Pico Duarte should have never been a real adventure. Sure it was going to be challenging. Challenges we liked. Challenges were something we wanted during our travels. But it was not going to be something to write home about. And that´s houw the first day and a half of the journey felt. Yeah, day 1 had had 5,000 feet of elevation gain, but Abelito, our young guide, had insisted on letting the mules carry our packs, so John and I were excited for the cardiovascular challenge of some altitude. Sure it was 90+ degrees and we were climbing up what looked like river washes, possibly what had previously been flat sandstone trails, deeply rutted out by years (or possibly just a few hard weeks) or torrential rain and flooding, but still, it wasn´t going to be any sort of "serious" aventure. "Serious adventures" were dangerous, life threatening or difficult to the point of tears, and honestly for all intents and purposes, Pico Duate just didn´t have it in ém.
Don´t get me wrong, I was tired that first day. We had hiked over 12 miles and over 5,000 feet the first day, the sides of the wash rising up above our heads at times, rocks strewn across the trail making footing precarious at times. It had been steep and sweaty and tiring. We had slept tentatively on hard wooden slats in the Park Refuge, one ear open for the society of hungry rats waiting to eat our food, our backpacks or crawl across our faces as we attempted sleep. We slept fitfully hoping as we tossed and turned that the heavy rain that had begun to fall that evening would cease long enough for us to summit. We had risen in the pre-crack of dawn, the half moon lighting our way, rain all but a distant memory, headlamps in place, sleep still encrusting our eyes, hiking by intuition on the rock strewn path to the sunrise and the sweeping vistas of the Pico Duarte summit. Peanut butter and crackers had never tasted so delicious. A delicacy beyond delicacy. We had been lucky, Abelito told us and his 9 year old brother who had come along on the journey via mule. People just didn´t get summit views like this from Duarte. John and I had laughed, my stigma as "little miss raincloud" momentarily banished to a far off land. Pico Duarte had been fun and exciting. . .but it had not been an adventure.
But. . .yep, there it is the BUT we´ve all been waiting for. Pico Duarte had not been an adventure, should not have ever been a serious adventure, but then at mid-day on day 2 as we headed back down from the summit, the skies opened up and it began to rain. No rain is not really what began to happen. Rain implies a series of drops or even, if it´s pouring, a torrential downpour of water, wetting the ground, the trees, the humans walking around on the paths. No this was not rain, no drizzling rain or a shower of rain, or even pouring rain. It cannot even be classified as a mere torrent. What began to fall, first soaking, then blinding us, was a deluge. It was as if the sky had opened up and began to dump every last drop of moisture it held down onto us and the trails upon which we now slid, sloshed and smushed our way through. And just when you thought you could get no wetter, you did.
Rain? A rain storm? I can hear the incredulity in your voices as you try to fathom how rain is what turned our experience from sheep grazing peacefully in green pastures on a bucolic hillside to tazmanian devils tearing through trees and ripping up mountainsides.
Honestly it hadn´t been the rain. Oh the rain, falling in incessant sheets from the deep, gray sky above had been a nusance. It had made me wish at least three times in ten minutes that I hadn´t turned down my rainjacked from Abelito at the reststop La Laguna, nonchelantly commenting, "I´m already drenched. How much more soaked can I possibly get?" Little did I know what it really felt like to be truly soaked to the bone. It was no ordinary wet and cold. It was a penatrating dampness, deep inside, into your bones, your muscles, your blood. It went beyond cold, stikcy and uncomfortable and entered into the realm of ridiculousness.
Yet even as I sloshed my way down the mountain, slip sliding away reverberating in my ears, I told myself over and over again how lucky we had been that morning. Ok it was pouring now, but we had seen the sweeping views of La Cordillera Central. "A little rain never hurt anyone!" a positive upbeat voice sang in my head. "You are doing just fine." it continued as I wrenched my left leg out of a mud sucking puddle up to my knee. "Fine, just fine. Oh fine."
I felt myself relax. It was raining. Abelito and his younger brother were no where to be found, but I could see John not too far up in the distance. We were fine, fine, fine.
Honestly, I am not sure how long it had been lightening ad thundering as the rain fell incessantly. I am sure I noticed it before John ordered me down onto the ground. I am sure I did and yet, thinking back or even then, I couldn´t remember. My heart thudding in my throat, I squatted next to John. "What are we doing?" I whispered. It felt like whispering was appropriate, though no one was around and with the storm all around us, he could barely hear me.
"Move over. Don´t sit so close. We´re bigger that way and more liable to be hit by lightening. Get out of that puddle, don´t stand in the water. Move away from the roots." His voice too was a strained whisper, but it did nothing to calm my overactive heart rate. Hit by lightening? I did not want to be hit by lightening and as we sat crouched inches apart, I began to feel very, very cold.
"John, this is silly. We are not going to be hit by lightening. Come on. Let´s go." The lightening lit up the sky all around up, thunder following less than a second behind it.
"The storm is HERE Jen. It´s right here. This is not good, not good. Not Good."
"Ok, I get it. Not good. But I am cold and if the storm is here, we should go - right?" It made sense to me. What were we going to do? Sit there waiting for the lightening to strike us or one of the huge trees surrounding us? John got up and shrugged and I followed suit.
"Quickly," he hissed and we were off, no longer worrying about the terrain. Down, down down, the wash, now understanding how the trails had gotten like that. The water rushed under our feet as we jostled for a position that wouldn´t send us careening down the wash into the water and to certain death by drowning or electricution. "If you feel your hair stand up on end, scream and jump left. OK? And I´ll do the same. Really we shouldn´t be moving with the thunder less than 5 seconds after the lightening." Flash, the sky lit up. "One one. . ." BOOM, the thunder followed.
I swallowed and nodded, numb from the cold, my shirt and pants stuck to my body. I wondered if I would really notice my hair standing on edge as it was platered to my head an face and wondered what hair would stand up on edge for John. "I don´t want to die today."
John turned around, forcing a smile. We practically flew down the next kilometer of the hill, lightening and thunder all around us. Twice John ordered me down on to the ground and I crouched praying to God, Jesus, Allah, my mom, to get us out of this alive. Lucky my foot.
And then without warning, the storm stopped. Not the rain. That continued to fall, though slower now, without as much energy, without as much umph. But all of a sudden I slowed my pace and looked around, it had been minutes since I had heard lightening. Whole minutes. We had travelled over 8 kilometers and the exhaustion of the adventure caught up with me. "Where the heck is Abelito?" I practically screamed as we reached the first of the river crossings, the bridge´s left side submerged in water. "Isn´t this why we had to have a stupid guide in the first place?" John, always calmer and more level headed, agreed. We crossed the bridge tentatively, balancing, holding hands, praying.
