Still Life in Motion
Nonfiction by Gregory Stephens
Hurricane Maria cast us into darkness. The day after, we picked our way through broken trees, mangled electric lines, and mud. We had no electricity, water, or outside communication. Everyone was trying to dig out. Everyday life became a struggle. When it rained, we caught enough runoff to take “cowboys.” But food and fuel were problems. Waits of up to 11 hours for gasoline recalled scenes from Mad Max. Thieves drilled holes in gas tanks and stole generators from the water company and cell towers. There were long lines at bank ATMs, grocery stores, and Western Union.
At first, the only communication was radio stations broadcasting “messages in a bottle” from Boricuas to their families in the U.S. We heard about the President’s visit through word of mouth. October 7, Janice managed a WhatsApp chat with her St. Lucian family, and wrote:
“I don’t think anyone outside of Puerto Rico can have any idea of what people are going through every day.” Her brother Auguste in St. Lucia replied, “Why are you complaining? It’s not like you had a real disaster like Katrina. It’s nothing paper towels can’t fix.”
***
What happens when the lights go out? Post-Maria was an intermission when everything came to a standstill, yet people were in motion, frantically trying to reconnect—to technology and human community. In that slice of time, we imagined new forms of interconnectedness, often outside official channels.
“Still Life in Motion” can be read in several ways:
At first, the only communication was radio stations broadcasting “messages in a bottle” from Boricuas to their families in the U.S. We heard about the President’s visit through word of mouth. October 7, Janice managed a WhatsApp chat with her St. Lucian family, and wrote:
“I don’t think anyone outside of Puerto Rico can have any idea of what people are going through every day.” Her brother Auguste in St. Lucia replied, “Why are you complaining? It’s not like you had a real disaster like Katrina. It’s nothing paper towels can’t fix.”
***
What happens when the lights go out? Post-Maria was an intermission when everything came to a standstill, yet people were in motion, frantically trying to reconnect—to technology and human community. In that slice of time, we imagined new forms of interconnectedness, often outside official channels.
“Still Life in Motion” can be read in several ways:
- When catastrophe has disordered a prior order, still life may suggest still-born. The dying social order has produced still life. But we watch spectacles like The Walking Dead for a reason. The zombies are in motion.
- There is still life in motion, even after the disaster. Life goes on.
- A still life is a portrait. But everything moves in this post-apocalyptic world.
We have tried to contain Nature, but hurricanes are a leveling force, carnival on steroids. Here comes the ocean in motion from West Africa, an uncontainable swirl that sweeps across the sea, reminding us of how little we control. The images on screen, escaping their digital borders, wiped the slate clean. Through circumstances beyond our control, we are forced to begin again.
What did we see, hear, and say in those first few days, when the world seemed to have been flattened, and yet suddenly there was a great motion? Puerto Ricans often expressed hope for an awakening yet were skeptical about the future of their largely leaderless corner of the world.
Sept. 19-20, 2017
We first heard a forewarning on September 17, when Ode’s owner, Clay, showed us on his cell Storm #15, one in a line of storms moving out from Cape Verde, like airplanes waiting on the tarmac for their chance to take flight.
When public schools and the University of Puerto Rico cancelled classes Sunday, we thought this was over-reacting. But a mad rush to the stores was underway. By Monday afternoon, people were boarding up their windows. My parents called, wanting to help fly us out of Puerto Rico. But the San Juan airport was closed.
At Pueblo Tuesday, next to the Medalla brewery, an employee was restocking a beer display. Drinking is a national religion, so alcohol was a priority last-moment purchase. Another priority was keeping the lights on. Home Depot hung a sign: “We have no more generators.”
I tied the hanging lanterns to the grating, put everything loose in the tool shed, and parked the Prius under the patio roof. Through the bedroom window, we heard winds build that night. The electricity cut off at 1:35 a.m. I heard retorts like gunshots, large trees snapping off like matchsticks. The fury picked up steam.
We had moved our dining table against the wood and glass windows, where we could behold the spectacle. Boom! A big tree fell on the street up the hill. Boom! My neighbor Reggie’s banana orchard was flattened by midday. A storage shed was blown to bits. With tree leaves gone, the landscape acquired the bleary color of water-scoured driftwood.
Maria was a blowhard, making the air smell like leaves in an oceanic blender. When the whistling roar is sustained, one feels a primal fear. The sound when the winds topped 150 mph was unlike anything I had heard. I experienced Hurricane Dean in Jamaica in 2007, but Maria was more intense in its periodic rages.
Safiya, Janice, and I played Scrabble while looking out the French windows. At peak winds, the windows were covered in water, making them appear underwater. At the north end, these wood-framed opening windows let in trouble. Janice and I battled the water on the northwest corner, where there was no overhang, and water blew horizontally in through the crevices between the wood panels and the frame. In my office and Safiya’s bedroom, we threw towels and sheets on the floors, and wrung them out in the bathtub, over and over. The continual wringing, all day, was exhausting. But the water kept coming, forming a lake in these rooms.
I felt like the coyote who kept drinking the lake hoping to get at the “cheese” that was really the reflection of the moon.
Thursday, Sept. 21
The chainsaws begin their throaty choir, sounding from a distance like cattle lowing. A few neighbors walk around with shocked expressions. Jesús, the radiologist, and his wife Cyndy contacted friends with a truck, armed only with a machete and axe. José, a retired math teacher, came out to help. So did Javier, a computer systems manager, with his Dominican wife and two daughters. Between them all, they cleared enough space for the truck to drag the tree to the side.
Janice and I worked in a light rain. We could not back the car out until the driveway was cleared of a thicket of fallen limbs. We carried everything across the street to a “vacant jungle.” It felt like coming out from under a rock—endless trips just to clear out some elbow room. If you lifted your eyes, you could be overwhelmed by the ravages. Circumstances demanded focusing on cleaning up your own corner.
Like the towel-ringing, the carrying of limbs was strenuous. Lots of people are going to lose weight, I thought. We took the Prius up Highway 2, an obstacle course. Pieces of aluminum roofing litters the highway. Signs and light posts lay everywhere. Below Mayagüez Resort and Casino, police had rerouted traffic while they hacked at fallen bamboo groves. Below, streets were flooded. There were no traffic lights. Fallen trees had wrecked cars and houses. At least 100 vehicles were lined up below the Gulf gas station. Up by Western Plaza, the windows of the Kia dealership had been shattered. Metal fences had fallen on trucks. Power lines obstructed the intersection. The Pollo Tropical sign was twisted into a psychedelic shape.
