The Colonial Zone

I enjoyed being in the Colonial Zone, which surprised me. Normally I like to get away from the touristy areas of cities and be where the people live. But the DR is different. There were a lot of neighborhoods where I would not feel comfortable - mostly because there are few comforts (like air-con), and I would stick out like a big, pink, sore thumb. But being in the Colonial Zone allowed me to see some of Dominican life (unlike in little France by the sea aka Las Terrenas). When I arrived on Saturday it had been raining all day and I found the air very fresh and cool. Normally I didn't like to walk too much because unlike the locals, after walking two blocks I was usually drenched in sweat. But on Saturday I was able to walk and not sweat, and when I got hot, I found some little parks to sit in. I began to get adventurous, mostly because it was cool and pleasant to walk, but also because as we drove across the country on the bus and I saw these little pueblitos, I got a strong feeling of nostalgia for Nicaragua where I walked around fearlessly with my expensive camera hanging on my shoulder (and everyone saying "hey take my picture"). I realized that something had changed for me as a traveler since those days, or maybe it was just that Nicaragua was a special place and it was a special time. But anyway, I decided to walk around and explore some of the back streets of the zone while the weather was cool. What I found was a very vibrant, very loud, very open lifestyle - open meaning it was all out there to be seen. People did not have air-conditioning, so many of them sat in their living rooms with the doors and windows open, some sat outside, some were in little shops that sold groceries but also had snack counters. Everywhere there was music, and the music was really loud and because of this, conversations were like shouting matches. I walked around as if I were invisible. No one gave me a 2nd look (or a first one for that matter). The only time I ran into uncomfortable situations was on El Conde, the pedestrian shopping street that runs for a few blocks to Plaza Colon. There prostitutes and hustlers tried to hit me up, and there were a few seedy types among them. On top of that, taxi drivers continually said "taxi", which I found quite odd since I was obviously walking on a pedestrian street - where would a taxi even take me anyway? Anyway, it was a pleasant experience being so close to the action, and, my hotel was quieter than the other places I had stayed in Santo Domingo. On my last night there, I went to a restaurant that is on the first floor of an old hotel at the end of El Conde, on Plaza Colon. They have tables set up under a big tree outside, and also have tables and a classic old bar inside. It's the kind of place you would likely see old men wearing guayaberas and straw hats and smoking cigars back in the day. Now it is filled mostly with tourists mixed with some Dominicans. In front of the restaurant, taxi drivers, shoe shine men and boys, and locals congregate and talk, laugh and sing. It's a great people watching place. I lucked out when I went on Sunday night for my last meal because even though the outdoor section was packed, there was one table right in front. I grabbed it and ordered chicken and rice - the one thing I know that they have that is fairly typical and good. As I devoured my meal, it suddenly started to pour. A really, heavy, tropical downpour. The square had been full with children playing, friends talking, lovers walking hand in hand, and suddenly everyone ran for cover - some under the eaves of buildings, some under the trees, and some just ran home. I was lucky because I was under and umbrella that was under a tree. A guy who had been standing under the big tree in front of me and checking me out, came and stood behind me under the umbrella I was under. He said something and I didn't realize he was speaking to me until he said it again. Long story short, he wiggled his way into a chair and pulled himself up to my table, ordered a beer and then tried to convince me to take him back to my hotel. I tried being polite and just saying I wasn't interested, but I was feeling hassled and a little unsafe. As the rain stopped I told him I was going to go inside and pay the bill. Normally the waiters would bring it outside, but I didn't want to pull my money out in front of him and then have to listen to some sob story about a baby needing medicine or something like that. I asked the waiter if he knew that guy and he said no. He then took my money for my check but brought the bill out to the guy who was sitting with me for his beer. I yelled out that I would pay for the beer, because I did not think the guy had any money. I then snuck out through another exit and walked the block back to my hotel. Again, feeling nostalgia for Nicaragua, I wondered why it was that when I was in Nicaragua, I was never once approached by people asking me for money, even though it was in the middle of a war and economic blockade led by the US. I never felt unsafe there, and people were always calling out to me to take their photos or just to stop and talk. The only thing I was ever asked for were pencils by children. I left the DR feeling very sad about what appears to be to be a culture in dysfunction. At its heart, the Dominican Republic is a warm, happy place with people who have an enormous spirit and beautiful smiles. But over the years, something has perverted it, I blame it on capitalism, which has left a huge division between rich and poor, and a strong emphasis on materialism, which makes those who have not jealous and even angry at those who have. They don't see how the system that they participate in has created the conditions under which they are forced to live, but instead look at tourists as sources of quick, easy money. I don't know what the solution is, but now I plan to revisit Nicaragua and see how much it has changed after 20 years of capitalism and "democracy". If it is the same as what I remember, I'll revise my thesis, but if it has changed and become like the Dominican Republic, I can only conclude the the way of life that we value so much that we insist on exporting it (often at the tip of a gun) is actually the reason for so much inequality and unhappiness in the world.

My Date

I had a date last night. The last one was sometime last century, or maybe last year when I was here? I don't even attempt dating in San Francisco. My therapist will explore that with me, I'm sure.

