The lack of fuel and state transportation affects passengers, students, and farmers in Guantánamo alike.
14ymedio, Dayamí Rojas, Guantánamo, September 26, 2026 – Outside the Guantánamo bus terminal, where travelers once looked for a bus route that would take them closer to their municipality, they now wait for an electric three-wheeler, a private car, a motorcycle, or, if the destination and distance allow, even a horse-drawn carriage. There are passengers asking questions, drivers negotiating, and small vehicles where every seat counts.
“The price of a liter of gasoline here is above 2,500 pesos and diesel is 1,900, so that drives up all the prices for these vehicles,” a driver of an old Ford that travels from the station to other towns in the province explains to 14ymedio. “People depend on this because state buses no longer leave from here to get to those little towns.”
The transportation crisis, severe within the city of Guantánamo, takes on another dimension when one looks toward the municipalities and rural communities. There, it is not simply a matter of arriving late to work or walking several stops: the lack of vehicles affects school attendance, a medical appointment, and even the possibility of getting a harvest out of the countryside before it spoils.
“There is no pocket that can withstand it”: the daily ordeal of getting around Guantánamo.
Juan Carlos, 59, has been doing the math for days. His daughter is hospitalized in a hospital in the provincial capital and he needs to visit her every day. “A three-wheeler costs you 500 or 600 pesos,” he laments. In addition to visiting her, he has to bring her food. “Every day you have to bring her food, so that’s 500 pesos there and 500 pesos back; there is no pocket that can withstand that.”
On the streets of Guantánamo, electric three-wheelers have become an essential means of transportation. Some are blue, some black, with canopies to protect passengers from the sun and modifications made on the fly. Small groups gather around them, waiting for a seat or asking the price before getting in. The scene is repeated as state bus routes have practically disappeared and mobility has been left in the hands of private transport operators.
For those who live outside the city, the problem begins much earlier. Ramona lives in Cuneira, a rural community in the municipality of El Salvador located 23 kilometers from Guantánamo, and she must regularly travel to the provincial capital to receive treatment related to her diabetes. Each trip has become an operation requiring money, time, and luck.
“I have a horse-drawn carriage with a mare and I pick up passengers, but I also transport root vegetables and fruit to Guantánamo, where my brother has a pushcart for selling them”
“We used to have the train, but now not even that; we depend on the three-wheelers all the time,” she says. For students in those areas, especially those who must travel to schools far from their homes, the transportation shortage also turns the school day into an obstacle course. Getting to the classroom often depends on finding a vehicle, having money to pay for it, or walking part of the way.
But the crisis does not only affect the transportation of people. It also leaves products stranded in the fields that should end up in the city’s markets.
“I have a horse-drawn carriage with a mare and I pick up passengers, but I also transport root vegetables and fruit to Guantánamo, where my brother has a pushcart for selling them,” explains a resident of El Salvador. The animal-drawn vehicle, associated for decades with short trips and rural areas, is once again gaining prominence because of the lack of fuel.
“The guajiro who doesn’t have something like this or hasn’t bought an electric three-wheeler has his food rotting in the field because there is no fuel to get it out,” he sums up.
The consequence ultimately reaches the consumer as well. If transporting a sack of produce costs more, that expense ends up incorporated into the selling price. Expensive fuel, the lack of state transportation, and the need to resort to private alternatives form a chain that begins in the furrow and ends in the consumer’s pocket.
Translated by Regina Anavy
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