don’t sign anything like that,” the woman asserts. continue reading

“They even came to my mother, and she, being very old, signed. I don’t know what they said to her. I already told my husband not to even think about opening the door.”

The Ciego de Ávila newspaper, Invasor, gave a detailed account this Monday of the official government’s mobilization, focusing not so much on its ability to mobilize people as on its use of triumphalist rhetoric. Lianet Pazo Cedeño, a member of the Municipal Party Bureau, declared that the people of Ciego de Ávila “are prepared to demonstrate to the world the free will of the Cuban people to preserve the sovereignty and independence of the nation, but without submitting to blackmail or renouncing their principles.”

Provincial government leaders, such as Odelsys Valcárcel Pérez, general secretary of the Federation of Cuban Women, contributed to the impassioned speeches published by the state newspaper: “Let us unite and denounce the barbarity. Let us make our stance the firmest and most resolute condemnation of all policies contrary to the life and rights of the Cuban people and in support of the Declaration of the Revolutionary Government.”

Several official posts also showed the lines forming at tables set up in Holguín for signatures—which will continue until May 1—although the faces didn’t reflect much enthusiasm. From Guantánamo, a resident reported to this newspaper that the Committees for the Defense of the Revolution (CDRs) are going door-to-door “collecting information on people who are sick and those who are fit to come forward to defend the homeland.”

The call, disguised as a civil society initiative, aims, in the words of the statement issued by the Presidency, to support “the call made by the president at the event for the 65th anniversary of the declaration of the socialist character of the Revolution, to organizations in Cuba and the world so that the truth about Cuba is known in every corner of the planet,” seasoned, of course, with an allusion to “this people’s commitment to peace” and “the firmness and willingness to defend sovereignty.”

“At least don’t sign out of habit, think about it for a while, let’s try for a moment to be civic-minded and responsible with our destiny, don’t give away your signature.”

Immediately, activists inside and outside Cuba lashed out against the initiative. One example is the #PorEsoYoNoFirmo (That’s Why I’m Not Signing) social media campaign, which users have joined by accompanying the hashtag with images of the situation on the island, including the repression of peaceful demonstrations, blackouts, and giant piles of uncollected garbage.

Art historian Miryorly García reflects on her Facebook wall: “And many people will go there to sign irresponsibly once again, because Cubans have adapted to double standards,” and asks her fellow citizens: “At least don’t sign out of inertia, think about it for a while, let’s try for a moment to be civic-minded and responsible with our destiny, don’t give away your signature, don’t give away your approval.”

From this distancing, she reasons, “it may depend on them being more afraid than the one they’re trying to impose on us through repression, on the fear shifting sides and them packing a suitcase and fleeing, because they’ll realize full well that they have no support.” She elaborates on the same idea: “You have a business that’s struggling because you almost never have electricity, you have a salary that isn’t enough, you live off remittances from someone who had to leave to help you survive… For all these reasons, you need to refuse to sign; you have nothing left to lose. Are you doing it to keep your job? What job, in a country that’s grinding to a halt!” And she concludes: “You have to decide to do your part if you want to see the sand on an entire beach. Cuba changes if we change.”

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When the Sugar Mill Stopped Grinding Cane, Life Died in Tuinucú, Cuba

The silence that now dominates the batey is not only industrial: it is also electrical, economic, and emotional.

The Melanio Hernández sugar mill in Tuinucú, Sancti Spíritus, has been shut down for three weeks. / 14ymedio/Courtesy

14ymedio, Natalia López Moya/Mercedes García, Havana/Tuinucú, April 16, 2025 / The two chimneys of the Tuinucú sugar mill still stand out against the blue sky of the Sancti Spíritus plains, but they no longer emit smoke or announce the start of a new day of grinding. The silence that now reigns in the village is not only industrial: it is also electrical, economic, and emotional. Since the mill stopped grinding sugarcane a few weeks ago, daily life in this town of more than 5,000 inhabitants has changed abruptly, marked by prolonged blackouts and the feeling that the last bastion of the national sugar industry was defeated by the lack of fuel.

The Melanio Hernández sugar mill, as the Tuinucú mill is officially known, was much more than a sugar factory. Its generators produced electricity that supplied the town and contributed to the national grid, an advantage that for years made this village an exception within the province of Sancti Spíritus, even though some facilities had deteriorated over time due to a lack of state investment and the children had been transferred to another school. While in other municipalities the population suffered frequent power outages, in this town the residents became accustomed to a relatively stable supply, sustained by the energy that came from the very heart of the industrial center.

“The family whose sugar mill was taken away were the ones who sent the money to restore the Catholic church, which was in very poor condition.”

