Cabarete Journal 3/10/93 It's the end of my second day here in Cabarete, so I thought this would be a good time to jot down my impressions. I'm having a good time here; it's about what I expected, maybe a little bit more, but not a whole lot. First thing that I must make clear is that if you don't windsurf and don't want to learn, don't come here. Cabarete has a beautiful bay and beach, but it's completely lined with wind surfing establishments. That's not to say don't come to the Dominican republic. I think this half island has a lot to offer and the people are among the friendliest in this part of the third world, but in Cabarete, wind surfing rules. There are a lot of Europeans here in Cabarete; outnumbering Americans two to one. Mostly West Germans then French Canadians and Dutch. The Dominican republic rebuilt and widened the main road, the North coast highway, a few years ago about the same time the Peso was devalued by 50%. The Germans (cant say West Germans anymore) came in with a lot of cash and turned this little fishing village into the wind surfing Mecca you see today. They picked a good spot. The bay is about two miles across with a reef about a mile and a half out. The trades come side-onshore and build slowly throughout the day. There's good sailing here for everyone - beginners to advanced wave hoppers. The water is as clean as the Caribbean but not quite as warm. A few of the sailors wear light weight wet suits, but these are the experts (and wannabes) that sail out past the reef were colder Atlantic bottom currents chill the surface waters. The crowd here is older than I expected. Maybe that has something to do with the time of the year, I don't know. I'll can ask Dan or Terry tomorrow. Dan and Terry came here from Madison Wisconsin a year ago to run the Bic Carib Wind surfing center. They may be husband and wife, may not be; it's hard to tell. Nice folks. They run a tight shop with two local boys and one French Canadian kid as staff. The equipment is well maintained and they hop to it whenever you need something adjusted or changed. The Bic Carib is the only outfit among the dozen or so at Cabarete that's run by Americans. Boy did I luck out. A bit more about the D.R. This is a third world country. I'm in a lovely efficiency apartment, but there's no TV, no phone and no newspapers. And, of course, you don't drink the water. No air conditioning in the room either, but you don't need it. The ceiling fan does fine and it's quiet. The electricity is US. standard, thank God, but it fluctuates over quite a range. I realized this the first night when I woke up freezing because the ceiling fan speeds up late at night as the people of Cabarete turn things off and go to bed. The D.R. (or R.D. for Republica Dominica, if you habla Espa–ol) is apparently a very well run country. El Presidente (also the name of the local beer) has been in power over 20 years, yet you don't see his picture anywhere, not even on the beer label. You don't see the military or the police hanging around looking for trouble either. And get this - No Income Tax, and the country is running a surplus! Interest rates are high and the banks are not insured, which is why the Germans came in with cash. There are also currency restrictions, i.e., you better spend all those Pesos here Ôcause you won't get your Deutch Marks back when you're ready to leave. I'm writing this at the kitchen table of my apartment at Las Qrquideas, The Orchids. It's past 11 PM and I've a bottle of the local rum to help with the aches and pains of my first day of wind surfing. Why is it that the cheapest rum in any country is always called "Ron Superior"? Dan and Terry have organized the dinners the past two nights and I began this chronicle upon returning from "El Patio", where about 13 of us had dinner, buffet style on somebody's, well, patio. Good Dominican home cooking, which is not saying much. Curiously, the cuisine here is bland and rather ordinary. Chicken and beef, rice and beans, salt and pepper. I've been told to avoid the local fish, except for deep ocean swimmers. The local fish eat a poisonous reef coral and the toxin can move up the food chain. The shrimp with garlic is safe and pretty good too. I've been reading Robert Pirsig's "Lila" and I think I'll wrap this up for tonight and get in another chapter before hitting the sack. Ma–ana. 3/11/93 In no ocean, lake or river will you ever find a sardine. The term refers to any small fish packed tightly into a tin can. It's also an apt description of the people in a Qua-gua or Publico, the public transportation system between cities in the Dominican Republic. It's a Mitsubishi mini-van that you flag down anywhere along the road and hop (it rarely comes to a complete stop) aboard. I awoke this morning with even more aches and felt that it wouldn't