Pablo Padilla Cruz – Translating Cuba

“Fishing is Saving Us From Hunger”

For lack of fuel, Matanzas cannot celebrate the traditional red snapper run this year

Theo is an octogenarian who has left the boats behind to take up sport fishing from the wall of the San Juan River. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Pablo Padilla Cruz, Matanzas, 14 June 2026 / Like two liquid daggers, the San Juan and Yumurí rivers cut through the geography of Matanzas. Before dawn, human silhouettes are already etched against the riverbanks. They carry nylon line, bait bags, cast nets and sport fishing rods. The people of Matanzas have the relationship with water and fish in their blood, but today that bond does not answer to the pleasure of a pastime, but to a far more relentless force: the urgency of putting food on the table in a city where the engines of the fishing fleet have fallen silent.

The fuel crisis and general shortage of supplies have completely transformed the map of local fishing. What was once a thriving deep-sea industry is today a silent resistance waged along the river’s edge.

From a footbridge that divides the Yumurí River in two, Joel prepares his tackle with his gaze fixed on the current. He is one of that tide of citizens who have had to look to the water for the sustenance that the markets cannot provide. His tone carries a heavy urgency, that of a man who knows his day’s work decides what his family will eat.

A fish today in Cuba can make the difference between eating something or going to sleep with an empty stomach.

“My friend, fishing is saving us,” says Joel without taking his eyes off the water. “My family has lived close to the river for generations and it has saved us from hunger more than once. A fish today in Cuba can make the difference between eating something and going to bed with an empty stomach. Many of us fish out of tradition or because we enjoy it, but lately people also fish for what they can put on the table.”

From a pedestrian bridge that bisects the Yumurí River, Joel prepares his fishing gear, his gaze fixed on the current. / 14ymedio

As he casts his line, Joel confesses his frustration, gazing at the horizon, a place that seems forbidden to ordinary Cubans today: “I’ve always wanted to own a boat and fish in the open sea, but the way things are, many boat owners are like me, fishing from the shore. The rise in oil prices has hit them so hard that some haven’t been able to go out to sea for almost a year. How do you make a living when what you staked everything on as your way of life continue reading

ends?”

The dilemma Joel raises cuts to the heart of Matanzas’s fishing sector. Historically, June marked the beginning of the red snapper run. The fish would enter the bay and the water would become a dense mass of launches, boats and artisanal craft competing for the largest specimens, destined for sale or family consumption.

However, going after the red snapper is today a mathematical gamble in which the fishermen are set up to lose. This method requires keeping the engine running at low revs (usually between 4 and 7 knots) for hours, interspersed with short bursts at full throttle to reach the “ledge” or the reef edge and return before the weather turns.

A typical outing requires between 6 and 8 hours of navigation, with fuel consumption varying between 30 and 60 litres. Add to this the strict rule of thirds – one third of fuel to reach the spot, one third for the work and the final third to guarantee the return – and the actual fishing time is extremely short. Casting the nets badly or hitting a run of bad luck means not just coming back empty-handed, but facing ruin.

The river has become the region’s last social safety net / 14ymedio

On the docks of the San Juan River, Antuan, the captain of a boat he does not own, assesses the situation with the cold pragmatism and irony of someone who knows the operating costs of the sea inside out.

“The idea that fishing makes us rich might have worked before,” Antuan says with a bitter smile. “Now, without fuel, owning a boat is a matter of wanting it but not being able to. Some of us save fuel for the snapper run, but a bad catch can wipe out all our savings. Others couldn’t even afford to save a couple of liters. That’s why there’s a saying that’s popular among us: when you buy a boat, you’ll be happy three times: the first time when you buy it, the second time when you go fishing for the first time, and the third time when you sell it and pass the problem on to someone else.”

The paralysis of the fleet does not only affect the sailors: it also empties the tables of the city. The fish that remain in the sea are food that never reaches the homes of the people of Matanzas. Against this backdrop, the river has become the region’s last social safety net.

The fleet’s paralysis doesn’t just affect sailors: it also empties the city’s tables.

Theobulo, whom everyone in the neighbourhood affectionately calls Theo, is an octogenarian who has left the boats behind to take up sport fishing from the wall. With the perspective gained from decades walking the same quays, Theo offers a historical and melancholy view of the deterioration of river life.

Theo fishing in the San Juan River, in Matanzas. / 14ymedio

“Son, I grew up right here beside the river and I know more than half the owners of these boats,” relates Theo as he adjusts his rod. “Now, compared to a couple of decades ago, everything is harder. There’s no oil to go out fishing and there’s more hunger in the streets too. Those fish that don’t get caught no longer feed anyone in the city. Now many people, in the afternoon, take their lines and cast them trying to hook some little fish.”

Necessity has forced the people of Matanzas to break taboos and look for any alternative in the water – dynamics that the official narrative prefers to gloss over. “There’s even a woman who catches crabs and sells them,” the old man continues. “I think the newspaper Girón interviewed her a while back, but they never mentioned her need to sell what she takes from the river to get by.”

“There’s no fuel to go out fishing and there’s more hunger in the streets”

When asked whether he misses the adrenaline of sailing out to sea, Theo stares at the calm waters of the river, aware of his own good fortune but sceptical about the future: “My time at sea has passed. Now I fish on the shore for the odd little fish, for the fun of it. Luckily, I don’t need the river to eat… for now. Who knows about tomorrow,” he concludes at the very moment a small fish takes his hook and is pulled from the water.

The fishing landscape of Matanzas has been laid bare. While the red snapper complete their natural cycle in the bay, free from the pressure of the engines, the population crowds onto the bridges and riverbanks, trying to catch their daily sustenance by hand. The city’s fishing, stripped of its fuel, survives today on nylon line, patience and the bare necessity of keeping alive.

Translated by GH.

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Workers at Varadero’s Luxury Hotels: the Main Victims of Cuba’s Tourism Collapse

The crisis has produced a devastating domino effect on the surrounding communities

Workers in Varadero waiting for transport to Cárdenas / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Pablo Padilla Cruz, Varadero, 9 June 2026 / Though the blue of its waters grows more intense with the start of June, and its white fine sand shimmers under the relentless tropical sun, walking through the streets of Varadero’s tourist enclave today is an ode to nostalgia. What was once the goose that laid the golden egg of the Cuban economy now survives as a desert of broken promises for the handful of visitors who still arrive, for the marginalised residents, and for workers mired in absolute precariousness.

The debacle is not new, but it has reached a point of no return. A self-employed worker confirms as much as she weaves her electric mototaxi around the potholes along the peninsula’s scorching asphalt. “Things have been getting worse for about ten years now,” she says, eyes fixed on the road. “First came the decline in the quality of tourists. I know that well, because I was a waitress at the Princesa del Mar hotel at Paradisus. In those golden years we had lots of Canadian guests, but Europeans too – Germans, French, Italians, and of course Spaniards. I learned that you find kind and generous tourists everywhere, but some markets are better than others when it comes to what workers take home.”

The woman explains that a change of commercial strategy by the Ministry of Tourism marked the beginning of the end. “Then the Russians, Mexicans, and Argentinians arrived en masse, and with them the purchasing power of workers in the sector dropped sharply, because they left very few tips. Later came the Chinese, and that’s when we started to miss the Latin Americans,” she says with a bitter smile. “It’s not that they’re bad people – it’s that their model of tourism is different; they barely leave the hotel and spend almost nothing outside.” Overnight, she says, the craft fairs went from being coveted jobs to being the last card left to play.

Varadero beach at 45th Street. / 14ymedio

Covid-19 drove in the final nail. “After the pandemic, the reality became unsustainable,” the driver admits. “When I saw that my income depended on the domestic market, I decided to get out. I worked at whatever I could until they authorised passenger transport licences, and my daughter, from the United States, managed to buy me this electric motorbike. That’s how I survive. When I ferry the current hotel workers around and hear about their problems – which are endless – I know I made the right call.”

The picture painted on the streets is reflected with mathematical precision inside the hotel complexes themselves. Amed, a young man who until a few days ago worked at the Los Delfines hotel, confirms continue reading

the operational collapse of tourism. “They proposed I move to a security guard role because they shut down the hotel restaurant. Now they’re only giving access to the pool and the lobby, and everything is charged exclusively in dollars,” he explains, visibly frustrated.

The employees’ discontent stems from the disappearance of the black market and tips – the two historic pillars that compensated for the poverty-level state salaries. “Everyone in Cuba knows that in tourism you live either off tips or off the food each person manages to sneak out to resell. With no customers in the facilities, there’s neither one nor the other,” Amed laments. On top of that, the dollarisation imposed by the state trading company ITH has shut the door on the island’s own citizens: “ITH now only accepts dollars, so the hotels can’t offer anything in pesos to the same Cubans who get paid in that currency. How is there supposed to be any domestic tourism like that?”