That tranquility vanished when the machinery stopped. Since then, residents have had to adapt to blackouts that exceed 12 hours a day, a situation they barely experienced before the closure of the colossus. On nights without electricity, the village is plunged into a darkness reminiscent of the worst moments of the Special Period in the 1990s. continue reading

“What little we had left they’ve taken from us too, because this town is so neglected,” says Eliécer, 79, who was born in the batey. The old man surveys the sugar mill facilities with a mixture of nostalgia and concern. For decades he worked in activities related to the harvest and saw how the sugar industry sustained the economic and social life of the community.

Eliécer recalls that the residents of Tuinucú have always been proud of their history. Even though many have emigrated to other provinces or abroad, they maintain ties with the town and contribute to preserving its traditions. “The family whose sugar mill was taken away sent the money to restore the Catholic church, which was in very poor condition,” he explains. With a firm voice, he adds that “the first shortwave radio transmission test in Cuba was conducted from this very spot, in 1912.”

The restored church still stands as a symbol of that past. Just a few meters away, however, the contrast is stark. The old school in the batey (sugar workers’ village), which for years educated several generations of children, has become an abandoned structure, with peeling walls and partially collapsed roofs. Vegetation is reclaiming the surrounding area, and the building seems to be hanging on by sheer inertia.

The school in Tuinucú “was seized, taken from its owners, and years later it was left in ruins.” / 14ymedio/Courtesy

For Nieves, an elderly woman also born in Tuinucú, this decline sums up the town’s fate. She sadly recalls the years when the school was full of students and the batey buzzed with activity at the sugar mill. “It was seized, taken from its owners, and years later it was left in ruins,” she says. Her voice breaks as she describes the loss of so many “beautiful things” that were part of community life. “The recreation center for the Tuinucú workers is also destroyed.”

The shutdown of the sugar mill comes at a critical time for the Cuban sugar industry. This year, there will be little doubt that the harvest has once again been the worst in history, a title the sector has held since 2021. The Melanio Hernández mill was the only one operating on the island, and even so, it has had to cease operations due to the energy crisis.

Last year, the mill met its production plan , reaching approximately 21,000 tons of sugar, even exceeding the forecast by 1,800 tons. This figure made it a source of pride for the authorities and an example of resilience within a declining sector. For the current harvest, the goal was more modest: around 14,000 tons. Milling began a month late but progressed at an acceptable pace until a fuel shortage forced the machinery to shut down.

According to sugar company executives, the mill had produced approximately 40% of its planned sugar output—around 5,600 tons—when the decision was made to close the tipper truck’s opening . The measure was presented as temporary, but uncertainty surrounding fuel supplies and the future of the industry raises concerns that the shutdown could last longer than anticipated.

“We felt privileged because here we defended ourselves with the power the mill gave us.”

Meanwhile, workers in the sector have had to find alternative ways to stay employed. In other provinces, sugar companies have redirected their efforts toward charcoal production and agricultural work, amidst the collapse of the harvest. In Tuinucú, however, these initiatives have not yet managed to compensate for the economic loss caused by the shutdown of the sugar mill.

“We felt privileged because while in other parts of Sancti Spíritus people only have makeshift electricity , here we managed with the power from the sugar mill,” Nieves explains. She acknowledges that the change has been abrupt and that the residents weren’t prepared to deal with prolonged blackouts. “We weren’t even ready for everything that came after; people have had to rush out and buy batteries, generators, and electric lamps.”

In the streets of the batey, uncertainty mingles with resignation. The houses remain silent during the hottest hours, and small businesses adjust their schedules to take advantage of the moments when the electricity returns. Daily life now revolves around waiting, as if each neighbor awaits the signal that the chimneys will once again begin to smoke.

But that signal hasn’t arrived. In Tuinucú, the shutdown of the sugar mill has not only turned off the lights in the workers’ village, but has also ignited concerns that this is the prelude to a permanent closure.

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Even Guarapo – Raw Sugarcane Juice – Has Become a Luxury in Sancti Spíritus, Cuba

The most affordable drink for Cubans has gone from 30 to 70 pesos amid the general rise in prices in the province.

Now the choice is to go back home or continue on the road with the same thirst and frustration. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Sancti Spíritus, Mercedes García, March 13, 2026 – In Sancti Spíritus, the price of even the most humble items has begun to rise. In just a couple of days, guarapo — raw sugarcane juice — went from 30 to 70 pesos.

What for decades had been the most affordable drink to relieve the heat or recover strength in the middle of the day has suddenly become a small luxury that more than one person now hesitates to indulge in. Now the choice is to return home or continue on the road with the same thirst and frustration, saving every last peso.

