Yankiel Gutiérrez Faife – Translating Cuba

San Antonio de los Baños, Cuba, From ‘Humor’ to ‘Horror’

The passage of Hurricane Rafael through Artemisa and other western provinces fueled the desperation of Cubans where the ’11J’ protests broke out in 2021

The shortage of liquefied gas, prolonged power outages and a considerable increase in the cost of living are the problems that most torment the people of Ariguana. / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Yankiel Gutierrez Faife, San Antonio de Los Baños, 8 December 2024 — The protest of 11 July 2021 is still fresh in the memory of San Antonio de los Baños, in the province of Artemisa. It was a desperate cry in the face of an accumulation of problems that still remain unresolved. The inhabitants of what was once the “Villa del Humor” – the title is no small thing in such a guarachero country – can now only list their sorrows.

Founded by emigrants from the Canary Islands, San Antonio was home to or exhibited the work of cartoonists such as Eduardo Abela and René de la Nuez. The Museo del Humor Gráfico, founded in 1948, a Biennial of Humor held since 1979, and the Escuela de Cine y Televisión, which still enjoys a certain prestige abroad, bear witness to better times.

Real life, however, is different. The 50,000 or so Ariguanabenses who still live there have ridiculed the old name and replaced it with a new one, Villa del Horror, more in keeping with the ruined buildings, the deserted streets and the mournful expression of its inhabitants.

In the markets of San Antonio, the price of food has skyrocketed, reaching figures that some consider unthinkable. / 14ymedio

Tania, a teacher from the village, has put together a brief chronology of the disaster: during the Special Period, conditions were very difficult, between blackouts and the cessation of nightlife and culture; from the year 2000 there was a truce; but after the pandemic we have “seen and experienced things like never before.”

These are not problems that the rest of Cuba is unaware of, but the passage of Hurricane Rafael through Artemisa and other western provinces has fueled the desperation of the people in the town. The cyclone ripped off roofs, left streets flooded and many facilities in disrepair. Many homes have hit rock bottom.

Delia, a 52-year-old housewife, knows this well. She sees a procession of neighbours carrying buckets of water from the Ariguanabo River every day. “Getting a water truck costs 2,500* pesos, and I don’t have the money to continue reading

buy two trucks a week. So, when there’s no other option, I go to wash clothes in the river too,” she says, pointing to the series of wet clothes hanging from a clothesline in her yard.

The nearly 50,000 Ariguanabenses who live there have still ridiculed the old title and replaced it with a new one, Villa del Horror. / 14ymedio

Delia has been hunting for a gas cylinder for four months. She is on an endless list whose basic characteristic is always having more applicants than cylinders. There is the black market, where a tank costs around 32,000 pesos or – if the metal container is provided – around 12,000. “There are other alternatives that are just as bad for the pocket: oil and coal stoves. Getting one is, in addition to being expensive, an odyssey,” she says.

Delia’s father listens to the conversation. In the past, the woman liked to cook the old man’s favourite dishes without worrying about the cost of the food and its preparation. The father’s meager pension allows him to buy “some fuel.” “Sometimes I just can’t cook,” she exclaims, making sure that two neighbors passing by her door can hear her.

Her mornings have become a search for coal, which has become unaffordable. “At the La Salud store, my husband got it a little cheaper, but even so, 1,000 pesos is a lot when the rest of the food is also so expensive,” she confesses.

Luisa, a single mother of two, divides her time between looking after her family and looking for some gas to cook with. “Sometimes, when I feel cornered, I have had to turn to my neighbors to be able to prepare food for my children,” complains Luisa. “The neighbor has often given me some coal that they buy, and with that I have been able to cook when I don’t have time to get ahead and the electricity is cut off.”

“The sick need a special diet and children need adequate food,” lament the residents of San Antonio. / 14ymedio

“The sick need a special diet and the children need the right food for their growth and development. I can’t give them that,” she adds. “Sometimes I can only offer them rice with some broth because we can’t eat beans every day. I can barely find legumes, everything has gone up in price and I don’t have money to buy more,” she laments, while her children play in the street.

In the markets of San Antonio, the price of food has skyrocketed, reaching figures that some consider unthinkable. “Rice is 180 pesos per pound; beans are 300; a pound of malanga is 120; a pound of tomatoes is 1,000 pesos. A liter of milk is 150; sugar is 500. I can only buy the basics and sometimes I find myself in a tight spot,” says Luisa, who leaves her house with a small gas canister in a small cart.

As if the desperation were not enough, the long blackouts add insult to injury. “There are five hours without electricity and then five with electricity. During that time, life here stops. The shop assistants take their chairs out to the entrance and the bank workers go for a walk and chat in the park. People are out on the streets, but there is no joy, only frustration,” explains Jorge, a young man who used to work in commerce. Now he sits with his friends in any public space and, to mitigate the desolation, they tell jokes.

Like any town in Cuba, the migratory stampede is also part of the landscape.

“A sack of coal has come to cost up to 2,000 pesos and there are days when one of those trucks enters the town loaded with coal and, in just 30 minutes, everything is sold. This cannot be sustained,” says Pedro, 68 years old.

Like any town in Cuba, the migratory stampede is also part of the landscape. “My brother left for the United States six months ago and, although he tries to help us from there, the situation here gets worse every day,” says Ana, who, tired of waiting for the electricity to come on, sits outside the Credit and Commerce Bank – still closed – to see if she can get the 3,000 pesos that they allow tp be withdrawn.

Around Ana, several women comment on how things are still the same three years after the protests. Blackouts, misery, people who have left the country, families that have been divided in search of a better future. “People took to the streets because this is not the country we want,” says Dariana, a young student. As things stand in San Antonio de los Baños, another ’11J’ could happen tomorrow.

*Translator’s note: Minimum and average salaries in Cuba fluctuate and accurate current data is hard to come by. One set of reference numbers for 2024 is presented here.

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In Villa Clara, Cuba, With Hard Work and an Excellent Peanut Harvest, Braulio Barely Made 675 Dollars

The farmer had to hire several people to do the threshing by hand / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Yankiel Gutiérrez Faife, Rosalía (Villa Clara province), 23 November 2024 — To plant peanuts, without which Villa Clara’s famous turrones* would not exist, three things are needed: experience, technique and luck. Braulio, a 62-year-old farmer from the Rosalía sugar workers’ town in Camajuaní, certainly has the first two. The third is harder to come by. Nevertheless, this year he decided to take a chance and sank twenty-five pots into the ground instead of the usual three. His neighbors, with the usual wisdom of the Cuban countryside, foresaw a good harvest and even better sales.

In October, the radio began giving news of Cyclone Oscar, and Braulio’s life got complicated.

Even for an expert in the cultivation of peanuts like him, the rules of the game had changed. The plant depends on the level of humidity. It is sown in the rainy months, and the furrow needs to be wet, but not too wet. Otherwise, the plant will rot. The downpours that the hurricane brought put Braulio face to face with that risk, and he had to counterattack quickly.

He hired four locals for a few days to speed up the harvest, paying them 600 pesos for the morning shift and another 600 for the afternoon. For the rice and beans – which he also had to collect – he paid a similar amount or made a payment in kind. After the downpours, the peanuts showed unequivocal signs of maturity: yellow flowers with dark spots. continue reading

Once the plants were uprooted, they had to dried / 14ymedio

Once the plants were uprooted, they had to be dried, an almost impossible mission until Hurricane Oscar departed from Cuban shores. Some peanut pods had begun to germinate. For Braulio, it was the sign that he had to start threshing. He promised each guajiro 150 pesos for each can of peanuts that they managed to collect. The work was not easy: it was necessary to separate the healthy pods from those that had already sprouted or rotted.

The threshing is done by hitting the peanuts in a tank or on a canvas, but in the face of urgency, Braulio had to hire several people to do the process by hand, pot by pot. When the sun finally came out, they stretched the canvas on the lawn of the farm and let the pods dry for three days.

The result was satisfactory: 210 cans of peanuts in good condition; about 190 to sell and the rest for sowing next year. “Last year there were few farmers planting peanuts,” says Braulio. “A can was worth up to 2,000 pesos because there was little availability in the area, and the turrones demanded it. Five or six buyers a month came looking and couldn’t find them.”

After the harvest, Alberto, a friend of Braulio who makes turrones and lives in Zulueta – a town in neighboring Remedios – went to his farm to buy his peanuts. He left with the 190 cans that Braulio had planned to sell, at 1,500 pesos each.

The predictions of his colleagues in Rosalía were not wrong. With the sale he earned 285,000 pesos. He subtracted 49,500 pesos for the payment of workers and 14,000 for herbicides, insecticides and other supplies. The net profit brought by the harvest was 221,500 pesos, much more than in previous years, but on the informal foreign exchange market, this exceptional performance is equivalent to just $675 for an entire harvest.

From Braulio’s furrow to Alberto’s factory, the route of turrones in Villa Clara is one of the most traditional in Cuba / 14ymedio

From the furrow of Braulio to Alberto’s factory, the route of the turrones in Villa Clara is one of the most traditional in Cuba. The peanuts are cleaned and ground by hand – Alberto designed a peeling machine -, and the resulting dough is sold to the confectioners of the province. In Santa Clara, for example, one of the most successful businesses is that of Orelvis Bormey, whose original motto for his Casa del Maní, located a few blocks from Vidal Park, left no doubt of its quality: “unshelled and peeled.”

With a novel advertising and distribution system, in addition to deals with the State to export, Bormey and his wife, Jenny Correa, have been producing peanut butter for more than a decade. They also owned one of the 315 pioneering businesses that became private enterprises in 2021.

Although the activity in networks of the Casa del Maní decreased considerably after the pandemic, they then received their raw material from state cooperatives of Encrucijada. That year they came to have three points of sale in Santa Clara and Encrucijada, and their products were sold at Abel Santamaría International Airport and in several hotels in the central region.

Already at that time – after having made a first shipment of their turrones to Italy – they regretted that the lack of agricultural inputs complicated the acquisition of raw material and that they would have to resort to coconut, cheaper, to maintain diversity in their catalog.

Last June, at the Expocaribe fair in Santiago de Cuba, Correa was still looking for international customers. “Entrepreneurs with very particular interests have approached us,” he said with enthusiasm, “but without clear results.” Contradicting its founding motto, Bormey presented among its products “unshelled roasted peanuts.”

*Translator’s note: Turrones are similar to nougat confections but use sugar instead of honey.

