Misadventures in the La Republica Dominicana
• Gene C. Palmer, Ph.D.
PART TWO OF THE DOMINCAN EXPERIENCE

CONTINUING FROM PART ONE Tonight we decided to eat a typical Dominican Meal in a restaurant frequented only by natives that a young man in one of the shops told us about. It was located about a half mile away towards town along the coastal roadway—we had seen it this morning. "El Director de los Actividades" couldn’t understand why we would go there, "It wasn’t normal for Norte Americanos." Jo mentioned, "We’d like to meet the locals." Puzzled, he just shook his head. The owners of the restaurant spoke no English, the old mamacita seated us outside and did get our order correct—pollo arroz (the national dish, chicken with rice) for me; Jo had fried sea bass with white rice. Our drink was coffee—but a confusion—tiny cups of espresso were served instead. It took quite awhile to get it and meanwhile it started raining and then pouring, so they moved us inside (actually an open air space under a tin covered roof) smack dab to the middle table. Thirsty, so I ordered us a liter bottle of Presidente Grande. A Scandinavian couple showed up—the only other gringos in the place and then the lights went out—but the stove was gas and the cook kept at it. We were served and began eating in pitch dark, until the owner pulled his truck up to the edge of the building, let it run with the lights on. We were treated very well and had a great meal. Eventually the power returned and once the rain slowed to a drizzle we headed back under our raincoats and waded through several deep puddles, our sneakers soaked. At poolside there was a Caribbean jazz band and young singers performing—very mature voices. After about 45 min they quit—they play every other night, the rain began again in earnest and everyone retired to the casino or to their rooms where we watched a little TV, read and washed clothes.

Friday: 16 Nov. – Trip to Santo Domingo—A Semi Lash Up
. A mini-bus full of sullen old Germans and a young Dutch couple finally arrived—I guess they were delayed at one of the protective compounds waiting on the old Germans. Thus we were given a back seat next to a window that didn’t open. The only friendly people were the Dutch couple who also shared the seat.
Nester, our tour leader, gave a big speech on social v economic issues of the upcoming strike—gasoline shortage, no medical insurance, social security/retirement, lack of sugar because its all sent to make fuel (ethanol) or exchanged for gasoline with Venezuela. With growling stomachs (a granola bar didn’t cut it) we headed over the Eastern Mountains when the rain began in earnest. The countryside is very green—little farms, huts, larger farms, Brahma cattle, flowering trees like the poinsettia, little pastures, picturesque hills, palm trees. At the summit of the pass pine trees began to appear. Not too far away is the Caribbean’s highest mountain, Mt. Duarte over 10,000 feet. It seemed like Dominican Republic got the good land and Haiti must have the crumbs. Haiti once prospered under the cruel dominion of French landowners until the slaves revolted and Napoleon’s troop couldn’t put down the rebellion. However, due to lack of proper land management by the uneducated natives most of the topsoil washed into the sea and the trees were and are presently being cut for fuel adding to constant erosion. This, in the face of a booming population, are the major contributors to the furthering poverty.

Santiago
Eventually the bus pulled into the major city of Santiago—Dominican Republic’s 2nd largest. The highways are choked with trucks filled with coconuts, oranges or pineapple. The roadside is typical, lined with trashy shops, but once inside the city, the atmosphere becomes beautiful and charming—a Catholic University and major medical school, monuments, parks, tree-lined streetsand historic buildings.

Back aboard, the drive continued along the Chiba Valley with its large pineapple, coffee, and sugar plantations, plus rice fields, pastures, and orange groves. We drove past an Infantry Brigade Post where at a roadblock they were searching vehicles for weapons - looking for potentially troublesome groups associated with the impending strike. Eventually the bus entered a beautiful 4-laned road with a well-landscaped park down the meridian that went on for miles. The road followed a ridge, which looked down upon Santo Domingo in the distance. The bus unfortunately was hot as Hades-—he driver turned off the air conditioner to save on fuel and the stupid older Germans wouldn’t open their windows and to top it off ours was stuck. The lines of cars at gasoline stations were a mile long. We heard sometimes it may take up to 2 days for a fillup unless one wishes to pay black market prices for a clandestine delivery.

The Tomb of Christopher Columbus
Entering Santo Domingo the bus headed for the waterfront, Nester pointed out a monument to Truijillo, a memorial to when he paid off the national debt. In this area of town were located many of the exclusive hotels. The initial stop was at the first church built in North America where the remains of Christopher Columbus are said to be interned. It was a pants/skirts only affair and a few of the folks were caught unprepared and couldn’t enter. The Dutch couple pulled out light sweat pants from their handbags and put them on—he’d been to the Vatican before and was familiar with Catholic Church rules in Italy and Latin countries. The church is of block stone construction—very old in appearance, but well cared for. Two sailors guarded the tomb to Columbus. Columbus is revered in the Dominican Republic, even despite being trashed by the new-age historians with their 20/20 hindsight and new found sense of right and wrong, who somehow never remember that lifestyles, philosophy, living conditions, culture and ideas were considerably different several hundred years back. I’ve read books on Columbus both pro and con, but appreciate that he did open up a New World which led to the eventual development of the United States and my fantastic lifestyle of today.

