On Sept. 20 María, category 5 (the highest), tore through Puerto Rico with winds over 175 mph. I took this picture when the storm was leaving; both 25 ft. palm trees were uprooted to the left, and fronds are blowing to the right.

Hurricane María parked, in the middle of Puerto Rico, for over 12 hours. This is an account of what happened, and what has been going on ever since. And commentary, as you can’t see my hand gestures and eye rolls.

BUT FIRST: HURRICANE IRMA

Two weeks before María, hurricane Irma passed through PR. It was going to strike directly, but shifted north at the last minute. The hit list was long, though: hurricane Irma destroyed Barbuda (completely evacuated), and gave Cuba its worst (among other places, of course). Puerto Rico received refugees from the Minor Antilles, and many boricuas, out of their own volition, took private boats to the islands, to rescue folks.

In PR, the island municipality of Culebra was wrecked. On the rest, damages were substantial and, for several days, there was zero electricity, water, and (a first) ALL telecommunications. While utilities were being restored, Trump declared PR a disaster area and pledged a visit. Everybody soon forgot about it, as hurricane María was coming–while some boricuas still had not gotten electricity back. And it was coming; even the memerati were scared off their asses:

TAKING COVER

For hurricane María, my wife, our daughter, and I went to my mother-in-law’s (just like we did two weeks before). We prepared our house, CLOSING ALL WINDOWS,* putting storm windows, and collecting lots of water. Plus we got some ice, bottled water, and non-perishable food.

* Those “leave an opening to ease the pressure” wags are the incest children of anti-vaxxers.

In short, my family was preparing for exactly the catastrophe we providentially avoided–something equally cruel and ridiculous. Thus, for reading material, I took two volumes of The Onion Archives and both parts of Don Quijote. And if Cervantes and Jim Anchower failed to liven the mood, I had bookmarked “Suicide Note Full of Simpsons References”.

ENTER MARÍA

At around 3 AM on Sept. 20, I woke up and the wind was strong–that “Hhhhhuuhh” kinda like Darth Vader’s initial breath, and then a louder and higher “Hhhheee” as it picks up speed. Electricity and water were already gone. I got on Twitter, and hurricane María was almost here; the eye would enter from the south-east. That bode badly for our town, Aibonito, on the mountainous center-east. After about 15 minutes, the data and phone service was gone. So, I went back to sleep.

When I woke up, at about 6 AM, the wind was louder, and started jabbing, periodically, against windows and doors–thump HhhhEEEEh… thump HHHHEEEEEEEEhh. By mid morning, water started coming into my mother-in-law’s house, which didn’t happen during Irma.

Hurricane Hugo in ’89 was devastating, and Georges in ’98 was a bad motherfucker. But hurricane María had the strongest winds I’ve ever seen. During the storm, this palm tree was uprooted somewhere and landed on another house.

In other well-sourced events, an outdoor drain had to be cleared during the storm every couple of hours. It was being clogged by an immense amount of leaves and several sticks thrust by a torrent of water, and held up by big pieces of debris–tree branches, but mainly by about 8 palm fronds at a time, each anywhere from 5 to 12 feet long. The wind was destroying everything. It was strong enough to knock down any husky lummox venturing outside.

Inside the house, hurricane María was pushing water steadily through windows–to be precise: storm-proof, interlocked awnings, with vynil screens placed from the inside. (The screens held on, after much swelling and deflating.) We put small towels to stop the water at the source. I also found a small hole on the caulk between floor tiles which, somehow, sent water upward onto the floor. (A theory: the construction punch list consisted of a scribbled horseracing form.) I plugged the hole with a kebab stick and we put towels over it. Still, the kitchen and two rooms were getting soaked.

