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Misadventures in the La Republica Dominicana
• Gene C. Palmer, Ph.D.
"Nothing is Wasted That Makes a Memory"
(Ned Roem)
I’d briefly glimpsed the mountainous island of Hispaniola from the troop ship (APA-38 USS Chilton) and the converted helicopter carriers (USS Boxer and USS Thetus Bay) back in 1961-1963. Incidentally on the trip on the latter carrier I spent considerable time in the ship’s hospital trying to recover from a severe case of dengue fever, I’d picked up during one of the extended training exercises ashore. Back to the topic at hand, the Dominican Republic was big; it looked exciting and was definitely not a first world country. The locals spoke Spanish, the terrain varied from the jungle/forest, fertile areas, it boasted the highest mountains in the Caribbean, a desert region, unspoiled sea coastal areas, and even an inland lake inhabited by caiman’s. Would it be possible for us to rent a car and perhaps experience the sights and absorb this interesting cultural diversity?
The nurse at the Rochester HMO who administered my monthly allergy shots cautioned about the Dominican Republic. She was giving up nursing to become a travel agent and she said, "Expect true Third World conditions. The country hadn’t yet got it together environmentally, plus there is a lack of trash control, gross inefficiency, they still hadn’t escaped the legacy of the Trujillo dictatorship." History books in the Rochester libraries were few in number, mainly describing the "Banana Wars". In what few guidebooks we were able to locate, it was mentioned that the rainy season usually winds down in November—unfortunately, this year turned out to be an exception. We chose American Airlines, because after having had experiences with Latin American flights we figured at least American Airlines could be counted on to more or less operate on time and guarantee assigned seats for the passengers. This would be a welcome relief instead of the free-for-all scramble to get aboard and grab a seat while the overbooked passengers were left out of luck. We’ve been in planes run by the airlines in Mexico and Honduras that lacked seat belts and where the overhead compartments wouldn’t shut and flopped up and down during the flight. Once in Honduras on a DC3 an unlucky passenger had to crawl into the baggage compartment for the ride out to Roatan.
Chapter 1
Wednesday Nov. 14 – Flight to Puerto Plata
Puerto Plata was so-named by Columbus in 1493 because the reflected sunlight off the shimmering waters reminded him of a sea of sparkling silver coins. Puerto Plata has been touted as a popular port of call for cruise ships. Moreover, it has several of those fenced in all-inclusive resorts where mainly Europeans and some North Americans go to feel safe, lie in the sun and play golf without ever having to leave the grounds. They are located a few miles outside the city and positioned well away from native living areas. Our hotel, however, was to be a tiny resort located in the heart of the principal living area of Puerto Plata.
From the window the plane approached over sugar cane fields onto a flat plain bordered to the inland side by steep forested mountains. We disembarked into a pandemonic situation. First we stood in line and waited and sweltered in a warehouse-like terminal to clear customs and get forms stamped, and then into another warehouse to await our baggage. It appeared that we were the only ones not waiting on golf clubs to be brought in. It was typically one of those Third World operations—sheer bedlam, no organization whatsoever and crowded with locals who come to see the plane and to offer to carry bags, find taxis, give rides or just plain stare at the pale faces from the northern climes. Eventually our bags were set out and I waded through the teeming throng of mainly retired Americans madly shouting and scrambling to retrieve their golf bags. Since we ski, I’m aware of the problems and frustrations of lugging bulky sporting gear through airports. This present chaotic situation, however, was compounded by an order of magnitude. Outside one was forced to fight off the descending hordes grabbling madly for a chance to carry one’s bags or offering to procure bus/private auto/taxi rides. Liberty Travel had included a voucher for a taxi, a local guy said he would lead us to it, demanding a tip when he located the correct vehicle. The driver examined the voucher, nodded his head and about two more people showed up to load the baggage in his trunk—necessitating another tip. I gave everyone a dollar, receiving in return surely looks of disdain instead of an expected "gracias"
Immediately upon departing the taxi drove into the countryside—passing mostly through sugar cane fields. Within about 10 miles we came into the outskirts of the city lying at he base of impressive mountains, especially the imposing Torre de Isabella. A short time later we drove into the entrance of our motel like resort. It surrounds a large pool, plus boasts tennis courts, a special gourmet restaurant, a dinning hall and as stated in the brochure, an "action-packed" casino. The only barrier separating the hotel complex from the rest of the adjacent residential areas and a large sugar cane mill is a short woven wire fence lined with tall trees, but the front is open, no gate.
The folks at the desk had our reservation intact and check in didn’t seem to be a problem.
We were even assigned a security lock box in a closet behind the counter. "El Director de los Actividades" introduced himself—a man of about 38 years wearing a Hawaiian shirt. He’s pretty much involved in the late afternoon and evening entertainment—rather like a DJ and I believe also runs the swimming pool operation. "Anything you need just ask me, no problem." We were shown to our rooms in an adjacent building, a small living area with a bedroom in back—very practical and very nice. We ate the buffet supper in the dining hall while rain ruined the planned after dinner walk. Afterwards we went to the front desk, changed dollars into pesos, placed our passports and airline tickets in the security box and made inquiries about the cultural tours and various trips that the hotel prominently advertises. And perhaps where might we rent a car for a day’s drive? We were repeatedly assured by both the desk staff and "El Director de Los Actividades" to check in tomorrow morning with "The Outstanding USA College-Educated Concierge Who Knows Everything."
We watched a little TV and turned in lulled to sleep by the pattering rain.
