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.
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