Luna de Miel

A small surprise

I finally finished writing up my journal entries from our luna de miel (honeymoon) in the Dominican Republic.  It was a great trip and I had fun reliving it to share with you.

Here's a list of all twelve posts in chronological order:

• Tales from a Gringo Honeymoon
• Sosúa
• 27 Charcos del Río Damajagua
• Cabarete
• Samaná
• Playa Rincon and Las Galeras
• El Capital
• Zona Colonial
• Bayibe
• Higuey
• Bávaro
• Ana 

But wait, there's more! For full photographic richness there's the Gringo Honeymoon photoset

Or in map form:

• View first 200 photos in google maps
• View the entire photoset in a 229kb kml (google earth)

And here's the slideshow:

Ana

The morning brought Ana. The tropical storm was clearing Puerto Rico and due in Punta Cana by evening. Whitecaps covered the sea and from the balcony we could make out the orange flag flying through slanting rain. Our solo catamaran venture was not to be. All boats were beached and chained. Sunglasses were necessary, not for sun, but blowing sand. Shelly found a small coconut tree washed up on the beach and we strolled hand in hand in the company of a dozen other gringos who found a half full glass in these conditions, possibly only because the rain had filled it. Honestly, compared to the Oregon coast it was still paradise. For one thing you could wade in the water and still feel your toes.

Tropical Storm Incoming

Storm Whipping the Palms

Final trip to the bar

But our time was short and the mood of the resort mirrored our emotions. It felt like the end of summer camp. Chiefly because of the rain we were the only ones outside their room. It was only those leaving who filled the hallways and lobbies. We said our goodbyes, left our propinas with staff members we had befriended and found our van to the airport.

The airport was a rude reintroduction. Two hundred gringos in a queue, one American Airlines employee to check them in. Quite a shift from the pampering we had left so recently. We softened the return to reality with a bottle of wine the hotel had gifted us, inexplicably already opened. It helped, but we only made a small dent in it before we reached security and passed the bottle off to a very grateful gardener who was outside the airport formally, but separated by a three foot stone wall. We made his day. Actually, his joy made my day as well. The rest of the trip was a routine, but rough awakening to western incivility.

Coconutty

Bávaro

If you want Brent to relax, it's best like Kootenai to take him on a long run, don't feed him well and keep him awake... having done that for nearly two weeks, relaxation came easy.

We got up late. We lounged under the palm umbrellas. We played in the surf. We hung out at the pool bar. We ran on the beach together. We dined in the evening and danced at the nightclub. It wasn't until the third day of sybaritic laziness that I started getting restless.

Majestic Colonial at Night

Hi, Bocce!

Happy Din(n)ers

Our Room

Majestic Colonial Grounds

Beach

Caribbean

Palmrella

Relaxing

I told Shelly I was going for a stroll. It started innocently enough, but before long I felt the siren call of a village I could just make out on the horizon down the beach. It looked so close and the miles passed easily with the constant visual stimulation of near-naked ladies lining the beaches of one resort after another. Take this story as a cautionary tale, beware of the power of the Caribbean sea, sand soccer games and topless oiled lass, after thong-clad ass.

It was nearly an hour before I reached the village, after which, realizing my tardiness, I sprinted the whole way back. Despite my speed I couldn't help but notice how much attention I was getting. I returned to the resort over an hour later to Shelly's arm folded stance which quickly changed from rebuke to concern long before I made it within ear shot. Arriving she exclaimed in horror, "What happened?" Not understanding, I followed her gaze downward to see the entire front of my shorts covered in blood. Aghast, I ran into the sea to wash off and survey the damage. Too bad neither one of us thought to stop and take a photo. It was an alarming amount of blood.

I discovered the velcro closure on swim trunks - which I must admit had caused some minor chafing at 27 Charcos, had attacked the end of my manhood. The wound wasn't hospital worthy, or even bandage-able, but it was certainly below-average for my honeymoon. It was time to put on the not-in-service light and self-medicate at the beach bar.

Route of my infamous run

Vendor area at the end of my run

There's a camera on your face my dear

Sugary Sandscript

Love Love

This would be great... if there weren't people on my face

Later that evening we dressed up in the finery that we'd schlepped for two weeks just for the occasion. Shelly wore her white bicycle getaway dress and I a suit and tie for our "special" honeymooners romantic meal. I'll spare you, my readers, my diatribe on human psychology I have in mind for resort management and summarize only with, if your resort is looking to save money, don't do so by promising your guests special treatment only to deliver buffet leftovers and service so poor that the new groom is forced to serve his own drinks for himself, his new bride and other forgotten honeymooners sitting in seclusion at their tables in the far corner of the restaurant.

