trickster tourism

Tourism is complicated. For too many previously colonized countries, it’s a necessary source of income—but how galling to have to cater to the whims of those (former) colonizers without being able to tell the full, true history of exploitation that makes tourism necessary in the first place. While I was in San Juan, I kept thinking of the documentary Life & Debt. which juxtaposes the causes and effects of neocolonialism with the ridiculousness of White tourists demanding and glibly consuming a fictional narrative about Jamaica. This was my first second time staying at a beachfront resort and though I appreciated the comfort and convenience, I’m not sure I’d do it again. Is there a way to be an ethical tourist—in it but not of it? I’m not sure. Maybe that’s why I’ve largely avoided vacations, preferring to embark on research trips that make me feel like something other (better?) than a pleasure-seeking tourist. If I’m studying some aspect of a country’s history, then it’s respectful and not exploitative, right? I went to Puerto Rico without much of a plan and didn’t try to accomplish much. There’s something about squandering sunny days that makes me feel guilty, even here in Chicago, so I wasn’t upset when it rained off and on for two of the three days—that made it seem acceptable to just hide out in my hotel room. When the sun was out, I got up early and walked the length of the beach, I dozed on a chaise or read for a little while, I finished my puppetry application, I researched tours but only took two—one of Old San Juan and another of the caves at Parque Histórico Cueva María de la Cruz in Loíza. That last day was the best in spite of the rain that caused my flight to be delayed by several hours. I skipped my morning walk and took an Uber out to Loíza where I joined a bomba workshop that was already in progress for a large group of middle school students. The drummers, musicians, and dance instructor were impressive and I was mostly able to follow the conversation despite the fact that it was entirely in Spanish. But the best part came when the dancer tried to bring students onto the dance floor. One young woman jumped up right away and it soon became evident that she didn’t need any instruction—she must have been making those moves since she was a child. The boys were more reluctant but then one of the teachers—a very young man with braces and skinny jeans—got up, saluted the lead drummer, and showed everyone how it’s done! He kicked off his white sneakers and danced so elegantly and expertly…and two of his female colleagues later did the same. Then more and more students found the courage to give it a try…it was amazing. Education should always be that way—electric and experiential. I had brought a few of my books with me and thought I might have to take them back to Chicago but when I offered them to the teachers, they gladly accepted them. When the rain let up a bit, I got a quick tour of the caves, saw the fossilized coral and buzzing beehives, bought something from each of the three vendors on site, and then the younger drummer kindly drove me back to San Juan when Uber couldn’t find me a driver. We talked about his plans to open a restaurant and how challenging it is to preserve bomba music when salsa and reggaetón dominate the airwaves. I got to the airport at 1pm, managed to get the last seat on a later connecting flight in Charlotte, and settled in to wait out the rain. Almost twelve hours later I was back in Chicago, back in my apartment, sleeping in my own bed. What did I learn? Puerto Rico was both familiar and foreign; familiar because it’s a lot like Nevis and the other Caribbean countries I’ve visited, with US fast food chains almost squeezing out the local restaurants. At times it felt as though my inability to speak Spanish limited my ability to connect with folks in a meaningful way. Learning Spanish wouldn’t make me less of an outsider but at least folks would have the option of communicating in their mother tongue. The middle graders looked so familiar—just like the students I used to work with in NYC. But they’re not the same. My character in Moonwalking is part of the diaspora; he feels removed from his roots, which is why he heads to San Juan at the end of the novel. But if I wrote a sequel, I’d have to address the challenges Pierre would face once he arrived. That was an interesting aspect of the Mamie Till story on ABC—Emmett was shown striving to impress his cousins and the other teenage boys in Mississippi; some saw him as a big city show-off, and so didn’t bother to school him in the ways of the South. It’s hard for me to understand why anyone would send their child to the Deep South in 1955, but then my parents were eager to forget and/or conceal their roots. Some departures—for some people—are meant to be final. My favorite photo from this trip was taken as we prepared to land in San Juan. The midnight moon was glowing in the starless black sky and the sea was black as well. There were darker shadows cast on the surface of the water…it was beautiful and nothing like the technicolor postcard images designed to represent Puerto Rico to tourists. When I go back, I’ll skip the beach and stay somewhere inland—rent a house instead of booking a hotel. And maybe by then I’ll have acquired enough Spanish to make communication better. Maybe…