A Ride to Remember, or forget!
So here I am, part ?.whatever of this journey.
My last night in Las Tarrenas was eventful, I met a taxi driver from Brooklyn (Met?s fan with a Mookie Wilson jersey to boot) and he took me out to dinner in ? what we call in the states a ?hole in the wall? ? but this was a hole in the jungle.
The purveyor was right out of my National Geographic?s at home. I?m not sure his place was zoned for being a restaurant, but he took great care in his presentation and just the walkway through the woods was right out of the movies. Hanging lights to see the rocks and logs that made the 50-foot path to this tarp covered shack manageable. My nerves were not high, but my dinner mate made sure I felt comfortable by introducing me to this mute and rather immaculate and stately looking gentleman that was as warm as could be. This felt right too.
After a few beers and endless reminders of Bill Buckner ? my god, can?t I escape this umpteen-year-old nightmare anywhere? I mean c?mon, if I was any deeper in the jungle I?d be eating bamboo shoots with Jane Goodall and she?d probably ask where I was when Buckner booted the ball, but I digress.
The meal represented a few firsts. First I ate some things I can?t pronounce, and some other things that are parts of animals that I know, but I didn?t know you could eat those things of animals. Anyway, goat doesn?t taste like chicken, but it eats pretty good. What was really memorable for me was all the fruits that were used and the garnishing ? the presentation ? was just incredible. I didn?t know whether I should dig in, or take a picture, so I did both. The plate was longer than my arm and as wide as 1.5 normal plates. There was enough here to feed a motoconcho family. I wish I took better notes on this night, but I was weary and drunk on food, I requested the bill and a wheelchair and rolled home.
The next morning I got up early to find the first bus to S.D. Pedro Martinez was due to pitch in the early afternoon and there was no way I was missing that. Pitching in his hometown was going to be an amazing thing to witness and I was out of bed at the crack of dawn, bright eyed and bushy tailed. I was really excited.
I can pronounce Santo Domingo well enough to get a bus to S.D., so this wasn?t difficult, a good way to start a day here, sans difficulty. But of course this wasn?t just any bus ride. I think some of the city routes in Boston make less stops than my coach to the city did. I?m not sure how long the entire ride was, but it was close to 5 hours I imagine, but it seemed longer with a young girl?s stomach acid all over me.
While waiting, I finally had a chance to be at street level so to speak, and I found a willing companion for the wait. A street dog, someone who I can finally communicate with. I only mention this because I find it relative to the general demeanor of the life here; people are just happy, not working perhaps, without two pesos to pinch, but genuinely happy. It seems as though they have the science of ?hanging out? down to an art form.
Just a couple quick whistles and he came over wagging this tail that looked like it had been caught in a door a few times, connected to a pile of ribs wrapped in grungy fur. With deep eyes and a big grin, he curled up next to my feet, just wanting some kind and warm contact. He was covered in scrapes, his ears had been chewed up terribly, and he was in rough shape it looked. But he was as happy as could be, thrilled that I called him over to keep me company, I daringly scratched and pet him into an unconscious state. He was sorry to see me go, but for only a second, he just got on his way and went hunting along for some shade, something to do or something to eat. Sounds familiar if you live here.
As we begin this journey on a bright and hot early morning, I realize I?m carrying way too much for one person, so I?m hardly comfortable, but taking up two seats seems to be an advantage, at least for the first 4 minutes, until we make what will seemingly be the first of a hundred stops on this fretful journey.
Sights abound and my senses are on high alert. I?m taking in the beautiful flora, expansive valleys and endless fields (of what I believed to be rice), views that I missed in my night?s journey.
The multitudes of exotic flowers on the trees are what I normally only see in the most expensive flower stores or in vases in the reception areas of my previous life of white shirts and power ties. Just that thought alone is enough to keep a perma-smile on face.
Some of the upcoming events have to be seen to be believed, but I?ll paint them as I saw them. As we navigate some of these treacherous passageways of jungle, I realize Vito/Bito/Beeto was more than my hero; he was a highly skilled ? or extremely lucky ? throttle jockey. I can?t believe some of the stuff we passed on that night at such a high rate of speed, in this instance the darkness wasn?t really covering up some of the country?s beauty, it was an opiate for my nerves. The civil engineers from the Highway Authority now help to explain why Brugal is their sponsor. Whoever put these road plans together didn?t mix their lunch with coke, that much is certain. They also may have a deeper sense of humor than most of us can ever hope for.
It?s about 10sh and we?ve now stopped about 25 or so times, picking up locals who are heading off to the big city ? or couldn?t find what they were looking for at the colmado, so they are trekking to the closest Super Colmado.
I?ve now had to give up my storage seat a few times, and the engineer has moved one of my bags to the overhead that I couldn?t seemingly fit it in, no matter what I did. What ingenuity and persistence he showed. He actually stood up on a seat and used his foot to cram the thing in there, I should have thought of that. So much for the crackers I had in the front pocket. I?m left with my small backpack and CD player. Thank god for the music! The only way I could handle the events to come it seemed, was with the hardest rock and roll I know of (Scissorfight ? out of New Hampshire if you must know), dark sunglasses and a good nights sleep, one in which the northerly breeze coming through my ocean view was literally lifting my sheets off the bed. It?s amazing how well you sleep when your senses have been blazing with new and exhilarating experiences.
