I imagine the Russians are tired of bailing out their Cuban comrades, but also in need of allies in this hemisphere.
14ymedio, Yoani Sánchez, Havana, March 27, 2026 / In the mornings, Tulipán Street transforms into a Carthaginian market. I skirt the stalls where they sell everything from peas to soap, aspirin, and cigarettes. I’m lucky to live just a few meters from this commercial bustle, which, although informal, precarious, and with prices driven by inflation, keeps my neighborhood alive and allows me to find basil for pesto or Teflon tape to repair a leaky pipe.
This Friday, Tulipán is my starting point. If public transportation is dying throughout the city, here it’s practically nonexistent. An avenue without almendrones (old American cars operation as taxis), without bicycle taxis, and without tricycles carrying passengers, this street is only for two types of people: those who walk and those who have a car (and managed to find gas or electricity to run it). So I don’t even look to see if anything’s coming to give me a ride. I’m ready to tackle the hill ahead.
A sprawling garage sale has sprung up in the basements of two enormous Soviet-era concrete blocks I pass on my way. There are makeshift stalls, blankets spread on the ground, selling mainly pants, blouses, and shoes. It’s the “clothes of Cuban emigrants,” the countless outfits left behind in closets and drawers after their owners left the island. One of the many flea markets selling the spoils of the mass exodus that have opened up across the country.
A friend, heavily made up, at nine o’clock, at the market, wearing a sequined blouse: “If I don’t wear it to come here, it will get ruined without being used.”
The relatives left behind try to sell a baby outfit here, some little girl’s shoes there, a formal shirt “to wear with a tie,” an old man manages to tell me as he offers his wares near a tree trunk. But the secondhand market in Cuba is drowned under mountains of oversupply. Barely worn sandals, necklaces that were once someone’s jewels, leather wallets that held the money and identity card of someone who now has residency somewhere new or a passport from another country.
Another issue is that there is nowhere to show off your clothes. The other day I ran into a friend, heavily made up, at nine in the morning at the farmers’ market. She was also wearing a sequined blouse. “If I don’t wear it to come here, it’ll just go to waste,” she managed to say. In a city without nightclubs, without discos, with hardly any movie theaters open, and with restaurants that are out of reach for most people, “going-out clothes” have to be taken out for walks in the building’s hallways, to the corner where the garbage piles up, or to the nearest clinic.
I reach 26th Street. They say that Raúl Castro once lived in a penthouse I pass on my journey. I remember sometimes seeing guards with stern expressions and pistols on their hips when I walked by. Now everything looks neglected. The plants on the rooftop seem a bit withered, and I don’t run into the uniformed men of yesteryear. This neighborhood is no longer safe or glamorous enough for them. Peeling buildings, a ruined cemetery, and a movie theater with no movies complete the picture.
I cross 23rd Street and after a few minutes, I cross the iron bridge. A father and his son, about five years old, are looking at the dark waters of the Almendares River. “Don’t stop, hurry up,” the man tells the little boy. “Daddy, let me watch, I’m not going to jump in,” the child reassures him. “Yeah, I know, you don’t even know how to swim,” the man replies hurriedly. It’s a sad paradox on an island where many can barely stay afloat if they fall into the sea. The lack of swimming pools to learn in and the regime’s fear that we would become Aquaman and escape en masse condemned us to only splash around before they could throw us a life preserver.
Several turkey vultures circle above a garbage dump near the river. They are birds that like refuse. And heights. They are always visiting my building. I respect these birds. They do their cleaning work without complaint, constantly, even though they are often looked down upon for their appearance. They have a stately flight. Once, when I was showing a foreign student the views from the Plaza de la Revolución lookout, several of them landed near the window. “They are attracted to political carrion,” I told the astute German. From a corner, an official tour guide appeared and staged a small protest against me for “denigrating the country in front of a foreigner.” Some people don’t take metaphors well.
The tanker named after Captain Kolodkin set course for this island, but no one knows if it will ultimately dock in our ports.
Speaking of symbols. I continue my headlong Cuban pace, eager to fill my shopping bag, and arrive at the grounds of the Russian Federation Embassy in Havana. I’ve never liked that building. It looks like an airport control tower or a sword plunged into the side of this city. It’s eerie. As I walk past its ugly structure, I wonder what they think of us in the Kremlin. I imagine the Russians, tired of bailing out their Cuban comrades, but also in need of allies in this hemisphere.
A neighbor asked me if the Russian ship was finally arriving or not. The tanker, named after Captain Kolodkin, set course for this island, but no one knows if it will ultimately dock in our ports with its cargo of fuel. My neighbor got up at three in the morning today to, in a brief burst of electricity, do laundry and send a WhatsApp message to her daughter who lives in Madrid. “Don’t even think about coming,” she wrote briefly. Parents have a sixth sense for detecting dangers. “You don’t know how to swim,” one warned his little boy this Friday, looking at the murky waters of the Almendares River. “This is unbearable,” another wrote to her 35-year-old “daughter” when the power came back on in my neighborhood.
It seems we’ve run out of life preservers this time.
Previous Havana Chronicles:
In Havana, the Only Ones Who Move Are the Mosquitoes
Reina, the Stately Street Where Garbage is Sold
Searching for Light Through the Deserted Streets of Havana
The Death Throes of ‘Granma’, the Mouthpiece of a Regime Cornered by Crisis
The Anxiety of the Disconnected Cuban
One Mella, Three Mellas, Life in Cuba Is Measured in Thousands of Pesos
It Is Forbidden To Leave Home in Cuba Today Because It Is a “Counter-Revolutionary Day”
Vedado, the Heart of Havana’s Nightlife, Is Now Converted Into a Desert
Havana, in Critical Condition
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