from Puerto Rico: heading south

We should stay longer, I say provocatively on Thursday morning, our last full day on the island.

But several hours on the phone with various airlines underscores the stupidity of trying to prolong a spring break getaway. The cost of making changes scares us, especially Ed, away from going any further with this idea.

Still, we want to at least taste a different part of the island. The northeastern tip has a beautiful rainforest, true, but the rest of the space is densely settled. It doesn’t invite a quiet, contemplative ramble, for example. And so we decided to head south toward Ponce.

The highway that cuts through the mountains of central P.R. makes this an easy trip, even if we do get a late start on things. Back to San Juan, then up to the top of the range, then down again. Two hours later, we are in a different world.





We get off the highway as it touches the southern coast. The air is hot and dry, the sun is intense. The coastal local road passes through villages that are barely that.










Houses are small and they vary from teetering and run down, to quite pretty and very colorful. All make great use of windows and shades to create a flow of air. I don’t see a single A.C. unit. I am at one with these people!

At the side of the road, someone is having a snack. I'm thinking that our own breakfast (slightly less reptilian) was many hours ago.




In one hamlet, we pick up a narrow lane that heads toward a slip of land jutting into the Caribbean waters. Mangroves, Ed tells me. Ever since our plans to kayak the Everglades fell through, I have wanted to get a feel for these trees with salt water roots. We set out on foot, keeping away from the muddy inlets.

The area is enchanting if you can overcome your aversion to the occasional litter – an abandoned refrigerator, plastic, always the plastic, coke cans, worn out shoes. Ed tells me that in his sails to even the most remote islands, he’d find litter washed ashore. Plastic is a forever kind of menace.

If anything, it reminds me of how much each one of us has contributed to messing up the planet and how good it would be if we all rolled up our sleeves and cleaned it up. You know, so that the grandkids can run through sand and not see a single coke can. Dreams.

Still, the area is nowhere near as littered as the roadsides in the toe of southern Italy. The trash is an occasional thing, rather than an out and out eyesore.

We walk through the dryer section of the mangrove forest and the sun is really intense here. The still waters take on the colors of a swamp.





The noise of birds and the rustle of fleeing reptiles are evocative. At one point, I smell something rotting and I ask Ed ( in all seriousness) if there might be a corpse further in the swamp. He gives this a minute of thought. Maybe, he tells me.

There is a small path that leads us right at the water’s edge. It’s an absolutely perfect spot. There is a small barrier of sand and shell, creating a walkable, knee-deep sea wall of sorts. Ed and I wade out into the sea.










The shoreline is stunning from this vantage point, as are the islands of mangroves to the side.





We take a while to watch a crab move along the brittle sea floor and the pelicans do their hunting act, searching for schools of fish, falling with a big splash into the water upon finding one.









It’s getting to be late and we still want to see Ponce. We get back to the car and head further west.

I hear that Ponce is the self-proclaimed capital of this region. It’s a pretty little town. The old square with a stark white church surrounded by pastel buildings. The branching streets, equally pretty, have a feel of a slower pace. I like slow.













It does lack, in my mind, a café life, but that’s just me, not being able to imagine that a place with this kind of climate would not want to push everyone outdoors all the time. We do find a (indoor) spot for coffee just off the square and I settle for a small cubana (I swear she called it that) but con leche and Ed digs into a flan. The sole other patron orders something similar.





I read that the old Ponce harbor has been revamped, forming a nice public space and so we drive down to stroll there with the local folk: up the boardwalk and back again. The food stalls are a tad more spiffy than those along the northeastern coast, though the food is the same – fried seafoods, plantains, pastries filled with meat.

Along the dock, pelicans boldly vie for the attention of the visitors. They want an easy catch and the fish here are too big even for their voluptuous throats.









It’s an enchanting scene.

But I notice it’s already 5 and we need to make our way back to San Juan. I have one of those dawn flights out the next day. Four flights, actually. Ed managed to land a direct route from San Juan to Chicago. Me, I have to do it the hard way – with stops in Georgia, Florida and Michigan. Hoping to land in Madison, in spite of the blizzard. (Blizzard??? Are we for real???)

At the last minute, we book a room at the edge of old San Juan. It probably is a mistake. The hotel, with its casino, is exactly the type that would turn both of us off (big, very air conditioned, very loud). But I want to have at least a few night hours in the old city.

