At The Don't Tell Motel
Day 12
Barahona to San Jose De Ocoa/Nizao
No overnight gunshots and the drunk Dominicans are nowhere to be seen. After breakfast I run into Stephanie, another missionary type from ?Lou Easy Anna?. She offers to be a model for the Larimar stones being sold by a local peddler. Her eyes are absolutely radiant and I feel quite taken by her. Of course, it simply wouldn?t have worked out. What with me being spoken for and a non-believer, her being a devout straight Christian, with her husband right at her side, and all that stuff.
Cash, cash, cash ?can?t get any. I won?t risk going further away to smaller towns without sufficient funds to return home. If Barahona won?t give me any ?effectivo? (cash) I may have the same bad luck in Pedernales or Jimani. I have enough cash to return to Cabarete and plop down in a backpacker place until my flight in the wee hours of Tuesday morning. Accounting for gas money I can probably survive on basic comedor food and make it to STI (that?s El Cibao International Airport outside of Santiago for you non-aviation types) via public transport. Also, it?s Friday and if I don?t get cash now it?ll become even more difficult on the weekend.
So I?ve decided to backtrack via Azua. Not only will this take me closer back to Cabarete and STI but Azua is a larger city and I may have more luck getting some cash. The Spanish in this country seems to change drastically with every different area I visit. Here I?m having a very hard time understanding anyone, especially with my ears ringing from the noisy two stroke engine pounding away at my ear drums.
The laws of motorcycling (and bicycling) are thus: The prevailing winds will always be inversely proportionate to the direction of travel and urgency of arrival time. When I travelled west to Barahona the wind came from the west. Now that I?m travelling east back towards Santo Domingo the wind is blasting, and I mean truly blasting, from the east.
Well, what can I say, this is a pretty boring ride ?until I hit the newly put down pavement. It wasn?t there two days ago on the way down. Small asphalt pebbles litter the road and the knobbly front tire is more than happy to pick them up and fling them at me. It hurts!! What a great argument for wearing a helmet.
Whoo freaking Hoo! In Azua I suddenly spot a brand spanking new, modern Banco BHD. I pull up to the drive through ATM, try a few cards and the whole ATM system, including the one inside the bank promptly goes out of service. ?Afuera de servicio? the screen keeps insisting. Disappointed Dominicans are seen leaving with sad faces. I?m partly annoyed and also stubbornly committed and I head inside. A beautiful air conditioned breeze hits me and I breathe deeply, savouring the moment. I explain the ATM problem and the pretty receptionist hovering by the door takes my passport and credit card. I anxiously watch the teller. She calmly keeps writing and doing teller stuff while I sit breathing deeply and sending good thoughts to the credit card and travel gods. I keep a keen eye on the teller for telltale signs such as frowns, head shaking or furrowed brows. Nothing! It looks promising. Now they wave me over and I sign a bunch of credit card slips and she counts off 10,000 pesos. As I?m riding down the road I come to the realization that 10,000 pesos for the four days remaining in my trip is quite a bit of money. Oh well, better err on the side of caution.
I?m singing
Ena! Ena!
Ekout, Ekout an deye
Chaque amour fi nou wa na n?
as I roar off with a full tank of fuel. I blast past moto riders who give me the thumbs up and then catch up to me, then pass me, only to slow down again until I pass them once more. Broad smiles are exchanged and I invariably leave them in my wake. The road up to San Jose De Ocoa is an absolute marvel and I once again pine for my little BMW F650GS who had to stay back home, or one of Robert?s V-Stroms. What an amazingly engineered and built road. Of course the wind is now howling from the north. A rain drop hits my helmet visor and another one hits my left hand. More rain showers cool me off along the way. PTSD sets in from my previous experience near Jarabacoa. If you?ve been religiously following these rambling reports you?ll know that ?La Poderosa? shuts down completely when it rains hard. Something about a blown head gasket and water getting into the cylinders, I think. I?m torn between enjoying the cooling rain and the dread and fear associated with once again coming to an unceremonious halt in a drenching downpour.