Anyway, I met this guy named Manuel online. We chatted a bit while I was in Las Terrenas. Messenger is big here, everyone wanted my msn, which I had but didn't know how to use. With Manuel, I figured it out. We could see each other while we chatted.

He is an unemployed graphic designer. He showed me some of his work, which is good commercial stuff. I don't know the ins and outs of the advertising business here, but it seems like it would be tough to find a job unless you were REALLY good. I didn't think he was REALLY good, but what do I know about advertising? I'm kind of turned off by people telling me I need to buy something to be happy and fulfilled.

We met at my hotel and walked to Plaza Colon. He had no idea where to go, so I suggested the large plaza by Columbus' palace (maybe it was his son's or brother's - can't keep the mythology straight). It is called Plaza Espana.

When we arrived there was a stage set up at one end and some traditional carribean dancers were flitting around in big skirts. We went to a restaurant called Angelo.

I didn't bring my glasses and neither did he. It was dark and we couldn't read the menu. The waiter suggested some sort of seafood platter. I wasn't sure all of what was on it because I had a hard time understanding him, but I ordered it and a glass of wine. Manuel had some stuffed chicken breast.

He had two cell phones that he kept playing with while we were walking and after we sat down it rang a few times. He would stop talking mid-sentence and answer the phone. He did most of the talking. At first I asked him if he had finished his portfolio, which he told me he was working on so he could get a job. He went into a long discussion, or shall I say monologue, about the difficulties of graphic design and how clients do not understand it and how letters come in different styles than can't be mixed, etc., etc. To me it sounded like the client was always wrong, and he was always right. I was beginning to understand maybe why he was unemployed.

He seemed very sweet online, he kept sending me kisses and calling me 'bello' (beautiful) but in person he was kind of cold and detached. Anyway, I listened politely and eventually got him on to a different topic.

I asked him what he thought about the French owning businesses in Las Terrenas. He told me that basically the Dominican government sold the country to foreigners. In Boca Chica the Italians own most things (which explained all of the pizza shops I saw there), in Punta Cana it is the Germans. He also said that each nationality owns their own hotels and restaurants and they don't like each other so they don't mix. It was very odd. Fortunately, the Americans don't seem to be in that business (I am sure we just own most of the good agricultural land).

We talked a little about Haiti. I got on the subject when he mentioned free markets, which is how the country was sold off to foreign interests. I think this is where I may have lost him. He basically blamed the Haitians for their plight, saying that they need to work for a living and not depend on the Dominicans to rescue and help them. Wow! I knew there was some rivalry between Dominicans and Haitians and I knew there was some resentment of the Haitians who come here to work (sound familiar?), but this was kind of unexpected. Since there is no work in Haiti, and no food, and people are dying and eating dirt, and when they democratically elect a president, the US overthrows him (with the help of the Dominicans) I found it strange that he was suggesting that all of this was their fault. It's the blame the victim syndrome.

When I mentioned Aristide, the president who was elected twice and overthrown in US backed coups twice, he told me he was very bad. When I asked him why, all of his reasons had to do with the Dominican Republic. I didn't catch most of it, just that the usual reasons that we hear in the US, of him being a socialist, communist, or whatever, were not given. The reason Aristide was bad was because of his ideas about the Dominican Republic (I think he was advocating for the DR to allow Haitians to work here and send money home - sort of like what the president of Mexico urges the US to do).

That was pretty much it. He asked me about myself once but mostly he talked about himself.

Then on stage a woman started to sing a Mercedes Sosa song. Mercedes Sosa is this incredible Argentine singer who sings popular revolutionary songs. She was exiled during the Argentine dictatorship and I saw her in a concert in Nicaragua once. The song was beautiful and the woman who sang it was very good. Manuel told me she is a popular Dominican singer. She went on to sing songs by Silvio Rodrigues and Pablo Milanes, two Cuban singers and then some of her own songs. Manuel knew all of the songs and sang along, explaining some of the words to me (in Spanish) from time to time.

This was nice. Here we were, sitting outside in this beautiful plaza with a full moon, a nice cool evening breeze and this beautiful music, live, right there. I was really enjoying myself.

Then Manuel's phone rang. I heard him say he'd be there in 10 minutes. I guessed our date was over.

I was wondering if he had arranged to have someone call him if for some reason he felt the date wasn't going well and would have a reason to escape. It was a bit strange to me. He walked me to my hotel and shook my hand and told me we could do something today if I wanted and then nearly ran in the other direction. I was left feelign a bit confused. He knew what I looked like, so I don't think it was that. I didn't talk much, mostly because I don't talk much and talk even less in Spanish and he was talking a lot about himself, or singing, but I am not sure what could have gone wrong.

What I will take with me (once I get over the apparent rejection) was another beautiful evening sitting outside and talking to a Dominican about his country. I enjoyed that, I enjoyed the music, and the meal, while incredibly expensive, was pretty good. It was a good way to spend one of my last nights here.

