Fuel Polishing

After returning to Django, I prepared the evening RPs and WW prepared to “polish the fuel”. When our fuel woes had been described to the cruisers, they all said, “Polish your fuel.”

WW had found a hand pump that would get the fuel from one tank to the other. He set up the funnel and lined it with paper towel. Then he started to pump about eight gallons of fuel from the port tank into the starboard tank. He was unable to do it alone. We mopped up the spilled diesel, I pumped, he aimed the outflow. That worked.

It seemed endless. And there was no guck. Very disappointing. Until we got to the very bottom. Ewwwww.

He pronounced it to be rust picked up, no doubt at all, in Rum Cay. I was having none of it. I love Rum Cay and won’t have it talked of that way. It was dissolved mouse. In fact, it was neither. It was squishy and made up of bacteria and/or algae.

On Sunday morning, it was time to filter all the fuel in the starboard tank (about 18 gallons) into the port tank. This time, things went more quickly since WW had been able to fit a larger hose onto the pump. But it wasn’t long enough, so about half way through the task, we had to switch to a smaller bore hose. We did the last 10 gallons this way and it was a drag. The hose was so long that it required a lot of effort to pump. The handle was poorly designed for heavy work. We switched hands and switched jobs frequently. Then the goo started to arrive (remember, this was the tank that had had the initial and more serious fuel-flow problem). WW was on the pump at the time and it completely renewed his energy. What we had seen the evening before was as nothing to this revolting sludge which poured out in quantity. We had to change our paper towel filter several times.

When all had been filtered and the mountain of diesel-soiled paper towels (used for filters, mopping up spills, and hand wiping) had been bagged for disposal, WW took the bags in Boffo to the Boquerón garbage cans and bought a couple of jerry cans more of fuel. On his return, he filtered that into the tanks. Then he changed all the fuel filters (each engine has two). Then engines have been behaving beautifully ever since.

With our fuel polished to a blinding gleam, we were ready to continue our voyages.

Raul and a Diesel Evening

The conversation of cruisers deals almost exclusively with what’s gone wrong with the boat, what catastrophes one has faced, how one has dealt with…stuff.

It naturally arose that we were having difficulties with the cleanliness of our fuel and that what we really needed was a pump to let us remove the fuel from one tank and filter it into another. Bill said he had a pump he didn’t want and would be happy to sell.

On Saturday morning, we hopped into Boffo to head over to Unchained to examine the pump. WW taught me to drive. I am now a dinghy-enabled not-yet-last-mate. My training continues.

On Unchained, it was immediately clear that a pump managing six gallons a minute would overload a paper towel-lined fuel-polishing funnel in seconds and leave our decks awash in diesel. WW declined the purchase. That dealt with, Sue took me below to show me their home while WW and Bill stayed on deck exchanging war stories.

Unchained is a monohull of 40-something feet. Her chief drawback is a lack of storage, but Sue had done a great job in overcoming this as much as possible. Below decks, the boat is cozy. Sue and Bill, in their 60s, sold everything and bought her for their retirement. They set out, with very little experience, from Tennesee, and are making their way to Trinidad to be “out of the box” when hurricane season arrives in June.

Tern on a stick! Off Boqueron

After our visit, we headed in to shore, trying to raise Raul on the radio. We found Irene on the dock with a mountain of clean laundry, swearing at Ray in her glorious Lancastrian for having abandoned her. WW gave her a ride out to C Drifters while I stayed and watched the terns acting like weather vanes on a cluster of big poles near the dinghy dock. WW had Ray call Raul and he arranged to meet us a bit later to take us to a supermarket for provisions. We headed off to the local Internet café. WW booked our flights to Montreal on April 21 and back to San Juan on April 30.

Raul was a great source of information. He pointed at the fields as he drove and said that they all used to be covered in sugar cane. Now, virtually no cane is grown on PR because no one wants to cut it. It’s hard, dangerous, manual labour. He said machines were introduced at the very end of production, but apparently too late to save the industry. I said that must be hard on the rum producers and he said the sugar is all imported now. When we said we’d seen lots of sugar in the DR, he said, “Sure. You know who cuts it? The Haitians. They are brought in for the harvest, then shipped out again.”

We did a big provisioning run, then met Raul outside. He was playing some wonderful music which he said was Johnny Albino. He said it was old dance music. “Us old guys [he must be 50] like romantic stuff like that,” he said. He told us how his grandfather used to run a dance hall and how he’d danced there to this music as a youth. I asked him what CDs we should get for the best of PR music. “Johnny Albino,” he said, “and Hector Lavoe for salsa.” Then he played us some Hector Lavoe which shut us all up till we were back at Boquéron.

Puerto Rico Arrival

As we were approaching the Puerto Rican coast, another Canadian vessel hailed us and suggested we go straight to Mayagüez, the official port of entry before heading to Boquerón. He told us we’d have to pay for a taxi to and from Mayagüez, as well as a taxi to and from Boquerón for the customs agents.

The customs office in Mayagüez is at the ferry dock. The enormous ferry, which carries 1,000 passengers and 200 cars, does several trips a week to Santo Domingo, DR. It’s an 11-hour trip each way. In consequence, the ferry dock is in no way petit. It has massive truck tires as bumpers. Poor little Django got rather battered as a west wind forced us into these hardened monsters. As we were trying to sort out our bow spring and stern line and whatnot, a uniformed official came sauntering down the dock. We were more or less organized by the time he arrived to tell us the offices closed at 4 p.m. It was 4:15.

We left dock and headed down to Boquerón. The wind was fair and we were able to sail some of the distance. Within a couple of hours were arrived and dropped anchor in the beautiful Bahía de Boquerón.

Cruisers prepare for customs clearance

In the morning (Friday, April 11), we heard Marie-Galante hailing the Boquerón Yacht Club. We had met Richard and Lucie in Georgetown and tried to contact them. We were unable to do so, but did get a call from Sue on Unchained, who had sailed much of the Luperón–Mona Passage with Marie-Galante. After much back and forth from various of their fleet, we ended up being included in a van run to Mayagüez for customs clearance. There were Ray and Irene from C Drifters (UK), Sue and Bill from Unchained (US), Gary and Sharon from Gabridash (US), Han and Catrina from Esperanza (Netherlands), Richard and Lucie from Marie-Galante (Canada), and us. We met at the dinghy dock in Boquerón, a tiny, scenic, bustling tourist town by an almost surreally tropical beach—long, blue water, waving palm trees.