Caffechino, in Varadero, was the busiest spot a year ago. / 14ymedio

For the young man, the decision to leave the sector was a matter of pure survival. “Today is my last day of work. I didn’t accept the security guard post. If the bus fare to get here costs me a minimum of a thousand pesos a day return, and can go up to four thousand, how am I supposed to work for a state salary of barely 4,800 pesos a month? There’s no calculator in the world that makes that add up,” he exclaims, before dropping his head and staring at his phone screen.

This near-total paralysis of tourism has produced a devastating domino effect on the communities surrounding the Hicacos peninsula, which have historically depended on the resort’s economic activity. Entire communities that fed off the informal flow of resources and the surpluses taken from the hotels are today completely stranded, stuck in the middle of nowhere and battered by the widespread energy crisis gripping the country.

“Santa Marta is a shadow of what it used to be,” laments a resident of this locality, situated so close to Varadero that its inhabitants consider themselves an inseparable part of it. “The rental properties are closed for lack of customers, the private businesses that were once thriving are falling deeper into decay every day, and food prices are through the roof because now we’re forced to die in the MSMEs*.”

The village of Santa Marta, near Varadero. / 14ymedio

Scarcity has transformed even the family survival networks. “The little that workers manage to take out of the hotels nowadays goes to feed their own families – it’s no longer sold on,” the resident explains, emphasizing her words with desperate gestures. “In Santa Marta there have been entire generations of people who spent their whole lives reselling the rum and drinks that employees from the cayo [the informal name Matanzas locals give to Varadero] gave or passed on to them. Now they’ve had to reinvent themselves, leave the country, or simply go hungry. Not everyone in Varadero and Santa Marta is rich – there are poor families, extremely poor families.”

On top of the lost income comes the ordeal of the blackouts. “What’s normal here now is three consecutive days without electricity, followed by barely two hours with power, before going back to three days in the dark. That destroys the few businesses still standing and wrecks the quality of life of anyone who doesn’t have thousands of dollars to buy solar panels. Right now, Santa Marta is not much different from a rural village in Las Tunas,” the woman concludes.

Despite this severe humanitarian and infrastructural crisis, the authorities pushed ahead with their political-commercial entertainment agenda. Under the Resonance Musique brand, on 29, 30, and 31 May, the official opening of summer in Varadero was celebrated. The festivities, however, turned into a social powder keg.

The event was marked by complete disorganisation, an alarming shortage of food and drink offerings, and, worst of all, serious episodes of physical violence between exhausted workers at the Resonance hotel (formerly the Fiesta Americana, then Sandals) and dissatisfied guests. “It wasn’t worth it at all,” says Rangel, a Cuban citizen who travelled from the capital with his family. “For us, saving up enough money to come here represents an entire year of sacrifice. The party was a complete disaster — the only redeeming features were the beach and the peace and quiet, two things we don’t have back in Centro Habana.”

Rangel lists the logistical failings without hesitation: “We arrived at the hotel at 11 in the morning and didn’t get our room until 9 at night. The general service and the food were dreadful. And the worst part was the party itself: you try to have a good time because you’ve already spent the money, but the performers showed up just to go through the motions and the sound was terrible. I’m never coming back at the start of summer again.”

*MSME – Micro, Small and Medium Enterprises

Translated by GH.

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HIV or Diabetes Patients Condemned To Beg on the Streets of Matanzas, Cuba

Idalberto claims to have received the Cuban “vaccine” Theravac-HIV without his consent: “It’s as if they were experimenting on me.”

Beggar on a street in Matanzas. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Pablo Padilla Cruz, Matanzas, May 4, 2026 / Sitting on a central street, Idalberto observes the indifferent daily hustle and bustle of passersby, hoping one of them will give him a few bills. Beside him, on cardboard, he displays a clear message: “It’s for food,” and he doesn’t hide the fact that he is HIV-positive.

“It’s all there,” he says, showing another poster. “Even my case index, 15707, from December 21, 2011, for anyone who wants to check.” According to his account, the first decade of his illness was relatively stable. “Personalized” attention and, of course, free care for people living with HIV and those with AIDS is, in fact, one of the services the Cuban state boasts about most, although the reality, deep down, leaves much to be desired .

In Idalberto’s case, everything changed abruptly with the coronavirus pandemic, which hit the island particularly hard in 2021. “Before, I regularly received my treatments and visits from doctors and social workers, but after COVID, everything changed,” he told 14ymedio. The treatments began to change without explanation: “Sometimes they would give me an antiretroviral, and other times it would disappear. It was as if they were experimenting on me.” continue reading

Idalberto also claims to have received the experimental Cuban “vaccine” called Theravac-HIV without his consent.

The success of antiretroviral therapy (ART)—a set of medications designed to suppress viral replication and maintain a functional immune system—depends largely on its consistent administration. Frequent changes or interruptions in treatment, explains Idalberto, can lead to viral resistance, a weakened immune system, and other adverse effects such as nausea, cramps, or fatigue.

Idalberto also claims to have received the experimental Cuban “vaccine” called Theravac-HIV without his consent . The immunotherapy, still in the research phase, aims to stimulate the immune response against the virus, but its use without adequate information for the patient violates ethics and numerous laws worldwide. “I am a human being and I have dignity,” Idalberto states. “I didn’t like being a lab rat.”

Medical advances have meant that, in the developed world, having HIV is no longer life-threatening, but in countries with shortages, like Cuba, the situation is much more complicated. Idalberto recounts how he has had colds that have become severe, and how he lived through the recent arboviral epidemic—especially dengue and chikungunya—which left almost 70 dead on the island, according to official figures, and hundreds of patients with physical aftereffects .

Although the government claims there is “stable control” over the number of people living with HIV on the island, the reported figure for 2025 reached 35,373 cases , after having remained above 31,000 for several years. The prevalence among trans women , moreover, continues to be among the highest on the continent.

Like Idalberto, César Manuel, a diabetic patient who has developed an ulcer on his right foot, is barely surviving.

In the fight against AIDS, the regime also tends to overlook the importance of foreign aid. Just a few weeks ago, it was reported that Cuba will receive up to $16 million from the Global Fund to Fight AIDS, Tuberculosis and Malaria (GFAID) over the next three years, an initiative from which it has benefited since 2003.

The situation of begging for many patients, in any case, contrasts with the triumphalist discourse, still in force, of public health in Cuba.

Like Idalberto, César Manuel, a diabetic patient, is barely getting by after developing an ulcer on his right foot. “I just came from the clinic. They cleaned it with hydrogen peroxide, put on some ointment, and sent me home,” he recounts. With the wound bleeding and barely covered with gauze that, he’s grateful, they “gave” him, he had to walk back.

Why wasn’t he given Heberprot-P, the flagship drug touted by the Ministry of Health as the most advanced for this type of injury, designed to stimulate healing and reduce the risk of amputation, and approved in up to 40 countries and currently in Phase III trials in the European Union? Because in Cuba’s free and universal healthcare system, it’s not so easy to get it. “It’s a long process: from the doctor’s office to the polyclinic and then to the hospital,” César explains. “And that’s if they even approve it.”

His anger is evident: “Diabetes is one of the most widespread diseases, but it seems the medication isn’t reaching everyone. It’s sold abroad while it’s scarce here.” The millions in profits the Cuban state earns from international agreements for biotechnology, the sale of medical services, and health tourism don’t reach the majority of the population.

Idalberto, with his sign, and César Manuel, with his unresolved wound, wonder: what can they boast about, if the system doesn’t reach everyone?

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Starlink in Cuba: the Banned Antenna That Challenges Etecsa’s Monopoly

If the State guarantees neither electricity nor internet, those who can afford it try to become independent of both at the same time.

The antenna needs to see the sky, but it must not attract the neighborhood’s attention. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Matanzas, Pablo Padilla Cruz, April 5, 2026 – On some rooftops in Havana, Matanzas, or Santa Clara, it’s no longer just water tanks, clotheslines, pigeon coops, and old television antennas that stand out. Now another object is beginning to appear, or rather to hide: the rectangular Starlink dish. In a country where internet access remains expensive, unstable, and vulnerable to blackouts, some Cubans have decided to bypass the ban and set up their own gateway to the world.

