Dominican Republic

Day 5

Puerta Plata and Sosuà

Yesterday we rode to Puerta Plata to see the Brugal rum distillery and a local chocolate factory called Del Oro where they make mostly organic chocolate from local cacao farms.

The ride there took quite the toll on my now tender derrière, who has gotten used to a cushy custom Harley seat, and about a third of the way there I felt like a little kid.

My sore *ss was snot crying “WHEN ARE WE GONNA BE THERE?!?!” and my response as ever was “Do I have to turn this *ss around and…”

I had to stop because the answer would have of course been a resounding yes.

Arriving in Puerta Plata was a lesson in defensive terrorist school driving.

Little motos were everywhere, weaving in and out of traffic, beeping their horns like little toys among the cars and trucks roaring by, belching black smoke and lurching out into traffic with little or no notice.

Traffic lights are a mere suggestion and vehicles are driving pell mell around the town.

This was like an aggressive Sunday drive where everyone wanted to get the hell out of the car as soon as possible, all other drivers beware.

You could normally tell when they were coming out because they’d edge out from the side street or driveway about halfway through the right lane and stop until traffic cleared a bit then they’d honk and start pulling out.

We’d just weave around them and continue on our way.

Btw, speaking of weaving around, domesticated animal tag has taken on a few other aspects. I’m now up to:
11 cows
1 horse
1 almost chicken (wiley little suckers)
1 almost pig (the owner raised his switch at me so I veered away)
1 dog
2 tour busses
2 semi trucks
1 Daihatsu pickup filled with limes
And…
2 high fives. One from a street vendor and
one from another passing motorist.

It’s been a pretty fun made up game.

The trucks, busses and high fives were added on the way to Sosuà just because it was hilarious and aside from one irritable tour bus driver, no one seemed to mind.

Puerta Plata started with a trip to the parts store and installing a new trunk on the back of Johns bike which turned into finding and fixing an oil leak on Todd’s bike which led to me spending too much time at the parts counter where
I made an amazing discovery.

Little. Bitty. Cargo. Nets.

We’d been buying and losing bungee straps the entire time we’d been in the country, stopping in the middle of the road to pick up our backpacks and search for the strap.

I’d taken to tying mine down with a piece of rope I’d found at Johns house but now we were in BUSINESS!

I could ride now without reaching back every four seconds to see if my bag was still back there although it took me the entire day to stop doing it.

I still do once in a while though.

It made riding in the traffic a lot easier because you really need both hands on the handlebars in that city.

I’m a seasoned rider (SPG for me. That’s salt, pepper & garlic for the unseasoned out there.) and even I was still a bit nervous.

Hence, fewer pictures of this particular excursion.

Traffic there was like watching one of those videos of Taiwan or New Delhi where every car in the city tries to make it through the intersection at once.

It’s a lesson in opportunity.

Once we were away from the parts store we stopped once again at the storefront for the omnipresent Predisdenté grande at the Tam Tam club.

A very nice lady rushed out and escorted us to a table and we eagerly swilled cold beer like there wasn’t going to be cold beer anymore.

I got a few pics and looked around where I spied something egregious.

The Harley Bar.

Having not seen a single Harley in this land of sweet mini bikes I couldn’t believe that such a thing existed but once I got closer I saw what they’d done.

Some nefarious mofo had stolen the Harley name, opened a bar, PUT A MINI BIKE ON THE SIGN then promptly closed the bar.

Presumably some toughs from the Sons of Malarkey had shown up and given the proprietor the what for.

(Point of fact- the closest thing I’ve seen to a Harley was a Kawasaki Vulcan Classic I saw roaring down the street in front of the honorable empanada guys shop.)

I laughed, snapped a pic for the record then giggled off.

Deciding to rub my protesting hiney the wrong way once again, we got back on the road, looking for the boozery and the chocolatier.

Which we never even saw.

When the town suddenly ended we realized we’d missed both of our stops and pulled over where John announced…

“Let’s go to Sosuà.”

So we went.

And immediately pulled back over because I had a flat tire.

There’s a ubiquitous place in the DR called a Gomeria and all they do is fix tires.

They’re everywhere.

They’re like the Dunkin Donuts shops on the east coast. You can see one from the front door of another like flies on a (tagged) cows patty.

Anyway, while we waited for the gentleman to fix my flat ($3 US) we walked across the highway to another local joint and bought beers from what looked to me like a twelve year old bartender and relaxed with a cigar then, getting a wave from el mechanico, we were once again back on the road.

Sosuà, as it turns out, is a super touristy town where shopkeepers will hold you down and pile stuff on top of you until you hand over your child’s college money.

They also have some amazing (and old) hotels and some pretty good places to sit with a drink and people watch.

If you’re out later in the evening, the streets fill with younger people out for a rowdy time and, as with most Island countries I know of, women of negotiable affection. (Thank you to Mrs. G for that wonderful phrase)

It was fun to watch but I wanted nothing to do with that version of fun and I was ready to get back to my room for some air conditioning and a soft bed.

We’d found the Hotel Piergiorgio which looked amazing and were promised air conditioning.

After walking around the hotel grounds earlier, I told the manager we wouldn’t book unless I could jump off the hotel balcony into the ocean and he readily agreed so we handed him our money.

$35 whopping US dollars each.

The room came with breakfast and what turned out to be a bottomed out bottomless cup of coffee.

1.5 little cups to be exact.

It was enough though because the beer, hot Mamajuana shot, hot Jaegermeister shot, hot tequila shot, vodka drinks and misc other liquids had left me a bit, how should I say…

Barphy.

Speaking of barphy, let’s talk about Mamajuana for a minute.

Here’s my take:
Some medieval genius was out chopping wood and decided “Hmmmm, I think I’ll take these wood chips, shove them down the neck of this throwed out Martini & Rossi bottle then pour last years cranberry juice I found behind the seat of my donkey cart and some of the cheapest rum I could buy at Wallmart (pic attached) over it then microwave it until the glass bottle begins to melt then forget it on my shelf for 68 years.

Then I’ll share it with everyone.

If there’s one word I could use to describe this amazing elixir it would be…

Don’t drink this.

Ever, ever, ever, ever.

(Ok seven words.)

The hair will fall out of your scrotum (If you have one. If not you can probably find one at Wallmart.)

Am I painting the mostest, horribliest picture yet?

We have yet to scratch the surface of that liquid freak show.

At Flip Flops, the tourist bar we stopped at, after the woody, hot liquidy horror shot, I had a damn fine mohito and we ordered some chicken wings and fries from the fun and sassy bartender (one of my favorites so far) and it turned out that the wings were pretty good.

We got bbq and buffalo.

I asked for as hot as I could get and from what I could tell so far in the DR, hot sauce isn’t a big commodity.

The wings however, had a nice burn and would be considered “hot” but not “really hot” in the US.

We then roamed the town seeing the sights and if you squinted your eyes just right, you’d have been in any tourist beach town in the US.

Lots of tchotchke shops, restaurants and actual bars instead of beer closets, hotels everywhere and a brisk trade in taxis and rental scooters.

Whenever we’d asked about “all inclusive” at any hotel we were informed that indeed no, the room rental does not include breakfast.

Apparently in Sosuà all inclusive means you get toast.

In all, it was yet another excellent day in the Dominican Republic.

People all over the world are friendly and most have a good sense of humor (thanks high five guys) and are ready to laugh, especially with eager, fun loving and inquisitive visitors, at any given moment.

Sometimes a smile is all you need but a little gratuity helps.