Translated by Regina Anavy

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Cancun Has Everything that Cuba Lacks

On each trip the ‘mules’ make a profit of 200 dollars after investing 1,000 in the purchase of clothes

Mexican merchants have refined their sales strategies for “hooking” Cuban buyers.

14ymedio, Yankiel Gutiérrez Faife, Camajuaní/Cancún, 26 October 2024 — Daniela’s passport is a record of her visits to Venezuela, Serbia and Russia. This particular “silk road” – she has worked as “mule” on and off for years – now leads to México, a country that only opened its doors to her after an arduous, convoluted process. Two friends — Illiana and Lucía — accompanied her on a Viva Aerobús flight. When they got to Cancún, they were met by Ramiro, a 62-year-old Mexican who took them to a hostel whose name could not have been more ominous: La Cubana.

The name is no coincidence. Nor is the swarm of taxi drivers who harass newly arrived passengers at Terminal 2 of the Cancún airport. They are on the lookout for Cubans who have come here come to shop.

“Bus to downtown Cancún for only 150 pesos,” someone shouts. “We’ll take you to the hotel in a new Mercedes,” another adds. The onslaught is incessant and the network of businesses surrounding the airport – lodging, transportation and food – is still growing. Cubans who come here to shop do so because they can. And the Mexicans know it.

In fact, the first thing Daniela had to prove to the Mexican embassy in Havana was that she was financially solvent. The process is cumbersome and scheduling an appointment usually takes awhile. She was lucky, however. Or at least she thinks so. She signed up in late November 2023 and did not hear back until September 6, when she got an email with the date and time of her interview.

“I don’t even remember signing up,” she now says. She had deleted the file from her mental datebook. Assembling the required documents was also a challenge. The bank statement, title to her house and photos arrived on September 12, just in time. continue reading

Daniela’s trip can be described in three significant numbers: 290 dollars, the cost of her flight; 23, the weight in kilograms that she was allowed to bring onto the plane; and 10, the capacity (also in kilograms) of her handbag. For a trip like this it is essential to know these figures. And you must have a clear plan so as to avoid unforeseen circumstances.

The merchandise is cheap, perhaps even attractive, but rarely of good quality / 14ymedio

A three-night stay in a shared room with private bath at La Cubana cost them 500 Mexican pesos per person, or about twenty-five U.S. dollars. They contacted Ramiro several days before arriving after seeing an ad on Facebook. He turned out to be a good host, which they could tell from their first first meal, consisting of rice, pork and salad. But like everything in Cancún, kindness comes at a price. The meal cost Daniela and her friends an additional 120 pesos, plus 5 pesos for coffee and 20 pesos for a bottle of mineral water in the room’s fridge.

With no time to spare, the three women set out to explore the shops in the immediate vicinity of the hostel. These amounted to a handful of shops with little room to spare or regard for aesthetics, scattered along Uxmal Street. However, this is where you can find everything that Cuba lacks. With the air conditioning turned up to full blast, each shop contains mountains of clothing, equipment and household items.

The merchandise is cheap, perhaps even attractive, but rarely of good quality. But the Cubans are here to find good deals. They say hello, ask questions, get to know the vendors and drive a hard bargain. They leave loaded with bags full of sweaters, jeans, underwear, socks, handbags and tennis shoes. Everything is counterfeit but so what?

After living under Castro rule for nearly seventy years, Cubans are hard to impress, though Mexico often can. “We got into a car at Plaza of the Americas,” says Daniela. “The driver told us his name was Yamil. He said he could get us work and Mexican residency.” The women took it as a joke and laughed hysterically. They got out at a shoe store run by a Cuban who told them they had risked their lives by accepting a ride from that “friendly driver.”

“It turns out he was a very influential narco-trafficker in Cancún,” says Daniela. “We would never have imagined we were talking to someone like that.”

Mexican merchants have refined their sales strategies for “hooking” Cuban buyers. One is to play reggaeton at full volume, which lends a certain liveliness to their stores and attracts customers. Prices vary and, if a mule is naive, she or he will take the bait before finding the best value for the money.

Cubans are here to find good deals. They walk in confidently, say hello, ask questions, get to know the vendors and drive a hard bargain / 14ymedio

In just one afternoon, Daniela and her cohorts added to their inventory eight pairs of Crocs at $3.70 a pair; five pairs of Nike tennis shoes ($6.50); ten hair dyes ($1.30) and three men’s shorts ($3.10). The Crocs are not Crocs and the Nikes are not Nikes but in Cuba they can be sold as such.

Browsing through the shops in Cancún, they came across a business called El Cubano. It is run, of course, by a Cuban determined to honor certain tenets of his island. He is expected to play loud music and to know how to get things done. Elier was born in Güira de Melena, a town in Artemisa province, and emigrated to Cancún two years ago. His store now carries items he picked up in Belize.

“All you need to cross the Mexican border into Belize is a permit. From there, you can send your purchases to Cancún through an agency. It only takes 24 hours,” says Elier, a goldmine of tricks the mules can use. The Cuban emigré had no idea what life was like in Mexico but thought staying here was a good idea. Other Cubans have followed suit. “This could be called Little Havana, like in Miami,” he jokes.

“With their suitcases packed with goods they plan to sell in Cuba – now a wasteland after the nationwide blackout – Daniela, Iliana and Lucía returned to Havana. A forty-minute flight might seem short but the stress makes it feel long and overwhelming. At any moment, using any pretext, Cuban customs officials could confiscate their cargo.

“Sometimes they bully you. Other times they extort you or open your suitcases,” complains Daniela. Once the three women get past the “sharks” at the airport, each item in the suitcases must be inventoried, priced and advertised. To figure out the retail price of each article, Daniela used to multiply by three. For example, a pair of pants that cost $10 in Cancún could be sold for $30 in Cuba. But now, Daniela laments, the profit margin is lower. She now only multiplies by two. The pair of pants that used to go for $30 now drops to $20 – 6,500 pesos at the informal exchange rate. On the other hand, they sell faster.

After selling what she brought back from Cancún, Daniela grossed 1,220 dollars. From that, she had to subtract $610 for the cost of the merchandise, $290 for the cost of the flight, $50 for local transportation in Mexico and $25 for lodging. Though that left her with only $220 to spare, she is satisfied. “I think $200 in profit is enough,” she says.

Cuban emigrés living in Cancún make their living by selling clothing to “mules.” / 14ymedio

There is no shortage of customers. Some think they can use what they buy. Others will resell every item they acquire. Daniela may be just one link in a retail chain whose limits no one can fathom.

Daniela may be just one link in a retail chain the extent of which no one can fathom.

The Achilles heel of this business is that no one is willing to pay full price. Everything is purchased in installments and the process can sometimes take a month or more. “This is the life of a mule,” Daniela grumbles, “The money comes in drop by drop.”

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The ‘Amarillos’ Have Emigrated, Making Transport Even More Complicated in Camajuaní

“You can spend an hour here without a single car passing,” says Ana, who studies medicine in Santa Clara / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Yankiel Gutiérrez Faife, Camajuaní, 9 October 2024 — It’s six in the morning, and at the bus stop in front of the Camajuaní Terminal – one of the busiest, next to that of the extinct Maceo cinema – there is no room for one more person. It has been like this for years, but the transport crisis raises the level of burden a little more every day. As the sun advances, the environment heats up.

The place has its characteristic smell – a mixture of urine, excrement and rotten garbage – but those who have to pass through there daily have lost, or almost lost, their sensitivity. The stop is one of the favorite corners for beggars to defecate, and there is no shortage of night owls far from home, who also arrive to take care of their needs.

At eight, when the sun begins to burn – there is no truce even in the last months of the year – those who can do so crowd under the small roof of the shelter to escape from the heat or, these days, from the rain. Those who can’t enter find another strategic point – a nearby tree, which will complicate the race to get on the bus, if it happens to arrive.

Those who can’t enter the shelter find another strategic point – a nearby tree, which will complicate the race to get on the bus / 14ymedio

There is no shortage of solitary “botellerros” — ‘hitchhikers’ — doctors who display their white coats, pregnant women and the elderly are considered entitled. They prefer to try their luck a few meters beyond the crowd, in case the car of an acquaintance takes pity on them. Few brake, because as soon as someone is picked up, four or five other people will struggle to enter the vehicle, sometimes without the driver’s consent. continue reading

The bus stop is on Independencia Street, which the people of Camajuaní still call – as in the 19th century – Real Street. Officially, the avenue is only a section of the circuit that connects Santa Clara with Camajuaní, Remedios, Caibarién and the Cayería Norte, a tourist corridor where the white buses of the State Gaviota never stop, knowing the situation.

When a mandatory stop is made, tourists look out curiously through the dark windows. The cameras rise behind the glass, and from the stop you can almost hear the click: Cuban poverty is also a tourist attraction.

From the Maceo cinema – where the other important artery of the town, General Naya, ends – to the terminal, a small hill descends, which allows travelers to see the red silhouette of a Transmetro bus from afar. Everyone tenses their muscles. It’s time to run. A frequent strategy of drivers is to stop a few meters beyond the stop. The crowd races, and the line forms in order of agility. There is no shortage of blows, elbows, pushes.

When there is no luck, the bus passes by and the travelers, between looks and expressions of absolute despair, observe how it passes the cemetery towards Santa Clara. They will try again.

In the group there are all kinds of people, from students who travel daily to the Central University of Las Villas – just over 20 kilometers from the town – to farmers who live in Santa Fe, Carmita, Vega Alta, Los Paragüitas or the University neighborhood. For many, these names are their daily stations of the cross.

Few brake, because as soon as someone is picked up, four or five other people will struggle to get in the car / 14ymedio

“You can spend an hour here without a single car passing,” says Ana, who studies medicine in Santa Clara. For her, completing the stretch to the ring road of the provincial capital is just the beginning. Then she will have to figure out how to get to the school, another overwhelming segment of the journey. With a little luck, the bus will arrive at the hospital area, but that will not completely solve her problem.

“Things have become very difficult. Many days I don’t get to my classes on time,” she says. Is it better to get a bed in a dorm? Ana thinks – like hundreds of Camajuaní students – that it’s not. The terrible state of the residence, the bad food and the difficult living conditions make it preferable to return home every day, despite the transport situation. Sometimes, she points out, she has to take a taxi to return, and she must prepare to spend.

