Puerto Rico: The Grand Tour Part II

A tool that I have added to my travel arsenal is Google Maps.  Having a smartphone in my pocket, and three smartphones in the car makes Google Maps, and the internet, hyper-accessible.  Google Maps proved okay in Greece, and is nearly impeccable in the US, Canada, and New Zealand.  In Puerto Rico though, Maps needs work.  You want a coffee shop for a latte and a scone in the morning?  Try the Coldstone Creamery seven miles away.  A restaurant open for lunch?  Try this alley.  The only outdoor store in all of Puerto Rico?  Head to the financial district, it should nestled in this bank headquarters.  Eventually, we figured out that if you could find the address online, and entered that into Google Maps, it was better, but it did not really help you navigate the maze of one-way streets that were all too often lacking street signs (admittedly, not entirely Google's fault).

In our pursuit of fuel, our unintentional tour of San Juan eventually led us to what appeared to be a very sketchy neighborhood, and on the third time around the block, we found the store and on-sidewalk parking in front of it.  Confirming that the neighborhood was less than savory, we rang the doorbell to be buzzed into the gear store.  The chatty proprietor let us in, whilst he was helping the other two customers.  Inside was a surprisingly well stocked store, Acampa, given the apparent lack of interest in the outdoors on the part of Puerto Ricans.  To combat the hot nights, Sarah and Denise bought cotton covers for their sleeping pads.  Denise and I each bought a pair of The North Face shorts to better deal with the heat and humidity.  Lastly, Denise acquired a canister of fuel for morning tea.  We were let out of the store after making our purchases, and sharing our experience with the camping regulations in El Yunque.

Back in the Hyundai, we turned south, and headed for Ponce.  The guidebooks describe Ponce as having the charm of Old San Juan before the cruise ships arrived.  As we approached the city, Denise found a hotel just off the plaza with reasonable rates, and we headed there.  We picked up the last room for three in the hotel, went for a walk around the plaza's opulent light display, including a 25 foot tall LED nativity, then settled in for the night.

The next morning we hiked through the city in search of coffee.  The cute coffee shop was closed for the holiday season.  The city's other cute coffee shop, located next door, was also closed for the holiday season.  We found the pedestrian mall that hosted dollar stores and a fleet of food vendors lacking in refined coffee options.  We headed for the touristy plaza, and rejected a junk-souvenir shop's coffee bar, as it lacked soy milk and ambiance.  Defeated, we went to the coffee shop in the Ramada.  If McDonald's created a coffee shop, it would feel less like McDonald's than this place.  I suppose McCafe is the McDonald's coffee shop, and though I have never been in one, I imagine they have more soul and character than what the Ramada mustered in their centuries old building, overlooking a centuries old plaza dominated by a towering cathedral.  We ordered, paid, and waited.  Ten minutes passed, and I got my orange juice.  I finished my orange juice, and the coffee was still in process.  We loitered, discussing our plans, lamenting being stuck between too touristy San Juan, and not developed enough PR.  Our group was not incapable of making decisions, but as still new traveling companions, we were still slow in the process, not certain of the group dynamics.  Before the coffee arrived, we had decided to head east.  (The next time we would be at this shop, Denise went early, armed with a book, while Sarah and I retrieved the car from parking.)

Coffee finally in hand, we piled into the Hyundai, and drove east along the southern coast.  We overshot our first destination, then headed back to a marine reserve of mangroves, manatees and kite surfers.  We wandered down a trail to stretch our legs and came upon what was at one time a very nice NOAA campground.  The guidebooks did not mention its existence, and there was no sign  to instruct visitors on the procedures for its use.  We moved on, intent on beginning the trans-mountain drive across the island's interior, highlighted on the all the maps as a scenic route, and designated by sporadic signs with three mountains (sometimes more) and the words "Ruta Panoramica."

The Ruta Panoramica, officially named after the first governor of the Puerto Rican Commonwealth, Luis Muñoz Marín (while Wikipedia labels him the Father of Modern Puerto Rico, his name on this route seems an affront to the nationalists who's final stand was in two of the towns it passes through).  Our first taste of the mountains of Puerto Rico did not disappoint, and we eagerly navigated the last city on the coast to regain the mountain route.

