And believe
me—I can tell you. I’ve spent twenty years with these men, these irascible,
taciturn (except when provoked, which is almost constantly), grumpy relics of a
tradition gone by.
Los
choferes de carros públicos
they’re called. But don’t imagine that a chofer has anything to do with its
cognate, a chauffeur.
OK—the
driver (chofer) will be at least 70. He will remember days gone by, when he
made three, four, five trips to from Ponce to San Juan (65 miles each way…).
His car—most often a minivan—would have had eighteen people maximum.
Oh, and
also minimum. Because he didn’t leave until the van was full.
Not a
problem if you don’t have a boss with a stopwatch waiting for you.
And if you
did?
Well, then
you had to get up early, didn’t you?
Well, the
people up in the mountains do. Four in the morning. That’s when the chickens
start clucking and making sleep impossible. Also when the first públicos leave.
Sensible,
really. Why should you be sleeping if the chickens aren’t? And besides, it’s
cooler at 4AM. Which is nice, because none of the públicos has air
conditioning.
What, air
conditioning? When the price of gasoline is near a dollar a liter? (About 4
dollars a gallon….)
But if you
are late for work—say, 6AM and expected by 8AM—well, you may have a problem.
There are 17 of you in a minivan. It is six-thirty, then seven.
And no one
is coming.
Or has come
for the last twenty minutes.
So you
wait.
The driver,
in the meantime, is enjoying cooling breezes and hot coffee. Also busily
pretending that the van of which he is the owner / driver…
…doesn’t
exist.
Not bad.
But imagine August, or July—which it currently is. Also imagine the humidity—it
has rained enough to humidify, but not to cool.
Instantly,
on seeing the first drop of rain, everybody will close the windows.
Why? The
windows open out an inch at the bottom—it’s virtually impossible for anything
but hurricane band torrents to enter.
But there’s
this thing. In Puerto Rican eyes, rain means cold.
Oh, also monga.
OK, not
bad, for the first twenty minutes or so. And very fortunately, the 15
co-passengers have practiced excellent hygiene. Only the 16th has
not….
…and he’s
sitting next to you!
Tempers
fray. People get restless. At last someone calls out—“¡Que nos vayamos! ¡Estamos asfixia’os!” Literally, we're asphyxiating.
The chofer
turns the page—he’s on Sports now…. He lights a cigarette. Or goes to get more
coffee.
At last,
the miracle arrives: the last passenger that can be stuffed into the van. A
cheerful guy!
All
three-hundred pounds of him.
Oh, and
there’s a hitch.
He has a
twenty.
Instantly,
the chofer who is absolutely not a chauffeur flies off the handle. What? A
twenty? Impossible, he can’t change a twenty.
They have
this rule, you see.
Nor does
the three-hundred-pounder do the sensible thing—go to the same coffee shop and
change the bill. Arguing with a chofer is like arguing with a cat.
What, and
miss an argument?
The hands
are raised, the voices are raised. The chofer walks away in disgust, only to
come back and resume the diatribe.
Spectator
sports! For the van has now erupted into commentary, laughter, catcalls,
encouragement, and fierce partisan side taking.
Invariably,
it will be witty. Always, someone will have a mordent sense of humor, dissect
the situation, provide the comedy and the backstory.
It’s now
7:30. Remember that boss?
At last,
the argument will be resolved. The chofer will agree—¡esta vez solamente!!—to change the bill. Or a passenger will
change it for him. The three-hundred-pounder will attempt—catch that verb?—to
enter the van.
The vans—as
you may know—have two doors, each opening the opposite direction.
But the
chofer NEVER opens the other door.
Another
little rule….
Which means
the three-hundred-pounder is coming in…
…sideways.
Oh, and the
empty “seat?” It’s in the very back of the van, an area very justly called la
cocina.
The
kitchen….
There’s no
way the guy is gonna make it.
So he does
the sensible thing. He waits for
someone to move.
And nobody
wants to go there.
Resolution?
Well,
there’s a crazy gringo who has decided to sit in the front row of seats.
And who
needs to get to work….
And of
course, the gringo has a problem. No, not three-hundred pounds, but…
A height of
6’3”.
Which means
that he looks like a string bean imitating a football player in a tackle.
Well, it’s
an experience. And it taught me a
lot.
Spanish,
for one thing.
It taught
me how amazingly resilient and patient Puerto Ricans can be.
Also how
funny….
And it gave
me time to reflect, as I did this morning, on days gone by, and how so much has
changed.
I had
gotten up, taken my walk, and then left to take the público down to Ponce. And
why wake up at 4 to do that? So I sat for an hour in the plaza talking to Tico.
We had the driver (that’s Tico). We had the van.
We didn’t
have the 17 others.
And Tico
had made no trips yesterday.
Also none
as of today.
So I waited
an hour, and talked to Tico, and learned that his father had been a chofer for
fifty years. The fare was 3 dollars then. Times had changed. Everybody has a
car now.
Then Tico
moved off. I sat and waited.
And into my
mind popped…
I met him
only once—but he was our own Eisenstaedt / Dorothea Lange / Ansel Adams. Came
to Puerto Rico in the 40’s, under the same project as Eisenstaedt. Went
everywhere, just as the others did, and took amazing photos.
I could
have waited, but both Tico and I were tired. And hot. So he went home, I went
home, and, still curious, looked up Delano. Knew he was good, but didn’t know
how good.
He’s major
league.
 |
Malaria poster
in small hotel, San Juan, Puerto Rico. Jack Delano, December, 1941. Image courtesy of Wikipedia.com (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jack_Delano)
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| Jack Delano in his studio. Trujillo Alto, Puerto Rico, 1990. Image courtesy of Wikipedia.com (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jack_Delano) |