We retreated home to cook rice and vegetarian chili.
Friday, Sept. 22
Since Tuesday there has been no water, electricity, or communication. Safiya and I hiked up the street. Wayne had his generator running, and let me grind my coffee beans. Safiya played with Amelia and Camila, the two Dominican-Puerto Rican girls. Jesús’ wife Cyndy had run an electric cord to Javier to keep his refrigerator running.
We went looking for a place to charge laptops. The line of cars waiting to get into Gulf was longer. There was another half-mile line coming up to the Total. People stood outside their cars talking to each other, while waiting to crawl forward a few feet.
We found Mandarin open, running on a generator, with the bathrooms blocked off. No water, but they had electrical outlets. For a few days this was our recharge station.
Our friends Fernando and Jessica dropped by, a “driving call.” The San Juan airport would re-open for commercial flights Sunday, said Fernando. The drive there was iffy. Winds destroyed many machines and files at Fernando’s hospital. He might be without work for a month. That night we sat in the car listening to a radio station, while I gave “driving lessons” to Safiya’s American Doll. People took the mic to hopefully reach relatives in the U.S.
Saturday, Sept. 23
Javier hoped this catastrophe would awaken Puerto Ricans. Eighty cell towers were down in Mayagüez. These were owned by AT&T and leased to local providers. But first, AT&T had to get in and get to the towers, which were often in high places and blocked by fallen trees.
Washing dishes is a challenge as we run low on rain-water runoff. Janice obsesses about water. Having grown up on a farm, pissing outside doesn’t faze me. Safiya treats it like an adventure, but Janice is mortified. Safiya was even willing to utilize the holes I kept digging, but things would have to get much more dire before Janice would stoop to that.
At Ricomini’s, full of tense customers, we scored propane. Outside, an endless line of trucks with gas canisters waited for entry to a gas station around the corner. Gulf had run out of gas. Petrol trucks were coming Sunday, we heard. But the need to feed generators was creating a desperate mood, which could easily turn to riots, people feared.
We found the deli Massa semi-open, hand-painted announcements on plywood. The owner Israel had enough gas to keep his food refrigerated until Sunday. I asked him how he had communicated with the gas man.
“People are getting things done the old-fashioned way. I went to put a note on his door.” Israel wondered if this would spur people to become better organized. “This is the test,” he said.
Sunday, Sept. 24
After five days in the void, we entertain desperate thoughts. Maybe we’ll drive to San Juan and try to catch a flight. But if none are available, we might not have enough gas to get back. So we live from one charge to the next. But the heat in the house in the afternoon and evening is sweltering. At night, it is hard to light enough candles to read without eye strain. The candles are burning low, and there are no replacements.
We saw a U.S. military presence on the street for the first time, directing traffic. Young white men. “The law” had arrived. There would be more order. But we have no idea of the big picture, what news is getting out, or what is going on. One begins to feel complete isolation.
Monday, Sept. 25
Some teachers are meeting at WALKS, Safiya’s bilingual school. We know from experience that they will be open long before the public schools.
José gave us coconuts from a felled tree. We drank the milk of one, wonderfully sweet and refreshing. Javier dropped off a hot baguette. Jesús invited us to his radiology office for water—medical facilities were the first to get water back. Such mutual aid shows the “aspirational moves towards change” people often demonstrate during catastrophes (McGranahan 323).
Tuesday, Sept. 26, 2017
With cash depleted, and no one accepting ATH, we got to Banco Popular at 8 a.m. and reached the teller in two hours. We took out our $500 limit. Police and military personnel were omnipresent.
At Massa I was asked about “El Colegio.” We had just gone to the University for a look-see. There was no light or water. Big trees blocked paths. There was no sign of life.
Fernando said the roads to the airport were open. Should we try to escape? Nora told us that when there is water, WALKS will open for half a day.
Wednesday, Sept. 27, 2017
We followed Javier to his contract job, which had occasional Wi-Fi. I found an email request, five days earlier, for a Skype interview with a Shanghai university. I accepted a 10 p.m. Thursday. Skype. I had no idea if I could make that happen.
Javier, 39 and bald, was excited about a diesel generator he is rehabbing. He wanted to have us over for dinner, but was shocked to find out we were vegetarians. He loved to barbecue. He should get to Texas, where BBQ was a religion, I said. Puerto Ricans really love their meat.
Thursday, Sept. 28, 2017
At 8 a.m. we arrived at Jessica’s house, in a crowded old neighborhood. Pockets of Old Mayagüez had gotten services back first because of hospitals and medical facilities downtown. Jessica let us fill four buckets of water, and agreed to let me use her cell for the interview. We made a date to play Scrabble by candlelight that night, so I could take the call from China.
Three hundred container ships were waiting to be unloaded in San Juan, Fernando told me. Drivers had been conscripted to deliver petrol and cart off fallen trees. On the road to the Adventists, a non-ending stream of trucks carries limbs to the city dump.
Friday, Sept. 29, 2017
A curfew is in effect. By mid-evening the streets are empty. Thursday evening we drove to Fernando and Jessica for the Scrabble date. The call from China came at 10 p.m. I had to stand in complete darkness. The call cut off over and over.
Génesis had gone with her parents to Añasco and was traumatized. Fernando’s cousin there had to be rescued from her house, flooded up to her neck. Her cats and dogs drowned. There were dead animals everywhere. Jessica saw dead horses, left to rot. The stench was overwhelming. No governing agency was in charge. People had meat in freezers, now 10 days old, putrid in the tropical heat. A radio show told them to bury their rotten meat in the yard.
We headed home after curfew. The deserted, dark streets were creepy, like a scene from a post-apocalyptic film. One almost expected to see zombies spilling out of the deserted buildings. Parts of old Mayagüez looked like Havana, as if bombed out and left to rot.
Saturday, Sept. 30, 2017
The water returned temporarily this morning. The trash truck made its rounds for the first time in two weeks. The drivers were greeted like liberators. At UPRM, bulldozers pushed tree limbs, and men loaded trucks. There was water but no electricity.
Sunday, Oct. 1, 2017
The WALKS principal posted a notice: school opens 7:30 a.m.-12:30 p.m. Monday. Wayne, whose daughter is at UPRM, had heard that administrators and staff were returning Monday.
