It wasn't until we walked into the small Caribe Tours bus station in Sosua that we decided exactly where we were off to. After leaving Cabarete, and Anne Grethe and Obdulio, early that morning, we had narrowed our destinations down to Santo Domingo or Jarabacoa. Our guidebook raved about the natural beauty of Jarabacoa, which is in an interior region referred to as the Dominican Alps. Honestly, they're spot on. I couldn't tell if I was in Switzerland, Italy, Ireland, Guatemala or the DR. The landscape was absolutely stunning, for both it's beauty and it's seemingly random placement.
After a couple connections, and a nice snooze in the Caribe Tours bus, we lugged our bags off the coach and hopped a pick up cab for the only hotel worth staying in; Brisas Del Yaque. As I've mentioned before, Beth and I prize AC and cable above all, and were thrilled Brisas had both. At this point, we were roughly five weeks into the trip, and both our minds and bodies were beginning to show a bit of wear. It often occurred to me on the trip that maybe the human body is not meant to live this way, because transience didn't seem to agree with me. Seeing the world as a vagabond explorer is thrilling and spontaneous in nature, but also tiresome and a bit exhausting, and hell on the digestive system. No matter how much fun I was having, I craved consistency, quiet and stillness. I missed my kitchen, my room, the rest of my wardrobe, and simply the sense of knowing where I was and how to get from one place to the next. Having to research every place we visited, coordinate buses, hotels, couchsurfers, taxis, meals, everything...it was a bit taxing after awhile. Please don't think I'm complaining, my mind and heart were so joyously happy, but my body just couldn't always keep up.
This became even clearer the second we collapsed on the bed in Jarabacoa...and decided getting up was the last thing we wanted to do. On top of this, Beth wasn't feeling well, and hadn't been for several days now. While I dashed out to get us a lunch of pica pollo and tostones, she laid down and checked out the cable situation. Honestly, I loved opportunities to move about independently. It made me feel like I was back in Guatemala, exploring Coban and Xela. I'm a pretty solitary person by nature, so roaming about on my own in an unfamiliar town didn't make me feel anxious at all, it actually relaxed me considerably.
After retrieving some food, eating on the bed (despite a polite sign on the wall asking us not to) and gorging ourselves on the People and Arts channel, we decided this was really all we wanted out of our time in Jarabacoa, and we were not going to feel guilty about it! Yes, it's beautiful, yes, Jurassic Park was filmed here, yes it has some of the most spectacular waterfalls in the country, but we wanted to be lazy and give our bodies a chance to catch up with us! The rest of the day was all about food, tv, the bed, and a little internet time to deal with the fiasco happening back home (bed bugs, you'll hear about it in the next post).
The next day, feeling revived, and embarrassingly sloth-like, we decided today we would give Jarabacoa and honest shot. We woke early, commandeered a couple motoconchos (motorcycle taxis) and set out for a Salesian monastery that supposedly had a pasta factory. We figured from there we'd ride up the hill to a series of pools and go swimming for a bit. Well, the monastery was a bust. Either the monks were all in seclusion...or it was just flat out empty. No pasta, either, total bummer. So, we continued on to Las Guazaras, a series of rapids and pools in what could basically be considered the Dominican highlands. Once we got there, we stripped down to our suits, jumped into the near frigid water and made some friends with a few local kids. They were thrilled to have some gringas to show off for, and started showing us all the best places to jump, dive and catch the current, and even did some bridge jumping as we feigned fear and shock. Naturally, we took a ton of pictures, had a blast splashing around with the boys, and even encouraged our motoconcho drivers to get in and enjoy the water. It was a great way to spend a morning, and an invigorating one.