The operation begins long before turning on the equipment. The first obstacle is Customs. Marlon -a fictitious name- tells 14ymedio some of the tricks used to evade controls. “An assembled antenna shows up immediately on the scanner,” he explains. “You have to make it unrecognizable: take it apart into pieces, put it inside a television or a computer tower, mix it with cables, tools, and electronic scrap.” Sometimes it works. Other times, the difference between losing everything or leaving the airport depends on finding an official willing to look the other way in exchange for two or three $20 bills folded inside the passport.

Once inside the country, the antenna is assembled in silence. Then it has to be installed in a spot with enough open sky, but without being too exposed to view from the street or a neighbor’s house. After that, it is connected to a backup battery (UPS) or a small solar system to withstand blackouts.

Elon Musk: “It works in Cuba, it’s just not allowed to be sold there”

Damián, a programmer from Matanzas who works for clients abroad, justifies the investment. “With Etecsa [the State telecommunications monopoly] I couldn’t sustain a full meeting. Everything would drop. Now I pay the subscription with help from my brother in Miami. It’s expensive, yes, but it lets me work.” Like him, other professionals have reached the same conclusion: a stable connection is no longer a technological luxury, but a condition for job survival. continue reading

The most visible trigger came on March 16, 2026, when Elon Musk wrote on X a phrase that confirmed what had already been circulating as a clandestine rumor among users on the island: “It works in Cuba, it’s just not allowed to be sold there.” The statement did not change the legal situation, but it did clear up the main technical doubt. Coverage exists. What does not exist is authorization from the Cuban State to market the service or tolerate its open use.

That’s where true Cuban ingenuity begins. Because the signal over Cuba alone is not enough. Ordinary mobile phones are not designed to connect directly to Starlink satellites as a full substitute for a fixed or mobile network. For that, the company’s specific terminal and a router are required to distribute the connection. The option of direct satellite-to-cellphone connection remains limited and does not yet offer the capacity needed to sustain a full workday, a stable video call, or an internet-based business.

The failure of Cuban connectivity is explained not only by Etecsa’s monopoly, but also by the energy collapse

One of the most common tricks is registering the service outside Cuba. Since Starlink does not officially sell on the Island, many users rely on accounts activated in third countries, such as Mexico or the United States. The equipment enters already linked to a roaming plan and is used in Cuban territory through that channel. It is not a stable or guaranteed long-term solution, as it depends on the service’s own rules and authorized markets, but today it sustains a large part of the clandestine installations.

The second trick is camouflage. The antenna needs to see the sky, but must not draw attention. Some people hide it inside fake air-conditioning boxes. Others place it behind walls or paint it cement gray to blend in with the rooftop. Some even put it inside modified plastic structures made of materials that do not block the signal, so that from below it looks like something else.

The third trick has to do with electricity. The failure of Cuban connectivity is explained not only by Etecsa’s monopoly, but also by the energy collapse. A fixed line is of little use when a neighborhood can go hours or more than one day without power. That is why many users connect the antenna and router to lithium batteries, UPS systems, or small solar setups. If the State guarantees neither electricity nor internet, those who can afford it try to become independent of both at the same time.

A single unit can supply a small neighborhood network and turn its owner into an informal Wi-Fi provider. / Facebook / Ventas Santa Clara Cuba

In terms of cost, Starlink is far beyond the average Cuban’s means. While in the United States or Mexico a standard kit may cost between $300 and $450, on the Island that same equipment shoots up on the black market to $1,300-$1,800, a difference driven not by technical improvements, but by import risks, camouflage, bribes, and the possibility of confiscation. On top of that comes the monthly fee: roaming plans, the ones that allow use in a country where the service is not officially sold, range from $90 to $120 per month, although in Cuba many end up paying around $150 to resellers who manage the account from abroad. In practice, users are not paying just for internet, but for the entire chain of illegality and financial dependency that makes it possible to turn on the antenna.

Around this banned technology, a small economic ecosystem has already emerged. There are those who use it to sustain a private business, those who depend on it for remote programming or design work, and those who resell it. A single device can power a small neighborhood network and turn its owner into an informal Wi-Fi provider. Just as people once shared signals from antennas to watch foreign TV channels, now they are starting to share Starlink connections. In practice, it is an invisible small business.

This proliferation explains the authorities’ unease. The Government can confiscate antennas, tighten inspections, and label these devices as contraband technology, but it has not managed to erase demand. Every dish hidden on a rooftop confirms the failure of a monopoly unable to provide a sufficient, stable connection compatible with contemporary economic life.

Starlink alone will not democratize Cuba. It remains expensive, clandestine, and limited to a minority. It almost always depends on money sent from abroad and on a chain of illegalities that keeps it out of reach for most. But each antenna leaves behind a difficult truth to conceal: the demand for connectivity has already outgrown the State’s capacity for control.

Translated by Regina Anavy

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“At the Rate Things Are Going, I Don’t Know if I’ll Be Alive To See an Improvement”

In the streets of Matanzas, retirees barely survive

Sitting at the entrance of the former Hotel París, where he occupies a small room in the back, Roilier tries every day to earn his food. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Matanzas, Pablo Padilla Cruz, March 31, 2026 – As in any besieged city, it is the weakest and most vulnerable who are the first to succumb. The same happens with the inflation affecting Cuba. Many are forced to double their work or, in many cases, to seek new forms of income in a desperate attempt to survive.

On Contreras Street in the city of Matanzas, Duarte, a neighbor awaiting his retirement, resists becoming a burden on his family. He has improvised a small stand in front of the entrance to his house: a modest table where he sells everything he finds, from cellphone batteries to second- or third-hand bathroom fittings, covered in magnesium residue. The place sometimes looks like the setting of a detective game.

“I don’t have many other options. My retirement hasn’t come yet and, besides, it would only be 2,100 pesos, according to estimates; that is, a bottle of oil and a bag of rice,” he calculates roughly. “I think I’ll fall short if prices keep rising.”

“Here I earn almost nothing, but it keeps me occupied. The neighbors give me their junk, as they say, and from time to time something sells”

Duarte worked as a night security guard at one of the port docks, but the early mornings and long trips to the industrial zone eventually took their toll. “I would have liked to keep working, but it’s not the same anymore. Here I earn almost nothing, but it keeps me occupied. The neighbors give me their junk, as they say, and from time to time something sells,” he says. “A hundred pesos here, twenty there, it never hurts.” continue reading

With a mix of resignation and hope, he reflects on his future: “First I have to finish the retirement process. After that, maybe I can work as a guard somewhere nearby; if not, I’ll continue here. Maybe one day someone will want to invest and we’ll improve the offerings, but at the rate things are going, I don’t know if I’ll be alive to see an improvement.”

Duarte’s situation is not exceptional. The purchasing power of the elderly who depend on a state pension pushes them increasingly into the streets, even after retirement. People with disabilities are not spared this reality either, receiving monthly assistance that is entirely insufficient in the face of the worsening crisis.

He has improvised a small stand in front of the entrance to his house, a modest table where he sells everything he finds. / 14ymedio

Armando, blind, is one of them. With the help of his friend Maritza, who guides him through the city streets, he sells various items from a cardboard box at any improvised kiosk on Calle del Medio.

“It has become easier over time, but even so, it’s complicated to come every day and return home with the box still full of things,” he says. “Luckily Maritza helps me: she tells me when someone wants something and makes sure the payment and change are correct. She also makes sure no one steals from me. With her help, we get by. I never imagined doing this, but these are difficult times.”

Maritza, for her part, assumes her role naturally and with solidarity: “Here, fortunately, we help each other. It would be low of me not to lend him a hand in his situation. And don’t think he doesn’t help me too. We keep each other company day by day. This kiosk is our office, and we are partners for better or worse,” she says, smiling, just before selling a bottle of glue to a hurried customer.

Both Armando and Duarte see in their respective incomes — a still-pending pension and modest state assistance — a partial relief for daily expenses. However, there are those who do not even have that support, which makes their daily struggle even harder.

With the help of his friend Maritza, who guides him through the city streets, he sells various items from a cardboard box at any improvised kiosk on Calle del Medio. / 14ymedio

“I made many mistakes in my life, many excesses. In prison I paid society, as they say, but there is a cross I continue to carry.” This is spoken with sadness and frankness by Roilier, who survives by selling whatever he finds or is given, while repairing shoes, a trade he learned during his sentence.

Sitting at the entrance of the former Hotel París, where he occupies a small room in the back, he tries every day to earn enough for food. When asked about the cellphone batteries he sells, he answers bluntly that he does not know if they work; he has no phone to test them.