"I´m gonna kill ém. And we´re not paying for today. No way. We almost died. Died." We rounded the corner and there were the mules tied to a tree by the side of the second river crossing, the bridge reaching slightly past the middle of the bridge. "Uh-oh. How we crossing that?"
Abelito and his little brother hovered, across the river underneath a park provided shelter and Abelito jumped up as he saw us waving and screaming something we could not hear. They had crossed the river. How?
Abelito waded his way across the rushing wated to a large bolder at the edge of the bridge and lifted himself up. "Wow, you guys got here fast!" He exclaimed, no trace of remorse on his face. "The river expanded." He gestured to the water and we nodded. I didn´t trust myself to speak yet. I was cold, hungry, tired and ready for this adventure to call itself a day.
We crossed the river, first John, then me, straddled between Abelito on the rock and John almost at the shoreline on the other side. The mules could not cross in this kind of rapids. We would have to wait. But as I sat on the edge of a bench, underneath the structure, shivering and listening to the thunder in the distance getting closer by the minute, I knew we wouldn´t be waiting for long.
"Abelito," I stood, "We´ll meet you at the ranger station."
He nodded, knowing we were pissed. Knowing he had not been the guide he had promised. We would cross that bridge when we came to it, in dry clothes hopefully.
Four kilometers later, two more bridges and a brief conversation about the merits of doing your job well, John and I sat underneath the Park´s sheldter with the park ranger, cooking pasta and shivering in the only dry clothes I had, shorts and my rain jacket.
Pico Duarte had been something to write home about after all.
Thursday, September 28, 2006
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Adventures before the Adventure
There is no way that either of the previous two guagua trips could have prepared me for what we would experience on the way to La Ciénaga. After sitting on our backpacks for the better part of an hour, a tall, thin man with dreadlocks and a wide smile approached us indicating that we should bring our backpacks over to the back of the pickup truck, “Llévense los bultos. Ya nos vamos.”
I stood watching as the driver threw first my, then John’s backpack into the back of the truck. “No way that’s gonna stay,” John whispered and I nodded, waiting to see what plans he had to secure our belongings.
Next to us an older man with deep lines etched into his tanned face, argued emphatically with a middle aged woman in a bright pink top and tight, white Capri pants, a pink portable CD player in her hands. “You, your just a young girl. A tiny little thing. Me, well. Now that’s a different story,” he pleaded, his words slurred together cutting off all s’s, “I am an old, old man.” She moved a sack of rice to the other side of the pick up truck ignoring his pleas and the driver moved it back, placing it atop the two enormous cans of Crisco oil.
“¡Ya! ¡Vámanos!” he cried and the throng of people hanging around the pick up began to pile into the cab. One, two, three, four in front. One, two, three, four, in back leaving six more, including John and I to contend with a spot in the back. The woman in pink, having lost the fight with the elderly Dominican, settled atop the burlap rice bag, her CD player in her lap. A younger Haitian man hopped up onto John’s backpack and John wedged himself in to his left, his right hand securing himself on his backpack, his left on my thigh. I sat perched on the edge of the back door, both hands gripping the lip, surrounded on both sides by young men in their late teens who laughed as I looked wide eyed around us thinking, “My father would kill me if he saw me right now.”
Now fourteen of us in the pick up, a container of propane, the two backpacks, two 3-gallon cans of cooking oil, 50 pounds of rice, various plastic and burlap bags, a strange metal object that looked like a vice grip, a number of large plastic gas cans, a strangely shaped rock that initially I thought was quartz, but later realized to be rock salt, set out down the road. My heart was in my throat. Thump, thump, thump in went in rhythm with the truck’s engine. And just like that, three blocks later, we stopped.
“More passengers?” I joked aloud, surveying the already over packed truck bed, limbs and packages in every conceivable crevice.
“There’s always room in the guagua,” laughed the boy to my right as he nodded at two tall, Haitian brothers appeared. One squeezed miraculously into the back of the cab as the other one, leaped effortlessly onto the side of the pickup and perched himself on the edge of my backpack. We lurched forward and once again headed out of Jarbacoa to begin the 23 kilometer trip to La Ciénaga.
We drove slowly along a two-lane, paved road out of town, stopping briefly at a store where a few of the riders from inside the cab got out and went inside, leaving those of us in the pick up to die of sunstroke.
“What do you think? We’re waiting in the shade out here? Get a move on!” The woman in pink cried.
The young Dominican man in his cub’s jersey jumped down off the pick up, shaking his head, and sat down on a chair outside of the store, tipping it back till the top edge of the chair touched the wall, his toes the only part of his feet touching the ground, “Aquí, hay sombra.” The woman in pink glared at his shady spot, fanning her face furiously with her sweaty, upturned hand.
“¡Ya, venga, vamos, ya!” the driver cried getting back into the pick up and beginning to blare a horn that sounded like the Duke’s of Hazard. The old man inside the colmado, nodded, wished the cashier a good day and sauntered out to squeeze into his place inside the cab, tipping his hat at the woman in pink.
We jolted forward and with the weight of sixteen people and easily as much cargo, it seemed improbable that we would go anywhere fast. Up, up, up and around, swerving to avoid potholes, ruts and sections of the road where the grass had grown over the lane, we began our ascent into the mountains, the load slowing us to almost a slow stroll as we hit the steeper sections of the mountain.
Banana trees, grape vines, coffee plants, avocado and a local, light green fruit we later found out was called toyata lined both sides of the street as we left city life behind us. Make shift shacks dotted the fields and the sides of the road, the occasional rooster, goat or cow making its way across the street, causing the driver to once again swerve, his horn a constant song in our ears.
I felt and then saw the road change from paved to rocky dirt, as the pickup bounced from side to side, my grip tightening on the back of the truck door, my quick prayers to save me from impending doom running through my mind.
One by one, players and items on our strange drip dropped out. A block of salt here, some printer papers there, the young Dominicans, first one to the a house on the right, the other jumping off and waving his good byes as the truck continued through town. The woman in pink, her mother from inside the truck’s cab then departed, and with her the strange metal vice grip, the empty gallon bottle and the pink portable CD player. Then both Haitian men, until finally we stopped in front of a small shack by the side of the road, another wooden structure visible behind the first. I looked around at eh remaining passengers, wondering who would get off here. The driver got down out of the truck and began to untie my backpack, “Aquí, niña. Esta es la casa de Chano.”
“Oh? Nosotros?” I asked surprised pointing to my chest. I searched for a sign of this so called Chano, but saw only a woman in her late 30s, her strong arms dark around the basket she carried.
“Está es la mujer de Chano.” He indicated to the woman standing there and the woman nodded her head, extending her hand and introducing her self as Maria, Chano’s wife.
And just like that, the ride was over. Safely on the ground again, we donned our packs and followed Maria and a herd of children all under the age of ten to a porch with two plastic chairs on it. A young man took out a third wooden chair and motioned for us to sit down.
