Dmitri Prieto

Cuban cafeteria. Photo: Caridad

Those of us who live in Santa Cruz del Norte (a little town on the shores of the Gulf of Mexico about 30 miles from Havana), frequently wake up in the morning to the cry of “Guava bars… from San Antonio del Río Blanco…”

A thin gray-haired woman wanders through the streets peddling these sweet bars of concentrated fruit.  Her peculiar voice and cry are easily recognizable and difficult to imitate.

The woman apparently lives in San Antonio, another small town a few miles away in the direction of Jaruco.  In our province (also called Havana) are several “San Antonios,” so that this particular one takes the name of “San Antonio del Rio Blanco.”

It’s in the hinterland of the narrowest western part of the Island, inhabited by cultivators of the earth and marked by the rural spirit of familiarity and unhurriedness.  It’s like a Cuban variation of the “eternal return.”

I, born in a big city, always envied that gentle breath that characterizes people from the country and from some of the outlying towns.  However, I’ve never been one of them; it seems one’s urban manner is like a birthmark.

Nor have I ever tasted the confections that the woman sells.  In my family, we don’t eat a lot of guava sweets; plus we get what we do from other places.  Then there’s an additional particularity: you can’t say that this type of fruit concentrate bar is scarce in our markets.

It’s sold in the currency we’re paid in as well as in convertible pesos (CUCs) in “dollar stores.”  In addition, the one sold by the woman who usually wakes us up with her cry is usually a bit more expensive than that bought by most Santa Cruz residents.

That fact fascinates me.  Although I haven’t been able to compare the quality of the “guava bar…of San Antonio del Rio Blanco,” I presume that those people who buy it have their reasons to pay the price she asks.  I don’t know them, but it must be like an original brand, a mark of distinction in a land where the assortment of goods and ideas is still not characterized by diversity.

All the more, the price difference isn’t so great.  And the distinction, rather invisible to the eye, is based on the pleasure and flavor of the sweet guava bar, and not on harmful aspirations for status.

Although I don’t buy the guava that the woman sells, it makes me happy to hear her voice in the morning; it’s a sign that life continues…in a certain way, in a certain sense.


Dimitri Prieto-Samsonov

Dmitri Prieto-Samsonov: I define myself as being either Cuban-Russian or Russian-Cuban, indiscriminately. I was born in Moscow in 1972 of a Russian mother and a Cuban father. I lived in the USSR until I was 13, although I was already familiar with Cuba-- where we would take our vacation almost every year. I currently live on the fifth floor of an apartment building in Santa Cruz del Norte, near the sea. I’ve studied biochemistry and law in Havana and anthropology in London. I’ve written about molecular biology, philosophy and anarchism, although I enjoy reading more than writing. I am currently teaching in the Agrarian University of Havana. I believe in God and in the possibility of a free society. Together with other people, that’s what we’re into: breaking down walls and routines.

One thought on “Guava Bars from San Antonio

  • Lovely. Small town life and familiar rituals like the early morning calls of a guava bar seller…

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