I strung twine, and we “opened” clothes Janice had washed by hand, using the rubboard in the pantry sink, channeling her Caribbean self, daughter of a St. Lucian woman who had cooked over a charcoal burner.
I exchanged words with the owner of the house above us, where we’ve had problems with loud engineering students. A fat man who uses a walker, he had paid to cut the trees back, but the workmen dumped the limbs in the street. Cars came through for the school, I noted. He was hostile and said: a) it was a state of emergency; b) “the government” would come and pick them up.
“¿El gobierno? ¡No hay gobierno!” I barked.
Añasco residents were waiting for the government to come and pick up the stinking carcasses. People waited to be rescued, for someone up the food chain to clean up the mess.
We migrated to Mayagüez Mall, looking for a link. Office Depot was shuttered. We had pesto pasta at Macaroni Grill, where employees were posting a sign that said they could accept ATH. That was the first evidence of a non-cash economy I had seen since the hurricane. We recharged with an extension cord draped over our booth.
We found a post-it from “Cyndy, the dog woman,” inviting us to do laundry in her house. That afternoon, as I was wringing out and hanging the clothes, her husband Jesús pulled up in his Lexus. He had a diesel generator at his office, but had to find a way to let people know he was open. We talked about the rampant thievery. Jesús said he was carrying his gun with him everywhere, because you never knew what would happen when conditions broke down. He joked about picking off the zombies.
At dusk I talked with Javier about how dependent Puerto Rico was. Javier had a friend who would not fix his damaged roof, because then he wouldn’t get money from FEMA.
Monday, Oct. 2, 2017
Janice contacted her sister in California to see if she can book a flight to Dallas, while we are in San Juan for Janice’s final citizenship interview. Sultana, the shuttle service, is running again. But Javier stopped by to show us a screenshot of U.S. Citizenship & Immigration Services. They were closed until further notice. Citizenship deferred.
At UPRM we talked to Cecilio and Marla, the sustainability couple. “System breakdown,” Cecilio said to me right off, a box of files in his hands. Thieves had broken into the water plant and stolen a diesel generator, which set back the scheduled return of water. I asked Cecilio which of the available “status” options he favored for Puerto Rico. He hungered for an independent leader, a strongman who could bypass party politics, and the Jones Act, which prevents Puerto Rico from trading with its neighbors.
A hundred people were lined up for remittances at the Western Union. With money running out, some people are living on handouts. People from all over Western Puerto Rico have descended on Mayagüez. The lines get longer, and traffic is a stalled free-for-all. I’ve given up on driving in the downtown area, so we walk into Jessica’s. We use her cell with Claro service to check email. AT&T will never recover here, people say. We’re now in the Mexican telecommunications orbit.
K-Mart has been letting in only as many people as exit the store. Because of the bum rushing of Mayagüez, every customer must be chaperoned. They are advertising free Wi-Fi, so we stood in line in the sun to try it out. The connection was almost useless, but like drops of hot water to someone dehydrated in the desert.
Tuesday, Oct. 3, 2017
The time had come to get in line for gas. At 8:00 a.m. I only had to wait 50 minutes to pump at the Shell across from K-Mart. Wayne said he had to wait 11 hours his first time out for gas. Jessica has a gas guzzler, like many Puerto Ricans; she’s had to wait five hours each time. Fernando and Jessica talk about getting out. Running three errands that would have taken 90 minutes before now takes all day. Jessica came by this afternoon as Janice was about to pick up Safiya from school. She was near tears; if things hadn’t improved in two weeks, she would leave. But Fernando is back at the hospital. They both have mothers in poor health living in their house.
Wednesday. Oct. 4, 2017
The water returned this morning. Janice frantically filled everything—the dormant washer, paint buckets, etc.
Saturday, Oct. 7, 2017
Janice says she feels like she is living “suspended in time.” We went to K-Mart to send off a job application, but the Wi-Fi didn’t work. At the Toyota dealership in Hormigueros, Janice talked to Marilyn, who did some child care for Safiya when we were on grading deadlines. She told us there was Wi-Fi at Krispy Kreme and Burger King—a pretty good indicator of her diet. But they also were down. We heard the theft of a generator had knocked out a cell tower.
We begin to get a picture of the scale of the relief effort. Newspapers bring reports from San Juan and beyond. In today’s El Nuevo Día, Ricardo Roselló put the price tag for a “new Puerto Rico” at $80-90 billion.
Sunday, Oct. 8, 2017
A huge Caterpillar rumbled down into our neighborhood, and began clearing out the mass of twisted trees in the watershed. Drainage is a problem everywhere. Trucks came in to haul off the waste. The streets were left covered in a film of dust and mud. Along with the denuded trees, it made the area look like a scene from The Road.
Tuesday, Oct. 10, 2017 (21 days in darkness)
Last night we rolled down to Western Plaza, but K-Mart had just closed. Burger King’s Wi-Fi was inert. Desperate to send off job apps and writing, we went to Holiday Inn, willing to pay for lodging for their Wi-Fi. They were full of FEMA and Army personnel. The clerk had one room for that night only; afterwards not a single room was open for over a month. The same was true for all motels near Mayagüez. U.S. personnel had booked them solid. Up to 19,000 U.S. personnel were on the ground in Puerto Rico, of which 4,600 were military men and women.
Wednesday, Oct. 11, 2017
Janice was depressed by our life in motion, trying to just keep our heads above water. I promised to buy her a good breakfast to lift her spirits. The café at Holiday Inn would not share their Wi-Fi code. I told the front desk clerk that we needed to send an emergency email. She took us to a room behind the desk, where her daughter was on one computer. On the other, Janice sent off her references for a job. Then we ate at Merendola, a hip café across the road from WALKS.
The Caterpillar made a great racket, crushing trees around the power lines, digging out the creek bottom. During one heavy rain, I saw Cyndy, calf-deep in muddy water, trying to unplug the grate over the drain with a shovel. She was like the Dutch boy who kept the sea at bay by sticking his finger in the dike.
The Costa Azul Power Plant would fire up within a week, we heard. The University hoped to recommence October 30, and work through the holiday season.