Our plan for the rest of the day was to visit at least two of the three famed waterfalls, the most remote of which was the backdrop for the opening scene of Jurassic Park. However, as we settled down to lunch, those travel-weary feelings came over us again...and we settled in for another afternoon of relaxation. Honestly, neither one of us regretted not trekking up to the falls. The Dominican Republic abounds with beautiful sights, and we'd already logged quite a few fantastic waterfalls in our trip. This one probably was just as beautiful as everyone said, but we'll have to just trust the picture in our guidebook. We figured there was no sense in wearing ourselves down to the point of not being able to enjoy the rest of our time, and we still had a pretty fantastic morning at Las Guazaras to show for ourselves. Maybe on the next trip we'll try again :)
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
The Life of a Cabarete Surf Bunny
Cabarete is easy to skip over in the guidebook, if you're not a kite surfer, wind surfer, regular old surfer, or extreme sports junkie in general. Being none of these things, Beth and I were fine bypassing the little surf haven on the north coast en route to Puerto Plata. Were it not for the modern miracle that is couchsurfing, we'd never have given it a second thought, which looking back would have been a shame. Cabarete is full of folks from all over the world that come for the waves, and has a very southern California sort of feel. Lots of surf shacks, bars, restaurants, resorts, and such along the main strip, and life on a more normal level happens on the outskirts. There is a huge Norwegian population due to a study program established several years ago, and a very international flair altogether.
On our way out of Puerto Plata, we just happened to stop at an internet cafe. Waiting in Beth's inbox was a response from a couchsurfing host named Obdulio saying of course we could come and stay for a day or two, come on over! Luckily, neither Beth nor I are the type to stick to a strict itinerary, so changing up the game plan unexpectedly was fine by us. Forty five minutes later we were cruising along in a crowded guagua (Dominican short bus, basically) ready to make some new friends. We were picked up by Obdulio and his friend Omar, in some very surfer dude-ish SUV, and driven home to be introduced to all the surfer dude friends. Seriously, when we walked in the door there were five muscle-bound guys (and five ridiculously large, rambunctious, loveable dogs) standing around in board shorts and bare feet talking about that morning's waves. As a girl who has always lived in landlocked states and has minimal experience with riptides, curls, and long vs. short boards, this was a whole new world. Luckily these guys backed up the relaxed, chill attitude surfers are known for, and welcomed us right away. We spent the first afternoon sitting out on their balcony drinking communal Brahma beer and shooting the shit. Great way to spend an afternoon! Then Obdulio's, girlfriend Anne Grethe, a lovely Norwegian woman who coordinates the Norwegian study program, arrived and we all sat down to our first dinner and introduced our new friends to a dice game we're obsessed with. What a lovely mixed family we were. It was gnarly, in that good sort of way.
That's when "Surfer Dude" entered my consciousness. He'd been there all along of course, but in the sea of rippling abs, long locks and graphic prints, he'd been lost in the mix until now. It first occurred to me Surfer Dude was flirting when he suggested winner of the dice game gets a kiss from Lindsey. Surfer Dude lives the life part of me imagines for myself. He is slightly advanced in years (say closer my parents' age than my own), lived the high life working on the international fashion scene for a number of years, fell in love with surfing, moved to a tiny town on a tiny island, built his own modest little house and will spend the rest of his days in the sand. Sounds pretty amazing to me, and honestly, pretty seductive as well. I appreciate that sort of spirit in people. So, Surfer Dude and I established a sweet little vacationship. After several lovely days of getting up early to sit on the beach and watch him ride waves, strolling together in the surf, etc, something curious happened. Surfer Dude barged into the bedroom one afternoon as I was stepping out of the shower. Naturally I was not expecting him to simply smile, grab the few belongings he kept at Obdulio and Anne Grethe's home, and walk out the door. His abruptness was surprising and a little unnerving, and I just hoped he'd come back soon. I didn't have a good feeling.
