As I type this, my efforts are accompanied by Heri whanging on a stone chisel shaping a large brick (loud), Michael cutting up a fallen tree trunk with a chain saw (really loud), and the quiet gurgle behind me (when I can hear it) that reminds me that the pool is filling again. By the end of this workday, the electrical work is almost done.
We have a number of people we need to pay in cash, which is something we hadn’t quite thought through before coming. Somehow we had assumed we could write checks. But that’s not how the service economy works down here. This means daily trips to the ATM, to pull as much money out as permitted, and going online to move funds around from the sources that are funding this effort. The trips to the ATM are not enough. All these guys have been working like Trojans, and they all need the money now. It doesn’t help when I go downtown with Michael to withdraw the money we owe him, and the ATM rejects my request. What? Soon comes a robot call on my cell from our bank: We have made so many withdrawals we have triggered a fraud alert. I try to explain this to Michael, who is growing restive and clearly wondering if this North American is scamming him. Michael does not understand a word of English and I speak very few of Spanish. I must call Allysen to translate. In the end, I must also call our bank back home (still open on a Saturday!) and get them to lift the freeze on the ATM withdrawals.
I really do not like walking around with wads of cash in my pocket, especially when that money is owed to someone else who worked hard for it. And in this case, the someone else who needs the money could bench press me with one hand.
Plus, I worry that the retirement accounts of everyone in the extended family, from my mother-in-law ( the primary owner) through me, to my children, will be gone by the end of these two weeks. And yet, it all must be done—whether the decision is made in the end to rent the house, or to sell it. The alternative is to let it decay and fall down around us. It’s far too beautiful a place, and holds too many memories, to let that happen. We press on.
(Coming next in Part 16, the National Ferret Area.)
[To read The Ponce Chronicles in order, start here.]
Keep thinking. Our two weeks in Puerto Rico are drawing to a close—or so we once believed. Winter Storm Jonas is slamming the eastern seaboard with snow and ice, crippling more than one major city. Although Boston is not expected to get more than a few inches, our flight home takes us via Orlando, and a great deal of winter chaos lies between there and home. (Here’s a picture from space, courtesy of NASA/NOAA.)
As of bedtime on Friday, JetBlue still shows our flight a Go. I’m skeptical.
Around midnight, a thunderstorm moves over the hill. The lights flicker, then come back on. I hear a bass drum boom a little further down the hill, and think I see a flash over the houses that way. The boom sounds different from thunder; more contained and resonant. The lights go out and stay out. A blown transformer, I’ll wager. A few minutes later, I go to use the faucet. The water’s out, too. I crawl into bed, thoroughly discouraged. I am, I realize, getting really tired of this. Allysen sleeps. I sweat, in the absence of AC.
The morning brings neither power nor water. Allysen makes phone calls to report both. Our electricians are already at work. Power went out in a lot of the city, though some of it was protective, because of the storm. Ricardo looks tired; he was up all night, because his wife had a medical emergency. (She is apparently okay now, we are glad to hear.)
Fortunately, we have enough battery on phones to make calls. JetBlue still says our flight is a Go. I still don’t believe it. A half-hour on hold brings a live JB agent, who confirms our suspicions: we are going nowhere Saturday night. We rebook for Tuesday and wonder where we can get coffee.
Somewhere around 10 in the morning, both power and water come back! Another miracle! Coffee, wonderful coffee!
(Coming next in Part 15, Paying for all this work.)
[To read The Ponce Chronicles in order, start here.]
We have been in Ponce for almost two weeks now, and there is still so much to do. Is it raining outside the open dining area? Nope, that’s Estevan power washing the concrete roof (for the second time). We need to go up with 5-gallon buckets of special sealant to weather-proof the concrete, a treatment that is years overdue. I cannot wait.
Actually, I have to wait. The electricians are not yet finished with the wiring and the lights on the roof. Saved by the bell.