Thursday, Oct. 12, 2017
The travel agency at K-Mart, always empty before, is now flooded with people desperate to get out. Florida reported that 20,000 Puerto Ricans arrived on one-way tickets October 1-4. But I know from my students that this exodus was in full swing before the hurricane. Now it’s a tidal wave. As I begin getting a little access to the news, I see things in context. Since Hurricane Maria, 23,000 Puerto Ricans have fled to Orlando alone. According to ticket sales, another 70,000 are waiting for a flight. A migration researcher described this as a “demographic and population collapse on a monumental scale (Seabrook).”
The travel agency next to the Wi-Fi area is jammed. A big TV plays Boss Baby or Trolls on continuous loop. The area has become an encampment, people trying to link, leave, or escape the heat for a couple of hours. While Janice struggled with a job application, I walked to Home Depot and sat under a tarp at the “Oak Cliff Collection.” These were the signs of the time: a stash of Echo chainsaws going like hotcakes. One pot-bellied man with two women roughly tossed two chainsaw boxes in his cart, then came back for a third. Everything on display was for digging out of the rubble. Fiskar tree-pruning poles, towers of boxed lawn mowers, hundreds of Husky bags, O-Cedar mop buckets, weed-eaters, and stacks of chain sawoil and fuel.
Our charge spots have been overrun, are dirty, filled with flies. We stopped going to Mandarin after it was “discovered.” Today Janice woke in a panic because her cell, used mainly as a flashlight, was at 18%. Her laptop was depleted. We went to University Town Center, but no electricity. Mesón was rammed, a long line. K-Mart was buzzing with swarms of flies. No link. It feels impossible to concentrate amidst all the noise, filth, and smell of desperation. The theme of every day seems to be waste motion.
After Safiya got out of school, we returned to Town Center. Still no electricity. I went on campus and parked next to Célis, the administration. Lo and behold, a link. After catching up on a bit of news, we went home for dinner. On impulse, we went back to campus, just for the luxury of being able to read in the evening. But security was not letting anyone in after 6 p.m. Mesón was open til 8 p.m. so we read there, and enjoyed cold orange juice for the first time in a month.
Saturday, Oct. 14, 2017
I walked down to Casiano’s at 6 a.m. to grind coffee beans. Weekday mornings I grind them beside the soft drink machine at WALKS. That’s what life has become, just trying to find places to plug in.
Yesterday we went to our office to work in the cooler air, first time since the hurricane. But no link. I wandered the halls of Célis, Surface in hand, all three floors, stairwells. No link.
Saturday afternoon we migrated north, hoping to find Ode open. Aguada was in bad shape, people lined up at water trucks. No electricity. Ode was boarded up, immersed in sand. The beach was littered with house debris, downed lifeguard stands, etc. We moved through back roads towards Aguadilla, lights off. On Highway 2, major congestions. No National Guard here. “Every Man for Himself, and God Against All.”
Aguadilla was in shambles. Hangars at the airfield had been torn open. Telephone poles snapped in two, hanging like they had been executed, transformers lining the street. The bowling alley was boarded up. We found One Ten Thai open, running on a generator, bathrooms closed. It looked like it might be months until electricity returned to the northwest.
Sunday, Oct. 15, 2017
Two “USO Official” electrical trucks came into our neighborhood. A group of men looked up at the cables. We drove back roads to Jessica’s and did laundry. She and Fernando were thinking about leaving Génesis in school here for a few months while relocating to Florida. Over 500,000 Puerto Ricans have left the island over the past six months.
A shocking view greeted us at the entrance to Western Plaza: every parking space seemed full. Countless vehicles wandered the lanes. I forced my way behind Pep Boys and found one just-vacated spot. We walked to K-Mart, but no link. Boss Baby ended, and Trolls began, life repeating itself in dystopian fashion. We swatted flies. I began to connect the dots: businesses close their bathrooms, and flies proliferate. The travel agency was even more crowded. Life has become unbearable for many people in Puerto Rico. The only solution is to keep on moving.
We wandered the campus, searching for an elusive link. At least we had a refrigerator in our office building. Arriving home about 6 p.m., the street lamp was on. Twenty-six days later, we had electricity! I felt a bit guilty. Around 85% of Puerto Ricans still had no electricity. But as Jesús said, “I can always turn on the generator.”
Thursday, Oct. 19, 2017
This morning, a month after this ordeal began, Jessica texted the image of her JetBlue ticket, one-way to Orlando, November 7. She is joining the “Jet Blue Revolution.”
Our electricity is off again. When it cut off Monday afternoon, we went to Mesón rather than cook in the dark. A young man charging his tablet beside us ranted, “This was the one place where you could sit cool and charge your phone, but all of Western Puerto Rico has discovered it.” He blamed all problems not on the hurricane, or lack of preparation, but “the government.”
I had heard all this from my students. Cynicism about politics is not all bad. Let’s reconnect to the big picture. “Disdain for official politics” is a “vast refusal” which is “widely shared throughout the world,” writes Laurent Dubreuil in The Refusal of Politics. Even so, it is difficult “to see clearly the amplitude of this refusal.” But what would it mean to go all the way, so “far as to refuse politics”? Catastrophes like Maria may awaken some people to such radical imaginings. Experience teaches that we should not “cling to the vain belief that all the ills of politics could have a political solution” (Dubreuil 1-2).
What I was hearing post-Maria was above all a refusal of Puerto Rican political norms, as a sort of “mental slavery.” This insistent hunger for new models sought “a rearrangement of relations rather than an ending of them” (McGranahan, “Theorizing,” 335).
A sea change is occurring in U.S.-Puerto Rican relations. The massive aid flowing into Puerto Rico indicates a wider recognition that Puerto Ricans are American citizens. I know through my roots in core “red states” that most conservatives are patriots. When something is framed as a patriotic obligation, they usually get on board. Puerto Rico is now a patriotic obligation. But the question of the terms of integration, or separation, is difficult.
Life is returning to “normal” here. People again stare at their cells while they drive. The I-zombies hardly lift their eyes. That brief vision of community after the hurricane is difficult to sustain. But those 20,000 servicemen and volunteers will go home with stories to tell. As we sort out new relationships, we need to let go of many “misguided or quixotic ideas” about how governance might function, in motion (Achen & Bartels 328). One thing that life in motion surely teaches us is that the very language we use to describe community, and democracy, is inadequate, and in need of revision.
