In Cienfuegos, you either have to wait in long lines to get a pound for 150 pesos or you need a deep pocket to buy it for 290.
14ymedio, Julio César Contreras, Cienfuegos, 1 April 2025 — Anyone from Cienfuegos who wants to eat rice—and what Cuban can do without it—has a decision to make. Either they go to the state-run La Princesa market, knowing that the sweat, the lines, and the discomfort will make them feel the antithesis of royalty, or they go to La Calzada, a private establishment, designed, yes, for the buyer who has the pockets of a duke or a marquis.
One pound is 150 pesos—a capped price and only five pounds per person allowed—at La Princesa; at La Calzada, it’s 290 pesos. This huge and significant difference sums up the customer’s dilemma. Furthermore, as everyone knows, the price in local currency must be added to another price: the one paid in stress and disappointment.
The mirrored columns of La Princesa reflect the shoppers’ tired faces. Surrounding them is a crowd of very similar faces, shoulders pushing each other, and hands making gestures of weariness. The line is so dense that, if it weren’t for practice, no one would know where it begins and where it ends.
Who’s last?” Antonio asks* again and again until someone responds. He ran away from work as soon as he heard they were going to sell rice and beans. In recent weeks, shortages have worsened in Cienfuegos. Hunger and people’s ability to obtain food are inversely proportional, he explains.
Antonio is one of those who knows how the contrast between La Calzada and La Princesa works. “That place was empty today,” he comments. It makes sense. Everyone mobilized when they learned that the grain had arrived at the state market. “Let’s see how it goes for us,” he says gloomily.
Man does not live by rice alone. At La Princesa, there is spaghetti for 320 pesos; a chocolate bar for 190; instant soup for 200; and a bottle of soda for 620. For the more refined palates, at least by the standards of affluent Cuba, there is butter for 480 pesos, condensed milk for 520 pesos, and chorizo for 800 pesos.
The walls of La Princesa have been closing in on the shoppers. The heat and the ever-increasing arrival of people have turned the market into a hotbed of chaos, and the sale hasn’t even begun. Antonio despairs, but he quickly recovers. “Things are bad,” is his mantra. Instead of distressing him, this thought gives him a certain equanimity, essential for taking on the line.
“They always delay everything until a problem arises,” he says. He’s not wrong. The most fed up, the youngest, those who have to return—like him—to work, begin to mutter protests. There have been several arguments. In such a heated space, everything explodes faster.
The beans, a secondary but also coveted target, are 350 pesos. Those already craving their bowl of stew have lined-up twice, an old trick to take home twice as many beans. That’s what Vicente did, repeating his strategy to everyone and telling dozens of stories to kill time.
The tension reaches its boiling point at midday. The sun beats down on the rooftops of Cienfuegos and the mass of hot air enters La Princesa. Vigilant shoppers are keeping an eye on the usual line-cutters. They won’t make any concessions: everyone wants to take home some rice.
“Listen here. There’s plenty of rice and beans, but we will only sell five pounds per person, so everyone can buy,” the clerk announces. The crowd cheers up, but there’s disappointment in the air.
“I was right about it,” Vicente protests. “These people don’t make a loss even selling disposable cups. You’ll see that in a while they’ll say they’re all gone or find an excuse to stop selling. Their business is on the outside, selling in bulk to whoever pays them well. And the people, may they be struck by lightning.” The people pretend not to hear him.
Hours pass, and those who finally get their sack of rice suspiciously explore its contents. “Sometimes it’s even sold with weevils,” explains an old woman. Discovering the blackish vermin playing among the grains arouses a rage that’s impossible to quell by complaining to the seller.
Those who haven’t been able to buy anything head to La Calzada, ready for “la puñalada”… “the stabbing”… a word that couldn’t be more expressive to describe the drain on Cubans’ wallets. If there’s no money, there’s a third option: hunger.
*Translator’s note: Cubans join lines by asking “who’s last” and then, as soon as the next person joins behind them, they can move around freely without anyone ’losing their place’.
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