But there’s still the staining to be done. We have gone round and round with various suppliers, trying to get solid-color deck stain that might vaguely match what’s on there now. Language difficulties abound. Even with Allysen doing the talking in Spanish, there is persistent confusion about whether we mean interior stain (which everyone has) or exterior stain (which no one seems to have). No, we do not want it with polyurethane. One can say “exterior” many time before the light goes on. “No, I’m sorry, we don’t have it.” Finally, we establish that Home Depot does have transparent stain that can be colored to barn red. It will be transparent, but it’s better than nothing.
Jayce, hours before leaving for her flight, has pitched in to help me get started with decking sections that are new wood and must be protected. I continue with new railing and some work down on the pool deck. We are all getting very tired. But there is so much left to do!
The electrical work should be done tomorrow. But where can we find light fixtures that can stand exposure to wind and damp, and not make Allysen want to throw up at their ugliness? Can we get the plumber back to reinstall the hot water heater in the kitchen that Veronica disconnected and moved? What about the faucets that need replacing? What was the source of the water in the downstairs closet? Many questions remain.
It is now Friday, and we are scheduled to fly back at 3 a.m. on Sunday. Freddie and Heri can do some work for us after we’re gone, but there is so much left to do! Still, there is so much we have accomplished. The concrete pillar for the electrical box looks like a brand new obelisk, set down by visiting aliens.
The house really looks as though it has been brought back to life. It feels like a miracle. Quite possibly it is a miracle.
Next bureaucratic stop, CRIM, home of the tax man—to pay the property tax and get copies of 5 years’ of tax records for my mother. I’ve been putting it off—who wants another celebration of paperwork? Finally I steel myself and go.
The lines at CRIM aren’t bad, I’m told; no need to rise at dawn. I arrive at 10:15 and walk into a room full of waiting people. A man at a table asks my business and then gives me a number. 3017. I really hope that means just 17th in line. I sit. I wait. This feels exactly like waiting at the RMV back home.
I snooze, startling awake to check the numbers on the board every time the bell dings. I chat with my neighbors. The savvy woman sitting next to me tells us all how to avoid pitfalls at various government agencies. The circle of chat grows, then quiets again.
An hour passes. Other sets of numbers are progressing—the 1000s go at a reasonable clip; that group is for people just paying bills, explains my neighbor. The 5000s are climbing, if slowly. The 3000s don’t budge. They were at 3005 when I walked in, and they’re at 3005 now.
At 11:30 the 3000s begin to move—at last. Ding. Ding. My savvy neighbor, number 3016, gets up. Ding. I leap to follow her. In a back room a man leads us, a dozen hopefuls, toward a small sea of cubicles. He proceeds rather like a sower, tossing citizens into cubicles, right, left, right, left… I sit down with a cheerful young woman who has the usual Puerto Rican courtesy—and something else. I’m struck by her efficiency as she checks my papers (the usual—passports, my father’s will, authorization letter, death certificate, past bills, social security numbers, etc.), makes copies, changes the name and billing address. Someone is watching over me; this woman is quick.
Then… copies of past payments? She gets a supervisor. When did my father buy the property? Um, 1969? She blanches. We can’t possibly give you 45 years of records! No, no, just since 2009. A bit of back and forth with my clerk, and the computer system, and a man who consults and then heads, with some hurry, downstairs to magic up the copies. The supervisor escorts me back out, telling the man at the numbers desk to put me in line, immediately, to pay the bill. The numbers maven pops me in and politely tells me to hurry. I head to the bill pay window. I’m pleased at their speed and coordination (all done with that Puerto Rican courtesy that looks so relaxed) but a bit puzzled. Why the sudden rush? At 11:58 I finish paying and the bell dings for the next in line. My guardians motion me downstairs. I jog down and spot my man with the copies just coming out of a doorway. He smiles and hands me the papers.
And then I find out why the rush. At noon the office takes lunch. Anyone still sitting in a chair, clutching a number, must wait another hour until the windows open again at 1 pm. Yipes! My team at CRIM has been racing to beat the clock. Bless them!
