A doctor who works as a taxi driver and a retiree trying to save his Chevrolet portray the ordeal of keeping a vehicle running.
By Julio Cesar Contreras (14ymedio)
HAVANA TIMES – Gustavo, an intensive care physician, has just finished his shift at the hospital, but he still has another workday ahead of him. This time, he won’t be wearing a white coat or treating critically ill patients. Instead, he will sit behind the wheel of his Lada and drive customers from Matanzas to Havana. On the front seat, he has placed a thermos of coffee, essential for keeping sleepiness at bay during the journey.
Two brand-new windshield wipers gleam on the windshield. “They cost me $12. I got them at that price because they were sold to me by a man who used to be my patient. If I look for them in Facebook groups, they go for $15 or even $20,” he explains. In today’s Cuba, even windshield wipers can become a luxury, especially for someone earning 7,200 pesos ($9 USD) a month.
Gustavo inherited the car from his father and, to keep it, he has had to turn it into his second source of income. “If I depended on my hospital salary, this vehicle would already have been sold or left sitting in a garage,” he says. Over the past five years, he has learned mechanics, done small welding jobs, and fixed problems he would previously have entrusted to a specialist.
In today’s Cuba, even windshield wipers can become a luxury. / 14ymedio
“You take your car to a private repair shop for something minor, and they charge you an outrageous amount,” he laments. The shortage of spare parts is compounded by soaring prices, shoddy repairs, and the risk of buying a used replacement part that ends up lasting less than the trip back home.
With 26 years of experience as an intensive care physician, Gustavo applies a rule he learned in the hospital to his car: address any symptom before it gets worse. “A car is like a person: if a problem isn’t treated in time, it can become sick and die,” he declares.
Each trip to the airport or an embassy in Havana can earn him $150. But he doesn’t get to keep it all: he has to deduct the cost of gasoline, set aside money for household expenses, and keep feeding a savings fund for future breakdowns.
On the streets of Matanzas, owning a private car without using it to earn money has become an extravagance. / 14ymedio
Now he needs to replace the gearbox. He has already found one for $90 and estimates he will be able to buy it after a couple of trips. As he talks, he confirms another ride to Varadero Airport over WhatsApp. He cannot afford to turn customers away, even though some fares barely yield a profit.
On the streets of Matanzas, owning a private car without using it to earn money has become an extravagance. Old Soviet-made Ladas share the asphalt with US American-made almendrones—vintage cars that have survived thanks to an endless succession of makeshift mechanical modifications.
Nelson’s 1952 Chevrolet, for example, runs on a Ford engine and a fuel transfer pump salvaged from a dismantled Cadillac. “You’d need a money-printing factory to keep these beasts on the road. With Cuban pesos, you can’t even find a tube of silicone sealant for a broken window anymore,” he complains.
The engine starts, purrs for a few seconds, and then shuts off again. Nelson takes advantage of the slope of his street to get the car out of the garage every day, drive a few blocks, and leave it parked facing downhill. “The battery has given out, but where am I supposed to get $600 to buy a new one?” he laments.
A single breakdown, a defective part, or a dishonest mechanic is enough to leave a vehicle reduced to scrap metal. / 14ymedio
The tires cannot withstand potholes indefinitely, either. On the informal market, one tire can cost $35: $140 for all four, not counting the spare. Nelson managed to get two used rear tires for $100 each, thanks to money sent by his son.
A retiree from the fishing industry, Nelson used to keep the Chevrolet working as a hired taxi on the route between Peñas Altas and the Provincial Hospital, until disagreements arose with the driver. Now he is unsure whether to rent it out again or sell it.
Under the sun in the Simpson neighborhood, the paint that was once sky-blue shows decades of wear. On other streets, immaculate, newly imported cars speed past, while a dismantled vehicle sits beside a peeling facade, reduced to a wheel-less shell.
The scene sums up a threat familiar to all car owners: a single breakdown, a defective part, or a dishonest mechanic is enough to leave a vehicle reduced to scrap metal.
“If I finally decide to sell it, at least I’ll be able to recoup the cost,” Nelson calculates, referring to the recently purchased tires. Meanwhile, Gustavo returns to the hospital after his driving shifts. One is trying to save his Chevrolet; the other, to preserve the family Lada. Both know that in Matanzas, owning a car no longer necessarily means being able to get around.
First published in Spanish by 14ymedio and translated and posted in English by Havana Times.