When Size is Everything

I had written a post in this blog about them, the crustiest old men in Puerto Rico. And then I got to wondering—how much of Puerto Rico could I see by público? Could I get to all 78 towns on the island? What would I learn? What would I see?

And was it safe? Puerto Rico has a murder rate three or four times that of New York City. What about robbery? Curiously, you’re probably more likely to be robbed if you’re driving a Lexus than riding a público. But still….

But Puerto Rico is perhaps the most stratified place on earth. The rich only speak to the rich, the poor to the poor. They may pass each other in Plaza las Américas, but they don’t speak.

As well, I had spent 7 years inside a cold concrete box. Time to break out, break free, see something else besides cold white walls.

Well, it seemed like the right thing to do, so I made a test. Could I get to Bayamón? Sure, used to do it all the time when I was working at Bacardi, and then later Wal-Mart.  

Unfortunately, the way to Bayamón means passing through Cataño. And passing through is exactly what you should do. It is, frankly, the ugliest town in Puerto Rico, and has, as well, some of the least friendly people on the island.

And it produced—perhaps only it could—one of the island’s most colorful mayors. Called El Amolao, he never shied away from speaking his mind. Especially after someone gave him a few palmolives—his word for Heineken beer. (Explanation—both Palmolive soap and Heineken beer left you feeling soft and fresh, one on the outside, the other…oh forget it, it’s better in Spanish….)

Thinking spectacularly outside the box, he plunged into the fine arts. And somehow got hooked up with a Russian sculptor who needed to unload a monstrosity that was bigger than the Statue of Liberty. City fathers in New York, Boston, and Miami took one look, shuddered, and said no to it. (Baltimore deemed it “From Russia with Ugh”) But guess what! It was free! Wow! Who could say no?

Well, there was a little hitch—the municipality would have to pick up the tab for getting the thing to Puerto Rico. And that, curiously, came to 2.6 million bucks—though other shippers estimated that they could do the job for about half a million. But petty minds will always find something to carp about, right?

Well, the thing—or rather its 2700 parts—came. Now then—where to put it? Well, not a problem for Amolao. There was a little park, right there next to the rum factory—Bacardi (you may have heard of it….). Lots of folks go there to tour the factory—so they could see the largest statue in the world at the same time.

Great idea, right?

Errr…no.

Seems that the statue would be right in the flight path for the planes flying in to San Juan. And the FAA balked.

There may have been another problem, as well. The park was created with fill. And this monster weighs over 600 tons, so it presented a few engineering problems. Amolao flew off to Russia to speak with the sculptor. And came back to utter one of his best lines. How did he like Russia?

Just fine! Weren’t any niggers there!

Well, the sculpture languished in the park next to the Bacardi factory. And to protect the statue from metal thieves? Close the park and have 24-hour security!

And so I would peer at it, through the chain link fence when I was teaching at Bacardi. The guard, until he learned to ignore me, would have his hand on his gun.

Well, the most recent news is that a city 30 miles away has agreed to take on the monstrosity, and is spending 92 million dollars to do so.

Oh, and one last thing. Harry swears that it’s not even Christopher Colombus. Seems the sculptor really was doing Peter the Great. Then realized that the 500 anniversary of Columbus’s maiden journey was coming up. So he changed it at the last minute.

Wish it were true. But The Telegraph, following this saga from the saner shores of Britain, says it’s not true. Though the sculptor, described as “one of Russia’s best-known sculptors who has produced a string of works reviled the world over,” did produce a Peter the Great.

That one was so ugly that protesters threatened to blow it up!

I leave gentle readers of this blog with a final photo, and hope that they don’t see what I see in it….

One remembers Hugo Chávez, and his monologue of the gran papá in his pants….