be so bad if I missed a day of wind surfing. This would be a good day to go into Puerto Plata and visit the Amber Museum. Humongous deposits of Amber were discovered in this part of the D.R. a decade ago, and unlike the stuff that comes from the Balkans, D.R. amber is loaded with 50,000,000 year old bits of insects, grass, termite shit, animal hair and whatnot. My honey, Lynne, loves the stuff and a piece from the museum gift shop would be just the right souvenir to bring back for her. After stopping at Bic Carib to get my gear out of the locker so it could dry in the rack while I was gone, I found a shady spot on the road to wait for the next Qua-gua. One came along a few minutes later. I hopped aboard and shimmied over a couple of boxes into the only free seat, facing the rear of the van with my back against the driver's. I began to count in amazement. There were 19 adults and one pretty little girl with orange ribbons in her hair aboard. That's not counting the driver and the fare taker who hung on the outside of the van in the open doorway. Between Cabarete and Sosua, three more adults and a small boy joined our happy band. We passed through cane fields and open land dotted with palm trees where horses and cattle grazed. Occasionally passing a newly built resort hotel. Most of the passengers got off between Sosua and Puerto Plata. Passengers rap twice on the ceiling to signal a stop at the next intersection, house or driveway. By the time we entered Puerto Plata, the only people left in the van were me, the driver, the fare attendant and two young lovers in the back still pretending they were sardines. We stopped at a small shack in a Puerto Plata side street. A heavy set man got up from his card table in front of the shack and approached us. Hand shakes, smiles and small talk was exchanged with the driver as the attendant counted the take. Notations were made on a small pad, more hand shakes, smiles and we were off. The casual, unofficial nature of all this bothered me until I realized that the driver was playing the numbers based on the trip's receipts and the heavy set man was just a North coast Ed McMahon. End of the line; Central Park, Puerto Plata. A young Dominican introduced himself as Jose and offered to be my guide. His English was OK, so I said OK. "But, I only want to see the Amber Museum and a couple of gift shops, then have a beer before heading back. "How much they charge you?" He asked, Pointing to the Qua-gua. "Thirty Pesos from Cabarete." I replied. "Too much. They should have only charged you 10, but they see you are a tourist. That's the way it is here." He shook his head. "I take you to the Amber Museum, but don't buy from there. I wait for you, then take you to a good shop where you get a better price." The Amber Museum is a small, two room affair on the second floor of a large four room gift shop. None the less, it is very interesting and well worth the visit next time you're in Puerto Plata. There are large pieces of raw amber the size of concrete blocks and small polished pieces containing insects and other neat shit. Photo enlargements next to each exhibited piece convince you that these critters weren't born yesterday. On the wall above the exhibits, murals show how earthquakes and storms washed the forests down from the steep mountain sides into shallow tidal basins. Amber, which is petrified tree sap, floats in salt water, and so, neatly collected itself as these basins evaporated in the tropical sun. These deposits are found today between alternating layers of sandstone and shale. I bought a beautiful piece in the gift shop, then, Jose took me to another shop where I bought another three pieces for a price less than the first piece. We walked to the harbor then back to Central Park as Jose asked me questions about New York. I bought a Presidente grande in a small open air restaurant on the park and poured us each a glass. It was deliciously cold. "How much would a taxi cost back to Cabarete?" I asked as we finished our beers. "Hmm, about 150 Pesos." "That's good," I said. "help me negotiate with a driver. OK?" He took me to a taxi and the driver, also named Jose, immediately shook his head at our offered price. "How much, then?" I asked. He thought about it. "220 Pesos." "Hell," I said, "if I want to get robbed, I can take the Qua-gua!" He gave a short laugh. "150 is not enough. How much you pay?" We settled on 175 Pesos. I then turned to Jose-1 and gave him 25 Pesos. "Muchas gracias, amigo," I said. He frowned. "50 Pesos," he said, seriously. "What, for a hour and a half! No way." But I took pity on him and gave him another five Pesos for teaching me the way it is with tourists. Back at Cabarete, the wind was blowing and my aches had disappeared. I had a banana for lunch, changed into my swimsuit, headed to the beach club and took my first ride on a short board. 