I said, “Buenas dias” to our driver, Raul. “Hiya,” he said. After two minutes of his astonishing Brooklyn accent, I figured out he must be one of the “Nuyoricans” about whom I’d been reading. He had arranged his van and another car for our transport. It was about a 20-minute drive through a landscape that told us clearly how much better off the Puerto Ricans are than the Dominicans.

At the customs house, we filled in masses of paper, had our passports taken and inspected for ages, stood about, sat down, milled, grumbled. The four Americans were cleared well ahead of us, but had to wait for one more couple to make the cut. Richard and Lucie were the winners. The six losers did more milling, sitting, standing, etc. while the customs officials examined our passports as though they might explode at any moment. To entertain us while we waited, an agricultural inspector told us we must seal all our garbage and treat as hazardous waste anything not purchased in the US or Puerto Rico. Oh yes. That was going to happen. We nodded with deep sincerity.

Finally, the deed was done and we were shipped back to Boquerón. The clam and oyster tables had been set up in our absence. All along the streets, little plywood booths sport stacks of shellfish, limes and hot sauce. WW ordered us a plate each of clams and oysters, which were opened as we watched. They were wonderful. Sweet and succulent. Then we headed back to Django to drop off our important documents and prepare for dinner ashore with the cruising gang.

The Mona Passage

Between the Dominican Republic and Puerto Rico lies the Mona Passage. It’s about 80 miles wide. It represents a huge mass of water moving between the Atlantic and the Caribbean. In a very short distance, its depth goes from 5,000 metres at the Mona Canyon to 100 metres in the Horseshoe Shoal, which extends about 20 miles out from the eastern Dominican coast. As a result, a lot of water piles up in the Shoal, creating an area of severe rips, unpredictable currents, and overfalls. It’s a no-sail zone. A lot of shipping moves through the navigable part of the Passage. Like the Gulf Stream, the Mona Passage is to be treated with respect. And, preferably, with all engines functioning well.

So, OK, the engine thing wasn’t working for us. Fortunately, the weather was excellent, the winds not too strong, the seas benign. We were making about 3.5 knots with the port engine at full function and the starboard wheezing. Then the starboard engine died again.

I kept watch while WW hung head down some more. This time, he used multiple containers, drained nasty diesel into them, covered himself with it, and blew hard into the fuel line. He cleared it. We had our second engine back at full function. Our pace picked up to 5 knots and more. We knew it was a temporary reprieve. Whatever was in there would probably find its way back to the mouth of the fuel line.

Toward the end of my watch, sure enough, Little Miss Starboard started to die again. WW now knew the drill and had her running again almost immediately. His watch was uneventful. I think the blockage realized he’d got its number and the game was no fun anymore. Then, during one of my watches, the port engine started to miss. WW came on deck (he is awakened by these things) and worried, but there wasn’t much to be done. At least the engine kept going.

I had the dawn watch – my favourite. WW had retired, completely exhausted. I believe he was asleep in under a minute. I was enjoying the sight of the tiny but very tall Isla Desecheo rising from the sea. Then the feel of the port engine changed. When I stood on the starboard side, my feet could feel the purr of the engine there. On the port side, I felt a rhythmic clunking. I hated to do it, but I woke WW. He agreed there was something, checked all inboard things and said it might be the propeller. There was nothing to be done in that case until we reached an anchorage. He went back to sleep; the sound seemed to lessen.

A ship appeared on the horizon and I eyed her through the binoculars, trying to figure out what direction she was headed. I finally decided she was headed toward me, so I altered course to pass astern of her. After a few more minutes, I was better able to make out her form and realized I’d altered course to collide with her. I rectified the matter.

Soon after, the coast of Puerto Rico appeared on the horizon. WW raised sail and we had two good hours of beautiful sailing. We made almost 7 knots some of the time. By 3:30 we were on our way in to Boquerón.

Farewell to Republica Dominicana

The weather on Monday was still bad. Winds of 20 knots or more and a big surge. Chris Parker, the weather guy, said it should improve dramatically by Tuesday.

Tuesday morning at 5 a.m., we prepared for departure. A representative of the Dominican navy appeared on the dock with our departure documents and a request for $20 US. With the sun still below the horizon, but giving enough light for WW to see the way out, we left our dock and headed toward the Atlantic. At precisely the same moment, three other boats headed out. We slipped out of the marina, avoided the heavy breakers at its entrance, and were once again on the Atlantic. Chris Parker is usually very accurate. For reasons he himself (a day later) was unable to explain, the wind continued to blow at 20 to 25 knots, and the seas continued at 8 to 10 feet until that evening. We were headed straight into all of it. It made for a bit of a bouncy passage. We were managing about 4 knots, until we arrived at Cabo Frances Viejo in the late afternoon. A strong current was running against us and we slowed to about 2.5 knots.

We took watches of two hours on, two hours off, starting at 7 p.m. I had first watch. There was virtually no shipping and the seas had settled quite a bit. WW had one unpleasant moment when he saw a small yacht that appeared to be passing on our starboard side. Then the red lights became green and he realized it was going to cross our bows. He had to alter course some 20 points to avoid a collision. We can only assume there was no one keeping watch on the other boat. WW had the dawn watch and the pleasure of seeing the mountains of Cabo Samaná. Very beautiful, I am told.

We sailed from Bahía Samaná east, with the coast of the DR beside us all day. We were doing about 5 knots straight into a 10- to 15-knot wind, and feeling rather pleased that the comfort had increased so markedly over our first day. Then the starboard engine stopped. Dead.

I took watch while WW hung head down in various small compartments in the starboard after berth. He determined the problem. It was not good. The fuel line was clogged. Now, this is normally not a big deal. It clogs at the filters. Diesel fuel in the islands is notoriously dirty, but multiple filters usually solve the problem. It’s just a question of replacing the filters. In our case, however, the blockage was in the fuel tank. It seemed weird, but WW had read that a bit of water condensation can lead to bacterial or algal growth in the fuel. The bacteria and/or algae cling to the sides of the fuel tank, unless they are torn off by a rough passage (e.g., our first day out of Ocean World), at which point they can clog the line. Another possibility was rust in the fuel. WW was suspicious of the diesel we’d purchased in Rum Cay. I thought it was a dead mouse.

We were able to get the engine to run at greatly reduced rpm, so a trickle of fuel was getting to where it needed to be, but it wasn’t really satisfactory.