Ferries are not the only way to get motion sick while traveling on islands.  The mountain roads of PR are narrow, winding, and over grown.  Passing oncoming vehicles is done by inches on the comfortable stretches, and less on the narrow, which always corresponded to the biggest drops.  Towards evening, each of us (including me while driving) was battling some level of motion sickness.  We found a campsite, that required a permit obtainable only in San Juan, nestled in the jungle, a creek gurgling along the margin of the tenting area.  We debated camping sans permit.

In our debate between law abidingness and frustration at not being able to register to camp at the campground, a woman with a pixie haircut, whose jaw-dropping looks were too captivating to think of intelligent questions, suggested that we just camp, the lack of permit, "doesn't matter, if they catch you they just ask you to pay."  She drove away, leaving us to ask ourselves why we could not ask her how much they "ask" you to pay, and how they "ask."  We also wondered if she goes unpunished for illegal camping because of the nature of the enforcement, or because the rangers are probably equally stunned by her looks.  The pixie's advice could not sway our childhood lessons on lawful behavior, we drove back to the hotel in Ponce, defeated in our desire to camp in the rain forest.

Still stinging from our defeat in the mountains we headed west from Ponce to the island's "remote" southwest corner.  We explored the Cabo Rojo wildlife refuge where the visitor information center's staff was certain of only one thing when it came to camping, no camping in the refuge.  Uncertain of where to go afterwards, we headed to the lighthouse at the refuge's craggy coast.  We gleefully watched iguanas saunter up and down cliffs, peering at us from cracks in the sea cliffs, or shacking orange waddles presumably to warn us against trying to take their vertical home.  Eventually we sat near a small arch above the surf, and watched the waves crash against the rocks and little lizards wearily dart from bush to bush.  After enjoying the sound of the waves for a time, we began to lament that we could not camp above these waves, and thought about what to do next.  We headed back to the car, and drove to the Dry Forest to see what that park had to offer.

We drove through the entrance gate to the park, past several trails, and though the day was hot, we started dreaming of stringing a few of these trails together for a nice run from dry peaks to the sunny beaches.  We stopped at the information kiosk, and the employee informed us that we had arrived too late, as the park closes at 15:30, a scant twenty minutes later.  He told us that tomorrow they would open at the usual time, 10:00, but close early for New Year's Eve.  We asked about camping in the area.  The shock of being asked a question he had never been asked before was evident on his face.  He ensured us there was no camping in the state park, but thought there may be some camping on the far side of the island.  Things were not looking up for camping in the remote part of the island.  On the drive out, we decided to head up the west coast to where the best surfing on the island is found.  If there are surfers, certainly there must be camping.

As we moved north along the coast, Sarah searched the internet for camping, and found that there may be camping at a forest near where we were, but the information center, where one would register to camp, closed at 16:00, making it unlikely we would arrive on time.  Later, the Lonely Planet would confirm both that we could have camped there, and that we would have not arrived in time to register.  At the northwest corner of the island we, by chance, found The Surf Zone.  

We wandered in, confident they would have some camping advice, and the owner welcomed us into her shop with a, "You look lost, map out, getting dark, what can I help you find"?  We asked her about camping, and she told us that people camp on the beach.  The nearby beach would have the surf coming up in the morning, so it would get pretty noisy, pretty early, and sent us to Secret Spot.  We looked around her cute store with an astonishing inventory.  Sarah found some owl earrings, and Denise ogled some of the other jewelry.  A pair of red skate shoes caught my eye, but I resisted buying them.  Then we set out for the beach.

All beach camping is illegal in Puerto Rico.  This is a fact that the locals seem to either not know, or not care about.  One in three Puerto Ricans are police officers, so your chances of being caught doing something illegal seems high (I made that up, but even DC seems to have a paucity of law enforcement officers on the streets compared to PR).  We found some bushes that hid the car from the road, strategically located halfway between the two closest no camping signs.  I thought about the possibility that camping may not be allowed on the beach, but allowed on the headlands behind the beach, but a no camping sign along the road ruled that interpretation out.  Denise read on the dunes, Sarah went for a run, and I fretted about eating dinner.  Night fell, Denise wandered back to the car, after the surfers cleared the beaches, and someone started flashing a light in her direction.  She and I were acutely aware that we were quite alone on the beach.

