“La Nueva,” a Cuban Ration Store
HAVANA TIMES – In the heart of my neighborhood is “La Nueva,” a bodega (ration store) whose name contrasts with its appearance. It occupies a colonial structure located on the corner of two streets, where it has withstood the passage of time. A continuous porch with high ceilings and stone columns provides a refuge from the sun while neighbors wait in line.
Sitting on the low wall of the porch or leaning against the peeling walls, they exchange the day’s gossip. The elderly whisper about “how bad things are,” while the younger ones, more daring, no longer use coded phrases to refer to the country’s current situation.
Since I’m relatively new, I hardly find familiar faces to talk to, so my wait tends to be boring. I have plenty of time to think and eavesdrop on others’ conversations while the line for the “Plan Jaba” keeps growing.
The “Plan Jaba” (Plastic bag plan) was implemented in August 1992. The resolution for this mechanism was developed by the Federation of Cuban Women (FMC) and the Ministry of Domestic Trade (Mincin) to save time and effort for workers, especially women.
Currently, both men and women who work can qualify, as long as everyone in their household is either working, studying, a school-aged child, or living with someone with a physical disability. Elderly people who live alone can also benefit from it.
Although it seems fair, this “plan” gives privileges to some while the rest must wait their turn. The rule is that three people with the “Plan Jaba” pass for every one person in the regular line. Sometimes, one of these privileged individuals shows up with more than one ration book to shop for a friend or relative. More delays, more disorder, more time slipping away while trying to find something to put on the table.
Spending so many hours in line to buy two pounds of sugar and two pounds of rice seems laughable. Although it’s not enough to meet a person’s basic needs, it helps get through the day — at least I save nearly two thousand pesos compared to buying it on the street.
When it’s finally my turn and I cross the threshold, the fresh air of the street fades. The smell of dry goods dominates the space. On the floor, grains of rice and bits of sugar crunch beneath the soles of my shoes. On the walls, once painted white, hang handwritten price lists, a slogan or two, and an old calendar no one has bothered to take down.
On the wooden shelves are the scarce items offered through the ration book, as well as pipes, elbows, and other plumbing materials that are for general sale. On the counter, the manual scale seems to battle the flies as it waits for the products to be weighed.
Light enters through the open door and illuminates the dust floating in the air. It’s dim in corners and shadows stretch across the sacks of goods. I place my ration book on the counter, the same one from last year, since the new ones still haven’t arrived. When the shopkeeper asks if I’m going to buy the rice I’m owed from the past, I feel like I’m floating.
I came for two pounds of rice but walk out with nine. Clinging to my clothes is the characteristic smell of “La Nueva”, really, of any bodega in the country, because they all look and smell the same.
The weight of the backpack on my back tells me that, at least for a few days, I won’t have to think about that grain. When it runs out, the battle between my wallet and the vendor’s scale will begin again. But for now, I’m going to enjoy my well-earned basic ration.
I’ll return next month to “La Nueva” to collect the crumbs the government sends us. Something is better than nothing, and all we can do is roll with the days. Cubans really do settle for very little!