After a few hours, and then a few more, I found out why Surfer Dude had walked out...and why he probably wouldn't turn up again. Disappointingly, but maybe not surprisingly, Surfer Dude was into cocaine, owed our host some money, and was presumedly on his way to meet up with his dealer who was coming into town that afternoon. Part of me was shocked that I can encounter women everyday in my job who are dependent on various substances, and yet I can't see that same dependence in someone I've become fairly intimate with, and the other part of me was just plain shocked. Not only that, I was insulted. I hated the fact I could be ditched so easily for a fucking drug. Yes, believe me, I understand (to an extent at least) addiction. I understand that it takes over, trumps your relationships, I understand all of that. However, this was too close to home, and I was still a woman scorned. Never before had addiction been such an intimate issue, and this was someone I'd only known a few days! Nothing more than a simple vacationship! I had read a bit on the Dominican drug situation, and knew there were drugs along the north coast, especially in communities like Cabarete and Cabrera, but I was not expecting to encounter them in any way, shape or form. To find that a person I'd developed a certain degree of respect for and interest in was also involved in that community was sad, disappointing, and actually a little embarrassing. Without writing a great diatribe about my views on self control, self respect, privilege, oppression and addiction, suffice it to say I am confident I am too scared, to lucky and too anal to find myself in the same situation. I'm not sure it's fair to project my views about illicit drugs onto others, but I had imagined Surfer Dude was too good for that, too balanced and healthy and happy. On top of that, I should have been able to see something in him. Was I fooled so easily?
It was a startling reminder of my job, our organization's purpose, and the great need for addictions counseling all over the globe. Surfer Dude was not like a typical Empowerment Program participant at all. He was extremely well-educated, worldly, well-traveled, comfortably wealthy, and seemingly the picture of health and ease. I was not expecting an addict to look and act like this, which is maybe why it was all the more disappointing. I was also not supposed to be attracted to someone who does coke! It was impossible now to not look back on the days we spent together and see him as an addict in disguise, which I know is unfair. How many times have I told a potential volunteer in an orientation that we refer to women at Empowerment as participants rather than putting a title like "addict" on them. Plus, Surfer Dude really was a genuinely good guy. He was sweet, funny, charming, gentle, interesting and I wish I could have spent more time with him. I know I cannot simply refer to him as an addict, it's dehumanizing and he's more than that. I need to let go of my own hang ups and realize, fully realize this time, that addiction has many faces and this is just one. It's not a surprise I couldn't see that side of him, that wasn't what he was going to show me, and it's not who he really is. Hopefully, he'll realize that too.
Surfer Dude never came around again after that, and we left Cabarete three days later. I spent those three days thinking about all I've learned about addiction while working with The Empowerment Program. I think even little experiences like this help make me better at my job. Being able to put a new face to addiction, and having a more personal experience with it (if only in a small way), will make me a better grant writer and a better advocate. Although I don't expect to have contact with Surfer Dude again, I hope he has reasons and motivations to move beyond whatever it is that is holding him back. I was an easy relationship to sacrifice, maybe the next won't be.
On our way out of Puerto Plata, we just happened to stop at an internet cafe. Waiting in Beth's inbox was a response from a couchsurfing host named Obdulio saying of course we could come and stay for a day or two, come on over! Luckily, neither Beth nor I are the type to stick to a strict itinerary, so changing up the game plan unexpectedly was fine by us. Forty five minutes later we were cruising along in a crowded guagua (Dominican short bus, basically) ready to make some new friends. We were picked up by Obdulio and his friend Omar, in some very surfer dude-ish SUV, and driven home to be introduced to all the surfer dude friends. Seriously, when we walked in the door there were five muscle-bound guys (and five ridiculously large, rambunctious, loveable dogs) standing around in board shorts and bare feet talking about that morning's waves. As a girl who has always lived in landlocked states and has minimal experience with riptides, curls, and long vs. short boards, this was a whole new world. Luckily these guys backed up the relaxed, chill attitude surfers are known for, and welcomed us right away. We spent the first afternoon sitting out on their balcony drinking communal Brahma beer and shooting the shit. Great way to spend an afternoon! Then Obdulio's, girlfriend Anne Grethe, a lovely Norwegian woman who coordinates the Norwegian study program, arrived and we all sat down to our first dinner and introduced our new friends to a dice game we're obsessed with. What a lovely mixed family we were. It was gnarly, in that good sort of way.