“Chano won’t be back for a few days,” Abelito, the young man explained. I’m his cousin, Abelito and I too can take you to el Pico.”
Of course he was his cousin. And even though Amado had recommended Luis before a member of Chano’s family, we couldn’t really see getting up and excusing ourselves at this point. So we began negotiations and ended up with a reasonable price, the obligatory park mule and a plan to shop at 4 that afternoon.
Chano’s wife offered a bed at their house and for the low price of $5 for the two of us, would even cook us dinner and make us coffee in the morning. So we stayed, and for the next few hours were entertained by the seemingly never-ending quantity of children belonging to Chano and his wife and some of the neighbors.
A few hours later, exhausted from the school books and Barbie show and tell, John and I decided to take a walk through La Ciénaga. If Jarbacoa is a small mountain town, then La Ciénaga can best be described as a mountain community, sprung up along the unpaved river at the base of el Pico Duarte and along the River Yanque. We walked through the “center” of town where two small stores advertised to travelers in Spanish and English all their Pico Duarte necessities. Crossing the river that barely fit under a bridge flush with pavement, we stood watching 5 bare chested boys float in inner tubes, navigating around rocks down the rushing river. We passed three cows lying on the side of the road and a various tiny houses with strings of colorful clothing hung out to dry. A toothless man in a rocking chair picked up his hand in greeting, a bemused look on his wizened face. And all around us, sweeping views of the mountains jutting up into the afternoon sky, dotted with thunderheads, green valleys stretching out for miles and miles below us.
That night after homework by candlelight, a visit to the very pregnant pig and a necessary trip to the outhouse, we retired into the only double bed in the house, what could only have been Maria and Chano’s. The bed barely fit inside the tin room, a curtained door giving the semblance of privacy for the room’s inhabitants.
It was that night, before beginning our climb up Pico Duarte that I learned that roosters do not only crow at dawn. Take it from me, they crow all night long.
I stood watching as the driver threw first my, then John’s backpack into the back of the truck. “No way that’s gonna stay,” John whispered and I nodded, waiting to see what plans he had to secure our belongings.
Next to us an older man with deep lines etched into his tanned face, argued emphatically with a middle aged woman in a bright pink top and tight, white Capri pants, a pink portable CD player in her hands. “You, your just a young girl. A tiny little thing. Me, well. Now that’s a different story,” he pleaded, his words slurred together cutting off all s’s, “I am an old, old man.” She moved a sack of rice to the other side of the pick up truck ignoring his pleas and the driver moved it back, placing it atop the two enormous cans of Crisco oil.
“¡Ya! ¡Vámanos!” he cried and the throng of people hanging around the pick up began to pile into the cab. One, two, three, four in front. One, two, three, four, in back leaving six more, including John and I to contend with a spot in the back. The woman in pink, having lost the fight with the elderly Dominican, settled atop the burlap rice bag, her CD player in her lap. A younger Haitian man hopped up onto John’s backpack and John wedged himself in to his left, his right hand securing himself on his backpack, his left on my thigh. I sat perched on the edge of the back door, both hands gripping the lip, surrounded on both sides by young men in their late teens who laughed as I looked wide eyed around us thinking, “My father would kill me if he saw me right now.”
Now fourteen of us in the pick up, a container of propane, the two backpacks, two 3-gallon cans of cooking oil, 50 pounds of rice, various plastic and burlap bags, a strange metal object that looked like a vice grip, a number of large plastic gas cans, a strangely shaped rock that initially I thought was quartz, but later realized to be rock salt, set out down the road. My heart was in my throat. Thump, thump, thump in went in rhythm with the truck’s engine. And just like that, three blocks later, we stopped.
“More passengers?” I joked aloud, surveying the already over packed truck bed, limbs and packages in every conceivable crevice.
“There’s always room in the guagua,” laughed the boy to my right as he nodded at two tall, Haitian brothers appeared. One squeezed miraculously into the back of the cab as the other one, leaped effortlessly onto the side of the pickup and perched himself on the edge of my backpack. We lurched forward and once again headed out of Jarbacoa to begin the 23 kilometer trip to La Ciénaga.
We drove slowly along a two-lane, paved road out of town, stopping briefly at a store where a few of the riders from inside the cab got out and went inside, leaving those of us in the pick up to die of sunstroke.
“What do you think? We’re waiting in the shade out here? Get a move on!” The woman in pink cried.
The young Dominican man in his cub’s jersey jumped down off the pick up, shaking his head, and sat down on a chair outside of the store, tipping it back till the top edge of the chair touched the wall, his toes the only part of his feet touching the ground, “Aquí, hay sombra.” The woman in pink glared at his shady spot, fanning her face furiously with her sweaty, upturned hand.
“¡Ya, venga, vamos, ya!” the driver cried getting back into the pick up and beginning to blare a horn that sounded like the Duke’s of Hazard. The old man inside the colmado, nodded, wished the cashier a good day and sauntered out to squeeze into his place inside the cab, tipping his hat at the woman in pink.
We jolted forward and with the weight of sixteen people and easily as much cargo, it seemed improbable that we would go anywhere fast. Up, up, up and around, swerving to avoid potholes, ruts and sections of the road where the grass had grown over the lane, we began our ascent into the mountains, the load slowing us to almost a slow stroll as we hit the steeper sections of the mountain.
Banana trees, grape vines, coffee plants, avocado and a local, light green fruit we later found out was called toyata lined both sides of the street as we left city life behind us. Make shift shacks dotted the fields and the sides of the road, the occasional rooster, goat or cow making its way across the street, causing the driver to once again swerve, his horn a constant song in our ears.
I felt and then saw the road change from paved to rocky dirt, as the pickup bounced from side to side, my grip tightening on the back of the truck door, my quick prayers to save me from impending doom running through my mind.
One by one, players and items on our strange drip dropped out. A block of salt here, some printer papers there, the young Dominicans, first one to the a house on the right, the other jumping off and waving his good byes as the truck continued through town. The woman in pink, her mother from inside the truck’s cab then departed, and with her the strange metal vice grip, the empty gallon bottle and the pink portable CD player. Then both Haitian men, until finally we stopped in front of a small shack by the side of the road, another wooden structure visible behind the first. I looked around at eh remaining passengers, wondering who would get off here. The driver got down out of the truck and began to untie my backpack, “Aquí, niña. Esta es la casa de Chano.”
“Oh? Nosotros?” I asked surprised pointing to my chest. I searched for a sign of this so called Chano, but saw only a woman in her late 30s, her strong arms dark around the basket she carried.
“Está es la mujer de Chano.” He indicated to the woman standing there and the woman nodded her head, extending her hand and introducing her self as Maria, Chano’s wife.
And just like that, the ride was over. Safely on the ground again, we donned our packs and followed Maria and a herd of children all under the age of ten to a porch with two plastic chairs on it. A young man took out a third wooden chair and motioned for us to sit down.