“I don’t complain,” he stresses. “I lost the ability to complain a long time ago. I only see how unfair life can be: even if you pay for your mistakes with your time, you will always have an invisible mark that doesn’t let you move forward. You will always be, when looking for a job, the one who did this or that. It doesn’t matter if it was fifteen years ago or a month, or under what circumstances. Mistakes never completely disappear, and so all you have left is this,” he says, pointing to his tools: “waiting for death while you mend a sole.”

Translated by Regina Anavy

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With a 90% Shortage of Medications, the Closure of Several Pharmacies in Matanzas, Cuba Is Being Considered

The collapse is due to the lack of transportation to bring drugs from Havana, explains a Health sector official.

Arrivals are sporadic and, generally, it is not known exactly which medications will be available. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Matanzas, Pablo Padilla Cruz, March 28, 2026 – In the city of Matanzas, a panorama of shortages has become the norm for residents who depend on public pharmacies. Empty shelves, widespread confusion, and endless lines to obtain medicines have marked the reality of many citizens, especially the most vulnerable: the elderly and patients with chronic illnesses.

The day when the arrival of some medication is announced, especially those that require a card, becomes a kind of hope. However, that hope rarely materializes with certainty. Arrivals are sporadic and, generally, it is not known exactly which medications will be available. “It is almost always one Tuesday a month, but it is also almost never known what they will send.” That day, from dawn, patients, mostly elderly, stand in long lines at pharmacies to try to pick up the pills that will relieve their ailments. However, the arrival of medications seems increasingly uncertain.

The situation has gone beyond a recurring shortage crisis. This time, the message spreading by word of mouth among residents of Matanzas is even more alarming: “The pharmacies in Matanzas are going to close permanently.” Although the rumor is widespread, the truth behind this statement remains uncertain, although health workers do not rule out the possibility. continue reading

Measures such as the permanent closure of several pharmacies are being considered, leaving only a few open. / 14ymedio

“We are considering that we may be left without medications and for that reason, interrupted,” stated a pharmaceutical technician at the pharmacy located on Ayuntamiento Street. Surrounded by empty shelves, she explained that although some medications do arrive at times, these are insufficient. In some cases, medications arrive for patients with cards, such as enalapril for blood pressure, metformin for diabetics, or to a lesser extent, insulin. However, the levels of shortage are so high that patients are often sent back home without being able to obtain what they need.

An official from the provincial directorate of the health branch provides more details about the crisis. “In the province there is a shortage of almost 90% of medications in general,” she explains. This collapse is worsened by the lack of transportation, which prevents medications from reaching pharmacies in a timely manner. “Medications must be transported from Havana to the Medicuba warehouses in the industrial zone of Matanzas, and from there to the pharmacies, but currently this logistical movement is almost paralyzed,” the official notes.

As a result, measures such as the permanent closure of several pharmacies are being considered, leaving only a few open to distribute medications on a rotating basis among neighborhoods. In addition, some have reduced their service hours until 2 pm due to the lack of essential products.

“We are considering that we may be left without medications and for that reason, interrupted,” stated a pharmaceutical technician. / 14ymedio

The shortage has also affected specific medications such as insulin, which requires special storage conditions. Frequent blackouts worsen the situation, as they prevent pharmacies from maintaining supplies under proper conditions, further limiting their availability.

In this context of scarcity, residents of Matanzas are forced to resort to other alternatives to obtain the medications they need. Some choose to contact relatives abroad, while others turn to the black market or online pharmacies, which offer imported medications at prices ranging from 500 to 5,000 pesos, depending on the type of drug. However, as Pastrana, a pensioner who must take enalapril twice a day, explains, his monthly pension of 3,106 pesos is barely enough to cover his basic needs, much less to buy imported medications. “The pension doesn’t even cover rice, what am I going to do with medicines from abroad?” he laments.

The situation not only affects medications; medical supplies also suffer from the same problem. At the Ensume warehouse, which distributes and stores medical supplies for the entire province, the shortage of inputs is critical. An employee of the institution comments that they are currently receiving less than 30% of the materials necessary for their operation. “Ten years ago, we received supplies even at night, even on weekends. Now, we have nothing to do at 2 pm,” he recounts. According to him, hospitals sometimes have to divert ambulances to collect supplies, and sending them to places as distant as Cayo Ramona, in Ciénaga de Zapata, becomes a titanic undertaking.

Translated by Regina Anavy

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Matanzas Under Siege Amid the Appearance of Posters Against the Regime

State Security harasses an evangelical pastor for allowing “subversive ideas” in his congregation.

Etecsa center in Peñas Altas, where they are paying one thousand pesos per shift to trusted individuals to keep watch / 14ymedio

Pablo Padilla Cruz, Matanzas, March 17, 2026 – The “City of Bridges” does not sleep, not because of the bustle of its cultural life or the flow of its rivers but because of the weight of a security operation that reveals an unprecedented institutional vulnerability. Following the appearance of a sign in the central Playa del Tenis where the word “Communism” was intertwined with a Nazi swastika, the repressive apparatus in Matanzas has gone on maximum alert, revealing that, for the regime, a can of paint is now more dangerous than a weapon.

Less than 72 hours after the protests in Morón and just one day after the incident at Playa del Tenis, Matanzas woke up militarized at its key points. The speed with which State Security agents covered the anti-communist graffiti was not enough to contain the paranoia. According to internal sources, the security perimeter has expanded to public buildings and strategic locations, attempting to shield a normality that exists only in official discourse.

The fear is not only of crowds but of symbols. The appearance of posters with the word “libertad” [freedom] in the neighborhoods of Naranjal and Los Mangos has triggered a disproportionate response that combines worker coercion, technological sabotage, and religious persecution.

The appearance of posters with the word “libertad” [freedom] in the neighborhoods of Naranjal and Los Mangos has triggered a disproportionate response that combines labor coercion, technological sabotage, and religious persecution

The escalation of tension reached a critical point this Sunday, March 15, when surveillance shifted from walls to religious institutions. In what worshippers describe as “an assault on faith,” an evangelical pastor in the city was the target of a violent repressive operation as he prepared to carry out his pastoral duties.

Eyewitnesses reported that State Security agents intercepted the religious leader, accusing him of allowing “subversive ideas” to filter into his congregation under the cover of the social crisis affecting the province. This attack is not isolated; it is part of the dictatorship’s strategy to decapitate any figure with moral leadership who could continue reading

channel public discontent. The detention or harassment of the pastor, whose name is withheld for fear of further reprisals, confirms that the regime now fears not only paint on walls but also words from the pulpit.

Image of the place where the evangelical pastor was arrested on Monday morning / 14ymedio

The telecommunications company Etecsa, an enforcement arm of digital control on the Island, has turned its workers into ideological custodians. According to employee testimonies, management has formed “shock brigades” made up mostly of members of the Communist Party of Cuba (PCC).

Despite the collapse of the national electric system (SEN), these brigades remain on guard at bases and telecommunications antennas. “Each antenna will now have reinforced guards,” said a worker speaking on condition of anonymity. The fear is twofold: physical attacks on the facilities or the use of these structures as canvases for public discontent.

Even more alarming is the confirmation of a mass disconnection protocol. Yesterday afternoon, a “drill” left the city without internet access or landline service for two hours. The order is clear: at any sign of protest or anti-communist action, the city must be cut off to prevent the contagion effect that social media facilitated in July 2021.

The most surreal symptom of government fear is visible in commercial areas. Places that have remained closed and abandoned for months are now lit by rechargeable lamps and guarded by civilian personnel linked to the PCC.

In the Peñas Altas neighborhood, the former Mercado Ideal, turned by neglect into a public urinal and out of service since the pandemic, is now a strategic target. Local residents confirm that the government is paying one thousand pesos per shift (from 7:00 PM to 7:00 AM) to trusted individuals to guard the ruins.

“That place has been abandoned for a year, no one has taken care of it. The fact that they now spend money to guard it only shows they are more afraid that someone will paint a sign there than that someone might steal something that no longer exists”

“It’s absurd,” said a local resident. “That place has been abandoned for a year, no one has taken care of it. The fact that they now spend money to guard it only shows they are more afraid that someone will paint a sign there than that someone might steal something that no longer exists. The fear is of ink, not vandalism.”

The deployment in Matanzas reveals a government that knows it is being watched and rejected. The mobilization of PCC members to guard empty buildings, the repression of religious leaders on a Sunday of worship, and the preparation to cut off national communications are tactics of a power that has lost consensus and retains only force. While State Security rushes to erase posters, the reality of the province is laid bare: a city where the government watches the shadows, fearing that any wall or any voice might tell the story of an ending already felt in the streets.

