Dominican Adventure I

The east wind was blowing strongly across the little peninsula that juts out across the south coast of the Dominican Republic and is home to the grandly titled Aeropuerto de las Americas, the international hub that serves this half of the island of Hispaniola. We climbed into the alternative car Mr Hertz's representative told us was all that was available. It wasn't the compact we had reserved but it ran, had air conditioning and the diesel engine wasn't too loud, really, and the bench seat wasn't too hard really, and we are adventure travelers after all. So here we were Friday morning, with nowhere to go and nowhere in particular to be. So, do we go to the Five Star Intercontinental and check in, or just... take off?Sabana de la Mar? Sure, why not?

The first thing we ran into was a traffic jam blocking Highway 3 east out of town. Fire fighters were spraying down a large oil spill and all traffic was diverted through narrow side streets. That took a while, me crunching the Isuzu into first gear and revving the industrial diesel into a semblance of active life. After an hour of rumbling down the four lane highway at 60mph (100kph) we ducked into San Pedro Macoris, an industrial town which the Lonely Planet later advised held nothing to excite a tourist. That became painfully obvious; the locals were as shocked by our arrival in their bakery and sandwich shop, as the Lonely Planet was by the idea anyone would be "touring" this old river port and its dilapidated riverside warehouses. To me it smacked of Joseph Conrad and Nostromo, one of his lesser novels and, perversely, among my favorites of his, dealing as it does with Central American chaos.

The open country north from San Pedro wound through cane fields and sunny plains bounded to the north by jagged green mountains. The road was littered with random potholes and cars took to sudden swerves, indicating a particularly toothsome example of hole-in-the-road. A great deal of time we too found ourselves on the wrong side of the road avoiding potholes just like the locals, and when we missed the holes and didn't avoid them and bumped through them, my wife ground her teeth as her recently operated wrist ground itself inside her cast. She continues to amaze me, she is that tough. This whole trip was her idea: why be in pain at home on the couch when you can be in pain on an adventure?

She amazed me all the more as the road took off up the side of the mountains and she groaned not once as we bounced and lurched through holes, over holes, around holes; and where the road was torn all up at random, we just bounced through the jungle. Aside from her injured arm it was totally wild, totally removed from our cozy South Florida world we had been living in at breakfast time. This was the land of stick houses, and donkeys and kids begging by the side of the road. Other kids, the lucky ones had transport to get them to and from their work in the fields. Just two hours from our world, and its a salutary reminder of just how lucky we are to live where we do.

When we were sailing my wife and I had time to adjust to the new worlds we visited over a period of years cruising, but when we drop in on the DR for just four days the culture shock is as striking to us seasoned travelers as it might be to someone seeing the true Third World for the first time. But all this aside, the ardent traveler still needs refreshment, perhaps a splendid view of Samana Bay, an iced carbonated colored water and a fried rissole of ground meat and yucca:

And then, like visitors to the moon we jumped back into our capsule and launched ourselves off again, little the wiser for our encounter with this alien world. More of the same crumbling dirt roads, wild passing antics on the straight stretches, more cane fields and motoconchos, as the motorcycle taxis are called.

They are little 100cc and 125cc two stroke motorcycles by Suzuki and Yamaha and Chinese interlopers, ferrying Dominicans about their daily business on the highways. And so, home to our five star world of satellite TV and $12 pay-per-view movies just two hours away from a world where it might take a week to earn twelve bucks. My mind was reeling as I cranked the air conditioning and looked out from my fifth floor hotel window at Santo Domingo, Holy Sunday, the teeming capital of this contradictory land.

Caribbean Time Shift

What a strange and wonderful wonderful world: wake up in Fort Lauderdale and have lunch on the shores of the Bay of Samana in the Dominican Republic. It was a short two hour flight and we were picking up a rumbly, slow diesel truck for our wheels. On the way down I had looked out the airplane porthole and watched the islands of the Bahamas slide by 5 miles down, Bimini, Andros, Ragged Cays and into a cloud bank faster than I could turn the pages in my book and I thought about all those weeks spent bashing into wind and wave on our boat trying to get as far south as time allowed. A matter of weeks, not minutes!

