I like to travel on a whim. Before I leave, I try to have one or two fixed points, a rental car, a hotel booked upon arrival, plans that do not control the trip, but give piece of mind if everything goes bad. Having a place to sleep, even if it is a Hyundai, adds a lot to my experience. I once picked a hitch-hiker up in a paddock tens of miles from the closest town shortly before dark. She was certainly having something of an adventure preparing to sleep in a cow pasture, but I like my adventure to be part of the journey, not its entirety.
Obviously, this type of travel has an effect on what I see and do. I can find myself driving like it is an addiction. If there is not much scenery, why not drive after dark to wake up at your destination? Admittedly, some of the "little things" get skipped. Sometimes the "big things" are sold out, or too busy for my tastes when I arrive, and I have to seek out a consolation prize. All-in-all though, I like this travel method better than scripted tours.
When I was looking for a place to spend the holidays, my travelling companions wanted to escape the wintry reality of our lives for a location warm and sunny (ruling out Resolute). Thoughts of Mexico, Latin America, Hawaii, and the Southwest were the first to spring up. Europe, Southeast Asia, Australia, and Northern Africa were considered, and while it seemed the cold European destinations were within budget, the warm weather escapes were expensive the world over. Budgetary attrition eventually showed Puerto Rico as a surprisingly affordable destination.
Flights were booked, and first night's hotel and rental car reserved shortly afterwards. The three of us wanted to get some trail running in, to preview each other for future run-packing (think backpacking, but increase the miles and decrease the weight) expeditions. As we researched, it seemed that the trails were shorter than we had hoped, and the camping less prevalent. We continued undeterred with the loose planning, as online reports varied as to the availability of both.
Travelers to Puerto Rico would do well to read the Lonely Planet cover to cover before dreaming up such a trip, but for me, that reduces the whimsical travel spirit. Needless to say, the LP was not consulted regarding camping and trails until it was much too late to really change course, but like the girl in the paddock, this added to our adventure, kind of.
Trip reports are usually a mix of fun and boredom to write. It is fun to think through a trip over again, but it is kind of boring to painstakingly recount adventures. Something like the methods and results sections of a thesis. The writing is easy, and kind of fun, but also the driest writing in the entire document. Trying to describe traveling by whimsy in Puerto Rico is a challenge because the trip was more a crescendo of frustration, than an adventure of epic or life-altering experiences.
I think the best way to describe the trip succinctly is to say that after 10 days in PR, we all agreed, that we do not need to return to the island. Making it the first place on the globe that any of the three of us had ever experienced the feeling of having well and truly experienced a place sufficiently to not return. That paints a grim picture of a beautiful tropical island steeped in history, and glosses over the heartbreak at the sight of innumerable feral cats and abandoned dogs (which will be covered in a subsequent post, as their plight requires a narrative that is sure to be tearful to write). Even with that travel first, it is not fair to the highs, the lows, or the frustrations of the trip to give a summary one-line description.
We arrived in San Juan on Christmas Eve. We had booked a hotel in the heart of Old San Juan, a mere minutes walk from touristy restaurants, Spanish forts, and La Fortaleza, the oldest continuously used executive mansion in the Americas. It was also minutes from the second busiest cruise ship harbor in the world (with the most cruise ships calling it their home port). Tourists abounded, but services were largely closed for the holiday, and we spent two days wandering streets packed with traffic, full of tourists, and many shuttered attractions. We decided to return at the end of the trip to tour the UNESCO World Heritage sites that are San Cristobal, El Moro, and La Fortaleza, and headed east.
From San Juan, the city of Fajardo is a short drive along beaches crowded with 55-gallon drums (the standard Puerto Rican trash can) overflowing with trash, or a brief trip on the new toll roads. We opted for the slightly slower route along the coast, and headed for a park on a peninsula at the northeastern corner of the island. Upon arrival at the park gate, we were turned away by security because the public park was "by reservation only." We detoured to a beach, broke out the guides, and decided to try our luck on Vieques, one of the Spanish Virgin Islands, that the US took from Spain along with Puerto Rico at the close of the Spanish-American War.
Leary to get back on another ferry that crossed what I would call open water after my Greek experience, we sat on the open deck of the $2 ferry, hiding in the lee of the cockpit to get out of the squalls as we neared the island port. The ride there was mostly motion sick free, benefiting from the calm water, and the strong, fresh breeze blowing through pregnant clouds. Disembarking we tried to figure out how to navigate the little island with every hotel and car booked for the holiday. We walked to the visitor center, which was closed, presumably because it was after four in the afternoon, though I did not look at the sign before a crusty old man offered us information.
