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."”