We pondered our choices. We could head into Punta Cana and work on repairs, or we could try to get to Puerto Rico on one engine. The biggest problem with that choice was that we might run out of fuel. The starboard engine’s fuel tank was almost full, but we had no way to transfer it for use by the port engine. Punta Cana seemed a good idea until we realized we’d have to go half way to Puerto Rico to clear an area of very bad rips, then sail back in to the DR to make landfall. We finally decided to press on.

During his early evening watch, WW had another near miss with a small ship crossing our bows. Mind you, this time he realized we didn’t have our running lights on and were effectively invisible. He switched them on.

We saw the last of the Dominican coastline, brightly lit, as it vanished below the horizon sometime toward midnight.

Family Day 2

Frank drove us into Puerto Plata as we had a stack of postcards we wanted to drop in a mailbox. The post office was closed. That’s when we learned there is no such thing as a mailbox in the Dominican Republic. It’s your post office or nuthin’. We asked later whether the marina could mail them for us. Nope, but they were happy to arrange to have them sent by courier, at $30US per card. Folks, you’ll have to wait till we can mail them in Puerto Rico.

Then we headed up towards the mountains that stand behind Puerto Plata. Carla and WW shared a fascination with real estate, so there was a lot of house pricing that went on. When you buy property in the DR, you pay a percentage tax on the purchase price. If the property (including house) is worth less than 5 million RD, you pay no annual property tax. Carla is building a second storey on her house, so the value will rise to over that limit and she’ll have to pay tax. However, she intends to rent the second floor (something many Dominicans do) and that will more than cover her associated expenses. Dominicans build a house and leave steel construction rods sticking out of the roof in the happy expectation they will, one day, be able to afford that second floor.

Front porch

The house was lovely and cool, and very minimalist. There was the requisite front porch area with the requisite four rocking chairs. Poochie, their typical Dominican perra -- complete with lengthy dugs from three litters, all of which had died – greeted us. Carla said dogs and cats are owned, they just like to wander about. Someone, somewhere, takes a modicum of responsibility for them. This family was besotted with their lovely bitch, who lives exclusively on table scraps, including large numbers of chicken bones.

Inside the house is a living room, family room with television and many books, two small bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a master bedroom. The kitchen has a cooking area separated from a washing area.

Dining room from the outdoor walkway

The dining room has sliding doors on two sides, one set leading to a walkway beside the house and parking area, the other to the small back garden complete with mango tree, avocado tree, lime tree, orange tree, Surinam cherry tree, banana tree, papaya tree, tomato plants, and a chicken who provides the family with eggs and has long discussions with Carla.

Despite our already having eaten, Carla insisted we have a typical Dominican lunch with them. Her new cook/maid failed to make a salad, to Carla’s horror and shame.

Shucking Luperon oysters

The son (alas, I never got the boys’ names, except the youngest who was called ChiChi) who had gathered the oysters, opened them with a stone in the back yard. WW and I were graced with one each. They were very sweet and delicious. Carla served us fried chicken (I was terrified I’d be offered one of the feet as a special treat; fortunately, Frank fell on them with gusto), rice, and red beans. These are the staples. Everyone eats them all the time.

Frank and Carla and the fabulous feast.
(apologies for the focus issue)

After lunch, Carla showed me, with enormous pride, her various degrees and photos from her graduations. The boys sprawled in the family room with the television blaring. WW and Frank rocked on the front porch. Carla and I joined them there where she served us “the joy of my day”, fresh, strong, black Dominican coffee.

Dominican coffee is, indeed, a joy. Its flavour is superb. The natives drink it in small cups with at least one teaspoonful of sugar. Carla asked how much sugar we took. WW took one and I took one (though I normally don’t sweeten my coffee, but I had read it would be rude to decline). We asked Carla how much she took. “Five,” she said. We were stunned. “Will it fit?” I asked. Carla laughed and pointedly took one and a half. Milk or cream weren’t even offered. It was fabulous.

Everyone piled back into the van for the ride to Ocean World. Actually, one son was left behind, but he called on the cellphone and we swung back to get him after a tour of the local mansions, some worth more than 20 million RD.

At Ocean World, the kids shook hands and said “Nice to meet you” – possibly one of three English phrases they know. Frank thanked God and us for the work we’d given him. He had told us the all-inclusive resorts are killing him because tourists don’t need taxis anymore. Carla and I hugged, I gave her a good Montreal two-cheek mwah-mwah, and we parted vowing to be in touch when and if we return, having exchanged cards.

Being taken into a Dominican family for a day was an exceedingly special experience. Both WW and I still smile whenever one of us brings it up. I very much hope I have a chance to renew the acquaintance in the future.

Family Day 1

Frank (Francisco) and his gorgeous wife Carlita (Carla) picked us up at precisely 10:30 for the drive to Luperón. Stuffed into the back seat of the van were not three sons, but four. “I’m their cousin,” the smallest told me with a grin.

“You speak English?” I said.

“I live in New York,” he answered.

I have to confess, I was glad. I wasn’t sure how Spanish immersion was going to work with my knowing only the present tense of about four verbs and a vast number of relatively useless nouns. (I’ve learned a lot from my Dominican cookbooks, but I didn’t think things like “cucharadas” and “aceite”, that is, “tablespoon” and “oil”, were going to support much in the conversational line.)

In the event, I needn’t have worried. Carla’s English was very good, and Frank’s was rockier but very amusing. However, I had mentioned that we wanted to practise Spanish, so “No inglese” was announced forcefully by our exuberant chauffeur. Frank was a delightful guide, pointing out sights and features. Each one was preceded by, “Lookee, lookee! Free hotel coming soon. Free for everyone!”

It was the local jail.

We were taught names of things as we travelled. Cow: vaca. Dog: perro. Girl dog: perra. At which point Frank asked if we had different names for boy and girl dogs in English. “Yes,” I said.

“Yes,” said Carla, starting to blush.

“Dog and bitch,” I said. She roared with laughter.

Carla is a remarkable woman. She is a doctor with a specialisation in family medicine. She was director of the Luperon hospital for many years. She is also a lawyer. She gets up every morning at 3 a.m. to study (I believe she is working toward a real estate licence). At 7 a.m., she gets herself and her family ready for the day. She’s down to one son now as the other two are studying medicine at a private university in Santiago – they were home for the weekend. She works in the hospital till 1 p.m., then everyone comes home for lunch, the Dominican main meal of the day. Then she works in the clinic until 5 p.m. After that, she goes to her law office and signs things her secretary has prepared. (“Law is easy,” she said, “if you have a good secretary.”) Then she heads for home and a light supper. She is in bed at 9 p.m. She also ran in the last municipal election (she was defeated narrowly by the incumbent).