Here’s George Harrison and Eric Clapton performing the Beatles classic, “Taxman”:
(Coming next in Part 13, we’re running out of time!)
[To read The Ponce Chronicles in order, start here.]
The level of swamp water in the swimming pool has been dropping slowly but steadily as the sump pump grinds on. Eventually the pump becomes too gunked up with congealed algae and leaves in the shallow water, and we must empty the rest of the pool by hand. Time for a bucket brigade!
The bucket brigade starts with me down in the bottom of the pool, trying not to slip on the sloped surface, scooping up buckets full of rank liquid. Allysen and Jayce are positioned topside, taking the pails from me. There’s no really handy place to dump the slop, so they decide to hurl the water through a wrought iron fence into the empty lot beyond. Memo for the future: It’s really important how you aim the bucketful of water. If you don’t, it has a tendency to come right back at you.
The iguana is back in the pool!
We have had a variety of wildlife visitations to the pool, starting with the tarantula, and followed by a South American cane toad (with toxic skin). They may all be looking for water, but the pool is now empty. Today (January 21), we sight our first iguana, lounging at the pool’s edge. (Jayce just missed it, as she took the 3 a.m. flight home, and in fact has just texted to report wheels down in Boston.) Ugly sucker, very prehistoric in appearance.
Everyone stops work to gawk at the critter, which soon goes into the empty pool, keeping Estevan company as he power washes the sides of the pool.
Eventually he drives the iguana out, and it disappears over the hill. An hour later, it reappears. I chase it away with a broom, and again it disappears over the hill.
Half an hour later it’s back. In the pool. Or no, this is a different one—larger and greener in color, perhaps four feet long from nose to tip of tail, and a foot and a half long in main body. What it hopes to gain in a dry pool, I do not know. It seems to be thinking the same thing.
What we’re going to do about it, I do not know. Leaving it to poop in the newly cleaned pool is not an option. Apparently this is a common problem in the area, for anyone who maintains a pool. In fact, iguanas have undergone a population explosion on the island (to which they are an invasive species, imported as pets and released), and now pose a serious threat to fruit crops and other commerce. The government actively encourages the practice of killing them and selling the meat. This one eventually comes to its end at the hands of Michael the tree man, who grabs it, balls it up, and dispatches it out of our sight.
In our one vacationlike excursion, we take the first full Sunday afternoon to drive to Coamo, where live the famous Coamo Thermal Springs. Apparently known to the Taino Indians and later to the Spanish settlers, the natural springs are indeed hot, emanating as they do from a dormant volcano under the land—and full of minerals, including, as becomes apparent, sulfur. There’s a nice little park there, where you pay a couple of bucks and get to soak in either of two pools, one hot, and the other hotter. It’s small, and in appearance a little like something you might see behind a “Magic Spot” rural motel. But indeed it’s relaxing, and the visitors are all pleasant and chatty. The girl who sells us the tickets tells us she grew up in Worcester, not far from Boston. Nearly everyone we talk to seems to have connections in the states, if not Boston itself. It’s a recurring theme.
Our favorite moment at the springs comes from the instructional sign posted above the hot, sulfurous, relaxing water:
No discussing religion or politics…
Yah, these Puerto Ricans know a thing or two about relaxing!
(Coming next in Part 11, iguanas invade the pool!)
[To read The Ponce Chronicles in order, start here.]
Michael and his brother Manuel have come on board to take down some trees that are endangering the buildings. When I say “buildings,” it probably sounds like we’re on an estate. But no, this is an idiosyncratic house. When Allysen’s parents built it, they could not bear to cut down several big cork trees on the hill, so instead they broke the house into two parts, living area and kitchen/dining area, with the cork trees in the middle, surrounded by wooden deck. Both structures are made of poured concrete and concrete block. It’s the concrete roofs that have tree trunks bearing down on them, one a mahogany and one a cork tree.