All Dressed Up

Grin

Despite my injuries including: sunburn, a chaffed crotch and a badly bruised rib from a poor boat exit snorkeling - Shelly and I were both up for adventure by our fourth day. In the morning we rented tandem sea kayaks which we took out in the surf and reef. Afternoon brought catamaran lessons. The guide was not bilingual and judging by Shelly's translations, lingual may have been a stretch. But through the international system of grunts and hand gestures he managed to translate the intricacies of sailing. Well, maybe not the intricacies but I was able to tack into the wind and return with the wind before handing the rudder off to Shelly who repeated my movements with the use of words. He was quite the guide. Now that I mention it, quiet, somewhat unfriendly guides were a theme of the trip, though in compared to Buco at 27 Charcos, this guy was Julie on the Love Boat.

Sailing was incredible. If I ever live near a large body of water, I will have access to a sailboat. It was so liberating to harness the wind and glide across the water - sometimes nearly directly into the wind. Like skiing is to snowmobiling, sailing is to boating. There is a smoothness, a oneness and fluidity to it I had never experienced before on water. I loved it.

We dined our last night at the buffet, shaking our heads at the variety and quality of the food and left wondering why we bothered with the "gourmet" restaurants or the "special bridal dinner." The ceviche and fresh grouper pan-fried to order were outstanding. Not to mention the mangu, one of many varieties of plantain dishes, but by far the most memorable. We capped off our last evening with a Presidente, a chi chi and a barefoot stroll on the beach under a clear sky in advance of the coming storm.

Signing Off

Higuey

Our bus from La Romana to Higuey arrived under a steady downpour. The sewers were overflowing in trash-laden rivers down the streets. Despite the rain, we were immediately surrounded by children and adults aggressively begging for money and grabbing at us and our bags. Our luggage suggested wealth which our two stomachs new little of, having shared only a small pizza and a couple crackers in the last twenty-four hours.

This is not to say we weren't still having fun and enjoying the experience, but somehow the idea of the all-you-can eat buffet waiting ahead at the all-inclusive in Punta Cana didn't sound all that bad. We were rounding a corner in our travels.

We made a quick dash through outstretched hands, jumping small streams of water and debris before heaving our bags in the back of a bus readying to depart. One boy ran ahead, skating on the oil-slicked floors of the bus station ahead of me, grabbing the rear brush guard and whipping around the rear of the bus out of sight with all the skill of Dan Jansen on a good day. I could just make out his feet behind the rear tire as I bent to load the luggage. Shelly boarded, and I stayed behind the bus until the luggage door was closed and locked before running and jumping aboard the bus as it departed.

Yes, it was time. The fun of exploration was dwindling under the helplessness one feels when confronted with poverty of this magnitude. The insularity of the resort suddenly didn't sound so bad. One guagua ride and a bus sermon later we landed in another world. The Punta Cana Airport and more gringos than we had seen on the entire trip combined - all huddled under the open thatched roof looking startled and afraid under strobe-like illumination of lightning strikes.

We quickly found the contacts who we'd been unable for the past two weeks to raise on the phone. They made up a flight number to appease the resort who couldn't dream of gringos spending time on the island somewhere besides the resort. Moments later we were on a posh bus receiving tips on safe travel in the Dominican Republic, "Do not drink the water and we strongly advise against traveling by motoconcho or local microbuses." We were nearly as disoriented as our American, Canadian and European companions. Posh became painful when we discovered our resort was last in a long parade of stops. It was like running to the bathroom only to find a locked door. Starving we opened our only sustenance, what was left of our last bottle or rum. Our haggard appearance allowed me to befriend two ladies from Baltimore, who, it seemed had the most horrid travel experience ever - a delayed direct flight. Well, the worst ever until the conversation turned and they asked us how our flight went.

Pampering always leaves me uncomfortable, but the idea of the buffet grew more enticing by the mile. Relaxing around a pool or on the beach with a cold Presidente didn't sound half bad either. And that is pretty much how we spent the first twenty-four hours: We walked the grounds the acquaint ourselves. We feasted at the buffet. We shared the jacuzzi in our room. We slept in late. We hit up the buffet again.

