Jungle Brews and Fast Food Blues
A Puerto Rican Agricultural Awakening
Thirteen people macheted their way through the jungle to watch coffee grow.
While everyone else wolfs down $17 Quarter Pounders in their air-conditioned resort rooms, this crew sweats it out, desperate to understand where their morning brew comes from.
A battle rages in Puerto Rico, and the average American tourist has no idea it's happening.
It's a war between tradition and convenience, between real food and the golden arches of progress, playing out in real-time across this tropical battlefield.
Wild Tamarinds hover overhead like lilypads, casting dappled shade across the rainforest floor. Parrots and peacocks shriek in horror at the mass of people descending on the Hacienda Illuminata—liquid air heavy with the weight of a thousand fast food restaurants' kisses.
There's more than curiosity here—a hunger for authenticity that runs deeper than any Big Mac craving.
A lineup of caffeine cravers grows impatient while Michael, our tour guide doubling as the pre-tour-tasting-session barista, moves at his own damn pace. Didn’t expect this many people to trek this far just to get a glimpse of an authentic coffee farm.
Back on Hennepin or Demers Avenue, nine out of ten baristas would crack under this kind of pressure—the energy of a potential revolt crawling up their spines like lizards darting through the underbrush.
But Michael, he doesn't give two shits if people have to wait. He makes his coffee and conversation with the confidence of Bob Dylan, selling off his legacy for a new marketing deal.
No hurry here. This isn't some drive-thru experience.
The numbers tell the story of this invasion: three out of four young Puerto Ricans now have suboptimal heart health. 1
Half the island battles diabetes or prediabetes. 2
Two in five live with obesity. 3
This isn't just correlation—it's causation written in grease and sugar. Every new fast food sign that goes up is another nail in the coffin of traditional Puerto Rican agriculture and health.
Along the island’s northern coast, America's dietary tradition spreads like a blight, choking out organic coffee trees and suffocating cacao plants beneath noxious vines.
Burger King. Church’s Chicken. McDonald’s. Subway. Fast food logos rise like invasive species, thriving in the fertile ground of convenience. It seems this is the way Puerto Ricans want it—or maybe the way they’ve been nudged into wanting it—adapting to America’s diet in the name of ease.
Quick. Convenient. Greasy.
But head south to Ponce, and it feels like the American invasion hasn’t sunk its claws in quite as deep.
Traffic moves slower here, like the island itself resisting the rush.
Locals sit outside small cafés, dining and talking to one another, their phones tucked away, no glowing Instagram tabs stealing their attention.
Presence. Simplicity. Gratitude.
Yesterday, we ditched the resort—the one with the manicured lawns and overpriced cocktails people picture when they hear the word paradise—and found the real thing, tucked deep in the mountains.
Hacienda Illuminata wasn’t born out of some Instagram-driven dream of rustic charm. It started with a couple of guys trying to fight back against one of the highest unemployment rates—not just on the island, not just in the country, but in the entire damn world.
Cheap imported foods and conveniences have hollowed out this beautiful place, leaving little behind for people to build on. Sure, the grease huts slap together enough jobs to keep some folks afloat, just enough to afford the very same crap food they’re serving.
But it tears away everything this island and its people were built upon—rips away its soul, its beauty.
Getting lost on a rainforest backroad no wider than a Kia Soul and watching these thirteen souls trek across vast jungles to see a real, working hacienda tells me something.
People are regaining an interest in agriculture. They crave to know where their food comes from—to feel the dirt—to touch the nature behind their coffee, bananas, coconuts, and papayas.
Strip it down. Dissect its essence.
These people have had enough processed fares, enough of the fake American life buried under the sand—the same place most of these resort guests keep their heads.
Nobody wants to admit the life we export to the world is the very life that’s killing us.
How far does it go before people decide to right the ship?
Max pain or abrupt enlightenment?
Maybe both.
And maybe it’s not just Puerto Rico that needs a reckoning. Perhaps I do, too. Turns out I don’t know it all.
Don’t know shit, if I can be frank.
Don’t worry. You can still be you.
What blows me away isn’t the coffee or the beautiful trees and jungle and narrow roads—it’s how fucking joyful people are here—happy in a way that doesn’t hinge on wealth—grateful to live a simpler life on an island that gets its ass kicked by hurricanes every few years.