Translated by Regina Anavy

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Cuba: Selling Food by Day and Surviving on the Streets by Night

The collapse of intercity transport forces many to sleep outdoors in Matanzas

“More and more of us are searching through the same containers, because many neighbors are now going to the garbage dumps to look for cardboard and wood for fuel.” / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Pablo Padilla Cruz, Matanzas, February 21, 2026 — El Jabao, as he’s known at the market, is a food vendor who travels to Matanzas from a rural area in Limonar, about 28 kilometers from the city. He leaves at dawn hoping to sell enough to cover basic expenses and the return fare. But his routine depends on calculations that almost never add up.

“If I sell well, I go back the same day. But sometimes the bus fare costs more than 400 or 500 pesos, and I can’t afford it. A year ago, I thought private vending machines for 200 pesos were expensive; imagine now,” he tells 14ymedio. “So I have to stay. There isn’t always nighttime transportation, and if there is, the price goes up even more. Sleeping on the street isn’t safe, but I can’t just throw away my merchandise either.”

In present-day Cuba, marked by chronic fuel shortages, the collapse of transportation, and precarious employment, the province of Matanzas has become a mirror of the tensions experienced by those who arrive from rural areas in search of income to survive, but do not always find a way to return to their homes or to have a safe roof over their heads for the night.

The provincial capital attracts men and women daily from nearby towns and villages who come to sell agricultural products, do informal work, or collect raw materials. However, the deterioration of intercity transportation and the rising cost of fares have complicated their daily return, turning a day of “making ends meet” into a night spent outdoors.

The deterioration of intercity transport and the increase in fares have complicated the daily commute. / 14ymedio

For those who live from hand to mouth, the margin is minimal. A bad run of sales can mean not only financial losses, but also spending the night away from home in difficult and dangerous conditions . The vendor himself admits that he goes out prepared for that scenario.

“I already bring a sheet to cover myself if I have to sleep on the street. And on cold days I have to stop selling, because if a cold front catches me outside it could kill me,” he explains.

Another visible facet of this reality is that of the raw material collectors. Faced with a lack of formal employment, many people—including internal migrants—travel the city searching for recyclable materials, which they then sell to state-run recycling centers.

Kike, originally from Sancti Spíritus, has been surviving like this in Matanzas for years. He lives on the streets with his dogs and spends his days collecting cans and bottles. His story paints an increasingly competitive picture.

“I walk miles every day. Sometimes what I collect isn’t even enough to eat properly. And more and more of us are searching through the same containers, because many neighbors are now going to the garbage dumps to look for continue reading

cardboard and wood for fuel,” he says. “They’ve become the places where you see the most people on each block; there are even those who eat directly from the garbage.”

Garbage dumps have become “the places where you see the most people on every block.” / 14ymedio

According to official rates published by the Raw Materials Recovery Company in different territories of the country, the purchase prices to the public remain at low levels compared to inflation and the effort required to gather the materials.

Aluminum (cans) sells for between 70 and 100 pesos per kilogram; copper can exceed 400 or 500 pesos, depending on the type and quality. Plastic bottles (PET) are around 20 or 30 pesos per kilogram; cardboard and paper are bought for between 10 and 20 pesos, while glass generally goes for less than five pesos per kilogram.

Although these figures vary by province and availability, the reality is that gathering a kilogram of some materials involves long hours of searching, sorting, and transporting. For those living on the streets, like Kike, that difference determines whether they can feed themselves—and their animals—or whether they must rely on charity.

The problem isn’t limited to income. For many people with little resources arriving from rural areas, securing temporary shelter is another challenge. Private rental homes are unaffordable: a room can cost several thousand pesos per night, beyond the reach of those who barely earn a minimum wage.

Private rental homes are prohibitively expensive: a room can cost several thousand pesos per night. / 14ymedio

Some turn to distant friends or relatives; others improvise shelters in public spaces. The lack of accessible shelters or temporary housing solutions exacerbates the vulnerability of this transient group that enters and leaves the city depending on the season and available opportunities.

Social workers consulted in Matanzas acknowledge that the constant influx of people from the interior is due both to the lack of stable employment in rural areas and to the relative appeal of the provincial capital for “getting things done” during the day. However, they also admit that the city lacks the capacity to absorb this pressure.

The situation reveals an increasingly fragile balance between the countryside, which doesn’t offer enough jobs, and the city, which also fails to guarantee stability. Those who sell food depend on irregular and expensive transport; those who collect raw materials compete for scraps whose can value barely cover their basic needs.

Among sacks, bags of cassava, and bags of crushed cans, survival has ceased to be a metaphor: it is a concrete task that begins before dawn and, too often, ends in any doorway waiting for the coming of the next day.

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Cuba’s Oil Union ‘Cupet’ Labels as ‘False’ a Statement Announcing the Suspension of Fuel Sales to the Public

Reporters from 14ymedio and users confirm widespread shortages in Havana and Matanzas

Lines outside the Oro Negro gas station in Matanzas. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Havana / Matanzas, Olea Gallardo / Pablo Padilla Cruz, January 30, 2026 – “They’re all false, the capital is paralyzed.” Comments like this are how users in groups dedicated to gasoline sales in Havana responded to the this Thursday about a false official statement.

The spurious text, reproduced by the state company itself, bears Cupet’s letterhead and colors. “Given the serious fuel supply situation affecting the country, worsened by the intensification of the economic, commercial, and financial blockade imposed by the Government of the United States and the external pressures exerted on our traditional suppliers,” reads the note in the usual government prose, “the Cuba-Petroleum Union (Cupet) and the Ministry of Tourism inform the population and the tourism sector as follows: It has been decided to temporarily halt the general supply of fuel at gas stations and state points of sale as of the date of issuance of this statement and until further notice.”

The measure, the supposedly fake document continued, was “inevitable due to the interruption of imported supplies, caused by hostile actions and foreign pressures that limit access to essential energy resources,” something consistent with the growing hostility from the United States, especially after the capture of Nicolás Maduro in Venezuela, to prevent fuel from reaching the island.

The statement was not implausible, as it doubled down on blaming “unilateral coercive measures imposed by foreign powers”

The statement was not implausible, as it doubled down on blaming “unilateral coercive measures imposed by foreign powers” and urged people to “avoid non-essential travel and coordinate continue reading

any priority needs with local authorities.” A “controlled and limited supply” would be allocated to “essential” sectors such as health care, public transportation, electricity generation, and tourism, the text also said, ending with a call for “unity, discipline, and solidarity among all Cuban men and women in these difficult times.”

In a brief tweet, Cupet rejected all of this information, asserting: “This note circulating on some digital media is false. Fuel supplies to the country’s network of gas stations have not been halted.”

However, reports published in recent days by 14ymedio and comments from customers at gas stations in the capital show just how closely reality resembles what the fake Cupet statement described. “There’s hardly any gasoline anywhere. I went by the ones in El Vedado and nothing; at the one at 5th and 120 they came out and said there was little left, not enough for everyone,” one person wrote, referring to stations that sell in pesos.

“At Línea and E people slept there, so the line is intact; nobody is leaving until they restock,” another complained. “Only Zapata and 4 have served regular gas today,” a third reported. A fourth tried to excuse the situation by mentioning stations that have switched to dollar sales: “This story doesn’t change; every day it’s the same stations selling in pesos. Today they already served Coyula, Corral Falso, Infanta, El Mar, Guanabo, Camilo Cienfuegos, Santa María del Rosario, and Hatuey.”

An empty gas station in Matanzas. / 14ymedio

Questions keep coming in the chats. “Does anyone know what’s going on with the Cupet station at G and 25, since the Ticket isn’t advancing?” asked a young man, referring to the app that acts as a “virtual line” to buy fuel. The reply was blunt: “None of them are moving; they’re only serving stations that operate in DOL-LARS, so we’re going to have to get used to paying for gasoline in the currency they wanted to eliminate with the economic restructuring and that now is stronger than ever.” The commenter didn’t stop there and, with emojis and capital letters, added ironically: “Before, 1 dollar was worth 25 CUP and now 1 dollar is worth… So down with the blockade or down with whoever needs to go down.”

The situation in Havana has worsened with the arrival of a cold front from the north. Due to possible storm surges, pumps have been removed from both the El Tángana gas station, located at the Malecón and 13th Avenue, and Riviera, also on the seafront.

Meanwhile, in the provinces, gasoline shortages are also a major source of tension. Added to this, customers complain, is the poor communication of Cimex, the commercial company in charge of gas stations and part of the military conglomerate Gaesa.

