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Dominican Republic 6

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Dominican Republic

Day 6

Hangin’ out

This morning was early but lazy.

We got up and took Todd to Luperón to meet his ride to the airport in Santiago, stopping off to return the motorcycle he’d rented and to confess to a mishap with a meteor sized crater in the road.

The owner of the moto let him off cheap and we made it away fairly unscathed.

Saying goodbye to my co-50 year old birthday trip buddy I’ve known since we were both 26 year old children was bittersweet. It had been an excellent week but I think we’re both ready to see familiar sights and to sleep in our own beds.

John and I headed back for the house but on a whim took a turn and had breakfast at Marina Las Velas, apparently the best place to ride out a hurricane in the Northern Hemisphere.

Also the place where I had internet and got to discover something I’m going to have on a regular basis for years to come.

Mangú.

Mangú is boiled and mashed plantains with butter and pickled red onions.

It’s the closest thing I’ve had to mashed potatoes without being mashed potatoes and I’m in love with it.

It comes as a side dish with the Dominican national breakfast.

Basically 2 fried eggs, 2 slices of “salami” that’s the consistency and flavor of fried balogna and a heapin’ helpin’ of mangú. (and in the case of the Piergiorgio Hotel, 1.5 bottomless cups of coffee.)

Dennis stopped by while we were there and was headed out sailing for the morning to Playa Isabella.

He asked if we’d take his motorcycle back to his place and we agreed.

His bike was a bit taller, did amazing wheelies and landed a lot softer than the rental when jumping over particularly large vehicles.

The extreme off-roading I did around Playa Grande really put it through its paces and it will pull a back flip just as well as any X Games bike.

It definitely bounced off of the road cows a lot better for sure.

It unfortunately does not float.

(Just kidding Dennis… or am I…?)

Back at the house, John and I got to figuring out the little washing machine we’d first come across in Cuba because I didn’t want to offend my fellow aircraft passengers the next day.

We rigged up a clothesline and did some laundry.

Now, on this day, with just a bit over 50 years on this earth, I realized why we have lids on our washing machines at home.

It’s not because of splashing water.

It’s because we are disgusting beings and we put a lot of dirt into our clothing, especially when we ride motorcycles across arid landscapes in foreign countries and in smoggy towns behind (tagged) tour busses and delivery trucks.

The water was disgusting.

It was a weird shade of dark blue/gray and as soon as the machine began to agitate, became opaque with the grime we’d been introducing and happily covering ourselves with every day.

The wash cycle took about twenty minutes.

The ensuing rinse cycles took approximately eleven years.

Once the water cleared enough I put the clothes through the spin cycle.

This was a little centrifuge off to the side which spun the clothes at dangerous speeds until they were almost hot.

I think the washing machine is made by Vitamix and I was attempting to make jeans & underwear soup.

Anyway, upon hanging the clothes, I came to the conclusion that every person who’s ever hung clothes on a line has come to.

You don’t wash light colored towels with dark colored T-shirts.

Ever.

My black T-shirt is now sporting a brand spanking new white five o’clock shadow.

It’s like a reverse George Michael on the Faith album cover only not cool.

All of my clothes however, have a LOT less of the five day sweaty road kill smell that they had a mere eleven rinse years ago.

I’m beginning to think that smell is me.

After the drying took place, during which serious things were happening, including:

  1. The drinking of rum.
  2. The making and eating of fried mystery meat sandwiches with cheese. (It’s shelf stable meat which I found hanging in a plastic wrapped tube in the unlit and scary colmado in Luperón. I had to. It DID make a pretty tasty grilled cheese/mystery meat sandwich.)

we headed back to Playa Isabella for some beer drinking, cigar smoking and hopefully after the sun went down, lobstering on the reef.

The local cruisers were there and we ran into Dennis once more along with Peter, Bob (faithful steed rental guy), his wife Sue and a couple other locals including a Scotsman named Alistair who I got to discuss the clan Graham with and who had been reading my dailies.

It was an excellent afternoon.

As the sun went down and the cruisers left I asked John if he was ready to get in the water and he replied…

“Let me know what you see!”