“Chano won’t be back for a few days,” Abelito, the young man explained. I’m his cousin, Abelito and I too can take you to el Pico.”
Of course he was his cousin. And even though Amado had recommended Luis before a member of Chano’s family, we couldn’t really see getting up and excusing ourselves at this point. So we began negotiations and ended up with a reasonable price, the obligatory park mule and a plan to shop at 4 that afternoon.
Chano’s wife offered a bed at their house and for the low price of $5 for the two of us, would even cook us dinner and make us coffee in the morning. So we stayed, and for the next few hours were entertained by the seemingly never-ending quantity of children belonging to Chano and his wife and some of the neighbors.
A few hours later, exhausted from the school books and Barbie show and tell, John and I decided to take a walk through La Ciénaga. If Jarbacoa is a small mountain town, then La Ciénaga can best be described as a mountain community, sprung up along the unpaved river at the base of el Pico Duarte and along the River Yanque. We walked through the “center” of town where two small stores advertised to travelers in Spanish and English all their Pico Duarte necessities. Crossing the river that barely fit under a bridge flush with pavement, we stood watching 5 bare chested boys float in inner tubes, navigating around rocks down the rushing river. We passed three cows lying on the side of the road and a various tiny houses with strings of colorful clothing hung out to dry. A toothless man in a rocking chair picked up his hand in greeting, a bemused look on his wizened face. And all around us, sweeping views of the mountains jutting up into the afternoon sky, dotted with thunderheads, green valleys stretching out for miles and miles below us.
That night after homework by candlelight, a visit to the very pregnant pig and a necessary trip to the outhouse, we retired into the only double bed in the house, what could only have been Maria and Chano’s. The bed barely fit inside the tin room, a curtained door giving the semblance of privacy for the room’s inhabitants.
It was that night, before beginning our climb up Pico Duarte that I learned that roosters do not only crow at dawn. Take it from me, they crow all night long.
Juxtaposed
As you walk the two kilometer “main street” of the town of Cabarete, a bit of sensory overload sets in.
“Enterprise Rent-a-Car”, “Learn to Kite Board!” “Happy Hour: 2 X 1 from 5-7”; the billboards and signs scream out, lining both sides of the street, one seemingly on top of the next, attempting to entice the myriad of toursists to relax with a swedish massage, shop to their hearts content or drink tropical rum drinks at their bar in comfy chairs on soft sand, palm trees swaying in the breeze, blue skies, the slow, comforting lap of Carribean Ocean waves lapping the shore. Here you have landed in “paradaise.” Or what the corporations would like to package as paradaise for the weary, wayward traveller.
The irony of course of globalization and capitilism is not on the main street of Cabarete, nor is it in the happy hour prices on the pristine Carribean coast, but rather just one or two kilometers down the road. Just one left turn off the main, paved road down into “El Callejón” or “the alley” where not a trace of this so called “paradaise” exists. Paradaise lost or never found for these locals of Cabarete.
Pick up trucks, motos, cars, bikes and pedestriansts all jostle impatiently for a spot on the unpaved, deeply rutted dirt road that leads in the dominicans’ barrio, past the locals’ residences, work places and churches. Small children run barefoot with ease over the rocky surface of the street, women carry large bundles on their heads, their strong necks holding them up. The road that leads out of the tourist section of town and down to the local neighborhood schools. This is where the corporate globalization has gone very very wrong.
As the most popular destination in the Carribean, hundreds of thousands of visitors descend on the shores of these pristine beaches every year, bringing with them their excess cash and desire to indulge themselves to their hearts’ content for their week to ten-day vacations. Yet, this influx of tourism, here in the Kite Surfing capital of the world, (or in the other tourist destinations in the D.R.) does not mean new books for the children, consistent, clean running water or electricty for the local community. It does not mean Domincan owned businesses or increased revenue or higher literacy rates for the citizens of El Callejon. It is the contrast of “the haves” and “the have nots” in the most obvious of places, and yet this is the Domincan Republic most tourists never see.
The DREAM Project school, La Colonia Nueva, where Jen C volunteers is one such school. The students dressed in their blue shirts and tan bottoms are starved for a book to read, for a classroom with enough chairs, for the bare necessities of paper and pencils. They come to school for a mere 3-4 hours a day to allow the school to be used twice, for two different groups of students. Maximizing their space in this way, more students can be “educated.” The lines have long since faded from the paper they use to copy from the board. Nothing hangs on the walls odfd their classrooms.
At recess time, students press their noses and fingers between the slts of the library’s closed window, staring eagerly at the meager supply of books inside. “Dáme un libro, por favor.” One student whines, his bright black eyes pleading for anything resembling a book. But the library remains closed for organization and clean up three weeks into the school year, the DREAM volunteers attempting to make sense of the 200 some books strewn on the shelves.
“Those books are old anyway,” a third grader scoffs shaking her head bitterly. I shrug, but before I can answer, she has my hand and is dragging me toward a group of boys and girls standing in a circle. “Don’t you have any new ones teacher?”
Sadly, I don’t. I shake my head, “Not with me sweetie.”
She sighs heavily and then shrugs. “Oh well. At least they’re books. Come on teacher! Let’s go play Chonchon.” Eager faced children encompass me in their circle, ready to teach me a domincan game. “Chin Chin. Chon Chon.” They chant their voices joining together to make one.
Two communities. Two Realities. Juxtaposed.
Together, yet worlds apart.
If you would like to make a monetary donation to the DREAM project, go to http://www.dominicandream.org/donate-and-join/monetarydonations.html and click on the “donate now” button.
If you have Spanish language materials or school supplies to donate and are in San Franciso, contact Jen Collet at jencollett20@yahoo.com. She will be in the Bay Area the week of September 25th accepting donations.
Otherwise you can mail books, posters, poetry or other school supplies to:
The DREAM Project
Plaza de Patio
Cabarete, Puerto Plata
Domincan Republic
Just be aware, that the mail is spotty at best. To talk to someone in the DREAM project office, call 809-571-0497.
“Enterprise Rent-a-Car”, “Learn to Kite Board!” “Happy Hour: 2 X 1 from 5-7”; the billboards and signs scream out, lining both sides of the street, one seemingly on top of the next, attempting to entice the myriad of toursists to relax with a swedish massage, shop to their hearts content or drink tropical rum drinks at their bar in comfy chairs on soft sand, palm trees swaying in the breeze, blue skies, the slow, comforting lap of Carribean Ocean waves lapping the shore. Here you have landed in “paradaise.” Or what the corporations would like to package as paradaise for the weary, wayward traveller.
The irony of course of globalization and capitilism is not on the main street of Cabarete, nor is it in the happy hour prices on the pristine Carribean coast, but rather just one or two kilometers down the road. Just one left turn off the main, paved road down into “El Callejón” or “the alley” where not a trace of this so called “paradaise” exists. Paradaise lost or never found for these locals of Cabarete.