You have to know your limits. Put us in a room in a jungle, where the only sound is of birds cackling outside and the only cooling agent is a breeze passing from one window to the next, with the luxury of free WiFi too boot and we’re happy as anything. But here, in old San Juan, where Ed steps out onto the street because the pavement is too narrow to accommodate the crowds and gets bumped by a car trying to squeeze through, where every few blocks, you have the beggar, asking for money, because there are just so many people who obviously have it – makes us (and eureka! -- Ed and I are similar in this way) feel sad and weighed down.

It doesn’t help that the hotel charges for Internet in the room and so we huddle outside the (jarring and loud) casino to access the free WiFi there. And BTW, I have never in my life been inside a casino. Ed suggests that I use this opportunity to look. I do. Never again.

Still, I’m not complaining. We saw old San Juan at night.





We ate tapas in an old courtyard, by the light of the (full?) moon and I had the best mojitos to accompany my fried langostino pockets (note to Tim: could not, could not find your family's standard fare!).

In the morning, Ed drives me to the airport. He is like that. Never complaining about a simple act of kindness. Especially if it saves money.

My plane takes off and I look down at this unique Caribbean island – American, not American. Warm, in all ways.

A grand trip.

from eastern Puerto Rico: warning

We are under a high surf and flood warning. There is an ocean swell – the largest in decades, I read – producing unexpected high waves all along the northern coast of the island.

We are on the northern coast of the island.

The idea was to take the ferry to one of the Puerto Rican islands between here and St. Thomas. They’re laid back kind of places with great hiking opportunities.

We drive up to Fajardo, the town from which the ferries leave. Predictably, the ferries are not going anywhere. The islands are cut off. Waiting for calmer seas.




Most everyone knows this, of course. A few hopefuls come to the ferries anyway, peering out at the horizon, wanting the miracle of a settled ocean. The bay by the port is itself as still as ever. But the barrier islands and the reefs just off the coast are taking a hit (as is the entire northern shore of Puerto Rico).

We notice a tiny little put-put ferry idling a motor. We go up and ask where it’s going. The sole passenger (call him Andrew, if you wish) tells us that it’s leaving for the most proximate barrier island, in the protected waters of the bay. It’s a short ride without much at the end of it. Just a few condos, a marina and a bar.

That’s plenty for us. We hop on board for the free ride.

Andrew is spending a week there, fixing up an older boat, a Hunter 34. I’m from Britain, you know. I pick up boats cheaply here and sell them in Europe.

I have to ask: how do you get them from here to there? Cargo?
No, of course not. I sail them.
A tiny 34-foot sail boat?? Across the ocean??
Yea. I’m looking for a crew now.
And how long does that kind of a trip take?
Last time -- four weeks, but I went from up north.
That’s a long time on the water…
Yea? What else do I have to do in life?

That’s one of those unanswerable questions so I fall silent. Ed, however, wants to know the specifics:

How much did you pick her up for?
A steal at $50,000. I’m hoping to sell her for $100,000.

We get off and walk up to his little investment.
They named her “Control Alt Delete.”
Can you change the name?
No! That’s bad luck!





The world of boat people is a strange lot to me, but Ed, the long-time and long-term sailor, is in his element. As we walk over to Andrew’s sloop, I’m half thinking he’ll volunteer to be part of the crew. But he holds back. Probably doesn’t want to waste his return ticket to Madison.




We linger for a few minutes and watch the ocean waves beyond the reefs. White, rolling surf, crashing toward the shores.




We head back to Fajardo.





And now we’re on the road again and I’m trying not to mind the driving habits of everyone even as I notice that Ed, who never drives fast at home, is getting into different habits here. I tell him that if he stays in the fast lane, we’ll pass the road stands. He pulls over, spins in reverse and mira! A fruit stand before me. I pick up a mango.





Just up the coast, we get out to take a closer look at the surf. People have been warned to stay off the beaches. And they do, except for the occasional scavenger who wants to see what the ocean spit up.





A dad and son ride up on their bikes. The boy gets off and stares at the crashing turf. The dad points to the big wave. The boy watches in silence. Awed? Scared maybe?





We head back to El Yunque, driving past villages where more than once, someone will ride past you on a horse. Or a bike. Or both.