Then we landed in another world and started driving as usual, and we were in the very Third World of dirt mountain roads, bumping my wife´s wounded arm, passing little stick houses and horses and pigs and pot holes and we reached the only beach in the Dominican Republic that isn´t really a beach, just brown frothing water a very brisk sea breeze and strange fried rissoles for lunch- pictures to follow.

Back over the mountains dodging potholes and into the lobby of our five star world, soothing music, 11 dollar (US) rum punches and all services in three languages.

Very confusing, very stimulating. All in wonderful summery 85 degrees and perpetual sunshine. Sometimes Key West just isn´t warm enough.

On The Road Again

My wife is certifiable. We have to be in Miami tomorrow to get her operated wrist a new cast and she has decided we need to take advantage of a work-free weekend to travel. So Friday morning we leave the ground at Fort Lauderdale and regain sea level two hours later in the capital of the Dominican Republic. She got a couple of cheap tickets, dusted off our passports and loaded up with cash and fresh batteries in the camera. Santo Domingo here we come!

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Meanwhile I was in Key West today and parked my Bonneville in a motorcycle lot next to another machine that has long interested me. Its the tiddly ride in the stable produced by Erik Buell, but in many respects I think it is one of the more interesting.

For somewhere south of five grand you get an ultra low maintenance 500cc single cylinder (half a Harley Davidson engine) motorcycle that has a top speed around 80 mph, shakes like jello and gets 70miles per very expensive gallon. It uses a final drive belt, the engine valves need no adjusting and the fuel and oil are carried low in the frame. Its an easy bike to ride with no chrome to polish and a modest size that makes it easy for smaller riders. The streets of our country should be flooded with these bikes. Too bad Buell doesn't offer decent luggage and a nice windshield to create the ultimate inexpensive commuter for a new century. Don't get me wrong, I love my Bonneville, but the Blast could well live up to its name for lots of riders.

Riding With Rilke

The saying" bright enough to read a book by," is sometimes used to describe a full moon and lately its been that way on my street. I'm lucky enough to live where street lights have yet to penetrate so every night is a light show, stars on no moon nights, and crisp white light bathing everything for the other ten nights a month. When we were out cruising I preferred traveling by night, partly because it was cooler, partly because the ocean is a marvelous place at night. On moonless nights I sat in the cockpit of my sailboat and watched a deeper darker sky than a city dweller could imagine possible, and the term "velvet" sprang to mind. But to be on a tropical passage under a brightly shining moon is another brand of magic altogether and even though the silver disk obscures the stars, I really do prefer a full moon. It's an event I notice even when the moon is just starting to rise over the mangroves with the sun still high enough in the sky to be able to...read a book by. I was turned on to the book in question by the Moto Philosopher, a mention of a motorcycle biography by a Canadian university professor who told the story of riding to Texas on his highly unsuitable Ducati. The notion that a 700cc standard motorcycle might be "unsuitable" for a journey of several thousand miles is a modern conceit, propagated in a consumer driven economy where every garage should house a multiplicity of cycles, one for each purpose. A huge cruiser to travel, a dirt bike for fire roads, a scooter to commute and a classic to admire and on and on and on. Ted Bishop turns his back on that theory, falls in love with a Ducati Monster in monstrous matt black and takes off across America. Except this isn't the oily reminiscences of a wrench monkey. Bishop feels like he has climbed his mechanical peak when he has checked his chain final drive tension every evening. And perhaps, that is why the book is delightful. It is about riding a motorcycle, seeing places and enjoying America in all its grotesque glory. That's because travel writers love to zoom in on the weird and the whacked, and Lord knows there's plenty of grist for their mill in these United States.The other reason this book makes a good read is because Bishop is a professor of literature and he's a part-time detective and he's on the hunt for first editions and buyer lists and all sorts of other irrelevant nonsense. Don't get me wrong I love to read but Virginia Woolf and James Joyce are not anywhere near my list of classics I need to re-read, since I last hacked them in school. Thus Ted Bishop's orgasmic research in the ivory halls of Austin's academe don't do much for me, but I appreciate his well written fervor. On the other hand, T.E. Lawrence and Richard Burton (the explorer, not the actor) are writers of a different and much more interesting caliber, so they, and the Ducati keep me going between chiffon waves of Woolf and Joyce and their drawing room dramas. I am having a blast with this story; everybody should.