Many travelers miss the “amarillos” — the “yellows” — individuals in yellow vests — the official “fishermen” of buses and State cars, who flagged down the drivers and forced them to stop.* Their work was far from ideal, since many were lazy and easily distracted by talking to acquaintances without spending time watching the traffic. But they did something. Their absence is the umpteenth effect of the migratory exodus and the search for other jobs, as they have apparently left the country in droves.

For Érika, a Camajuaní nurse employed in Santa Clara, what bothers her most about the situation is not only the wait but also the effect of the crisis on her pocketbook. “With current rates, I sometimes spend more than half of my salary on transportation. I’ve thought about quitting work,” she says. Her daily tour involves getting up before dawn and waiting at the stop, where “it’s a miracle to get a place on the first try.”

Not infrequently the shared ride becomes an “everyone for himself” event, even among acquaintances. It happened recently, Ana says, when the father of a friend – who works at the Party School and has, of course, a car – stopped to pick her up. “We had to leave a colleague behind because there was no room for anyone else,” she says.

The Camajuaní stop – which still has very expensive taxis and electric tricycles outside – is just one station on the arduous path of travelers, perhaps not even the worst. The Santa Clara Los Flamboyanes stop in the hospital area is more crowded, or the demolished intermunicipal terminal, which for more than a year has not seen the emblematic Girón circulating that connected both localities. At night, the wrecked bus had a cabaret name: the Queen of the Night.

Now, each trip translates into numbers: 150 pesos if it is done in a private truck, 250 to Caibarién; 20 pesos in state buses; and 500 pesos if a private vehicle is boarded, a figure that can be doubled if you go to the end of the Caibarien line. It doesn’t matter how much money the traveler has in his pocket: the bill, at the end of the month, doesn’t leave much.

*Translator’s note: It is (or was) supposedly mandatory for government vehicles to stop and fill empty seats, and this was enforced by the ‘amarillos’ in their yellow vests.

Translated by Regina Anavy

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‘Everyone Get Out of the House, We Have You Surrounded’

Shock in a village in Villa Clara due to a mistake by a command of ’black berets’
Officers raided several homes in search of a cattle thief

Residents of the community of San Benigno, in Villa Clara / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Yankiel Gutiérrez Faife, Camajuaní (Villa Clara), 18 September 2024 — Vicente Florit Viñales, 47, is still in a state of shock after the violent raid on his farm in San Benigno, in Villa Clara. The farmer was involved in a colossal police error, when several agents, believing that they had just caught a cattle thief, aggressively immobilized him on the floor until the head of the sector, present at the time, shouted: “He’s not the guy!”

The events occurred during the early hours of September 11, when more than 40 armed men, including members of the Special Brigade of the Ministry of the Interior – the “Black Berets” – with the head of the sector of the area in command, surrounded Vicente’s house and invaded it without prior warning.

“Everyone get out of the house, we have you surrounded,” a voice burst out around 3:00 in the morning in that peaceful village in the municipality of Camajuaní, of about 250 inhabitants who live from agriculture. Less than two minutes passed, but the impatience of the black berets overtook Vicente, who was heading towards the door at that moment. The agents opened it by force and, without saying a word, immobilized and interrogated him until the sector head spoke up and announced the mistake. continue reading

Vicente, without a word, was immobilized and interrogated until the sector head announced the mistake

However, the uniformed men did not give up and continued with their search of the house. Vicente watched stunned as the agents, accustomed to suppressing demonstrations and carrying out command actions against armed criminals, continued breaking things, including door and window handles. They stopped when a mysterious man with a long beard and crucifix-shaped earrings, about 35 years old, appeared. Faced with the farmer’s bewilderment, the agents withdrew without offering any explanation, or apologizing for the violent nocturnal intrusion and the mistake.

The ’Black Berets’ also broke into other homes / 14ymedio

The police operation aimed to arrest a well-known criminal in the area, nicknamed “Machetico,” with an extensive criminal record, who steals cattle from the farmers in the area and then kills them to sell. However, the inaccuracy in the information caused a disproportionate deployment in the wrong place.

“Someone here must have told the police that Machetico was staying at Florit Viñales’ house, because they first went straight to his house and, after seeing that he was not there, checked two other nearby houses, but they didn’t find him,” said Manuel González, a 64-year-old farmer.

The police operation aimed to arrest a well-known criminal in the area, nicknamed ’Machetico,’ with an extensive criminal record

According to some neighbors, during the afternoon some strange movements were seen, and someone apparently saw the criminal wandering around the area. “These guys don’t have a fixed address; they sleep wherever they find themselves at night,” said Ramiro, who lives nearby.

Florit Viñales was not the only one affected by the actions of the authorities. His neighbor, Dayana Espinosa Collazo, was sleeping with her husband when the Black Berets broke into her house. “I got the biggest scare of my life. They opened both doors and came in; they went from one door to the other as if they were the owners. They came screaming into my room with batons and tossed everything. We were even naked, but they didn’t care. The house was completely surrounded.”

The case sent shockwaves through the community of San Benigno and its surroundings, where Florit Viñales is known as an honest and respected worker. “It was very cruel, and we don’t know whose fault it was. Well, I trust in revolutionary justice, because I am forged under the principles of this Revolution,” says his wife, Leticia Galdona, indignantly.

The case sent shockwaves through the community of San Benigno and its surroundings, where Florit Viñales is known as an honest and respected worker

“For God’s sake, I know the farmer and his family; they are loved and respected people in this place. Do not remain silent, report this to the authorities. What’s going on? This looks like a western movie; someone has to pay for that abuse,” exclaims another neighbor, Milady Sánchez Mesa.

The neighbors, not very open to questioning the authorities, nevertheless express their astonishment. “I hope that justice is done and that the work of Alexey, the head of the community sector, who led the operation, is analyzed. When I went to talk to him, I did it with a lot of respect and decency; however, he mistreated me and didn’t let me speak. He received me with the worst rudeness you can say to a lady, even during my recovery process,” adds Florit Viñales’ wife, who is recovering from an operation for a tumor and a blood clot.

Residents of the community of San Benigno, Villa Clara / 14ymedio

Vecinos de la comunidad de San Benigno, Villa Clara / 14ymedio[/caption]

This newspaper tried to talk to the delegate of the area to get his version of the incident after Florit Viñales’ wife intervened. However, after a first contact, he stopped responding to messages and calls

Translated by Regina Anavy

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Nine Month Wait at the Camajuaní, Cuba, Cadeca (Currency Exchange) To Get 50 Dollars

The “virtual line” was more scary than the real ones: 7,362 people were waiting for a turn to buy the 100 dollars allowed by the authorities

Camajuaní Cadeca (Currency Exchange) / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Yankiel Gutiérrez Faife, Camajuaní (Villa Clara), 26 May 2024 — Painted bright blue and with a white grill, the Camajuaní Cadeca (Currency Exchange) is one of the high points of the “boulevard,” the two blocks where almost all the town’s commerce takes place. With only two counter positions and a small office, the dollars that those waiting in line on the side of the building so desperately desire come out of their vault – in dribs and drabs.

Nine months ago, in July 2023, Osmany, 24, and five other family members signed up on the Cadeca waiting list organized by the official Ticket application. The “virtual line” was more frightening than the real ones: 7,362 people were waiting for a turn to buy the 100 dollars allowed by the authorities.

“My intention was to use these dollars on a shopping trip to Caracas, but the wait lasted longer than expected and I decided to make my trip earlier, in February of this year,” Osmany tells 14ymedio. He adds that only upon returning from Venezuela did he receive the news that he had been “lucky” to get one of the 25 daily ‘turns’ for the Cadeca.

The Camajuaní Cadeca (Currency Exchange) is one of the high points of the “boulevard” / 14ymedio

To get to the Cadeca he had to cancel a trip to Havana. Nothing could come between him and the “opportunity,” he says. After juggling – and passing through the Ticket line again, but this time for a bus ticket – he was able to reorganize his agenda, get up early and go to the “boulevard.” continue reading

On May 16, at 8:00 in the morning, around thirty people were already loitering around the Cadeca. At first glance one could distinguish those who came to solve a specific problem and those who were lining up for business. In a small town like Camajuaní, where everyone knows each other, it is already well defined who each neighborhood’s ‘colero’ — that is the ’professional place-in-line holder’ — who goes to the “boulevard” with the same punctuality as the state workers.

Osmany found “elders waiting to cash their squalid check; people waiting to deposit and withdraw cash from their magnetic cards” and young people like him, eager to “get the dollars.”

The space at the Cadeca was minimal. A couple of seats, the counter positions, a clock and a sign with a warning: “it is prohibited to use cell phones inside the room.” “Only one counter position served those present and my number was 32,” recalls Osmany.

At eleven in the morning the inevitable happened. A blackout in Santa Clara affected the transaction system and paralyzed the connection. With a grim face, the cashier explained the situation to the members of the line.

After a few moments that Osmany describes as “of confusion and chaos” – as people began to get nervous – the clients began to be served one by one, much more calmly. Finally it was his turn. “I received 50 dollars in cash and another 50 in freely convertible currency, MLC. For this I paid 12,360 Cuban pesos,” he calculates, relieved.

The space at Cadeca was minimal. A couple of seats, the service desks, a clock and a sign with a warning: “it is prohibited to use cell phones inside the room” / 14ymedio

Located between Caibarién and Santa Clara – the two points marking the tourism center of in Villa Clara – Camajuaní has always benefited from that intermediate position. In the town, known for being the mecca of footwear on the Island and for the mansions that the shoemakers have built, the dollar is not lacking. It is also a fixed point of Cuban President Miguel Díaz-Canel’s visits to Villa Clara. There he has, as in neighboring Placetas, family and businesspeople who are related to him.

The possibility of traveling to Venezuela or other nearby countries to buy clothes and other products to resell on the Island is a growing business among Camajuaní residents. Last month 14ymedio reported on the story of María, a 42-year-old mule who maintains a store on the “boulevard” – bringing clothes, shoes and perfumes to Cuba and carrying rum, tobacco and wines to other destinations.

After going once to Guyana, twice to Russia, three times to Peru and twice to Colombia, this year she left, like Osmany, for Venezuela. After the trip, they both came to the same conclusion: the dollar, that poderoso caballero — powerful gentleman — is the language that is best understood on the streets of Camajuaní as well as Caracas.

