The American Caribbean
Jack, Jill and I (names changed, of course) wandered into a surf shop yesterday. After 7 days of 12-18 hours per day of work, we were intent on having a day of fun. It was all too simple really. Rent a surf board or body board, go to the beach, have a few hours of fun, then go downtown and wander the streets of Old San Juan. Having surfed intermittently before, I asked a few questions about the conditions. Realizing that I have done this before, he asked where I have surfed in the past. As the response was Hawa’ii, he told me that in Puerto Rico there are no waves like back home. “Oh, I’m not American,” says I. “I’m Canadian (or rather, Soy Canadiese).” Happy as can be he grabbed my hand, shook it proudly and retorted, “Mucho bueno!”
Later on we were walking throughout Old San Juan and I noticed in the town mercado (market square) a baby blue building with white trim that bore a sign which read El departamento extranero del verdad gobierno internale de los pueblos unidad (The department of external affairs of the true government of the people). Now where have I seen that sentiment before?
By and large, Puerto Ricanos do not considered themselves to be Americans. Ironically enough for the kid in the surf shop, many native Hawaiians do not consider themselves American either. At first glance, the infrastructure decidedly is, but with a latin twist. Latinos and latinas careen the streets at night, with the typical hot-blooded pulse, ready to live life. People will chat you up just because you are there, especially if you speak Spanish. Life is a bit slower, relaxed and less stressful. Restaurants fill up with Americans at 5 pm, with Puerto Ricans at 8 or 9. Old San Juan is decidedly more comparable to Vieux Quebec or some lazy seaside town in Portugal or Spain. Music throbs through the brickwork in the streets until 5 or 6 am. Youth is alive, the old serene, everyone has a smile on there face.
In other ways, it is decidedly American. Or rather, the dichotomy of rich a poor is superbly contrasted on this island. Puerto Rico means Rich Port and was a haven for Spanish privateers in the 16th and 17th centuries. Though the romance of Old San Juan lives on, reality slaps you hard in the face. Kids walking barefoot down back-alley streets, alley cats and tick ridden dogs run amok in poor areas. Compartmentalized rich communities bubbled off from the rest of San Juan, ever looking inward. Puerto Rico, having been forced to submit to the United States, has had no choice in becoming American. Uncle Sam can taketh away.
I can’t say that I would ever return there. Mind you, I only saw an infinitely small portion of the island. Perhaps the rest is beautiful and Caribbean. Perhaps not. Still, a little bit of my heart goes out to Puerto Ricans. I can’t help but wonder what the island would have been like without American influence and affluence. Perhaps it would be poorer, but then again, it may have truly developed into el puerto rico.
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