Return to normal

Five months after Hurricane Maria, vestiges of her wrath were still apparent. A quarter of the population remained without electricity. Traffic lights were out, turning intersections into a game of chicken. Blue tarps covered roofs as far as the eye could see, and stacks of dead trees lined the roadways. The sound of generators rumbled day and night, and homemade signs identified addresses where electricity had yet to be restored.

“Pockets” is how people referred to areas not yet back on the power grid. Sometimes a pocket was a single structure located across the street from a building that had hummed with electricity for weeks.

But in a lot of ways, the island seemed to be back in business, at least the parts I saw.

People still packed the streets and bars around La Placita in Santurce, drinking cans of Medalla beer and listening to salsa music. The wait was still an hour long to get into José Enrique restaurant. Cruise ships were back, bringing boatloads of tourists to Old San Juan, and sun worshippers had returned to lounge around the pools at the beach resorts along Condado.

There were still people in need, of course. Power down, homes damaged, bridges out, particularly in the mountains, on the small island of Vieques and on the southeastern coast where the storm made landfall. I was frequently reminded that people were still reeling from Hurricane Irma when Maria hit. But from my perspective, which, granted, was as an outsider parachuting in, life around San Juan and the northeastern environs appeared to be returning to normal. I couldn’t help wondering, though, would it ever be the same.

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Forgoing a hotel in the tourist district, I stayed in a third-floor-walkup in Santurce, a densely populated working-class neighborhood in San Juan.

Like many urban neighborhoods where rent is cheap, Santurce is undergoing gentrification. First came the artists and the galleries, then came hipster joints like Coctelera, a craft cocktail bar run by an affable bunch of bearded millennials. But there were still plenty of the businesses long-time residents relied upon for their daily needs — hardware stores, discount clothing shops, car repair shops, barbers and panaderías, serving rice and beans, plantains and stewed pork from steam tables. The majority of businesses appeared to be open.

Street art was prolific, much of it political. A wall near my apartment was covered with a mural of a girl swinging from a tree limb. Instead of leaves, the tree was covered with light bulbs.

I spotted a phrase stenciled on a wall — “FEMA es el problema” — and snapped a photo. A kindly woman who looked like someone’s grandma was sitting in a lawn chair in front of the building next door. When she saw what I was doing, she walked over to tell me that most people didn’t feel that way, “only people who want no government,” she said. She indicated that she would like to get her own can of spray paint and cover it up. When asked why she didn’t, she smiled and pointed to a security camera on the corner of the building.

For decades, Puerto Rico has ping-ponged between two fairly evenly divided political philosophies: those who want to remain a commonwealth and those who want to become a state. But there has always been a small contingent in favor of political independence. If the graffiti in Santurce was any indication, disappointment over U.S. response to Hurricane Maria appeared to have fueled sentiment for the independence movement, particularly among the young.

For dinner that night I met an old schoolmate of mine whom I hadn’t seen in more than 40 years. Carlos Dávila Rinaldi and I were not close friends back in the day, but thanks to Facebook we’d reconnected. He had become a successful artist, whose work hung in the island’s most prestigious museums. I was eager to hear how he was affected by the storm.

Over plates of grilled fish, tostones and glasses of rum, he told me his power had only recently been restored at his home in an affluent suburb of San Juan. He fared pretty well, considering the circumstances, just a few downed trees and some broken glass. Like many people of means in Puerto Rico, he had generators to keep the refrigerator on and the fans going until his power returned four months later. He was able to return to work at his advertising agency soon after the storm thanks to Sprint, one of his clients, who helped get him back up and running. But his art studio 20 miles south of San Juan near Caguas still had no power.

Carlos’ 24-year-old son was not as fortunate. Pursuing a career in the culinary arts, he worked at a restaurant near the Puerto Rico Convention Center. The restaurant closed after the storm and had yet to reopen. Over time he became depressed and grew thin. Carlos began to worry, so he sent his son to live with his uncle in Winston-Salem, N.C. Carlos had just returned from visiting him and said his son couldn’t be happier. He was cooking at a country club and had gained 42 pounds.