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The Hard Life of a Cuban ‘Mule’ to Supply her Business

María travels to Guyana, Russia, Peru, Colombia or Venezuela to sell Cuban products and buy as cheaply as possible for her store in Camajuaní

Cubans who travel to Caracas look for shops that offer good prices / 14ymedio

14ymedio, Yankiel Gutiérrez Faife, Camajauní (Villa Clara Province, Cuba), 13 April 2024 — At age 42, María does not allow herself to waste one second. She gets up at 7:30 am, prepares breakfast for her children and runs to open her store, “L & B”, on Camajuaní Boulevard. With the trips she makes as a mule to different countries – bringing clothes, shoes and perfumes to Cuba and carrying rum, tobacco and wines to other destinations – she has managed to set up a business that she tries to keep well stocked.

Her years of experience as an entrepreneur have earned her a reputation as one of the best business people in the area and she has gained a fairly loyal clientele, who trusts her to purchase quality products.

Before her apparent success, however, María had to make many sacrifices and work very hard. A few years ago, she found the opportunity to travel to several countries and buy wholesale merchandise to resell in Camajuaní. This idea came accompanied by her desire to start her own business, and she had to save every penny for months to pay for tickets and have money for purchases.

In the La Hoyada market you can buy cheap clothes such as overalls, coats and shorts for 5 dollars each / 14ymedio

After going once to Guyana (in 2017), twice to Russia (in 2018), three times to Peru (in 2019) and two more times to Colombia (in 2022), this year she left for Venezuela with a detailed list of what she was looking for: blouses, pants, shirts, perfumes, appliances and everything that is difficult to find in Cuba or is in high demand. continue reading

Through Facebook groups she found accommodations for the four nights she was in Caracas and, although the place was not in very good condition, she decided to stay with a Cuban residing in Venezuela who rents rooms and offers an affordable rate.

At 20 dollars a night for a room, the price also covered breakfast, lunch, and shuttle service to and from the airport was available to her. However, those days she had to take the nine-kilometer journey by buseta, the Venezuelan bus, to go to the stores.

María knows that on this type of trip she must moderate her expenses and not waste money, since the increase in the price of the dollar in Cuba reduces the economic benefit that the merchandise she acquires gives her. However, she always looks for attractive items that are not on her list and that might interest her clients.

In Caracas, she explored shops and markets in search of the best deals, which are not difficult to find. The shops that offer good prices, and where Cubans go, are often managed by Chileans, Colombians, Chinese, Turks and Arabs. Each seller has their own trick, and travelers like María create their own map of the places that can be approached and which ones will try to overcharge.

At the La Hoyada market, for example, she can buy cheap clothes: overalls, coats and shorts for $5 each, or three sweaters for $10. On Sabana Grande Boulevard, however, it is better to buy shoes. There you can find brands popular among young people, such as Jordan, New Balance, Nike and Adidas at bargain prices, between 15 and 35 dollars, while the originals can cost up to 200 dollars.

Those days, María had to travel nine kilometers from the stores to the rental at her expense in a ‘buseta’ / 14ymedio

One goes to Arab stores in search of fragrances. Perfumes that are popular among customers, and that are highly valued in Cuba, can be found for up to a dollar. On the other hand, in Chinese stores it is better to buy cosmetics and jewelry.

In the streets surrounding the Cemetery Market there are also many different things to buy: sets of sheets for 8 dollars, mixers for 15, Reina-brand pots for 50, fans for 12, hair dryers for 10, irons for 20, and they are sold by Turkish merchants.

After the last search, and after loading the merchandise into two 23-kilogram suitcases, María does not know if she will ever repeat the journey again. The trip back to Cuba is full of anxiety and stress, especially when passing through the eyes of airport officials and customs restrictions. At times, she recounts, she has been mistreated, or, in addition they have made her lose part of the merchandise.

Once the controls have been cleared comes the “hardest” part: selling the products in Camajuaní. Arranging the goods on display, making calculations and examining the goods – which sometimes arrive in poor condition – do not always guarantee success. María knows that she competes with mipymes (MSMEs) and other Camajuaní merchants who, like her, travel and sell for a living.

Translated by Norma Whiting

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Legalizing Documents Is an Almost Impossible Mission for Cubans From the Provinces

The line for passport and criminal record requests at the Camajuaní identity card offices. (Yankiel Gutiérrez Faife/14ymedio)

14ymedio, Yankiel Gutiérrez Faife, Camajuaní, 17 April 2023 — At the doors of the Camajuaní Collective Law Firm, located on Agramonte Street, between Maceo and General Naya, Janet, an elementary school teacher in Santa Clara, has just been given the run around after four months of waiting. “Yesterday was the last day we could get our documents stamped as legal. No more will be done until further notice,” one of the institution’s lawyers informed her.

After almost half a year of struggle with the institutions, Janet had managed to correct the errors in a document where her parents’ name was misspelled, and she was able to obtain three birth registrations and a marriage certificate. Having overcome the exhaustion of acquiring those papers, the law firm’s refusal portends more waiting in line.

Processing and legalizing documents is one of the most overwhelming processes faced by Cubans. After a “way of the cross” of bribes, going back and forth and long lines, nothing guarantees that a birth registration or a university degree will be ready in time to take a trip or enroll in a foreign university. From the purchase of a stamp to the signature of an official, there is only one constant: the desperation to get out of the bureaucratic labyrinth.

International Legal Consultancy on Colón Street, in Santa Clara. (Yankiel Gutiérrez Faife/14ymedio)

The situation is well known in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, the institution that usually puts the decisive stamp on a document for it to be valid beyond Cuban borders. Unperturbed, the director of Consular Affairs, Ernesto Soberón, admitted the slowdown of all procedures and insisted that his office was taking “the necessary measures to respond to the increase in demand for service.” But, in reality, he didn’t promise anything. continue reading

The helplessness of Cubans lining up in front of law firms, civil registries and consultancies is the real drama. Aware — some more than others — of how bogged down the process has become, they look for alternatives and perfect several “tricks” to lighten the wait. But not everyone has the resources or the ability to overcome obstacles with good luck.

“In Santa Clara,” explains the lawyer of the Camajuaní Collective Law Firm, “there are also thousands of documents on the waiting list to be sent to the Foreign Ministry. Until we overcome this delay, we will not restart the service,” she affirmed. However, another of the lawyers had a recommendation: “Go early with your identity card to the Legal Consultancy of Santa Clara. Very early,” she insisted, “because turns in line are very limited, and if you don’t have an appointment before April 3, the doors will be closed until May.”

At five in the morning, Janet left her house, managed to catch a ride and went to the office on downtown Colón Street in Santa Clara. Her hopes were dashed as soon as it got light, when she saw that the line was already around the block, most people waiting to legalize documents. The lawyers started working at eight and, fortunately, Janet managed to get a turn.

“When I manage to deliver the papers and sign the contract to legalize my documents, I will feel relieved,” she says, knowing that she has only taken the first of many steps. “We have to live day by day so we don’t end up crazy.”

Once the document is deposited in the consultancy, the mechanism is put back in motion. The papers of the lucky ones who have signed their contracts will begin a rugged trip to Havana and, if everything is in order, the documents will be returned to the provinces months later. Even after suffering this delay, those who get their documents feel that the wait has had results.

Everything is very different when the lawyers themselves fail to comply with the clauses of the legalization contract, which theoretically obliges them not to delay the response to clients for more than 45 days. The actual waiting period, which reaches six months — often the documents have already expired after the wait — far exceeds what is stipulated.

A few weeks ago, the director of the Legal Consultancy went to the line herself and announced that it would no longer be possible to make an appointment in person. “At the end of April we will make the Ticket application available to users for all reservations,” she announced.

Several of the customers in line confronted the official with a barrage of additional questions: “Why don’t the collective law firms of the municipalities receive and legalize the documents? How can they change the process without official notice? Why do they want to concentrate all the work here if they don’t have the necessary conditions?”

As if it were an article of faith, the director of the Consultancy referred to Soberón’s announcement, which “suggested” that the rules of the game had changed due to the increase, by 16%, in the demand for procedures in the Embassy compared to 2022. “It’s not in our hands,” was the justification. “We don’t move the documents; we only contract for the services.”

The department headed by Soberón allegedly accepts about 1,000 documents a day, out of some 3,000 that they receive on average. The number of pending papers is overwhelming, explains one of the Consultancy workers, and the slow pace is aggravated because, in reality, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs continues to accept the same number as before, despite the official statements.

“Sometimes what takes the most time is the transfer of documents from the provinces to Havana, more difficult now due to the fuel crisis,” explains Fredy, a self-employed man from Santa Clara. “Customers themselves have recommended looking for ways to speed up the process, to ’decentralize’ to the eastern and central areas of the Island.”

The most viable solution so far is the one that seems least practical: traveling to Havana. Both Janet and Fredy have received the advice to rent a car and register on the waiting list of International Consultants and Lawyers, the International Legal Consulting or at Claim, a company dedicated to the protection of intellectual property that also legalizes procedures. You can also go to a Collective Law Firm in the capital or to Transconsul.

Civil Registry of Camajuaní. (Yankiel Gutiérrez Faife/ 14ymedio)

That’s what Claudia, a 24-year-old from Villa Clara, did, who was told to take her documents for legalization to the Embassy of Spain in Havana. “I sent them for legalization in January, and I’m still waiting. In order not to miss the appointment at the Embassy, I had to request proof of my parents’ marriage, get an appointment through a friend of my uncle’s and go to Havana to legalize the documents with Transconsul. It was a little faster there, 50 days or so,” she calculates.

In addition to the travel costs — in most of these institutions you have to go in person — each center has its own rules and peculiarities. Even in Havana there are long lines, the applications don’t work well and the phones are always busy.

“In reality, the law firms there are at the level of those in the province,” denounces Amelia, skeptical of the “technique” of traveling to the capital. “I had to get my daughter’s birth certificate. Every week I send my uncle who lives in the capital to ask about the procedure. They tell him that they will call when it’s ready and that he has to wait.”

One of the most frequent exits is the illegal way. Dubiel, a 23-year-old man from Santa Clara, who tried several times to solve his problem with an appointment at Claim, hired a “turn seller.” The price was 5,000 pesos [$208], to which was added the payment of the car trip, about 22,000 additional pesos [$917].

“My family in the United States sent me dollars. I sold them on the street, and that’s how I was able to pay for the trip. I was in a hurry and couldn’t afford to spend time with the law firms in Villa Clara,” he explains. The contact for the person who “facilitated” the appointment was found in a Facebook group.

Others offer, in private mail, the legalization of the document within 30 days, provided that 50 euros are paid for each procedure, in addition to a stamp of 500 pesos [$21]. “Apparently, it’s a business with the foreign officials themselves,” says Dubiel.