Landing

Bayibe

In the future when I end up on the side of the highway beside a cafeteria in the middle of nowhere, with a humorous array of bags amidst heavy truck traffic with the sun setting, I'll be sure to at least snap a picture.

We'd arranged for special treatment and clearly that is what we had received. The bus, we were assured, would stop in La Romana, but she hurtled right through. Then for sure we thought it would stop and let us off at the road to Bayibe, but no dice. By this point Shelly and I were pretty concerned, concern that was met with indifference by the driver who assured us he was stopping soon, roughly a mile after the last road to Bayibe, which is how we had arrived here, at the cafeteria in the middle cattle pastures, apparently the halfway point on the run between Santo Dominto and Punta Cana, and clearly he'd done us no favors at all. In case we had any doubt, the the 10,000 peso "deal" he'd arranged with a local pickup driver to carry us the last 12 km sealed it. It was ok, though, because even if we want to be fleeced for being gringos we were totally unprepared - as checking out of our last lodging they had refused to take credit and as a result we were painfully low on pesos. So what could we do? We carried our bags across the highway and waited.

Thankfully, after fifteen fruitless minutes a guagua did arrive and they managed to convice us to return not a two minutes backward to the turnoff to Bayibe, but fifteen minutes backward to La Romana where they assured us we would be able to catch the last bus to Bayibe. Running across traffic we made it. It was cramped, but because we got on at the start they allowed us and our three bags to make the journey. As gringisimo as our appearance must have seemed, we were easily trumped by the Italian woman ahead of us who tossed disgusted looks back to her husband beside us who could only shrug as we piled first four, then five to a row in the crammed van. One can only imagine the looks she threw when Shelly and my bags and bodies were replaced with a dozen people in Bayibe before the guagua roared off leaving us standing in the town center amidst a raucous street party.

Meringue was blaring from the corner store and were it not for our bags and nearly complete lack of money we would have immediately joined the fifty plus people spilling out of the store and into the street.

Unfortunately, we had to find lodging before everyone went to bed. The residents we greeted were friendly, answering us cordially with a smile. The slow casual vibe of the town was narcotic. We soon learned the bank was closed and there was no ATM, so we were down to what we carried. After a few failures we located a small cabin near the town center in our price range (pobre). The tap water smelled like sewage and air conditioning blew cold tobacco smoke instead of air, but it was delight. Ok, so there was a horizontal surface and the door locked. All good.

We found a small pizza joint we could also afford, and we shared a long dinner. The length was not necessarily by design, but again I guess you get what you pay for, and we were in no position to pay.

By morning we were down to cold pizza and crackers. Not the best breakfast, but when your down to only a couple pesos any food is amazing and the crackers help scrape the tobacco taste from the air conditioning off your tongue.

Outside our door we found a town transformed. Gone was the slow comfortable vibe. Today one would think Bayibe was hosting Woodstock. Though warned by guidebooks, we were still startled by the morning activity. Big diesel trucks were everywhere, overloaded with cases or rum, coke, presidente and food stuffs. Teams of men worked to fill oversized coolers on the beach. Was a hurricane making landfall? Yes, in the form of dozens of buses packed with gringos bound for a booze cruise - snorkel/scuba trip to Catalina Island.

We chose to avoid the Punta Cana droves a bit longer and attempted instead something more local, to simply rent snorkel gear and swim out in the bay. We were thwarted at first by an extremely rude German woman at the corner scuba shop downtown, luckily a walk down the beach and Shelly's mad spanish skills landed a one hour boat and guide rental for both of us for $30. We did have to wait an hour until all the packed boats of gringos left town to ensure we didn't get run over in the melee.

Our first dive was at a wrecked ship, some 40 meters long and submerged in about 12 meters of water. The fish were not as impressive as Sosua and I was somewhat disappointed, but there was an eerie aspect to diving down to the wreck. I tried to get some photos of Shelly diving down to the boat, but before long the sound of nearby boats screaming by and the wake crashing over our snorkel tops led us back out of the water to the boat.


