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At southeast Puerto Rico a tiny island strives to keep its head above the encroaching ocean.
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SOMEWHERE NEAR THE FRONT: Today, for the second day in a row, I unwittingly crossed skirmish lines. Yesterday it involved the battle between los ricos and los pobres (the rich and poor); today it involved a relentless struggle between los nuevos colonos and two allies -- la jungla, and el mar (the new colonists, the jungle and the sea).
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At the Park Royal Homestay Club a three-story building patiently awaits the assault of the sea.
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I can't surmise how the first struggle will end; as for the second, I'm betting on the sea. The new colonists (los nuevos colonos) are the successors to the Americans. The Yankees conquered Spain and acquired Puerto Rico as a result, making it a colony that was partly American, while keeping it poor and under represented. The new colonists followed the Yankees, giving the ordinary Puerto Rican a glimpse at what filthy rich looks like by allowing resorts to claim choice pieces of seaside real estate for those who had the money to enjoy them while they last.
Why no futbols?
I am writing from Puerto Rico because other plans -- involving One World Futbols -- didn't pan out. My dream this year was to take One World Futbols to children in refugee camps near the Mexican border. However, I soon realized that the people who answered to the man with the Sharpie weren't going to be forthcoming, so I simply went to Mexico to help build houses. I'll tell you about that in a few days.
Cuba? No!
An alternate was to take balls to Cuba, but Sharpie has thrown up more barriers for travel there.
So, what the hell, America First! I'd take them to the bilingual American colony just a bit south of Cuba. With
housing aid for Puerto Rican refugees running low, there are probably still communities recovering from Hurricane Maria that can benefit from soccer balls that never go flat and never have to be repaired.
However, I failed to find an organization to coordinate with; so the purpose of this trip is to discover some. It's only $300 round trip to Puerto Rico, and it might turn out to be a great place to spend winter months. Best to burn up some timeshare credits to conduct some research and then return, if appropriate. I still have 20 donor-sponsored futbols in search of a need.
The wrong car is the right car.
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Hyundai Tucson
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Day one was seat-of-the-pants. The 40 mpg compact Nissan Sentra that I reserved at Dollar Rent A Car was a no-show. Instead I was provided a giant Hyundai Tucson SUV -- which proved to be good fortune, due to the enormous dark cloud between me and the resort. My phone's GPS led me down roads with the wrong names and onto a twisting into-the-jungle two-lane asphalt ribbon that frequently lacked a center line. Occasionally, buildings that looked like seeds of a future village would appear; otherwise it was truly a country road with a third-world feel.
The Hyundai's wipers slapped aside the stubborn torrent that blurred the windshield and then performed the Moses miracle: It parted the waters on the new, small lake that had gathered at one particular dip in the road -- a lake big enough to drown the compact economy car I had been cheated out of. (Some promises are best not kept.) All around was the jungle, just itching to reclaim the land.
At last! -- The resort, a sprawling expanse of luxury big enough to be its own city. I had successfully traversed a bewildering jungle landscape and mysterious road system, abandoning the backwater and rustic, to arrive safely behind the imposing gates of the Ghetto of Splendor. But that was yesterday. And
yesterday's gone.
Concreta vs flora
Today was the day to turn war correspondent, leaving the resort's zona turística and facing the stultifying heat in order to put boots on the ground in the war zone. I entered the zona colonial, where the rich people (ricos) actually own condos and estates. In one sense, this is the just another front in the war for Puerto Rico, where the insistent jungle is held back by buildings and concrete.
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Every man's home is his castle, and the jungle has its eyes on this particular castle.
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The jungle can't gain much ground here against the buttresses of concrete and asphalt, but there are occasional daylight raiders such as the iguana that scampered across a patch of grass, and took cover behind a small mound, where it kept a wary eye on me. The zonistas believe in barriers, and every town house reminds its neighbor of their boundaries, with a cement yours-and-mine wall that extends toward the street. Their appearance bring to mind that
Ticky Tacky song from the 1960s.
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Every town house has its own side barrier to put the neighbors on notice.
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Los Ricos also put up barriers for ordinary tourists.
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After scoping this out, I returned to the zona turística and followed the narrow sidewalk corridor to the portion of the front lines where the allies keep trying to encroach on the nuevos colonos.
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Some owners or a special class of tourists could park in a garage . . .
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. . . others were forced to park their vehicles at the dock next to their residence.
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The path to the beach protects the privacy of the neighbors. . .
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. . . all the way to the ocean.
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This part of the beach didn't turn out as I had hoped.
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Maybe the sea was resupplying jungle's assault with these coconuts -- future replacement troops.
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These trees had established a beachhead and appeared to be crouching down to avoid detection. . .
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...while a platoon of palms boldly gathered atop a bank, their objective cleary in sight.
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El mar is biding its time, waiting for just enough glacial meltwater to swell its ranks, enabling it to sweep up onto the land and take the houses the colonos have bought there. Just ahead of the sea is the vanguard -- the jungle, which has obtained a beachhead, but has nowhere to advance. Behind it is the relentless encroachment of the ocean, pressing it forward into the resort. For the jungle, it is a case of do or die. If it doesn't make it into the colonial zone, the sea will eventually eat its ally.
Hormigas en mis pantalones (ants in my pants)
While I was standing on the beachhead pondering all this as well as my next photo, I felt an itch on my leg. More than an itch, actually. More like a minuscule nibble. I looked down and discovered ants crawling all over my left shoe and up the inside of my cargo pants, gathering tiny snippets of my left thigh. After a brisk skirmish involving some hand-to-ant combat and a quick walk back to the condo followed by a quick stripping, I found one last ninja ant nibbling on, as relentless as the ocean. It took three good squishings to stop it. As I said, relentless.
A few hours later I put my pants back on and was wounded again in a suicide attack by a stowaway. Afterbite bumps were guaranteed to follow.
More to come.
Love,
Robert
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