The city’s portals display objects rescued from trash piles
14ymedio, Yoani Sánchez, Havana, March 19, 2026 / Caruso wakes me up. The rooster in my neighborhood has lost track of time; at three in the morning, he lets out a loud, clear crow that pulls me out of bed. He’s been marking our awakenings for years, and he’s probably the son or grandson of that first Caruso, as my husband and I christened him when we felt his power and richness of tone. We don’t know how he’s managed to survive in a country where chicken soup is the dream of many, but there he is, getting ahead of the sun each day.
This Wednesday I have a complicated mission. I have to go to a market near the Capitol Building in Havana to buy some welding rods and a few meters of Royal Cord cable. In Cuba, anyone who doesn’t know something about masonry, DIY, and electricity is doomed. Most repairs depend on doing them yourself, and the purchase of supplies for any renovation is the responsibility of the person doing it. So, I’ve had to learn the grit numbers of sandpaper for wood or metal, the basics of water pipe thermofusion, and some electrical fundamentals, so they don’t try to sell me 14-gauge wire as if it were 12-gauge.
I don’t take a raincoat even though rain is forecast. If I got caught in yesterday’s downpour… I won’t get caught today, I tell myself. I stand in Rancho Boyeros and hold out my arm. There are two possible signals. Thumb pointing inward means I’m going to Central Havana, index finger pointing outward means I’m heading to Vedado. But no one stops, even though I do both. I walk. I take Ayestarán for a while and turn onto 20 de Mayo. A friend’s daughter is having a birthday, and her mother wants to make her a cold salad with sausages. She’s entrusted me with the task of getting those darn hot dogs, which are scarce these days.
There is a state-run dollar store at Infanta and Santa Marta where I’ve been told I might find it. Since the sale of food and basic goods in foreign currency began, these markets have been at the center of popular discontent. Paying salaries in Cuban pesos and requiring US dollars to buy everyday necessities doesn’t align with what we hear from the podiums about an inclusive and profoundly humane socialism. Outside the store, which miraculously has electricity, an elderly man holds out his hand and asks me for something “to eat.”
Who buys the products for these stores?
I go inside and put my purse in the locker, because there’s no dollar store that doesn’t require you to leave your bag outside. The first thing that hits me is the smell of spoiled meat. There are cans of sliced mushrooms on the shelves, but no milk. They’ve placed some jars of canned asparagus in plain sight, but no butter. They don’t have eggs either, although on one of the shelves they’re advertising “Greek-style” black olives—dried and salted. Who buys the products for these stores? How is it possible that they don’t have cans of sardines or cheese, but they do have a piece of cod, a kilogram of which costs an entire three months’ worth of pension? There’s frozen salmon, but no vegetable oil.
“Perritos” are also nowhere to be found. The most common staple in Cuban meals is currently on the run. Sausages have been a staple food for families on this island for decades. Easy to store, divisible ad infinitum — as whole sausages, pieces, and even ground into mince—they’ve served as snacks, romantic dinners, and have filled the bags families take to their relatives in prison. Despite their low nutritional value, they are so essential to the daily diet that their absence creates a domestic cataclysm in this country.
I leave the market empty-handed, a market that was supposed to have everything we needed and could afford in “the currency of the enemy.” I accelerate up to Carlos III and eagerly head down Reina. No sooner do I begin my stroll through the arcades of Havana’s most stately street than I am struck by the sight of the stalls scattered here and there. They aren’t, like a few years ago, street vendors hawking scouring pads and superglue. They’re selling trash.
She has only one shoe on display; it’s the right shoe, a woman’s shoe, and I reckon it’s a small size, maybe for a teenager.
There’s a man displaying worn and crumpled shoes on the portal’s sidewalk, shoes that have been left out in the sun and weather for a long time. He also has some old remote controls that no one knows if they’ll ever work again, but which still bear the imprint of their last owner’s body grease. The man looks up and points out his best merchandise. They’re half-inch plumbing elbows, still coated with the hard water minerals that are pumped into our homes every day. No plumbing system can withstand such neglect. I know because I spend my time fixing leaks here and there. Every week I dedicate more time to fixing drains and pipes than to writing newspaper pieces.
Further along, there’s another junk vendor. All his wares are salvaged from the many trash piles scattered throughout the city. This one has been less careful and has barely cleaned the items before putting them on display, so they’re covered in crusts, grime, and ingrained dirt. He has only one shoe on display; it’s a woman’s right shoe, and I calculate that it’s a small size, maybe for a teenager. He also has a broken radio antenna and an Italian coffee maker missing its handle and funnel.
I advance a few meters and an old woman offers me a 2016 calendar and a blister pack of pills whose names are barely legible through the dirt. I practically run off, holding my breath as I pass the entrance to the Ultra store, and when I emerge into La Fraternidad Park, it hits me. The state-run La Isla de Cuba market is just a few meters away. “I’m sure they have sausages there,” I tell myself. I cross the street with such enthusiasm that I’m nearly hit by the only motor vehicle that has probably passed by in ages, amidst the energy crisis we’re experiencing.
“Just ask, we have it.”
Once again frustration. There is a heavy, sordid atmosphere in this store. Many employees watch the customers’ every move, as if we were all potential thieves. The butcher’s section is empty. There’s a jar of Spanish capers, but no frozen chicken. Sausages are nowhere to be found. The cold salad for my friend’s daughter’s birthday will have to be just macaroni and homemade mayonnaise.
Finally, I arrive at the hardware market. It’s like a candonga, a bustling open-air marketplace of private vendors, just a few meters from the Cuban Parliament building. They’re so formal over there, unanimously approving every law dropped from above, and here we are, solving real problems. A flexible hose for the sink? A light switch to conrol the light we almost never have? A drain pipe for the toilet? “Just ask, we’ve got it,” a young vendor assures me. I inquire about ten meters of royal cord. The transaction is quick. It doesn’t smell like rotten meat like the dollar store. No one asks me to leave my bag outside. No one suspiciously examines the bills I hand over. I leave with the cord draped over my collarbones to make it easier to carry.
I walk home. There’s no other way because there’s hardly any public transport. As I pass Reina Street, the old vendor waves the shoe he only has the right one in front of my face again. Together we make a terrifying sight. He’s like a madman with a teenager’s shoe in his hand, and I’m like a suicide bomber with a cable around my neck.
Havana Chronicles:
Searching for Light Through the Deserted Streets of Havana
The Death Throes of ‘Granma’, the Mouthpiece of a Regime Cornered by Crisis
The Anxiety of the Disconnected Cuban
One Mella, Three Mellas, Life in Cuba Is Measured in Thousands of Pesos
It Is Forbidden To Leave Home in Cuba Today Because It Is a “Counter-Revolutionary Day”
Vedado, the Heart of Havana’s Nightlife, Is Now Converted Into a Desert
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