Sarah told him we were looking for camping, and after gleaning from Fodor's that island taxi's often try to gouge on fairs, we agreed to $5 per person for him to drive us in his "cab" to the campground. Sarah took shotgun, Denise behind her, and I behind the driver of this downtrodden Jeep Cherokee, long depressed from constant salt spray. Sarah, squinted through the rain soaked windshield, the ineffective wipers occasionally smearing the water, as the driver dodged wild horses, aware constantly that her seat belt was broken. Denise and I exchanged glances while I considered the best choke hold to use on a drive who was wielding a weapon, knowing Sarah would be unhindered in her escape by safety devices such as a seat belt. He offered travel tips for the bioluminescent bay, and proved himself harmless by bitching about his neighbor cutting down trees, then dropping us safely at a grassy field, fenced in "to keep the horses out," and filled with tents and a fecal-rich public toilet.
We paid him the $15 fair, and he offered us a business card. It had a phone number and the word "Jug." Sarah asked what she should call him, giving us a look like we were semi-moronic, he said, "Jug." We parted ways. Set up camp, ate dinner, walked on the beach, then headed to the random parking lot where Jug had said the bio-bay tours meet at 20:00.
A fleet of fifteen passenger vans, and a great gaggle of people were loitering, and Sarah inquired if there was space on the tour, telling the man in charge that a man called Jug recommended them. The tour guide sighed that his group was quite large, then took the $120 for three of us. We signed waivers, the customers were divided into boats, then everyone climbed aboard the vans. The drivers raced for position (literally) on the rough back roads to Mosquito Bay, where wind piles up luminescent plankton who gorge on the tannins from the mangroves. I was given a personal flotation device meant for a small child, but I was able to force it on like a girl's cropped mini-vest, and we boarded our three person kayak equipped with two paddles. I took the middle, charged with keeping our possessions dry, and pushing away the torpedoes that were inexperienced kayakers before an imminent collision.
The tour rallied around a pontoon boat as all fifty plus people were put into boats. A man who called himself Kevin docked next to us, and worried about his wallet and smartphone getting wet, and seeing I was guarding a backpack of such valuables, handed them to me for safe keeping. He knew only my first name and our boat number, but judged us to be safer than the water-filled sit on top kayaks were would be piloting around the bay.
The moon was full, so the plankton were outdone, but the bow wave and paddle strokes of each kayak showed a faint green glow as we paddled 100 yards along the shoreline. We docked with one another, forming a formidable flotilla, and the guide gave a discussion based partly on science, and partly on tourism magic, about the bay. After a 10 minute talk, we were given five minutes of free paddle, then the guides turned us back for the 100 yard paddle back to the put-in. We lingered at the back of the armada, not wanting to rush to the mosquitoes that gave their namesake to the bay.
We were delivered back to the parking lot after the jostling ride back out the rough roads, then headed to our tents, and climbed in under an 80 degree cloudburst. The night was hot. A squall would make landfall, rain would fall on my face, and I would zip closed the tent fly. The temperature would rise, and we would toss and turn on our ultra-light sleeping pads, sweating naked on the waterproof, air-proof nylon. The rain would stop, and I would unzip the fly, gasping for the ocean breeze that would certainly bring more rain and another sleepless cycle of our steam room tent.
At first light we stumbled to the beach, exhausted from a sleepless tropical night. We trotted down the beach, and rinsed off in the water that looked perfect, but the red flag declared to be dangerous. We broke camp, unsure what to really do on an island too big to walk around, but to small to justify renting a car that was not available anyway. We walked to the nearest town, and decided to head back to the ferry, missing out on some of the sights to be had on the island. We walked around town, and failed to attract the attention of any of the taxis. A couple was trying to find a taxi to a beach, and hoped that with three bound for the ferry, and two for a beach, we could sway a publico to take the bait and give us all a lift. Before a publico appeared, an ex-marine appeared from a bar, finishing a can of beer, and offered us a ride to the other side of the island. We looked at each other, then accepted guessing that it could be no worse than Jug.
He opened the back of his jalopy Jeep, reminiscent in all ways but color and four functioning seat belts to the previous night's ride. When I went to climb inside, a cloud of small flies fled from the damp seat I sat down on. There were introductions all around, some chit-chat, then he started some reggae, declaring, "awkward silence bad," as he cracked open another beer.