I spend a few hours at Rancho Francisco and have the most delicious fish ever. I don?t even know what I ordered and only catch on to something about ?a la plancha? and ?del mar?. Good enough at 280 pesos. Finally having a guest at the restaurant, they immediately crank the merengue music. I move away from the speakers as they actually hurt my ears. They do have rooms here but I like my sleep and see no hope of getting any here on a Friday night. Dominicans love to party.
I call Conrad at Casa Conrado in Nizao. He tells me he?s in Santo Domingo and won?t be back for at least three hours and ?please stay in Ocoa?. Screw you I think to myself, I?m heading up there anyway. After all, Google maps shows other hotels in the area. The ride from San Jose De Ocoa to Nizao is now my favourite. Sure, it goes through a bit of a confusing little city, but once in ?el campo? it is absolutely amazing. The beautifully paved road climbs and climbs, with one twisty turn after another. The landscape turns into pine forests and the air is pleasantly cool. I could almost put back on my northern climate riding jacket. As I drop back down into Nizao, fertile fields and greenhouses line the road. The villages are clean, uncluttered and downright calm and delighfully non-frenzied.
Two Japanese women are walking down the street in Nizao and I do a double take. Then I spot a definitely white looking hippy type taking pictures. Surely there must be hotels if Japanese women and hippy types mosey about. The hippy type is French and I try my Quebecois French on him. The local Super Colmado dude will have nothing to do with my feeble attempts at local Spanish and insists on going through his French/Local Spanish translator. It works out just fine and there are apparently no hotels in the area.
I explore a bit more and the road turns into gravel very shortly after Nizao. Pretty much like so many of our standard logging roads back home, complete with pine trees ?minus the palm trees. I?m absolutely taken by this place and hang my camera around my neck to take surreptitious photos and videos along the way.
On the way up I spotted a hotel and decided to check it out on the way back down. I immediately realize they?re ?Cabanas?, aka ?Don?t Tell Motel?. Pretty dumpy on top of that. By the hour? she asks when I inquire about pricing. She wanted 500 pesos for the night but I decided to move on. I remember seeing some Cabanas south of San Jose De Ocoa and that?s where I?m headed. I?m no stranger to this since I?ve used one in northern Mexico before. A sign with a sexy vixen beckons at the ?Cabanas Villa En Sueno?
I ask the rifle toting guard where I could find a hotel. ?Right here? he assured me, pointing at the ground in front of him. There were units with Jacuzzi bathtubs but I opt for the ?basic? one with air conditioning, fan, cable TV and hot water for 1350 pesos (about $31). He made sure I understood that if I needed anything, ANYTHING, to just let them know. He assures me that the loud music at the adjacent party place won?t go past 10pm. I know he?s lying through his teeth, but that?s OK.
They bring up the basics to my room. Bed sheets, two towels; an optional large beer (100 pesos) with two plastic cups; two bars of soap; a package of shampoo; and two condoms. Made in Qindao, China on Taidong Road. You just can?t make this stuff up.
The shower has no shower head but there?s plenty of hot water. I tear open the package of shampoo and spread the contents over my hair. An overpowering smell of disinfectant type of alcohol permeates the air as I lather up, feeling glad to finally be using shampoo on my hair. Something isn?t quite right. Shampoo isn?t supposed to smell like disinfectant and alcohol. My aging eyes can?t quite read the tiny print on the ?shampoo? package. My brain is still functioning and I take a high definition picture of the package and then zoom in on the photo. ?For all your feminine hygiene needs? it says in several languages. Oh well, if I had head lice, they?re gone for sure.
There?s no remote control but I figure out the TV anyway. It?s set to an extremely bad porn channel. I flip through the channels and morbid curiosity keeps me coming back to the porn channel. When I see her ?rimming? him I settle on another channel to watch ?Los Simpsons? instead. As I?m getting ready to go to bed I run my finger through my hair. The frizzy, knotted feeling is completely gone. I may be on to something here.