Guarapo, extracted from sugarcane, has historically been a refreshing comfort against the exhaustion of the difficult daily life of Cubans, regardless of the customer’s social level or purchasing power. The drink’s low price, stimulating properties, and quick preparation have always been the main factors that attracted people to this juice.

The cost of the most basic products continues to rise in Sancti Spíritus amid a particularly harsh situation.

Although the presence of these guarapo stands has been declining in recent years due to the collapse of the sugar sector, along with difficulties obtaining ice or even sugarcane, as well as the blackouts that paralyze the presses, some still remained in Sancti Spíritus.

Meanwhile, the cost of the most basic products continues to rise in the province amid a particularly harsh situation caused by prolonged blackouts, which at times have lasted more than a full day without electricity. The energy crisis forces many families to cook with charcoal due to the lack of gas or kerosene, while food spoils because it cannot be refrigerated. The fuel shortage and the difficulties in maintaining basic services have left the population dealing with improvised solutions and growing frustration over the deterioration of living conditions.

Translated by Regina Anavy

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In Cuba the Dollar Reaches 500 Pesos on the Informal Market in Holguín and Sancti Spíritus

Economist Pedro Monreal points to the failure of the floating exchange rate created by the government a month ago in its latest attempt to revalue the national currency

At the La Cuevita market in San Miguel del Padrón (Havana), the dollar was being bought at 480 CUP. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Holguín/Sancti Spíritus, Havana, Miguel García, Mercedes García, and Darío Hernández, January 22, 2026 – Just over a month after the official floating exchange rate went into effect, promising to revalue the national currency, the dollar has soared to 500 pesos in some parts of Cuba, such as Holguín. That is 10 CUP more per USD than the rate reported this Thursday by the independent platform El Toque (490) in its daily tracking of informal-market currency trading.

This was confirmed by a resident of Holguín who owns the electric tricycle he uses for work, whose electronic control box burned out. When he asked about prices, a private seller told him it cost $190. “I asked him what that was in pesos, because I didn’t have USD and had no way to get them, and after insisting that he preferred dollars, he told me the dollar was at 500 pesos.”

At the same time, mipymes [‘MSMEs’ — micro, small and medium-sized private enterprises] in the eastern city have raised prices for basic goods such as cooking oil, spaghetti, and chicken. “Starting this week, it’s going to be huge,” a Holguín resident laments ironically. Some merchants argue that inflation is precisely due to the new price of the dollar. “Due to the rise of the USD, there may be some price changes in certain products, but it’s nothing serious; we’re making an effort to keep prices as fair as possible,” they promise in a WhatsApp group.

“It’s not at all fair. They say they made the last purchase at one price for the dollar, but the next one will more expensive, so they’ll have to raise prices”

“Can you imagine? It’s not at all fair. They say they made the last purchase at one price for the dollar, but the next one will be more expensive, so they’ll have to raise prices,” the same woman says. continue reading

In Sancti Spíritus, most informal stalls are offering the dollar at the rate reported by El Toque, 490 CUP, but according to a source in the city, “there’s a mipyme that’s taking it at 500.” Meanwhile, in Havana, in most neighborhoods the dollar can be found at 490 pesos, but two days ago, at the La Cuevita market in San Miguel del Padrón, it was being bought at 480.

That same Tuesday, Cuban economist Pedro Monreal documented the failure of the most recent exchange-rate measures, comparing them to preparations for the “war of the whole people,” announced after the capture of Nicolás Maduro by the U. S. in Caracas and the death of 32 Cuban soldiers in the operation. “Exactly one month passed between the announcement of a new official floating exchange rate and the notification of the analysis and approval of plans and measures for the ‘transition to a State of War’ in Cuba,” tweeted the specialist, who lives in Spain. “So far, the floating rate is fighting a losing battle.”

For now, Monreal continued, the peso “has depreciated 3.9% against the USD under the floating rate, failing to meet the government’s expectation that the ‘new official foreign-exchange market’ would help restore the purchasing power of the national currency.”

In effect, when the Central Bank of Cuba (BCC) launched without prior notice an official floating exchange rate on December 18, to be added to the other two operating in the country: one at 1×24 for centralized state allocations for goods and services deemed essential, and another at 1×120 for certain “entities with the capacity to generate foreign currency,” such as tourism. The government presented it as the start of a transformation of the foreign-exchange market aimed at “bringing order” to the economy and moving toward future monetary unification.