The Journey Is Half the Fun

I'm back in Santo Domingo and it's nice to be here. I got up really early, I'm not sure why. I might have slept about 5 hours last night. After watching a movie that I've only seen when I am traveling (it might have been the last time I was here that I saw it several times) with Janet Jackson called "Why did I get married?" or something along those lines (I actually enjoyed it - again), I tried to go to sleep, but couldn't sleep. I sat on my terrace a bit until the mosquitoes started to feast on me and then went to bed. I woke up and could not fall back to sleep, so I went out into my kitchen/living area and the sun was just beginning to lighten the sky. I decided I would enjoy the "amanacer" (a word I really like in Spanish, meaning the "dawn", but in Nicaragua after the revolution, countless songs talked about the "amanacer" - which was soon snuffed out by Reagan's dirty war.....) Anyway, I took my time sipping coffee, playing on the computer, watching the sun light the sky and hearing the birds begin to awaken. I packed up, ate a light breakfast and wheeled my broken suitcase (the new backpack with wheels that I bought just a few months ago at Macy's in Philly didn't survive its 2nd flight) and began checking out. The sweet young man who has been so helpful was there, smiling as usual. I asked him where he was from because I thought he was Haitian, but perhaps could have been French. He confirmed he was from Haiti. He seems extremely well educated, and dresses in very fashionable/casual chic. I asked him to call me a taxi even though I had promised El Chivo, the grandpa who brought me from Sanchez, that I would call him on my return. The taxi arrived and was a nice, comfortable, air-conditioned mini-bus. The driver was very nice and we chatted on the way up over the hills from Las Terrenas to Sanchez. His Spanish had a very different quality to it and I imagined if I had been able to speak to anyone in that area, I might have found that it was a regional variation. As soon as we left the beach road and ventured into Las Terrenas town, signs of the French influence disappeared and was replaced by Dominicans, dark-skinned, walking, three on a motorcycle, trucks carrying construction workers, market stands with fresh fruit, meat laying out in the open air, auto parts, etc. It occurred to me that with all of these people that I was seeing, I had never seen any of them at the beach, or swimming in the ocean. Perhaps there was another more local beach that they went to. Perhaps they were prohibited from mixing with the tourists, or using the "french" beaches. I found it odd. Up we went over the hills, through several small villages. I asked my driver if the people who lived there were "campesinos", thinking that a campesino was a farmer. He told me they were and that many of them worked in Las Terrenas, some were moto-concho drivers, and some worked in agriculture. I then realized there was a difference in meaning and my question might have seemed a bit odd to him. He then pointed out the different things they were growing - corn, coconuts, a sort of rubber tree. As we swept up over the mountain he pointed down to the bay where the whales come every winter. Every person who has driven me up over that mountain has pointed out that bay, well, except for El Chivo, because he was too busy complaining about how there were no tourists. We pulled into the bus station, well, more like a bus stand, at about 9:15. The Caribe-Tours website said the bus left at 9:30. It was the last bus in the morning, according to the website, which is why I was worried about oversleeping and therefore didn't sleep well (oh, so there was a reason for it). The young man in the ticket office (who I remembered from last year) told me there was a bus at 9:30 that took the old highway, and one at 10:30 that took the new one. Ugh, I wish it had said that on the website. I told him the 9:30 one was ok. I had calculated arriving in Santo Domingo around 1:30, eating lunch, and checking in whenever I could (check-in was supposed to be at 3, so I didn't want to arrive too early). I figured I could sleep on the bus. If I had taken the 10:30 bus, I would have had a shorter time on the bus, but would have had to wait for an hour in the bus staion where there was an extremely loud radio program blaring that sounded like it was horse racing (it was coming from inside the office and also from the street - I think everyone in Sanchez could hear it). I saw El Chivo wobble down the street in front of the bus station. I was hoping he would not see me. As the bus pulled up, I pulled my broken suitcase down the driveway, and there was El Chivo waiting to open the door on the side of the bus to load luggage (I think I was supposed to tip him for that, but I didn't). I was hoping he would not recognize me. He looked at me fiercely and said something about a guagua. Guaguas are these funky old mini-busses that are jam-packed full of people and spew black smoke as they roam around Santo Domingo. I knew what he was asking me, but I pretended I didn't understand as I threw my bag in the compartment and headed towards the bus door. Again he said something about which guagua I took. I told him I didn't understand, and he said "unh?" as I climed the stairs and boarded the bus. I am sure he was putting some kind of curse on me. I settled in to my seat and off we went, through countless little villages that line the coast. I remembered much of the scenery from last year when I came in the other direction. Little shacks, many of which were quite cute, painted in different colors, or some just made of cinder blocks with corrugated tin roofs. After reading about how the poor in Haiti live, with mud floors and banana leaves for roofs that do nothing to keep out the rain, these little shacks looked kind of luxurious. Dignified poverty was a term used a lot in Mountains Beyond Mountains (my book for this trip), and I was thinking that perhaps this is what that meant. All poverty being relative (whatever that means). I dozed off for a bit and we pulled into our first stop, Nagua. It is a cute little town with lots of cute little shops with brightly-colored hand painted signs on the buildings. We traveled a little more along the coast and passed some incredible, virgin beaches lined with palm forsests. I fantasized about setting up some sort of retreat center that would be open to the community there for free, would emply anyone who wanted a job, would be self-sustaining (growing its own food) and environmentally friendly (solar power, and all of that). Maybe it's better that those beaches remain untouched. I fell asleep again and must have missed the miles and miles of palm plantations. When I woke up we had begun our ascent into the mountains (I think). I don't remember the order, but we passed through some mountains which I assume were rain forest because it was raining and we crossed some pretty mighty rivers. People lined the road selling coconuts, and then beautiful tropical flowers. We then passed through a rice growing region and I saw rice fields in every stage, from those being freshly planted, those that were fully grown, those that were overgrown, those that were burnt, and those being plowed. I wondered how long it would be before the US began forcing government subsidized rice on the Dominicans and drive these rice-growers out of business - the same thing we did to Haiti, contributing greatly to their inability to sustain themselves now. As we headed down the mountain, signs of city life began to appear. More crowded living conditions. People sitting around with nothing to do. Traffic. A TV-tel (a motel with TVs, which I thought was a funny thing to advertise). We pulled into Santo Domingo and I saw lots of people, men and women, walking among the traffic, selling gatorade, bottled water, ice cream, snacks, all competing for the few people willing to buy their wares. I wondered how much they could make in a day, if they made anything. Our bus pulled in, I got in a taxi and am now in my hotel. This is the third place I have stayed in Santo Domingo. It is a hotel in the Colonial Zone, much closer to the tourist area than the two places I stayed before. I have a nice clean room with no kitchen (since the two apartments I rented before had kitchens and no utensils, I decided to skip the kitchen). There are no horns honking outside of my window (though there is a yappy dog), and other than the air-con not being very cold, it's very nice. I just had lunch sitting on the front terrace overlooking the Conde, a little pedestrian shopping area that reminds me of the old downtowns we used to have when I was growing up before malls put most downtown areas out of business. Because it rained today it was quite pleasant outside - almost cool, with a really nice breeze and very little sun, keeping it cool. I'm ready to take a nap and then might meet up later with someone I met online (perhaps a date?) Tomorrow I am going to brave the heat and the hawkers and explore the colonial zone to take some pictures.

