They go down to the river two or three times a week with their clothes’ bundles. It’s as if they had reached an agreement. They arrive little by little and accommodate on the river banks almost by the sea. It is a drought season, and the Turquino River seems like a pond of very cold crystal-clear water. Each one chooses the best wahing place, in the shadow, under the bridge, where the breeze coming down from the mountain best reaches her.
I saw them in mid-July, almost at noon, sitting, beating the clothes, with the boiling cans set on bonfires that light up without any trouble. The white sheets extended over the stones.
Although many have washing machines at home, they prefer to go down to the river and sit on the smooth stones and cry out the news and the neighborhood gossip from one river bank to the other, and let themselves be photographed by the foreigners staying at La Mula camping resort, who will climb to the top of Pico Turquino. The way in which people coming from the city stare at them makes them laugh. Their expressions of amazement.
