I had the opportunity to once again visit the farm of the family of Yoel.
I was, of course anxious to see how the new chainsaw was working out for them. Yoel says that the work is almost fun now and saves him many hours of swinging an ax. Yuniel, the brother of Yoel is now more eager to help too.
When I return next I will bring another chain and a spare spark plug.
It starts easily.
Even Yuniel like to work with it.
Yoel starts a soup by searing the meat.
Home-made salsa added.
Starting the vegetables.
Final slow cooking over a charcoal fire.
A swing made from an old hose.
Libetsy with her grandfather’s hat.
Once or twice a week, around dusk, a convoy of dozens of trucks loaded with fruits and vegetables from farms in the neighboring provinces park on the narrow streets of Centro Havana.
Food has arrived and everyone is smiling and in a good mood.
Trucks are greeted by vendors looking to buy goods to sell in their markets or on the street from their push carts. Everyone wants the best produce to sell throughout the week.
It may look confusing to a tourist, but this is a fast paced, well choreographed event. Vendors push their carts quickly from truck to truck. They know who usually has the best carrots or plantain or fruta bomba.
Hundreds of people from the neighborhood also gather in the streets. It is a party atmosphere. After all, everyone benefits.
I’m always watching. Watching people. Watching traffic. Watching life go by. That’s why I prefer a window seat when I fly, ride, or sit for a quick lunch; as I was in this case.
While I waited for my sandwich this poor woman on the sidewalk came up and touched my arm. She wanted money for food. Lots of people need money for food in Havana. I politely said no several times, but she wouldn’t leave. She kept pleading to me with her eyes. Of course, I gave in.
Kilometro Zero is one of my new favorite lunch stops in Havana. Good food, good prices, and if you are lucky, a window seat.
In the quite mornings of Trinidad, Cuba the breadman makes his rounds. There are actually several breadmen. They walk, push home-made carts, or ride bicycles. Their routes criss-cross the narrow cobblestone streets. Their freshly baked breads are different and their calls are unique, but it usually includes one key phrase: “El Pan”. As clear as a bell you can hear them coming:
“Pan … aaayyyy … paaaannnnn!”