Puerto Rico’s Long Journey Out of Darkness

Just before Hurricane Maria swept over the hills of San Lorenzo, Puerto Rico, Sylvia Martínez noticed that everything, even the animals, had gone eerily silent. Hours later, when those ferocious winds died down, the first thing Martínez heard outside her home was the tiny Puerto Rican tree frog named the coquí for the sound of its quizzical call. Now, Martínez heard the coquí's call differently.

“Estoy aquí!” it seemed to say: “I am here!” Then a rooster crowed. She knew the storm was over. What she didn’t know was how long she would continue to be without electricity, which she had first lost during Hurricane Irma.

“I am here.” In the case of Puerto Rico, that could be either a call for help or an affirmation of survival.

To fly over the island now is to behold its beautiful landscape — and realize the monumental obstacle it poses to restoring electric power to the island. From the air, you can follow the path of the main power grid that circles the island and branches off in a crosshatch of patterns. Downed power lines snake along mountain ridges like strands of unraveled twine leading to broken toothpicks. Follow the path of one and you’re likely to find a home on the other end without power. Each downed line represents an islet of humanity disconnected from the present.

Along with New York Times reporters James Glanz and Frances Robles, we traversed the island by following the path of darkness left by Hurricanes Maria and Irma, visiting communities that are slowly regaining power and those that are still without it. The story tracks the early decisions officials made as hurricanes bore down on the island, and the substantial challenges of repairing a long-neglected power grid buffeted by back-to-back hurricanes. Bulldozers cleared paths up mountain ridges for utility workers, while in other places workers trudged through muddy tropical terrain to reach their objective. In some places, like San Germán, helicopters lowered poles into place atop steep ridges in a laborious process that would restore power to roughly 30 homes.

But not all of the obstacles are physical.

Supplies were slow to make it to the island in the days and weeks after the hurricanes. Contractors with little experience in disasters of this magnitude were hired, further slowing recovery.

Whatever the case, there is one thing not being disputed: More than six months after Hurricanes Irma and Maria swept across Puerto Rico, people are still without power. In late February, Yabucoa was only at 18 percent power. On May 1, just before publication of our story, the town was up to 60 percent.

Driving west from the center of Cayey along the Río de la Plata, you find numerous pockets that were without power as recently as mid-March. One such area is Calle Don Amado, a narrow, winding road that gets steeper the higher you go. Almost at the top lives Mildoel Rodriguez. In his 60s and disabled, he lives alone on the plot of land his family passed down through generations, where they used to raise animals and grow tobacco and subsistence crops. In late February, he sat in his living room as the day faded.

Without power since Maria, there is little he can do. He has no generator, so he cannot watch TV or listen to his favorite music on his stereo. Neighbors check in on him and charge his phone. At twilight, the sounds of generators echo through the valley and Mildoel lights a single candle to punctuate the bluish darkness in his small home. “It feels like going back 40 years,” he said. His power was finally restored in early April.

I spent days in helicopters with officials from the island’s power authority and the Army Corps of Engineers circling just about every corner of the island. Under their leadership, crews from the mainland have been restoring power. As crews re-energize one block, scenes of jubilation play out much as they did in early February when a crew from Wisconsin lit up Buenos Aires street in San Juan. One resident, Julie Angulo Ramos, 72, went from room to room turning on lights and fans as neighbors celebrated outside.

But as one community cheers, others still wait.

As the coquí signals yet another night of darkness, Sylvia Martínez sees from her kitchen window the glowing lights of San Lorenzo in the valley. She takes advantage of the last bit of daylight to reheat the dinners her family prepares for her. She puts a bag of ice in a cooler.

Later, she and her fiancé, Reggie, will spend their evening under the glow of LED lanterns. Their lives have become a carefully choreographed routine of boiling water for bathing, charging phones and changing batteries. On weekdays, they awake at 3:30 in the morning to prepare for their long commute to San Juan, on a route where many traffic lights lack power. As frustrating as it is, she is resigned to waiting another six months for power.

To this day they live without light.