Aside from the driver self-medicating his purple heart, the conveyance seemed safer than the night before, and the trip was free, aside from the "gas money" I gave him that was quickly relabeled "beer money." We arrived in perfect time for the next ferry, which, unfortunately, was a closed cabin. We sat down as aft as we could, then let Cheaper by the Dozen wash over us. Denise made the journey sickened only by the horribleness of Steve Martin's descent from The Jerk to whatever we were being subjected to. Sarah and I suffered from a much stronger illness, created by the rolling of the boat, and the stale hot air in the cabin. Fortunately, the trip was over before we reached Mediterranean levels of illness.
Upon disembarkation, we headed back to our Hyundai, saddled up, and drove to El Yunque, the US Forest Service's forest on the island. We arrived at the visitor's center, and inquired about camping at the front desk. The worker made a phone call, then led us to a gate marked "employees only," which he opened for us. He told us to take the elevator to the basement, and Jose would meet us there. The doors slid open to a quiet waiting room, lights dimmed, and a strange nativity scene with severe scale problems. A wise man with an s-curved staff stared uncomfortably upon us as we waited for Jose.
Jose arrived, discussed the regulations, issued us a permit, then turned us loose on the park, touting the greatness of the informational video that we decided to not watch. Instead, we headed back to Fajardo to buy groceries before we were locked into the park at 18:00. On our way to the store, we had two first experiences. Jose called us, as we had made an error in the primary phone number, and he wanted to get an accurate one, meaning he was actually fact-checking our permit. Second, as we approached a small town we heard music blaring, and as we rounded a corner, we found the source. In front of us, was a red F-150, a generator running in the bed to power four enormous floor speakers capping a metal stand that towered above the cab. This was beyond any car stereo we had ever seen before Puerto Rico, but apparently modest by PR standards. We giggled in mixed amazement and disgust as the top-heavy truck swayed around corners, relieved when it turned off in a different direction.
Back in the park, we set up camp at our designated campsite, a muddy wide spot on a disused road at the top of the park. With not much to do at our campsite, we headed to the closest restroom to use the washroom and brush our teeth before retiring for the night. The rangers were chasing the stragglers from the park, trying to avoid launching a search for someone who was probably just staying too long at La Mina Falls, the park's top attraction. Once they located the last day users, we were told to return to our campsites, and not leave until the park opened in the morning. We obliged, finding the whole experience a little strange.
The next morning we ran the trail to La Mina Falls, then up to the highest point in the park, exhausting all but the most trivial of trails, and decided to head back to San Juan to procure a fuel canister before heading to another part of the island.
--Part II will be posted on Monday the 14th, along with pictures from the trip!--
Obviously, this type of travel has an effect on what I see and do. I can find myself driving like it is an addiction. If there is not much scenery, why not drive after dark to wake up at your destination? Admittedly, some of the "little things" get skipped. Sometimes the "big things" are sold out, or too busy for my tastes when I arrive, and I have to seek out a consolation prize. All-in-all though, I like this travel method better than scripted tours.
When I was looking for a place to spend the holidays, my travelling companions wanted to escape the wintry reality of our lives for a location warm and sunny (ruling out Resolute). Thoughts of Mexico, Latin America, Hawaii, and the Southwest were the first to spring up. Europe, Southeast Asia, Australia, and Northern Africa were considered, and while it seemed the cold European destinations were within budget, the warm weather escapes were expensive the world over. Budgetary attrition eventually showed Puerto Rico as a surprisingly affordable destination.
Flights were booked, and first night's hotel and rental car reserved shortly afterwards. The three of us wanted to get some trail running in, to preview each other for future run-packing (think backpacking, but increase the miles and decrease the weight) expeditions. As we researched, it seemed that the trails were shorter than we had hoped, and the camping less prevalent. We continued undeterred with the loose planning, as online reports varied as to the availability of both.
Travelers to Puerto Rico would do well to read the Lonely Planet cover to cover before dreaming up such a trip, but for me, that reduces the whimsical travel spirit. Needless to say, the LP was not consulted regarding camping and trails until it was much too late to really change course, but like the girl in the paddock, this added to our adventure, kind of.
Trip reports are usually a mix of fun and boredom to write. It is fun to think through a trip over again, but it is kind of boring to painstakingly recount adventures. Something like the methods and results sections of a thesis. The writing is easy, and kind of fun, but also the driest writing in the entire document. Trying to describe traveling by whimsy in Puerto Rico is a challenge because the trip was more a crescendo of frustration, than an adventure of epic or life-altering experiences.
