Jasmine Wanders

Famed for its residents reaching triple digit ages and nicknamed the “Valley of Longevity,” it should be called the “Valley of American Retirees”.

Perhaps the most terrifying aspect of the calamity is not knowing. I literally have nothing on my person except a few dollars – no ATM card, no laptop, no camera – nada.

There is an undeniable trace of ghetto that lurks a few blocks away from the main road, waiting to grab the unsuspecting tourist who strays too far in the wrong direction.

“Why are you letting them take that?” I say to one of the guides, pointing to the treasures left on the bench. “They’re robbing the ocean, and if you keep letting people do that, in a few years there will be nothing to see here.”

Puerto Rico does have a lot to offer me. A lot of mental space. A haven to work, sleep, and relax. A front seat to the best show in the world, the sun dipping below the horizon every evening.

The Montañita scene has started to get to my head, to tell the truth. There are only so many days I can spend in a beach party town without going a little crazy.

Heart racing, I run for cover as a deafening explosion sounds in the sky above. The first blast is followed by another, and another. Men lie in the street like splayed Bambis, each in a different state of decay as indifferent flames consume them.

Even with the rampant temptation this beach bum haven provides, the disciplined backpacker can survive on just $5 a day.