A market under siege: the ‘candonga’ of 100 and Boyeros retreats in the face of the police raid

Havana/The market at 100 and Boyeros, one of the most important commercial lungs in Havana, woke up this Friday with a strange air, as if it had been suspended between the usual bustle and an imposed silence. After the police operation carried out this week, the place remains immersed in surveillance that is more reminiscent of a military checkpoint than a shopping center where thousands of Havana residents buy everything from a pair of shoes to an antibiotic impossible to find in state pharmacies every day.

At first glance, the first thing that catches your attention are the empty platforms. Where improvised stands selling medicines, cigarettes, bottles of syrup, antibiotic ointments or blister packs of painkillers once lined up, today there is only the echo of what was a trade that was as active as it was informal. “The police and inspectors are everywhere,” says a vendor who has his stall at the candonga for more than five years. “Today 100 and Boyeros is weak,” he emphasizes.

Police, plainclothes agents and olive green soldiers patrol between the narrow corridors, peering into each kiosk, reviewing documents, questioning the sellers. An officer takes notes in a notebook while his partner examines some boxes of sneakers. A few meters away, another group stops a man who is trying to leave in a hurry with a backpack on his shoulder.

The official newspaper Havana Tribune reported this Thursday that the police raid at the fair included the seizure of merchandise considered “of dubious origin.” Ten people were arrested during the operation, “for acts of illegal marketing” and “five fines of between 16,000 and 32,000 pesos were imposed on citizens for illegal sale of products.” Also “the presence of harassing and wandering minors in the area was controlled,” the newspaper added, referring to the children and adults who beg for alms in the area.

Among what was seized, witnesses comment to 14ymedio which ranged from medicines, to hospital supplies – such as syringes or blood pressure equipment – ​​to hardware items, parts for electric motorcycles and imported clothing. For the moment, the market seems to have retreated to wait for the uniformed men to leave and the waters of commerce to return to their level.

The offensive is not new, but it is particularly intense. In December, when consumption increases and shortages also increase, operations multiply. “That’s because it’s December, and they need to look to eat… at the expense of those of us who really work,” says a vendor in a low voice who observes, from the back of his kiosk, the comings and goings of the inspectors.

The police advance two by two, some state inspectors also appear here and there. They ask for documents, require licenses, inspect merchandise and decide in seconds if someone leaves with a fine or, in the most serious case, confiscate their merchandise. “They stop people and ask for their papers,” explains a customer who came this Friday to buy a hose for his toilet. “I’ve never seen this market so quiet,” he says.

The tension is perceived in the faces. A teenager hugs a net full of plastic balls while watching an approaching police officer. An older woman walks with a hard expression in front of the Frozen ice cream kiosk, now almost without a line. The corridors between the points of sale are clear, yes, but not for efficiency: they are deserted for fear. A couple of chairs placed on a counter give the idea of ​​closure, that some merchants will not return until the Police leave.

The 100 and Boyeros market is not just any space. For decades it has established itself as a candonga vital for the economic functioning of the capital. Small merchants, informal money changers, speculators, mechanics, barbers, desperate mothers in search of antibiotics and elderly people who resell the products they receive through the rationed market converge on their properties.

This mix makes the place an essential supply area: merchandise at a lower price than in state stores, variety, speed and a network of suppliers that makes up for the chronic deficiencies of the official system.

But it also makes it an objective of the State, especially after the rebound in the informal dollar market and the explosion of the clandestine medicine business. More real economic information circulates in 100 and Boyeros than in any bulletin of the Ministry of Economy: prices, devaluations, exchange rates, what enters the country and what is scarce.

Its ability to be reborn after each operation, each storm, each forced closure, has been demonstrated for years. But this Friday seemed different: too many uniformed people, too many empty stalls, too many watchful eyes. Even so, under the bridge, among boxes of eggs and improvised wheelbarrows, some vendors resisted. “This will fill up again,” said a young man while moving sacks of food. “It always happens. They come, they make noise, they leave, and life goes on.”

And maybe you’re right. Because if 100 y Boyeros has shown anything, it is that, even under siege, Havana depends on dealing. However, this week’s police raid has left as a result an amputated, half-baked market, where buyers and sellers move with stealth, where “I have cigarettes” is no longer shouted, where anyone could be arrested for “illicit economic activity.”