Pick up trucks, motos, cars, bikes and pedestriansts all jostle impatiently for a spot on the unpaved, deeply rutted dirt road that leads in the dominicans’ barrio, past the locals’ residences, work places and churches. Small children run barefoot with ease over the rocky surface of the street, women carry large bundles on their heads, their strong necks holding them up. The road that leads out of the tourist section of town and down to the local neighborhood schools. This is where the corporate globalization has gone very very wrong.
As the most popular destination in the Carribean, hundreds of thousands of visitors descend on the shores of these pristine beaches every year, bringing with them their excess cash and desire to indulge themselves to their hearts’ content for their week to ten-day vacations. Yet, this influx of tourism, here in the Kite Surfing capital of the world, (or in the other tourist destinations in the D.R.) does not mean new books for the children, consistent, clean running water or electricty for the local community. It does not mean Domincan owned businesses or increased revenue or higher literacy rates for the citizens of El Callejon. It is the contrast of “the haves” and “the have nots” in the most obvious of places, and yet this is the Domincan Republic most tourists never see.
The DREAM Project school, La Colonia Nueva, where Jen C volunteers is one such school. The students dressed in their blue shirts and tan bottoms are starved for a book to read, for a classroom with enough chairs, for the bare necessities of paper and pencils. They come to school for a mere 3-4 hours a day to allow the school to be used twice, for two different groups of students. Maximizing their space in this way, more students can be “educated.” The lines have long since faded from the paper they use to copy from the board. Nothing hangs on the walls odfd their classrooms.
At recess time, students press their noses and fingers between the slts of the library’s closed window, staring eagerly at the meager supply of books inside. “Dáme un libro, por favor.” One student whines, his bright black eyes pleading for anything resembling a book. But the library remains closed for organization and clean up three weeks into the school year, the DREAM volunteers attempting to make sense of the 200 some books strewn on the shelves.
“Those books are old anyway,” a third grader scoffs shaking her head bitterly. I shrug, but before I can answer, she has my hand and is dragging me toward a group of boys and girls standing in a circle. “Don’t you have any new ones teacher?”
Sadly, I don’t. I shake my head, “Not with me sweetie.”
She sighs heavily and then shrugs. “Oh well. At least they’re books. Come on teacher! Let’s go play Chonchon.” Eager faced children encompass me in their circle, ready to teach me a domincan game. “Chin Chin. Chon Chon.” They chant their voices joining together to make one.
Two communities. Two Realities. Juxtaposed.
Together, yet worlds apart.
If you would like to make a monetary donation to the DREAM project, go to http://www.dominicandream.org/donate-and-join/monetarydonations.html and click on the “donate now” button.
If you have Spanish language materials or school supplies to donate and are in San Franciso, contact Jen Collet at jencollett20@yahoo.com. She will be in the Bay Area the week of September 25th accepting donations.
Otherwise you can mail books, posters, poetry or other school supplies to:
The DREAM Project
Plaza de Patio
Cabarete, Puerto Plata
Domincan Republic
Just be aware, that the mail is spotty at best. To talk to someone in the DREAM project office, call 809-571-0497.
Saturday, September 16, 2006
Amado Takes Us to Los Saltos de Jimenoa
The mountain town of Jarbacoa is a small village about 75 miles from Cabarete. Of course if you are planning to travel from Cabarete to Jarbacoa, leave yourself plenty of time as the trip takes no less than 5 hours on public transport (a guagua, a bus, a taxi, another guagua. . .you get the point), but once you arrive and get settled in El Hogar Hotel on Mella Street, you will meet Amado, a sweet local who sets you up with a room and is a man of "confianza," someone to be trusted. So Jen, John and I decided, after some food to settle our stomachs and our nerves after the long, hot, stressful trip, that we would go with Amado. We would pay the 1000 pesos (US $34) for him to take us to the local waterfalls, Salto de Jimenoa bajo and Salto de Jimenoa alto.
Amado is one of those people, and therefore, guides, that was well worth the money. Immediately he makes you feel right at home, he allows you to sit back, relax and enjoy the experience. He gives you no reason not to trust him and within the hour, you feel as though you have gained a new, extremely jokey friend.
Of course before heading out to the waterfalls, we informed Amado that we had not yet had our coffee. He assured us to fear not and took us over to a local "colmado"” or convenience store where you could ask for coffee in little, plastic cups for 3, 4 or 5 pesos (less than 6 U.S. cents). Of course we opted for the 5 and gulped down the pre-sweetened coffee quickly, so we could head out into the countryside where the parks entrance is.
He led us over a hanging bridge that swayed precariously across the river and rocks below, commenting, "“El que no sabe merengüe, aprenderá aquí,"” laughing at his own joke. And as we swayed back and forth, our hips knocking on the sides of the pvc piping that served as the bridge'’s railing, I did indeed feel like I was learning to dance Merengüe.
After stopping briefly at the lower falls and taking the obligatory tourist shots, we sat waiting for Amado to finish his breakfast, hoping for a bit of excitement that would make the $11 worth our while. We were not to be dissapointed for long.
We followed Amado ont a trail and up into the mountains where he promised the real "“adventure"” would begin. What I will say about Amado is that he is a man of his word. Once on the trail, we immediately began to climb up, up, up the side of, if not a mountain, then definitely a very steep hill. Using our hands to help us scramble up the root covered dirt trail, before long Amado was showing us how to use the natural ropes that hung from the trees. Â"Canyoning natural!" he cried laughing as he tugged at one of the vines and climbed up the side of the trail. "“Woo-hoo!"” I followed suit, laughing at his enthusiasm and wondering briefly how we would later climb down the slope.
The trail took us continuously up for some time till we reached a river some 10 feet below us, pvc piping hanging over part of the ravine. "“Es facil chicos. ¡Miren primero!" Amado smiled, grabbing hold a blue plastic coated rope attached to the pvc piping. He swung himself down into the ravine, his hands on the rope, his feet against the bank and made his way around the side of the ravine until he could lower himself to the rock jutting up out of the ground. "“See?"” he repeated, "It was easy. Did you watch? Just do what I did and don't ever let go of the rope."” Ok Amado, we won't!
Minutes later, safely on the otherside, the three of us continue on for another 45 minutes to the second waterfall, well worth the walk to reach. Falling over 80 feet into a pool of water below, a spray projecting back up onto the granite walls surrounding the cascade. Completely alone on the rocks surrounding the falls, John was in the water before Jen and I could settle in to eat our peanut butter and crackers with Amado.
For the next hour, Amado regaled us with stories of his six brothers and sisters and parents who had moved to NY, his five children, Domincan history and interesting facts and the logisitcs of how John and I could continue on after Jen went back to work to climb Pico Duarte.
