Was it Dionne Warwick who sang the song, Love, Sweet Love? For you youngsters, she was one of the greatest singers who ever lived. Incidentally, she is Whitney Houston's aunt. She was bigger, for longer, than is Whitney Houston. There are lessons in these facts, but i haven't yet considered what they are. However, a transliteration of her song title did come to mind as a great title for this particular post.
Once long ago, when I had more money than time, and enough energy to at least to try to keep up with an over-amped love of living life to the fullest and doing more things than is possible for one human to do in a lifetime, I called my wife on a Thursday before a long weekend and asked her to get ready to go to Bermuda for four days. I had more frequent flier miles than should be allowed one person, and I not only loved to travel, I could keep up the pace required to do such things. This was not an uncommon spur-of-the-moment occurrence. I have always thrived on change and adventure. Not so much for my wife, though.
After answering all of her reasonable objections the best I could, I finished my day and made arrangements for our trip--while I was coming home. No sooner than I had placed my plans in good motion, did I realize, or actually was tipped off by my astute and helpful travel agent, Patrice, that a tropical storm between me and Bermuda, was churning up to Hurricane levels and that no one would be flying to Bermuda for holiday fun that weekend. I had invested enough time convincing my wife and getting her fired up about the trip, that I wa not going to let it go. Besides, I was up for some down time.
It had been some time since I had been to Puerto Rico, and my wife had never been. I wasn't so interested in gambling or shopping in San Juan as are most tourists. I wanted to rent a car, once there, and head West along the Northern coast of the Island, get somewhere around the Island and have a nice fresh seafood dinner, and spontaneously find an interesting place to stay. This was my idea of fun travel. No planning whatsoever. It has often been a good formula. Not so much this time.
Following the coastal highway was easy enough. We had a wonderful feast of fresh seafood in time to see a wonderful sunset. It was then that I decided to take a short little detour into the mountainous jungle inland to a a destination marked on the map. I hadn't had to use the map previously. I'm one of those people, or at least used to be, who found relaxation and comfort in the hum of the road, the cool(ish) tropical air breezing through open car windows, while concentrating, at least subliminally on the rapid darts and sharp turns through mist-obscured asphalt and animating a story with both hands, while my sweet wife turned iridescently green and covered her face or shrieked or ducked when mist gave way to a freshly spun spider web crashing into our vision.
Although not paying much conscious attention, I soon realized that I had driven farther than the map and indicated. I also quickly realized that a recently passed hurricane has snatched every road sign off its pedestal. Puerto Rico inland is wonderfully confusing as an endless network of unmarked blacktop roads are differently marked only by occasional spills of fresh fruit or avocados from overhanging trees. The famous tow-toned tree-frogs help to make the darkness even more surreal as one wonders if they have indeed entered the proverbial Twilight Zone.
My usual adrenaline rush was subsiding when we spied a historic Spanish coffee plantation that had been converted to a quaint roadside hacienda for people such as us to stay overnight. The setting was lovely, the jungle air fresh after a good rain, and the room and bed were clean and comfortable. The incessant two-toned frogs reminded me of the gentle din of cicadas and crickets in my own mainland Southern home. The air was insect free and high windows seemed especially open without necessity of screens. The temperature was perfect for a lazy sleep. The scent of what I suspected was almond flowers perfumed the air like a sleep drug.
We were far from the stress of the city. By for the bulk of Puerto Rico's population lives in the towns and cities. Coffee is the main agricultural crop. As an American Territory of the USA, the Islands economy has been greatly subsidized by the liberal dole. Many people work for the government. Few ware wealthy, but most are comfortable and after generations, quite content. It is common even in the little out communities to have to slow for street dances from seemingly endless after-dark parties with salsa blaring from simple boom-boxes and colorful figures dirty dancing in crazy-fun.
As with many places, especially tropical ones, drugs are so much apart of the culture they will never end. They probably won't anywhere. Sexy women are scantily dressed and all of them are extraordinarily beautiful to outsiders, but so common as to be home-spun to the locals. It is no wonder that AIDS and other STD's rampantly top the chart of epidemic areas within the Americas. English is not spoken, either in protest, or inability or both--speaking of these little pit-stops on the way to who knew where. Life appears to be one big never-ending party. What a life, I used to think to myself. Drugs, sex, dole money. No worries. Be happy. Or is that the Bahamas. the same thing, but better.
I recently heard a report about the new epidemic in Puerto Rico. The government, faced with wealth redistribution of the Administration and the grand plan of stimulus freebies--somehow didn't get the poor little tropical territory proper lobbying in its behalf. Jobs have dried up. Oh there are JOBS, just not the cush dole-ish jobs that used to be counted on the bribe the population in to a possible vote for Statehood versus independence. But there are jobs.
Coffee plantations offer good pay for a good day's work. This is what America was once built on. But increasingly, in the mainland cities, inner and outer--as with this American Progressive microcosm we call Puerto Rico--this tried and sure work-ethic has been bred out of the population--mostly. Coffee plantations, upon which the real economy of Puerto Rico is inextricably dependent, can't find enough workers on the Island to work. Outsiders (I don't know from where) are being brought in willing to work and make the money and take it away from the Islands economy.
The facade of Utopia in Puerto Rico is just another example of failed economic principles. Dope, disease, and idleness is killing the island Shangri La-la-la. these people are NOT to blame so much as are the so-called Progressive politicians who are now threatening the fabric of all of America. Americans are, as Puerto Rican Americans are, dancing and laughing and drugging--to death. How long can we last this way?
Tritely, but truly, our fathers and grandfathers were right after-all. And after all the blood, sweat, and tears they gave to assure their future generations an easier life--do we realize that an honest days work for an honest days pay--is what we were looking for all along? The famous two-toned musical frogs know this.