What did we see, hear, and say in those first few days, when the world seemed to have been flattened, and yet suddenly there was a great motion? Puerto Ricans often expressed hope for an awakening yet were skeptical about the future of their largely leaderless corner of the world.
Sept. 19-20, 2017
We first heard a forewarning on September 17, when Ode’s owner, Clay, showed us on his cell Storm #15, one in a line of storms moving out from Cape Verde, like airplanes waiting on the tarmac for their chance to take flight.
When public schools and the University of Puerto Rico cancelled classes Sunday, we thought this was over-reacting. But a mad rush to the stores was underway. By Monday afternoon, people were boarding up their windows. My parents called, wanting to help fly us out of Puerto Rico. But the San Juan airport was closed.
At Pueblo Tuesday, next to the Medalla brewery, an employee was restocking a beer display. Drinking is a national religion, so alcohol was a priority last-moment purchase. Another priority was keeping the lights on. Home Depot hung a sign: “We have no more generators.”
I tied the hanging lanterns to the grating, put everything loose in the tool shed, and parked the Prius under the patio roof. Through the bedroom window, we heard winds build that night. The electricity cut off at 1:35 a.m. I heard retorts like gunshots, large trees snapping off like matchsticks. The fury picked up steam.
We had moved our dining table against the wood and glass windows, where we could behold the spectacle. Boom! A big tree fell on the street up the hill. Boom! My neighbor Reggie’s banana orchard was flattened by midday. A storage shed was blown to bits. With tree leaves gone, the landscape acquired the bleary color of water-scoured driftwood.
Maria was a blowhard, making the air smell like leaves in an oceanic blender. When the whistling roar is sustained, one feels a primal fear. The sound when the winds topped 150 mph was unlike anything I had heard. I experienced Hurricane Dean in Jamaica in 2007, but Maria was more intense in its periodic rages.
Safiya, Janice, and I played Scrabble while looking out the French windows. At peak winds, the windows were covered in water, making them appear underwater. At the north end, these wood-framed opening windows let in trouble. Janice and I battled the water on the northwest corner, where there was no overhang, and water blew horizontally in through the crevices between the wood panels and the frame. In my office and Safiya’s bedroom, we threw towels and sheets on the floors, and wrung them out in the bathtub, over and over. The continual wringing, all day, was exhausting. But the water kept coming, forming a lake in these rooms.
I felt like the coyote who kept drinking the lake hoping to get at the “cheese” that was really the reflection of the moon.
Thursday, Sept. 21
The chainsaws begin their throaty choir, sounding from a distance like cattle lowing. A few neighbors walk around with shocked expressions. Jesús, the radiologist, and his wife Cyndy contacted friends with a truck, armed only with a machete and axe. José, a retired math teacher, came out to help. So did Javier, a computer systems manager, with his Dominican wife and two daughters. Between them all, they cleared enough space for the truck to drag the tree to the side.
Janice and I worked in a light rain. We could not back the car out until the driveway was cleared of a thicket of fallen limbs. We carried everything across the street to a “vacant jungle.” It felt like coming out from under a rock—endless trips just to clear out some elbow room. If you lifted your eyes, you could be overwhelmed by the ravages. Circumstances demanded focusing on cleaning up your own corner.
Like the towel-ringing, the carrying of limbs was strenuous. Lots of people are going to lose weight, I thought. We took the Prius up Highway 2, an obstacle course. Pieces of aluminum roofing litters the highway. Signs and light posts lay everywhere. Below Mayagüez Resort and Casino, police had rerouted traffic while they hacked at fallen bamboo groves. Below, streets were flooded. There were no traffic lights. Fallen trees had wrecked cars and houses. At least 100 vehicles were lined up below the Gulf gas station. Up by Western Plaza, the windows of the Kia dealership had been shattered. Metal fences had fallen on trucks. Power lines obstructed the intersection. The Pollo Tropical sign was twisted into a psychedelic shape.
We retreated home to cook rice and vegetarian chili.
Friday, Sept. 22
Since Tuesday there has been no water, electricity, or communication. Safiya and I hiked up the street. Wayne had his generator running, and let me grind my coffee beans. Safiya played with Amelia and Camila, the two Dominican-Puerto Rican girls. Jesús’ wife Cyndy had run an electric cord to Javier to keep his refrigerator running.
We went looking for a place to charge laptops. The line of cars waiting to get into Gulf was longer. There was another half-mile line coming up to the Total. People stood outside their cars talking to each other, while waiting to crawl forward a few feet.
We found Mandarin open, running on a generator, with the bathrooms blocked off. No water, but they had electrical outlets. For a few days this was our recharge station.
Our friends Fernando and Jessica dropped by, a “driving call.” The San Juan airport would re-open for commercial flights Sunday, said Fernando. The drive there was iffy. Winds destroyed many machines and files at Fernando’s hospital. He might be without work for a month. That night we sat in the car listening to a radio station, while I gave “driving lessons” to Safiya’s American Doll. People took the mic to hopefully reach relatives in the U.S.
Saturday, Sept. 23
Javier hoped this catastrophe would awaken Puerto Ricans. Eighty cell towers were down in Mayagüez. These were owned by AT&T and leased to local providers. But first, AT&T had to get in and get to the towers, which were often in high places and blocked by fallen trees.
Washing dishes is a challenge as we run low on rain-water runoff. Janice obsesses about water. Having grown up on a farm, pissing outside doesn’t faze me. Safiya treats it like an adventure, but Janice is mortified. Safiya was even willing to utilize the holes I kept digging, but things would have to get much more dire before Janice would stoop to that.
At Ricomini’s, full of tense customers, we scored propane. Outside, an endless line of trucks with gas canisters waited for entry to a gas station around the corner. Gulf had run out of gas. Petrol trucks were coming Sunday, we heard. But the need to feed generators was creating a desperate mood, which could easily turn to riots, people feared.
We found the deli Massa semi-open, hand-painted announcements on plywood. The owner Israel had enough gas to keep his food refrigerated until Sunday. I asked him how he had communicated with the gas man.
“People are getting things done the old-fashioned way. I went to put a note on his door.” Israel wondered if this would spur people to become better organized. “This is the test,” he said.
Sunday, Sept. 24
After five days in the void, we entertain desperate thoughts. Maybe we’ll drive to San Juan and try to catch a flight. But if none are available, we might not have enough gas to get back. So we live from one charge to the next. But the heat in the house in the afternoon and evening is sweltering. At night, it is hard to light enough candles to read without eye strain. The candles are burning low, and there are no replacements.
