When speaking of his children, my father refers to us as Samuelito and the Wayward Spawn. I am the Wayward Spawn.
Wayward have been my movements of late. After the earthquake rocked Christchurch Pete and I started re-evaluating our life's priorities, such as living in a town with a low death toll. My dad offered us his boat in Puerto Rico and we jumped at the chance, and for the last four months I have been floating happily in the Caribbean. Maybe I'm just lazy or maybe it's the heat, but I've been having a hard time trying to write and describe Puerto Rico in words. Perhaps it's because this country is just so Damn Loco.
"Oh Puerto Rico, land of the MayoKetchup," as my friend Chris likes to say, is a weird mix between Latino culture and American. Although they are technically a teritory of the United States, when put to a vote to be
A. A State
B. An independent nation
C. Neither/ I don't know
the resounding majority vote was for C. They love Burger King, Walmart and enormous shopping malls. It is very difficult to be a vegetarian here considering that their four food groups are meat, cheese, fried meat and fried cheese, all dipped in butter, fried, and then dipped in more butter. Many seem unaware that throwing trash on the street has a negative impact on their island and recycling is unheard of. The Spanish spoken here is a mutated Spanglish spoken so quickly that they often don't understand one another. "Puerto Rico," my friend Shella says, "where the women eat more than the men, and the men gossip more than the women."
All of that, though, is just a tiny piece of the greater puzzle. I love Puerto Rico. I have met some of the friendliest people here, always willing to help you out without hesitation. Puerto Ricans say hi equally to their neighbors and strangers, stuff you until you're way beyond full, smile, dance, laugh and love their families. They have immense pride in their island and rightfully so because it's just beautiful here. I have a great job working at a surfer bar called Board Riders, right across the street from a beautiful beach in Luquillo and at some point will probably try to learn how to surf.
"Puerto Ricans drive like they've run out of cigarettes," says my friend Dave. I absolutely adore Puertorican people until they get in their car, then it's like going into battle. Like most people who have at one time lived in Mexico, I consider people who stop at red lights to be good drivers. It's not as bad here but it's pretty horrible. Driving here should be considered an extreme sport as every lane is a turn lane, there's no speed limits and there are potholes the size of bathtubs at every turn. On top of all this, there is no required inspection for cars. If the entire front of your car is smashed in, none of your lights or indicators work, black clouds of smoke issue from underneath and it still runs, well then you can drive it. Scary and true, and I haven't even told you about my car yet.
I can say with absolute certainty that my car could only be street-legal in Puerto Rico, and maybe India. He is a 1992 Chevrolet Lumina/Tank named Maverick and I got him off my friend Angel for $300. Angel ran him into a lightpost and the whole left side is scraped up, there are metal shards sticking out of the drivers side door and I have no drivers side mirror. To open the hood there is a rope under the floor mats that, if pulled quite forcefully, will open it. One window won't roll down unless you take the stick out of the wedge and I don't think any of my blinkers work. Don't even mention AC or stereo. The real problem is that the car won't die. He just roars to life every morning and I can't scrap him and get my $300 back.
The good thing about Maverick is I found out he can run without oil, water or gas.
Wayward indeed.