Los Tres Ojos
The bus next crossed over the bridge spanning a river which flowed into the harbor and pulled into a park containing "the water caves" named "Los Tres Ojos"—three caverns with stone steps descending to beautiful pools of blue-green water embedded within volcanic rock. According to the local guide these are the only such caverns in all the Dominican Republic. I think this was an exaggeration, because down the coast at Boca Chica is an extensive fresh water cavern system decorated by stalactites and stalagmites that’s touted by Scuba Diving magazine (June 2000 issue) as a world class cave diving area. The present site is very attractive, the park well landscaped, the local guide though being about useless for information except a rehearsed spiel. It began a light rain but we walked up and down the steps into all the caves, admiring the impressive stalagmites, stalactites and even pillars. We’re all dying of thirst in the intense humidity and heat. A kid appeared selling seedy oranges and he charged one of the unfortunate Germans $3 for one, the rest of us lived with our thirst.

Castle of Diego Columbus
The Viceroy’s palace was a beautiful historical edifice, well laid out overlooking the river with canons pointed out to sea, a very large structure with high walled rooms, with winding staircases. Notable features were the suits of armor, displays of medieval weaponry, religious art, period furniture, porcelain or ceramic objects, carved wooden chests, etc. The adjacent Justice Palace had a room for official business, but as we were short of time the visit was cursory. Nester ran us through it—he spoke from his memorized script in bad English—I assume the Germans never understood a word he said.

We were past due for our restaurant appointment, however, when we finally arrived after 1:00PM it was packed to the gills forcing a wait over 45 min—until about 2:00 PM—the gut is growling. What to do? Out in the street several mean little boys approached demanding to shine our shoes—but with an attitude like that I shook my head, then they demanded to be guides or just demanded money. We scurried away leaving them to the older Germans who were not as fast. We visited a few shops and an art store owned by a handsome friendly Haitian refugee. His work was interesting, a bit unusual, symbolic depictions—maybe related to Voodoo. However, we had to say good bye, as it was time to return to the restaurant—walking hastily through a light rain.

The restaurant was upstairs and fairly nice looking—white tablecloths with crystal and china on the tables, but sweltering. Our fare was crowded buffet style, first we tried to sit at the table with our group but no seats, all had purses or napkins on the chairs—they probably wished to be by their unfriendly selves. Finally we walked through the throng and located a table on the balcony overlooking the stairs. Presently the Dutch couple came and sat in the area, most likely banished here also. The chicken was hacked into several unidentifiable mutilated pieces—no art of butchering practiced here, rice, cassava, vanilla pudding—we passed up the water (Montezuma’s Revenge?) for a local beer.

El Mercado Central
Nester announced we were to go to the local market—some of the Germans wanted instead to return to Puerto Plata. Earlier, shortly after we arrived in Santo Domingo, the same group of about 6 wanted to go back then—Lord what royal pains in the buns. The "Mercado Central" was typically Latin America—a large warehouse building filled to capacity with stalls pedaling everything, for a bargain. Forty minutes was insufficient for Jo to do her stuff and she almost drove one of the vendors crazy with her haggling, but she’s the pro. About all we came out with was a couple of bags of coffee, a bottle of rum and vanilla.

Return to Puerto Plata
We then climbed aboard the bus, which took us by the Palacio del Presidente – the equivalent of the Capitol Building in the USA. Soldiers in combat fatigues armed with automatic rifles stood guard both here and next door at the military barracks. Nester next directed the driver down a beautiful tree-lined street with impressive homes, but the complainers started whining about wanted to leave so the bus headed out of down. The trip back seemed worse, hot, cramped, cars whizzing by passing anywhere including on curves, raining the whole time. The bus pulled into the same truck stop where we had a juice shake and a cupcake or something similar. The German group even complained about this stop—must have missed their naps—in addition to possessing cast iron bladders. About the time we entered the hilly terrain around Santiago darkness fell quickly—typical of the tropics, added to by the rain, it was pitch black.