She told us that doctors in hospitals work 24 hours on, 24 hours off. They are paid by the government, a princely 22,000 RD per month. That’s about $700 US. When a delegation (including Carla) went to see President Leonel in Santo Domingo to request a wage increase, they were greeted by riot police and had the fire hose turned on them. It is probably understandable that she would like another man to win the presidency next month. She likes one called Vargas. “He has lots of money,” she said. “He won’t take it from people with nothing to eat.” She does not have high hopes, however. Leonel is being very generous with what she called “our money” during the run up to the election. “Hungry people don’t see beyond today,” she said.

We arrived at Luperón and Frank drove the van out to the end of a pier. At one point, the clearance was reduced to about an inch on each side due to a parked vehicle. He slowed…a bit. “I very good driver,” he said with his fabulous grin. When we had finished looking at the countless boats anchored in the bay, and the sludge coating the mangroves lining its edges, he looked at WW. “I tired. You drive please,” he said. We all had a good laugh. Then he proceeded to back us out without any trouble at all. “You are a very good driver,” I said. I think he glowed a little.

Luperon Yacht Club

He took us over to the yacht club where we looked at boats and even Carla, who patently loathes them, was enticed onto one that was for sale.

Frank, Carla, and sons (and the guy trying to sell the boat)

WW and I then settled in for beer and lunch. The family wandered over and chatted to other folks on the small beach. One of the sons waded in among the mangroves. When we were done, we all loaded ourselves back into the van and set off to Ocean World. The wading son proudly displayed a small plastic container of about 10 oysters he’d gathered.

“Colfresi?” asked Frank. “Yes, please,” said WW. “Would you like to come and visit our boat?” I asked. Carla looked horrified. I laughed and said, “No. Carla does like boats.” She smiled and said, “No, I don’t like them. But, please, come to our house for lunch.”

WW looked slightly unsure so I piped up immediately: “We’d love to!”

No Longer Caught Up

We spent an amazing day with Francisco (our taxi driver) and his family. I'll tell you all about it another time. I'm currently in an internet cafe in Boqueron, Puerto Rico, desperately trying to finish this post before my allotted time expires (and the driver appears to take us to the supermercado -- we are seriously low on provisions).

So, as with our arrival in DR: we are safe, we are here. All is well.

I'll post again soon.

Conveyances

We spent Thursday lolling. Well, I did. WW pottered about replacing lines, doing intricate splices, and generally preparing Django for the long haul to Puerto Rico. I did a bit of whipping. Because of our weather delay, we've decided to leave on Monday, when there is supposed to be a weather window, and motor straight on to PR. We had wanted to explore the north coast of the DR by boat, but have had to make do with ground transportation to see some of the sights.

WW wanted to visit Puerto Plata properly. We've only been there on a couple of grocery trips. He also had his heart set on Luperon, which was to have been our first anchorage after Ocean World. He pondered renting a car.

I vetoed this idea.

Driving in the DR is the definition of insanity. The roads are full of large smelly trucks, small smelly cars, public transport minivans called guaguas, and an unbelievable number of motoconchos. Motoconchos driven by men in yellow vests are for rent. You flag one down and are taken where you wish. The guide books recommend avoiding these as the danger is considerable. Watching them go, you can see why.

Speed is of the essence. Slowing down is for fools and cowards. Honking means many things, including "Don't pull into my lane, I'm about to pass you." Dominicans, like North Americans, drive on the right. Sometimes. It seems to be a matter of conscience. If you are conscious that you will go faster in the oncoming lane, that's where you drive. If a truck has stopped (and the use of flashers seems to be considered a silly drain on the battery), entire streams of traffic pull out into oncoming streams of traffic. If you want to say hi to a friend on the other side of the road, just drive over and wave. It's a long, jolly, weaving game of chicken.

A taxi to Puerto Plata costs about 500 RD or $14ish US. We decided to use the guagua which stops about a mile from the marina and which costs a princely 20RD (less than a dollar) per person. The guagua is generally a "stretch" minivan, capable of seating at least a dozen people. The sliding side door is tied open with the DR's version of duct tape, canvas strapping, and riders hop in and out. The driver has set stops, but also cruises slowly along, keeping an eye out for anyone walking or sitting on either side of the road. When a potential client is spotted, short sharp honking ensues until the target has indicated interest, no interest, or is behind the van.

Women take the front seat, by the driver, as first choice. Two will cram in rather than sit in the back with the men. I didn't know this and went to the back with WW. At some point I said something and all the men turned to stare. I guess they hadn't realized there was a woman in the back. Our driver stopped to pick up three female university students, one of whom grabbed the remaining front seat. The other two looked miserably uncomfortable squashed in the back with the men.

One of the chaps who came aboard after us was fluent in both English and French. He chatted with us and descended at our stop. Thank the Lord. Without him, I do believe we would never have managed to cross the four-lane road; not alive, anyway. WW and I both innocently ambled toward the crosswalk. "Not there!" he shouted. At some distance from the crosswalk, there was a break in the centre divider. Following our new best friend, we darted through a break in the traffic, paused at the divider, took advantage of a break on the other side, and survived to enter Puerto Plata. Pedestrians, in the grand scheme of DR travel, are the lowest form of life.

We were shown a nice restaurant by a chap who knew us from the marina. "No money, we're friends," he said. He did, however, ask for and receive a beer. While we ate, an elderly man with a guitar appeared and serenaded another table before turning to us. After playing Qui se (which I know as Perhaps) to me, WW asked for more and handed him 100RD. He grabbed it joyfully and headed straight to the bar. No more music for us.

We went to the Galeria del Ambar which, like the Museo in Santo Domingo, displays lots of bugs, leaves, flowers, sticks and small critters trapped millenia ago in amber. It also has displays on larimar (a pale blue semiprecious stone found only in the DR) mining, tobacco growing, cigar rolling, rum, corn, coffee, and chocolate production. Also a quite good if small collection of Taino artifacts.

Then we headed to the statue of General Luperon on a point of land about a mile from the city centre. Beside him is a 17th-century fuerta (fort) and a 1870-something lighthouse. A cheerful taxi driver offered to meet us there and to drive us to the supermercado for a few provisions, then back to Colfresi.

It turned out it was his 49th birthday and he was in high good humour. He burst into song at the slightest provocation, and made his "bus" sing (i.e., honk) along. He repeatedly thanked God and our family for his happiness and his birthday.

