San José de las Lajas/At noon, when the sun falls mercilessly on San José de las Lajas, the city smells of fried food, hot coffee and dry dust. On the streets of the center, private businesses, minimal cafeterias, improvised picnic areas, timbiriches with wooden shelves and worn-out display cases, seem to float between survival and fear. The eve of the end of the year, which would once have been high sales season, arrives this December marked by a word that everyone prefers not to pronounce but that is repeated like a fearful echo: inspectors.
Roxana’s blood runs cold when she sees them appear, with the nylon bags hidden inside briefcases and bags, where the much and the little fit. She works as a saleswoman in a cafeteria near the Cine Teatro Lajero, and from her counter she looks with resignation at the boxes of 50-peso cookies, the bags of peanuts, and the cold sodas that are slowly running out. “Far from solving problems, what inspectors come to do is create them,” he points out. She is not bothered by the rules, but by the hunt. The cruelty. The effort to turn the slightest oversight into a crime: an inaccuracy in the weight, a lost receipt, a poorly posted price, an unlaminated license.
State officials arrive in pairs or trios, and without even saying hello, they ask for papers, invoices, health certificates and any document.
As explained to 14ymediostate officials arrive in pairs or trios, and without even saying hello, they ask for papers, invoices, health certificates and any document they can think of. Roxana remembers seeing how another nearby business, dedicated to the sale of torticas and empanadas, ended up fined for a small error in displaying the QR code for electronic payment.
But where almost everyone has feet of clay is in the origin of the raw material they use. “Here everyone knows how businesses are sustained: with what appears on the street, with informal purchases, with inventions. Where are the State’s wholesale warehouses well supplied? Where are the supplies?” he asks.
/ 14ymedio
A young street candy vendor pedals almost every day along the same urban circuit: 50th Street to the bus terminal, from there to the park, then to the agricultural market. He uses a tricycle to transport his merchandise: donuts, cookies, nougat. They know him for his soft, almost shy proclamation. “Sweets, sweets…” he repeats.
But last month he almost didn’t count it. “They wanted to fine me 8,000 pesos, just because the donuts did not have a clearly visible price,” he says. His legs were shaking. He thought about his daughter, about the money he had to give to the baker, about the rent, about the rice he still had to buy to eat that same night. He ended up delivering all the merchandise to avoid the penalty. “They took everything in a bag,” he murmurs.
He ended up delivering all the merchandise to avoid the penalty. “They took everything in a bag”
In the square in front of the old Banco Popular de Ahorro, several young people sit around an empty ice cream cart. The owner, a skinny boy with a straight back and a peaked cap, looks out of the corner of his eye towards the avenue in case an inspector appears. He speaks softly, as if the air had ears: “You have to take care of yourself more than ever. They are working hard, they are harvesting crops before Christmas.” The park, however, vibrates with life as usual: electric motorcycles, laughter, reggaeton coming out of an improvised speaker, dry leaves crunching under sandals.
But this time there is a new context: the Fourth National Exercise to prevent and confront crime, carried out in September, has left a trail. In practice, the offensive has translated into sustained surveillance: surprise controls, seizures, forced sales and fines of up to five figures.
Dianelys, owner of a small snack bar, got used to the dynamic: she separates cigarettes, cookies and soft drinks to “gift” to the inspectors, because, according to her, it is the only way to avoid sanctions. “During the first months I was more honest than anyone and I ended up paying a fine of 10,000 pesos. I learned the lesson: if you want them to let you work, you have to invite them. It’s part of the investment,” she admits. Others go further, he says: they pay a monthly sum to the chief inspector of the municipality or province. “Those who have godparents pass peacefully; the rest of us live with our hearts in our mouths.”