And with that I was on my own.

I donned my mask, flippers, snorkel, speargun and inflatable unicorn swim floatie and walked the 50 yards from the car to the water amidst the snickers of the locals.

My friends, swim fins are hard to walk in but dammit, I was determined.

Once I hit the placid water I turned on my light and became the great white hunter.

Or, as it so often turns out back home…

Just plain white.

I was neither great, nor a hunter. Merely a mouth breathing searcher.

I saw one major fish in the murky water and by major I mean over four inches long.

Much like being in the woods, the undersea life senses my “huatamaleness” (brazen manliness) or “calor masculino” (projectile sweating) and vamooses.

Do you know how badly I at least wanted to flounder ashore with even the tiniest shrimp skewered on the end of my four foot spear?

Oh well. I’ve learned to buy my wildlife at the store like everyone else.

I’m beginning to think they really do harvest seafood already shrink wrapped in those little styrofoam plates.

Back at the bar/hut the cute bartender was cry laughing at my unicorn which I promptly shot with the speargun to show her I meant business and asked for our beer tab.

Her: “Siete cervesas, 910 pesos.” (Seven beers, $17.88)

Me: “En cervezas de perro solo he tenido una. ¿Cuanto por eso? Cuanto cuesta eso?” (In dog beers I’ve only had one. How much for that?)

Her: “910 pesos”

Some people have no sense of humor.

John and I headed back to the house in the dark for one more nights rest before my journey home, keeping an eye out for black road cows in the night and that was the end of my week in the Dominican Republic.

It’s been fun telling you about it 😉

***

It’s been one amazing week here in the DR. I’ve met so many fun and friendly people and been told many stories, shared meals and seen sights that normal vacationers won’t ever see. From riding the little motorcycle through the riverbeds and streams to running across the deserted beach to the ocean, I’ve experienced the DR known to only a few and I’ve been honored to do so.

Thanks John for being the as always consummate host and Todd for being a good travel companion. It wouldn’t have been the same without you.

Thanks to Dennis and Peter for riding the back roads of the DR with us, Bob & Sue for the rental of the motorcycles, Ken & Edie for letting us stop by your amazing beach house, Gordon for being a super happy hour host and to the people of the Dominican Republic, thanks for being patient with my Spanglish and being friendly even when I sounded like an idiot.

Dominican Republic 5

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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. 

😉

Dominican Republic 4

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Dominican Republic

4

La Isabela, Fricolandia, Little Beach and a rest day

A slow start today. After a few days of travel and constant rumpus beatings by the Dominican “roads” we laid around the house not ready to move just yet.

John made his $&#%ing perfect omelettes (seriously, after years of cooking I still can’t make a decent omelette) and some French (Dominican) toast and we had an excellent breakfast then, really motivated now, frantically laid around the house some more…

Finally packing up we decided to make a run down to La Isabela, the settlement where Italian explorer Christopher Columbus established a Spanish foothold in the Americas.

Apparently in the 1950’s then dictator Trujillo ordered the settlement restored but the orders were misunderstood and most of the settlement was bulldozed into the sea.

I’m guessing the guy with the bulldozer was then bull whipped into the sea but I can’t seem to find that information.

Currently it’s an interesting place where you can see where buildings once were and the remains of the admirals house.

Mangoes grow wild there and the one we tried was small but delicious.

There’s a museum complete with artifacts such as an ancient axe head, some nails presumably from the Spanish ships, some cannon balls and a couple of cannons reclaimed from the sea.

Descendants of Columbus’ chickens can be seen on the site as well as “authentic” treasures from the local gift shop made with “way better wood” than other gift shops.

I was totally convinced and walked away with a pocket full of nothing much like the other gift shops.

I would have gladly eaten one of the descendants though…

Riding away, we followed John looking for a restaurant or bar where we could find a drink or two.

Many signs dotted the road advertising for amazing restaurants but we discovered that the sign maker was way better than the restaurateur and the signs seemed to last much longer than the establishments.