Merry Christmas Mr Smith

I found out another thing from my wife this Holiday Season as we got ready to bag some wine and chocolates and head out to a festive Christmas Dinner in town. "Today's the day Jews look forward to eating out Chinese," she told me, much to my surprise. Who knew? And I've been married to her for nearly 15 years. Apparently her family tradition was to go to Lake Tahoe and take a splendid day on the slopes when the gentiles were all giving thanks for the arrival of their savior. Jews are still waiting for theirs and Confucians are pretty much on the fence about the whole mystical savior thing, as far as I can gather, so one lot goes round and orders food from the other lot. We did the Christian thing this year and stuffed our communal faces.The family gathering involved as it often does in Key West, out-of-towners, pasty white and excited to be under hazy skies in 75 degree temperatures filling themselves with good cheer and alcohol. The family in question, of a colleague of my wife, is an extraordinarily jolly family of seven siblings, their parents and 6 grandchildren. We spent Christmas afternoon laughing and telling stories and generally being silly. They exchanged home made stockings,and were so kind to each other it positively made an observer wish he was part of such an extended family. The true meaning of Christmas, enhanced by a splendid tree, and of course the great fortune of renting a home with a canal front for fishing and a pool to swim in.Rather them than me in such chilly conditions, but I saw nary a goose pimple before the lights went out. It was a delightfully Key West moment, as we plunged into darkness and the party carried on regardless. We went home in darkness, Highway One a ribbon of taillights winding through darkened mangroves and moonlit lagoons. It was delightful, especially as the lights came back minutes after we got home, and restored everything to normal.

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The Conch part of the program was executed a couple of days ahead of the Day, under the stars in the candle-lit backyard of a colleague of mine who put on another magnificent spread. This time we shared a groaning table with a large bunch of off-duty police officers, which is a state of affairs that can be quite startling until you get used to it. I rather enjoy it these days, sharing stories of good police cheer and a few occasionally macabre laughs along the way.

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So among the good cheer was the entirely sober and very funny police chaplain and his partner, an officer with the State Police office in Key West. The chaplain, who I shall call Steve, because that's his name, is a police officer endowed with a mischievous sense of humor, very dry, and a worldliness that may be part of his nature but is enhanced by working the beat in a world wide destination town like Key West. Not to mention taking care of the souls and states of mind of men and women who deal daily with more than their share of human misery.

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He and my wife, who teaches at the Juvenile Jail have a history and they were talking about this and that and juveniles, and in the Christmas spirit the success stories that make them cheerful, the straight and narrow regained, etc... when Steve points out that as a cop and a chaplain he ends up getting known in the oddest places.

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"I was on Oahu this year, on vacation with John, minding my own business and this kid comes up to me and is all over me, shaking my hand and being real friendly." The story goes on about this small world Key West-in-the-wilderness encounter, "cheerful probably because I didn't arrest him for something or other," Steve went on between forkfuls of roast pork. "I have no idea, can't remember him a bit, but he remembers me. Doesn't matter where I go in the world I meet Key Westers." It's at this point a tired looking detective at the end of the table takes a pause from bottle feeding his infant and says: "Does he have spiky blond hair?" And Steve nods through a mouthful of rice, and between them they checked the descriptors, which is cop-talk for what he looked like, and it may well be him. "Yeah," the detective says laconically. "Got a ton of warrants out for him and I heard a rumor he ran to the Islands."