In practice, however, the Island entered an even more complex stage of exchange-rate segmentation amid the worst economic crisis in decades. It quickly became evident that the population was ignoring the official rate, which was paradoxically very close to El Toque’s, against which the government had waged a harsh propaganda campaign months earlier, and they continued exchanging dollars on the informal market.

The peso “has depreciated 3.9% against the USD under the floating rate, failing to meet the government’s expectations”

In the following weeks, it could be seen that at state-run currency exchange offices (Cadeca), where dollars are virtually nonexistent and where the dollar was theoretically selling this Thursday at 457.92 pesos, only elderly people came to collect their pensions.

On January 9, yet another policy was added to the already convoluted exchange-rate market. The BCC opened a banking channel allowing private mipymes to legally purchase foreign currency through banks, but under very strict rules.

Thus, purchases by these private entrepreneurs can only be made based on the new floating rate, only once a month, and without being able to choose the amount. The amount is calculated by the bank by taking the average of what the mipyme deposited into its tax account over the previous three months, using only half of that money and converting it at the floating exchange rate in effect at the time.

In practice, this means that if a mipyme has had low or irregular income, it will be able to buy very few dollars, even if it urgently needs them to import raw materials, pay for services, or fulfill contracts. And if the business is just starting and does not yet have an income history, it could simply be left out altogether.

The BCC also made it clear that the entire process would be “bankarized.” Cuban pesos must be debited from the tax account, and the purchased foreign currency can only be deposited into the economic actor’s own foreign-currency account. No cash, no informal transfers, and no room for maneuver. Before approving the transaction, the bank will review the client’s identity, accounts, and the origin of the funds, as part of the controls that currently weigh on any economic activity on the Island.

Translated by Regina Anavy

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Cuba: The Year Is Going Down In Flames

The burning of the effigy once again brings together satire, catharsis, and tradition in neighborhoods of Sancti Spíritus

The burning of the effigy of the old year is not exclusive to Sancti Spíritus or Cuba, but on the island it has acquired a very particular character. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Mercedes García, Sancti Spíritus, January 1, 2026 – As evening falls on December 31st, in some neighborhoods of Sancti Spíritus, it is already clear that the year won’t pass in silence. Among scraps of wood, old clothes, cardboard, and empty bottles, the effigies of the “old year” begin to take shape—those makeshift figures that traditionally serve to concentrate frustrations, jokes, and collective catharsis before being set ablaze. There is no manual or single design: all it takes is a human-shaped body and the certainty that, when it burns, something symbolic will also go with the flames

In one of the doorways of the neighborhood, a mannequin stands as if guarding the street. It wears worn boots, blue pants, and—a far from innocent detail—a white sweater with the phrase “I Love This Island” printed next to a Cuban flag. The irony is obvious. In a country marked by mass exodus and social weariness, that message seems less like a slogan and more like an open question. “We made it like that on purpose,” a neighbor confesses as he adjusts the wire around its neck. “Loving the country doesn’t mean you don’t want to burn away all the bad things that happened,” he clarifies, listing everything from the long blackouts of 2025 to the chikungunya that left him with a sore knee.

**In a country marked by mass exodus and social fatigue, that message seems less like a slogan and more like an open question / 14ymedio**

A few meters further on, two nearly identical mannequins share the sidewalk. Both have exaggeratedly inflated bellies, short arms, and a rigid posture reminiscent of government officials: all belly, no brains. No explanatory sign is needed. Passersby look at them, smile, and whisper. Political satire finds a rudimentary but effective outlet here, protected by the alibi of tradition.

The burning of the effigy of the old year is not exclusive to Sancti Spíritus or Cuba, but on the island it has taken on a very particular character. Here it is mixed with local humor and the need for catharsis. Burning the effigy is a way of saying goodbye to the bad: the shortages, the lines, the broken promises, the exorbitant prices, and also the accumulated fears.

As night falls, when the street darkens continue reading

and someone lights a match, the atmosphere changes. The fire catches quickly. Flames devour the clothes, the wood crackles, and the effigy, seated in an old metal chair, is enveloped in an orange light that illuminates the nearby facades. There is applause, nervous laughter, and the occasional sarcastic comment. It’s not a solemn bonfire; it’s more of a domestic ritual, improvised, but full of meaning.

Political satire finds a rudimentary but effective channel here, protected by the alibi of tradition. / 14ymedio

While the effigy burns, in other parts of Cuba others perform their own rituals. At midnight, many throw buckets of water from their front doors to “wash away the bad.” Others, more optimistic or desperate, walk around the block with an empty suitcase, convinced that this will attract a trip in the coming year. Every gesture, however small it may seem, is a gamble on hope.