Las Terrenas - French Outpost

I don't know why I didn't see it as clearly last year when I was here, but this place, Las Terrenas, as beautiful as it is, is also a tale of two cities. On the one hand there is the Dominican life - fishermen, cooks, maids, security guards, motorcycle taxi drivers - and on the other hand there is French life. My little hotel complex apparently is run by someone French - it seems that way anyway, since the people who seem to be in charge in the office ar French. There was a nice young French woman there last year who was very helpful. This year, there is an older French woman who seems to be always busy even though the complex which has 64 apartments, probably has 5-10 guests. A nice young man who works in the office, who I thought was Dominican is actually Haitian, and was hired, I suppose, for his ability to speak French (he also speaks English and Spanish).

Last night I broke from my normal routine of cooking at home and decided to walk into "town" to get something to eat. I went to a pizzeria I went to the other night. I had fish, which was very good - cooked with coconut milk. I noticed a blond guy who seemed to be in charge, even though the cooks and the servers were Dominican. I assumed he was the owner. On both sides of that restaurant were chic little restaurants, also run by French.

After dinner I wanted to go and pick up a snack. I went to a little grocery store I went to when I first arrived last year. I passed a new, and very chic little cafe that recently opened, trendy pleatherette chairs in red and white sat by little tables with candles and red mood lighting as poor Haitian construction workers went home from working all day in the hot sun.

The grocery store last year reminded me of a Zimbabwean supermarket I had seen on the news. I was exaggerating. This year I was not. Where I remembered there being shelves and aisles, now there was a big empty space with some shelves along the sides and back wall. There was not much to be bought. Dominicans sat around talking. I left.

I walked further down, past the car/jeep/motorcycle rental, run by French, and came across a little shopping center. I thought they might have a grocery store with some good snacks. I walked past a bar that was filled with - you guessed it - French - with French people working, and French people sitting around drinking and smoking.

I went into the center of the shopping center which was beautifully landscaped and came across a chic jewelry store, a French woman working inside greeted her customers with a kiss on both cheeks. A money changer with a French man inside and little French children playing outside stood across from the pharmacy, which had some French name. This shopping center was little France. I did not see one Dominican or Haitian inside the complex - well, actually I did - a few security guards.

I left and walked out to the main street where a large group of motorcycle taxi drivers waved at me, held up a finger to see if I wanted a ride - I shook my head 'no' and crossed the street to another little complex. I passed a French bakery and found another grocery store, seemingly run by Dominicans, I thought so because there was very little to buy.

I was feeling angry and kind of sick by the whole scene. I turned around and started to walk home.

The little French kids who were playing inside of the shopping center were now in front, taunting two darker children who were standing there toyless, while these kids each had some sort of toy in their hands.

I passed through the former fishing village where the pizzeria I ate at now stands, and the little shacks that used to be the fishermen's huts now house fancy little restaurants with menus in Spanish, English and French, many of them serving French or European food. French people dressed in casual evening wear stood outside chatting as Dominican security guards sat expressionless holding large rifles.