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"Hey!" Steve shrugs cheerfully, "they weren't my warrants! No wonder he was laughing when he met me!" and he dug back in to his plate.

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Merry Christmas Mr Smith wherever you are, and perhaps its time to go straight or turn yourself in. All in the spirit of the season you understand.

Port Pine Heights

Well, even the most devoted nurse needs to take a little time off, so a quick run to the video store to return 92 In The Shade, say, can lead to something more... like a ride straight up Key Deer Boulevard, just before sunset in a crisp 70 degree evening. Perfect. A motorcyclist looking for twisties will have a hard time in the Keys, as will a commuter expecting alternative routes to work, but for a middle aged man with years of riding alternative roads stacked in his memory, all it takes to have a nice ride is a thundering putt through the pines of Big Pine Key. On a dead straight road, even. Key Deer Boulevard is the left-hand road heading north form the traffic light on Highway One and it runs dead straight to a dead end about five miles into the pine forest. Along the way it passes three churches, the Blue Hole and a Trail Head, part of the wilderness area that is most of the pine forest. The wilderness area tends to butt up a bit against homeowners. Co-existence can be a bit tricky where people resent wildlife, and they choose to live in the would-be-hinterlands of BPK, the island home of those in the Lower Keys that want to be Left Alone. These are not people that want National Wildlife in their backyards.I mean really, who do they think they are kidding with "unauthorized entry?" Key Deer wander at will and local gardeners are always in a tizz about deer ravaged plants. Personally I'd love a few endangered Key Deer on my Key, as they make development extra complicated and restricted but those that have them, tend to hate the deer. I might start hating them if I actually hit one. They are small, but not that small and could easily wreck a 30mph motorcycle. I saw a couple on my expedition but they stood on the roadside and made no false moves.

So the anti-tree-huggers trying to get away from it all live alongside the canals of Port Pine Heights, a place that I rate as less than scenic in many respects, not that inexpensive, as even these depressed days you'll be facing an asking price of at least $600,000 for a 1500 square foot run down stilt house on a canal. And the canal may not be so scenic, but it gives a boater easy access to Bogie Channel, where, rumor has it, is to be found excellent fishing, with easy access to the Content Keys and the Gulf of Mexico. The best part of this back country for a two wheeled rider with a yen to explore is the number of odd streets, most unpaved that wind mysteriously into the mangroves, pine trees and scrub. I make a mental note as I rumble by, and I shall return with my camera and stout walking shoes. I've checked quite a few back roads around here (on the Vespa) but there are always more. The trick is to check for a) Street Names and b) a mailbox. A dirt road with a mailbox and no street name is probably a driveway, and boy! Won't they be surprised to see a stranger on a Bonneville show up in their yard uninvited. The biggest handicap I've noted on the Bonneville is the Ducati-style, minuscule steering angle. Its fine on the open road but turning at walking speed is a protracted and tiresome business as the steering lock is tiny. Not the best feature for a high speed u-turn and getaway from an irate homeowner in his narrow driveway.

One nice thing about the Bonneville is it lends itself, without protest to some weird pictures which pop into the viewfinder as the owner stands back and admires his hunky ride. Or stands back to admire the open water views at the end of Key Deer Boulevard,

while carefully avoiding the angry No Trespassing and Trespassers will be Shot signs hemming in the view. I must be a simpleton, I had a great ride, mostly at 30mph or less because the Sheriff's Deputies positively love to lurk in the 30mph zone on the dead straight road. I got no tickets, I got fresh air and my wife was happily zoned out on pain pills and Netflix when I got home.

My Bonneville: my panacea. And there's another of those bloody "Unauthorized Entry" signs in the background. I feel an upswelling of rebellion, one day I will just force my way into the scrub thorns and palmettos to prove a point. Bloody but unbowed, that will be me.