In recent weeks in Matanzas, the state company briefly announced fuel sales via the Ticket app, setting a limit of 100 slots for power generators and 50 for motor vehicles. The information, shared with almost no details and even reposted by company employees on social media, sparked a wave of indignation among citizens.

“It is shameful that an entity that forces its workers to post these notes isn’t capable of explaining where, how, and when fuel can be bought”

“It’s shameful that an entity that forces its workers to post these notes isn’t capable of explaining where, how, and when fuel can be bought,” complained Jean Michel, a resident of the Versalles neighborhood. “I wasted hours of my time because they didn’t specify that at the San Luis gas station they were only serving users with power generators.”

He wasn’t the only one confused. Residents of Peñas Altas say the new sales modality raises more questions than answers. “Who exactly is it aimed at—private individuals, state entities, public transport?” asks Ania, who lives in the neighborhood. “In what currency is it sold, CUP or MLC? What amount are we entitled to?” According to her, not even workers at the Oro Negro or Bellamar stations have been able to clarify matters. “Those people think we ordinary folks have time to figure everything out,” complained Marlene, another neighbor.

The confusion also affects Cimex employees themselves. A company worker, who asked not to be identified, told this newspaper that they often share information they themselves don’t know.

“I’m not a communications specialist. I never studied that, but they force me to post on my personal profile things I don’t even know where they come from,” she complained. In her view, at company headquarters “there’s either a lot of inexperience or they simply don’t care how decisions are communicated.” The priority, she says, is to announce that a station is opening, without explaining under what rules or conditions.

Not even workers at the Oro Negro or Bellamar stations have been able to clear up the doubts. / 14ymedio

This information vacuum has eroded public trust and multiplied wasted time and citizen frustration, especially when it comes to a vital resource. Although slots have been allocated for registered power generators and private vehicles, fear that fuel will run out persists. The turns in line advance extremely slowly and satisfy no one.

Raudel, a resident of the Iglesias neighborhood, has been waiting since last November for his turn—number 613—to buy diesel at the Bellamar station. “When they do have fuel, it’s 50 people at a time, maybe once a month if you’re lucky. If everything goes well, maybe in December I’ll be able to buy what I’m entitled to… and then wait again,” he says resignedly.

Among motorcyclists engaged in informal transport, the situation is even more critical. Darío, who works ferrying passengers, explains that the assigned gasoline doesn’t even come close to meeting his needs. “In USD we can get it at 1.10 or 1.20, but when there isn’t any, which is most of the time, you have to buy from hoarders at 650 or 700 pesos a liter. Do the math for a trip that uses half a liter and tell me if that’s profitable.”

Although the 50 liters sold through the Ticket app somewhat ease the economic burden, the process is riddled with technical and organizational obstacles. “Everything is a problem—the registration, the email, the turn… and when it’s time to distribute, nobody knows anything. Not Cimex, not Cupet, not the workers,” Darío says, adding a common complaint: “Meanwhile, government cars, the Minint [Ministry of the Interior], and the FAR [Armed Forces] fill up without lining up; they have their own station. There’s never a fuel shortage there.”

The deep energy crisis goes beyond national borders and threatens to deepen the collapse of tourism. In one of the Telegram groups for gas stations, a man identifying himself as Gustavo from Argentina asked for help this Thursday to see whether anyone could provide information about gas stations in Cienfuegos, Trinidad, and Ciego de Ávila for a car he had rented from Transtur for an upcoming trip to the island. Replies from some users, saying there are stations where one can pay with international cards, did not reassure him.

In another message, he says he has no guarantee that the vehicle will be delivered with a full tank or that he will be able to refuel in the provinces, and he complains that Transtur has not responded to emails or WhatsApp for three days. “I don’t know how I’m going to manage getting a refund for the car rental; it’s $700,” he says, concluding: “Unfortunately, I’m going to have to cancel my trip to get to know Cuba.” Another commenter replies bluntly: “Cancel your trip! It’s the right decision.”

Translated by Regina Anavy

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With Tourists Gone, Bookstores in Matanzas, Cuba Are on Life Support

In the “Athens of Cuba,” as in the rest of the country, “you can’t think about books when there isn’t enough for food”

Sparse foot traffic and shelves left untouched for days are the norm. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Matanzas, Pablo Padilla Cruz, January 19, 2026 — The collapse of tourism and the erosion of purchasing power have left Matanzas’ bookstores, especially those aimed at foreign visitors, on the brink of disappearance. Empty book stalls, nonexistent sales, and permanent closures paint a picture in which the book has become a dispensable item.

In the central Plaza de la Vigía, where imprints such as Ediciones Vigía and Ediciones Casa de las Américas converge, the scene repeats itself. There is little foot traffic, and the shelves remain untouched for days. Workers confirm that sales depend almost exclusively on tourism, which is now practically absent.

María Elena, who runs a mobile stall selling magazines and books from Casa de las Américas, explains that her offerings are designed for foreign visitors. “The drop in tourism affects me a lot. Sometimes small groups pass by, but the guides don’t let them stop,” she says. According to her, many tour operators prevent visitors from buying in places where they don’t receive a commission. “It’s normal to go a whole week without anyone even looking,” she adds. The worker fears that a possible closure of the plaza would leave her “in a kind of job limbo.”

The crisis has also hit long-standing private initiatives. / 14ymedio

A similar scenario played out until recently in Varadero, where a small bookstore specializing in foreign-language titles steadily saw its sales decline until it closed. Today, on Google, the business appears with an unmistakable notice: “closed indefinitely.” Two different places, but the same cause. The audience they catered to has vanished. continue reading

The crisis has also struck long-standing private initiatives. In 2012, Bayón, a retired professor, opened a bookstore in the living room of his home, one block from Parque de la Libertad. He sold books on consignment and managed to turn his passion for literature into a supplementary income. After his death, the living-room bookstore closed forever, though even before that it had been going through a steady decline.

“I hardly sell anything anymore. You can’t think about books when there isn’t enough for food,” he said shortly before he died. After the forced closure during the pandemic, the situation did not improve. “People look, they want to buy, but they can’t afford it. We all lose: them, me, and culture,” he summed up at the time. That day ended with the sale of a volume of poems by Rabindranath Tagore, the only one of the day and the last he would personally make.

Public libraries have not escaped the deterioration either. With intermittent closures and minimal attendance, many have had to reinvent themselves as venues for fairs, occasional sales, or activities unrelated to reading. Flor, a regular at the gatherings dedicated to Carilda Oliver Labra, recounts that after the poet’s death they managed to keep a monthly literary meeting going at the provincial library. “We always talk about what it means to be from Matanzas and spend a pleasant afternoon. Carilda is gone, but her spirit is with us,” she says.

Public libraries have not escaped the deterioration. With intermittent closures and minimal attendance, many have had to reinvent themselves. / 14ymedio

“It’s sad that such a great source of knowledge is empty. When a library’s main activity is selling bonsai trees or holding one discussion group a month, something isn’t working,” Flor laments. In Matanzas’ historic center there are at least five bookstores, all of them practically deserted. The contrast is stark when compared to grocery stores, gas distribution points, or any space tied to daily survival.

The problem, workers and readers agree, goes beyond culture. In a province and a country marked by precariousness, reading is seen as a luxury or a waste of time. Buying a book is, for many, an unjustifiable expense. Under that logic, libraries become symbolic spaces, and bookstores, even those in the best locations, turn into empty premises that serve only as landmarks when giving directions.

Matanzas continues to present itself as the “Athens of Cuba,” but reality contradicts the slogan. Without readers, without sales, and without policies to restore the value of books, literature is relegated to nostalgia, and the bookstores point, one after the ofher, to the sign that says “closed indefinitely.”

Translated by Regina Anavy
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The People of Matanzas, Cuba, Managed To Revive the Colla Festival This Year

Lacking state support, this celebration of Catalan origin was able to be organized thanks to a citizens’ initiative.

The tradition involves walking from Liberty Park to the hermitage and returning to perform the ritual of bread in sauce and wine at the old Spanish Casino. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Pablo Padilla Cruz, Matanzas, December 31, 2025 – On December 14th, the Colla festival took place in the city of Matanzas. This celebration of Catalan origin was made possible this year thanks to a citizen initiative, without any government support. The traditional festival, almost as much a part of Matanzas as it is Catalan, consists of a pilgrimage from Liberty Park to the Monserrate Hermitage.

Among the participants was María Ester, a resident of San Gabriel Street. “I participate almost every year. Even at 68, I can still climb up to Monserrate, but I know that one day my body will say enough is enough,” she told 14ymedio as she walked with difficulty. “For now, even though I don’t have much Catalan in me, I go and enjoy the festival. It’s something that takes me out of my daily routine,” she added with a smile as she disappeared into the crowd.