Saturday: 17 Nov. – A Day Shopping Around Puerto Plata
Cigars and a Madonna
Down a back street we entered a little shop run by a Yankee grandmother who expressed her worry about the impending strike. I bought a box of cigars from her and then we walked into a quaint little plaza with an art shop. A modern wooden sculpture with smooth lines depicting a Madonna caught our eye—actually it had a reserved sign on it, but the clerk said it had been a few weeks since she heard from the buyers and would sell it. She even quoted a price discount. A Haitian artist carved it. Not only did it lean, but it didn’t set too well on its wooden pedestal—the problem being the bottom was bowed. Later I sanded it off square and put in a more sturdy long thin screw to secure it to the statue, as all the artist used was a spike. How he hammered it through the pedestal and into the statue without splitting them both is a mystery (maybe predrilled the hole)? We had to think about it; discuss things over and left, making it almost halfway around the block before deciding to buy it. To this day it remains a favorite and is prominently displayed.

Scoop on the Impending Strike
In a grocery store, while Jo purchased kilos of delicious Dominican coffee, I talked in Spanish about the strike with a teen-aged boy who was eager to use his English. He showed me an article in today’s newspaper, which described that the army had been put on alert. He said soldiers would be trucked into Puerto Plata, but not that many, as there was less social unrest here. Tourism a least provides many with jobs, albeit meager, thus unemployment isn’t as bad as in the rest of the country. We bought two bottles of beer and sat on a bench in the main plaza and munched on leftover breakfast rolls.

More Shopping
In a shop window Jo spotted an interesting hematite (black diamond) and seed pearl necklace with accompanying earrings and went in to barter for a successful transaction. After hitting a few more shops without seeing anything interesting we returned to the Amber Museum and purchased amber necklaces for grandma and Pam. Secretly I bought a blue amber stone for Jo and gave it to her at Christmas.

Subsequently we walked through the back streets of town in the general direction of the hotel. Unfortunately several houses had unsightly piles of trash in front while others were well kept—limited zoning restriction. Kiddies played in the streets while workmen puttered about on various building projects.

While sitting on the steps sipping a drink and watching the band, we chatted with two women from Great Britain—one, named Dot, was a police officer in a small town, the other with bright red hair was named Maurine who worked in an office. They spoke highly of Los Pinos, a restaurant located about 400 yards away on the waterfront road heading out of town. We had actually seen it on our stroll back when we overshot the hotel, but thought we might try a nearby Spanish place instead. Los Pinos had been recommended to them by a man from Connecticut who owned a jewelry store located in a more modern shopping area on the edge of town—one that the protected compounds made their excursions to. This owner was so worried about the upcoming strike that he had made arrangements (probably transferring his stock and money) to leave in a hurry if need be. He told them that business was down in Puerto Plata. Some of the cruise ships that used to stop here had quit because of the lack of environmental care—the seacoast, except for the public beach being littered with trash. The local government never made any arrangement to have it disposed of so folks have no recourse but to dump it anywhere they can. Thus we decided on Los Pinos.

Los Pinos was a super place run by Monique from Montreal and another woman from Toronto. Both spent considerable time walking around talking with the guests—they said the salad was washed in disinfected water, mine was accompanied by a delicious grilled (a la parillia) sea bass cooked in garlic sauce while Jo’s was cooked Creole style. After dinner they presented us with a flaming rum espresso with lemon. For desert I had a pineapple cake (torta pina) and Jo a chocolate cake, OK for Latin America which rarely serves fresh pastry. Of interest Monique and her partner couldn’t believe their ears when we told about the ill-fated trip to Santo Domingo. When they travel to the capital it’s via a large first class air conditioned bus that leaves Puerto Plata promptly at 9:00 AM every morning with a fare about third of what we paid. Of course we did get the services of Nester, entrances fees to the Church, Los Tres Ojos and Diego Columbus’s home, plus the wonderful dining experience. We made it back in time to sip a drink and see the end of the Latin Jazz singers before their long intermission when we returned to the room to call it a night.

Sunday: 18 Nov. –- Sousa -Various Misadventures, A Truly Mixed Up Day
Sosua Beach
We walked through the town along narrow crowded streets lined with motels and hotels—touristy, a little cleaner than Puerto Plata. Eventually a direction sign, "Beach", pointed down a narrow lane. A short walk and we arrived at a cute narrow beach situated between high rocky cliffs with hotels on top. The beachfront was similarly lined with hotels. I spotted a booth advertising equipment and rented a mask and fins from El Jefe who charged me 90 pesos. He said we could catch a ride on a glass bottom boat that was going out to a beautiful popular snorkeling / diving reef. He guaranteed we would see thousands of colorful tropical fish and coral formations. After a brief family discussion we agreed, but Jo would have to pay 150 pesos extra just to sit on the boat. He promised to give her a life preserver, plus a floatation mat in case she decided to use my snorkeling gear for a better look at the reef. There was a 25-min wait for the boat to return, plus another group would accompany us also. I decided to re-familiarize myself with snorkeling and especially try and see if the mask leaked. The fins cramped my wide EEE-sized feet and there were not many fish around the beach—the waves were kicking up too much sediment (sand and trash) and making the water cloudy. For some reason I had a problem adjusting the mask and it kept filling up with water or clouding up—didn’t bring along any shampoo as a defogger. Though if I took it easy and didn’t try to breathe so hard, I usually managed to do OK. After 30 min I went up to the booth and was told the others had failed to arrive, but El Jefe not wanting to refund our payment, proposed an even better deal, "A boatman would take us out instead in an outboard motor boat. Since the reef was a considerable distance in the direction of Puerto Plata, why he would just deliver us to the Public Beach in front of our hotel after we had explored the fascinating reef. Plus on the way he would put in a fishing rod and I would have a chance at trolling. Since gas is so high I’ll charge you only $15 more." Figuring we might get royally screwed trying to catch a taxi back to Puerto Plata after all, we agreed to such a magnanimous offer. Little did we know what would lie ahead?