It’s impossible to quantify the number of Puerto Ricans who left for good after Hurricane Maria, but the island was already experiencing an exodus before the storm, thanks to a high unemployment rate and a bankrupt government. In the decade preceding the historic storm, an estimated half-million people left, reducing the island’s population by one-eighth. Hurricane Maria accelerated that exodus.

“A lot of people who had money got on a plane and left. They came back when the worst was over,” said Carlos. “Some people left and didn’t come back.”

A couple of nights later, I got a small taste of post-Maria life when the power went out in my building. Puerto Rico’s electric grid was already fragile when the storm hit, a factor that severely hampered attempts to repair it. That night a fire caused by mechanical failure at a power substation created a blackout across much of northern Puerto Rico. I was lucky. My electricity was back on in an hour. Some people were out for days, left fumbling around in dark pockets.

‘We’d forget to eat’

Our next volunteer job was in Dorado, 18 miles west of San Juan. Once home to grapefruit and pineapple plantations, Dorado was now known for its golf resorts.

Ironically, World Central Kitchen was operating out of one of the area’s most exclusive resorts, which had temporarily closed after the storm.

World Central Kitchen was started by chef José Andrés, a James Beard Award-winning chef from Spain, in response to the 2010 earthquake in Haiti. The nonprofit brings a variety of services to disaster areas, including free, fresh-cooked meals. The organization arrived in Puerto Rico in October and at its peak operated 23 kitchens around the island. They had served 3.3 million meals to date.

En route we stopped to pick up Nelson, who had asked to join us, and Carla Dávila Ortiz, 27, a photographer we’d hired for the day and the daughter of my friend Carlos. I was eager to quiz her about her politics, since her father told me she had pro-independence leanings.

My clumsy inquisition made her squirm, but she explained that the independence movement today was very different from the island’s violent Independenista movement of the ‘50s and ‘60s.

“It’s not Communism,” she said. “But I’m not sure what it is.”

She said a growing animosity toward the U.S. has taken root since hurricanes Irma and Maria, creating a divide between the island’s residents.

“The U.S. is helping, but you can’t see it,” she said. “Some people think they’re helping, but others don’t.”

She paused, then added, “My neighbor got a roof from FEMA last week.”

After the storm, Carla had to live with her parents until she could get a generator for her house in Bayamón. Her electricity was finally restored in late January.

Asked what it was like riding out the storm, she said: “I’ll never forget the sound. I have flashbacks when I feel the wind.”

* * *

At World Central’s kitchen, we were greeted by manager Griselle “Ñaña” Vila, 32, who doled out hairnets, rubber gloves and butcher knives before pointing us to a 5-foot-high rolling rack of raw pork butts. We proceeded to spend the next several hours cutting the meat into chunks. For entertainment we watched the chefs cook up vats of red beans, rice, stew and picadillo, a sort of hash made with ground beef. The food was packed into industrial-sized foil containers and dispersed to volunteers from churches and charities for distribution around the island. Every day the kitchen produced between 5,000 and 6,000 meals.

I watched a chef take some of the fat we’d trimmed off the pork, slice it thinly and fry it up into fresh chicharrónes. Standing around the steel table with the chefs after our shift, we devoured the hot, salty flavor bombs, along with cups of rice and stew. It was comforting to know that people in need were eating such delicious, high-quality food.

During a break, we sat outside at a picnic table on the loading dock, and Ñaña joined us. She told us she was a caterer who found herself without a job after Hurricane Maria. Now employed by World Central Kitchen, she started as a volunteer when it was still operating out of the coliseum in San Juan and producing 75,000 meals a day. One day, Ñaña recalled, they made 90,000 meals.

“We would work 12 hours a day cooking food, and we’d forget to eat ourselves,” she said, laughing at the memory. “We would drive home at night and there would be nothing open and we’d be starving.”

Ñaña found herself in a unique position after the storm. Because of her home’s proximity to a major hospital, she discovered she shared its underground power grid. One week after the storm, she had electricity.

“I was ashamed of telling people,” she said. “People would come into work and go, ‘Oh, I don’t have power. I don’t have a shower,’ and I would come in with my hair blow dried.”

She felt especially guilty when she saw parents volunteer at the kitchen just so they could bring their sick children into the air conditioning.

“We saw a lot of things,” she said. “You start to block it because you can’t go on if you take everything in.”