That's when "Surfer Dude" entered my consciousness. He'd been there all along of course, but in the sea of rippling abs, long locks and graphic prints, he'd been lost in the mix until now. It first occurred to me Surfer Dude was flirting when he suggested winner of the dice game gets a kiss from Lindsey. Surfer Dude lives the life part of me imagines for myself. He is slightly advanced in years (say closer my parents' age than my own), lived the high life working on the international fashion scene for a number of years, fell in love with surfing, moved to a tiny town on a tiny island, built his own modest little house and will spend the rest of his days in the sand. Sounds pretty amazing to me, and honestly, pretty seductive as well. I appreciate that sort of spirit in people. So, Surfer Dude and I established a sweet little vacationship. After several lovely days of getting up early to sit on the beach and watch him ride waves, strolling together in the surf, etc, something curious happened. Surfer Dude barged into the bedroom one afternoon as I was stepping out of the shower. Naturally I was not expecting him to simply smile, grab the few belongings he kept at Obdulio and Anne Grethe's home, and walk out the door. His abruptness was surprising and a little unnerving, and I just hoped he'd come back soon. I didn't have a good feeling.
After a few hours, and then a few more, I found out why Surfer Dude had walked out...and why he probably wouldn't turn up again. Disappointingly, but maybe not surprisingly, Surfer Dude was into cocaine, owed our host some money, and was presumedly on his way to meet up with his dealer who was coming into town that afternoon. Part of me was shocked that I can encounter women everyday in my job who are dependent on various substances, and yet I can't see that same dependence in someone I've become fairly intimate with, and the other part of me was just plain shocked. Not only that, I was insulted. I hated the fact I could be ditched so easily for a fucking drug. Yes, believe me, I understand (to an extent at least) addiction. I understand that it takes over, trumps your relationships, I understand all of that. However, this was too close to home, and I was still a woman scorned. Never before had addiction been such an intimate issue, and this was someone I'd only known a few days! Nothing more than a simple vacationship! I had read a bit on the Dominican drug situation, and knew there were drugs along the north coast, especially in communities like Cabarete and Cabrera, but I was not expecting to encounter them in any way, shape or form. To find that a person I'd developed a certain degree of respect for and interest in was also involved in that community was sad, disappointing, and actually a little embarrassing. Without writing a great diatribe about my views on self control, self respect, privilege, oppression and addiction, suffice it to say I am confident I am too scared, to lucky and too anal to find myself in the same situation. I'm not sure it's fair to project my views about illicit drugs onto others, but I had imagined Surfer Dude was too good for that, too balanced and healthy and happy. On top of that, I should have been able to see something in him. Was I fooled so easily?
It was a startling reminder of my job, our organization's purpose, and the great need for addictions counseling all over the globe. Surfer Dude was not like a typical Empowerment Program participant at all. He was extremely well-educated, worldly, well-traveled, comfortably wealthy, and seemingly the picture of health and ease. I was not expecting an addict to look and act like this, which is maybe why it was all the more disappointing. I was also not supposed to be attracted to someone who does coke! It was impossible now to not look back on the days we spent together and see him as an addict in disguise, which I know is unfair. How many times have I told a potential volunteer in an orientation that we refer to women at Empowerment as participants rather than putting a title like "addict" on them. Plus, Surfer Dude really was a genuinely good guy. He was sweet, funny, charming, gentle, interesting and I wish I could have spent more time with him. I know I cannot simply refer to him as an addict, it's dehumanizing and he's more than that. I need to let go of my own hang ups and realize, fully realize this time, that addiction has many faces and this is just one. It's not a surprise I couldn't see that side of him, that wasn't what he was going to show me, and it's not who he really is. Hopefully, he'll realize that too.
Surfer Dude never came around again after that, and we left Cabarete three days later. I spent those three days thinking about all I've learned about addiction while working with The Empowerment Program. I think even little experiences like this help make me better at my job. Being able to put a new face to addiction, and having a more personal experience with it (if only in a small way), will make me a better grant writer and a better advocate. Although I don't expect to have contact with Surfer Dude again, I hope he has reasons and motivations to move beyond whatever it is that is holding him back. I was an easy relationship to sacrifice, maybe the next won't be.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Beach Noir...
Our book promised Puerto Plata was a place like no other. There would be shady figures lurking about, people skulking around with briefcases and dark glasses, and a myriad of older American and European sorts living a life of leisure...under false names and identities. Believe it or not, if you're a white collar criminal looking to evade that pesky embezzeling charge or insider trading suit, Puerto Plata is the posh place to assume your brand new, above the law existance.