We chatted about excuses we could use to tell police officers why we were camping on the beach, why there should be camping, and why a jurisdiction would not allow camping.  We pondered what the penalties of camping on the beach were, and wished we had asked the surf shop lady such things.  We spotted Sarah's headlamp coming across the sand, and when she arrived huffing and puffing from pushing hard on the soft sand, she gasped out that the police were coming.  We technically were not doing anything illegal yet, the tents had not been set up, and the signs definitely did not forbid eating dinner on the beach, but our guilt over intending to do something illegal quickly took control.  Without much debate, we decided to flee before we had to talk to any police.  While we may have been able to get decent information from them had they contacted us, our run-in with the unhelpful and strange park rangers in El Yunque discouraged me from even suggesting talking to the police.  We headed back to the beach that would be crowded with surfers in the morning.

On the way back we discussed that had there been even just one other group camping we would have felt much better about it, but camping on a deserted beach seemed unwise.  By this logic, the crowded beach full of surfers seemed like a relative paradise.  We arrived at the access sign for the beach.  The gate was open, but was crowned with razor ribbon, as was the chain link fence that grew in either direction as far as the dim street lamp shown.  The access sign was also devoid of words like, "bienvenido," instead full of ordinances that limited beach access time to 7 am to 6 pm, the exact hours we were planning to not be at the beach.  We stared down the lonely road, visions of happy, dirt-bag surfers strumming Jack Johnson tunes on ramshackle guitars around a campfire, shadows dancing on coconut palms dashed upon the fence like a prison escape attempt.  We considered briefly checking the rates at the Marriott hotel and casino, located inhospitably across the street from the US Border Patrol fortress.  We headed back towards Secret Spot to check the rates at a dingier beach hotel that seemed more our speed and price.

The room was small, but looked out onto the ocean, the sound of the surf coming through our cracked window.  The hotel had been  decorated for the holiday, a stocking on every door, and a Santa Claus shower curtain in the bath.  We lingered on the beach in the morning, then headed back to the surf shop.  The proprietor asked if we had found Secret Spot.  We said we had, but that we decided to not camp because of the police patrols and no camping signs.  She had not noticed the signs before, and had never seen the police down there.  She told us in the summer there are lots of campers on the beaches, and hypothesized that it might have been the Border Patrol looking for Dominicans.  I failed to be able to resist the red shoes a second time, and Denise a bracelet.  We thanked the owner for her help, and moved on to see more of the island.  Should you ever find yourself in Aguadilla, I do recommend stopping into The Surf Zone, as the staff is friendly, and the inventory is fun and impressive, though not very local.

During the day we talked ourselves up.  We were going to camp for New Year's Eve, Puerto Rican camping regulations be damned.  Sarah called the visitor's center 10 times throughout the day with no success, and it was closed when we arrived.  The caretaker's house had a light on, but we decided they were not home as their two dogs were barking nearly incessantly at us.  We walked passed the locked gate, and down to another gorgeous campsite, cursing that we would be unable to have the car near us in the night.  After much debate, and nearly driving back to Ponce, we decided to park the car at the gate, and camp in the campground.  This would make no mistake to the park rangers exactly what we were doing.  I backed the car up to the gate, trying to position so that an official vehicle could squeeze pass, if they needed.  Denise checked the lock on the gate, it was locked to the chain, but nothing else.  The gate was unlocked!

Giddy, we let ourselves in, drove down to the parking lot, and set up camp in the chorus of coquis (named for their distinctive call, ko-Key).  We celebrated New Year's Eve under the stars, until they went to bed behind clouds, then watched fireflies dance above the creek.  We pitched our tents under the shelter of a picnic gazebo, and enjoyed the unfettered breeze, not suffering from the oppressive rainfly.

In the morning, we packed up, and headed off to run on some of the trails.  We went up to an observation tower, passed a weird "natural" swimming pool, the biggest attraction in the park based on trail use.  After the observation tower we drove west to Cerro Punta, the highest point on the island.  The road to the top is steep, and while the Hyundai definitely could do it, we wanted to run it.  The steepness got the better of our legs quickly, and we walked to the top, looking down on Jayuya, where the LP says a faint trail can be found to the summit, but recommends lots of patience for the hike.  Afterwards, we headed for the beach in Arecibo to kill some time before checking into a mountain retreat that Sarah and Denise had found quite appealing from their online presence.

When we parked on the street in Arecibo at the beach, a passerby warned us of the rip tide, so we contented ourselves to sit, watch the waves, and read, rather than swimming in the Atlantic.  Eventually some body borders and a surfer showed up, providing entertainment as they played in the waves.  We talked a bit, but mostly just enjoyed that we could sit in one place, and not worry about hunting for a place to stay that night.  During a waxing afternoon, we drove back up to the mountains, turned off the main road in Utuado, and battled motion sickness on the twisty mountain roads.

