High prices, fleeing tourists: the coup de grace for Cuba’s economy

The highway is virtually deserted. The soaring price of black-market gasoline is one of the most common topics in our conversations with Cubans.

“Did you manage to find something to eat?” The WhatsApp notification lights up my smartphone screen on a restaurant table in Old Havana, right next to a plate of lobster with salad, fried plantains, rice and black beans. On January 29, three days before we left for Cuba, President Donald Trump signed an executive order imposing tariffs on any country supplying the island with oil. This forced Mexico to suspend exports, as Venezuela did before it. These days, Cuba – out of fuel for electricity, transportation and essential services – is at the center of international media attention.

So we find ourselves repeatedly explaining to family and friends that there is no shortage of food in the restaurants, and you can find almost anything in the small private shops – the Mipymes (micro, small and medium-sized enterprises) authorized by the government after the pandemic crisis. The problem is the prices. They are affordable for two people carrying euros, but prohibitive for Cubans who lack access to dollars from expat relatives or tourist businesses. For locals, the subsidized food from government bodegas is now entirely insufficient to make it to the end of the month.

After the first few days of our trip, we realize that the blackouts will not be a problem for us either. “How did you know there's no electricity?” asks the owner of our casa particular in the Viñales Valley – a region famous for its tobacco plantations and mogotes (rounded limestone hills) – worried that this meant his solar panels were failing. “The phone network is down,” we reply. He sighs, both relieved and resigned: “The blackouts started three years ago, but today they last 12 or 14 hours at a stretch. Almost all the restaurants, hotels and tourist rentals have installed private generators to try and revitalize a tourism industry that has never recovered since the pandemic [compounded by the harsh sanctions of Trump's first term]. But I don't know what will happen now that gas is so hard to find.”

At night, even in Viñales, the darkness on the streets is pierced only by pedestrians' flashlights, the headlights of the few cars on the road and the glowing windows of small shops and restaurants. Some of these businesses are so brightly lit they seem to belong to another dimension. While there are still tourists around, the sheer number of empty vacation rentals points to the collapse of a crucial sector for the country. Tourism is one of Cuba's main sources of hard currency, but it recorded its lowest numbers in two decades in 2025 with just 1.8 million visitors.

Those who are here, however, are enjoying their trip amid mojitos and fried yuca. We do the same at one of the rare places that accepts PayPal. The catch is that the payment must be confirmed in real time from Spain, where one of the owners lives – and where it happens to be 3 a.m. when we ask for the check. We end up eating there for three meals in a row, setting aside the culinary curiosity that usually enriches any trip, just to save our cash. The only time we tried to use a credit card, it was declined due to the US embargo. And it simply felt wrong to take advantage of the tourist privilege to skip the line of locals waiting at the ATM – some of whom had been queuing since the day before just to withdraw a maximum of 5,000 pesos (about nine euros at that day's exchange rate).

On February 5, President Miguel Díaz-Canel announced a series of extraordinary measures to ration fuel and guarantee essential services. Around the same time, the national tourist bus company Viazul informed us that our route had been canceled because they had not sold enough tickets. At the information desk, they explained that they would transfer passengers to smaller vehicles instead. As a result, we head back to Havana sharing a Chinese-imported BYD F3 taxi with other travelers.

The highway is virtually deserted. Along the shoulder, near the towns, many people hope to hitch a ride – we counted 158 of them during our three-hour journey. The soaring price of black-market gasoline is one of the most common topics in our conversations with Cubans. “I paid five dollars for a liter today,” a taxi driver replies when we point out that the fare for the exact same route in Havana has jumped from ten to 15 dollars. We opt instead for the cheaper and increasingly popular electric auto-rickshaw – heavily modified to carry passengers – parked right next to him.

“This is the line to register for fuel – a maximum of 20 liters per private car. I waited over five hours and got number 1,402,” says the owner of another room we are renting, showing us a video on his phone. He is a retired electrical engineer who, acknowledging his Afro-Cuban heritage, says he “only managed to study thanks to the Revolution.” He lives with his wife in a classic colonial-style house, one of the few well-preserved ones on that street in Central Havana. It features high ceilings, stained-glass windows and Art Deco chandeliers. Without the tourism business and the financial support of his daughter, who emigrated to Spain, he notes that “we couldn't survive on our 14 dollars a month pension.” When we mention we are journalists, he leads us out onto the terrace. “We often lose running water, but we never lose power because we are so close to Plaza de la Revolución. That building right there is the headquarters of the Revolutionary Armed Forces. If Trump attacks tonight, you'll have the news live,” he says, laughing heartily as he hands us coffee.

On February 9, several airlines spread the word that Cuban airports have entirely run out of jet fuel. We call the embassy to see if we need to stay in Havana. They reassure us that no official alert has been issued. Our airline, Neos, informs us they will set up a technical stopover in Santo Domingo – our return flight is confirmed. Around the same time, however, Air Canada decides to suspend its flights altogether, foreshadowing yet another severe blow to Cuban tourism.

So we hit the road again, heading for the central city of Santa Clara. The following morning, the taxi agency informs us that our afternoon trip to Trinidad has been canceled. We check with two local agencies and a phone contact that our casa host describes as a “last resort.” Nothing.

But we are in the city where, on December 29, 1958, the battalion led by Che Guevara won one of the decisive battles of the Cuban Revolution. We decide not to let the logistics ruin the moment and head to the mausoleum anyway. The museum is closed due to the blackout, but we are allowed into the memorial housing the remains of Che and the 37 guerrillas killed alongside him in Bolivia, guided only by the caretaker's flashlight. A sliver of light also comes from the eternal flame of the revolution, lit by Fidel Castro in 1997, right when the island was struggling to climb out of the severe economic depression triggered by the collapse of the Soviet Union. Back then, Cuba was in the thick of the periodo especial (Special Period) – a comparison that comes up constantly today.

We go back to focusing on transportation. The solution ultimately comes from the owner of the house where we booked our stay in Trinidad: a taxi driver she knows happens to be in Santa Clara running errands. We will ride back with him. We say goodbye to the city earlier than planned, but not before eagerly devouring a small, round, cheese-stuffed pizza from a little shop near our meeting point. The drive should have taken a couple of hours, but between a pointless pilgrimage to every gas station in the area and a detour to buy black-market fuel in the town of Sancti Spíritus, we end up arriving in Trinidad already enveloped in darkness.

The next day, the crystal-clear water of Playa Ancón makes up for all the exhaustion. The beach kiosks are up and running, ensuring a steady supply of fish and piña coladas. But tourists are sparse, and cancellations have piled up over the last few days. “Even the hotel owned by the Spanish chain Meliá is about to close. They decided to optimize their resources. The staff will be sent home, who knows for how long,” a waiter tells us. A little further down the beach, a fisherman holds a fresh lobster in his hands, trying to make a sale: “With the blackouts, keeping the freezers running at home is impossible. Nowadays, people only buy what they can eat right away.”

So the tourists are fleeing, and the collapse of one of the island's primary economic engines threatens to make the situation even more unsustainable. Yet for those who remain, the musicians keep playing. “Hello, Italian friends,” calls out the young guitarist of the band that brightened our evenings in Trinidad. “Get your life jackets ready for the boat ride home.”

© Il Manifesto Global