Puerto Plata is like most towns along the north coast of the DR; sunny, sandy beaches, a few scattered tourist attractions, and lots of people living life at a slower pace than I'm used to. Aside from this, there are also lots of people who fit the profile I described above. When we first read about the city in our guide book, we laughed and imagined shadowy figures in 1940's silhouettes, straight out of some campy noir film. Well, just change the setting to a balmy tropical locale, and you've got it. There honestly were old men reminiscent of Hannibal Lector at the end of "Silence of the Lambs" wandering around in fedoras and beige suits, with briefcases in hand and a suspicious amount of spare time. There were also more straight-laced folks in the internet cafes relaying messages about schedules, personal habits, whereabouts and other odd things for an internet cafe Skype conversation.
Puerto Plata is an odd, lovely place. Although we didn't actually make friends with anyone on the lam, we saw some lovely sites and had a very interesting cultural experience. When I travel, I try to withhold judgment and gain as much honest to goodness cultural knowledge as I can. I read up on a bit of history, I try to never eat at American chain restaurants, I never stay in resorts or fancy hotels, and I rarely use anything but cheapo public transportation. So, in hopes of getting that true blue DR experience, I went to my first, and last, cockfight.
Naturally, we were the only gringas in the place, thats become obvious and expected just about everywhere we go. We were also the only women period...which made things slightly more awkward. Adding to the awkward, we had no idea what actually went on at a cockfight other than betting and fighting and lots of men getting rowdy. Luckily, our confusion was obvious to a kindly gentleman who couldn't wait to tell us about the customs and rules, and introduce us to his champion rooster. It was a bit strange sitting and stroking the lovely plumes of this hefty bird, when I knew that in 20 minutes, if he wasn't already dead, he'd at least be bloody and battered. Actually, at the time I didn't even know that. I had no idea what to expect. I'd never read rules and regulations on cockfighting, I had no idea if they stopped the birds before it got ugly, and I had no idea just how bloody the event could get.
Our new friend took us all over the arena and betting areas, explaining little bits of the process here and there, and encouraging us to take pictures with all his friends. We visited the betting area where all the birds are on display according to their match and skill level. Then we wandered over to where the birds were being prepped for battle. Talons were being sharpened, feathers shaved, tempers riled. Then we moved into the arena, which was surprisingly clean and professional. The first two birds and their handlers, along with the referee and two judges were already in place, and about 60 men young and old had gathered for the afternoon match ups. The birds were thrust into each others' faces, ensuring they were ready for battle. When they were released they just attacked. There were feathers flying instantly, vicious pecking, and lots of kicking and sweeping of the talons at their opponent's breast and underbelly. There was blood almost instantly. I silently thanked God that these roosters had dark feathers, it made the first bought easier to stomach. At the same time I also prayed silently that I would be forgiven for my attendance, as it felt like it might be on par with sinning, big time.
The bouts are 20 minutes, and usually they don't last that long. A "good" match ends in less than five, with one limp bird being carried away to be butchered. Although there were 8 scheduled matches for the afternoon, we quietly thanked our new friends, invented dinner plans, and bowed out. Honestly, it was too much. Too much blood, too much death, too much noise, too much period. I came, I saw it for what it was, I decided I didn't want to contribute to it anymore.
As we left the arena, we talked about the experience. Beth, a farm girl, wasn't affected so much by the flying feathers and blood, you'd see that on any butchering day. For her, it was more about watching the crowd, learning about the process, and making some unexpected friends. For me, it was interesting and intriguing, but also painful. Watching anything breath it's last breathe is an intense experience. It reminded me of when my brother shot a crow with his BB gun when we were young. When it fell out of the tree I tried to save it, but naturally it died in my hands. Watching their bodies being carried away with the next birds already being prepped felt sad, and disrespectful. The dead birds will serve a purpose of course, and probably end up as delicious Dominican pica pollo. Knowing that helps a bit, but not enough to make me hit up another club gallistico. It made for an strange, exciting afternoon, and I´m happy to leave it at that. This trip is about forcing myself to move outside my traditional comfort zones, and surprise myself in new and unexpected ways. So far, I think I´m doing a stellar job.
