Culebra

“Culebra is a pretty good place to leave your stress behind,” said the lady who had stroked, caressed, pounded and pulled my body for a half hour.

Relax—it was all done in public.

And the lady, besides giving me a very good massage, was right. Culebra does induce relaxation. In fact, I arrived under the assumption that I was fine, rested, relaxed. And could barely get out of bed the next day.

It’s Puerto Rico’s version of Key West. It’s a tiny island between the main island and the Virgin Islands. And yes, it has a seriously good beach.

It’s a place I’m always a little suspicious of, son of a newspaperman that I am. Are the people really that cool? Is it that smooth—the relationship between the town people and the invaders? The gringos come and open chic little shops and hang at the beach, but what do the locals do?

Well, I first came to the place twenty years ago, when I was just new to Puerto Rico. And yes, it was magical: quiet, tranquil, relaxed. And the people seemed friendly, too. Would it be different now?

The answer seems to be no. Or so says Luis, the cab driver. I had just spotted a very upscale resort, and wondered how the town felt about it.

Well, it created jobs, both in the building of it and today. And he says the island doesn’t want anything bigger. A thousand-room hotel would swell the population from 2000 to 10,000—nobody can imagine that.

“But it’s still a very safe place. In fact, my door to the house is unlocked, and I have cash on the dining room table.”

OK—so what are they all doing?

The answer seems to be fixing the roads.

“The mayor’s got all this federal money—so he put ‘em all to work. Anybody who wants a job is working. If they don’t want to work, well—those days are over.”

True, I did see guys working on the roads. I also saw guys drinking beer in the morning in front of their ramshackle house. So I’d call it a draw.

“Guy hasn’t opened in six months,” shouted a guy driving by, beer can in hand. Well, everybody deserves a day at the beach, and at least he was adding color.

Of which there is quite a lot. Here’s the door to the guesthouse I was staying in…

Or what about this?

Walking the town, I came on an old gentleman carving ships out of cocoanut shells. He was also feeding banana kwits.…

Every morning he sprinkles sugar on the plate….

Well, it’s got its charm, this little island. What it doesn’t have is the pharmaceutical factory. In the days when I first came here, it was Baxter. Then it changed hands a few times, and is now shuttered.

So in a way, it’s an elusive island. The only thing here is tourism, and construction. Periodically, the state government will decide on a project, start to build it, and then go away. Even the city hall isn’t done. And there’s a huge complex by the airport that sits unfinished, open, and vandalized.

If you’re young and gringo, Culebra is great. But for the natives? Well, there are constant problems with the ferry. Prices are high—everything comes in from the main island. The “hospital” isn’t much more than a dispensary. And it’s hard to attract teachers to the island.

In one of the shops, I found myself translating for a gringa. She was buying food, and clearly had lived some time on the island. Why hadn’t she learned Spanish?

Luis—the cab driver—might be right. Maybe all is well. Why do I feel so unsure?