The lens is everything.
And what I'm realizing is my lens has been coated in a fog thicker than morning island humidity. Back home, I thought I knew everything about agriculture—efficiency, yields, and modern farming techniques.
But watching Michael work, seeing these ancient coffee trees resist the fast food invasion, I'm learning that sometimes the old ways carry wisdom we've forgotten in our rush toward progress.
I know how fucking lucky I am to be here. And yeah, it probably sounds self-righteous, maybe even a little narcissistic, to gripe about prices while I’m on a tropical vacation.
I can feel you rolling your eyes. Hell, I’m rolling my own.
But hear me out. I’m saying this with as little virtue signaling as possible—it’s not about my wallet. It’s about the people who can’t do shit like this because they’ve been priced out of every system except the fast food system.
I’m not whining about what this trip costs. I’ve never been great with money—probably will spend or give away every last cent I make.
And when it’s my time to go, my casket or cremation tank won’t have a compartment for cash, knick-knacks, or 401(k)s. I came into this world nude, and that’s precisely how I hope to leave—maybe get lucky and go out during or right after a bit of hanky panky, but if not, I get it.
The horseshoe lodged up my ass only goes so far.
This isn’t the time to get greedy.
I’ve always been fortunate, but not the kind of luck that shows up in the numbers.
Unquantifiable luck, like when that county sheriff is just about to bring the hammer down on your little road trip but gets a call about another incident, forcing him to take a rain check on cashing in that felony.
No Mercy, No Malice writer Scott Galloway ends every newsletter with a short line that sums it all up, yet I, like most people, find myself losing sight of its message.
Life is so rich.
It genuinely fucking is.
Yet we forget.
Work. Kids. Spaghetti and taco nights. Birthday parties. Weddings. Funerals. The bus running full speed to the great gig in the sky doesn’t get flat tires or coolant leaks like an old Melroe Harrow—it chugs forward even after its usefulness expires—only good for spare parts or makeshift yard rakes.
I feel a cramp coming on … probably need to drink more water. Chalk it up to too much sun and/or tequila. When they charge a fist and an ankle for the stuff, you might as well go all out.
Worry about the consequences later.
As the late-day island sun sinks westward and the easterly breeze shifts, gearing up for the evening rain, I watch the lizards—some green to blend with the lawn, others brown to match the leaves—basking on a grey rock, their colors clashing with the stone beneath them. They remind me of Michael and the coffee farm, somehow thriving despite being out of place in this modernized world.
But you can see it in their eyes—they don't care.
Like Michael making unhurried coffee, the lizards stand firm against the fast food invasion. They're not thinking about service charges or emails waiting back home—not worrying if their ass looks too big in these pants.
Little bastards just do their thing.
Just be.
Exist.
And they make it look so easy—effortless—the opposite of the transparent insecurity bleeding from this resort, this island … maybe even me.
Maybe that's what those thirteen jungle trekkers were really looking for—not just coffee, but a glimpse of something authentic in a world drowning in artificial flavors.
Over the last 30 years, I have seen the same thing happen to Mexico - an increase in fast food and convenience stores has brought an increase in obesity, heart disease, and diabetes. Here, the culprit is Coca-Cola, and it is amazing to me that in some parts of this country, Coke is cheaper and more accessible than water.
We have to fight back. I have learned to avoid fast food and only eat the produce I buy from local markets. I cheer anytime I see workers chose to eat at our local taco stands, instead of grabbing a bag of chips and a coke at the OXXO. I haven't cooked with sugar in over a year- only monk fruit, and occasionally I splurge for honey. One day, I hope to be able to grow my own food. Right now it's just 4 pots of basil, but I just planted a pineapple and I'm trying to sprout carrots, spinach, and green onions. I will keep going, and hopefully I can inspire others to do the same. I like my new neighbors. I don't want them dying of diabetes. I want us all to live healthier and happier. Together we can do this.
Adam I love the deep authenticity of your voice in this piece! Your confessions of flaws and the way you highlight the connections you feel to others.
Another fantastic piece with a resounding message.
My goodness, if I could even come up with a fraction of the visual images you put into every piece, I would be thrilled! 😂