It is expected that digital processing, through state applications, will contribute to eliminating the “cluttering” of documents, but in reality it has complicated the picture. “Due to the lack of stamps, the customer can pay the tax on the document in cash or through an e-commerce platform. If the physical stamp is brought, we will send it along with the document. Otherwise, the amount can be paid digitally. There is no problem,” says another of the lawyers of the Santa Clara Consultancy.

With so many obstacles and in the face of a migratory exodus that has not ceased for months, the discomfort is growing. “After so much exhaustion standing in line at the civil registries, there are people who have documents from December and January that the lawyers won’t even look at. That’s why they have to pay, and it’s not cheap at all; it’s disrespectful,” says Maribel, a housewife from Santa Clara who is determined to get Spanish citizenship through the Law of Democratic Memory.

“If they really wanted to end this situation, they would open new branches for legalization services in the provinces,” she says, rejecting Soberón’s claims. “It’s no secret to anyone that people are now desperate.”

Translated by Regina Anavy

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Drivers Assaulted, Houses Looted and Cattle Stolen: Insecurity Grows in Villa Clara, Cuba

In such an isolated enclave, the horse-cart drivers maintain an indispensable link with the neighboring towns. (14ymedio)

14ymedio, Yankiel Gutiérrez Faife, Camajuaní, 9 April 2023 — Jinaguayabo is near the sea. To the north are the luxurious keys of Villa Clara; to the south, Remedios, at the end of a run-down road, where the horse carts circulate, at a slow pace and under the sun. It is a poor, rural town, with fewer than 700 inhabitants and from which everyone ends up leaving. In such an isolated enclave, the cart drivers maintain the indispensable link with the neighboring towns, but their routes, usually quiet, are now infested with assailants.

Gerónimo, who owns a passenger cart, leaves for work at seven in the morning. “At that time it’s easy,” he explains to 14ymedio. “It’s when the people of Jinaguayabo travel to Remedios, to study or to work. Then I have another route to bring them back, from three to seven at night, when they return to town.”

Several weeks ago, he says, he found three people waiting on the side of the road, and they asked him for a ride to Remedios. They got into the cart, two in the back seat and one next to him. “When we were coming to the bridge, the one behind me put a belt around my neck and forced me to park in a ditch,” says Gerónimo, who immediately obeyed his attacker.

The others were in charge of checking his pockets: they took his phone, some bluetooth headphones, his watch and the proceeds of the day, 2,500 pesos [$100]. “At least they left me the horse and the cart,” he says with some relief. “Now I have to see if I can buy what I lost again, because the police are not going to find the thieves.”

Despite the isolation and poverty, Jinaguayabo has always been close to the most tense events in Cuba. Located near the first settlement of the Spanish conquistadores in Villa Clara, besieged by corsairs and pirates and centuries later by insurgents, the town has not been oblivious to violence. However, its inhabitants complain that the atmosphere is electric, and they feel afraid being on any road at night. continue reading

“You can no longer go by bike to Remedios, as before,” complains Daivel, a 19-year-old whose parents have banned him from traveling at night the three miles that separate Jinaguayabo from the so-called “eighth village” of the Island. “I used to pedal there on weekends, but now they won’t let me go for fear that something will happen to me along the way. If I go to Remedios, I have to sleep with friends and come back in the morning,” he says.

The situation is repeated in other rural towns, such as Taguayabón — to the west, between Remedios and Camajuaní — where thieves prey on people during the November carnivals. At two in the morning, when everyone is drunk and their senses dulled in the dark, it is easy for bandits to take a wallet or watch, or to corner a clueless villager.

They also manage to force the doors to houses, which are less protected because, as Maria points out, “in the countryside everyone knows each other.” She and her husband returned from the festivities in the early morning and discovered a broken window in their home. Inside, she says, “everything was a disaster. They had taken a cell phone and cash, which I had hidden in the closet.”

Crime is so widespread that you can no longer trust even the workers you hire. Daniela, a housewife from Remedios, hired a bricklayer known by the family, 26-years-old, to change the tiles and the sink in the kitchen. “He came to work for a single day and didn’t finish. He told me that he had a fever and a cold,” she says. That same night she was robbed of a powerful LED light that she had in the yard. “My husband, who knew that the boy was in bad company, went to his house. He himself had stolen the lamp, taking advantage of the fact that he knew the house, and exhibited it very brazenly in his yard,” the woman says.

In the marginal areas of the cities or in the rural towns the situation is unacceptable, but it is even more serious in the homes of the farmers. Francisco, a guajiro whose farm is in the vicinity of Rosalía, near Taguayabón, had two oxen with which he worked on his plot.

After working and taking a bath, Francisco used to have lunch and take a nap, while the animals grazed near the house. “In short,” he says, “when I was sleeping very peacefully, the bandits had been ’paying attention’ to me for many days and knew my routine. They had studied me.” At nightfall, he saw that the oxen had disappeared.

A television program funded as propaganda by the Ministry of the Interior, “Behind the Footprint”, shows a police squad that quickly solves criminal cases. “But real life is not like that,” says Francisco, who didn’t wait for the authorities to take action on the matter.

Some neighbors helped him organize a search party, and they found a broken fence and tracks. Beyond, near the town of Palenque, they discovered a scrub where the drunken thieves were butchering the animals. The second ox, tied to the fence, tried in vain to free itself.

“We caught three thieves and the police took them,” says Francisco. “But they have already freed one of them. Usually they are released for lack of interest in the investigation, or the police don’t even bother to come.”

Woman talking on the phone in front of a motorcycle workshop that was robbed last month. (14ymedio)

No one is safe. Not even in the center of big cities like Santa Clara. Ernesto, owner of a motorcycle repair shop not far from Etecsa’s offices — just one block from Vidal Park — was robbed of one of the vehicles he had in the warehouse at nine at night, while his family was watching the telenovela.

The thief broke the fiber cement roof of the workshop and took a motorcycle with just two and a half years of use, which needed paint and a new battery. However, he did not realize that Ernesto had installed cameras and did not have his face covered. “It wasn’t difficult to identify him,” he says. “A week later, the police caught the thief and recovered the motorcycle. However, I know I was lucky.”

Translated by Regina Anavy

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Placetas, Cuba’s Private-Sector Aluminum Capital

In Placetas the workday begins and eight in the morning, with the clamour of the furnace and steam from molten metal rising out of the ovens. (14ymedio)

14ymedio, Yankiel Gutierrez Faife, Camajuaní, 2 April 2023 — The municipality of Placetas, one of the economic engines of Villa Clara province, is also the aluminum mecca of Cuba. Initially, its foundries were clandestine operations but were later licensed by the government as small and medium-sized private businesses (SMEs). They still follow their own rules and still have difficulty finding raw material, but they attract hundreds of workers and are among the few industries that have managed to prosper in central Cuba.

Aluminum has long been the most versatile and common metal found in Cuban homes, used for tableware, doors, windows, spare parts, benches and seating. Salaries are good, from 300 to 350 pesos a day, but the risk of workplace injury is high. It depends on the type of object and the size of the project. Even still, business is booming.

At eight in the morning, a clamor can be heard coming from the furnace as steam from molten metal rises out of the ovens. One of the factories, operated by two locals, consists of two high-ceilinged warehouses built near their homes.

The process of melting and molding takes place in one of the warehouses. Skilled workers shape the product, assembling its parts and welding the pieces together. In the second facility, they later sand and paint the objects. The forge has forty-eight workers, who toil tirelessly in front of the fiery ovens. continue reading

“When we started in 2012, this was all illegal,” admits David, one of the factory’s owners. “At first we were making pots and pans, oil stoves, cutlery, plates and glasses. In 2016 everything changed, we made the leap to producing windows and doors in small quantities and only sold to local customers. Fortunately, this led to us getting a business license and then of becoming an SME.”

The major obstacle facing David and other producers is finding aluminum, which they initially got from the Placetas Raw Materials Company. The state, he says, was stingy with the amount it sold them, which is why they turned to “collectors,” scavengers who collect or buy any bit of aluminum they find on the streets.

Finally, they were offered a contract by the Cuban Fund for Cultural Assets, which agreed to supply them with an adequate amount of aluminum. In return, David and his partners had to agree to a favorable price for producing benches and trashcans for city parks, security bars for government buildings, light fixtures for city streets and assorted pieces of furniture.

However, they are still committed to using privately collected and recycled metal, which provides a source of income for retirees who collect and sell used aluminum beer and soft drink cans. There are also now several privately owned recycling companies such as Hila Metal Sur, which is owned by one of their partners.

“The life of the foundry worker became a little more comfortable,” says David. The other factories still had to look for alternative sources of raw materials, however. Today, there are other producers affiliated with the Fund in Placetas. They are part of the government-run Provincial Metal Shaping Company, known as Metalconf. Meanwhile, independent artisans now operate as SMEs.

One such artisan is David, who explains that the work is “spread around” to the various factories. “Those affiliated with the Fund are contracted to produce roofing panels, lamp posts, swings and other articles ordered by the government, which gets everything at a discount. In turn, it provides foundries with subsidies to manufacture objects that are later sold in industrial product stores. Meanwhile, smaller-scale producers specialize in kitchen utensils, though the bulk of their work is blinds, doors, chairs, armchairs and tables.”

According to official sources, Metalconf itself has several factories in Placetas, as well as its own distribution and marketing divisions, that export to other countries in the Caribbean.

David notes it is the SMEs themselves which determine prices. An aluminum door usually costs 6,900 pesos and a window 5,500. A table with four matching chairs is 13,000; two armchairs with a sofa and coffee table goes for 15,000 pesos. He points out that his company offers free home delivery. Once a week, a truck transports their products to Santa Clara, Camajuaní, Remedios, Caibarién and to Placetas itself.

Rodrigo, one of the partners in another local foundry, is worried about the adverse working conditions of his thirty employees. Half of them are directly involved in production while the rest spend their time looking for recyclable aluminum. He has still not registered his business as an SME but hopes to do so as soon as he has completed all the paperwork.

“The foundry workers are exposed to toxic substances and lead poisoning on a daily basis, to say nothing of the burns from molten metal splashing out of the mold,” says Rodrigo. “There’s concern that they often don’t have the necessary protective gear, such as heat-resistant gloves, leather boots or belts. It’s also hard to get protective goggles and sturdy overalls.”