We saw a U.S. military presence on the street for the first time, directing traffic. Young white men. “The law” had arrived. There would be more order. But we have no idea of the big picture, what news is getting out, or what is going on. One begins to feel complete isolation.
Monday, Sept. 25
Some teachers are meeting at WALKS, Safiya’s bilingual school. We know from experience that they will be open long before the public schools.
José gave us coconuts from a felled tree. We drank the milk of one, wonderfully sweet and refreshing. Javier dropped off a hot baguette. Jesús invited us to his radiology office for water—medical facilities were the first to get water back. Such mutual aid shows the “aspirational moves towards change” people often demonstrate during catastrophes (McGranahan 323).
Tuesday, Sept. 26, 2017
With cash depleted, and no one accepting ATH, we got to Banco Popular at 8 a.m. and reached the teller in two hours. We took out our $500 limit. Police and military personnel were omnipresent.
At Massa I was asked about “El Colegio.” We had just gone to the University for a look-see. There was no light or water. Big trees blocked paths. There was no sign of life.
Fernando said the roads to the airport were open. Should we try to escape? Nora told us that when there is water, WALKS will open for half a day.
Wednesday, Sept. 27, 2017
We followed Javier to his contract job, which had occasional Wi-Fi. I found an email request, five days earlier, for a Skype interview with a Shanghai university. I accepted a 10 p.m. Thursday. Skype. I had no idea if I could make that happen.
Javier, 39 and bald, was excited about a diesel generator he is rehabbing. He wanted to have us over for dinner, but was shocked to find out we were vegetarians. He loved to barbecue. He should get to Texas, where BBQ was a religion, I said. Puerto Ricans really love their meat.
Thursday, Sept. 28, 2017
At 8 a.m. we arrived at Jessica’s house, in a crowded old neighborhood. Pockets of Old Mayagüez had gotten services back first because of hospitals and medical facilities downtown. Jessica let us fill four buckets of water, and agreed to let me use her cell for the interview. We made a date to play Scrabble by candlelight that night, so I could take the call from China.
Three hundred container ships were waiting to be unloaded in San Juan, Fernando told me. Drivers had been conscripted to deliver petrol and cart off fallen trees. On the road to the Adventists, a non-ending stream of trucks carries limbs to the city dump.
Friday, Sept. 29, 2017
A curfew is in effect. By mid-evening the streets are empty. Thursday evening we drove to Fernando and Jessica for the Scrabble date. The call from China came at 10 p.m. I had to stand in complete darkness. The call cut off over and over.
Génesis had gone with her parents to Añasco and was traumatized. Fernando’s cousin there had to be rescued from her house, flooded up to her neck. Her cats and dogs drowned. There were dead animals everywhere. Jessica saw dead horses, left to rot. The stench was overwhelming. No governing agency was in charge. People had meat in freezers, now 10 days old, putrid in the tropical heat. A radio show told them to bury their rotten meat in the yard.
We headed home after curfew. The deserted, dark streets were creepy, like a scene from a post-apocalyptic film. One almost expected to see zombies spilling out of the deserted buildings. Parts of old Mayagüez looked like Havana, as if bombed out and left to rot.
Saturday, Sept. 30, 2017
The water returned temporarily this morning. The trash truck made its rounds for the first time in two weeks. The drivers were greeted like liberators. At UPRM, bulldozers pushed tree limbs, and men loaded trucks. There was water but no electricity.
Sunday, Oct. 1, 2017
The WALKS principal posted a notice: school opens 7:30 a.m.-12:30 p.m. Monday. Wayne, whose daughter is at UPRM, had heard that administrators and staff were returning Monday.
I strung twine, and we “opened” clothes Janice had washed by hand, using the rubboard in the pantry sink, channeling her Caribbean self, daughter of a St. Lucian woman who had cooked over a charcoal burner.
I exchanged words with the owner of the house above us, where we’ve had problems with loud engineering students. A fat man who uses a walker, he had paid to cut the trees back, but the workmen dumped the limbs in the street. Cars came through for the school, I noted. He was hostile and said: a) it was a state of emergency; b) “the government” would come and pick them up.
“¿El gobierno? ¡No hay gobierno!” I barked.
Añasco residents were waiting for the government to come and pick up the stinking carcasses. People waited to be rescued, for someone up the food chain to clean up the mess.
We migrated to Mayagüez Mall, looking for a link. Office Depot was shuttered. We had pesto pasta at Macaroni Grill, where employees were posting a sign that said they could accept ATH. That was the first evidence of a non-cash economy I had seen since the hurricane. We recharged with an extension cord draped over our booth.
We found a post-it from “Cyndy, the dog woman,” inviting us to do laundry in her house. That afternoon, as I was wringing out and hanging the clothes, her husband Jesús pulled up in his Lexus. He had a diesel generator at his office, but had to find a way to let people know he was open. We talked about the rampant thievery. Jesús said he was carrying his gun with him everywhere, because you never knew what would happen when conditions broke down. He joked about picking off the zombies.
At dusk I talked with Javier about how dependent Puerto Rico was. Javier had a friend who would not fix his damaged roof, because then he wouldn’t get money from FEMA.
Monday, Oct. 2, 2017
Janice contacted her sister in California to see if she can book a flight to Dallas, while we are in San Juan for Janice’s final citizenship interview. Sultana, the shuttle service, is running again. But Javier stopped by to show us a screenshot of U.S. Citizenship & Immigration Services. They were closed until further notice. Citizenship deferred.
At UPRM we talked to Cecilio and Marla, the sustainability couple. “System breakdown,” Cecilio said to me right off, a box of files in his hands. Thieves had broken into the water plant and stolen a diesel generator, which set back the scheduled return of water. I asked Cecilio which of the available “status” options he favored for Puerto Rico. He hungered for an independent leader, a strongman who could bypass party politics, and the Jones Act, which prevents Puerto Rico from trading with its neighbors.
A hundred people were lined up for remittances at the Western Union. With money running out, some people are living on handouts. People from all over Western Puerto Rico have descended on Mayagüez. The lines get longer, and traffic is a stalled free-for-all. I’ve given up on driving in the downtown area, so we walk into Jessica’s. We use her cell with Claro service to check email. AT&T will never recover here, people say. We’re now in the Mexican telecommunications orbit.