Adventures on the Reef
Five of us grunted and pulled away to drag this huge old wooden boat across the sand into the water and we hopped aboard. Two young men accompanied us. One, a friendly black guy who spoke only a Creole form of Spanish plus a light skinned brown-haired guy with a pock marked face, who had to tell me the stories of all the horny rich women he met, who wanted to marry him and take him off to Switzerland, Scandinavia, the USA or Germany—a true fantasizing beach bum. The boat went out about a quarter of a mile around one of the steep rocky cliffs topped with a beautiful hotel, but I noticed wastewater entering the bay—Christ! --They even pollute their own source of income. Putting on around to the other side of the point, I noticed it was crowded with shabby little huts located on the beach, property that in the USA would fetch at least $100,000 or more per lot.

We approached a large cove with a beach—about a half-mile from where we started. This beach was also lined with hotels with another monster-sized white hotel perched atop the rocky promontory jutting out into the sea. Small glass-bottomed boats were cruising about; several folks could be spotted in the water snorkeling. After stopping the boat the guide with the pock marked face promptly grabbed a rope and dived down and tied it to an anchor point. This is the distant isolated reef El Jefe had raved about? Occasionally scuba divers could be seen underwater. Meanwhile other idiots on jet scooters roared over and around the reef, oblivious as to whom they might hit—apparently no regulations are in effect to protect the divers. So into the water I hopped, again having trouble clearing the mask plus it was always fogging up. I did manage to snorkel through some interesting channels and peered into sea caves and along the edge of the deep drop off to seaward. I had dived before in Honduras and something in this reef didn’t seem quite right—the lack of color, the lack of the profusion of plants and sea animals? True there were fish (not many though). Then it struck me; "Holy Cow! This reef is practically dead, very few live clumps of coral and no sea urchins." The latter, ubiquitous to the tropics anywhere there’s a rock to attach to, require clean water—it was just too damn polluted and the water not that clear either, unless it was my trouble with the foggy mask. I only spotted one large living brain coral. Jo who had been looking at the reef through a glass-bottomed bucket said she didn’t spot that many fish either and that the water was indeed cloudy. One did see angelfish, beautiful blue disc-shaped fish, a few sea bass and other varieties. Every time the mask would fog or fill up I would find a slippery piece of dead coral to stand or sit on and attempt to remedy the situation, a chance to catch my breath and wait for my eyes to quit burning. Meanwhile the waves would slam me around, but no danger in getting stung by dead coral or stabbed by the spines of absent sea urchins. I did get a few small abrasions on sharp pieces of dead coral.

Seafaring
After about 40 min I felt a tug at my fins and the guide motioned for me to surface and said it was time to go. The dive was too short, but it was like the first time skiing—I was worn out and it would be nice to relax and ponder over what I saw. As preparations were made to get underway, the black guide mentioned something, too rapidly for me to understand. The pock marked faced guide immediately, grabbed a hatchet and dived deep—must be better at this than the other guy. About 20 feet below I could see him hacking off a piece of live coral. When I asked him whether it was legal or not and that doing this would destroy the reef and eventually their livelihood, they both shrugged and said they could get 15 bucks for the piece he had retrieved. In the much more strict Cayman Islands he would be fined and jailed.

They cranked up the old motor and putted around the cove. Closer in we were able to get a better look at the beautiful hotel on the cliff. Then he turned the boat and headed out over the breakers to open water. The sea was slightly rough and Jo made sure we both had on our life jackets, the guides didn’t bother to bring any. The shore became gradually uninhabited—it was a low rocky coast with waves crashing ashore. The guide was skillful with the boat and ever vigilant to face it into the waves. The back guide asked me in Spanish if I wanted to fish, "Le gusta usted a piscar?"
"Si ", I responded, whereupon he rigged up the weathered, worn spinning rod and put on a rubber shad lure for bait. I trolled, nothing biting, but the boat is probably going a trifle too fast. Occasionally he would slow down for a brief period, probably spotting water were a fish might likely be. I started to burn in the bright sunlight; Jo handed me a light sweat suit. Eventually we passed the airport, cane fields, the military barracks and the Torre de Isabella. Its covered in clouds, a storm is brewing, the wind picking up. High up on the mountainside there was a nestled a beautiful large white mansion and an inquiry about it to the guide brought only a shake of his head. We passed close to the immaculate beach and enclosure of Playa Dorada—folks mounted on horses galloped through the surf. At one point the gas tank gave out and the black guide siphoned gas by mouth from the spare into the tank supplying the motor.