Rodrigo’s foundry, which turns out cutlery and other kitchen utensils, operates like an artisan’s studio. Pieces of aluminum are tossed into a furnace and melted down. The mold is covered with earth, and once ready, the liquid metal is poured through a hole at the top. After several hours, the molten metal will have cooled down – it solidifies quickly because it hardens at a very high temperature – at which point the mold is broken and the piece is removed.

“Then comes the finishing, which consists of filing the piece down, assembling it and spray-painting it,” says Rodrigo. He surmises that it is rare for any house in Villa Clara – or in all of Cuba for that matter– to not have a piece of aluminum that was “made in Placetas.”

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With the Blackouts, Charcoal Making Starts Up Again in Cuba

Between the sun and the weight of the logs, being a charcoal burner is an overwhelming routine for two retirees, but in Cuba they need to find a way to make a living. (14ymedio)

14ymedio, Yankiel Gutiérrez Faife, Camajuaní, 21 February 2023 — The hands of Emilio, a 66-year-old farmer, say everything about his trade: rough, firm, and smeared with soot. For decades he has gotten up at dawn, along with his brother Daniel, and they go to work in the fields of Vueltas, a town a few kilometers from Camajuaní, in Villa Clara. Five years ago, when blackouts became common again in Cuba, they decided to build charcoal ovens.

Emilio translates his business into figures: up to 25 sacks is the yield from each oven and each one is worth 300 pesos. What the resellers do next is not his problem. The effort is enormous to achieve an acceptable result, but the market is on the rise. The charcoal burners are one of the few sectors that have benefited from the scarcity of fuel, the lack of gas and the instability of the National Electric System.

Emilio’s house, the typical Guajiro construction, made of wood, is on the side of a dam, a few meters from his ovens. He likes to brew coffee before the sun rises, take his first puffs of tobacco and, to stay in shape, he stretches before going to work.

To make a charcoal oven, the men have to prepare the process a month in advance: sharpen the machetes, cut the marabou, pile up the trunks and put them to dry for several weeks, in a place where the sun hits them hard. (14ymedio)

To make a charcoal oven, the men have to prepare the process a month in advance. Emilio and Daniel sharpen their machetes and go out to cut the invasive marabou weed. They pile up the trunks and put them to dry for several weeks, in a place where the sun hits them hard. For the transfer they use a cart towed by oxen, but the hauling of the sticks is their responsibility. Between the sun and the weight of the trunks, it is an overwhelming routine for two retirees, but they have to have something to live on, Emilio affirms with resignation. continue reading

After five years of work, the soot doesn’t leave their bodies no matter how much they wash. Often, Emilio calls one of his neighbors at dawn, to share his coffee. “Did you bathe well yesterday?” the man often asks, pointing to a spot behind the ears or on the charcoal burner’s elbow. Emilio laughs and goes looking for his brother to start working again.

Daniel helps him lift the pile of wood for the oven. They arrange the trunks one next to the other, and they form five or six layers of sticks, depending on the thickness. Then they cover everything with a layer of grass, another of earth and some palm fronds. The oven is lit from the center. After a week of slow burning, the fire will have reached the surface. The result: the yellowish pieces of marabou will have turned into gleaming pieces of charcoal.

They have to spend the whole week watching over the pile, in case some accident happens or the fire gets out of control. While everyone sleeps, Emilio spends several nights awake in front of the wooden piles. There he must be watching in case the oven explodes or the fire catches somewhere. “You could pass the charcoal and spoil it,” he says. “It’s like cooking.”

The oven is lit from the center. After a week of slow burning, the fire will have reached the surface. (14ymedio)

The process is difficult, but there is a lot of demand in the towns and cities. “In the last year the consumption of charcoal has increased and it shows, because many people come to the countryside looking for someone who is selling it. In the town everything about cooking has become complicated, many do not have gas, there are blackouts and there is a great shortage of fuel right now,” he says.

At one point, Daniel explains, his main client was Gaviota, the hotel company managed by the Armed Forces. Due to the proximity of the northern keys – one of the most important tourist poles on the Island – Gaviota bought charcoal for cooking. However, the pandemic brought the suspension of contracts.

Surely, Emilio assumes, Gaviota will contact them again, but the brothers suspect that the business will not be favorable for them. “We would have to see,” says Daniel, “if they continue as before, there is no deal. After the Ordering Task*, individuals began to pay us 300 pesos for the sack. Before they paid 10, but the Government offered us 8. They always want to take it at a lower price and that doesn’t suit us.”

“Young people don’t want to do this job,” laments Yuri, another 63-year-old retiree who gave up farming and sold his cattle after suffering multiple thefts. In Rosalía, a rural town not far from Vueltas and Camajuaní, there are only four people who make charcoal. “We are all gray-haired,” says Yuri.

Emilio translates his business into figures: up to 25 sacks is the yield from each oven and each one is worth 300 pesos. (14ymedio)

“Some boys from around here tried to start the business. When they saw the work that it takes to make just one sack, they immediately gave it up,” says the farmer. Yuri sells a can of charcoal for 100 pesos to a contact in Santa Clara, who comes to his house every month to pick up the merchandise. “I can’t give charcoal away,” he said, alluding to the rising prices. “The job does not only consist of cutting the marabou, you also have to spend many sleepless nights, taking care of the piles.”

With the decrease in blackouts at the beginning of the year, the demand for charcoal fell. But the less optimistic know that as soon as the heat returns, the most prudent thing to do is to have an alternative on hand. Gas stoves, increasingly rare in homes, are also facing a supply shortage at the Villa Clara filling plant.

Although the most common thing in the countryside, Yuri notes, is still firewood. “People here don’t have much of a need for charcoal, but in a pinch, it’s always good to have a few cans on hand,” she explains.

Bibian, a housewife from Camajuaní, remembers that in the eighties there was no electricity in the neighboring area of La Bajada. “My mom was used to cooking on charcoal and wood stoves,” she recalls. “When clothes had to be ironed, the irons were heated over the fire. For cooking, the same thing, and I even liked the taste of smoked food better.”

For Bibian, in the kitchen firewood is superior to charcoal. “It burns much better, the embers last longer and retain heat better. The downside is that wood smoke affects your health a lot, it hurts your lungs. Charcoal smoke does less damage,” she says.

The situation of La Bajada did not improve during the Special Period. “The oil at that time was gone, there wasn’t even enough for transportation. So my husband went to the fields to see what he could get and returned with a sack of charcoal. It cost him 300 pesos. It was a lot, but from that time, every time the power went out I went to the stove and the charcoal got me out of trouble. My rice never spoiled again because of a blackout,” smiles Bibian.

Maritza, another housewife from Taguayabón, a neighboring town, shares Bibian’s opinion about the usefulness of charcoal in times of scarcity. Her stove is made of welded rods and she lights the coals by burning a piece of nylon, when, as is often the case, she has no oil. “They only give us fuel in the hurricane season, and very little, barely for two months,” she complains. Charcoal is fussy to light, she says. Her method to light it is to get at least a couple of lumps to burn well. “Then I put a fan on them to fan the flames and quickly reach for the pots.” The technique, which others also perform with a hair dryer, has never failed her. Although, of course, this can only be done when there is no blackout.

Ramón, 56, calculates that the price that used to be charged for a single sack of coal in Camajuaní – about 100 pesos – is now less than what a can costs. “Not everyone has gas, in the villages there is no firewood, it is not like in the countryside. There is no free fuel either. A sack of charcoal, for those who cook every day, lasts a little over a week.” The bills at the end of the month, he reflects, are scary.

The measure used by charcoal burners is an old square tin, from jam or oil. The resale price of each can in Camajuaní is 150 pesos. The sack that is bought directly from the charcoal burner costs 300 pesos. The resale of the complete bag can reach 450 pesos. As the summer months and blackouts approach, the charcoal trade is reviving. Now, on Facebook or on the Revolico online sales portal, prices are rising at the rate of inflation. For Emilio, Daniel and Yuri, the effort and the long sleepless nights will have been worth it.

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

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‘The Grandchildren Law is Going to Drive Us Crazy’ Complain the Employees of the Civil Registry in Cuba

The real difficulty in small, sparsely staffed municipal offices is being able to attend to the large number of requests (14ymedio)

Yankiel Gutiérrez Faife, Camajuaní | 14 February 2023 — The peace of a small town like Camajuaní, in Villa Clara, is only disturbed for three reasons: partying, surprise supplies in hard currency stores and the queues at the paperwork offices. The most extensive is the one that is organized every morning in front of the Directorate of Identification, Immigration and Aliens, in the vicinity of the Police unit, although those of the Civil Registry and other dependencies of the Ministry of Justice have nothing to envy.

Spain’s Democratic Memory Law – called the “law of grandchildren” – triggered requests for documents and caused a deficit of stamps at the national level to which Camajuaní was no stranger. But the real difficulty in small municipal offices is being able to attend to the large number of requests that are made with very few personnel and even fewer technological resources.

Located on Raúl Torres Street, the Camajuaní Civil Registry sees applicants arrive almost at dawn. “We cannot serve everyone. There are too many orders and we can only collect ten cards per day,” explains Migdalia, one of the local workers.

Stunned by the accumulated requests, Migdalia tries to calm things down in the queue and expedite the procedures. “If they don’t suspend the ‘law for grandchildren’ soon, we’re going to go crazy or we’re going to ask for a leave. I can’t sleep without taking my nerve pills,” she laments.

The line can be organized first thing in the day or “inherited” from the night before. A calculated business of coleros and “friends” keep turns to have guaranteed entry to the office when morning comes. There are even private “guardians” who ensure order and take turns watching at dawn.

Located on Raúl Torres Street, the Camajuaní Civil Registry sees applicants arrive almost at dawn. (14ymedio)

“Lists until March 18 are already in place to collect the documents in the registry,” says Miriam, a primary school teacher who has to give all kinds of excuses at work to go out and line up. “Those of the corrections, on the other hand, are already organized until April 11.” continue reading

The uproar of the applicants is such that the neighbors have filed numerous noise complaints and, in some cases, have thrown buckets of water from the doorways of their houses during the night to dissipate the noise and be able to sleep.

In theory, all the necessary documents can be requested electronically. The Ministry of Justice provided a digital form which should facilitate the process. But the reality is quite different.

“Civil Registry forms have been available on the Ministry of Justice website for a year,” explains Yanet, a shop assistant at the nearby freely convertible currency (MLC) store. “At the time, this measure managed to speed up the process and stop the queue. However, today it’s one more obstacle. Everything is slower. What I could solve in three or four days before, now I can’t even do it in a week”, she points out.