I think the best way to describe the trip succinctly is to say that after 10 days in PR, we all agreed, that we do not need to return to the island. Making it the first place on the globe that any of the three of us had ever experienced the feeling of having well and truly experienced a place sufficiently to not return. That paints a grim picture of a beautiful tropical island steeped in history, and glosses over the heartbreak at the sight of innumerable feral cats and abandoned dogs (which will be covered in a subsequent post, as their plight requires a narrative that is sure to be tearful to write). Even with that travel first, it is not fair to the highs, the lows, or the frustrations of the trip to give a summary one-line description.
We arrived in San Juan on Christmas Eve. We had booked a hotel in the heart of Old San Juan, a mere minutes walk from touristy restaurants, Spanish forts, and La Fortaleza, the oldest continuously used executive mansion in the Americas. It was also minutes from the second busiest cruise ship harbor in the world (with the most cruise ships calling it their home port). Tourists abounded, but services were largely closed for the holiday, and we spent two days wandering streets packed with traffic, full of tourists, and many shuttered attractions. We decided to return at the end of the trip to tour the UNESCO World Heritage sites that are San Cristobal, El Moro, and La Fortaleza, and headed east.
From San Juan, the city of Fajardo is a short drive along beaches crowded with 55-gallon drums (the standard Puerto Rican trash can) overflowing with trash, or a brief trip on the new toll roads. We opted for the slightly slower route along the coast, and headed for a park on a peninsula at the northeastern corner of the island. Upon arrival at the park gate, we were turned away by security because the public park was "by reservation only." We detoured to a beach, broke out the guides, and decided to try our luck on Vieques, one of the Spanish Virgin Islands, that the US took from Spain along with Puerto Rico at the close of the Spanish-American War.
Leary to get back on another ferry that crossed what I would call open water after my Greek experience, we sat on the open deck of the $2 ferry, hiding in the lee of the cockpit to get out of the squalls as we neared the island port. The ride there was mostly motion sick free, benefiting from the calm water, and the strong, fresh breeze blowing through pregnant clouds. Disembarking we tried to figure out how to navigate the little island with every hotel and car booked for the holiday. We walked to the visitor center, which was closed, presumably because it was after four in the afternoon, though I did not look at the sign before a crusty old man offered us information.
Sarah told him we were looking for camping, and after gleaning from Fodor's that island taxi's often try to gouge on fairs, we agreed to $5 per person for him to drive us in his "cab" to the campground. Sarah took shotgun, Denise behind her, and I behind the driver of this downtrodden Jeep Cherokee, long depressed from constant salt spray. Sarah, squinted through the rain soaked windshield, the ineffective wipers occasionally smearing the water, as the driver dodged wild horses, aware constantly that her seat belt was broken. Denise and I exchanged glances while I considered the best choke hold to use on a drive who was wielding a weapon, knowing Sarah would be unhindered in her escape by safety devices such as a seat belt. He offered travel tips for the bioluminescent bay, and proved himself harmless by bitching about his neighbor cutting down trees, then dropping us safely at a grassy field, fenced in "to keep the horses out," and filled with tents and a fecal-rich public toilet.
We paid him the $15 fair, and he offered us a business card. It had a phone number and the word "Jug." Sarah asked what she should call him, giving us a look like we were semi-moronic, he said, "Jug." We parted ways. Set up camp, ate dinner, walked on the beach, then headed to the random parking lot where Jug had said the bio-bay tours meet at 20:00.
A fleet of fifteen passenger vans, and a great gaggle of people were loitering, and Sarah inquired if there was space on the tour, telling the man in charge that a man called Jug recommended them. The tour guide sighed that his group was quite large, then took the $120 for three of us. We signed waivers, the customers were divided into boats, then everyone climbed aboard the vans. The drivers raced for position (literally) on the rough back roads to Mosquito Bay, where wind piles up luminescent plankton who gorge on the tannins from the mangroves. I was given a personal flotation device meant for a small child, but I was able to force it on like a girl's cropped mini-vest, and we boarded our three person kayak equipped with two paddles. I took the middle, charged with keeping our possessions dry, and pushing away the torpedoes that were inexperienced kayakers before an imminent collision.
The tour rallied around a pontoon boat as all fifty plus people were put into boats. A man who called himself Kevin docked next to us, and worried about his wallet and smartphone getting wet, and seeing I was guarding a backpack of such valuables, handed them to me for safe keeping. He knew only my first name and our boat number, but judged us to be safer than the water-filled sit on top kayaks were would be piloting around the bay.