Rambling a bit further we happened upon a place with a name so awesome that stopping was no longer an option but an absolute requirement.

Fricolandia.

Turns out the place was an amazing oasis and we spent the next hour marveling at the view and swilling Presidenté to the sounds of whoever imitates Enrique Iglesias the best and some fresh beats.

One cigar and two cervesas later we were back on our way and headed to “Little Beach”.

We didn’t know the actual name but that’s what the locals call it so that’s what we’re going with.

There on the beach was another snack shack but this one was different.

Of course they had the omnipresent beers and some bags of chips but this one had pizza.

AND ICE CREAM.

Now, pizza and beer are wonderful siblings but after days of breathing hot and stifling roads, ice cream was like a shining beacon in the storm of rocky and dusty earth.

We all had some as well as a pizza each and I was in whatever place is between earth and the heavens.

A bit of playing around in the ocean (No, mothers, I did not wait the required 45 minutes after eating) and we were once again off.

Exactly 40 yards away.

The local ex-pats get together every Wednesday for a happy hour and although many were on holiday, today was no exception.

A gentleman who turned out to be the brother of the wife of the man of the grandparents of the owner of the dog I’d been petting a few days before was hosting and the man lived in an oasis.

Gordon has a rambling hacienda that reminded me much of a home in an exclusive gated community and his house, his pool, his pineapple juice and his rum were all lovely and the man himself was a consummate host.

All in all an excellent day was had and the low key vibe was much needed by all.

Tomorrow was coming and big plans were afoot.

Playa Cambiaso

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The road to Playa Cambiaso

This morning began as have the others with a recap of the day before, highs and lows, much coffee, a wonderful cigar and plans for the day.

Johns friend Dennis, a local expatriate from Florida was leading us to an obscure beach called Playa Cambiaso and we were taking the back way.

It wasn’t far in miles but much like a sh*tfaced bar patron,a few steps can actually make up a mile when you add the staggering.

We met at Dennis’ house that he’s owned for a couple years and was actually a failed restaurant that he bought and turned into an amazing bed & breakfast with one incredible view.

We were joined by Peter, another transplant who turned out to be originally from Wales. I commented that I was surprised because I could actually understand him and found out he’d lived all over the place and came most recently from Australia.

He also said this is the last place he’ll ever live and after just a couple of days here I can see why.

If you have even a modest income you can live pretty nicely here. If you can’t afford to own a house, rent is only $30-$40 a month for a decently sized place. So many structures are abandoned but still owned by people looking for anything they can get out of them.

After some pleasantries and a fill up on water we were once again off to the races.

Dennis has been a prolific explorer and was excited to show us the back ways and secret spots on the way to Playa Cambiaso so he led the way.

Once again the boulder roads proved rough but drivable and like drunken sailors we weaved our way along, stopping occasionally for a chat or a picture.

Once in a while I’d race ahead and get some shots of the pack coming up the road. It reminded me of when I was a kid and my neighbors Todd & Ty taught me how to ride dirt bikes in the pastures of central Kansas.

In all honesty, the faster I went, the smoother the ride but I knew at any given moment I could hit a crater and it’d be lights out for moi.

It didn’t happen though and I got some great shots of the group.

Our first stop was an abandoned golf community where the developers were trying to carve out a high end exclusive golf course and housing project but were thwarted by local environmentalists and then left behind.

The road to the communal “hut” was a bit tricky and steep but we made it with minimal fanfare.

As we arrived at the top, the road opened into a wide flat area that looked to me to be a helipad with a gravel palm tree inlaid into the dirt and nothing else.

The view though was incredible so I could see why they wanted the land and the project.

We walked through the woods to the community center where apparently there’s still a group of locals taking care of the property and conserving the former project for some unknown reason. The thought by my companions was that it had been turned into a nature preserve.

We had gotten in through a small gate in the barbed wire fence with a small tip and a handshake by the “guard”, an older gentleman with gnarled and calloused hands from years of obvious labor.

Heading down the path to the lower section of the property the path was a little more challenging with some sandy spots that frankly made me a little incontinent.