As I walked along the beach road, the only other people walking were the Haitians, returning from somewhere, going somewhere. Most of them do not raise their eyes when I pass. Some of them will look at me, raise their eyebrows in a gesture of greeting and continue walking. All Terrain Vehicles with blond children passed and large SUVs and mini-vans with tinted windows swerved around the Haitians and myself - you can guess who was inside - neither Dominicans or Haitians.

I really like this place, but I feel like I am contributing to the inequality of it all by giving my money to the French. Sure, they pay rents and taxes (I suppose they pay taxes), but that money just goes to the Dominican elites. They apparently employ some Dominicans, and I am sure in their homes (for those who do not live in hotels), they have Dominican servants. But I just wonder why there can not be a more equitable sharing of the wealth here, especially by those who gave us the French revolution. Where is the equality and fraternity that was promised by the event that overthrew the French monarchy and supposedly changed the world?

To me this seems like the perfect vacation spot - it is quiet, beautiful, and I love the hotel complex with my own little apartment, but I can't stand seeing this division of wealth that is so stark, so blatant, and so self-conscious.

I just wonder how the French or anyone else would feel if the tables were turned - if there were a huge foreign invasion and people ran restaurants and cafes and flaunted their wealth while the locals were left with the scraps that came from providing security, cleaning, or selling trinkets on the beach.

Las Terrenas

It is a complicated place for me this Las Terrenas - I have so many conflicting feelings about it. I love the beach, and the peacefulness of the place that I am staying. I enjoy going into town to buy groceries and see real Dominicans (and Haitians), but I detest the motorcycles, all terrain vehicles, jeeps and mini vans that zoom past as I am walking in the only place possible to walk - the street. I wish more people walked, but it seems like the only ones who do are the Haitian construction workers. Everyone else either hops on the back of a motor concho (motorcycle taxi), or drives something themselves. It is especially infuriating for me to see tourists, most of them French, zooming around with no regard to people who are walking on the streets, many of them with their dogs perched in a little basket on their vehicle.

I first noticed the dogs when I came in from Sanchez. After reading about the horrendous situation in Haiti, which exists partially thanks to the French, and then seeing these people treating their dogs like royalty, I was disgusted. Of course, I am not without fault here. I am benefitting by my country's part in the global inequality game, and am here exploiting it by spending my dollars which go much further here than at home thanks to the fact that there is inequality.

Like I said, it is complex.

I'm reading a book about Paul Farmer, a doctor who set up a hospital in a very poor part of Haiti. It is an incredible story. Inspiring and thought-provoking. The question for me now is how I can use what little money I have, the skills I have (whatever they are), the power and influence I have (little though it may be) to help bring attention to people who desperately need help - especially Haiti.

I am so disgusted by the situation there, which started with the slave trade and got worse through years of US interventions, the last when under Bush, the democratically elected president was deposed and kidnapped and taken out of the country, an embargo was imposed (before his kidnapping) which predominately affected poor peasants. We were ironically "defending" democracy in Iraq, criticising Cuba and overthrowing a democratic government in the one place that really needs democracy - Haiti. Reading about the results of the embargo (I knew about the other stuff) just made me hate Bush even more.

But anyway, back to Las Terrenas.

I went to the supermarket this morning and walked back into town after 5 when the sun was not so strong to drop off laundry, change money and buy some mangos. I bought 5 mangos from the cutest little boys. I had one for desert and it was yummy. I think if I can I am going to try to support the small, local, independent business, like the little stand set up on the corner selling mangos, rather than this French-run supermarket.

I'm about to begin ragging on the French, so I guess I should stop, because again, I am not sure I am totally innocent here, but it does seem to me that they really kind of miss their old colonial days. I see them lounging around, drinking wine, running chic cafes here, all of them driving (rather than walking) many with dogs, and even wearing nicely pressed shirts and blouses (this is the tropics for god's sake). How is it that they are so far from France and yet treat this place as if they owned it? How can they come to a place like this and run businesses for other French people and completely ignore those who call this place home? I think the thing that I like least about being here is that I have no contact with the locals. I say hello when I pass them, but that is about it. I wonder how they feel about us all being here.