K-Mart has been letting in only as many people as exit the store. Because of the bum rushing of Mayagüez, every customer must be chaperoned. They are advertising free Wi-Fi, so we stood in line in the sun to try it out. The connection was almost useless, but like drops of hot water to someone dehydrated in the desert.
Tuesday, Oct. 3, 2017
The time had come to get in line for gas. At 8:00 a.m. I only had to wait 50 minutes to pump at the Shell across from K-Mart. Wayne said he had to wait 11 hours his first time out for gas. Jessica has a gas guzzler, like many Puerto Ricans; she’s had to wait five hours each time. Fernando and Jessica talk about getting out. Running three errands that would have taken 90 minutes before now takes all day. Jessica came by this afternoon as Janice was about to pick up Safiya from school. She was near tears; if things hadn’t improved in two weeks, she would leave. But Fernando is back at the hospital. They both have mothers in poor health living in their house.
Wednesday. Oct. 4, 2017
The water returned this morning. Janice frantically filled everything—the dormant washer, paint buckets, etc.
Saturday, Oct. 7, 2017
Janice says she feels like she is living “suspended in time.” We went to K-Mart to send off a job application, but the Wi-Fi didn’t work. At the Toyota dealership in Hormigueros, Janice talked to Marilyn, who did some child care for Safiya when we were on grading deadlines. She told us there was Wi-Fi at Krispy Kreme and Burger King—a pretty good indicator of her diet. But they also were down. We heard the theft of a generator had knocked out a cell tower.
We begin to get a picture of the scale of the relief effort. Newspapers bring reports from San Juan and beyond. In today’s El Nuevo Día, Ricardo Roselló put the price tag for a “new Puerto Rico” at $80-90 billion.
Sunday, Oct. 8, 2017
A huge Caterpillar rumbled down into our neighborhood, and began clearing out the mass of twisted trees in the watershed. Drainage is a problem everywhere. Trucks came in to haul off the waste. The streets were left covered in a film of dust and mud. Along with the denuded trees, it made the area look like a scene from The Road.
Tuesday, Oct. 10, 2017 (21 days in darkness)
Last night we rolled down to Western Plaza, but K-Mart had just closed. Burger King’s Wi-Fi was inert. Desperate to send off job apps and writing, we went to Holiday Inn, willing to pay for lodging for their Wi-Fi. They were full of FEMA and Army personnel. The clerk had one room for that night only; afterwards not a single room was open for over a month. The same was true for all motels near Mayagüez. U.S. personnel had booked them solid. Up to 19,000 U.S. personnel were on the ground in Puerto Rico, of which 4,600 were military men and women.
Wednesday, Oct. 11, 2017
Janice was depressed by our life in motion, trying to just keep our heads above water. I promised to buy her a good breakfast to lift her spirits. The café at Holiday Inn would not share their Wi-Fi code. I told the front desk clerk that we needed to send an emergency email. She took us to a room behind the desk, where her daughter was on one computer. On the other, Janice sent off her references for a job. Then we ate at Merendola, a hip café across the road from WALKS.
The Caterpillar made a great racket, crushing trees around the power lines, digging out the creek bottom. During one heavy rain, I saw Cyndy, calf-deep in muddy water, trying to unplug the grate over the drain with a shovel. She was like the Dutch boy who kept the sea at bay by sticking his finger in the dike.
The Costa Azul Power Plant would fire up within a week, we heard. The University hoped to recommence October 30, and work through the holiday season.
Thursday, Oct. 12, 2017
The travel agency at K-Mart, always empty before, is now flooded with people desperate to get out. Florida reported that 20,000 Puerto Ricans arrived on one-way tickets October 1-4. But I know from my students that this exodus was in full swing before the hurricane. Now it’s a tidal wave. As I begin getting a little access to the news, I see things in context. Since Hurricane Maria, 23,000 Puerto Ricans have fled to Orlando alone. According to ticket sales, another 70,000 are waiting for a flight. A migration researcher described this as a “demographic and population collapse on a monumental scale (Seabrook).”
The travel agency next to the Wi-Fi area is jammed. A big TV plays Boss Baby or Trolls on continuous loop. The area has become an encampment, people trying to link, leave, or escape the heat for a couple of hours. While Janice struggled with a job application, I walked to Home Depot and sat under a tarp at the “Oak Cliff Collection.” These were the signs of the time: a stash of Echo chainsaws going like hotcakes. One pot-bellied man with two women roughly tossed two chainsaw boxes in his cart, then came back for a third. Everything on display was for digging out of the rubble. Fiskar tree-pruning poles, towers of boxed lawn mowers, hundreds of Husky bags, O-Cedar mop buckets, weed-eaters, and stacks of chain sawoil and fuel.
Our charge spots have been overrun, are dirty, filled with flies. We stopped going to Mandarin after it was “discovered.” Today Janice woke in a panic because her cell, used mainly as a flashlight, was at 18%. Her laptop was depleted. We went to University Town Center, but no electricity. Mesón was rammed, a long line. K-Mart was buzzing with swarms of flies. No link. It feels impossible to concentrate amidst all the noise, filth, and smell of desperation. The theme of every day seems to be waste motion.
After Safiya got out of school, we returned to Town Center. Still no electricity. I went on campus and parked next to Célis, the administration. Lo and behold, a link. After catching up on a bit of news, we went home for dinner. On impulse, we went back to campus, just for the luxury of being able to read in the evening. But security was not letting anyone in after 6 p.m. Mesón was open til 8 p.m. so we read there, and enjoyed cold orange juice for the first time in a month.
Saturday, Oct. 14, 2017
I walked down to Casiano’s at 6 a.m. to grind coffee beans. Weekday mornings I grind them beside the soft drink machine at WALKS. That’s what life has become, just trying to find places to plug in.
Yesterday we went to our office to work in the cooler air, first time since the hurricane. But no link. I wandered the halls of Célis, Surface in hand, all three floors, stairwells. No link.
Saturday afternoon we migrated north, hoping to find Ode open. Aguada was in bad shape, people lined up at water trucks. No electricity. Ode was boarded up, immersed in sand. The beach was littered with house debris, downed lifeguard stands, etc. We moved through back roads towards Aguadilla, lights off. On Highway 2, major congestions. No National Guard here. “Every Man for Himself, and God Against All.”