When only ashes and a lingering smell of burnt fabric remain, the street regains its calm. The effigy is gone, but the gesture remains. In Sancti Spíritus, as in so many places across the country, burning the effigy of the old year doesn’t change reality overnight, but it allows for something equally necessary: to say, without speeches or slogans, that there was too much weight to carry and that at least tonight, the decision was made to release it into the fire.

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The Egg Breaks Another Record in Sancti Spíritus, Cuba

In a shop in Kilo 12, a carton now costs 3,400 pesos, putting it even further out of reach for many households.

Eggs for sale in a private shop in Sancti Spíritus. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Mercedes García, Sancti Spíritus, November 27, 2025 — For months, in Sancti Spíritus, they said – with a mixture of resignation and hope – that the price of eggs “could not go any higher”. When a carton of 30 eggs climbed to 3,000 pesos, many Sancti Spíritus residents claimed that the product had reached its ceiling. “It won’t go any higher,” they repeated in farmers’ markets, improvised queues and WhatsApp groups. But this week, in a small private shop in the Kilo 12 neighbourhood, a handwritten sign shattered that illusion of a limit being reached: 3,400 pesos.

The scene in front of the shop seems routine, but something in the atmosphere suggests that it is not. Three people wait in line—a young woman in flip-flops, a woman in very short shorts, and a heavyset man carrying a bag slung across his back—none of them speaking. The stillness has a visible weight. Even the black and white cat prowling near the peeling wall moves with a certain caution, as if it understands that an invisible barrier has been crossed in that corner.

The rough granite counter holds several cartons of 30 eggs each. Each one is an expensive promise, a small privilege for those who can still afford it. In a country where the average monthly wage is less than 6,500 pesos, buying one of these cartons means spending more than half of one’s monthly income. A luxury for some, an urgent necessity for others.

Workers leaving their homes complain loudly, pensioners stop to stare incredulously at the sign, and motorcyclists drive slowly past.

>The seller, safely inside the shop, spends the day repeating the same phrase to those who approach: “Yes, they’re now 3,400.” In the neighbourhood, news of the new price spreads quickly: workers leaving their homes complain loudly, pensioners stop to stare incredulously at the sign, and motorcyclists drive by slowly, as if weighing up whether it is worth stopping. Some even clean their glasses for fear that dust has distorted the price.

In Cuba, eggs have always been a barometer of the crisis. Their price rose with inflation, with the lack of feed for poultry, with the decline in domestic production and with speculation by those who fill the gaps left by the state. But this jump of 400 pesos in a few weeks has another flavour: that of absolute vulnerability. “My pension is 3,000 pesos, which isn’t even enough for a carton,” says a man watching the scene from a safe distance.

In the city, residents make complex calculations, given that many shops only sell whole cartons, not individual eggs. “Do you want to buy half?” one neighbour shouts to another on the opposite pavement. Inflation forces people to resort to increasingly distressing arithmetic.

Translated by GH
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The Cuban Government Owes Beekeepers Approximately $20 Million for Honey Exports

In 2024, sales in foreign currency are estimated to have reached $45 million for more than 8,000 tonnes.

Producers point to Apicuba as the cause of the constant delays in their payments. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Mercedes García, Sancti Spíritus, 25 July 2025 — “Climbing the walls” is how Normando, a beekeeper from the municipality of Manicaragua in Villa Clara, describes his situation. The state has not paid him for the honey he delivered in 2024, which was sold on the international market. With the non-payments from previous years, producers estimate the debt at around 20 million in one of the few exportable items that continues to yield juicy dividends.

“Not only do they owe me honey, I delivered wax and royal jelly, but they still haven’t paid me what they owe me in foreign currency” complains the man from Villaclara. “They owe money to all the beekeepers in this province and they keep putting us off every time we ask about it. We’ve been waiting for more than half a year and nothing.”

Over the last decade, Cuba has maintained a steady volume of honey exports, considered one of the island’s most valued agricultural products on the international market due to its low level of contaminants. However, the sector is facing a serious crisis of liquidity, fuel and supplies, which directly affects beekeepers. continue reading

“I have to buy wood to repair beehives, fuel to get around, not to mention that my family has to eat.”

I have to buy wood to repair some hives, fuel to get around, and I have to make other investments, not to mention that my family has to eat, clothe themselves, and buy shoes too,” Normando tells 14ymedio. “But my bees won’t wait.”

According to industry sources, the state charges around US$4,000 or more per tonne of honey exported and gives 20% to beekeepers: between 35,000 and 40,000 pesos, plus 600 MLC. The same sources estimate that in 2024 honey exports exceeded 8,000 tonnes and, given the rise in prices (an average of $5,500 per tonne), the state’s revenues reached $45 million.

