As soon as we left the funeral we came upon cement block houses, the only ones we've seen on the entire trip and undoubtedly built by an international relief agency.
We finally arrive at Elias Pina, a small border city that rests in atop a fertile mountain valley. Three times a week a border market transforms the city's streets into seemingly bustling activity. The goods were similar to the ones in Dajabon: enriched imported pasta, cheap imitation perfume, toilet paper, powder soap, socks, plantains, etc.
But Elias Pina was marked by a pervading feeling of apathy and hopelessness. It looked like I was the only foreigner there and yet no one tried to hawk me their wares. Merchants fell asleep atop their goods or left their stands unattended (most of the merchants are women, and they pay a small fee for a slice of sidewalk.)
But Elias Pina was marked by a pervading feeling of apathy and hopelessness. It looked like I was the only foreigner there and yet no one tried to hawk me their wares. Merchants fell asleep atop their goods or left their stands unattended (most of the merchants are women, and they pay a small fee for a slice of sidewalk.)
