Pays obsédè

On the way from Havana to Santiago de Cuba, just on the outskirts of the town, we stopped in a petrol station. In the café next door, there was this woman dancing. It was hot and humid, she was drunk and the air conditioning seemed to be her only relief and companion. 

Her blouse, which was falling down as she moved, attracted an audience that gathered around, clapping hands and making comments; yet she didn’t pay any attention. She kept on enjoying herself. 

In a delirium of salsa and rum, this hazy, lonely figure was opening her arms in a cruciform: proud and yet so lonely in this strange sacrifice, she didn't stop dancing; we left…