Between 10 AM and 5 PM that day, my mother-in-law, my wife, our daughter and I constantly took out buckets and buckets and buckets of water from the floor. Bath towels proved far superior to mops. Sure, constantly squeezing big soaked towels is no picnic, but that water was–very fortunately–the only threat to us and the house. So we were intent on doing a thorough job, and did. We were fine, and in good spirits. Those ladies are three generations of dynamite.

After María was gone, I received a great tip: to squeeze a soaked towel, loop it over the sink faucet, cross the ends; turn them to tighten the portion on the faucet, and slide away the drier parts. If that expertise becomes handy during another hurricane at my mother-in-law’s, I’ll be sure that Puerto Rico is getting torn.

THE DESTRUCTION

This is from a walk early on the morning after, Sept. 21, before most clearing took place. To the left, a row of electricity and utility poles.

The other direction of the road:

That tilted pole at the left remained as a half gate when the road was open.

I should clarify: an “open road”, after María, is one that allows one car to pass through, no matter how many lanes. For example, this road is closed:

Notice that the piece with grass was a massive portion of crust that slid, in whole, onto the left side of the asphalt.

This road, however, is open:

In Aibonito and other towns in the rural center, most roads consist of two lanes, one in each direction. All roads in this area were covered with rocks, mud, whole trees, broken utility poles (wood, metal, and concrete), and pieces of structures (homes, sheds, etc.).

I pass this road every day. That thing was parked upright, before the mudslide:

When I finally could take the expressway, on Sept. 25 (five days after), this was an open road going to the coast in Vega Baja, on the north:

I didn’t take pics of the devastation, for several reasons. (Here’s one: I can do without mementos of what’s all around.) In a nutshell: it’s concrete misery, natural and human, everywhere.

The trees left standing by the storm were stripped of foliage. Go through any road, from rural to multi-lane expressway, and you’ll see every single hill and mountain looking like everything–but the soil–having been burned. Every structure was damaged; the most benign was swaths of paint scraped off. 250,000 homes without all or some roof, the radio said. Here in Aibonito, María tore the reinforced roof of my compadre’s home. He was inside when it happened, and got on his pickup to his father’s for safety, running over pieces of his roof that were on the street.

Commercial chicken coops here, made of metal, were ravaged. The air around them became thick with shit and rot. Roofed basketball courts were crushed like aluminum foil. Near streams, huge pieces of pavement littered the road, like massive jigsaw puzzle pieces dropped from the sky.

But this is old news by now, much like the trouble getting people out and into Puerto Rico. So I’ll end the section with this:

If you can’t appreciate a door ripped off and graffitied with “There’s No Exit”, then maybe you are too adjusted to live in this new Puerto Rico–or, for that matter, to be lurking on this here website.

PUERTO RICO REBOOTS

Hurricanes are a part of life in the Caribbean just like, I suppose, earthquakes for Californians and snow storms for Ottawans. Perhaps more so: the word “hurricane” comes from “Juracán”, the mercurial deity that tormented the Taínos (the Puerto Rican inhabitants before the Spaniards). Since I was a kid, the period from July to September has always meant keeping a full tank of gas and stocking up on water, canned food, batteries, and candles. Since the ’90s, water cisterns are mainstream. Diesel electrical plants followed, in recent years.

Boricuas knew what María would bring. Despite its unprecedented power, it’s been reported that less than 20 deaths were due to the storm–out of a population of about 3.5 million, with a median income hovering $20,000 a year. [UPDATE – Sept. 30: Got additional information; deaths are likelier near to 100.] We were also realistic about the aftermath. My best friend, who’s a tough sunuvabitch, posted on Facebook a pic of his home just before the storm, captioned “For Posterity”. The storm took half of the roof. We’ve yet to converse, as all two-way communication has been out here since Sept. 20. I do know he’s been busy tending to his family and others, just like most of PR.