The mountain retreat was...soulless, for a place that advertises their yogic attitude towards harmony with nature and vegan food.  At check in, we were informed that dinner had to be scheduled, and an old man, lurking in the restaurant leered at us, offering "help" to find things.  Our room was not quite ready, so we waited in the shade of non-native vegetation, out of sight of the old man who we would come to call "uncle creeper."

When the room was ready, we hauled our stuff up to the room, and moved in, ready to be in one place for two nights after constant moving.  We read the expansive list of rules on the door to the room, giggling at the no TV or radio rule while a house across the street pumped music that would drown out The Who.  We read all of the labels posted above switches and fixtures, containing reminders or addenda to rules, then headed to the pool before it closed at 18:00.  Sarah and I swam in the pool, aware that our limited splashing was not part of the prescribed zen that the rule book sought to create, though not specifically banned.  Uncle Creeper came down, angry that an umbrella had been left open, and leered into the pool, his discontent at its use obvious.

After a while longer, we got out, and went back to the room, as our assigned dinnertime was approaching.  We had a dinner of beans and rice in various forms, and "seasonal" vegetables straight from the freezer (steamed broccoli, cauliflower, and baby carrots).  Capped off with a very tasty coconut pudding for dessert.  After our first cooked meal in several days, we went to bed early, and I wrote in my diary and reading by headlamp in the mountain breeze before retiring for the night.

The next morning we failed to heed the advice of the LP, and arrived at the Rio Camuy Caves after 10:30, and paid for it with a hideously long wait for our number to be called to go into the caves.  In this cave system, a subterranean river flows through a series of interconnected sink holes.  The main park is a walking tour through the Cueva Clara, an impressively cavernous 215 foot high cave.  Without an hours long wait, this cave would be amazing, with an hours long wait, any twenty minute tour, no matter the subject, is a bit disappointing.  It is hard to separate the coolness of the cave from the disappointment of waiting for it.  Regardless, the further frustration with Puerto Rico made the next stop all the sweeter.

After spending hours at the cave park, we dashed to the Arecibo Observatory (check the Wikipedia link for those of you who were not a highly nerdy fifth grade boy).  We made it with about thirty minutes before closing, and the museum was full of sciencey exhibits, the video was decent, the guided tour was a woman reading the signs aloud, and the observatory was the absolute pinnacle of the trip.  Maybe my interpretation was buoyed by having dreamed about the place since childhood.  Maybe Denise and Sarah caught some of my excitement.  Maybe though, a 1000 foot aluminum satellite dish with a 900 ton receiver suspended 500 feet above it  by massive cables and towers, scouring the cosmos for the answers to the mysteries of the universe is simply awe inspiring.  As the visitor's center closed, the azimuth rotated 180 degrees, and we watched, Denise and Sarah giggling at my broad grin, relishing the engineering feat that gives science the largest single aperture radio telescope.

The next morning we decided to head back to San Juan.  Leaving our last day in Puerto Rico driving- and relatively stress- free.  We wandered around to a myriad of hotels, and found the only boutique hotel with a room for three available two nights in a row was the same one we stayed at the first time, though this time in a smaller room with a broken air conditioner.  We moved into the room, and spread out our stuff for a final drying and organization.  We laid on our beds to recover in the shaded heat of our hotel, and I realized that I was much closer to Denise on her twin bed, than to Sarah on our king.  We chuckled about the state of our "balcony suite," then roamed the streets for dinner.

The next day was spent at the San Juan National Historic Site, touring the fortifications built in response to a Dutch attack, then used by militaries through World War II to defend San Juan and the Caribbean.  Some of the structures have been damaged by continuous use, and continuous visitation.  Some charcoal sketches in the dungeon, possibly made by an officer awaiting execution for mutiny, was the high point of San Cristobal, and El Moro offered memorable staircases and a shell fragment in the original fortification (now entombed within the massive castle) from the Spanish-American War.

Denise went to the airport early, leaving Sarah and I a few hours to kill, so we had a leisurely run around San Juan, then drove over to Fort San Juan de la Cruz, or El Cañuelo, to complete the sights within the historic fortification.  The fort was closed, but the leper colony was open for wandering about.  We took a final picture of Old San Juan, then headed for the airport, bound for the much colder, darker, and snowier Northern Minnesota.

See pictures from the trip here!