These two guys are Paul Bunyan types, fearless and strong as a blue ox. Michael climbs into the trees while Manuel handles the lines. Michael goes up, lines are thrown and cinched, and the next thing I see, Manuel has tied a running chain saw to another rope and Michael is pulling it up. Braaap-p-p-p! Crack! He doesn’t cut all the way through, but leaves enough wood to keep the trunk or branch intact. Then powerful but judicious hauling on the lines breaks the branch or trunk segment away and it swings free to be lowered by Manuel. Repeat. Many times.
The strength of these guys shows even more when they start cutting up the pieces, hefting them onto their shoulders, and carrying them along the up and down and around brick pathways, to hurl them onto a pile in the empty plot we refer to as “the back forty.”
The mahogany tree especially tugs at us—such beautiful wood. We ask Michael to slice us some cross-sections of trunk to take home.
(Coming next in Part 10, a visit to the mineral hot springs)
[To read The Ponce Chronicles in order, start here.]
This story is Allysen’s. She has several critical tasks involving government bureaucracy, and it’s a while before she’s able to get away from the hill long enough to tackle these. In her words…
I have to get more copies of my father’s death certificate. Death certificates are critical for… just about everything, including gaining access to money in joint accounts that were improperly frozen when he died, or applying for insurance benefits recently uncovered from dusty files.
I head down the hill to the Demographic Authority. Half an hour and every possible wrong turn later, I find a sign—barely visible—pointing to the office. It closed half an hour ago. Sigh. Earlier is better in Ponce.
Next morning I try again. Just outside the long cement building is a large cement… desk? A man and a woman sit behind it, chatting. What are they doing out here—having breakfast? I feel as if I’ve landed on a flyspeck tropical island of the 1940s, not modern Puerto Rico. I walk up to ask the way to the Demographic Authority. Before I can say a word, the woman asks my business.
Nosy, I think, but I explain: I need eight copies of a death certificate. She reaches under the desk and hands me a form. Wait—this table is the Demographic Authority?
I fill out the form and she looks it over with care. How would I like to pay? She rattles off an incomprehensible set of choices that seem to involve the man sitting next to her. Say again? The certificates cost $10 each. Would I like to pay right now or at… (something I don’t quite catch). Or… this man can sell them to me for $2 each. Huh? Sounds like they’re selling me lottery tickets.
Let’s try again. Yes, this man can sell me official death certificates for $2 each. Well, $16 is less than $80; I’ll buy from him. “Okay,” she says. “That will be $96.” Wait. My Spanish is good; maybe my math is lacking? Because at $2 each, I don’t get $96. I ask her to clarify, and we go through it again. I can buy them at $10, the usual price, or at $2 from the man sitting next to her. I can pay either $80 or $96.
What am I missing? Who is this man, and why does he have the power to sell me government documents at a discount? Er, markup?
At last the woman sees the problem. The $80 is the price, she says. To pay only that, you go back across town and line up at some other office, where you will get the seals for the certificates. Or you can pay an extra $2 per certificate to this gentleman for the seals, and get everything done right here, right now.
I pay the extra.
The woman does something magical with my paper, and hands it back to me, plus eight little strips of what look like stickers (from the gentleman?). She waves me toward some unmarked double doors in the cement building behind her.
Inside, I wander aimlessly until someone points me in the direction of death certificates. Stepping up to the window, I find myself facing a man who could well be Methuselah just entering his twilight years. Methuselah examines the paper and the stickers and asks some questions. I am armed with every piece of ID and potentially useful document in existence, including my only existing copy of the original death certificate. His eyes light up at that. Excellent! This will speed things along.
He begins to enter something into his computer… careful, slow, two fingered typing. After a while, he writes down a number—looks like a dozen digits or so—on my magic paper. Then he turns the paper over, and carefully types something from the back of the paper into his computer.