Cuban honey, categorised as “organic” and with low residue levels, is particularly popular in Germany and other EU countries, where it fetches much higher prices than ordinary honey.

At the most recent session of the ANPP, it became clear that the beekeeping sector had declined in the first half of 2025.

However, at the most recent session of the National Assembly of People’s Power, it became clear that the beekeeping sector had declined in the first half of 2025. The Minister of Economy and Planning, Joaquín Alonso, acknowledged that exports of tobacco, lobster and fishery products “were not sufficient to offset the decline in volumes of nickel and other mining products, honey, coal, farmed and wild shrimp, and biopharmaceutical products”.

Producers point to the Cuban Beekeeping Company (Apicuba), the state monopoly that controls the sector, as responsible for the constant delays in their payments. Farmers can deliver their honey to the entity, but only when the entire shipment is sent abroad and sold do they receive their payment, at least in theory, because in reality it can take several months after that date before they are able to collect.

Many beekeepers also complain about the bureaucracy they have to deal with before they get their money. As well as the red tape is the fact that the banks dont have any cash, a problem that affects the entire country and is having a very negative impact on the Cuban countryside, where many services, labour and resources are still paid for directly with paper money.

They cannot even access loans to maintain their hives or repair equipment.

In the province of Sancti Spíritus, the situation is the same. Beekeepers complain that the authorities have failed to meet the agreed payment deadlines and that they cannot even access loans to maintain their hives or repair equipment. “Last year was the last time I fell into that trap. This year, I’m going to get out of the honey business, at least on paper. I’m going to keep a few hives to sell directly to private customers and nothing else,” a Sancti Spíritus producer owned up to this newspaper.

“We have to buy everything in foreign currency or at very high prices because Apicuba doesn’t guarantee anything. Boxes, centrifuges, spatulas, blades, buckets, gloves, veils, frames, wires, lids, bottoms, sheets and biological controllers, all of that has to be paid for in hard currency, but as our payments aren’t coming in we have to postpone those purchases and production suffers,” he explains.

There is still no public, specific timetable for settling debts with producers. Despite complaints, the authorities have not offered a clear public response regarding the non-payments, limiting themselves to acknowledging “delays in the payment chain” during recent meetings with the agricultural sector. The Ministry of Agriculture has promised to review the contracts, but there is still no public, specific timetable for settling debts with producers.

“The last time I asked, they told me that in the second half of this year they were going to pay for 2024, but I don’t believe them anymore,” says the producer. “My son, who is also a beekeeper but lives in Najasa, Camagüey, is in the same situation, so this is a national problem.”

Translated by GH
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Parish and Pharmacy: The Catholic Church Tries to Alleviate the Medication Shortage in Sancti Spíritus

“I don’t even go to state pharmacies because I know there’s nothing like that.”

Outside the Major Parish Church of the Holy Spirit, patients and family members of chronically ill people gather every Saturday. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Mercedes García, Sancti Spíritus, September 7, 2025 — Some have gray hair while others are young, united by their need for some of the medications in short supply at government-run pharmacies. Outside Holy Spirit Church, patients and relatives of the chronically ill gather every Saturday looking for drugs to treat fevers, diabetes, or asthma. These medications are distributed free of charge here upon presentation of a medical prescription.

At the corner of Boulevard and Honorato del Castillo Park, Belkis is one of the more than 2.5 million Cubans with hypertension waiting in line. “I came to see if they have enalapril or some other medication that will help me control my blood pressure because right now I have good days and others with very dangerous spikes.” The 66-year-old Sancti Spiritus resident has been coming here for months in search of the pills she needs.

“I have a card but, since the beginning of this year, I haven’t been able to buy all the medicines I need at the pharmacy. Sometimes they have them and some times they don’t,” she says. Cuba’s drug shortage primarily continue reading

affects products manufactured on the island, which accounts for 80% of the basic supply. “To say that this situation will be resolved in the next few days would be irresponsible,” Health Minister José Ángel Portal Miranda admitted last year. The situation has only worsened since then.

Caption — Medical accessories and devices to alleviate the pain of bedridden patients are also distributed at the facility / 14ymedio

For Belkis, the service provided by the city’s Catholic Church has made the difference between “ending up in a hospital emergency room every week or leading a more or less normal life.” The facility also distributes medical supplies and devices for bedridden patients. “I came for some disposable diapers for my grandmother, who has been bedridden for over a year,” explains a young man who has received gauze, cotton and cream to alleviate the elderly woman’s bedsores. “I don’t even bother with the government’s pharmacies because I know they don’t have any of those things.”