The Big One Gets Away and the Amphibious Landing -
Our route, just outside the breakers, continued to follow the shoreline all the way into the Public Beach at Puerto Plata. Here the outer reef was a bit treacherous and the guide headed back out to sea to make another approach. As we were coming back into the reef a fish hit the bait but I was slow at setting the hook properly. As he approached one of channels in the reef, the boatman motioned for me to reel in. While I was doing so and he was steering through the narrow passage another fish hit hard, I jerked the rod, but again failed to hook him. Soon the failure to do so became obvious, because after retrieving the lure I noticed the fish had cleanly bitten it through—so be it for a $3 artificial lure—I could imagine a barracuda explaining to his mates what that weird looking rubber flap was doing hanging from his lip. The boat nudged into the reef whereupon he raised the motor to prevent from shearing the prop pin. Now we tried to paddle in rather unsuccessfully because the waves were getting stronger. Eventually the darker guide and me hopped out in the shallower water and tried to push and pull the boat ashore. Then the bottom fell out of the sky and as Jo was getting out of the boat she popped her back. We raced through the deluge to the shelter of the Neptune Lounge, a thatched roofed outdoor bar, and invited the guides to have a drink with us–they chose rum and coke, we of course pina coladas. Everyone at the bar had seen us come in and wanted to know the story of the crazy gringos and their adventure. The rain wouldn’t quit, I asked the guides if they had any place to go, they didn't seem worried and said they needed to get back to Sousa. We bade them adios plus a buena suerte for good measure and I gave each an extra dollar.

Supper and Aftermath - Since Jo and I were soaked, we decided to run for our hotel room. The downpour didn’t subside until around 8:00 PM. We took a shower, changed clothes, put on raincoats and walked in the rain to the Spanish Restaurant for seafood paella. It wasn’t as neat a place as Los Pinos, but the food was tasty. After returning to the hotel-–it was still raining; I opened the door to hear the phone ringing. An anxious El Jefe from Sousa was on the line, "My men have not returned, did you make it safely and where is my boat?"

I attempted to explain several times what had happened, "that we had arrived safely just as the rain hit and his outstanding boys were probably waiting it out in safety"—I didn’t mention the bar. I told him, "I had asked his guides if they needed a place to stay and they said not to worry they needed to get back". How he got our names and our room I could only guess. The weather was beginning to slack off, but the wind and wet weather would be very cold if they were out to sea returning the boat—they were only wearing swimsuits. I never did find out what happened even though I inquired at the desk the next morning.
The evening entertainment at the hotel was canceled so our day ended watching a crazy movie on HBO and turning in.

Chapter 6
Monday: 19 Nov. – What Does One Do During a Nationwide Strike?
El Huelgo - The strike has hit, even "El Director de los Actividades" admitted it and last night told everyone to stay around the hotel, the waiters would report as usual for work, all services would be operable, it was a purely political issue, a small affair, not to worry, etc, etc. As predicted, in Puerto Plata, things are quiet, very few autos and motor cycles on the coastal road.
La Playa Dorada
After stuffing our chops at the buffet breakfast we felt that sitting around a crowded pool with pale-skinned gringos all day wouldn’t cut it. We headed over to the Public Beach, crossed the bridge and walked along the sea leading away from town toward La Playa Dorada Resort. The beachfront was desolate. After a half mile the sandy area began to give out. It was either wade in the surf or follow a trail leading into the jungle. Unfortunately the path kept veering away from the sea. Finally we hit a stream where it was either wade or attempt to go around. Looking into the cruddy water we had no idea what type of sewage it carried so we backtracked, removed our shoes, waded along the surf and crossed the stream where it spread out as it flowed across the beach. Huge pink morning glories bloomed along the wood line, plus other wild flowers—one type resembled a showy orchis, another yellow flower was star-shaped, and the blossom of another looked like a white trumpet. The trash began to give out and the ocean water became clearer while the hot sun beamed overhead. A few groups from Playa Dorada Resort rode horses in the surf. Soon we arrived, walking through the guarded gate—being gringos the guards assumed we must be guests. The well-kept extensive grounds and the charming poolsides were filled with bikini clad (both men and women) European bodies stretched out sunning themselves. A few went topless, supposedly in violation of public law (according to instructions in a pamphlet passed out at the airport when we arrived) in this Catholic country, but surely overlooked in the walled off resorts. You could see giggling little naïve boys outside the fence peering in to get a look at the free boobie show, but usually they were either flat-chested young blondes or overweight middle-aged gals. The fat pot-bellied European men in their tight scanty little swimsuits looked absolutely like comic caricatures. I slipped in to a dressing room and then took a long swim in their neat pools all interconnected with little canals spanned by quaint arched bridges. Afterward we went over to their spotless beach for another dip, ate an orange, and sat under a palm tree gazing out to sea with the binoculars. Behind us palefaces swarmed like ants over the extensive golfing facilities.