He had the radio on and kept channel hopping so there was always music. With my limited Spanish, I managed to learn who were considered the best local artists. Then he took us to buy music. Five home-burned CDs in cases with colour photocopies of the jackets from street vendors he promised were "numero uno". They're wonderful!

He was low on gas but seemed to have very little cash for its purchase, putting in about three drops and a fume at one stop. WW became quite alarmed about this as our driver pulled onto the highway, and tried pointing it out. Our driver either did not hear or did not understand. Then came the give-away, "Kind sir,..." WW handed over his payment for the trip and we pulled into a gas station.

We liked him so well that we asked if he would take us to Luperon on la manana. He agreed, then asked if he could bring his wife and three sons. We thought that would be grand.

They will be here in half an hour. Which means I'm all caught up! I'll write more post-Luperon.

****

And thanks to all who are dutifully reading this lengthy blog and, especially, to those who leave comments. It's nice to know you're along for the ride!

Explorations

When we learned from the weather gods that depature would be impossible before Sunday, WW proposed we go exploring. On Wednesday, therefore, we took a cab to Sosua, about 20 kilometers east of Puerto Plata. Our driver delivered us to the middle of town. It's a pretty place but muchas touristas. We blended in. A lot of real estate agencies with lots of pictures: WW was in his element.

After lunch, the driver took us to the beach, which is lined with huts selling mass-produced, "authentic" art from the DR, Haiti, and the long-extinct Tainos. WW bought a Sosua cap. As each shack is passed, its owner dashes from wherever he or she is lurking (often with a neighbouring shack-keeper, passing the time) to beg you to enter. The standard phrase seems to be "Just one minute, please. Just one minute." There is a firm belief that, once trapped inside, we will be suddenly swept away by the beauty of the figurines, paintings, and fake amber jewelry we have seen only in every other shack here, in Santiago, in Santo Domingo, in Jarabacoa...but this shack's offerings will prove suddenly different. We have become adept at saying "no, gracias" and at keeping moving. Heaven forfend one should gaze on any object for more than 0.06 nanoseconds. That will get three entrepreneurs launched at you, each trying to convince you that her or his identical item is better.

Guides are a similar proposition. They start accompanying you, whether you want them or not. But by far the worst are the ones who try to drag you off to sign up for a lifetime of timeshares. They travel on golfcarts and whisk you away to the office where the hard-sell man works on you for hours, including free drinks and meals, and tours of the apartments, flats and villas. We survived one experience of this, which was, actually, pretty interesting. (We declined to enrol.) But they are everywhere, like carrion seekers. We must have been approached by an even half dozen while we were in Sosua alone.

That said, all these people do respond to a firm no. After they've shown you the picture of the baby they are trying to earn support for, they back off if you really don't want them. I think they've figured out that trailing after people who have firmly declined their goods or services is not a paying proposition.

We headed back to Colfresi (where Ocean World is located), watching as miles of sugar cane rolled by. I had wondered, when I first saw the cattle here, why they weren't de-horned. It's an easy enough procedure and means fewer inter-cattle injuries, not to mention handler hurts. Well, I saw why on the way. A field full of grazing cattle, all tethered by one horn and a long strip of canvas strapping at a decent distance from each other. Calves won't wander from their mums, so this system keeps the herd together-ish, and means fences can be optional.

Horses are often tethered by the road where they graze during the day...or collapse from the heat. For the last week, this hasn't really been a problem. The daytime temperature has hovered around a cool-for-here 26C.

We arrived back at Django pleasantly fatigued. We have been listening to recorded books after dinner, and had finished Pride and Prejudice (an excellent recording by Penguin). We moved on to Crime and Punishment. Thus cheered, we hit the berth.

Home to Django

Antonio returned us to our hotel and said he would meet us at the bus stop so he could give us his sister's business card. He also put on his phone number. WW gave him one of our boat cars, saying as he did so, "It's always nice to have friends in places you'd like to visit again."

"I'll be your friend," said Antonio, completely genuinely, and flashed us his devastating smile.

****

The bus ride to Puerto Plata, via La Vega, was a couple of hours. We then grabbed a taxi back to Ocean World, loaded our gear on a golf cart, and returned to our little floating home at just about exactly rum punch o'clock.

We were told it had been rough while we were gone. Windy and, oddly for the time of year, rainy. One of Django's stern lines was almost frayed through from chaffing on the cement of the dock. Inside, things had actually fallen over and off shelves. Not catamaran occurences at all. But nothing devastating. WW soon had the line in order and we went over to Almost Open (now renamed Now Hiring) for a grouper sandwich.

We were hoping to leave in the morning to visit Luperon for a few days before starting harbour hopping toward Puerto Rico. The wind, thunderstorms, and pelting rain have persisted. All weather advice has been to stay put, wherever cruisers are, and not move before Sunday. The rain falls as only tropical rain can -- in impenetrable sheets -- during squalls that last no more than 10 or 15 minutes. There will be sun or, at least, no rain for half an hour or so, then in comes the next storm. Last night, WW switched on the instruments during a squall and clocked the wind at 30 knots. The seas are 10 to 14 feet on the open sea. I am looking out from the Ocean World Marina office centre at the breakers massing on the reef outside. Spectacular, yes; want to sail on, no.

On Tuesday, April 1, we took advantage of the tiny Supermercado outlet here which provides a free drive into Puerto Plata for shopping at its big store. Our driver was very charming. He lives in Sosua, about 20 miles east of the marina and speaks excellent English (as do most people associated with the marina). He talked about the economy. He said Dominicans laugh at Americans whining over their jobs. "It's very hard to work here," he said. "A lot of unemployment and we have to pay the U.S. so much money all the time." My first firsthand experience of a living breathing case for writing off Third World debt. In addition to the debt burden, the whole place is devastated every 10 to 20 years by a hurricane.

WW has been conducting a straw poll of all our drivers regarding the outcome of the May election. To a man (we've never had a woman driver), they say the incumbent Leonel will win. He has done wonders for education. The populace are still waiting for the corrupt ex-president to go to jail.

As we entered Puerto Plata, we saw a very tiny puppy waddling down the middle lane of the very busy road. Cars were avoiding it, but we didn't give it long. I asked if we couldn't help. Our driver slowed, causing others to do the same, then a chap darted out from the roadside and scooped the tiny vagrant up.