That afternoon, back in Jarbacoa, Jen safely to the Guagua station that would hopefully lead her back to Cabarete, John and I set out for a beer and a bite to eat. As I said before, Jarbacoa is a small mountain town, but you would never know it by the quantity of motos or the noise level in the street. It'’s truly incredible. Close your eyes and your in NYC. Inhale and you know you are no longer in any city in the U.S. With a cheaper version of gas or propane fueling the cars and motos and the seeming lax insepection laws for motorized vehicles with regard to mufflers and pollution, the air here is less than sweetly pefumed with the scent of burning deisle and gasoline.
We wandered back toward the Parque Central (Central Park) or town square of the town and were greeted with a scene we could not have imagined in a major metropolis let alone a town of this size. There on the four corners of the square were every resident of the town and the surrounding towns between the ages of 16 and 24. Hundreds of young men and women, dressed to the nines, lounged sharing bottles of beer or rum at the bars, on the sidewalks, at the edges of the park, spilling out into the streets, making it difficult if not impossible for the equally as many motos and infrequent car to navigate the street that was clearly the local pick up scene. Young mothers and fathers with their children, interspersed with even younger teens looking around to see and be seen. Two small boys hung around the periphery of the street, alternately offering shoe shines and jumping onto the back of the occaisional SUV for a quick ride on their spare tire on the back, before the driver inevitably saw them and chastized them for their behavior. A large minivan with it’s back popped open pumped Spanish rock into the night air and couple danced Salsa on the sidwalk, oblivious to the crownds around them. A man sitting at the bar next to us, eyes closed, belted out the lyrics to songs being played, his hat down low over his forehead.
John and I sat slowly slipping our local pilsner, “Presidente,” taking in the scene as it unfolded in front of us. "“Another?"” he asked after the last drops had been poured into our little plastic cups. I shook my head. I had already seen enough and in my dirty zip off backpacking pants, I certainly was in no postion to be "“seen."”
Amado is one of those people, and therefore, guides, that was well worth the money. Immediately he makes you feel right at home, he allows you to sit back, relax and enjoy the experience. He gives you no reason not to trust him and within the hour, you feel as though you have gained a new, extremely jokey friend.
Of course before heading out to the waterfalls, we informed Amado that we had not yet had our coffee. He assured us to fear not and took us over to a local "colmado"” or convenience store where you could ask for coffee in little, plastic cups for 3, 4 or 5 pesos (less than 6 U.S. cents). Of course we opted for the 5 and gulped down the pre-sweetened coffee quickly, so we could head out into the countryside where the parks entrance is.
He led us over a hanging bridge that swayed precariously across the river and rocks below, commenting, "“El que no sabe merengüe, aprenderá aquí,"” laughing at his own joke. And as we swayed back and forth, our hips knocking on the sides of the pvc piping that served as the bridge'’s railing, I did indeed feel like I was learning to dance Merengüe.
After stopping briefly at the lower falls and taking the obligatory tourist shots, we sat waiting for Amado to finish his breakfast, hoping for a bit of excitement that would make the $11 worth our while. We were not to be dissapointed for long.
We followed Amado ont a trail and up into the mountains where he promised the real "“adventure"” would begin. What I will say about Amado is that he is a man of his word. Once on the trail, we immediately began to climb up, up, up the side of, if not a mountain, then definitely a very steep hill. Using our hands to help us scramble up the root covered dirt trail, before long Amado was showing us how to use the natural ropes that hung from the trees. Â"Canyoning natural!" he cried laughing as he tugged at one of the vines and climbed up the side of the trail. "“Woo-hoo!"” I followed suit, laughing at his enthusiasm and wondering briefly how we would later climb down the slope.
The trail took us continuously up for some time till we reached a river some 10 feet below us, pvc piping hanging over part of the ravine. "“Es facil chicos. ¡Miren primero!" Amado smiled, grabbing hold a blue plastic coated rope attached to the pvc piping. He swung himself down into the ravine, his hands on the rope, his feet against the bank and made his way around the side of the ravine until he could lower himself to the rock jutting up out of the ground. "“See?"” he repeated, "It was easy. Did you watch? Just do what I did and don't ever let go of the rope."” Ok Amado, we won't!
Minutes later, safely on the otherside, the three of us continue on for another 45 minutes to the second waterfall, well worth the walk to reach. Falling over 80 feet into a pool of water below, a spray projecting back up onto the granite walls surrounding the cascade. Completely alone on the rocks surrounding the falls, John was in the water before Jen and I could settle in to eat our peanut butter and crackers with Amado.
For the next hour, Amado regaled us with stories of his six brothers and sisters and parents who had moved to NY, his five children, Domincan history and interesting facts and the logisitcs of how John and I could continue on after Jen went back to work to climb Pico Duarte.
That afternoon, back in Jarbacoa, Jen safely to the Guagua station that would hopefully lead her back to Cabarete, John and I set out for a beer and a bite to eat. As I said before, Jarbacoa is a small mountain town, but you would never know it by the quantity of motos or the noise level in the street. It'’s truly incredible. Close your eyes and your in NYC. Inhale and you know you are no longer in any city in the U.S. With a cheaper version of gas or propane fueling the cars and motos and the seeming lax insepection laws for motorized vehicles with regard to mufflers and pollution, the air here is less than sweetly pefumed with the scent of burning deisle and gasoline.
We wandered back toward the Parque Central (Central Park) or town square of the town and were greeted with a scene we could not have imagined in a major metropolis let alone a town of this size. There on the four corners of the square were every resident of the town and the surrounding towns between the ages of 16 and 24. Hundreds of young men and women, dressed to the nines, lounged sharing bottles of beer or rum at the bars, on the sidewalks, at the edges of the park, spilling out into the streets, making it difficult if not impossible for the equally as many motos and infrequent car to navigate the street that was clearly the local pick up scene. Young mothers and fathers with their children, interspersed with even younger teens looking around to see and be seen. Two small boys hung around the periphery of the street, alternately offering shoe shines and jumping onto the back of the occaisional SUV for a quick ride on their spare tire on the back, before the driver inevitably saw them and chastized them for their behavior. A large minivan with it’s back popped open pumped Spanish rock into the night air and couple danced Salsa on the sidwalk, oblivious to the crownds around them. A man sitting at the bar next to us, eyes closed, belted out the lyrics to songs being played, his hat down low over his forehead.
John and I sat slowly slipping our local pilsner, “Presidente,” taking in the scene as it unfolded in front of us. "“Another?"” he asked after the last drops had been poured into our little plastic cups. I shook my head. I had already seen enough and in my dirty zip off backpacking pants, I certainly was in no postion to be "“seen."”