Aguadilla was in shambles. Hangars at the airfield had been torn open. Telephone poles snapped in two, hanging like they had been executed, transformers lining the street. The bowling alley was boarded up. We found One Ten Thai open, running on a generator, bathrooms closed. It looked like it might be months until electricity returned to the northwest.
Sunday, Oct. 15, 2017
Two “USO Official” electrical trucks came into our neighborhood. A group of men looked up at the cables. We drove back roads to Jessica’s and did laundry. She and Fernando were thinking about leaving Génesis in school here for a few months while relocating to Florida. Over 500,000 Puerto Ricans have left the island over the past six months.
A shocking view greeted us at the entrance to Western Plaza: every parking space seemed full. Countless vehicles wandered the lanes. I forced my way behind Pep Boys and found one just-vacated spot. We walked to K-Mart, but no link. Boss Baby ended, and Trolls began, life repeating itself in dystopian fashion. We swatted flies. I began to connect the dots: businesses close their bathrooms, and flies proliferate. The travel agency was even more crowded. Life has become unbearable for many people in Puerto Rico. The only solution is to keep on moving.
We wandered the campus, searching for an elusive link. At least we had a refrigerator in our office building. Arriving home about 6 p.m., the street lamp was on. Twenty-six days later, we had electricity! I felt a bit guilty. Around 85% of Puerto Ricans still had no electricity. But as Jesús said, “I can always turn on the generator.”
Thursday, Oct. 19, 2017
This morning, a month after this ordeal began, Jessica texted the image of her JetBlue ticket, one-way to Orlando, November 7. She is joining the “Jet Blue Revolution.”
Our electricity is off again. When it cut off Monday afternoon, we went to Mesón rather than cook in the dark. A young man charging his tablet beside us ranted, “This was the one place where you could sit cool and charge your phone, but all of Western Puerto Rico has discovered it.” He blamed all problems not on the hurricane, or lack of preparation, but “the government.”
I had heard all this from my students. Cynicism about politics is not all bad. Let’s reconnect to the big picture. “Disdain for official politics” is a “vast refusal” which is “widely shared throughout the world,” writes Laurent Dubreuil in The Refusal of Politics. Even so, it is difficult “to see clearly the amplitude of this refusal.” But what would it mean to go all the way, so “far as to refuse politics”? Catastrophes like Maria may awaken some people to such radical imaginings. Experience teaches that we should not “cling to the vain belief that all the ills of politics could have a political solution” (Dubreuil 1-2).
What I was hearing post-Maria was above all a refusal of Puerto Rican political norms, as a sort of “mental slavery.” This insistent hunger for new models sought “a rearrangement of relations rather than an ending of them” (McGranahan, “Theorizing,” 335).
A sea change is occurring in U.S.-Puerto Rican relations. The massive aid flowing into Puerto Rico indicates a wider recognition that Puerto Ricans are American citizens. I know through my roots in core “red states” that most conservatives are patriots. When something is framed as a patriotic obligation, they usually get on board. Puerto Rico is now a patriotic obligation. But the question of the terms of integration, or separation, is difficult.
Life is returning to “normal” here. People again stare at their cells while they drive. The I-zombies hardly lift their eyes. That brief vision of community after the hurricane is difficult to sustain. But those 20,000 servicemen and volunteers will go home with stories to tell. As we sort out new relationships, we need to let go of many “misguided or quixotic ideas” about how governance might function, in motion (Achen & Bartels 328). One thing that life in motion surely teaches us is that the very language we use to describe community, and democracy, is inadequate, and in need of revision.
Works Cited
Acosta Cruz, María. Dream Nation: Puerto Rican Culture and the Fictions of Independence. Rutgers UP, 2014.
Achen, Christopher, and Larry Bartels. Democracy for Realists: Why Elections Do Not Produce Responsive Government. Princeton UP, 2016.
Dubreuil, Laurent. Refusal of Politics. Edinburgh UP, 2016.
Lauren Seabrook, “Officials: 23K Puerto Ricans evacuate to Orlando, many more waiting on flights,” WFTV (Oct 18, 2017); http://www.wftv.com/weather/eye-on-the-tropics/23000-puerto-ricans-evacuate-to-orlando-many-more-waiting-on-flights-officials-say/626151518
McGranahan, Carole. “Theorizing Refusal: An Intro.” Cultural Anthropology, vol. 31, no. 3, 2016 319-25.
____. “Refusal and the Gift of Citizenship.” Cultural Anthropology, vol.31, no.3, 2016, pp. 334-41.
Acosta Cruz, María. Dream Nation: Puerto Rican Culture and the Fictions of Independence. Rutgers UP, 2014.
Achen, Christopher, and Larry Bartels. Democracy for Realists: Why Elections Do Not Produce Responsive Government. Princeton UP, 2016.
Dubreuil, Laurent. Refusal of Politics. Edinburgh UP, 2016.
Lauren Seabrook, “Officials: 23K Puerto Ricans evacuate to Orlando, many more waiting on flights,” WFTV (Oct 18, 2017); http://www.wftv.com/weather/eye-on-the-tropics/23000-puerto-ricans-evacuate-to-orlando-many-more-waiting-on-flights-officials-say/626151518
McGranahan, Carole. “Theorizing Refusal: An Intro.” Cultural Anthropology, vol. 31, no. 3, 2016 319-25.
____. “Refusal and the Gift of Citizenship.” Cultural Anthropology, vol.31, no.3, 2016, pp. 334-41.
About the writer
Gregory Stephens is Associate Professor of English, University of Puerto Rico-Mayagüez. His book "Three Birds Sing a New Song: A Puerto Rican trilogy about Dystopia, Precarity, and Resistance" was published by Intermezzo (2019) Short fiction: “Making Do with the Residue” (2020); “Close to the Bone” (Dec 2019); “Caiseas Blues” (2019); “Raw Meat (Sexy Mama),” Smaeralit (2017). Literary nonfiction: “A Team of Mules”; “Tied to the Mast: Connecting the Dots of Sea Crossing Tales,” saltfront (Spring 2020); “Spanking the Baby: Second Thoughts on Discipline”; “Voice, Conscience, Community”; “Integrative Ancestors redux--a Child's story from the past to the future,” Dreamers Creative Writing (2018); "Split-Screen Freedom,” Writing on the Edge; “Che’s Boots: Discipline and the flawed hero,” Intraspection.
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