After a while he turns the paper over again and writes another 12-digit number on it. Once more he turns the paper over and resumes typing… turns over the paper… another 12-digit number… turns over the paper… pecks at the keyboard… until he has done this entire dance eight times.
My father died just five years ago. Surely these records are still in their system. Can’t he just press a few buttons and spit out eight copies of a form that already exists? I can just imagine my father’s reaction to such idiocy. No wonder Puerto Rico’s economy is in shambles.
At last the world comes out of pause. The man reaches under his desk and draws out eight pages, one by one.
They look like bad counterfeit copies of my original. If I wanted to commit blatant fraud, this is what I’d use. I show him the original again, and ask why these copies look so different. “Oh, those are the old ones. We haven’t used those in years. Now we use these.”
Numb with disbelief, I thank him—Puerto Rican courtesy is catching—and head back up the hill to talk to the electricians, or the mason, or the carpenters, or the plumber, or the pool repairman, or the tree man, or… anyone who does his job well and lives in the modern world.
Since arriving in Puerto Rico, we have not been eating solely at Subway; it just seems that way. Subway, after all, makes healthy sandwiches, quickly, for a good price. And there’s a Subway close to Home Depot, and another close to Sears. What more can you ask for? Well, variety for one thing, and local color for another. For dinner, we have tried to branch out a little. The results are decidedly mixed.
A place called Sabor y Rumba (Roomba? I like it!) has great ceviche (lime juice on a tasty fish), and I get my first taste of a local (to Boston!) craft beer: Sam Adams Rebel IPA. In Ponce? Yes, in Ponce. And you can buy it at Walmart. A highly recommended tapas place offers the most indifferent waiter service we have encountered in a long time, plus food of variable quality.
Here we again put to the test something we first explored at a chain restaurant called Sizzlers*. Can you ask for a slice of lemon in a Puerto Rican restaurant and get lemon, and not lime? At Sizzlers, I knew they had lemon in the kitchen, because someone’s drink had a slice on it. I wanted some for my shrimp. I asked in my own, poor Spanish, “Por favor, limón?” Allysen backed me up by explaining in Spanish that I wanted lemon, limón, not lime, lima. The yellow one. I was rewarded with a cheerful delivery of lime. At the tapas place, we tried even harder, with Allysen explaining at greater length: Amarillo, yellow. The big one. Not the green one. This time the waiter arrived with a small cocktail napkin which he placed with almost obsequious care on the table. On the napkin: one tiny wedge of lime, just ripe enough to be yellow.
I have not yet asked for lemon in a restaurant and gotten it.
I have, however, learned that the best tostones (fried, smashed plantain) on the island appear to be found at Denny’s. (Yes, that Denny’s.)
*Sizzlers, on the whole, was a mixed bag. The low point was the buffet, where I saw some tasty-looking roasted small potatoes and heaped a serving-spoonful onto my plate. Moments after chomping down onto a piece, I experienced a change of heart. Gulp. Swallow. “What did I just eat?” I choke. Allysen picks up a piece and inspects it. “Looks like fat, to me.” A passing waiter confirms: I have just taken a healthy serving of golden brown chunks of roasted fat. Buen apetito!
(Coming up in Part 8, Bureau of Certificates Bureau.)
[To read The Ponce Chronicles in order, start here.]
Jayce, known to her immediate family as Julia, has taken on the surprisingly herculean task of scrubbing the kitchen cabinets. This is a tropical clime, and it appears that the aforementioned tenant has not done any cleaning of any kind in the year she was here. The cabinets are frightening caves full of insect and pest droppings of all kinds. Jayce gloves up and moves in. And spends days, literally, and I literally mean literally, scrubbing out the kitchen cabinets.
