The resort’s boulevard, designed for leisure and bustle until the early hours, becomes deserted by mid-afternoon due to the lack of tourists and products.
14ymedio, Julio César Contreras, Varadero, January 14, 2026 – Night falls on Varadero with a calm that invites disquiet rather than rest. It’s nearly eight o’clock, and the boulevard, designed for the hustle and bustle of music and the coming and going of tourists, offers a familiar scene: a few Cuban families and a handful of open shops, with hardly any customers. Even on Saturdays, the scene doesn’t change. The pedestrian promenade seems more like an empty stage set than the recreational heart of Cuba’s main beach resort.
Amaury, the caretaker of the place since its opening in 2021, observes the scene with the resignation of someone who no longer expects surprises. “The tourists are perdidos… gone. Only the occasional Russian shows up, and they don’t even leave a tip,” he tells 14ymedio, leaning against one of the illuminated columns that stand out against the surrounding emptiness. Every now and then, two or three people wander by, disoriented, asking for a coffee, a drink, or something to eat.
Managed by the Palmares Extrahotelera Company, the Varadero boulevard was conceived as a space to concentrate commercial and gastronomic offerings, a nighttime complement for those staying in nearby hotels. On paper, the bars and shops should be open until 1:00 a.m. In practice, explains Amaury, “they’re already closed by 5:00 p.m.” When someone asks at that hour where to have a drink or a pizza, the security guard has no choice but to suggest they try again the next day.
Every now and then two or three people cross by, disoriented, asking for a coffee, a drink, or something to eat.
The nocturnal images reinforce that sensation of abandonment. In the middle of the promenade, a kiosk displays an impeccable counter, but its menu board is blank. “We’re not selling any food at this hour; we don’t put out all the prepared items until the afternoon,” the employee explains. A few meters away, the cobblestone promenade stretches out almost deserted, barely interrupted by the occasional couple strolling aimlessly, more to kill time than with any expectation of finding anything open.
Ana María arrived at the boulevard with her husband and young son, convinced that, at least on a Saturday night, there would be options for eating. Reality takes her by surprise. “It’s inexplicable that there’s only one café open,” she says. The menu is short and uninspiring: mixed skewers for 140 pesos and croquettes for 80. “We were hoping to have dinner somewhere nice, and it turns out we’re eating these stale croquettes in total silence,” she laments, sitting at a table surrounded by empty chairs.
“It’s amazing how deserted everything is,” say those strolling through streets in absolute silence.
Cocktail lovers, the couple also dreamed of a mojito or a Cuba Libre served with a touch of elegance. “All they have is piña colada, for 150 pesos,” Ana María complains. The glass is so small that after a couple of sips, there’s nothing left. Adding to the disappointment is the lack of options for their child: only canned cola, no fresh juice. “It’s impossible to want to spend money like this, among other things because there’s nothing to spend it on,” she sums up.
The scene repeats itself a few meters away, where a group of young people gather around a concrete bench. Claudia, 18, often comes to the boulevard with friends “to see if anyone shows up,” some tourist to chat with or simply to break the monotony. “It’s amazing how deserted everything is,” she says. “Everywhere you go, you find the same desolation.” For her, who grew up hearing stories of Varadero teeming with vacationers, this absence is disconcerting. “I’ve never seen such a lack of tourists.”
In mid-December, the Cuban government finally admitted what the partial data had been predicting every month: the tourism sector had not met its forecasts for revenue or international visitors for 2025. It was the confirmation of a reality that, in places like the island’s traditional tourist destinations, is felt every day in empty hotel rooms, struggling businesses, and the loss of income for local shops.
During his address to the plenary session of the National Assembly of People’s Power last month, the Minister of Economy and Planning, Joaquín Alonso, presented a report on what was for years the main engine of the national economy. According to his ministry’s calculations, the number of international visitors by the end of December would be around 1.9 million, 73.1% of the state estimate for 2025.
His words echo as he points to the darkened kiosks, a reflection of a boulevard as deserted as the rooms of some nearby hotels.
According to Claudia, many foreigners don’t return to Cuba after experiencing the shortages. “If there are no options, people leave and never come back.” Her words echo as she points to the darkened kiosks, a reflection of a boulevard as deserted as the rooms in some nearby hotels. The drop in customers doesn’t just affect large establishments; it also hits small businesses hard.
“My mom used to have a table right here selling crafts,” Claudia says. She took it down because it wasn’t profitable anymore. Now she sews bags for others to sell in busier areas. Frustration creeps into her voice. As she speaks, a street sweeper briefly interrupts the conversation to sweep up some dry leaves, one of the few signs of activity at night.
Further along, the promenade opens into a landscaped area. Streetlights illuminate empty benches, enormous flowerpots, and perfectly laid-out paths that lead to a nearby hotel, most of whose windows are also dark. Tourism is scarce not only during the day, but it also vanishes when night falls.
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