At the rainforest, we make our way to the “Disneyland” hub – the one with all the information postings and well-tended paths. There is a splendid educational center, a café, gift shop, etc. The necessities. I’m not scornful. I buy a good coffee and look out at the forest canopy from my elevated perch on the terrace, up there where tree flowers bloom.




Always wanting to find the quiet spot, even in “Disneyland,” we buck the suggested itinerary and head toward the peak (Mt. Britton). The hike from the road is a short 40 minutes each way, but it’s steep, and half way up we lose the carnival of tourists. The sounds of the birds and tree frogs take over.









Near the top, the rain comes down again, but this is a mere tinkle compared to yesterday’s deluge. And at the summit, we are beyond the rain. Around us – mist and clouds, rolling up the hill quickly, revealing in fleeting moments just fragments of the jungle.





We find a different route back, borrowing parts of the service road that rambles down in some vaguely helpful direction. And this may well be the highlight of today’s walk. It is quiet, but for the screech and twitter of the birds. Occasionally, the old road turns in such a way that we can catch the view all the way down to the sea. Or to the jungle summits.





And always, there is a canopy of palm and breadfruit, bamboo, banana and hibiscus and countless other vegetation – very old, very young, all forming a dense mass of beauty.





This part of the rainforest has rules and the rules are that it “closes” at 6. We’re nearly there now, timewise, but we want one last hike, this one to La Mina – an El Yunque waterfall.

It’s another half hour descent (and then, of course, assent) to La Mina. The light now is changing rapidly and it’s hard to pick out the details of a darkening forest. But the trail hugs the stream and here, the views are lovely.











At the base of the falls, three hearty souls are taking a swim. We watch, in the way older types watch something that has absolutely no appeal anymore as one weighs the pleasure of a swim against the reality of a hike back in wet clothes.

We turn around and head back up toward the car. It’s dark now. The road out of El Yunque is downhill all the way and Ed turns off the motor so that the car rolls down in neutral, in keeping with the quiet of the forest. We are the only ones here. Occasionally around the corner, we see the lights of the coastline.





But I’m not lingering. All I can think of is food.

Ed says we’ve somehow missed the boat on eating and I think he is right. Eastern Puerto Rico isn’t especially a tourist destination and so you have to really dig to find the good local places – no one is going to do the work for you. Our Inn hosts are not local people – their taste in food isn’t born out of any tradition that I would ascribe to the area.

Still, we follow their suggestion and go to Las Vegas (I am assured that it si NOT named after, well, you know, Las Vegas in Nevada).

And indeed, as the evening progresses, the place fills with families and couples, all animated in that terrific conversational style that I associate with a Latin or Mediterranean tradition.

We order seafood salads and creole sauced shrimp with local root vegetables and ginger ice cream for dessert. Wonderful foods. Las Vegas luck.

from El Yunque, P.R.: rain in a forest

Our hosts are extremely knowledgeable about matters of ecology and the environment. And so when I ask where to hike in El Yunque, even Ed listens.

You want the Disneyland hike? It has good information, it’s a well-built trail and you’ll meet lots of others. Or, do you want to climb up to El Torro?

El Torro?

It’s hard to find the trail head. It’s muddy. It’s steep – count on three hours up and three hours down. You’ll meet no one.

Ed hesitates. He likes information and he doesn’t usually follow advice, so the mocked “Disneyland” isn’t out of the running. Still, the man loves adventure.


We set out in search of the El Torre trail. The road dips and climbs through bamboo groves and dense palms. It’s a narrow, winding pot-holed thing and it’s hard to pay attention to anything but the possibility of being knocked off the uneven surface. Still, it’s pretty out here, at the edge of the El Yunque jungle. And every once in a while, we come accross something beyond "just" pretty.





Miraculously (or, rather, accidentally) we find the trail head. I note to Ed the clouds gathering around neighboring peaks.





We may get some rain, he acknowledges.

We start the climb. Once upon a time, the U.S.D.A. Forest Service put time and resources into park preservation (this rainforest is under their stewardship). Now, the politics and priorites have shifted. The US National Park Service may have treated El Yunque with more respect.

At the start of the trail:





And within minutes, the rain begins. At first, I dart from one canopy of palms to another, but this game becomes silly as the rain drops become more than just… drops.