My Destiny - Paradise

I wasn't sure if I would actually make it to Las Terrenas today. I woke up very early, mostly because I went to be very early last night. My bedroom was cool, but as soon as I stepped out into the living room, I could feel the heat. I opened the door and stepped out on to the balcony and could feel the fresh coolness of the morning as the sun beat directly into my apartment. I knew if I didn't leave I would regret it. Remnants of last night - ashtrays, cups and bottles were strewn around the pool. Today being Sunday only promised more drinking and loudness from my hotel mates. I sent a desperate e-mail to Playa Colibri yesterday telling them I was in Boca Chica and wanted to return to Las Terrenas. I asked them if they had anything available. This morning when I got up I had not received a response and figured I wouldn't until later in the day - once they got to checking their e-mail. I decided to chance it and just come, knowing that it was low season, that they had plenty of rooms and that if they were full, there are lots of other places nearby. I went downstairs and told the guy in the office I was checking out and needed a taxi to the bus station. He told me I had to pay $20 penalty for canceling my reservation. I thought this sucked, but it wasn't the hotel's fault that they were located in the gates of hell. I was willing to pay anything to get out. The taxi showed up a little before 9. The driver was friendly and spoke a lot. I understood about 70 per cent of what he said. He told me he was not married and had two daughters with another one due this week. He told me his mother's youngest son had 11 kids and no job. I was thinking that the Catholic Church should be made to support all of these kids who are born into families that can't support them. Birth control would make such a difference in a country like this. Those 11 kids who are probably being raised by their mothers while their father is running around impregnating more women, will end up being lured into crime, drugs or prostitution, since there are so few other options here for people with no money. I got to the bus station at 9:30, and fortunately, thanks to my blog from last year, I remembered to ask for a ticket to Sanchez. The girl behind the window was surly and took her time taking my money and giving me my ticket and change. I went upstairs to the cafeteria to get something to eat, since I had only had a few nuts and some cheese at my hotel. I asked for two empanadas. The woman at the register asked me "two?" kind of incredulously. I said yes. She asked, "anything else?" again seeming somewhat surprised that I was only getting two empanadas. I kind of smiled and said, "no", thinking it was a bit of an odd interaction, but maybe I was just imagining it. I found my bus which had a sign in Spanish and English. The sign said "Destino" and then the translation, which should have been destination, was "destiny". I thought, 'yes, Las Terrenas is my destiny.' I was the second person to board the bus and could not wait. I was prepared with a jacket, knowing it would be very cold, and it was, but it felt so good! Finally, at 10 a.m., we pulled away and began our journey. The driver had some radio station that was playing easy listening songs in English, like the Stylistics, Rick Astley, etc. I was humming along since I knew most of the songs. Then he turned the radio off, and I thought we would ride in silence. Instead, he put some merengue DVD on and I could see and hear a music video. I was so happy to be on my way to Las Terrenas, I didn't care. I sort of dozed off and then woke up to see a movie with Will Smith and Martin Lawrence. They were cops and it involved a lot of cussing, police chases and blowing up of things. I dozed off again and woke up and looked at my watch and it was 11:30! I couldn't believe I had slept for almost an hour. I wonder how loudly I was snoring... We took the new highway which takes half as long to get to Sanchez as the old one. I woke up as we were winding down a mountain pass and a few cows wandered across the highway. When we arrived at Sanchez, a lot of people got off but a few stayed on because there was another stop. Outside the bus a crowd of men gathered looking kind of like the pictures you see of desperate people trying to grab food from a UN food convoy. I knew what they were waiting for ... me! Everyone else I suppose was just walking or getting met by friends or family, but I was a source of income for these guys. They asked me if I needed a taxi or motorbike. I had done the motorbike thing last year and even though it was an adventure, this year I had an extra bag with my laptop and preferred to go in relative comfort. I told them I wanted a taxi. One guy grabbed my bag and brought it to the taxi. The first time this ever happened to me was in Indonesia when a small kid grabbed my bag and then insisted I pay him. I was furious because I could have carried the bag myself. Today I willingly let the guy grab my bag and willingly gave him 50 pesos (about $1.50). We then stood at the taxi with my bag in the back and had a discussion between me, the taxi driver and two motorbike drivers. One had apparently just finished a cracker or something because he had crumbs on his lips that flew at me when he spoke. He was the most aggressive of the three. They asked me if I knew how much the taxi was. I told them 400 pesos, thinking that the taxi was 400 pesos and the motorbike was 200. They said, no, the moto was 400 and the taxi was 1500. 1500?!! Wow, I really felt like they were trying to rip me off. I considered taking the moto, but said I had a big bag. The younger and less aggressive moto driver who didn't have crumbs on his lips told me it was no problem. I asked him to show me his bike, and he pointed to it. Then the taxi driver pounded on the seat and told me to get in - dust flying up from the seat as he hit it. I thought he was going to negotiate the price with me. He was a portly older guy named "el chivo" (the goat). I told him I did not remember paying that much last year. He told me times were tough since tourism is down. I remembered that we are having a global economic crisis. I started to soften. And then it hit me. I did pay 1500 last year for a taxi and 400 for the moto. There was no cheating going on, just a little competition over the small crumbs I was going to throw in someone's direction. El Chivo told me that prices were up, gasoline was more expensive, and tourism was way down. He tried to get me to commit to having him pick me up next Saturday when I return to Sanchez. He asked me if I wanted a nice clean girl. I told him I would call him next Saturday and was not interested in a girl. I didn't tell him why I left Boca Chica. 

The streets of Las Terrenas were very quiet, as the streets of Santo Domingo were. Both of my drivers pointed this out and told me it was because today was mother's day. Most people were at home or had gone somewhere, many to return to spend the day with their mothers. As soon as we hit the road that runs along the beach I felt a sense of calm and relief come over me. The ocean was beautiful and the air felt fantastic. The beach road was dry and had only one big puddle, whereas last year it was nearly a river. Playa Colibri had a room for me, no problem. Everything is pretty much the same, but two things are better. There is air-conditioning in the bedroom (if I need it) and the restaurant is open. I went into town to go to the supermarket, fortunately, I took a moto-taxi, because when we got to the Plaza Rosada where the French supermarket is, it was obvious it was closed. I told the driver there was no point in me stopping. He drove a bit to find another supermarket, but everything in town was closed. I told him to just take me back and paid him for the round trip (100 pesos). I then went to the restaurant and had a delicious piece of grilled fish with a side of steamed vegetables, went for a swim and had a nice walk on the beach. I'm looking forward to my week in paradise, which I will appreciate even more after having experienced a little bit of hell.