Thursday: 15 Nov. - Puerto Plata
Breakfast Buffet - After awakening from a long and good night’s sleep we ambled over to the dining hall for a fabulous breakfast—several choices of delicious tropical fruits and juices, stewed beans, plantain (yucca), pumpkins (squash) and onions, ham, chorizos (local sausages), scrambled eggs, great tasting French bread (tostados frances), super nutmeggy oatmeal, plus the best testing coffee in the world. Of course we ate too much. In the lobby we met the overly well dressed "Outstanding USA College-Educated Concierge Who Knows Everything". Her knowledge of things to do and local places of interest was about useless and to boot she was somewhat of a patronizing snit. However, she was good at reciting the prepared script concerning 5-6 activities sponsored by the hotel—trips to Santo Domingo, to Santiago, another to the Amber Museum, shopping, horseback riding, and golf. Renting an auto would be difficult, as there was gas rationing in progress. We did find out about the Santo Domingo trip and made our deposits to secure a seat on the bus. We asked about going into Puerto Plata and "The Outstanding USA College Educated Concierge Who Knows Everything" couldn’t believe her ears that we might want to walk—"It’s too far, you have to have a cab and a guide, which I shall be only too eager to arrange for you."
I believe Jo sort of snickered and said something like, "Have you ever looked at the map? It can’t be more than a 30 min. walk." Out of the corner of my eye I caught the desk clerk nodding in agreement.
She shook her head remarking, "You’ll get lost".
Though it could be tough for her, wearing spiked high heels, and a tight fitting mini-skirted suit with heavy blazer, but I’m sure there are commissions to be lost.
Downtown Puerto Plata
We exchanged sandals for Nikes and walked along the coastal way beneath a canopy of huge almond trees until we reached the quaint fortress-like fire hall and according to our directions from the clerk at the hotel desk we turned left and walked up a narrow street to the Plaza. The local guide types inundated us offering all kinds of services; begging to show us to their special shop with authentic items and true bargains galore. First we wished to see the old church, but it was closed. Then we spotted the sign to the Amber Museum—Dominican Republic and Russia are renown for their fine quality amber. First I figured it best to try and change $400 dollars into pesos at the bank where I was directed to a desk to fill out the necessary forms. The gal running the desk wasn’t too sharp and got ticked off because she incorrectly filled out the forms, despite my meager efforts to give her directions using both English and Spanish.
A New Appreciation of Amber
The Amber Museum is small but the displays were well laid out featuring outstanding pieces of jewelry with fossils deposited within—intact small lizards, raisins, roots, several beetles, carpenter ants, ant wasps, termites (even termites copulating, the teen age girl clerk sure giggled when she pointed this and the next one out), "fecales termites" (specks of termite crap), a complete silverfish, leaves including one with a plant stalk attached, fungi, pieces of volcanic lava, and heaven knows what else? It was interesting because in my ignorance I thought only two types of amber existed—clear root beer colored and milky opaque yellow. To my astonishment there was also blue fluorescent amber (due to entrapped smoke), black amber, clear amber, yellow amber, maroon amber, orange or orange/red amber, --the red and blue being the rarest. We hung around the shop for awhile oohing and awing at the different pieces and examining the goods up for sale. My Spanish is doing OK and when I attempt to use it folks become friendlier and then start trying their English and soon we are helping one another out—overall the Dominicans are great people. Jo loves this because now she can bargain better.
Lunch, Shopping and an Impending Strike
After the museum we went back to the plaza and at an outdoor café ordered a local beer (Presidente Grande) and hopefully the advertised special, a bowl of fish soup. They were out of soup—this being past the lunch hour, so our repast was a tasty thin crusted pizza of goat cheese with tomatoes. It seemed like it took about 90 minutes to get served, but we must continually remind ourselves about the slower pace of lifestyle. We hit more of the jewelry stores to compare prices and quality of merchandise. In one shop a young man told me all about the upcoming "huelga" general strike—a political protest, the upcoming presence of soldiers and police and what it all meant and who the protesters were. Shortly before leaving, Liberty Travel warned travelers not to rent an auto because there was a severe shortage and rationing of gasoline in the country—one of the reasons for the strike. We resolved that once returning to the hotel we’d try and obtain a reservation for the tour to Santo Domingo before the strike hit.
In one store an arrogant young clerk pulled off one of those acts, "Ask me I’m an expert in all matters of jewelry". He was showing us jewelry made from "black diamond" (diamente negro as he called it). The guide books say it’s a crystalline form of iron pyrite or hematite. I asked him about this but he promptly and patronizingly corrected me, "It is genuine diamente negro"—he didn’t know beans.
I think Jo remarked, "If its genuine diamond why is it so cheap?"
Meandering Back to the Hotel - Our late afternoon return walk to the hotel led through some slum-like houses interspersed among better small homes—the working class neighborhoods. No one bothered us—little shops, a man cutting his lawn with a machete, a tethered skinny horse, children playing, the dogs that ignore strangers, people hustling and bustling about—its 6:00 PM. Eventually we came out along the coastal roadway to the Public Beach across from our hotel.
After cleaning up we went over to the lobby to meet again our "Outstanding USA College Educated Concierge Who Knows Everything" to make a reservation for tomorrow for the Santo Domingo trip. I bumped into "El Director de los Actividades" and asked him about the pending strike. His face clouded up, "How did you know about the heulga", he demanded?"
I replied, "Easy, I speak a little Spanish and we have been in town all day talking to clerks and other locals, plus I saw an article in the town newspaper."
He then said, "Well don’t spread it around and make the guests nervous, it’s nothing anyway."
CONTINUED HERE
© Gene C. Palmer, Ph.D.