3/13/93 I expected to be home by now, but, unfortunately, "The storm of the century - The mother of all storms", has hit the East coast and nothing is flying nowhere. I didn't find this out Ôtil I got to the airport early this afternoon. I called back to Las Orquideas where Jose, the desk clerk, said they'd find a room for me. Then I called Lynne and got the details on the snow. We talked for a long time. The telephone office had air conditioning. Back in Cabarete, I went down to the beach club, said Hi to Dan and Terry, explained what had happened. I hung out in the hammock all day reading "Lila" and exchanging weather and travel news. Only the experts were sailing that day. The wind had shifted around to the Southeast blowing up to 40 knots, side-offshore. Those who tried had to swim their short boards out 100 meters or so to where the wind wasn't obstructed and they could water start. Needless to say they had a rough time getting back in as well. I ate dinner that night at the hotel restaurant, La Cafe Flores. A pavilion across a small garden from the pool. It was an open-air affair with thatched roof, ceiling fans, rattan furniture and a parrot. Friday and Saturday, they serve buffet. I was a few minutes early, so I sat at the bar and ordered a rum punch. The manager of the restaurant was a distinguished Dominican woman named Mesa. We engaged in the kind of conversations you usually have sitting in bars and not knowing the other's language too well. Several large groups of Germans came in. Mesa guided them to their tables. Her German seemed quite fluent. "Ihrer Deutchen is sehr Gut." I said, complementing her when she returned. "Ah, Sprechen sie Deutch?" She asked. "Ein bissel." I replied, explaining that I studied it in high school and understood it better than I could speak it. The buffet tables were loaded. Not wanting to be in a line behind the Germans, I excused myself and headed for the food. I don't know why I didn't expect it, but I was surprised to find that it was a German buffet. However, the veal and pork chops were thick and beautiful; I picked a couple for the chef to bar-b- que while I loaded my plate with salad and red beans and rice. As I finished my first plate at the bar, Mesa asked, "Is good, you like?" "Yes, but I ever expected to be eating at a German buffet in the Dominican Republic." "Nein, Nein, es is a Dominican buffet." She said. "ÀDominican?" I asked, astonished, "Mit Vienner Schnitzel?!" "Ya, und Noodlen, alzo!" We both laughed. The girl tending the bar, who only spoke Spanish, also laughed. Mesa explained the joke to her and she related it to the two girls, I think they were her younger sisters, who had come up to the bar from behind the buffet tables. A young man from Quebec joined us at the bar and the conversation expanded to four languages and a wide variety of subjects enjoyed over coffee and rum. Mesa turned off the stereo and a small meringue band began to play for the Germans in the main part of the restaurant. Either all meringue bands are exactly alike or this one band works all the time. Always three players, one plays a small accordion, another a small double drum, one end played with a stick, the other with the hand. The third player has a rhythm thing made from a tin cylinder punched with holes that a stick is rasped against. The sound, though simple, is quite infectious. The bar tender and her sisters had disappeared. Now, as the band launched into a spirited number, they reappeared from the back in "native dress" and danced to the center of the room to demonstrate the Rhumba, the Samba and the Meringue. They were a sensation. The Germans dropped their desert forks and picked up their Leicas and HandyCams. After a couple of numbers the girls started pulling patrons up from the tables to dance with them. It was wonderful. As I took in the whole scene - ceiling fans, rattan furniture, philodendrons climbing the columns to the palm thatched roof; the parrot, the tall drinks with umbrellas, the local band and the dancing girls in native dress, the tourists with their cameras - I was suddenly reminded of Thailand. Only the music and native dress were different, everything else was the same. I realized that this same ritual was happening everywhere in the tropics, in a hundred different cultures. Uno Mundo! The girl who had tended bar must have seen the stupid smile on my face. She came over grabbed my hand and pulled me onto the dance floor. A couple of weeks from now, in Bremmen or maybe Berlin, in a suburban home with the neighbors over, they'll point to the redhead on the TV screen with the slightly glazed look in his eyes and the music in his feet. "Ein Americanishe Wind surfer," The tan German will say. Little do they know I'm dancing around the World.