Piñones, Piñones, where have you gone"

© Roberto Hernández 2006





Since the beginning of 1980 I had strolled down the beaches along the coast of Piñones and Loiza having fallen in love with this mysterious and almost mystical stretch of beach. There were times in which I might have spent almost a week in this area collecting material for my paintings and passing the warm tropical days fishing and relaxing in tropical decadence that must have been what Gaugain had experienced in Tahiti. From the moment I set foot on those beaches I fell in love with the atmosphere, the smells and aromas, the people and their customs. Any mention of a trip to this area was all I needed as an excuse to go rushing there. I recall the days we would spend catching crabs by the bucket-full and plunging them into boiling water to enjoy a meal of freshly caught crabs. I recall the times when the whole community would ban together to string out the long gill net. This was a community venture and men women and children would all be out there to lend a hand in the task. The boat would pull the long net out into the surf in a wide arch until they came back to shore where the people would grab the end and begin to haul. Slowly the net would make its way toward shore bringing in the bounty of the sea. Slowly the net would yield its catch and the children and women would collect the fish and put them in buckets and sacks. At the end of the even the catch would be divided among the people and slowly everyone would make their way back towards their wooden shacks. The event would be replaced by the un-mistakable smell of fresh fish being made in all manner of ways. Back then, before the intervention of the tourist minded government there was much joy there. I still recall the sound of the bongo’s and congas during the evenings and well into the nights. I recall the multitude of people that would gather along those beaches to enjoy the delicacies of the many wooden kioskos that would make their “ Frituras “ there in front of you with the smell of burning wood all around. I recall the many night spots where people would and did spend the entire weekends in continuous parties. I recall the young men that would swim out early in the morning in search of the octopus that were holed up in the reef and stone. One would also see the many fishermen starting their day rowing out to spend the day at their labors. This was a region of life that pulsed and vibrated. This was a region where one could get lost in the past and hear stories of by gone days. One could still hear stories of the times of the Spaniards and their cruelty to the people from those the few old people that had lived through those times. I recall many a story from this region and the imagery it would provoke in my imagination. Ah at last those days are now gone. Jogging paths for the tourist and the rich replaced the old sandy trails. Cement kioskos replaced the wooden ones and where there were wooden fires now there are none. The people struggle to maintain a semblance of the past but to no avail. The constant pressures of government, private industry and the rich will eventually wipe out what is left like one great tsunami. Gone will be a region rich in the past and in culture. The last to go will probably be our cherished Vejigantes which can still be seen on the roads during the festivities of Loiza. Their costumes will someday hang on the walls of some Western Museum, a reminder of what was.