“There are always cars belonging to civil servants who come here every day for meetings; they don’t achieve anything, but they never stop having meetings.”
14ymedio, Miguel García, Holguín, December 16 2025 –In the morning progressing along Valle road with an unforgiving rattle. Every pothole forces us to slow down, every puddle – thick, greenish – reminds us that last night’s rain found no drainage and no official concern. Electric tricycles, motorcycles, bicycles and private cars arrive here with the same destination: the Lucía Iñiguez Landín Surgical Hospital. People arrive with fevers, joint pains, and the exhaustion of those who have been waiting for days for their bodies to give way.
“This feels like a test before we even get to the doctor,” says a woman holding her sweaty son as she dodges the accumulated water. Arboviruses have once again put this road at the centre of daily life in Holguín: patients from Velasco, Gibara, Calixto García, Cacocum and the city itself cross this stretch of road, ravaged by neglect and lack of investment, in search of diagnosis and relief.
A few kilometres away, the scene changes in colour and texture. At the end of Frexes Street, opposite the Provincial Assembly of People’s Power, the asphalt looks almost perfect. There are no puddles, the cracks have been sealed, and the kerb has been freshly swept. “There are always cars here with officials who come to meetings every day; they don’t achieve anything, but they never stop having meetings,” complains the driver of an electric tricycle as he compares, without raising his voice, the smooth pavement he has just left behind. The illusion hardly lasts 200 metres, from Bim Bom to a sugar-cane juice stall: just the stretch visible from the windows of the official building and the busy part for those entering and leaving the offices of power. Beyond that, the city returns to normal.
The contrast is not only aesthetic; it is functional and symbolic. On the road to the hospital, puddles become traps for tyres and ankles; dust rises when the sun beats down and the rain stays away, and when the downpour falls, mud spreads. A cyclist slams on the brakes to avoid falling into a makeshift ditch; the driver of an old Lada calculates where to drive without losing half his suspension in the attempt. “No one comes here to inspect,” sums up a neighbour who sells coffee on the corner and sees the procession of sick people pass by every day. “If they did, this would already be fixed.”
The photos show what is seen as normal: in front of the government building, a smooth, clean road with flowing traffic; but on the way to the hospital, a series of potholes, puddles reflecting tired building façades, crumbling kerbs. On peak days for dengue or chikungunya, the road becomes a funnel for emergencies. The noise of engines mixes with coughing, the rubbing of wet sandals, and the hurried complaining of those who are late for an appointment or for the emergency room.
In Holguín, as in so many parts of the island, the roadway also votes. Where there is power, there is paint and tar; where there is pain, there is waiting and damage. The Valle highway does not ask for speeches or ribbon-cutting ceremonies: it asks for drainage, asphalt, maintenance. Meanwhile, the journey to hospital will continue to be an uncomfortable prelude to illness, and the government’s front line will remain a polished postcard for those looking down from above.
Translated by GH
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