Other religious communities, such as the growing number of evangelical groups, also offer medications, vitamins, nutritional supplements and supplies for hospital patients. While the black market offers a wide array of pharmaceuticals and healthcare products, public health officials warn of the dangers of buying these items there. “I feel safer coming here than looking for them on the street,” admits Belkis as she waits her turn in line at the small parish dispensary. If she can get some enalapril this Saturday, she will have a few worry-free days ,” she claims.
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Outside Havana, Cubans Live an Existence Without Electricity, Exhausted and Sleepless

Many families cook on their porches with coal or firewood and the air becomes unbreathable due to the smoke.

A makeshift wood-burning stove on a street in Sancti Spíritus. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Mercedes García, Sancti Spíritus, 29 August 2025 — In the Cuban provinces, when the power returns after a daily blackout of about 20 hours, a frenetic flurry of activity begins, regardless of whether it is day or night. Residents don’t exactly know when that moment will come, but they know they have very little time to do all the things the regular power outages haven’t allowed them to do.

“We only find out when it comes, and we know we have two, three, or four hours ahead of us,” says Alicia, a resident of Sancti Spíritus who doesn’t quite understand the electricity rationing “schedule” the central province is under. “The only thing that’s certain is that we have to run and turn on the washing machine, or put some rice in the crockpot.”

On Monday, it happened at one in the morning: “At that time I started preparing breakfast for the family to have in the morning, because my husband had to go to work and the power would be out by then.”

Residents of Camagüey report a similar situation. In the 36 hours spent in the city by a Havana resident visiting relatives, “if there were six with electricity, it was a lot,” he told 14ymedio. “When the power comes on, it’s a race against time to try to use the appliances: running the washing machine, charging cell phones, freezing some meats, turning on the water pumps to store it in the tanks. continue reading

“People are already so mentally exhausted that they just say ’the power went out,’ and they already know that more heat is coming without a fan and they’ll have a hard time.”

The most surprising thing for him is how “they’ve adjusted their lives to an existence without electricity.” Inés, a native of Sancti Spiritus, shares the same sentiment: “People are so mentally exhausted that all they say is ’the power’s out,’ and they already know that even hotter weather is coming without a fan and they’ll have to struggle to cook, but they’ve found their own way of surviving; they no longer care whether there’s electricity or not.”

There are professionals who continue to work by candlelight, or by a rechargeable lamp. A few days ago, this is how a veterinarian in Ciego de Ávila treated patients, with a light bulb attached to a headband. Tired, he and an assistant shared the urgent cases that came into the office, while looking up at the ceiling and whispering, “Long live the Cuban Revolution!”

The survival instinct even makes people respond, “Everything is normal,” in a city like Holguín, where, according to the Electric Company’s latest schedule, they only have seven hours of electricity out of 24, and that every other day. The next day, they “enjoy” three more hours. However, according to the 14ymedio correspondent in the area, “in some places, electricity is leaving earlier than usual and arriving later.”

Those who can cook with wood or charcoal, so the streets in a country that prides itself on investing in clean energy are filled with unbreathable air. “At eight o’clock at night, you can’t go out because you suffocate,” Alicia confirms. “Everyone is cooking with wood in their doorways or patios. The smoke covers everything.”

But not even these primitive methods are affordable for everyone. “Those who can cook with firewood,” says a resident of Santiago de Cuba, “because a can of charcoal costs 300 pesos and a sack, 1,200.”

“If it’s in the morning, the workers go to the city to deal with things and come back, but if it’s after three in the afternoon, they all go home.”

In Santa Clara, the power is also constantly cut off, Roniel says. “If it’s in the morning, the workers go to the city to resolve issues and come back, but if it’s after 3:00 p.m., they all go home.” They know that in two hours, the time left until the end of the workday at 5:00 p.m., the power won’t be restored. The man laments, resigned: “Tell me how a country like this can be productive.”

The inconvenient hours also prevent people from getting rest, something already difficult with the summer heat and the mosquitoes that proliferate without fans. “You can’t sleep, because when the light comes on, you have to get up and get things done,” says Inés. Thus, disturbed, stressed, and deranged individuals wander the streets from lack of sleep. Many are visibly drunk; alcohol and drugs are their only escape.

For this Friday, the Cuban Electricity Union forecasts a deficit of 1,565 megawatts (MW) during peak hours—for a demand of 3,750 MW and an availability of 2,215 MW—which will result in an actual shortage of 1,635 MW. This is a “low” figure in a week in which a shortage of no less than 1,700 MW has predominated.