Dogs and cats are community property. Everyone likes them, everyone gives them scraps. No one owns them (apart from the more affluent who tend to have small yappy hairy dogs). They all appear to share a gene pool that rises barely above their paws. The females are all gravid, nursing, or in heat. The males are all asleep under cars. They all itch. They are all friendly. We've had a dog adopt us briefly. It just wanted company on a walk, so far as we could tell.

Cats like to hang out around restaurants where they easily recognize the come-hither sounds kitty lovers make. They seem not to mind whether it's a pat or a bit of food they get. One very happy black-and-white lady collapsed under a tree near our table after receiving a large portion of a mixed grill I couldn't begin to finish. As long as you are out of doors, the servers don't seem to mind if you share dinner with the fauna.

Rivers and Falls

On Monday morning, as promised, the beautiful Antonio returned. For $20US each, we would be taken to see two of the three saltos (waterfalls) for which the area is famous, and be taken to the kissing rivers to ride along the Yaque del Norte.



Antonio was a delight. Aside from being drop dead gorgeous, he spoke excellent English and did not intend to put us both on his motoconcho...he had a car. He is 33, married with two boys (he showed us photos), and is working on building his dream home. His sister works in real estate. This being one of WW's passions (he examines properties wherever we go and is never happier than when examining photos in an agent's window), they chatted amiably about housing prices and which were the nicest areas. La confluenza is one of the best.

WW and Antonio going along Rio Jimenoa to the trail head

We arrived at a parking lot, ambled down the road to where a woman was taking money for entrance to the Salto Jimenoa Uno y Dos. We went through the turnstile and along the river, then over a number of very bouncy wooden bridges. After a brief hike, we were at the base of Salto Dos, the lower one.

One of many bouncy bridges

Salto Jimenoa Dos

Then we started upwards, clinging to liana, ropes, long branches, and cables strung for clamberers. Antonio fairly bounced up, trotting across 4" pipes and leaping from slippery stone to scrabbly scree.

Antonio bounced up where we scrabbled

Antonio

WW and I plodded ever upward, and agreed it was reminiscent of our endless climb in the Pyrenees. This one, however, did not take 3 hours. In about 20 minutes, we had reached Salto Uno.



Indescribably spectacular, so I won't try.

Salto Jimenoa Uno

It was, as is so often the case, harder going down than up. Our shoes are designed for boats, not mountains. At one point, I had a pretty good fall, felt my knee and ankle twist under me and thought only, "There is NO WAY I'm being carried off of here." I made it down ok. Both joints are just mildly strained, not sprained.

Where "three rivers kiss"

Caballos

Then we were taken to the caballos, the three we saw being intact stallions. We were supposed to be gone for an hour's ride along the Yaque. Antonio would wait, smoke, and played music very loudly. We were accompanied for the tour by a lad of about 12 or 13 years who trotted behind us. He carried a whippy stick which he used to encourage our steeds. This resulted in an extremely uncomfortable and alarmed trot. Each time, I would slow my chap down and we'd resume our pleasant and non-distance-devouring amble. The yout would have none of it. We'd jounce off again. I actually got my noble steed to canter a few times (and a lovely canter he had), then we'd slow down, reckoning we'd put enough distance between our tormentor and us. But never for long. He always caught up. Eventually, he mounted behind WW and rode most of the rest of the way with him. This, thought I, is our chance. I'll just drop back... No luck. He was having none of it and insisted I go just a little ahead, within horse-smacking distance. By now we had left the river track and were on paved road. One of my horse's shoes was audibly loose. More audibly when he was doing his frenetic trot. It all ended, almost half an hour earlier than scheduled. I don't know who was happier, the horses or us. Possibly the lad.

Oh, the river was very pretty.

Heading Out Again

The remainder of my squirrel-free sojourn passed in a whirl. We celebrated Dan's 26th birthday on Sunday, I put together tax papers for the accountant, and I put the house on the market. Then it was up at 4:30 a.m. on Friday to head over to the airport and catch our flight to Atlanta and, thence, Santo Domingo. Our flight was delayed, our connection time too short, and arrival in the DR didn't occur until about 7 p.m.

Our room at the Aida was lovely, with a balcony over El Conde. Certainly not a place to spend a lot of time, due to general hubbub, but fun for a couple of days.

On Saturday, we did a bit of a walking tour, visiting the ruins of a 14th century monastery which had been converted to an insane asylum before it was allowed to rot away. We popped into the World Museum of Amber which was pretty cool...once we shook the self-appointed guide who wanted to scribble population statistics on a map and told us ants in amber were fossils. I had the temerity to read one of the highly informative plaques.

"Are you going to read or listen to me?" the guide asked.

"I'm going to read," I said.

"Well, there's no point for me to stay," he said, before demanding as large a tip as possible (he was out of luck there) and leaving us.

There were ants, flies, termites, a lizard, all manner of plant parts, and a tiny wasp all preserved in amber. There was yellow, red, brown, green and blue (very rare and only from the DR) amber. There were samples of amber from other amber-producing nations: Croatia, Argentina, Canada, etc.

Then we headed over to a big square where Diego (son o' Chris) Colon's stately home was located on the side of the Ozama River, opposite a collection of lovely old former-warehouses now converted to lovely new restaurants. Where we restored ourselves. Then we visited the wonderful Museo de las Casas Reales (Museum of the Royal Houses). I have many many photos, kindness of WW's mum, who lent us her camera...except we forgot to get the cable for transferring them to the 'puter. Sigh. I'll post them manana.

On Sunday, we decided to break our trip to Puerto Plata and back to Django by going up to Jarabacoa. It's sort of the Laurentians of the DR. Affluent Dominicans and capitalanos have weekend houses. Some are extremely grand.

The mountains are glorious. Two rivers flow nearby. The Yaque del Norte flows through the town but is hideously polluted there. Outside the town, great efforts have been made to keep it clean. In fact, great efforts are made almost everywhere except in the very poorest areas to keep thing neat and tidy. There's always someone pushing a broom. The other river is the Jimenoa, about which, more later.

We were greeted, as usual, by a fellow at the bus stop who helped us find our hotel and offered to take us for a horseback tour of "where the rivers kiss" (also known, less beautifully, as la confluenza). We declined but said we'd love to have him show us around the next day. Then we had a long walk through what might pass for the suburbs, admiring the houses and the attractive little verandas with the four requisite wicker rockers on each. They looked shady and cool. We ended our ramble at just about exactly rum punch o'clock at a restaurant overlooking the vibrant, active and noisy Parque Centrale. That's where we saw duelling sound systems on wheels. One was be an old pickup with two immense rectangular speakers on its bed, blaring the driver's choice. Next came a rather glam van, with about 15 speakers, several of which outlined in glowing neon purple circles of light. There were armies of these, each with its own particular style. Entire families (e.g., mum and three kids) arrived on scooters. A political rally marched by (elections in May). We thought perhaps we would dine elsewhere, but ended up coming back and enjoying the whole sensory cacophony. Surround sound made flesh.

