The Markets

On my last day in Cuba, I decide to browse through some of the outdoor markets I have seen. The vendors I see seem to be solely tourist oriented. A lover of reading, I browse through various book stands.

I buy a handmade doll for my niece.  

Towards late afternoon, my backpack bulging with purchases, I stroll down a row of vendors lining the street, sifting through merchandise with my eyes.

I walk past a knot of tourists and stop to lean against a pillar. The tourists leave, excitedly showing each other the paintings they bought. The old woman who sold the items tucks the U.S. dollars into the waistband of her long black skirt. She sighs and adjusts her mantilla. I walk over: "Why aren't you happy? You just sold a lot of things."

The old woman shakes her head. She lightly brushes the row of drawings nearest her with the tips of her fingers. I ask the price of a crude sketch of a hand holding a drop of water. "Venti-cinco." Surprised, I ask about a picture next to it, which looks much nicer. "Diez." I pick up the cheaper item. The woman touches the drawing of the hand and says: "Best." 

I test out some of my rusty Spanish: "No entiendo."

"Hables español?" 

"Un poco."

"You buy." She hands me the drawing. "Te voy a decir la historia."

I take it and pull a wad of crumpled bills out of my pocket. I give her a twenty and a five. She motions to the ground: "Sit."

I seat myself cross-legged with the picture in my lap. The woman sits next to me and begins her story. "Este es la historia de las primeras lágrimas." 

To read the old woman's story... [page 3]
Jump to: "Arriving in Cuba" [page 1] or "Going Home" [page 4]