You’d never have known though since it was so freaking hot that any liquids leaking out of me would have evaporated immediately.

On second thought, maybe I should have peed on my own feet like the vultures do out on the Kalahari to keep cool.

Kinda gross though and measures were not that desperate just yet.

Some of the sandy spots were deep and most likely are filled with quicksand when the rainy season comes around.

As we made it past the last of the deep sand, you could see the ocean through the trees and what was once a tee box for the golf course. It looked out over what I can only assume was a challenging par 3 and I’m positive there are MANY golf balls at the bottom of the sea there.

What was an ancient lava flow has turned into some amazingly sharp rocks and some of the best fossils I’ve seen in a long time.

There was one spot where you could see the backs of the fish that had been caught in the tidal pool then frozen in time in the sand, the remains of their dorsal fins still sticking out of the rock and the impression of sea flora still embedded for millennia to come.

With the cry of “MOUNT UP!” Coming from back in the woods, Dennis was ready to move on so we got back on our bikes and headed out.

Now, back in the states I’m a prolific motorcycle rider and I don’t know about Todd but my fundament was getting pretty tender with the beating it had taken over the last couple days and I was a bit reluctant but as I had no freaking clue where I was, I had no choice but to either die in the rocks and become a fossil myself or get my tender *ss in gear and get a move on.

I opted for the latter and we were off.

Arriving in Playa Cambiaso approximately four hundred *ss beating years later, we gladly dismounted and glanced around for an open bar.

We were the only ones there.

Being greeted by a gentleman who very nicely put a flat stone under each of our kickstands so we wouldn’t find our motorcycles flat on their sides when we got back, we went in search of cervesas frias.

Another kind man put out a table and chairs for us and ran approximately seven light years away for cold Presidenté as apparently everyone had given up on visitors for the day until we happened upon their little burg(o).

Seeing John emerge from one of the little buildings on the beach I sauntered over to change out of my shorts and skivvies only to be met at the doorway by a husky and irritated woman who’s house it apparently was so I hustled back to the table and changed once more out in el pública, this time making sure my friends weren’t subject to my glowing posterior.

Walking sedately to the shoreline, my pace quickened and became an outright sprint once I figured out that what looked like sand was actually beige flames and the soles of my feet were becoming blistered empanadas only not so nice this time.

Finally making it into the water I waded out, turned around and was treated to one of the most pristine sights of my (very few and youthful) years.

Palm trees waving in the wind, sandy beach unmarred by footprints, beautiful aquamarine water and a local riding his horse down the beach.

He was carrying an armload of pure white towels with a glowing smile on his face.

As I splashed happily out, he rode up and without a glance, rode right by me and into the woods.

Sometimes I’m an idiot.

Sometimes I’m not though and remembering the sands of pure hell I jumped back into the sea and waited for the garçon to arrive with our beers.

We only had one there at one Playa Cambiaso as it was more about the journey than the destination and we were off once more.

Turning off of the blissfully paved road, Dennis led us up a hill to yet another spectacular sight where we could see Luperón, the golf community where we’d just been, the marina where the sailors berth their boats and the amazing shoreline as far as we could see.

Far below were several resorts and incredible beaches and the view (and the wind) could literally take your breath away.

The landscape of the Dominican Republic is dotted with abandoned projects and empty houses and the local expatriates know it as the land of broken dreams.

Riding back through Luperón and down by the beach at Playa Grande there was an empty 400 room hotel that was apparently open as recently as 2012.

Fenced off and empty is was a lonely sight and I could see in my mind families enjoying the beach and meals being prepared in the restaurant, plans being made for excursions and children excited to build castles in the sand.

With Dennis leading the way, we went back to his place by yet another rough riding route down a road I had previously wondered about but hadn’t gone down then jumped in his pool to cool off with the ubiquitous glass of rum, looking out over the valley that seriously looks like the Serengeti with acacia looking trees and cows that from that distance could have easily been wildebeests.

A few giraffes and a rhino or two would have made the landscape perfect.

All in all it was another incredible day. Thanks again to John for the opportunity and Dennis for the good sense of direction.