The morning after María left, it was still raining. Nevertheless, across all barrios and neighborhoods, citizens came out to clear the roads and homes (own and otherwise), of all kinds of debris with anything available: diggers, heavy equipment, saws, machetes, trash bags, and hands. This I saw myself, first with Irma. For María, however, you couldn’t find bystanders. Everyone was helping–if not cutting or collecting, bringing water, coffee, and food. While this was going on, municipal personnel started doing triage rounds, and clearing as well.

The center of the island was completely incommunicado for four days after María, when I heard the first helicopter flying overhead. (Incidentally, that day I saw a live bird, for the first time since the storm.) The radio said our governor, Ricardo Rosselló, met with all 78 mayors and put in place plans for clearing roads and reestablishing services.

Today is Sept. 28. It’s been nine days. All debris here has been set aside for dumping, or dumped. There’s no electricity. The only information available, about anything, still comes from word of mouth, written notes or placards, and AM radio (at most, two stations out of about 20). The businesses that are open (mostly gas stations, markets, some eateries and bakeries), only take cash. However, the ATMs have been out of money since Sept. 19. This placard was placed on Aibonito’s branch of the main bank in PR:

A summary: closed indefinitely, and advising customers to go to branches two towns over, open from 10-2.

Normal bank working hours were 8:30 to 4:30–and I mean “were”. Nobody expects to live like we did way back in August, 2017–for a long, long time. And that’s despite the work put in by the PR government, at all levels, regarding safety and order (which I’ve found commendable, from Irma to the present). Especially the police and mayors; both have been remarkable.

GASOLINE DREAMS

Since the first gas stations opened on Sept. 21, getting any fuel has required at least a two-hour wait. Lines of over a hundred cars, and an equal or higher number of people on foot with portable tanks, are common on every station–open or otherwise. Two-lane roads now have to fit three vehicles, two of them passing through in opposite directions, whether hatchbacks or tankers. People start getting in line before 5 AM, with many leaving their cars overnight. The first station I was able to get gas from, on Sept. 25, was this one–which used to have two pumps:

It is open for business, giving out $10 of gas only per customer. Makes sense, for the greater good. The greater good.

But making a line does not guarantee you’ll get any gasoline or diesel. Actual information on when tankers will come, to supply any given station, is hard to discern from chatter–so getting in line is always a crapshoot. I’ve made as many lines getting out with nothing (average wait time: 3 hours, after getting there between 5 and 6 AM). To pass the hours, I volunteered my notorious personal charm onto line mates and you, dear reader, by thumbing every single word on this post, over four days. [ed. note: ?; liar. Author’s note: edit THIS;??.]

Right now, I’m on my third gas line today, since 5:15 AM, and it’ll be noon shortly–right around my turn. The first of you assholes who makes a “Despacito” joke is getting a pointed letter,** written in official stationery.

** About two days after I secure a working computer and printer.

Fuel is, by far, the most valued commodity–and scapegoat. Mega pharmacies are not filling scripts because of alleged power failures. I say bullshit: I think they just don’t wanna risk losses because health plans can’t process coverage claims right now. My most heartfelt Screw You to Walgreens and WalMart, non-decisionmakers excepted.

Days ago, in a gas line, people were asking folks to donate diesel for the local hospital. Tankers coming here, to the central area, are escorted by police, sometimes with an overhead helicopter. There are armed guards (private and/or police) deployed at the stations, to maintain order. Here in “The Sticks”, one guard is enough. But I saw what’s coming: in San Juan, on Sept. 26, I saw two National Guardsmen, with both hands on R-15s, posted in each gas station.

MILITARY AND FEDERALES

Our governor, who is pro-statehood, on Sept. 25 demanded the federal government to give PR exactly the same treatment it gave to Texas and Florida for hurricanes Harvey and Irma, respectively. The next day, I heard House Speaker Paul Ryan use almost identical language.

Trump said he’s coming to PR on Oct. 3, and the radio said he’d been tweeting about PR’s recovery. But no word on the (WTF!) NFL boycott tweets. What the hell happened?! Jesus Christ… ? ?