Day 12
Barahona to San Jose De Ocoa/Nizao
No overnight gunshots and the drunk Dominicans are nowhere to be seen. After breakfast I run into Stephanie, another missionary type from ?Lou Easy Anna?. She offers to be a model for the Larimar stones being sold by a local peddler. Her eyes are absolutely radiant and I feel quite taken by her. Of course, it simply wouldn?t have worked out. What with me being spoken for and a non-believer, her being a devout straight Christian, with her husband right at her side, and all that stuff.
Cash, cash, cash ?can?t get any. I won?t risk going further away to smaller towns without sufficient funds to return home. If Barahona won?t give me any ?effectivo? (cash) I may have the same bad luck in Pedernales or Jimani. I have enough cash to return to Cabarete and plop down in a backpacker place until my flight in the wee hours of Tuesday morning. Accounting for gas money I can probably survive on basic comedor food and make it to STI (that?s El Cibao International Airport outside of Santiago for you non-aviation types) via public transport. Also, it?s Friday and if I don?t get cash now it?ll become even more difficult on the weekend.
So I?ve decided to backtrack via Azua. Not only will this take me closer back to Cabarete and STI but Azua is a larger city and I may have more luck getting some cash. The Spanish in this country seems to change drastically with every different area I visit. Here I?m having a very hard time understanding anyone, especially with my ears ringing from the noisy two stroke engine pounding away at my ear drums.
The laws of motorcycling (and bicycling) are thus: The prevailing winds will always be inversely proportionate to the direction of travel and urgency of arrival time. When I travelled west to Barahona the wind came from the west. Now that I?m travelling east back towards Santo Domingo the wind is blasting, and I mean truly blasting, from the east.
Well, what can I say, this is a pretty boring ride ?until I hit the newly put down pavement. It wasn?t there two days ago on the way down. Small asphalt pebbles litter the road and the knobbly front tire is more than happy to pick them up and fling them at me. It hurts!! What a great argument for wearing a helmet.
Whoo freaking Hoo! In Azua I suddenly spot a brand spanking new, modern Banco BHD. I pull up to the drive through ATM, try a few cards and the whole ATM system, including the one inside the bank promptly goes out of service. ?Afuera de servicio? the screen keeps insisting. Disappointed Dominicans are seen leaving with sad faces. I?m partly annoyed and also stubbornly committed and I head inside. A beautiful air conditioned breeze hits me and I breathe deeply, savouring the moment. I explain the ATM problem and the pretty receptionist hovering by the door takes my passport and credit card. I anxiously watch the teller. She calmly keeps writing and doing teller stuff while I sit breathing deeply and sending good thoughts to the credit card and travel gods. I keep a keen eye on the teller for telltale signs such as frowns, head shaking or furrowed brows. Nothing! It looks promising. Now they wave me over and I sign a bunch of credit card slips and she counts off 10,000 pesos. As I?m riding down the road I come to the realization that 10,000 pesos for the four days remaining in my trip is quite a bit of money. Oh well, better err on the side of caution.
I?m singing
Ena! Ena!
Ekout, Ekout an deye
Chaque amour fi nou wa na n?
as I roar off with a full tank of fuel. I blast past moto riders who give me the thumbs up and then catch up to me, then pass me, only to slow down again until I pass them once more. Broad smiles are exchanged and I invariably leave them in my wake. The road up to San Jose De Ocoa is an absolute marvel and I once again pine for my little BMW F650GS who had to stay back home, or one of Robert?s V-Stroms. What an amazingly engineered and built road. Of course the wind is now howling from the north. A rain drop hits my helmet visor and another one hits my left hand. More rain showers cool me off along the way. PTSD sets in from my previous experience near Jarabacoa. If you?ve been religiously following these rambling reports you?ll know that ?La Poderosa? shuts down completely when it rains hard. Something about a blown head gasket and water getting into the cylinders, I think. I?m torn between enjoying the cooling rain and the dread and fear associated with once again coming to an unceremonious halt in a drenching downpour.