Puerto Plata is like most towns along the north coast of the DR; sunny, sandy beaches, a few scattered tourist attractions, and lots of people living life at a slower pace than I'm used to. Aside from this, there are also lots of people who fit the profile I described above. When we first read about the city in our guide book, we laughed and imagined shadowy figures in 1940's silhouettes, straight out of some campy noir film. Well, just change the setting to a balmy tropical locale, and you've got it. There honestly were old men reminiscent of Hannibal Lector at the end of "Silence of the Lambs" wandering around in fedoras and beige suits, with briefcases in hand and a suspicious amount of spare time. There were also more straight-laced folks in the internet cafes relaying messages about schedules, personal habits, whereabouts and other odd things for an internet cafe Skype conversation.
Puerto Plata is an odd, lovely place. Although we didn't actually make friends with anyone on the lam, we saw some lovely sites and had a very interesting cultural experience. When I travel, I try to withhold judgment and gain as much honest to goodness cultural knowledge as I can. I read up on a bit of history, I try to never eat at American chain restaurants, I never stay in resorts or fancy hotels, and I rarely use anything but cheapo public transportation. So, in hopes of getting that true blue DR experience, I went to my first, and last, cockfight.
Naturally, we were the only gringas in the place, thats become obvious and expected just about everywhere we go. We were also the only women period...which made things slightly more awkward. Adding to the awkward, we had no idea what actually went on at a cockfight other than betting and fighting and lots of men getting rowdy. Luckily, our confusion was obvious to a kindly gentleman who couldn't wait to tell us about the customs and rules, and introduce us to his champion rooster. It was a bit strange sitting and stroking the lovely plumes of this hefty bird, when I knew that in 20 minutes, if he wasn't already dead, he'd at least be bloody and battered. Actually, at the time I didn't even know that. I had no idea what to expect. I'd never read rules and regulations on cockfighting, I had no idea if they stopped the birds before it got ugly, and I had no idea just how bloody the event could get.
Our new friend took us all over the arena and betting areas, explaining little bits of the process here and there, and encouraging us to take pictures with all his friends. We visited the betting area where all the birds are on display according to their match and skill level. Then we wandered over to where the birds were being prepped for battle. Talons were being sharpened, feathers shaved, tempers riled. Then we moved into the arena, which was surprisingly clean and professional. The first two birds and their handlers, along with the referee and two judges were already in place, and about 60 men young and old had gathered for the afternoon match ups. The birds were thrust into each others' faces, ensuring they were ready for battle. When they were released they just attacked. There were feathers flying instantly, vicious pecking, and lots of kicking and sweeping of the talons at their opponent's breast and underbelly. There was blood almost instantly. I silently thanked God that these roosters had dark feathers, it made the first bought easier to stomach. At the same time I also prayed silently that I would be forgiven for my attendance, as it felt like it might be on par with sinning, big time.
The bouts are 20 minutes, and usually they don't last that long. A "good" match ends in less than five, with one limp bird being carried away to be butchered. Although there were 8 scheduled matches for the afternoon, we quietly thanked our new friends, invented dinner plans, and bowed out. Honestly, it was too much. Too much blood, too much death, too much noise, too much period. I came, I saw it for what it was, I decided I didn't want to contribute to it anymore.
As we left the arena, we talked about the experience. Beth, a farm girl, wasn't affected so much by the flying feathers and blood, you'd see that on any butchering day. For her, it was more about watching the crowd, learning about the process, and making some unexpected friends. For me, it was interesting and intriguing, but also painful. Watching anything breath it's last breathe is an intense experience. It reminded me of when my brother shot a crow with his BB gun when we were young. When it fell out of the tree I tried to save it, but naturally it died in my hands. Watching their bodies being carried away with the next birds already being prepped felt sad, and disrespectful. The dead birds will serve a purpose of course, and probably end up as delicious Dominican pica pollo. Knowing that helps a bit, but not enough to make me hit up another club gallistico. It made for an strange, exciting afternoon, and I´m happy to leave it at that. This trip is about forcing myself to move outside my traditional comfort zones, and surprise myself in new and unexpected ways. So far, I think I´m doing a stellar job.
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