“People are already very upset. The situation is the same in all offices. Very slow, and when they finally give you the documents, they always have errors and you have to start the process all over again. It’s a never-ending story”, complains Anabel, a housewife. “The most common justification is to say that this whole situation with the ‘grandchildren’s law’ is unforeseen, since they did not plan it. But people are not to blame for that.”

“People are already very upset. The situation is the same in all offices. Very slow, and when they finally give you the documents, they always have errors

Jamikel, a young man from Santa Clara, had to request paperwork in Camajuaní for his father, who spent a week lining up, but to no avail. He intended to request a verbatim copy of certain documents. When it was finally his turn to pick up the papers, and after a twenty-mile drive and seven-hour wait, the officials told him that he had done everything wrong and that he had to reactivate the application. His son then helped him complete the online process. “We’ll have to see if he’s got better luck this time,” says Jamikel.

In Vueltas, in a period of a month or two, they print the documents and call the interested party to mark their turn in line to pick them up. (14ymedio)

The other option the elderly and those who do not have smartphones have is to go to the Youth Computer Club of the town, where a technician will help the interested party when requesting documents. Even if the effort does not produce results, the 10 pesos fee for each request is still due and payable.

Some have suggested that the Ministry of Justice offer the option of reviewing the document in PDF format before picking it up. The applicant could then verify it and, if there is an error, request the correction by e-mail. “But no. They prefer for everything to have obstacles and to complicate everything”, says Alicia, Yanet’s partner at the MLC store.

To make matters worse, the delivery of documents follows a rigid but inefficient order: Mondays, Tuesdays and Fridays are for regular processing, Wednesdays for corrections, and Thursdays for those who need documents related to agriculture. Altogether, they only deal with thirty collection requests per week, while on Wednesdays ten additional files are received for corrections, and on Thursday another ten for procedures related to agriculture, which are resolved more quickly, for a total of fifty.

“Then one has to hear Díaz-Canel talking about eliminating bureaucracy, but they create more. Everything is hypocritical and disrespectful”, Alicia insists. “It seems unbelievable that the Ministry of Justice is one of the main defaulters of delivery deadlines.”

Miriam, a woman from Santa Clara who tried to evade mistreatment and bullying at the Santa Clara Civil Registry, finds herself in a similar situation and has not been able to process a document that she has been looking for since October. “The birth registration is supposed to be in Colón, Matanzas, but that civil registry is not even in the digital application system”.

The situation of the Civil Registry offices in other towns in the province is just as precarious. Vueltas, a few kilometers from Camajuaní, is part of its jurisdiction. The workers review the procedure code, previously assigned by the website of the Ministry of Justice. Then, within a month or two, they print the documents and call the interested party to get their turn in the queue to pick them up.

As for Remedios, a neighboring municipality of Camajuaní, the stagnation is similar. Both the list to carry out the procedure as well as the list of corrections will not be complete until the month of April.

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No Dreams, No Entertainment, No Work, This is How the Young Live in Villa Clara, Cuba

They split the cost of a couple of bottles of rum, not too expensive, and look for an empty bench near to the bandstand in the park. (14ymedio)

14ymedio, Yankiel Gutiérrez Faife, Camajuaní, 8 January 2023 — Nearly all their friends have left, but Javier and Érica, two young people from Santa Clara, are still in Cuba. Leaving will be almost inevitable. With the Island’s economic situation, having children isn’t an option. Besides, at twenty-five years of age, where are they going to find a decent job, a house, or an environment less hostile?

A few weeks ago, after having scraped together enough money, they decided to celebrate the anniversary of their engagement at the Conuco Grill restaurant. The restaurant’s barbecue and its creole atmosphere have become legendary in Santa Clara. Javier and Érica reserved a table and ordered steaks, some salad and rice, and beers. Just as they had begun to eat, there was a power cut.

The owner, in order to ease the frustration of his customers a little bit, put lighted candles on each table. “The service was brilliant, and we were really happy with the food at the restaurant, but the power cut destroyed the magic of the evening”, Javier told this newspaper. “You try not to blame the waiters or the restaurant owner, because it’s not their fault, but the fault of those above“.

Nevertheless, says Javier, the power cut didn’t affect the bill at all: the couple ended up paying 1,360 pesos in total. After the meal Conuco Grill’s owner explained to them that intermittent power cuts are already a common occurrence and their impact on his business has been brutal. He has thought about buying a portable generator but the restaurant doesn’t yet make enough profit to be able to afford such an investment.

More than one year after he started Conuco Grill, his only option for solving the problem is to try and fit in with the timetable of scheduled power cuts that Unión Eléctrica publishes for the province. But, he tells us, even this data isn’t reliable.

Forty kilometres from Santa Clara , in Taguayabón, a group of young people the same age as Javier and Érica are trying to decide which village to go to for the evening. If they do manage to get a bus to Remedios or Caibarién they could grab a snack in its colonial streets or let off steam on the waterfront. However, more probable is that they’ll have to make do with going only as far as Camajuaní, and even then they’ll probably have to walk home. continue reading

Eventually they manage to get a lift from a truck and leave Taguayabón behind – barely illuminated, the village passes the night in a graveyard-like silence, as no one can afford to organise a house party, roast a pig or even share a bottle of rum. As far as the young people are concerned, the usual thing is to meet on a bench on the squalid main street above the bridge, or hang around waiting for someone to put some music on.

The truck drops them on Independence Street, opposite a cinema converted into a warehouse and the town dump. They decide to split the cost of a couple of bottles of rum, not too expensive, and look for an empty bench near to the bandstand in the park. You can hear them singing, between swigs of liquor, until dawn.

Michel, one of the group, arrived at the village’s discoteque on Saturday night and was met with a power cut. “It’s already lasted for two hours”, they told him. Someone suggested they go to the bandstand and said they’d bring a speaker to connect to their phone to entertain themselves for the evening. Michel himself collected 300 pesos from each member of the group and bought a bottle of Havana Club and an energy drink — Tigón — as a mixer.

Between sips from plastic cups, they began to share how angry they felt. One of them said that his grandmother, called Josefa, wanted to celebrate his nineteenth birthday with him when he came home on leave from military service, as he had done that Saturday. She went to buy some whiskey and some beers”, he said, “but the only shops that were open, on the main street, didn’t have any power. She waited a bit, it came back on and she bought the stuff… but when she got home she found there was another power cut”.

Another of the young men, David, told them that his dad had taken his little brother to the Rainbow park in Santa Clara, and when they arrived there was no electricity. The boy waited for the rides to come back to life, but in vain. “All they could do was walk around”, David complained.

It’s better to go back to Taguayabón before midnight. Otherwise, you have to walk via the road between Camajuaní and Remedios, in complete darkness.

Camajuaní ’s situation – which is replicated in all of Villa Clara’s municipalities – is deplorable. Years ago there were at least six restaurants, a discoteque, several bars and cafeterias, all state owned. These days they’ve become ramshackle buildings, practically abandoned and with little to offer, or they’re on the point of being remodelled to cater for the little tourism there is.

Once they’re refurbished they will be out of reach of the ordinary citizen, let alone the younger people, whose costs are doubled if they want to spend time with their partner and whose parents aren’t able to permit themselves any additional luxuries.

“The worst thing is that we’ve stopped thinking about our dreams, just in order to dedicate ourselves to survival”, Jaime explains — he’s a young waiter from Santa Clara. He feels stuck, bored with everything, ruled by routine and poorly paid, and he feels he’s going nowhere in life. “Nothing in sight, no destination”, he says, ironically.

One frustrating thing, claims Jaime, is that the older folks think that the current generation is “badly adjusted” because they criticise the government but then want to leave the country instead of “resisting” like they’ve been taught to do. It’s quite common to be “tormented” with stories about the Special Period and to hear the old worn-out saying: “What have you got to complain about? – you have it better than we did in those times”.

The lack of decent employment opportunities is obvious. “You can do anything to earn your living”, Jaime accepts, “but that’s not the same as fighting to achieve your dreams”. Many young people say that not only are they unable to plan to have children, but as things stand, nor do they want to. “If we bring children into the world with all this going on, their lives will certainly be worse than ours”.

What’s the solution?: “Leave Cuba”, Ariel replies without any doubt. He had been decided to leave since he was very young. “I thought the situation would carry on the same and that I would be able to put up with it for a few more years, but I couldn’t”, he tells us. Like thousands of other Cubans he crossed the Darién jungle in Panama towards the United States and today he lives there with his wife and her father. “It seems impossible that anything could get any worse but it still takes us by surprise”, he says in an exchange with his friends who stayed in Villa Clara.

“If you’re against the government it only brings you problems to remain here”, says Jorge, 23, resident of Camajuaní. His parents live in the USA and he remained with his grandmother and his uncle, but they also are now on the point of leaving. “Continuity is now no longer an option for the young”, he says, alluding to the regime’s slogan of keeping firm to their ideological position and of not changing anything.

“Well, I don’t get into politics”, explains David, who started to study medicine a few years ago. “I could lose a career which has cost me a lot of sacrifice. I haven’t gone hungry and gone without only to lose it all in the end”. And he adds, half jokingly: “When I graduate I’m off to Haiti. They live better there than in Cuba”.

Translated by Ricardo Recluso

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Honey, a Profitable Profession for Cuban Beekeepers When the State Deigns to Pay Them

The honey producer’s loyalty has to be absolute: he can’t sell in the informal market, nor keep too much honey for his own use. (14ymedio)

14ymedio, Yankiel Gutiérrez Faife, Camajuaní, 31 December 2022 — Although bee honey is one of the things that has “disappeared” from the Cuban family pantry, the State knows how to sell it abroad, and at very high prices. The purity and quality of the product have earned an international reputation for the Island’s honey, and it’s not uncommon to find it in the supermarkets of Europe and Latin America, with all kinds of packaging that advertises its origin as a sign of superiority.

Beekeeping escapes the usual rules of trade in Cuba. The State pays the farmer for honey at a better price than the informal market. The loyalty of the producer, of course, has to be absolute: he can’t sell in the informal market, nor keep too much honey for his own use. Otherwise, the inspectors can confiscate the equipment, retain the honey and make him pay an exorbitant fine.

“This profession does not take as much effort as dedicating oneself to agriculture,” says Lele, a 56-year-old farmer living in Rosalía, a rural town in Camajuaní, in the province of Villa Clara. “But not everyone has the courage to face the bee stings. To get an assistant, I have to call on several houses looking for someone who wants to work,” he complains.