Villa Florencia

This grand building stood outside of my bedroom window in Boca Chica. It was part of my view from my hotel in the gates of hell. I wondered what it was and figured it out as I walked past last night. Instead of telling you, I want to see if anyone can figure it out. Correct answer wins a week in Boca Chica!

Boca Chica - Mouth of Hell

Ok, Boca Chica does not really mean mouth of hell, it's small mouth or something like that, but it certainly seems like the gate to hell. I shoulda done my homework, is all I can say. Problem is, I've been to many places and never found a place to be completely and utterly disagreeable....until now. I arrived by taxi from Santo Domingo. I asked the girl in the office of my hotel how much my taxi would be and she called and asked and was told 800 pesos - a little over $10. Not bad for a 30 minute taxi ride. When I got in the taxi, I asked the driver. He radioed in and asked and the dispatcher told him 800 pesos, which he repeated to me. "That's fine" I said. As we almost reached the entrance to Boca Chica the driver told me that he told me it was 800 pesos, but he had to give the girl at the hotel 100 pesos tip. What did that mean for me?, I asked him. He said he was just letting me know and if I wanted to give him a tip.... I told him he had quoted me a fare of 800 pesos, but I ended up giving him the 100 pesos anyway. It was the beginning of the adventure. When I called to change my reservation from tomorrow to today because the place I was staying in Santo Domingo was so noisy and moldy and I had to get out, I asked them when I could arrive. They told me anytime after 11. I couldn't get here soon enough and ended up arriving around 11:30. The guy at the desk told me my room was not ready because checkout was at 2. I put my things in an empty room and went down to check out the beach. From what I remembered from when we passed through last year, it was beautiful. Well, my memory was a little distorted. Parts of the beach were beautiful. There was white sand and blue water, but in the distance you could see big tanks from some sort of refinery or concrete mill. The beach is not very big, but as I walked along I was acosted by just about every person I passed. People pointing to tables for me to eat or drink, guys offering me girls and massages, women smiling at me and touching me. On top of that, it was the hottest day since I've been here and the sun was beating down mercilessly. Eventually, I couldn't take it any more and went up to the street, thinking I'd find a nice place to eat. There were no nice places to eat. This is the Carribean, but apparently Carribean food is hard to come by. Mostly there were pizza shops, Italian restaurants, and Swiss food (whatever that is). Signs advertising that they change euros gave me an idea of the type of tourists who come here. I walked back to my hotel feeling like I'd made a big mistake. I ended up eating a hamburger in the little restaurant at my hotel next to the pool because it was all they had. I gave half of it to a kitty who was sleeping under the table. A big Dominicanorker (Dominican from New York) sat by the pool drinking beer and talking to a guy in the water. Two women came down for a swim and the other guy left but the DRNYer started talking to the women and drinking more beer. The women told the maid to turn the music up, which she did. I was sweating bullets. I was feeling like this was not the relaxing get-away I was looking for. I was wondering what was taking so long to get my room ready. The Newyorminicano started getting louder. I took off my shoes and stuck my feet in the pool, thinking I would cool down. I didn't. Finally a guy came and told me he was ready to bring my luggage up. Maybe this is what the hold up was? This guy wasn't around? I had seen the maid cleaning the room that turned out to be mine and didn't see anyone check out, so I believe the room was available and clean, but the guy to carry my bag was not here. I came up to the room, which is ok, but was hot. Turned on the a/c and it took forever to cool down. The a/c is a little noisy and only cools the bedroom. I'm sitting in the living room with all of the doors and windows open and am still sweating, even though it has cooled down outside. The Newyorminicano got louder as more of his friends arrived and he drank more beer. I was thinking that I needed to get out of here and checked online to see what options I had. Then everyone at the pool left and it got quiet (it is noisy again now). I thought, "well, I have a pool here, even if I won't be going to the beach (because it is obvious I won't be able to relax on the beach) - I have a decent apartment, and I have some good books, maybe I can stay a week". After taking a nap, I went to check out the main drag and pick up some things at the supermarket. As I was walking down a group of young guys approached me, speaking loudly (I think they might have been drunk or high) and asked me where I was from. I tried to wave them away. The most aggressive of them said something about Italy, and asked again where I was from, so I said, "Italia". I'm not sure why. Probably Italians have more money than Americans these days with the strength of the Euro. He kept following me, talking fast and shoving a card in my face. I kept gesturing for him to go away until finally I just stopped and threw my meanest, most threatening look at him. He said something to me and turned around and left. It was at that moment that I decided it was time for me to leave too. I came back and e-mailed Playa Colibri, the beautiful place I rented an apartment at last year. I had the beach to myself most of the week I was there, except for a cute little boy with dreadlocks and a dog. There was a good supermarket and the kitchen was well stocked. I left feeling relaxed and the whole time I was there I felt very safe and comfortable. Hopefully I will be leaving the mouth of hell tomorrow.

