Lack of discipline in queues to buy food or other products is sadly deep-rooted.

The anecdote that inspired these lines happened several days ago, but it is undoubtedly a recurring theme in everyday life in Las Tunas. It turns out that eggs were sold at the Innovación store (foreign currency) in this city. The queue was immediate, as was the open disagreement of those who feel that selling them there is as unfair as the dynamics of wages, prices, active currencies, and that web of issues that deserve, more than a press commentary, a doctoral thesis.

But let's get back to the eggs, the ones from the Innovación store, the ones that arrived and were duly counted (38 boxes, each with 12 cartons, for a total of 456 cartons), the ones that went on sale when, according to those who arrived before this reporter, there were already 15 people being served inside the establishment.

But that even makes sense within the nonsense that is daily life in Cuba today, two strangers told me as they updated me on the event, “because the store workers have their rights, of course, it would be the last straw if they sold eggs there and they couldn't buy them.”
It also made sense that the girls from Etecsa, who work next door and are always there, got in line together, and so there were several blue uniforms entering and leaving with their files in hand and walking quickly, as if on a silent conquest, without pretension.

Of course, the staff of other stores also had their priority. Not even the suggestion of a woman in the queue who said they should mark them separately and pass them on as they do with the jaba plan was taken into account.
“Of course not, they're marking in queues at their own stores!” said another man, extremely anxious, and continued: “Everyone knows that's how it works. The eggs are put here, and people wait a little while and come to buy them when they can.”

The sad thing is that his opinion would have been nothing more than a bad joke if, at that very moment, the clerk from the nearby store, who was pushing the door open to get his own eggs, hadn't shown him his badge and said, “Get one of these and go ahead,” leaving no room for comment from those who were still waiting.

Curiously, there weren't as many people as other times, at least not until the lady who had marked 10 appeared and gave way to a marathon of well-equipped human beings who took over the entire scene.

At that moment, for those of us waiting in the sun, the issue was no longer who was buying ahead of the queue, but whether we would even make it to the door. The swarming crowd refused to be organized, communicating with each other through hand signals, while some of its members quietly mocked the angry complaints of those who, instead of 10, saw twice as many individuals parade past their right, most of them prone to rude verbiage, quick to insult, and the classic “it's my turn” that so depresses any logic.

From them I learned (because there was no chance of paying attention to anything else on the entire boulevard) that they had also lined up like this, in a group, at the door of La Época; they had been waiting there for the assortment since a little after 9:00 in the morning.

They knew how much would arrive, the places in the city where the product would be distributed, they could calculate how many users they would reach, and some even promoted the sale in Revolico groups before even acquiring the eggs; of course, “the deal was a sure thing.”

By that time, the extremely anxious man I mentioned earlier had left the group, saying he was going home because he needed to check his blood pressure. The smiling young woman who called before me had a strange look on her face, and the diabetic woman standing next to her insisted that she would not move, even if it meant fainting. She had someone bedridden at home and needed the eggs, desperately needed them...

From the story told here, which is so convoluted that I hope I haven't bored the reader, this reporter (who managed to buy eggs, by the way) is left with more questions than lessons.

Inside the store, they claim that they do not organize lines (because organizing must have nothing to do with opening the door for some people, or telling a certain girl to wait quietly to the side for a moment, or greeting the line jumpers who seem to know each other from coming and going so often); in short, they do not organize.

And the queue, that diverse entity that seems to be in the DNA of Cubans, remains in control of the situation, but vulnerable to itself; a strange paradox that becomes more deplorable, complex, unsustainable, and unfair every day.

Another curious fact is the level of detail that queue jumpers achieve in terms of information. Because, from the Innovación store, the queue jumpers went to La Época, they knew that the eggs had arrived and that, in less than an hour, the sale would begin; at the same time, they were aware of the other few places where the sought-after food would be sold.

Who tells them? How do they know the almost exact day and time of distribution so they can wait at the door of the stores? Who helps, accommodates, allows?

It was very sad to see people step aside and say, “Let them pass. When they buy everything, we'll see what's left for us. If you confront them, they'll come down on you en masse, and they'll go first; it's not worth saying anything to them; that's how it works.” And the sadness I'm talking about doesn't even have to do with buying eggs or not. It's a bigger issue, intertwined with the inefficiency, frustration, and disrespect that have become entrenched in social dynamics and, hand in hand with so much deprivation, are growing. Sadness and no answers, to say the least.