Do you think this will get even worse? I ask (not really expecting reassurance; Ed thinks empty reassurance is pointless).
I remember one hike where it felt like I was submerged in a lake, the rain was so bad.

And yet, we continue. We came here to hike. We’re leaving in a few days. The weather cannot interfere. Besides, we’re in a rainforest. It’s fitting, in an uncomfortable sort of way. Rain, coming down like the ropes and vines, all streaming onto the path ahead.





I hide my camera underneath my shirt and stoop down so that my back catches most of the wetness. But rain has a way of finding its way down and driping over every conceivable surface.





And it gets worse. Ed is now periodically taking off his shirt to wring it out. I’m just reconciled to staying wet.


As we climb up, the trail conditions substantially deteriorate. The clay soil is slick and Ed is noting that a descent will be a slide down on your ass kind of thing. More fitting for a jungle reptile than us, I’m thinking.





And then there are the impassible pools of water and mud. Initially, I try to find side detours, but it’s no use. Again and again, we sink into mud that is ankle deep. And I mean Ed’s ankle.

Don’t lose your shoe in it! Ed warns.
I’m trying!
I’m laughing now, but it is a hysterical sort of laugh. More like a cackle.





The forest is beautiful though. And the rain doesn’t take even a smidgen away from that. The occasional flower astonishes again and again with its piercing color, but even without it, it is a breathtaking place.

















Near the top of the mountain, the rain turns into a misty drizzle. The clouds take the view away from us and still, there is a fantastic feeling of accomplishment. Us against the elements. On El Torro's nose.





But I am beginning to feel the cold of completely wet clothes. We need to keep moving.

My camera has developed ten degrees of moisture in every crevice, but gallantly, it keeps functioning, as I keep trying to find some half dry corner of shirt with which to wipe down the lens. The air is humid, misty and cool.





We make it back with only a few mud slides. And no twisted ankles. At the Rainforest Inn, I hose myself down outside and take a very hot shower.


In the late afternoon, we drive into the nearby town (on the coast). We walk past food stalls serving fried mystery foods. Ed buys a coconut and we share its milky juice.








But we’re hungry for more. A reader suggested we try shrimp mofongo and we find a place down the road that serves it and its huge.




It’s dark now. The fruits stand next door looks like it’s ready to close for the day.





We pick up a bar of chocolate at the grocer's and head back to the Inn.

From El Yunque, P.R.: arrival

Monday morning. I need to zip back up to Tampa. I have a series of flights.

Still, the Venice Island beach is just a few minutes down the road…

We head for the sea.

They fish for shells and fossiled sharks’ teeth here, I’m told. Wading in the shallow waters of the beach that meanders and dips and finally disappears into the blue nothingness of the horizon.





Time is irrelevant.

Ah, to be forever mellow…

My pals shake me into awareness. Time is not irrelevant. I pack my bag and throw it into the little blue Chevy and head north.

A flight to Atlanta, a layover, a flight to San Juan. Ed waits at the gate with his battered old duffle bag.

We head just a little toward San Juan. It’s after 9 and we need food. Endless chains: America gave Puerto Rico handfuls of fast food. We keep driving. Finally, in a strip mall we see something local. We sit at a table and sip a Puerto Rican beer and watch a mother feed her baby, held in the biggest baby seat I have ever seen. The waiter brings us a plate of shrimp, beans and rice. And fried plantains.





And then it’s back to the road. We follow my printed directions, but it’s dark and we miss the turns several times. The last stretch of road takes us right into the El Yunque rainforest. And there it is – the two unit Rainforest Inn (but really not an Inn at all), surrounded by thick greenery – at least I imagine it is green. Who can tell among the night shadows of the banana trees, the dense shrubs and hanging vines.

It’s dark. Our very Zen host shows us the small apartment. Ed cautions me not to step on the scorpion. Let’s put him back in the forest where he belongs. I’m used to this side of Ed. Even as I am less used to being greeted by scorpions.

The warm air comes in through all the open windows. The noise of the forest even now, at midnight, is intense. They say that people in tropical climates stay up late. So do birds. And crickets.

In the morning, I look outside. It is truly a “behold, the jungle!” moment.




A hearty breakfast of eggs & potato, papaya, with cinamon apples on peanut butter and bread. Rain comes on and off (how fitting). A coconut thumps down from a tree. The birds are screech and twitter. We're off to explore.