Shel Diving to a Wreck

By this point, the inner bay had cleared of boats and water had calmed to allow safe exploring. The entire floor of Bayibe Bay was only four to six feet deep and covered with coral. Fish of every color swarmed about - and that was before Shelly started sharing the leftover pizza crust. Within seconds, we were surrounded by more fish than water. White and yellow angel-like fish collided with our bodies and clouded our vision. Soon, other schools moved in filling out the rainbow with blues, oranges and green. Several peculiar species stuck out including foot-long deep purple fish accented by an all orange tail introduced in a sharp arrow shape, another resembled a rugby shirt striped in wide white, gray, black and Argentine blue. The most memorable were translucent long thin sword-like fish, but with with thin shovel-like noses which moved slowly through the reef highlighted by neon blue piping. It was incredible. Shelly didn't even get seasick.


Bayibe Bay

Speaking of conditions, our hour ended just as the sky darken and we hit the beach under a light rain. By the time we reached our cabin rain was falling in sheets. We were grateful not to be on one of the Punta Cana tour boats crammed shoulder-to-shoulder in the open sea.

Instead, we waited for the storm to pass before loading our things onto the waiting guagua and handing over our last pesos to return again to La Romana.

Zona Colonial

Zona Colonial

After the fruhstucks of Villa Serena we were left ill-fortified by the meager rations at El Beatrio to face the gauntlet of tour guides, beggars and street vendors we would meet in Zona Colonial, the old historic city center of Santo Domingo. We made it to only a couple sites, the highlight of which had to be the Larimar Museum - a poetic/mystical take on geology - before we had to find sustenance in a comedoria that did not disappoint. For only 100 pesos each we ate until we were stuffed on the so-called Dominican flag: rice (arroz), chicken (pollo) and beans (frilloles).

Energized, we continued our tour only to have it heavily modified by a strong summer downpour interspersed with quick sun breaks. We dashed through Fortaleza Ozama (first castle in the Americas), Cathedral Santa María La Menor (America's first cathedral), and final found our way inside out of the rain at the National Museum. The Amber Museum provided the conclusion of our sightseeing in the form of an oh so helpful - can I just give you a tip to walk the heck away - guide.


Floral Alleyway


My slow Spanish comprehension


Coral Tympanum


1st Western Church in the New World


Skull-bedecked Impost


Pay no attention to the ghost in the corner


Santo Domingo Fortress


Drake attacked these walls


Safe Harbor


Coral Masonry


Falling Water


Deluge


Interesting Map, I'm not sure about the facts or the presentation


I'm a Fan

Sightseeing complete, we took a late afternoon siesta anticipating a wild night out in the big city later. When we awoke instead to a Monday night. Monday was not the evening for Santo Domingo. Most clubs were closed Monday and Tuesday so we did our best considering conditions and dined on the pedestrian arcade. We caught up with the world on the restaraunt's wifi and traded dancing for playing with the street dogs while pining for our own puppies.

I awoke the next morning in a Rick Steves induced haze.  We'd run from site to site the day previous, but I didn't really feel we'd seen the real Santo Domingo.  As a result, I was quite on board when Shelly suggested we travel to what was describe to us as the local shopping mall to buy gifts for friends before departing the capital.  We took the long way to the mall, some side trips intentional, others accidental.  It was enjoyable not being the target of street vendors and simply another man on the street with a hot wife deserving of whistles.  Ok, so we didn't quite blend in.  But we gringos stumbled through town discovering all sorts of gems like a delightful produce cargo bicycle, a monument to revolutionary heroes, and a bevy of riot police taking a siesta in the park.


Fruit Vendor Cargo Bicycle


Market

We finally located the "mall" after nearly an hour of exploration.  It was not a mall at all in the western sense, but instead a farmers market ringing a building packed with tourist vendor stalls overflowing with painting, larimar, amber, baskets, cigars and carvings.  I sat back and did my mute impression again as Shelly haggled with the vendors, reducing the price at least three times, sometimes ten times below the sticker price.  A few chochtkes heavier and few pesos lighter we resumed our cross town trek finding the malecon (boardwalk) and Gazque, a commercial and residential district where we had a late lunch at the latin equivalent of a Boston Market.


Line Worker's Nightmare

Again our luck and timing held, learning at the end of our exploration without planning it just enough time to pay the hotel bill, hop a taxi and buy a ticket to La Romana with just one minor, but significant, complication.  The bus we were promised to La Romana no longer stopped in La Romana.  It went through La Romana, but it didn't stop.  We were again victims of poor transportation advice.  After some eye-rolling consultation and some rapid pleading in spanish on Shelly's behalf, magically the driver and staff agreed to stop the bus in La Romana and drop us off for a not too exorbitant negotiated fee.  With less than a minute to spare our bags were loaded and we were aboard on our way to La Romana.