This particular route—Carretera Turistica, I’ve been traversing back and forth my whole life. I doubt many people here have done it longer than me, since I was familiar with it back in the late 60’s and early 70’s when it was only a dirt path—used by locals and farmer’s (including my uncles) attending their farms and livestock up in the mountains—an assortment of mules, donkeys, horses, cows, goats, girlfriends, and various other livestock (including a little known destructive race known as Homo Sapiens)—who have been traversing this route ever since Christopher Columbus landed here looking for a shortcut to Asian brothels, mondongo, and fried yucca.
I consider Carretera Turistica to be one of the Seven Natural Wonders of the Dominican Republic. It’s both stunningly beautiful and dangerous at the same time. However, like most things on this island—most notably the indigenous females—it’s also death defying and insanely lethal. No, really. The sights are breathtaking, but if you lose your concentration while driving on this road you will find yourself careening off the side of the mountain where you’ll go tumbling into a wasteland of canyons and ravines so deep that it can take decades to find your way back to civilization. I once crashed into a ravine near Santiago and discovered a lost tribe of Irish gypsies (known as “Travelers”) that had been lost since the early 60’s.
I travel this road frequently, and even after all these years, I find the sights on this route to be both invigorating and captivating. Between the fruit stands, the surrounding fauna, and the colorful houses—crimson red, lime green, canary yellow, baby blue, hot pink and natural wood—to name but a few—the sights have a way of intoxicating one’s senses to the point where, unbeknownst to drivers and passengers, one finds oneself completely hypnotized by an assortment of kaleidoscope Day-Glo colors that act as a sort of visual over-dose/intoxication of an LSD experiment gone wrong.
However, once the presidential elections get into full swing, the colors will become even more pronounced and you can witness Midwesterners, French Canadians, and Scandinavians (living above the article circle) completely hypnotized by all of the fluorescent Day-Glo colors and subsequently somersaulting over Angel Wing Begonia’s, Bitter Gourd, Blue Dawn (ipomoea Indica), Jacaranda mimosifolia, Blue Passion, Bottle Brush, Cattleya, Cautleya, Golden Shower, and Caladiums (elephant ear)—as they go flying thru the air on their way to outhouses and lost tribes living in the ravines and gorges below.
Don’t despair if this happens to you, there is one redeeming consolation to all of this visual stimulation going on around you and it’s known as this: “Fertilizer.” Yes, if one losses total control of one’s vehicle and finds oneself somersaulting over the side of the mountain, don’t despair because the local farmers will use you as fertilizer for all of their agriculture needs—including feeding their livestock, and this subsequently helps stimulate the economy. The movie Soylent Green stole their idea from us.
I own motorcycles here; quite a few. It gives me both great pleasure and sorrow to report that I’ve had the unique opportunity of somersaulting over the sides of several mountains—including the ones that make up this particular mountain chain/road. On several occasions, I’ve had the unique pleasure of cascading over the road’s stunningly beautiful Angel Wing Begonia’s and cactuses that line Carretera Turistica and act as a protective shield/guard-rail for many of the curves. Yes, I’ve gone hurdling over shacks, outhouses, chicken shacks, corrugated tin roofs, and assorted livestock—cows, roosters, goats, donkeys and small children. Most recently, about two years ago, I went free-falling over the side of the mountain after grossly misjudging a curve that I’ve been around a thousand times before. I found myself approaching the curve in what’s known inside intellectual-motorcycle-circles as--“Coming into the corner too hot!” I went free-falling over the side of the mountain—somersaulting past outhouses and brothels—and found myself at the bottom of a ravine where I ran into a lost tribe of Spanish and Portuguese sailors (descendants of Christopher Columbus team, lost here since 1492); they had been serpentining the Cibao Valley for several centuries now looking for a shortcut passage to India.
Never-the-less, I’m here as a survivor to tell you that the trip across the mountain can be done with little, if any, casualties. Although, it should be pointed out that grossly misjudging a curve can have the unforeseen consequence of having oneself turned into a lower grade fertilizer or having one’s jaw wired shut as a result of careening into one of the many fruit stands and donkey’s that line the majestic mountain road.
Keeping this in mind, I convinced my girlfriend—a small Russian girl known as Mountain girl—aka “Hillbilly Babushka”—to take our Yamaha 125 scooter (named “Further”—after Ken Kesey’s psychedelic bus) from Cabarete to Santiago and back. I thought of it as a research experiment where we could both take in the stunning waterfalls and mountain vistas as well take advantage of a seldom traversed shortcut that I once found by accident. I should stop here and point out that I am professionally trained and FDA certified in exploiting seldom traversed short-cuts—many of which involve free-falling and somersaulting over mountain sides and canyons. Anyway, mountain girl didn’t see the logic, so I had to bribe her with chocolate, peanut butter, fried yucca, and catnip. It takes a lot to bribe Russian girls these days.
Before we left for my shortcut, I was unsure of how much gas it would take for the trip so I filled up our 1.5 gallon tank (true story) in Sosua and noted the KM’s on the odometer before taking off. From Texaco to the first intersection in Santiago it took 1:25 minutes (we stopped at a fabulous coffee shop near the first intersection in Santiago called “Campegnia”—not sure of the spelling); the road was a combination of pot holes the size of small meteors (left over from the Jurassic age) and a few exceptionally brilliant pot holes that would dwarf some South Pacific Atolls that I’ve been too.
I don’t want to paint too bleak of a picture here, so in defense of the Dominican government, I should point out that there are several very smooth, unblemished remnants of asphalt—left over from the early 80’s that last for, oh, I don’t know, maybe ten feet before turning into holes so deep that one needs repelling gear in order to get out of. Did I mention that’s it’s a fabulous sight-seeing trip?
Sincerely, Frank