The moon was full, so the plankton were outdone, but the bow wave and paddle strokes of each kayak showed a faint green glow as we paddled 100 yards along the shoreline. We docked with one another, forming a formidable flotilla, and the guide gave a discussion based partly on science, and partly on tourism magic, about the bay. After a 10 minute talk, we were given five minutes of free paddle, then the guides turned us back for the 100 yard paddle back to the put-in. We lingered at the back of the armada, not wanting to rush to the mosquitoes that gave their namesake to the bay.
We were delivered back to the parking lot after the jostling ride back out the rough roads, then headed to our tents, and climbed in under an 80 degree cloudburst. The night was hot. A squall would make landfall, rain would fall on my face, and I would zip closed the tent fly. The temperature would rise, and we would toss and turn on our ultra-light sleeping pads, sweating naked on the waterproof, air-proof nylon. The rain would stop, and I would unzip the fly, gasping for the ocean breeze that would certainly bring more rain and another sleepless cycle of our steam room tent.
At first light we stumbled to the beach, exhausted from a sleepless tropical night. We trotted down the beach, and rinsed off in the water that looked perfect, but the red flag declared to be dangerous. We broke camp, unsure what to really do on an island too big to walk around, but to small to justify renting a car that was not available anyway. We walked to the nearest town, and decided to head back to the ferry, missing out on some of the sights to be had on the island. We walked around town, and failed to attract the attention of any of the taxis. A couple was trying to find a taxi to a beach, and hoped that with three bound for the ferry, and two for a beach, we could sway a publico to take the bait and give us all a lift. Before a publico appeared, an ex-marine appeared from a bar, finishing a can of beer, and offered us a ride to the other side of the island. We looked at each other, then accepted guessing that it could be no worse than Jug.
He opened the back of his jalopy Jeep, reminiscent in all ways but color and four functioning seat belts to the previous night's ride. When I went to climb inside, a cloud of small flies fled from the damp seat I sat down on. There were introductions all around, some chit-chat, then he started some reggae, declaring, "awkward silence bad," as he cracked open another beer.
Aside from the driver self-medicating his purple heart, the conveyance seemed safer than the night before, and the trip was free, aside from the "gas money" I gave him that was quickly relabeled "beer money." We arrived in perfect time for the next ferry, which, unfortunately, was a closed cabin. We sat down as aft as we could, then let Cheaper by the Dozen wash over us. Denise made the journey sickened only by the horribleness of Steve Martin's descent from The Jerk to whatever we were being subjected to. Sarah and I suffered from a much stronger illness, created by the rolling of the boat, and the stale hot air in the cabin. Fortunately, the trip was over before we reached Mediterranean levels of illness.
Upon disembarkation, we headed back to our Hyundai, saddled up, and drove to El Yunque, the US Forest Service's forest on the island. We arrived at the visitor's center, and inquired about camping at the front desk. The worker made a phone call, then led us to a gate marked "employees only," which he opened for us. He told us to take the elevator to the basement, and Jose would meet us there. The doors slid open to a quiet waiting room, lights dimmed, and a strange nativity scene with severe scale problems. A wise man with an s-curved staff stared uncomfortably upon us as we waited for Jose.
Jose arrived, discussed the regulations, issued us a permit, then turned us loose on the park, touting the greatness of the informational video that we decided to not watch. Instead, we headed back to Fajardo to buy groceries before we were locked into the park at 18:00. On our way to the store, we had two first experiences. Jose called us, as we had made an error in the primary phone number, and he wanted to get an accurate one, meaning he was actually fact-checking our permit. Second, as we approached a small town we heard music blaring, and as we rounded a corner, we found the source. In front of us, was a red F-150, a generator running in the bed to power four enormous floor speakers capping a metal stand that towered above the cab. This was beyond any car stereo we had ever seen before Puerto Rico, but apparently modest by PR standards. We giggled in mixed amazement and disgust as the top-heavy truck swayed around corners, relieved when it turned off in a different direction.
Back in the park, we set up camp at our designated campsite, a muddy wide spot on a disused road at the top of the park. With not much to do at our campsite, we headed to the closest restroom to use the washroom and brush our teeth before retiring for the night. The rangers were chasing the stragglers from the park, trying to avoid launching a search for someone who was probably just staying too long at La Mina Falls, the park's top attraction. Once they located the last day users, we were told to return to our campsites, and not leave until the park opened in the morning. We obliged, finding the whole experience a little strange.
The next morning we ran the trail to La Mina Falls, then up to the highest point in the park, exhausting all but the most trivial of trails, and decided to head back to San Juan to procure a fuel canister before heading to another part of the island.
--Part II will be posted on Monday the 14th, along with pictures from the trip!--
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