The first calamity came with a mom and daughter dressed for something special. The little girl was as cute as anything you could imagine. She had a pair of jeans that her mother had sewn some of the neatest designs in, bright colors and intricate symbols of her home; her puppy, a plant, vines with flowers, they were incredible. I tried my best to compliment her on the artistic touches. Her mom smiled real proud, not understanding my words, but understanding my appreciation of her skill. She was a bit nervous having a seat next to this ?mammoth? gringo, all blond hair and burnt skin. Her smile was amazing and it left me at ease, I was happy to have her beside me, she was as excited as I was about the sites out the window. It seemed as if this was her first time out and about on a bus ? I had a similar feeling - and it was a really big deal to her. I didn?t give up the window seat, but she preferred standing anyway.
They never asked, but I should have given up that seat.
After a time, as we are winding our way about, she?s no longer smiling, and begins moaning to mom. She must be scared of being so far away from home, out in foreign territory ? made me want to call my mom. We had more in common than just that. I hadn?t eaten breakfast, and the cracker dust wasn?t going to be making its way out of the overhead bin without a crowbar, some grease and maybe a wench. My stomach was nibbling on my lungs it was feeling so deprived. I had more on my mind than breakfast though, so I wasn?t too bothered or uncomfortable until NOW.
Little miss muffet?s moaning was due to her carsickness, and perhaps her lack of breakfast. I?m sure she didn?t have breakfast, because she threw up in my lap, thank god she didn?t go with mangu or moro that morning ? thank god they don?t sell Spaghettios? here.
Oh man, are we there yet?
The little one had nothing but liquid and acid in her tummy - well she used to have it -now I did. I sure didn?t see this complexity in the Lonely Planet travel guide and I don?t believe there is a section in DR1?s ?Living in Santo Domingo? book either --- Damn you DR1 ? why do you mock me so? Jokingly I say out loud ?where?s the stewardess button? ? that drew uproarious laughter ? in my mind anyway. No one seemed to care, so neither did I.
Are we there yet?
Nope, not even close. We continue on and the mom and daughter have vanished to other seats. This lap pile was a smart bomb of epic proportions; the smell was that of a ?day-after? in the freshman dorm bathrooms after St. Patricks day and a congregation of porcelain pew service.
I was bumming, but lacking many options, I sucked it up. What else am I supposed to do? Freaking out wasn?t going to solve anything ? as if it ever does anyway. So I take it like a champ and try and smile over to let them know I?m not (overly) concerned about it, but the young one won?t even look at me ? she?s balling - and the mom won?t give me anything but a blank stare, like I was an idiot for wearing shorts!
By now both the driver and his pal are nipping off a bottle of whiskey (it is Saturday you know), but this bother is overcome by our next stop. On a driveway leading up a hill to a farm, lays a freshly killed cow. I grew up on a farm so this doesn?t really bother me ? slaughtering the animal in the driveway wasn?t how we did it, but like they say in golf ? play it where it lay. I?m not paying much attention until the stop is now almost 5 minutes long and on comes a gangly fella with a hindquarter over his shoulder. That?s a lot of meat to be carrying anyway, but on a bus? I keep waiting for my alarm to sound and I?ll shake this memory off in the shower, but low and behold, this really is happening. Where?s Ripley? Is that thing going in the overhead bin? Is anyone else seeing this? Did I just see this? Who am I talking to again? I change the batteries at once and start the CD over again.
Are we there yet?
Now onto the rice fields and a narrow ?road? and we?re doing at least 50mph. Mmmmm whiskey for breakfast, I get the sense this bus driver has done this route before. As were screaming along we come upon a farmer moving a cow and a bull along this confined passageway. I?m not sure what happened next, but we split between the farmer and his bull ? which he has on a nose-ring leash. If we slowed down, it wasn?t by much and a blood-curdling scream breaks up the roar of our road rumbling. It seems we caught the leash on the bus somewhere and the cloud of dust blurs my neck-snapping look back. Whatever happened it wasn?t good. No time to worry about that, we?ve got a jalopy on the horizon and he?s swerving worse than we are. Size matters, and his dilapidated bucket of dented fenders veers off the road narrowly missing us, this all happened in the matter of 30 seconds. That pile of puke in my lap almost had company.
Are we there yet? Almost, I guess, I only saw S.D. for a moment a couple days ago, so I wouldn?t yet know it if I saw it on the horizon anyway.
The ride finally ends and my hand is throbbing from trying to write all these events in some sort of semblance into my journal. I don?t remember where we finally ended the trip, but I?ll never forget the site when I peeled my puke-covered pants off the seat and stepped enlightened onto safe ground. There in front of me in a storefront was something I thought I?d never ever see ? not in a million years. A typewriter store! All used obviously, but proudly displayed like they were rare baseball cards at a memorabilia store. I was flabbergasted.
I had an old worn out joke, one that I?d used so many times about opening up a typewriter store. Typewriters to me were the coolest things growing up (remember, I grew up on a farm and the novelty of slaughtering chickens and selling eggs on my paper route wore out by age 8). I hammered endlessly on the old one my grandfather had passed along to my father, and then to me. I think my hands are strong to this day for just that reason. This old thing took some serious strength to not only lift, but just to push the keys was a task in and of itself. For my 13th birthday I begged endlessly for an electric Smith-Corona ? the one with the whiteout correction feature. I didn?t get it, but I sold enough eggs to by it myself.
Typewriters to me were the first notable piece of technology to meet its end. The computer/word processor made it obsolete and its place was no more, it was the wooden wheel of my generation. Typing may have been the only class in High School I got an ?A? in besides woodshop.
My breath was taken away, I scrambled for my camera like there was a unicorn standing in front of me eating hay, and I just had to get shot of it.
Sorry if that?s off-topic, but it?s a memory for me that is on the level of a groundbreaking epiphany.
Next up, Estadio Quisqueya, and meeting a couple heroes, mine and others.
These posts are so fantastic! I'm thinking of going to live in 