The celebration is an ode to the city’s Catalan heritage and is the only festival of its kind in Latin America. / 14ymedio

The Colla festival is an identity symbol of Hispanicity in Matanzas; the celebration is an ode to the Catalan heritage of the city and is the only festival of its kind in Latin America.

During the pilgrimage, Lionel Orozco, the city’s curator, explained to 14ymedio that the term “colla” means group or gang in Catalan. “The people of Matanzas are the colla, symbolically, and the tradition consists of going from Liberty Park to the hermitage and returning to perform the ritual of bread in sauce and wine at the old Spanish Casino, now the Provincial Library.”

Orozco also addressed the current difficulties in maintaining the celebration. “Given the country’s situation, it’s difficult to uphold this tradition, especially since it’s based on bread, and we all know that bread is a luxury right now. However, the Catalan Association has found the strength to continue and has given us another year of this tradition. Without them, Matanzas wouldn’t be Matanzas,” he stated.

“You never know what will happen next year or if we’ll meet again on pilgrimage.” / 14ymedio

The festival was revived in 1981 and has since been maintained as part of Matanzas Culture Week, although its continuation has always been at risk. Gonzalo, a member of the Catalan Association and one of the organizers, explained some of the obstacles they have faced. “The pandemic put the festival on hold for two years. The condition of the chapel also limited us until its repair in 2009 and 2019, since it is a structure inaugurated in 1875 that was almost abandoned for many years,” he said.

“We depend on gastronomy and its offerings for family enjoyment, and also on culture and the artistic work of the new generations who keep Hispanic identity alive. You never know what will happen next year or if we will meet again on this pilgrimage,” he added. “That is why it is important to pass this tradition on to the younger generations and keep alive the pilgrimage and the Hispanic roots that define us.”

For now, amidst traditional Spanish dances, bread, and wine, the group ascends and descends the city streets, filling them with color. However, uncertainty remains as to whether this will be the last pilgrimage due to a lack of state support and health issues, circumstances that directly affect the roots, traditions, and identity of the people of Matanzas.

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Matanzas, Cuba, Tries to Move With Electric Tricycles, But the Blackouts Slow the Route

The new fleet of vehicles partially alleviates urban transport, but the lack of electricity and inefficient journeys frustrate drivers and passengers.

Electrical cars are not charging, and gasoline cars are not refueling,” comment Matanzas residents. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Matanzas, Pablo Padilla Cruz, October 26, 2025 — The improvised stop in front of the pre-university school in Matanzas fills up quickly. A group of passengers are waiting their turn for one of the new electric tricycles that cross the city. Some watch the corner where the vehicles should appear; others comment that “they come when they want to.” The scene is repeated every morning since the 15 vehicles assigned to the provincial capital arrived as part of the plan to relieve urban transport.

“Almost none of them go all the way to the Faustino Pérez hospital,” complains Indira, her backpack resting on her knees. “At the beginning of the month I had to take a sick family member there, and neither the electric cars nor the gas cars go that far up. Private motorcycles ask for 400 pesos during the day and whatever they can get at night, up to 800. There is no pocket that can stretch that far.” She sighs and adds: “Luckily, the wide guaguas [buses] still save us for 20 pesos.”

One of the tricycle drivers, Ricardo, defends his reasons for avoiding that route. “These bikes are electric, and going up to the hospital consumes a lot of battery. If we reach the limit, we have to go back to the base to recharge, and that makes us waste time and money. We pay to rent the tricycles and also for fixing them when they break. Right now there are three tricycles out of use, and all indications are that their repair will come out of the pockets of those who rent them.”

He says that the problem is not exclusive to the electric ones. “It also takes more gas to go up there, and without a monthly quota, we can’t afford it. continue reading

That is why many drivers prefer to take short routes or charge more to go up there.”

Three months after the arrival of the tricycles, transportation officials acknowledge that “they don’t solve the underlying problem.” / 14ymedio

The Faustino Perez hospital, built on the outskirts of the city under an old development plan that never prospered, has become a hard-to-reach site. Its isolation is compounded by the prolonged blackouts, affecting both medical services and the transport system. When electricity is lacking, charging tricycles becomes a headache, a problem that 14ymedio has also documented in provinces such as Havana, Holguín, Villa Clara and Las Tunas.

In Matanzas, the arrival of tricycles was received with anticipation. But three months later, transport officials admit that they “do not solve the underlying problem.” In addition to the difficulties of getting to the hospital, residents question why the city received only 15 vehicles while Cárdenas, much smaller, got 10. “The routes to the bus terminal are also interrupted,” explains a sector employee. “Until the repair of the building is completed and the terminal returns to its original location, the Terminal-Pre route will not be able to operate.”

The Minister of Transport, Eduardo Rodríguez Dávila, admitted earlier this month that the project faces “concrete limitations that condition coverage and frequency.” According to the official, who is the most active on social networks of the entire Cabinet, the city’s slopes use up the battery charges, forcing some vehicles to return before noon to the charging base.

“The electric cars are not charged, and the gasoline cars are not fueled.”

Despite the justifications, the people of Matanzas agree that the State’s tricycle system barely alleviates the transport shortage. In a city where traditional bus routes are a thing of the past, the workers’ buses from the Varadero beach resort have also been reduced, due to the tourism crisis. “The new tricycles are not so new anymore,”says a neighbor, observing the traffic. ” Sometimes you see them outside the service hours, going empty, at the service of their drivers but not the people.”

The picture is aggravated by both the fuel and electricity crises. “The electric cars are not charged, and the ones that use gasoline do not have fuel,” summarizes Indira, as she finally climbs onto one of the tricycles that arrives at the stop just as rush hour begins and anxiety is at its peak.

The vehicle starts up with a slight hum and moves slowly down the avenue. Behind is the sidewalk, full of distressed passengers who have the feeling that, in Matanzas, every solution depends on the next cut off of the electricity.

Translated by Regina Anavy

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“Someone Said That There Would Be Gas for Everyone, and There Isn’t Any”: Indignation in the Line for Propane in Matanzas

“The same person decided 20 years ago that everything should be electric, and look how that’s going” with the Energy Revolution

14ymedio, Pablo Padilla Cruz, Matanzas, 9 September 2025 — It didn’t matter what time the gas truck arrived. Before the sun came up, Aimé and her son quickly lowered their propane tank from the 11th floor of the building where they live, hoping to reach their turn at the Peñas Altas depot. The population had not received fuel for three months, and families had to resort to makeshift strategies such as cooking in the early hours of the morning to take advantage of the electricity rotation or by using charcoal, with its health and taste problems. Finally, the propane returned this week, but the calm was short-lived.

“This situation is terrible,” says Aimé, a retiree in Matanzas. “One day you-know-who decided that everything should be electric, and look how that’s going” she recalls about Fidel Castro’s 20-year commitment to what he then called the Energy Revolution. “And another day he said that there would no problem getting gas for the population, and a couple of years later there is no gas, even though the Chinese and other companies are exploiting oil and gas just a few kilometers from here.”

The search for fuel has become an ordeal. The digital application Ticket, which organizes the sale of propane and fuel, “has not stopped sending me warning messages that it is now available, but one thing is the app and another is what happens on the ground,” explains Aimé. “A worker from Cupet told me in June, when the gas shipment stopped, that there was some, but they took it to other provinces and left us stranded, until today.” continue reading

Aimé had to wait for three hours before the truck made its entrance

The Peñas Altas collection and storage center became a scene of long waits. Aimé had to wait for three hours before the truck made its entrance. Along with her, some 200 people were waiting their turn, including 50 in the “disabled” line, designed for those who have physical difficulties or special needs.

Among the most difficult cases is Norelis, a resident of one of the buildings near the depot, whose mother, over 80 years old, lies in bed after breaking her hip. “I have been cooking with charcoal since April in the hallway of the building. The neighbors sometimes sit down to watch me cook in the style of Masterchef,” she comments, with irony and exhaustion.

“No one who is not in my situation can calculate how frustrating it is to have a sick family member these days. Now look: there are only ten tanks for special cases, and I was chasing Public Health and its committees for two months because they are the ones who give the approval to receive gas this way. I appear on the list but do not fit among the ten, so I missed the day here. The neighbors will continue to enjoy Masterchef in the hallway.”

There are two mechanisms for the care of vulnerable persons: one for special cases supervised by social workers and another for confined persons under public health regulations. “In theory it’s fine, but here we all know each other, and we know that the easiest thing is to give a gift [bribe] to someone who keeps the list. Automatically your name becomes the first, either here at the distribution center or with the social worker,” confesses a neighbor, unconvinced by the fragile legality of the processes and the discretion with which the lists are handled.

