Dead Dog Beach

“It’s called underdevelopment,” said a friend over coffee. He’s not only Puerto Rican, he’s an independentista, but he’s lived in the states for years now.

What did he mean? Well, let’s revisit the gentlemen who sell parking on the streets. They are indignant because the police are harassing them. The police are responding that they are merely enforcing the law. They also argue that making a statement like, “hey, gimme five bucks and I’ll make sure nothing happens to your car,” is slightly intimidating. In addition, no one “owns” the street, and these gentlemen have effectively usurped public parking and made it private. “Hey,” say the guys, “you should be glad we have a job! The government hasn’t given us a job, so we made one ourselves! Bíjhte? You see?”

You get that?

If not, you may be living in a developed country—meaning that there is a common agreement, a social contract that is understood and honored. Laws are obeyed, efficiency is the norm, the system works.

What works in Puerto Rico is the human connection. And it applies to basic things. Years ago, I had a problem with my phone. I did what any normal person would do—went to the phone company and got a work order number.

Absolutely the correct thing to do.

What did I do wrong?

I omitted step two. Because the second part of the process is to locate a pala or shovel. That’s anybody who works for—or knows somebody who works for—the telephone company. You need the work order number not to get the work done, but to tell your friend—or the daughter of the hairdresser of the assistant to the division of customer service.  

You know what happened. I waited and waited and waited some more. Then, I mentioned the situation to a student at La Fortaleza—the governor’s mansion. The words were barely out of my mouth when she was calling….

…the president of the telephone company.

I live three blocks from the mansion. And how many telephone company trucks were outside my building 45 minutes later?

Look—it shouldn’t be that way. The president of the telephone company shouldn’t be getting calls about a work order. Nobody can have a friend in every one of the hundreds of government agencies. And sending three trucks to my house that day was just a bit overkill….

A friend in Puerto Rico is like a friend nowhere else. A friend will move the firmament to help you. A friend will cheerfully pick you up at the airport at three o’clock in the morning, bringing along his entire family and all of their boyfriends / girlfriends and take you home where his wife is making an asopao (a Puerto Rican stew / soup) and everybody will crack open numerous beers and tell stories and jokes.

In short, we do people very well here.

Animals?

Err, no. Yes, there are people who are ardent in their love of animals. But at virtually every restaurant, there are stray dogs hungrily staring at you, imploring you for food. To an animal lover, it can be a shock coming to Puerto Rico.

Which is what a woman did. Christina Beckles, a former Golden Glove boxer and a major animal lover, was here on the island with her husband. A professional stunt man, he was filming a miniseries here on the island when the chauffeur of the van he was riding in deliberately ran over one of the 150,000 stray dogs that haunt the island. Shocked, he ordered the driver to stop the van, got out, and rescued a group of puppies.

They discovered that there were several known dumping places for unwanted animals. And that the island’s five shelters had a euthanasia rate of 97%. So they went to one of the most notorious of the dumping places—Dead Dog Beach—on the southeast coast.

Dead dog because the kids do a little target practice after hours, and leave their kill on the beach.

Well, Christina decided to do something about it. And so far, she has rescued 60 dogs and given them away to good homes. She started The Sato Project, sato being the Puerto Rican word for mongrel. She visits the island four or five times a year, and is in daily communication with a woman who feeds the dogs at the beach.

She is—you might have guessed—British.

Oh, and also a saint….

Different Realities

The nice thing about having a shrink is that not only can you talk about yourself, you’re actually supposed to.

Which may be why I was freely kvetching, yesterday, as I sat (not lay) on the couch.

“I want my life now to go back to normal,” I said, or something of the sort.

Silence—all these guys know how to use silence. And a very effective technique it is, too. You find yourself blurting ANYTHING just to relieve the silence.

So I went on.

“First I went to Wisconsin for ten days in early May and that was nice…though not without challenges. Then I went to London for ten days and that was nice though cold. Then we came back and Taí was here and that was wonderful but…”

More silence. A Harvard degree he has, but he can’t talk?

“Things are subtly different when she’s here. Usually for the better. The house gets cleaner. Glasses left in the sink turn up washed in the drainer. I can crash early to bed and that’s perfectly fine—Raf will have someone to talk to. It’s better, but it’s not normal.”

I was pondering all this after my walk this morning, as I was reading the local rag—El Nuevo Día. Lead story—our local legislature is considering a ban on the cuidadores callejeros. Caretakers of the street, loosely….

…not that that helps.

OK—let me explain. For years, guys have worked the public streets, offering help in parallel parking and assurances that nothing will happen to their car. A minor protection scheme, and a good idea, really. You don’t want your car stolen, do you? Naturally, grateful citizens think to give a little something—a pesito or two—from time to time. And of course it’s logical that over the years these guys have staked out their territory—and fight fiercely anyone moving in on them. As well, with such a service, naturally a warm relationship develops between the street guys and the drivers (and / or parkers).

Churlish people allege that this has converted public parking into private parking for regulars. Oh, and also that anyone NOT offering that little pesito is gonna find his car badly scratched on return. Well, they were warned, right?

After all, their car wasn’t stolen….

This now makes perfect sense to me, though there was a time it didn’t. I had questions—silly questions—like “why can the governor call me up and invite me to the Three King’s Day party, but he can’t call to say the tsunami is coming?”

I learned, and explained it later to a friend.

“Webster,” I said, “there are when where what and how questions. But there are NO why questions….”

See?

But this didn’t come easily, this let’s-call-it relaxed way of thinking. Especially since by all appearances, the laws are greatly respected in Puerto Rico. No Estacione, Ley 40. No Fumar, Ley 160. I used to find it curious—were all the Puerto Ricans running around with law books, checking out and citing all these laws? Why didn’t I see people with them?

And why is the car right in front of the No Parking sign, or the guy smoking in front of the No Smoking sign?

I checked my words, not wanting to be the ugly American. But I did mention it to a friend, a Puerto Rican with the flag of the island tattooed on his neck….

“Puerto Ricans are the most LAWLESS people on earth,” he roared. “They will do anything—ANYTHING—for mamita. They will move heaven and earth for their friends. But they are completely clueless when acting toward a stranger!”

Note the pronoun “they” from the Puerto Rican tattooed gentleman….

“Now, AMERICANS—that’s different. Not one—ONE—American would park their car in a handicapped parking spot. But Puerto Ricans! Hah, they’ll run the lady down in her wheel chair, just to get her spot!”

He raged on. I feared his words might be incendiary.

“Absolutely,” a woman shouted from across the street—why risk life and limb when you can just raise your voice? “Beasts, absolute beasts—all of them!”

This no longer strikes me as strange.

Nor does it seem strange that the public streets have become private parking. After all, as one of the caretakers said, the government doesn’t give him food or a job. So he’s gotta do something, right?

Nor does it seem odd that one day the ACLU is terming our local police force as abusive and running amok (well, so did the US Department of Justice four years back) and the next day we’re worrying about the caretakers of the streets.

Nor is it terribly curious that anyone would be interested in what laws are being passed since…

…nobody enforces the laws anyway….

See?