Just outside the main entrance to the compound was a row of souvenir stands housed under orange tents. The overly priced merchandise was mostly logo tee shirts, trinkets and junk. We slowly ambled along the beach for the mile and a half to two mile walk back to our area. The cab ride from our hotel is quoted as $7.

Happy Hour - Just as we reached the Public Beach and Park it began to rain gradually becoming a downpour. Putting on rain gear we hurried over to, the refuge of the Neptune Lounge, for the Happy Hour "banana mommas" and pina colladas. Finally back at the room we dried out, took a nap and went over to the dining hall for the advertised Mexican Buffet, which didn’t materialize. Maybe the Mexican cook had joined the strike? The selections of beef tips, stewed fish, seafood crepe, various salads and deserts were delicious. Darn! (*!&^!*) it’s still raining and we had hoped to catch the evening entertainment, "Hawaiian Review". We did wait for it and it turned out to be pure crap—a band with the "El Director de los Actividades" organizing a dance contest in the drizzle to compete for a prize. Presently we returned to the room, read, watched some TV (US News), for some reason the air conditioner was on extra cool or maybe it was the dampness, but I froze all night, waking up with a sore throat and sniffles.

Chapter 7
Tuesday: 20 Nov. - A Boring Attempt to Make Something Happen
First we went to the desk and then spoke to "El Director de los Actividades" in an attempt to find some activity going on—the horseback rides were cancelled, no bicycles for rent, everything closed up tight as drum. We slipped into swim gear and went over to the dirty beach, but the rental shop for wind surfing boards and other gear for water sports was also closed. The water looked just too dirty so we returned to the pool and I swam several laps until people started getting in. I’m not feeling that well. Mo and Dot, the two British women, showed up and chatted with us about everything under the sun. We became envious because they get better deals via British Air to travel worldwide than we do. They had both been on a fabulous trip to Venezuela, the offshore Island of Margarita, and even flew up into the jungle to Angel Falls. Jo and I went to the tennis center to honor our reservation. It’s highly advertised as a freebie; the kicker, rental of a racket and balls was $12 an hour. No one was on the court in the hot sun—most prefer to play at night, but then it always rains. Jo decided with her bad back it wouldn’t be worth the trouble.

Stroll Through the Suburbs
With our tennis reservation cancelled we began to walk out of town, stopped to shake hands and speak with a friendly little old desiccated man who always met Jo when she was out on one of her power walks. Somehow we made a hook back toward town moving through the foothills following dirt roads and side streets through nice neighborhoods with tidy landscaped homes. On one street stood a neat little old hotel that was still in business—it would make a great place for an opportunity to absorb the local culture, but I doubt if they had air conditioning. A grandmother approached pushing a baby buggy with grandbaby all dressed out in a baptismal outfit. We cooed to the cute baby girl and spoke with a mighty proud "abuela".

Happy Hour Por Siempre
After a few hours of meandering we dribbled back towards the coast and came out at the Neptune Lounge. It was filled with local folk just hanging out. Few cars passed on the road, mopeds and the small motor cycles constituting the principal traffic. We waited around until the bartender finally announced Happy Hour at 3:00 PM—another round of pina colladas. Way out in the water on the Public Beach an avante guard, dark-haired European gal built like the proverbial brick outhouse was wadding topless. What guts or lack of brains? Teenage boys crowded around staring so hard that if they wore contacts they would have started smoking. Back at the room we changed into swimsuits, found a shady spot by the pool and read, my cold is worsening and I fell asleep until 5:00. Then it was over to the hotel bar for our free Happy Hour drink—banana mammas.
Elegant Dinner - Subsequently we returned to the room for a shower and to dress for a dinner reservation at the "Lang Lang" Gourmet Restaurant, located behind the casino. How elegant it was inside! The waiters were decked out in pink tux jackets—we recognized ours and spent a lot of time talking with him while he served us. We ordered a Caesar salad, which was masterfully mixed by hand, right at our table, the waiter putting on quite a show. Sorbet was served between courses to freshen our delicate palates—we did a lot of giggling about the haute de culture treatment. The chateau briande with bernese sauce was cooked to perfection. Desert was the ultra delicious Dominican Republic coffee, plus fantastic peach and cream cake. Meanwhile, a South American band played, a very delightful evening. Then we went outside and decided to have a look in the "action packed" casino—not much going on, folks mostly sitting with a bored stare at the poker machines. Back outside, the local evening band was playing and singing full force. It was fabulous, but they only played for a short period between long intermissions. It began to rain and we went into the lobby to wait out the intermission, but after 45 min we gave up and returned to the room.