We returned to our hotel, a very nice place especially for $30US/night, and passed out.

Home Again, Home Again

I will not burden you with travel stories. Everyone has lost a bag or suffered a delay or whatever. Our trip back was not unreasonably burdened with evils...just about standard.

However, I had been receiving increasingly frantic emails from my dear friend Peter, warning me that "something" was resident in my home. Bettina the miracle-working cleaning lady has been tidying up after me and Benson (the dog) since I first took up the voyaging life. She was the one who discovered the "something" and later was the fortunate who actually viewed its disappearing, fluffy, definitely squirrel tail.

At our return, as usual, I switched on my cell phone and called first my son, then Peter, to report our safe return. Peter's news was ghastly. Bettina had had to spend the better part of the day decontaminating my home because the resident squirrel had got into the vitamin D, eaten rather more than a squirrel should, and suffered the squirrel version of dysentery...all over the house. Bed included. She and Peter had gone together to purchase a live trap, of the Havaheart brand. Perhaps the critter would be caught by the time we arrived.

We were braced for the worst.

Thanks to Bettina, what greeted us was an unoccupied Havaheart and an immaculate house.

In the morning we heard scampering. I tried putting the trap in the basement.

While we waited for the little...creature...to occupy it, we set about removing our two cars from an accumulated several feet of snow. WW's car was invisible, mine was little better. Over the course of five (5) hours, we dug, chopped, hacked, and ladled snow and ice away. I spent a lovely hour or so lying on the damp snow/ice (it was, of course, raining) chopping with a hatchet at the four inches of ice that had bound itself to all my tyres and two of WW's. Finally, we were free. He fled. It was just me...and the squirrel.

Lorna delivered Benson the next day. The trap was in the kitchen by then. I had actually seen the squirrel, vanishing into the kitchen. It liked to dance across the heating vents in the basement, but was well aware that the kitchen was the place to be. It had taken an empty jar of peanut butter, waiting to be scrubbed out for recycling, and chewed its lid off across the living room and well into the sofa. It had awoken me with the sounds of empty plastic jar clatter. An unmistakable sound. It was war. Squirrel: 1. Me: 0.

When, the next morning, I heard the scamper of tiny feet, I looked expectantly at Benson. He looked expectantly at me. Was I going to go see what was happening downstairs? He's feel safer if I did. Then we heard the clunk of the trap. A bit of scrabbling. Silence.

Somehow, that didn't seem right.

I went downstairs. The trap was conspicuously devoid of squirrel. Or bait. Squirrel: 2. Me: 0.

I reset the trap. Something similar happened the next morning. Benson, as always, offering lots of kind thoughts but no action at all. Squirrel: 3. Me: 0.

I examined the trap. Aha! Although it closed nicely, it didn't lock. The squirrel was cheerfully chewing his way through marmalade, peanut butter, and bread, then turning about to open the door and leave. He clearly thought it was an odd feeding arrangement, but food is food. I worked out what was wrong, fixed it, and prepared for victory.

Saturday morning. Benson and I hear the telltale patter. A great deal of activity in the living room. Then nothing. It was all of 7:30, he (or she) was running late. I lay rigid, hoping against hope. Ka-thwack (not the sailing sort)! A pause (obviously having a bit of a nosh) then increasingly hysterical scrabbling of small paws against metal. We had the wee bugger!

Benson would not go into the kitchen until I'd removed the squirrel. I put it on the deck, had a cup of tea, fed the dog, lined the back of the car with newspaper, and put the squirrel-full Havaheart on it. Benson was delighted we were going for a drive.

'Twas then he discovered the squirrel. Already terrified, it had to endure a lengthy drive with Benson's nose not two inches from the cage. We drove through Hudson Village, up Cote St. Charles, across the highway, through St. Lazare, and out to a long wooded stretch of road. I have rarely seen an animal travel quite so quickly. It vanished into the woods.

WW helpfully informed me that squirrels "always come home". I spent the rest of my stay waiting. I expect an email from Peter any time.

Benson still checks both the trap and the back of the car hopefully. As for me, I feel great. Squirrel: 3. Me: 1.

But I only needed one to win.

Santo Domingo

During our Sunday perambulations, we had located a bus station, determined the time of buses to Santo Domingo, and planned our departure from Santiago.

I can't say we loved Santiago. It was rather grubby, frenzied, and noisy. It was our first experience of a Dominican city, so we didn't know if it was the standard. We were quite content to load ourselves into a midday bus and head for the capital, about two hours away.

The buses are great and very reasonable. There are two or three companies competing for the business. We left Santiago on the Aetra bus, air-conditioned comfort, tv, music, the lot. Caribe Tours and Metro are the other two biggies. They are generally quite accommodating about dropping people off at unscheduled stops. We settled in and watched as the countryside unravelled. We left the mountains and drop down to the souther coastal plain.

At all bus stations, taxi drivers are many and various. The hard sell is alive and well and living in the DR. Guides, taxi drivers, shillers of one thing or another all ply their trade along the avenues. Taxis roll by and, spotting a target gringo, hiss, "Taxi?" You are begged for just one minute to come in and see this marvelous store. DVDs copied onto blanks are sold for $0.50US by kids on the streets. Boys take up shoe shining early and cannot be convinced that sandals and cloth sneakers are not in need of their attentions. That said, I don't think we've seen a single beggar. Everyone is offering something and one gets the impression of a generally hardworking people trying to get by. They do accept "no"...eventually.

We descended from the bus and were surrounded by several taxi drivers and bus drivers. Once they knew our destination, there was a general palaver, an agreement that a taxi would be required, and some discussion of its route. That done, the winning taxi driver escorted us to his car (suffering, as do most vehicles here, from age and infirmity), and successfully delivered us to the Gran Hotel Aida just off El Conde.

El Conde is a street of some 20 blocks in length which has been converted to a pedestrian promenade. A whole lot of living goes on along it. There are fast food places, little bars, a nice place for breakfast (Dominican coffee is among the best I've ever experienced). It starts at a stately colonial home and ends at the Parque Colon, commemorating the belief that Columbus's first New World landing was on Hispaniola. There's a whole lot of Columbophilia going on here, for his "discovery" of the island and of North America. I suspect the Tainos, who were wiped out within 50 years of his arrival, might take exception. But they can't.