National Guard heavy vehicles have started to come to Aibonito. And I understand a three-star general was appointed to oversee operations. I’ll approach anyone coming here to help as warmly as I do any friend and compatriota.

But! Trump does have a history here. It’s been reported he was in a group of developers that wanted to displace the La Perla community in Old San Juan (Kenny’s home in the “Mexico” of Eastbound and Down). 45 did own a golf course and resort here in Río Grande–which, of course, went bankrupt. And PR has had five Miss Universes.

In short: regarding the full scope of federal presence, here and coming, I give my most heartfelt “We’ll see”.

DEAR AT&T:

You fucking suck! Ten days after the storm, your network is the only one DEAD, except in San Juan, an hour plus over. You wretched tease; two towns over there are two or three dots and an “LTE” that are LIES!!

Telecom giant my ass. I hope you get skewered for unpaid Universal Service fees, you craven bastards.

Everyone (banks, insurers, government, retailers, black market entrepreneurs…) need your network. If energy were the only one of YOUR problems, special allocations would’ve been arranged FOR YOU posthaste. Even AFTER hurricane IRMA, which caused the first outage. But you’ve kept mum about that one, and the ongoing one as well.

I’ll grant you, María was huge. But I’ll never forgive you for stoking the “cellphones dehumanize!” wags to the extent that people are thanking God for the disaster “because now you see kids outside, riding bicycles”–and even more mindless claptrap about socializing and The Divine Plan.

Goddammit AT&T. If I fail to get into any FF playoffs, it’s your fucking fault too.

And, hey! Utility privatization zealots: on behalf of my family, have a hearty bowl of garbage truck drip and unwashed taint stew.

FOR POSTERITY

Today is Sept. 29. My town and the central part are areas that have yet to have any perceptible federal assistance or personnel. As I presume the feds will take over going forward, here is what I’ve seen and lived thus far.

Puerto Rico is standing up, in a new, upended reality. In these ten days after María left, PR and local government, and society, have kept going–busy and peacefully–with no utilities; zero telecom; banks rationing cash and no ATMs; obstructed roads; staggering property damage and scarcity; occasional fuel; a PR-wide curfew ending at 6 or 7 PM; and no date for reopening any educational institution or courthouses. And there’s been NO altercations or violent events.

If you’re unimpressed, here’s the kicker: since SEPTEMBER 18, there has been in force AN INDEFINITE BAN ON THE SALE OF ALCOHOL. I submit the above is proof-positive of immense solidarity and resiliency. Mess with or undermine boricuas at your peril.

FINALLY,

My family and I returned home, and are fine with how it is. (“Only material losses, thank God” is the general refrain.) We don’t have, or need, a cistern or electrical plant. Through cooperation, we got a gas tank and burner on loan, and we got plenty of stored water. I also did laundry with an eight-gallon dog tub, long coaxial cable, and some plastic covered paper clips. (The clips were ineffective; the rest was OK.) Busy mind, busy mind.

AND, I just got a full gas tank AND filled the portable 5-gallon one too. But the inside of my car and my hands are full of gasoline right now. Oh Universe! Why did you bless me with pluck and brains, but made me an irredeemable klutz?

/lights another cigarette

In other matters, I miss terribly shooting the NFL shit with alla youse. But, from what little I’ve been able to read here since Sept. 18, your solidarity with PR is immensely appreciated. I must say that I’m choking up right now; listen, dear folks: car A/C and gas fumes don’t mix.

Kidding aside, yeah; missing the NFL season blows mightily. Honestly though, there’s no place I’d rather be at present. Puerto Rico is my country, I love it, and it’s time to continue working here. I’ll die here come hell or high water–or the worse version of hell, where bromides outnumber sanguine jokes about PROMESA, María, and military occupation.

And if the Titans achieve world-beater status and I miss it, I’ll return to the Church. That’s the only way I can make my blasphemies mean something.