Wednesday 21 Nov. – A Walking Adventure into the Puerto Plata Countryside.
I awoke with a sore throat, the damn air conditioner getting to me and freezing all night while the rain poured down in buckets. Breakfast was the usual dining hall buffet—we’ve finally gotten all the fruit shakes figured out: passion fruit/banana or papaya/mandarin are the best, but pineapple/grapefruit is a close second, however, a carrot shake was the pits.
Homeward Reservations - We had been trying for several days to get in touch with our local Parieto Tours Director who was always out when we called. A girl representative manning the desk always promised to leave him a message, which was never returned. Of course in the Third World they never stop to think she could have attended to us—a territorial thing perhaps? Since we’re leaving tomorrow, we figured we needed to see him, despite the strike. We set out to walk past the baseball stadium, the rum factory, spoke with Jo’s little old buddy, strolled by the newer USA-style yuppie shopping bazaar where the resort people are bused in for their local cultural shopping experience; all closed. Jo spotted two European women horseback riders going up a side street toward the foothills to the mountains. At various times during the past week she had made inquires with "The Outstanding USA College Educated Concierge Who Knows Everything" or "El Director de los Actividades" or the hotel desk about a possible route to climb the Torre de Isabella. She got mostly blank stares and looks of disbelief—don’t any adventurers come here? Luckily this time we found the Parieto Tour Office and after a few minutes wait our representative showed up. We showed him our taxi voucher and he arranged for tomorrow’s transfer to the airport and assured us our flight reservations were intact.

Interesting Walk into the Mountains
Jo wanted to follow the route the horses had taken so we located the side road—more of a wide rocky dirt path and headed out into the country. Perched high on the mountainside we spotted the beautiful white mansion we had seen from the sea. If only we could find the correct route? The rutted track gradually meandered upwards past shabby farms with goats, cattle, pigs scrawny turkeys, numerable hens and baby chicks, the disinterested dogs which never bark.
Haitian Proverb—"A dog is a dog except when he is facing you then he’s MR. DOG!"

Eventually we arrived at the stables supplying the horses for the resorts. We continued on waving to all the friendly people and exchanging, "Buenos dias", with one another. A few folks though were getting a little curious to see walking gringos invading their territory. Some of the houses were fairly nice, others mere huts. While waving to a group of women washing clothes in a stream, two strings of pack burros trudged down the mountain, the other traffic consisted of a few pickups and of course the inevitable small motor cycles, the national choice for transportation in this gasoline-starved country. We climbed a bit more and came upon a good, but rocky road bed with excellent drainage, crossed a couple of streams, next spotted a few small gorgeous poinsettia trees, passed some colorfully painted huts, meanwhile grunting up a couple of steep sections. After an hour or so had passed, we approached a little hill top where a large group of men were standing around, chewing the fat, others sat under trees or under a thatched roof portal sipping rum(?)—The men’s social club. Two came over and wanted to know what we were doing—I did my best in Spanish to explain that because of the Huelga there was not much to do and we were taking a walk in their beautiful country and meeting all the gracious people. "Where are you going to ("Que van?"), he demanded.

"Nada en particular", ("No place in particular"), I assured him. I screwed this one up it actually translates into "nothing in particular", but he understood. He kept pumping questions, especially wanted to know what was in the two pouches on my belt, while his buddy eyed my $30 watch. I showed him the cheap point-and-shoot Canon camera and they passed around the tiny binoculars among themselves for a look. His lips and teeth were stained red—maybe betel nut? Eventually he told us about another road that followed along the coast that would come to a jungle river rushing from the mountain where a bridge had recently washed out because of the rain. We headed in that direction for about 15 more minutes and here the road became very steep and we decided we’d seen enough. I waved to the men as we went by shouting "Estamos muy cansados" ("We’re very tired").

On the return trip our route now faced away from the mountain and out to sea; the views were absolutely spectacular—the distant rolling surf, white breakers, swaying coconut palms, forests, rolling hills at the base of the mountains, wild flowers, grassy pastures studded with patches of green trees. Quite a ways below, a winding driveway led up to a promontory upon which sat the beautiful white mansion we had seen from the sea two days ago and today before we set out on the climb. Thus we must have ascended quite a bit after all.