I spend a few hours at Rancho Francisco and have the most delicious fish ever. I don?t even know what I ordered and only catch on to something about ?a la plancha? and ?del mar?. Good enough at 280 pesos. Finally having a guest at the restaurant, they immediately crank the merengue music. I move away from the speakers as they actually hurt my ears. They do have rooms here but I like my sleep and see no hope of getting any here on a Friday night. Dominicans love to party.
I call Conrad at Casa Conrado in Nizao. He tells me he?s in Santo Domingo and won?t be back for at least three hours and ?please stay in Ocoa?. Screw you I think to myself, I?m heading up there anyway. After all, Google maps shows other hotels in the area. The ride from San Jose De Ocoa to Nizao is now my favourite. Sure, it goes through a bit of a confusing little city, but once in ?el campo? it is absolutely amazing. The beautifully paved road climbs and climbs, with one twisty turn after another. The landscape turns into pine forests and the air is pleasantly cool. I could almost put back on my northern climate riding jacket. As I drop back down into Nizao, fertile fields and greenhouses line the road. The villages are clean, uncluttered and downright calm and delighfully non-frenzied.
Two Japanese women are walking down the street in Nizao and I do a double take. Then I spot a definitely white looking hippy type taking pictures. Surely there must be hotels if Japanese women and hippy types mosey about. The hippy type is French and I try my Quebecois French on him. The local Super Colmado dude will have nothing to do with my feeble attempts at local Spanish and insists on going through his French/Local Spanish translator. It works out just fine and there are apparently no hotels in the area.
I explore a bit more and the road turns into gravel very shortly after Nizao. Pretty much like so many of our standard logging roads back home, complete with pine trees ?minus the palm trees. I?m absolutely taken by this place and hang my camera around my neck to take surreptitious photos and videos along the way.
On the way up I spotted a hotel and decided to check it out on the way back down. I immediately realize they?re ?Cabanas?, aka ?Don?t Tell Motel?. Pretty dumpy on top of that. By the hour? she asks when I inquire about pricing. She wanted 500 pesos for the night but I decided to move on. I remember seeing some Cabanas south of San Jose De Ocoa and that?s where I?m headed. I?m no stranger to this since I?ve used one in northern Mexico before. A sign with a sexy vixen beckons at the ?Cabanas Villa En Sueno?
I ask the rifle toting guard where I could find a hotel. ?Right here? he assured me, pointing at the ground in front of him. There were units with Jacuzzi bathtubs but I opt for the ?basic? one with air conditioning, fan, cable TV and hot water for 1350 pesos (about $31). He made sure I understood that if I needed anything, ANYTHING, to just let them know. He assures me that the loud music at the adjacent party place won?t go past 10pm. I know he?s lying through his teeth, but that?s OK.
They bring up the basics to my room. Bed sheets, two towels; an optional large beer (100 pesos) with two plastic cups; two bars of soap; a package of shampoo; and two condoms. Made in Qindao, China on Taidong Road. You just can?t make this stuff up.
The shower has no shower head but there?s plenty of hot water. I tear open the package of shampoo and spread the contents over my hair. An overpowering smell of disinfectant type of alcohol permeates the air as I lather up, feeling glad to finally be using shampoo on my hair. Something isn?t quite right. Shampoo isn?t supposed to smell like disinfectant and alcohol. My aging eyes can?t quite read the tiny print on the ?shampoo? package. My brain is still functioning and I take a high definition picture of the package and then zoom in on the photo. ?For all your feminine hygiene needs? it says in several languages. Oh well, if I had head lice, they?re gone for sure.
There?s no remote control but I figure out the TV anyway. It?s set to an extremely bad porn channel. I flip through the channels and morbid curiosity keeps me coming back to the porn channel. When I see her ?rimming? him I settle on another channel to watch ?Los Simpsons? instead. As I?m getting ready to go to bed I run my finger through my hair. The frizzy, knotted feeling is completely gone. I may be on to something here.
Each time a truck or one of these boom cars rolls by I can almost feel it in my chest. But the night is quieter.