One last shelf in a series presents a particular challenge: a large, exceedingly flat, fierce-looking spider, tucked protectively into a corner behind a shelf bracket. Poisonous? Carnivorous? Murderous? Our imaginations abound. We (and by “we” I mean “Allysen”) decide it must be a Huntsman spider, known to be somewhat shy and fond of eating cockroaches. Its value in the pecking order shoots up, in our estimation. Besides, it’s probably huddled against the appalling racket the tree guys are making, just outside the kitchen wall.
Jayce names the spider Edith, though Allysen says she’s pretty sure it’s a male. Okay, it’s gender fluid, then. Jayce talks to it quietly, privately. I don’t want to hurt you. I know this is your home. But I have to clean. Can we work it out?
Edith, who had wedged itself between the shelf and the shelf bracket, says nothing. But two days later, this spider is gone, and we have not seen it since. Probably went to find someplace less crazy to live.
Before I leave Jayce’s section, I’ll point out that she kept at the kitchen cleaning right up to about fifteen minutes before she left for the airport for her flight home (a few days before us). I failed to get an action photo, so here’s one of her relaxing between cleaning bouts.
The labors of Allysen
Allysen has been mostly at arm’s length from the physical labor, but she’s arguably the busiest person on the hill. She’s the project manager on a project with a tight deadline. Since most of the workers speak little to no English, and I speak little to no Spanish, she’s the one who has to talk to everyone. She’s busier than a one-armed paper hanger—constantly on the phone, or running this way and that to confer with the crews. I practically need to make an appointment to talk to her, and even then barely ever get more than a half-minute conversation before a phone call interrupts us. I wonder how long she can keep this up without cracking.
A couple of observations
Several things are remarkable about this journey. One is the sheer number of things that can go wrong in a house—and all at the same time. Veronica didn’t help, with her wanton destruction of property. But at the same time, this house requires continuous upkeep against the elements—far more so, I think, than our house in Boston. And for the last few years, it has gotten less than the upkeep it needs. I see now how fast it can catch up with you; Nature is attempting to break this place back down to its constituent elements. Like Downton Abbey, it needs a full-time staff. One person could work full-time just moving around the property reseating and mortaring brick. The house is not large, but it’s built on a hill. It was built by Allysen’s parents around some lovely cork trees, and the trees are not being kind in return. Relentlessly, they are pushing at the brick, and leaning closer, ever closer, to the roofs of the two parts of the house.
One thing you learn quickly in the culture here is the power of who you know. Without our neighbor Frances we would have been dead in the water, trying to find the right people to do this work on short notice. Frances wears many hats on this island, and seems to know everyone who’s anyone. She also manages some properties—and has learned, through years of experience, who will show up on time and do the job right, and she has cultivated working relationships with them. When Frances asks someone to drop what they’re doing to come and help, they tend to do it. Also, when the city accidentally shuts off water to the hill, which they do with some regularity, Frances is the one who gets it turned back on with a phone call.
Then there’s the work ethic. While we have encountered the stereotypical “it’s not my job” worker, none of them are working for us here. I cannot believe how hard these people keep at it. The electricians and carpentry/masonry crews labor for seven or eight hours straight—with only brief lunch and water breaks. While I’m busy with myriad small repairs—or making extended runs to Home Depot, Ace, and Sears—these guys are doing backbreaking physical labor, and guzzling bottled water that we’d picked up as an afterthought. The tree guys will be the most amazing, but more about them in a later chapter.
Finally, a few thoughts on local courtesy. As anywhere, I suppose, it’s a mixed bag. I was a little shocked by how many times people stood in my way in doorways or supermarket aisles, oblivious to my polite “Perdón!” In this respect, the lack of common courtesy seemed worse to me than even the renowned New England brusqueness. And I hate to say it, but women were noticeably more likely than men to be rude in this way. Of course, I was pretty conspicuous as a Northerner, but still. On the other hand, I had many interactions with sales people and so on, and was surprised how pleasant most of these interactions were. Even when we had no common language—the percentage of those who spoke English was really pretty small—most people seemed eager to help, and we always seemed to end our conversations with a smile and a handshake. Explain? I can’t.