Zona Colonial

My days consist mostly of eating, sleeping and finding places to keep cool. I'm feeling more comfortable here than I did when I first arrived last year, mostly because I got a feel for the place through my lucky find, my tour guide, Ernesto. So last night, after the sun set, I decided to take a walk through some of the streets that I passed through in Ernesto's air-conditioned jeep last year.

I am struck by the number of old buildings that remain. Big, stone, colonial buildings, some in ruin, others being used as churches or whatever. I wonder if these buildings were originally temples that were torn down by the Spanish and the stones used to build monuments to themselves and their gods.

I loved walking around and seeing people hanging out, listening to music, playing chess or dominos, talking, eating, etc. No one has air-conditioning, it seems, so everything is open, and people hang outside to keep cool.

I find it ironic, somehow poetic, that this island which is the birthplace of the new world, in many ways represents the worst in exploitation by colonizers, slave traders and missionaries. The Dominican Republic seems to be surviving, but on the other end of the island lies Haiti, a country in total ruin with a population that is starving and has no means of escape. I read in the newspaper today that 60 Haitians trying to make it to Miami on a raft were intercepted by the coast guard. Too bad they weren't Cubans, they would have been welcomed in with open arms. Coming from a totalirian state that happens to be a US puppet doesn't count when one's life is at stake. They were sent back to Haiti - a virtual death sentence.

Yet, here in the DR, in the colonial zone, tourists arrive and visit the "first" church in the new world, and the "first" street, and the "first" hospital, and take pictures with the pigeons in front of the statue of Colombus and think nothing of what colonization and slavery meant for the millions who have suffered, nor for those who have benefited. I love coming here and will enjoy my time at the beach, but I somehow feel that my prior justification that my much-needed tourist dollars are helping just isn't cutting it. I feel like I should be coming here and doing something to help, not just coming so that I can relax. I remember this feeling from last year, this unsettling feeling that I am somehow exploiting the poverty of the people who live here. We'll see where this feeling leads me as I sit on the beach next week and read the two books I brought to help me out.

Hellish Trip

Travel used to be a lot of fun. I remember the thrill of getting on an airplane, the flight attendants smiling and handing out bags of peanuts and all of that. Things have changed for sure. Aside from nearly having to strip to your underwear to clear security, now airlines apparently do not even provide headphones. I watched "Paul Blart Mall Cop" without sound. I don't think I missed much but it would have been nice to hear what was being said.

I spent a hellish time in Miami airport. I am definitely spoiled by airports such as Bangkok and Singapore, where you can eat great food, get massages and pedicures, go shopping and even rent a day room. Miami has very little, which is quite disturbing, since it is an international airport which receives a lot of visitors. I thought USA was number 1.....

My flight to Santo Domingo was supposed to leave at 5:30 p.m. and get me into Santo Domingo at 7:40. It would have given me time to check in and go out and get some water and things to stock up my refrigerator.

When I arrived in Miami at 2:30, thinking I would have a short layover, I saw that the departure had been changed to 7:30. Shit!

I got some terrible Chinese food because I was starving, and then walked and found my gate. The departure lounge was pretty empty. They had these mobile charging stations and I plugged my laptop in and tried connecting to wireless. No success.

I got up and walked around a bit. Stopped at another mobile charging station and tried again. No success.

Finally, after repeated attempts, I was able to connect to the internet and purchase 30 minutes of wireless time. I sent an e-mail to my hotel telling them I would be arriving late and called some guy an asshole on facebook.

I went and looked at the departure board and my flight was now scheduled to leave at 8:20. I e-mailed my hotel again and told them it was delayed until 8:40, and gave them the flight number so they could check. I was afraid I was going to spend the night in Miami airport.

Turns out the departure time was changed to 8:40.

The departure lounge was now full and very noisy with kids running around and people yelling at one another in both English and Spanish (they were having conversations across the room but for me it was yelling). I was irritable and wanted to find a quiet place but there were none. Two pizzas later, we finally started to board. It took forever.

The plane of course was packed. It was obvious that many people boarding had never flown before and people did not know how to find their seats. The flight attendants were not helping.

Once everyone was settled I fell asleep. I woke up an hour later to find we were still sitting on the runway. Finally at 9:45 we took off.

I got in after 11, got my bag, grabbed a taxi and arrived at my hotel at about 12:30 a.m. My room was hot and smelled like mildew. It is not very nice, but what can you expect for $45 per night? After reading about Paul Farmer in Haiti, and thinking about poor Haitians sleeping on dirt floors with hardly a roof over their head, what I had was luxurious. Still, it made me decide to spend less time in Santo Domingo. It is hot and noisy here and I came for the beach, so I am trying to contact my hotel in Boca Chica to see if I can arrive one day earlier and stay until June 8 when I leave for New York. Even if there is nothing to do there, there will be the beach and a pool and I can relax without horns honking all day long.

It is nice to be back though and see some familiar faces. I recognized the waiter at the restaurant where I had breakfast and saw the very buxomy newspaper girl. I know my way around and know where to change money and find a cool internet cafe, which is where I am now, even though I foolishly brought my laptop with me.

Now I have to tinkle, so I´d better go.