Manana Culture

Sometimes in Rincon, the water is "just out." You can't pee, you can't drink tap water, you can't wash the sand out of your butt. No one frets or worries about the arbitrary lack of water because when it happens, it just happens, life goes on, and you can just pee in the ocean. Take shots to dehydration, and worry about it manana.

We befriended a bartender, Maria, who had sold everything in the United States just to realize her fantasy of living on a tropical island. She wore colorful wrap around tops, took care of an old man in order to live rent-free, and never created more than one tab because it was too much work. We asked her what she wanted to do next; she shrugged, and said, "St. Thomas, and at some point Spain." We asked her where in Spain, and Maria didn't know. She would figure it out soon enough.

Her boss, Miserable or Mad Mike, was the owner of Casa Vieja, a small, hot, dingy tavern in a small alley. He was American, old, grumpy, and had lots of opinions and cheap drink and food deals (buy one burger, get one free). Casa Vieja played only 70s American tunes and catered to a unilingual population--American expats and tourists. We went to Casa Vieja every night, for french fries and margaritas and the grumblings of an old man.

Antonio, the bartender at our resort had a soft voice, soft features, and would hydrate us with ice water and stories of his life. His favorite vacation was his trip to Spain and Portugal; he enjoyed himself so much that his 2 week vacation became a 2 month vacation, and he lost his job, spent all his money, and "had to start all over" when he returned home. We sat in a stupor, drunk from the blazing sun and exhausted from our 8 mile walk. He saw all of us staring at him in bewilderment, and said, "It's a once in a lifetime experience."

After we parasailed, we walked back to our resort. We wanted to save money, save the environment from CO2 emissions, and just explore the little rickety fruit carts and fried chicken trucks en route to our hotel. The drive seemed short, (it was 15 minutes), and we wisely concluded the walk wouldn't be that much longer. It took us 3 hours, much of it uphill, to get back to the resort. After two hours, we were unsure whether or not we were wet from parasailing or from sweat. People in cars would slow down, stare at us, honk, and sometimes even yell indiscriminate things in Spanish. We even caused a traffic jam, for one car stopped and then every car behind it stopped. People honked not out of impatience, but to add to the grand orchestration of cat calls. We weren't sure if they were giving us attention because we were girls or because we were tourists, but soon we figured out that our peeling faces, our sweaty backs, and the limp with which we dragged on spoke volumes about our gringa nature.

The Chinese restaurant we passed on the way home had a simple and direct title--"China Rest." They seemed to have gotten over the last 6 letters of the word, and decided a period would suffice to relay the message. However, unlike the other letters in the title, the period didn't light up, and so the restaurant simply read "China Rest" and it still managed to attract a few unaware customers into its abode.

Elaine, our driver on the last night, told us that Puerto Rico may never become its own sovereign because the people are too scared to let go of the US, that the island would have to learn to grow on its own. Right now, she explained, everyone just worked and partied. There was no unified strength, no sense of ownership--just $1 Medallas on the beach. She then dropped us off to Tamboo Tavern, so that we could engage in that culture, too. Work, party, and repeat.

In Rincon, everything moves at the pace of the waves. There is no agenda, no stress, no days of the week--just sun and blue drinks and iguanas. We thought our fantasies would be dispelled when we finally arrived on the island; instead, every dream of island life was true to life, realized by our 4 nights of non-stop nothingness and laughter. It is manana culture but people live today. It is like existentialism turned upside down, transformed from a Frenchman shooting Arabs to Americans getting sunburned. And we could have walked in the sand declaring carpe diem, except that we were always feeling too lazy to seize anything, and simply allowed the waves to wash our footprints away.