Of Bombs and Beaches: A Week in Vieques
Two weeks ago, I embarked on an ambitious and somewhat random family vacation: myself, my grandmother, my husband, and my sister in law. With grandma in tow, I couldn't exactly take off backpacking. And yet, I didn't want to succumb to a cruise or an all-inclusive report. So, we landed on a place that was comfortable, yet not exactly familiar... Puerto Rico.
We spent two relatively uneventful days in the capital, San Juan, and then boarded a tiny propeller plane. After a fitful start, the plane slowly bopped to a respectable height, from which we watched the mainland fade into the distance, and then, not even 10 minutes of azure water later, saw a lush, green island come into view. Vieques.
Vieques is one of the three ‘larger’ islands within the Puerto Rican archipelago. I put larger in quotations because the island itself hosts a whopping 10,000 residents, and half of its surface area is taken up by a natural reserve that is uninhabited and – save for a few beaches – impassable. In fact, for 60 years the U.S. Navy used Vieques as a war playground, detonating bombs and mines, and dropping hundreds of tons of chemical waste onto the island's fragile mangroves. The Navy left in 2003 after mass protests and civil disobedience, but the island still houses tens of thousands of unexploded mines, and contamination from heavy metals and other toxins is causing spikes in cancer rates.
Still, Vieques' sad history notwithstanding, the parts of the island that haven’t been bombed into oblivion are absolutely pristine. There’s almost no tourism infrastructure, no air pollution… only a coastline dotted with dozens of unspoiled beaches, many of them coves protected by cliffs and revealing sky blue waters, bright white sand, and schools of neon fish flitting through coral reefs. Thus far, only 10 beaches within the reserve have been opened to the public; the island plans to open 20 more over the coming several years, but first it has to de-mine them.
Along the beaches – well actually, everywhere on the island – there roam hundreds (thousands?) of wild horses. It appears the horses were imported by Spanish conquistadors, and without any natural predators they multiplied, taking over the entire island. The animals trot freely along (and on) the roads, munch contentedly on the mangoes that have fallen from the ubiquitous mango trees, and congregate along the beaches, forming protective circles around their colts. In town, they also seem to be used sporadically for transport, or maybe just for joy riding, mostly at the hands of teenagers.
The forest reserve also hosts a breathtaking natural wonder: a bioluminescent bay in which billions of microorganisms reside, lighting up any time the water is disturbed. We experienced this wonder late one evening, when we went out on the bay in glass bottom kayaks. The moonless night blanketed us as we rowed out into the middle of the bay. There, we rested our oars and dipped our hands into the water. It ran down our arms in a million neon drops, dripping in bright streams onto the bottom of the boat and down our bare feet.
So that, in a nutshell, is the natural beauty of Vieques. But for me, the experience grew more fascinating as we zoomed in even further, to the town of Esperanza, where we stayed. As I mentioned, Vieques is home to approximately 10,000 residents; so, about three times the size of my high school. During high season, I’m sure the island is flooded with tourists, but when we were there – perhaps on account of Zika, perhaps because it was the dead of summer – we were in the distinct minority. The island’s main town is the boring and dusty Isabel II. Approximately 20 minutes due south along a forested highway is Vieques’ second largest population hub, the village of Esperanza.
How to describe this little place? Imagine the prototypical small town from a Western, except that everyone is speaking Spanish and it’s on the beach. There’s a main drag – the Malecon – where all of the action happens. On one side are the various restaurants and shops, and on the other side, a small boardwalk and then the sea. On the sea side there’s also the “Spot”; I’m calling it that because really, that’s what it is – an outdoor local hang, made up of little more than a concrete patch (for dancing), a couple of makeshift wooden bars (for serving $2 beer and sangria in Capri Sun-looking packages), and a DJ “booth”. The Spot was hopping every night of the week. Hundreds of locals grooved on the tiny concrete platform and spilled out onto the Malecon, chatting, dancing, flirting, sipping local beer. Smiling.
Taking further the analogy of the Old West town, you also had the ‘characters’. They came out every night to the Malecon, because walking the Malecon and going to the Spot was what everyone did. There was the guy in the black jeep, who drove the drag at least 8 times a night, blasting salsa music. There was the older lady, always standing just off the Spot dance floor, always a little tipsy, wiggling her hips and hoping one of the younger guys would take her for a spin. There was Marcos, the restaurant owner, flitting between the smoothie stand, the Puerto Rican eatery and the bar, carrying orders and mixing drinks.
And then there was the Dancing Couple. Actually, my grandma and I noticed them our first night in town. We had gone to the Spot, and were sitting to the side, watching the action on the dance floor, when we noticed them. They were young – 20 maybe – and not exactly beautiful, but magnetic. She had a compact gymnasts body and a long, thick braid of black hair that would swing behind her as she performed intricate steps, throwing her head back occasionally to let out a mirthful laugh, just because. He was also short, with a backwards cap and a pony tail, cuter than her, and with a slightly cocky gait, pivoting and grabbing her playfully from behind.
“It’s as if they’re playing in a movie,” my grandma whispered as we sat, fixated on the Dancing Couple. They were so in love that they didn’t notice how everyone else in the bar was gazing at them, soaking up their energy.
We saw the Dancing Couple every night after that, and eventually they lost a little of their mystique. One of the nights, only the girl showed up. She was a little drunk, and her moves weren’t as precise. She was dancing with an old man, swaying suggestively as he waddled along, pantomiming the steps he knew so well but had lost the ability to execute years ago. Still, the site of the Dancing Couple that first night will forever be burned into my memory.
So there it is, Vieques in brief. There were annoying parts that I won’t dwell on: the utter lack of taxis (Uber would rock Puerto Rico’s world); the idiotic transport rate of “$5 per person, anywhere on the island” (translating into $20 trips to a beach 1 mile away); the lack of A/C; the crappy cell service; the food deserts (there appears to only be one proper grocery store on the entire island). But in a weird way, I think those quirks come with the territory. The island isn’t set up for tourists, and it’s a little run down and isolated. Stuff doesn’t “work” as it should, and sometimes that’s annoying. But it also means that Vieques isn’t corporate, that it’s still - to the extent possible in this world - authentic. People are kind, and low key. They don’t treat you like a pot of money, to be harassed about tours and pressured into buying overpriced Margaritas. In fact, they don’t really see you as anything special… you are just there, enjoying – ever so briefly – living in their world.