Inés has been suffering from nervousness for months, she says, without being able to see a doctor. “There’s no time to get sick here,” the haggard woman says. “I’m waiting for the doctor to come back from vacation and give me pills to feel better.”

The scene unfolds before the attentive eyes of the neighborhood’s residents. The lack of distractions—not to mention the lack of internet service almost all day long—means everyone is absorbed in other people’s conversations and arguments. Inés then lowers her voice: “I realize I live in an impossible place. When I think about it, what I want is to die, to disappear, because I don’t know what the future holds.”

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Due to a Lack of Reagents in Hospitals, Cubans Do Not Know if They Have Oropuuche or Dengue Fever

The spread of both viruses is advancing throughout most of the country amid a lack of diagnosis and the proliferation of mosquitoes.

Doctors used to visit the homes of dengue patients. Now that practice has been lost. / Archive/Granma

14ymedio, Mercedes García, Sancti Spíritus, 28 August 2025 — Oropouche or dengue? The question has been on Dayana’s mind for a week. For the a 35-year-old resident of Sancti Spíritus, the conclusion is always the same: “I’ll never know, because the clinic doesn’t have any reagents.” The young woman is just one of the many victims of the malaise caused by both viruses, which has spread throughout her neighborhood, among her acquaintances, and, according to the island’s authorities, throughout the country.

“That,” “the virus,” or “whatever’s going around” are the new names Dayana and many other Sancti Spiritus residents have given to the symptoms common to both illnesses—fever, malaise, joint pain—due to the lack of resources at health centers to determine which one they suffer from. In reality, she confesses to 14ymedio, the diagnosis doesn’t matter because “here, everyone already knows they should rest and use home remedies: lots of cherry or guava leaf decoctions, gelatin, chicken foot broth and water, lots of water.”

Both diseases have spread in recent weeks, especially oropouche, which, according to epidemiologist Francisco Durán’s report on Cuban Television on Wednesday, is now present in 11 provinces. Dengue has spread to seven, but presents a more complex “condition” than oropouche. Four patients are reported to be in intensive care, two diagnosed as seriously ill and two as critically ill. continue reading

The United States Embassy on the island published two alerts warning its citizens about the risks

The spread of the virus has even set off alarm bells at the U.S. Embassy on the island, which issued two alerts on Wednesday warning its citizens of “an increase in the number of cases of dengue, chikungunya, and oropouche virus throughout Cuba,” as well as hepatitis A, the latter primarily in Havana.

“Hepatitis A is primarily transmitted through contaminated food and water. Areas with inadequate water supply systems, ineffective garbage collection, and an abundance of flies pose a particularly high risk of transmission. These conditions persist in several areas of the city,” the statement said.

For Dayana, however, life goes on with or without the virus. “It’s been a week or so since I had ‘it,’ and so has my mom, and a lot of people in the neighborhood. Yesterday I went to work and my boss and the finance department were there, but everyone keeps working like this, everyone keeps doing their things despite the illness,” she says.

In hospitals, she says, it’s not given much importance either. “I went to the clinic myself when I started feeling ill, and after telling me there was no lab test, the doctor told me: ’That’s dengue or oropouche. Rest and drink plenty of water,’” she says.

In years past, she recalls, “when people had these symptoms, a doctor would come to see you and tell you that you had to stay home, that you couldn’t go out. The mosquito team [Epidemiology] would also come and check your yard to see how your water was. Now they don’t do anything; no one takes care of it,” she laments.

“There’s also the problem of garbage. There are many [formal and informal] dumps throughout the city that haven’t been collected in a long time.”

To make matters worse, she says with annoyance, viruses are transmitted by mosquitoes, and in Sancti Spíritus “they’re a daily occurrence.” “Here, water comes twice a day, and with the huge number of leaks, it spills and accumulates everywhere,” she complains.

When water starts to flood the pipes, she explains, “my own neighbors leave the tank open, and the water runs all over my yard. There’s also the problem of garbage. There are many dumps throughout the city, long uncollected, with basins where water accumulates every time it rains.”

The panorama and ditches make the city the perfect breeding ground for the proliferation of Aedes aegypti, Culex , and “a host of other pests” that transmit diseases. In Dayana’s opinion, it’s a miracle that her neighborhood doesn’t also have an outbreak of hepatitis, which is transmitted through contaminated water and food.

On Cuban Television, where the island portrayed is very different from the real one, Durán recommended always going to health centers to receive a diagnosis. “In Cuba, everyone is a doctor,” the epidemiologist joked, referring to those who self-diagnose, impose treatments on themselves and their families, or resort to home remedies, despite the fact that there is nothing health workers in hospitals can do for their patients.

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