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.

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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!