An omnipresent part of Dominican life is music. Drivers like to share what they are playing. Later, when we were in Jarabacoa after our return, we were to see the pinnacle of this generosity. Fortunately, the music is fabulous. The national music is merengue, but they accept pretty much any Latin option. El Conde sways with sound until the wee hours.

Our room was an inside, windowless room as all the outer rooms were taken. It was comfortable and the hotel itself was lovely. The owner (who, we learned later, is a self-exiled Cuban) was very helpful. We decided to book a room with him for our return from Canada. He showed us two, both overlooking El Conde, and gave us our choice.

We had to catch an early flight the next morning, so we crammed in a bit of very local sightseeing. I wanted to go to a bookstore. WW wanted an ATM (cash point). This led to some pretty interesting conversations with locals using our combined Spanish financial vocabulary of some two words -- peso, banco -- as well as such tricky ones as machina (we hoped that was a word), donde, and por favor. A great deal of charades was played, miming the insertion of a bank card into a bank machine slot. After we had circled the same block twice, we were clearly losing at charades, and WW announced he would ask the police.

The police in Santo Domingo are omnipresent, very young, and armed. Men and women alike, all appearing to be about 20 years old, wear their natty grey uniforms, and like to swing their batons or smack them smartly against their thighs. We approached two such officials, both lovely looking lads. We explained our need (pantomime, increasingly frazzled Spanish, I might have cried). They were very understanding and let us know (we are getting good at charades) that they would not just point the way, they would escort us.

We set off. At every street, whether we needed to cross it or not, they would march out, brandishing their batons, stop the traffic, and march us across. The locals became justifiably intrigued. What had these gringos done?? They escorted us through Parque Colon and started up Isabela la Catolica on the far side. As store owners peered from their doorsteps or peeked through their windows, our police escort marched us smartly by. Then a grey police SUV pulled up, full of what appeared to be commanding officers. The situation was explained and we were placed in the back seat. By now, the upper floor balconies were crammed with onlookers.

The officer drove us possibly 10 metres, then let us out and pointed at a Banco Popular. We thanked him very very much.

As we walked back to Parque Colon, a woman darted from her shop, asked in quite good English (oh that she had been around earlier) what the police had wanted with us. I don't think she believed they were just helping us find a bank. But she took the opportunity to try to sell us some caps.

Santiago

WW arranged for a car to take us to Santiago, about an hour and a half away, on Sunday, March 16. This was the first step on our voyage from Django to the Santo Domingo airport.

Both our driver and his car shared the same degree of decrepitude, but that's not unusual here. Motoconchos or scooters are the standard mode of transport for most people because of the very high price ($8US/gal) of gas. Emission controls are not a happening thing. The air pollution in any conurbation is a very sensory experience: tactile, olfactory, gustatory, etc. We saw almost no one on a scooter wearing a helmet, except in Santo Domingo. The driving is alarmingly aggressive. Honking is a way of saying, "Get out of the way", "Hi!", "I'm here", "Nice day, ain't it", and sundry other comments and invective. It is almost continuous.

As we headed off, we saw busloads of Dominicans unloading themselves at the beach. I asked our driver whether it was a festival. (Understand, please, at that point I had six words of Spanish; he had NO English.) He said something about "mano santo". I had never heard of the Holy Hand and wondered if it were a cult. It was only much later that we figured out it was Palm Sunday and the start of Holy Week (Semana Santa, not mano santo) which is a major holiday in the DR. All manner of activities, including snorkelling and fishing, are strictly prohibited during the entire week.

We jounced our way along relatively good roads, watching banana groves, rice paddies, and tobacco fields roll by. Santiago is in the central highlands, but in a valley. The beautiful Dominican mountains gradually surrounded us as we approached the city.

Our driver did not know the hotel we wanted. He read the name and address I had carefully copied from our Rough Guide. It didn't help. However, the Dominicans are nothing if not resourceful. He pulled over beside two young men on motoconchos and asked if they knew the place. One answered yes and, for 100 pesos (about $3 US) agreed to ride along and show our driver the way. We arrived safe and sound at the Colonial Hotel on the edge of what passes for a tourist district. Since most tourists are interested principally in beaches, Santiago is not top of the exploration list.

We wandered the streets and found a cafeteria-style eatery. The Rough Guide recommends these with the following qualifications: Make sure the food doesn't look two days old; if it does, it probably is. Eat only at a place full of locals. This one met both criteria, but I could not find the food appetising. I nibbled some of WW's and had a beer. (The DR beer Presidente is very nice and an exceeding improvement over the Bahamian Kalik.)

After lunch, we wandered up to "the monument" which was originally erected by the dictator Trujillo in honour of himself, but was immediately rededicated upon his demise. It's to the heroes of the revolution or somesuch now. Around it are several smaller monuments to the real DR heroes: baseball players.

WW, who used to indulge when he was in Bermuda, was delighted to see at least a dozen kites in the air. We had to go up and watch. It was brilliant. The kites are almost all homemade, of thin dowel and garbage bags. They can fly to extraordinary heights, under the control of their young (I'd say an average of 11 years old) controllers.

We rested in the shade and watched. A young man came to chat with us. He was delighted that we spoke French as it gave him a chance to practice his. (All Dominicans are required to take a second language, either French or English, in school and most opt for French since it it so much easier than English. As a result, a surprising number of them can communicate quite ably in French.) He told us he was originally from Ham-eye-eekah. He said it was a state. It was only on the second time round that we worked out the Spanish pronounciation for Jamaica.

We snoozed in our extremely unprepossessing hotel room, which featured possibly the most uncomfortable bed ever made. In the evening, we headed up toward the monument again. A chap at the hotel had said that was where we would find real Dominican food. We went into a place called Ole (sorry, can't do accents) where the menu was entirely in Spanish. We decided to just take the plunge and each try an appetizer. If that proved to be insufficient, we could order more later. I thought longaniza sounded cool, WW went for mondongo from the creole menu.

The next morning, when we told the man at the hotel where we had been, he said, "Wow! Very very traditional food! What did you have?"

We told him. He stared at WW and said in horror, "You had mondongo? But that's...that's..."

"Tripe soup," I supplied.

"Yes. Tripe soup," he said. "Ewww."

Mine was a quite nice sausage. It's one of the few mealtimes that I've won.