In Havana

In Havana, as in all of Cuba, street vending is an everyday sight that’s hard to miss on any corner, bringing life to a city that would otherwise feel bare to its residents.

The most common vendors are the “carretilleros”. As their name suggests, their stall is a large wheelbarrow which they set up in a particular spot—usually the same one each day—offering passers-by seasonal fruit, tubers, and vegetables. There are no greenhouses here, nor much in the way of imports, so produce is strictly seasonal. That means there’s a time for papaya (known here as *fruta bomba*), mangoes, pineapples, bananas (all eight types), tomatoes, potatoes, or peppers—outside those weeks or months, you won’t find them on the carts. If you’re a *yuma* (foreigner), you can be sure the weight bought will be less than what you paid for. That’s why it’s common to see customers with a set of scales in hand, checking whether the pounds are accurate or just the carretillero’s creative estimation.

Another type of street vendor, this time mobile, are those who sell all kinds of food—sweet or savoury—at any time of day. Three in the morning, noon—it doesn’t matter; their cries advertising their wares are constant. Special mention should go to those who go down to the beaches, covering 15 to 20 kilometres a day, under the blazing sun, carrying crisps, ice creams or beers that, incredibly, they somehow manage to keep cold. But it’s not just food. Rubbish bins, brooms, floor cleaner, umbrellas—everything is offered on the street, and their lively voices form part of the city’s soundtrack. They remind me of the knife sharpener from my youth in Palma.

Last, and most touching to me, is the third sector of street vending. These are the coffee sellers. They sell from their windows or front doors. Usually very elderly people, surviving on a pension of 1,700 pesos a month—about five euros—they need to supplement their income to get by. They prepare coffee in the mornings and, using a flask, offer it from the window ledge to passers-by making their way through the city. Coffee consumption here in Cuba is massive, not so much to stay awake, but as a cheap way to take the edge off hunger. These little coffees, served in porcelain cups if drunk on the spot, or plastic cups if taken away, cost 20 pesos each—around 6 euro cents—a cheap way to quieten a growling stomach, and a humble but vital source of income for the pensioner from home. Of course, neither the tax office, nor the local police, nor the health department have anything to say—unless the coffee is bad.