Happy Hour
At the hotel we shared a liter of El Presidente beer, played a game of pool followed by crossing the road to wait around until Happy Hour opened at the Neptune Lounge to satisfy our daily craving for a pina collada. Mo and Dot were there and eagerly joined us explaining they were doing their level best to shake off an amorous older pot bellied Brit. wearing a bikini and a Greek fisherman’s hat.

Dominican Family Matters
Feeling rested we felt like a stroll to town for a good look at the old fort and the harbor. Since the shops would be closed, Jo would now be free to catch up on her second choice of activity—history. Actually the strike was ending, more cars appeared on the road and motor cycles and mopeds raced back and forth. One of the cooks from the hotel dining hall stopped his motorcycle and wanted to talk. His face was all scratched up. He related in half Spanish / English that his wife of 3 months had tossed him out the previous night. He especially wanted Jo, "To go and talk some sense into his wife, because we had been successfully married for over 30 years and she must know how to really obey a husband."

Sheepishly Jo responded, "En Los Estados Unidos la esposa is el jefe".
Man! Did he wince. He couldn’t believe it, saying, "My wife is too independent, especially since she’s working at the hotel and also bringing home a salary". Then he asked me, "Necisito dinero para comprar gasolina." The majority of my US money was in the hotel safe and when I took out my wallet he looked intently at its meager contents of a few Dominica Republic bills and about $10. Normally when out walking I don’t carry much money or passports. He selected the 40 pesos exclaiming, "It would probably be enough to buy gasoline and I will see you tomorrow or this evening to pay you back." Of course I never saw him again, but he seemed pretty sad—apparently no desire to return to his parents’ house and get bugged by his male relatives about his failure to control his headstrong wife, actually a very cute young woman. So be it for local domestic conflicts.
We did make it to the harbor fortress. It was constructed with massive stone blocks with two watchtowers guarding the harbor entrance. Nowadays it’s a park-like atmosphere, students sitting on the walls doing their lessons, scads of kiddies and young adults playing, the latter baseball. Interesting one does not observe the mania for soccer that is so prevalent in most non-North American countries. The harbor area is very pretty, surprisingly devoid of trash. A few small ships were moored inside the seawall.

Thanksgiving Day: 22 Nov. – Journey Home and Afterthoughts
Puerto Plata Airport - We were up early, the taxi surprisingly almost on time and arrived at the airport 2 hours early, only to stand in a long line and wait an hour before the folks manning the desk at American Airlines finally showed up. The line slowed to a snail’s pace and didn’t pick up until about 15 minutes before the flight left and then they rushed us through in no time, only a cursory security check—would our bags make it? It’s inconceivable that American Airlines could run such as lash up. We flew into an almost deserted airport in San Juan, ate breakfast and talked with a couple from Philadelphia, who also had been in the Dominican Republic, mainly to dive. They carried their scuba gear in their bulky hand luggage—including weights, mask, regulator and floatation BCD vests. They did agree with me that Dominican Republic is letting their environment go to hell, which could be a source of needed tourist dollars, provided the locals received a decent wage. They had also dived at Sousa, but said other places along the deserted southeastern beaches were a little better. They stayed at a spot out of Puerto Plata and must have caught buses or taxis to diving places. Actually they want to return next year with the wife’s nephew. Within the past year the magazine "Scuba Diving" (June 2000 issue) ran an article claiming there were several great diving locations in the Dominican Republic, especially along the deserted southeastern shore and the Samana Peninsula, as well as to the west of Santo Domingo. They even state that the polluted bay of Sousa is now protected. Their claim is that Europeans have known about this for years, and only recently have North Americans come to dive, but must appreciate that dive services, though professional, are not as modern as the more popular destinations such as the Cayman Islands and Bon Aire. Then again the Dominican Republic is a great spot for the budget conscious. It’s amusing that the magazine makes a big point of staying in the exclusive resorts and never mentions the opportunity to mingle into a unique Latin American culture. My own belief is that the American press accounts of the troubles in Haiti and the past negativity expressed regarding the Trujillo legacy have been major contributing factors.

Thinking Back
In retrospect I never was sure whether the trip was worth it or did we have that great of a time—not very educational, disorganized, the strike, gasoline rationing, little opportunity to see the country in depth, only a quick glimpse of Santo Domingo. We’re not big on drinking but for some unexplained reason the tropical atmosphere was sure conducive to enjoying Happy Hours, or maybe it was the gloomy afternoon rain. Thinking back we met many friendly Dominicans, stumbled into a few interesting and moderately adventurous situations, drank the world’s best coffee, ate some fabulous food and once again learned to appreciate how fortunate we are not to have to live under a Third World government.

"Great Spirit, help me never to judge another until I have walked in his moccasins for two weeks"
(Sioux Indian Prayer)

[Courtesy of Liberty Travel / Parieto Tours] (Diary transcribed Aug./Sept 2000).


© Gene C. Palmer, Ph.D.

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