Thursday, September 14, 2006
Waiting for the GuaGua: Sept. 11, 2006
It's a litlle after 10 in the morning as we lean, backs up against our backpacks, journals out, on a side street in the town of Jarbacoa, waiting for the guagua to depart for La Ciénaga where we will spend two to three days climbing the mountain, Pico Duarte. We drain the reminents of our overly sweet coffee in the plastic cups quickly hoping that the toxins won't leech into our system if we can finish the coffee before it cools. Seems no one has told Domincans that hot beverages and plastic don't go well together. The shoe shine guy next to us has finished polishing yet another patrons shoes. . . that is one thing that can be said for people in the D.R. - very polished shoes. Shoe shine guys are a dime a dozen. The pastry cart owner is working slowly through her line of people, oblivious to the lively scenen in the street in front of us: motoconchos (moto-taxis), maneuver to avoid cars, trucks, chickens and pedestriants. Three to a moto, moto with a bedframe, a man on horseback and the pick up in front of us, supposedly our future transport, the "guagua."
"Guaguas," a popular mode of public transport, usually consist of some sort of van, similar to a Dodge caravan meant to hold about 10 or 11 people. But really, why only take 10 or 11 people when really 16 or 17 can easily fit, legs and arms every which way? Three to four people up front, followed by, no less than, four per row after that.
The real beauty of the guagua is that it's extremely cheap and mostly convenient in nature. For under U.S. $3, you can travel hundreds of miles to exactly where you want to go. Don't get out just because you are within blocks of your stop. The guagua will stop again, just blocks from its previous stop for no additional charge. Simply yell, "Aquí, en frente del banco." or "Allá a lado de la casa de María" and the guagua driver will know where to leave you.
Of course the flip side is indeed comfort. Not to say that being jammed like a sardine into a vehicle meant for a third the amount of people inside with no seatbelt and no way of ensuring the guagua driver's capabilities doesn't have its merit. Oh the thrill of the adventure alone is worth the ride.
So we sit on the side of the road, waiting for the guagua to be filled. The guagua does not leave until it seems like it is no longer humanly possibly to squeeze one more person, burlap sack, gas container or block of salt inside. This guagua will prove to be an interesting ride I am sure. The pick up, a double cab toyota, is different than the other vans we have been inside and I can't help but have the sinking suspicion that we will be riding in the back.
"Guaguas," a popular mode of public transport, usually consist of some sort of van, similar to a Dodge caravan meant to hold about 10 or 11 people. But really, why only take 10 or 11 people when really 16 or 17 can easily fit, legs and arms every which way? Three to four people up front, followed by, no less than, four per row after that.
The real beauty of the guagua is that it's extremely cheap and mostly convenient in nature. For under U.S. $3, you can travel hundreds of miles to exactly where you want to go. Don't get out just because you are within blocks of your stop. The guagua will stop again, just blocks from its previous stop for no additional charge. Simply yell, "Aquí, en frente del banco." or "Allá a lado de la casa de María" and the guagua driver will know where to leave you.
Of course the flip side is indeed comfort. Not to say that being jammed like a sardine into a vehicle meant for a third the amount of people inside with no seatbelt and no way of ensuring the guagua driver's capabilities doesn't have its merit. Oh the thrill of the adventure alone is worth the ride.
So we sit on the side of the road, waiting for the guagua to be filled. The guagua does not leave until it seems like it is no longer humanly possibly to squeeze one more person, burlap sack, gas container or block of salt inside. This guagua will prove to be an interesting ride I am sure. The pick up, a double cab toyota, is different than the other vans we have been inside and I can't help but have the sinking suspicion that we will be riding in the back.
Friday, September 08, 2006
A not so soft landing, but safe and sound nevertheless
You know that the landing in a new place is going to be a bit bumpy. No matter how many times you do it. It's like re-entry to the U.S. after having been out of the country for a while. Your from the States. You are familiar with the drill and yet re-entry into society always seems to be a bit of a shock to the system. I guess the same goes for leaving. . or at least for me it does.
I knew when I read my horoscope to John aloud yesterday though that I should have put the paper down as soon as I saw the word travel. Not that I give credit to the horoscope but right prior to embarking on an extended journey seeing the words "travel and difficul" written ominously like a prediction in the paper wasn't exactly settling for the stomach. Any more than the nice JetBlue man that checked us in telling us that we could leave the country without having a return back to the U.S. What? Why not? I mean I can understand the Dominican Republic having a law about entry (which they don't by the way), but a law about exiting? That seems over the top. At least we can rest assured that buying tickets at their airport allows you to purchase the fully refundable/changeable tickets so not to worry, not to worry.
Landing in the Dominican, a bit jostled and unsure of where to find Jen around we wandered outside into the sticky carribean heat and immediately I was reminded of my 3 degree temperture comfort zone. This was definitely warmer than 72 and immediately started to sweat, glad that my bag was smaller than John's, but wishing it to be about half its size. Not knowing if Jen knew that we were landing that day or how to get in touch with her without a phone, we decided that our best plan of action was to find an internet cafe and see if she had emailed us. Immediately we were accosted by fifteen different offers for taxi, carros públicos, motochacos and other forms of transport to leave the airport. "No, gracias, no gracias" John kept repeating as we walked from the information desk to check our email.
Ok no email from Jen. Plan B. . .what exactly was Plan B? Good question. Well, we knew she worked at the Dream Project so perhaps we could look up their information on the web and call them. Luckily, that worked out and so 20 minutes and an argument with the airport taxi driver later (who insisted we couldn't get to the town of Caberete where Jen lives for under $75), we walked out of the airport and flagged a carro público (public car) and headed into the center of Santiago to the bus terminal. Immediately I knew I was no longer in Kansas as I got into the front seat and reached to put on my seatbelt and realized, "hmm guess they don't have seatbelts in the D.R." (sorry dad). So I closed my eyes, said a quick prayer to God, Allah etc and told the driver where to take us.
John later said to me after the insane taxi ride, the bus ride and another group car ride later, "I didn't realize these were multil-lane highways," pointing to the one way each way roads in front of us.
I laughed. "You mean the passing lane in the middle?"
"Yeah," he responded, "passing for both sides at the same time in the same place."
And it was true. Both in the public cars, the busses and as a pedestrian it would seem that anywhere from two to three cars and at least 4 motos can drive abreast on the equivalent of the coastal highway 1 in california. What seems like a an impossibility as a passing lane to you or me is a frequent custom here. . . That became especially apparent in the second public car of the day as we piled in three in the front seat and three in the back heading from Sosua (where the bus left us) to Cabarete (where we hoped to finally locate Jen). And just when you thought there was no way that more people could fit into your taxi, the taxi would pull over and like something out of the Barnam and Baily Circus act with the clowsn in the Volkswagon, two more people would pile in. . . four in front and four in back.