“Although the local authority announces that there will be a weekly supply, the uncertainty is constant”

The distribution in the depot is limited. On this day, 150 tanks were unloaded plus 10 intended for special cases. Andrés, who is retired and until recently earned some extra pesos as a messenger, was in the row with the number 2,545, while the distribution advanced barely to 2,190. “At this rate, three times more tanks have to come so that I get what I deserve. I’m afraid there will be trouble before my turn comes, in the meantime I’ll have to figure it out with the help of my children or do some work carrying gas to neighbors who contact me,” he says.

Although the local authority announces that there will be a weekly supply, the uncertainty is constant. Neighbors know that the situation changes from one day to the next and almost always for the worse. Maybe on Saturday or next Monday they can supply the area; maybe Norelis’ charcoal cooking show ends early; maybe Andrés will find another way to advance his shift. However, even those who manage the lists cannot confirm this with certainty.

Meanwhile, the neighborhood of Matanzas remains trapped in an endless wait, where every gas truck becomes an event and every available tank a treasure. The combination of unfulfilled promises, unreliable digital applications and local favoritism leaves many residents in a situation of vulnerability that, for some, now goes on for months.

Translated by Regina Anavy
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The Chic Area of Matanzas, Cuba, is Today Barely a Memory

The decline of Varadero along with Covid ended the dream of the “Athens of Cuba” becoming a “creole Miami Beach”

A park with an immense sign was built in the city, but no one goes there, not even to take selfies. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Pablo Padilla Cruz, Matanzas, 30 August 2025 — Matanzas has two nicknames: the “Athens of Cuba,” earned centuries ago as a cradle of poets and artists, and the “city of bridges,” thanks to the dozens of structures that cross the Yumurí and San Juan rivers.

With the advent of the new century, however, another less flattering nickname began to circulate: “The sleeping city.” The lack of night life and central recreation places plunged it into a silence that many attributed to the proximity of Varadero, that tourist magnet that absorbed all the investments and projects.

It wasn’t until 2016 that an attempt was made to reverse the inertia. First with the development of the Narváez promenade, turned into a boulevard, and soon after with a more ambitious project: the transformation of the neighborhood of La Playa, especially the area of Peñas Altas. The plan promised nearly two kilometers of bars, restaurants, shopping centers and nightclubs interspersed with residences -mostly luxury- and access to beaches: a Matanzas version of a kind of “creole Miami Beach.”

The shops are out of stock and the menus are poor. / 14ymedio

It worked for a while. Whole families found respite there after the work week. Andrés, known as El Piti, remembers it like this: “I worked as a security guard in Varadero. There was more money circulating than now, and on Sundays we went out in groups to enjoy ourselves. I had never seen so much movement in the neighborhood.”

The illusion was short-lived. Shops began to run out of supplies, menus became poor, and several places were subjected to dubious renovations. The Bellamar pizzeria, for example, closed for a second renovation in continue reading

less than a decade. Marielis, who has been employed there for more than 15 years, suspects that these works were more in the interests of managers and contractors than the needs of the public.

“We lost a lot of time because of this absurd remodeling,” recalls Andrés. “They set up a bar that made no sense. It only opened once a week, with beer and chicharritas. Then the pandemic came and we never recovered,” he added.

The deterioration of the premises even reached the Caracol store. / 14ymedio

The deterioration was repeated in other places: the Caracol store, the Bellamar service center, the La Sirenita shopping center – with its cafe still inactive – and even the old Dimar, subjected to several renovations and today in private hands.

Irene de la Caridad, a resident of the area, remembers those years with nostalgia. “On Saturdays and Sundays people met in the parking lot of La Sirenita before going to the discos. Now there is a park with a huge sign with the name of the city, but no one goes, not even to take selfies. With the heat and the tiles they put down, the reflection of the sun is blinding. I miss sitting in the cafe of La Sirenita, drinking a soda, facing the bay. I would choose between the terrace or the bar’s air conditioning… although now I don’t know with what electricity it would work.”

The final blow was given by the Covid pandemic. Added to this was the lack of interest of the State, the meaningless renovations and the arrival of private investors who manage premises at prohibitive prices. In the cafeteria of Playa Allende, for example, a soft drink costs 300 pesos and a beer 350.

What at the time was “the chic area” of Matanzas is today barely a memory. The city may not be as “sleepy” as before, but as Irene says, “in the evenings and nights you get bored… and that’s the truth.”

In the cafeteria of Playa Allende a soft drink costs 300 pesos and a beer 350. / 14ymedio

Translated by Regina Anavy

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In Matanzas, Competition Is Fierce Between Licensed Pushcart Vendors and Illegal Sellers

“I can’t compete with their prices because I pay taxes,” complains a street vendor in Peñas Altas.

“Far from being bothered, it’s good that these vendors exist, because many offer more affordable prices,” says a local resident. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Pablo Padilla Cruz, Matanzas, 12 August 2025 — Police officers and state inspectors evicted and imposed 5,000-peso fines on several street vendors of agricultural products who were operating without a license near the building known as 13 Plantas de las Panaderías, in the Peñas Altas neighborhood of Matanzas. The operation, which occurred last Thursday morning and included the confiscation of merchandise, has sparked controversy in the community over food shortages, prices, and the unequal competition between informal and licensed vendors.

“Far from being bothered, I find it convenient that these vendors exist, because many offer more affordable prices than the carretilleros [street cart vendors]. And if you arrive late, when they have little left, they offer ridiculously low prices; once, one gave me half a bag of mangoes,” says Minerva, a local resident, pointing to the exact spot where the makeshift stalls have been set up. For her, the presence of these vendors isn’t a public order issue, but rather a way out of the lack of options in the small public squares.

“And if you arrive late, when they have little left, they make offers.”

Not everyone shares her enthusiasm. El Chino, a licensed street vendor, says that unfair competition complicates his daily life. “I have taxes to pay and I fight against product losses, which are worse in the summer because of the heat. I don’t mind people fighting for their money, but when everything they sell is a profit for themselves, I can’t compete with their prices. My bunches of plantains are around 180 pesos, but theirs, which are sometimes larger, sell for 160 or less. So, I have to wait for them to sell first continue reading

and then start selling myself, or find a new place to park my cart. Everyone struggles in their own way, but these unlicensed vendors make things difficult for me.”

The Peñas Altas area, strategically located near bus stops to Limonar and other municipalities, has become a natural corridor for informal sales. From fruits and vegetables to cheese, yogurt, and smoked meats, these improvised vendors often come from rural areas where agricultural work is the main—and sometimes only—source of income. The lack of opportunities and the poor performance of state markets compel many to take the risk, despite the risk of losing their merchandise or receiving substantial fines.

“The only well-stocked plaza in Cuba was the one in Ciego de Ávila, which was reported on the news on July 26th.”

“You can go to the two nearby markets around noon and they’re already closed,” comments a group of neighbors who witnessed the operation. Another jokes: “Although it’s true that prices there are lower, they’re almost never stocked. The only stocked market in Cuba was the one in Ciego de Ávila, which was reported on the news on July 26th.”

A third adds, amid laughter and indignant gestures from the rest: “It’s true that those people were selling without a license, but how many do they help when Acopio and the State do nothing for the citizens? They think they’re doing enough with the Sunday markets. That’s why we yelled all kinds of things at the police and those two thieving inspectors who came to evict them.”

Thursday’s operation is not an isolated incident. For months, authorities have intensified controls on unlicensed street vendors, citing the need to “ensure order and combat hoarding.” However, for many residents, this policy does not solve the underlying problem: the lack of a stable and varied offering from the official channels.

State markets operate intermittently, with empty shelves and reduced hours.

In Matanzas, as in the rest of the country, obtaining agricultural products at reasonable prices is a daily challenge. State markets operate intermittently, with empty shelves and reduced hours. Prices at authorized points of sale often exceed what the average family can afford, especially after the inflation that followed the Ordering Task. In this context, informal commerce has gained a place in the neighborhood economy, offering a combination of lower prices and immediate availability that attracts loyal customers.

The tensions between authorities and informal vendors are also reflected in the social climate. While some see these raids as a way to maintain control over commerce, others interpret them as a punishment for those seeking to survive amid the crisis.

“The lack of food, along with the limited availability of water and electricity, is one of the main sources of criticism in the country,” notes another resident. “It’s possible that a group of individuals can lower the cost of agricultural products, even at the risk of severe fines, while the state entities intended to meet these needs are conspicuous by their absence.”

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