Lele started as a beekeeper to collaborate with a friend of his. Over time, he acquired nine hives and had an estimated annual production of six to seven tons of honey. Everything must be delivered to the state-owned Cuban Beekeeping Company (Apicuba), which then moves it to the processing plant, evaluates the quality and determines the price.

Almost all beekeepers turn to the State instead of looking for private buyers. “It’s more profitable,” Lele explains. “The producer earns from 35,000 to 40,000 pesos per ton, and, if in Apicuba they consider the honey to be exportable, they pay him an additional 600 MLC (freely convertible currency).”

The “trick” of this added payment is that the producer must pay a “counter-value” for each MLC received. That is, in order to receive the currency you have to deduct from the 35,000 pesos of your payment the equivalent of 600 MLC, but at a favorable exchange rate of 24 pesos, which means earning 14,400 pesos. In sum, for each ton of exportable honey you can get 20,600 pesos and 600 MLC, which Apicuba will transfer to your ’credit’ card. continue reading

However, payment is frequently delayed and depends on the distribution of the lots that the State allocates for export. The farmer can deliver a certain amount of honey to Apicuba, but until it is sent abroad he will not receive the full payment.

It’s been more than a month since I paid the MLC’s counter-value to Apicuba for the honey I delivered,” complains Yaniel, a producer from Camagüey. “I know that they already sent the export shipment in September, and my money has not yet appeared on the card. The answer they give me is that it is the bank’s fault. I’m still waiting.”

Many beekeepers also complain about the bureaucracy that they must conquer before receiving their money — sometimes five or six months late. Apicuba requires having the identity card photocopied on both sides, a document that accredits the producer as part of a cooperative, and another copy of the contract signed with the State for the current year.

The farmer goes to work in a cart towed by oxen. He carries his instruments: a centrifuge, smoker, bellows and a tank to collect the honey. Protected by a beekeeping suit, hat and veil, Lele carefully removes the frames from each hive — the squares that the bees fill with honey. He gently removes the bees, takes off the seal (wax layer) and extracts the honey with the help of the centrifuge.

After straining the mixture, he fills the tank and returns the honeycomb to the box. This procedure is repeated with each of the hives. The purity of the final result is remarkable.

From that collection, Apicuba takes care of the rest. The Cuban State, which pays 600 MLC per ton of honey to the producer, sells it on average at more than 4,000 euros per ton to the most avid buyers: Germans, Dutch and Spanish. The price varies depending on whether it is bulk, packaged, monofloral, multifloral or pollen. Some publications have indicated that Cuban honey is sold for 20,000 euros a ton.

However, data from the Ministry of Agriculture of Spain for the 2021-2022 campaign indicate that bulk honey reached 4,620 euros per ton, while the multifloral variant was sold for a maximum of 3,620 euros. The packaged pollen was sold for 12,000 euros. In any case, the disproportion between the profit of the Cuban state and the remuneration of the farmer is enormous.

In the informal market, the sale does not reach the same level. There are few quantities available in MLC, and the one on the street has a presentation that leaves a lot to be desired, not to mention that the honey itself is of unreliable origin.

There are other advantages for the producer, says Lele. The broken and old frames of the hives can be re-used: they are placed in a boiler on the fire, and the wax that melts, once cleaned, is also bought by Apicuba to renew the boxes.

Lele’s bees collect wildflower pollen. Their hives are not sprayed with any chemical, and, when some strange body — such as cockroaches and other intruder insects — is inserted into the boxes, he himself extracts it.

Accepting the conditions of Apicuba is the only way to benefit from the sale of honey abroad, a business whose numbers are increasing, as the prestige of Cuban production grows, says Lele. “We can only keep what’s destined for our own consumption,” he says, “otherwise they can take away our means and our hives.”

But Apicuba, Lele explains, does not offer farmers the necessary resources. He has been using his own for five years, and there is nowhere to find protective equipment, tanks and even a simple mesh to make the veil, indispensable to protect the face from bites.

Leonardo, another beekeeper from Rosalía, is concerned about the incidence of tropical diseases in his bees. Their hives have been decimated by the destructive rogue mite, a species that lives parasitically from bees and exterminates them.

Purity, the first quality criterion for exports, cannot be compromised by drugs. “It does not suit the State,” says Leonardo, “because this would affect the price of Cuban honey in the world market, which greatly values everything that is processed without chemical substances.”

The mite sucks the hemolymph of both larvae and adult bees. It drains their strength and make them custodian of a virus. Then the animal’s body begins to be affected, the wings atrophy and they can’t work. “Then the workers come and end up expelling the sick bee,” Leonardo explains. “They think that one that doesn’t work doesn’t eat, and doesn’t have the right to live either.”

“When this disease enters the hive,” he says, “the only thing that can be done is to observe how the bees are dying little by little. The State is not going to sell us the medicines to cure them. The last thing they want is for us to alter the organic state of the honey.”

Translated by Regina Anavy

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In Cuban Prisons, Prisoners Survive Thanks to Private Initiatives

The family of political prisoner Andy García Lorenzo manages the funds and ensures that they are distributed fairly. (Facebook/Roxana García Lorenzo)

14ymedio, Yankiel Gutiérrez Faife, Camajuaní, 26 November 2022 — Without the help of charitable organizations and private donors, prisoners would be on the verge of starvation in Cuban prisons, where they receive from the State the bare minimum to survive. “Lately the contributions have been greatly reduced,” laments Jonatan López, brother-in-law of political prisoner Andy García Lorenzo, who inspired the Funds for the Victims of Communism initiative. “We have up to 110 beneficiaries, but now we have resources for only about 44 detainees.”

“We’re a bridge for delivering food to prisoners in Cuba. We receive small donations from people who are sympathetic to the cause and help low-income families,” explains Jonatan López in conversation with 14ymedio.

“Andy knew what it was to go to bed hungry, without being able to satisfy himself with the small portion of food they get in jail,” López says. On each visit, they assure, they tried to bring the young man everything he needed. “But he always asked for more, because he wanted to share his food with the others.”

Funds for the Victims of Communism — promoted on social networks under the name of Help the Brave of 11J [11 July 2021 protests] — is responsible for raising money so that families can provide prisoners with food, toiletries, cigarettes and everything they need during their imprisonment. continue reading

The organization takes care of raising money so that families can provide prisoners with food, toiletries, cigarettes and everything they need during their imprisonment. (14ymedio)

The economic crisis on the Island and the increase in the price of food and basic necessities have had a negative impact on the situation of prisoners, and it’s difficult to provide them with the bag of supplies during family visits.

The visibility of the García Lorenzo family, following the multiple complaints made by its members, contributed to the project gaining notoriety and interest from donors. After initially refusing to send money, they decided — in December 2021 — to create a structure to collect funds.

The initial recipients were 15 families of political prisoners in Villa Clara, but the direct transmissions of Roxana García Lorenzo — Andy’s sister — and the complaints of other activists allowed increasing the number of donations and expanding the scope of the organization.

At the moment, the funds are destined for the families of 44 inmates in the western and central regions of the Island, for whom 3,000 pesos per month are deposited on their cards to buy products intended to cover their basic needs. The same amount has been given, at least once, to 110 prisoners.

Jonatan López, recently exiled in Germany, explained to 14ymedio that “to assist 110 prisoners, 4,500 to 5,000 dollars must be paid monthly, in order to distribute 6,000 pesos to each prisoner. And even so, their needs are not fully met, but it would be a huge relief for those families who, in many cases, have run out of their main economic livelihood,” he said, alluding to the fact that the work of many of the young people arrested was what supported their families.

The García Lorenzos manage the funds and ensure that they are distributed fairly. Activist Samuel Rodríguez Ferrer, a resident of the United States, is responsible for managing the PayPal and Zelle accounts opened for donations, which are then sent in their entirety to Cuba, without subtracting administrative or promotion expenses from the initiative. Ways have been found, says the activist, so that “the dictatorship does not access this currency” at the time of the transfers.

In addition, as they clarify on their website, the organization “is not political, nor is it affiliated with any party, organization or government. We do not receive a federal grant from the United States, or from any other country. Donations come from individuals and independent companies.”

Jonatan López records the donations in a public Excel document, to ensure transparency, while Pedro López, his father — also in the situation of asylum seeker in Germany — and his wife, Roxana García, from Santa Clara, are responsible for managing the organization. Through different channels, with the help of people traveling to the Island, the money reaches the families of the inmates.

“This project is so that they don’t feel alone, and they know that there are people outside and inside helping them,” Pedro López explains to 14ymedio. “You go against the dictatorship, they try to isolate everyone who dissents, and one of the ways is to tell them that they are alone. They try to demoralize them,” he says.

Despite their exile, Pedro and Jonatan López took measures so that the project didn’t stop. So far, they say, State Security has not confiscated their supplies, which in some cases are transported on national buses.

“It’s not difficult to work from the outside. We created an infrastructure made up of the same relatives, so that it wouldn’t stop when we left,” Pedro López says.

The work of the organization has not been without controversy. Several opponents have opined that the project “accommodates the relatives of prisoners,” which prevents them from “protesting” for the freedom of their relatives. These criticisms “do not make sense,” says Jonatan López. “The funds barely alleviate the situation of the families, and, in addition, the prisoners are not to blame for not assuming a ’frontal position’ against the regime in their homes.”

“We believe that it’s unfair to deprive them of this help, which is only the most basic, food, because their families don’t want to protest,” added the young man who, exiled in Germany due to pressure from State Security, confirmed to this newspaper his willingness to continue working on the project, combined with other initiatives such as I lend you my voice, Justice 11J, Where you fall, I’ll pick you up and the Accompaniment Groups of the Cuban Conference of Clergy (Concur).

For her part, Roxana García — known for her strong denunciations of the Government for the harassment of her brother — remains in Cuba, along with her parents, to continue demanding his freedom and that of the almost 1,000 political prisoners of the Island.

Several relatives of the prisoners have expressed their gratitude to the Funds for the Victims of Communism. Yanet Rodríguez from Holguin pointed out that the project has provided “help to the east of the country,” since most of the initiatives of this type are concentrated in the western region or the main cities of the Island.

Saily Núñez, wife of protester Maykel Puig, described the work of the organization as “extremely transparent,” while Niurka Ricardo, mother of prisoner Mario Josué Prieto, described the project as “something extraordinary and very human,” since it guarantees the food and medicines that are sent in the jabito (“little bag) to the inmates.

Translated by Regina Anavy

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