Now in the fading light of dusk after over 12 hours of travel, John and I alternately looked over our shoulders at our bags bouncing around in the open trunk and our intertwined hands hoping that the large spider split in the windshield was not really from someone's head bouncing off it as we raced down Carretera 5 toward Cabarete. The music increased in time with my heartrate as we paced on oncoming traffic, an impossibly full, red moon peaking out above the palm trees along the ocean. We sped through a town and in my head I thought, "Is this it? Hmm. Guess not." Too bad I had said that thought aloud as we came to a stop 5 km down the road in front of what looked to be a resort.
"¿Aquí?" the cab driver asked and it took me a minute to realize that he was talking to us.
"No Caberete." I responded, praying not to hear what I knew he would say.
"Cabarete? Cabarete? No . . .we already passed Cabarete."
Whoops. But there was no convincing this taxista to take us back. We were on our own. To flag another mode of transport or hoof it. So of course, we donned our backpacks, got out our headlamps and began the hour long walk back to where we finally found Jen and a cold beer on the beach.
So yeah, arrived . .though not quite as softly as we had hoped.
I knew when I read my horoscope to John aloud yesterday though that I should have put the paper down as soon as I saw the word travel. Not that I give credit to the horoscope but right prior to embarking on an extended journey seeing the words "travel and difficul" written ominously like a prediction in the paper wasn't exactly settling for the stomach. Any more than the nice JetBlue man that checked us in telling us that we could leave the country without having a return back to the U.S. What? Why not? I mean I can understand the Dominican Republic having a law about entry (which they don't by the way), but a law about exiting? That seems over the top. At least we can rest assured that buying tickets at their airport allows you to purchase the fully refundable/changeable tickets so not to worry, not to worry.
Landing in the Dominican, a bit jostled and unsure of where to find Jen around we wandered outside into the sticky carribean heat and immediately I was reminded of my 3 degree temperture comfort zone. This was definitely warmer than 72 and immediately started to sweat, glad that my bag was smaller than John's, but wishing it to be about half its size. Not knowing if Jen knew that we were landing that day or how to get in touch with her without a phone, we decided that our best plan of action was to find an internet cafe and see if she had emailed us. Immediately we were accosted by fifteen different offers for taxi, carros públicos, motochacos and other forms of transport to leave the airport. "No, gracias, no gracias" John kept repeating as we walked from the information desk to check our email.
Ok no email from Jen. Plan B. . .what exactly was Plan B? Good question. Well, we knew she worked at the Dream Project so perhaps we could look up their information on the web and call them. Luckily, that worked out and so 20 minutes and an argument with the airport taxi driver later (who insisted we couldn't get to the town of Caberete where Jen lives for under $75), we walked out of the airport and flagged a carro público (public car) and headed into the center of Santiago to the bus terminal. Immediately I knew I was no longer in Kansas as I got into the front seat and reached to put on my seatbelt and realized, "hmm guess they don't have seatbelts in the D.R." (sorry dad). So I closed my eyes, said a quick prayer to God, Allah etc and told the driver where to take us.
John later said to me after the insane taxi ride, the bus ride and another group car ride later, "I didn't realize these were multil-lane highways," pointing to the one way each way roads in front of us.
I laughed. "You mean the passing lane in the middle?"
"Yeah," he responded, "passing for both sides at the same time in the same place."
And it was true. Both in the public cars, the busses and as a pedestrian it would seem that anywhere from two to three cars and at least 4 motos can drive abreast on the equivalent of the coastal highway 1 in california. What seems like a an impossibility as a passing lane to you or me is a frequent custom here. . . That became especially apparent in the second public car of the day as we piled in three in the front seat and three in the back heading from Sosua (where the bus left us) to Cabarete (where we hoped to finally locate Jen). And just when you thought there was no way that more people could fit into your taxi, the taxi would pull over and like something out of the Barnam and Baily Circus act with the clowsn in the Volkswagon, two more people would pile in. . . four in front and four in back.
Now in the fading light of dusk after over 12 hours of travel, John and I alternately looked over our shoulders at our bags bouncing around in the open trunk and our intertwined hands hoping that the large spider split in the windshield was not really from someone's head bouncing off it as we raced down Carretera 5 toward Cabarete. The music increased in time with my heartrate as we paced on oncoming traffic, an impossibly full, red moon peaking out above the palm trees along the ocean. We sped through a town and in my head I thought, "Is this it? Hmm. Guess not." Too bad I had said that thought aloud as we came to a stop 5 km down the road in front of what looked to be a resort.
"¿Aquí?" the cab driver asked and it took me a minute to realize that he was talking to us.
"No Caberete." I responded, praying not to hear what I knew he would say.
"Cabarete? Cabarete? No . . .we already passed Cabarete."
Whoops. But there was no convincing this taxista to take us back. We were on our own. To flag another mode of transport or hoof it. So of course, we donned our backpacks, got out our headlamps and began the hour long walk back to where we finally found Jen and a cold beer on the beach.
So yeah, arrived . .though not quite as softly as we had hoped.
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
Waiting till the last minute
There is no excuse for not having written earlier. Well, that's not true. There are a million excuses, reasons if you will, but I will spare you the excedingly boring details. Suffice to say that we leave tomorrow and the summer has been filled with over 6,000 miles in John's VW from San Francisco to Boston. Obviously we took the long route. In my defense, I had planned to use this site as a way to document the many adventures as we made our way across the country, but somehow that never happened.
So I guess you will have to take my word for it that the last month has been quite the adventure.. . from biking in Zion surrounded by orange buttes and impossibly blue sky; to running along the north rim of the Grand Canyon feeling like a Rave Run from Runner's World; to swimming in the turquoise, tepid waters of Alabama's Gulf Shores; to the variety of friends we saw along the way, both intentional and accidental; the stories piled one atop another. Luckily they're mostly documented on film for those of you with the patience to hear them all.
So tonight on this last night before we leave, I sit here in the Newton Public Library, rather than at John's dad's house, where I should be doing laundry and packing. I imagine it will all get done. It always does, doesn't it.
Here's to hoping that Jen Collett gets my email letting her know that we arrive in the Dominican Republic tomorrow, her first visitors in her new home.
So I guess you will have to take my word for it that the last month has been quite the adventure.. . from biking in Zion surrounded by orange buttes and impossibly blue sky; to running along the north rim of the Grand Canyon feeling like a Rave Run from Runner's World; to swimming in the turquoise, tepid waters of Alabama's Gulf Shores; to the variety of friends we saw along the way, both intentional and accidental; the stories piled one atop another. Luckily they're mostly documented on film for those of you with the patience to hear them all.
So tonight on this last night before we leave, I sit here in the Newton Public Library, rather than at John's dad's house, where I should be doing laundry and packing. I imagine it will all get done. It always does, doesn't it.
Here's to hoping that Jen Collett gets my email letting her know that we arrive in the Dominican Republic tomorrow, her first visitors in her new home.
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