Monday, January 30, 2012
Sunday, January 29, 2012
motoconchos, aiee!
I feel it's time to discuss the motoconcho.
Before I arrived here I was under the impression that a motoconcho was a rickshaw-like contraption, a motorbike pulling a cart of sorts. Well, maybe that's what motoconchos are in other parts of the Dominican. But here they're just motorbikes, period.
On our first day, we were walking down our little jungle alleyway, when somebody from our camp came down on a motorbike and offered us a ride to the main road.
'Er, what do you mean? Me? or... ?'
'No, both of you of course.'
'On that?'
'Well, it's a hell of a lot bigger than any motoconcho you're going to catch.'
It was a rocky, bumpy, insane ride. My companion fell off going through a creek. (He wasn't hurt.) He got back on. My eyes were squeezed shut and I believed the driver to be crazy. It was sheer lunacy.
But sure enough, at the main road, Eddie, the first motoconcho to offer his services, indicated that we should both get on the back of his bike. 10 minutes later, we were in the heart of Las Terrenas, stunned speechless from the shock of our swift and harrowing descent from the hills. It was Culture Shock Supremo. The roads in town are narrow and rough, and swarming with motorbikes, scooters, ATVs (mostly driven by rich Gringos), and very occasionally, a truck or two. Motorbikes are the essential mode of transportation, and it seems that any dude who owns one is on the lookout for a fare. In many ways, this is fantastic, because anytime, anywhere, you can just nod at a passing concho to get a ride. It usually costs about $3, and you can tell the driver to pick you up again at an appointed time. It's a great system.... except for the fact that helmets don't exist here.
We insisted on having a concho each after that first perilous ride, but even so, the first few days' worth of motoconcho-ing were pretty well terrifying, until I learned the magic phrase:
"LENTO, por favor!"
Ahhhh. Slow and steady like a motorized turtle. The only way to see the Dominican Republic!
More notes on the concho:
1. My companion, J, and I have noticed that we experience different levels of service from these conchos. I get on the bike, say "Cien," they say, "OK," and when we arrive I pay the agreed amount (Cien = 100 pesos) and all is well. Then again, I'm a female. The male experience, according to J, is to arrive, pay agreed amount, and then be argued with. Every time he rides, his driver tries to haggle more money out of him. When I ride, I get treated to tour-guide commentary, attentive service ("Muy muy lento - bueno?"), invitations to merengue nights, once even a gallant peck on each cheek. A decidedly different experience from taking taxis back home.
2. Conchos are not just for tourists. Elderly ladies in Sunday best, sitting side-saddle with ankles crossed; whole families complete with small dog; mothers with tiny infants... all ride the motoconcho!
3. When motoconchos aren't driving fares around, their bikes seem to be put to use for transportation of all kinds of things. The back seat might be occupied by a big tank of propane, or an enormous cooler of beer, or a friend carrying an armful of long 2x4's - or, insanely, balancing a full-sized door on his head. Wonders to behold!
....
Before I arrived here I was under the impression that a motoconcho was a rickshaw-like contraption, a motorbike pulling a cart of sorts. Well, maybe that's what motoconchos are in other parts of the Dominican. But here they're just motorbikes, period.
On our first day, we were walking down our little jungle alleyway, when somebody from our camp came down on a motorbike and offered us a ride to the main road.
'Er, what do you mean? Me? or... ?'
'No, both of you of course.'
'On that?'
'Well, it's a hell of a lot bigger than any motoconcho you're going to catch.'
It was a rocky, bumpy, insane ride. My companion fell off going through a creek. (He wasn't hurt.) He got back on. My eyes were squeezed shut and I believed the driver to be crazy. It was sheer lunacy.
But sure enough, at the main road, Eddie, the first motoconcho to offer his services, indicated that we should both get on the back of his bike. 10 minutes later, we were in the heart of Las Terrenas, stunned speechless from the shock of our swift and harrowing descent from the hills. It was Culture Shock Supremo. The roads in town are narrow and rough, and swarming with motorbikes, scooters, ATVs (mostly driven by rich Gringos), and very occasionally, a truck or two. Motorbikes are the essential mode of transportation, and it seems that any dude who owns one is on the lookout for a fare. In many ways, this is fantastic, because anytime, anywhere, you can just nod at a passing concho to get a ride. It usually costs about $3, and you can tell the driver to pick you up again at an appointed time. It's a great system.... except for the fact that helmets don't exist here.
We insisted on having a concho each after that first perilous ride, but even so, the first few days' worth of motoconcho-ing were pretty well terrifying, until I learned the magic phrase:
"LENTO, por favor!"
Ahhhh. Slow and steady like a motorized turtle. The only way to see the Dominican Republic!
More notes on the concho:
1. My companion, J, and I have noticed that we experience different levels of service from these conchos. I get on the bike, say "Cien," they say, "OK," and when we arrive I pay the agreed amount (Cien = 100 pesos) and all is well. Then again, I'm a female. The male experience, according to J, is to arrive, pay agreed amount, and then be argued with. Every time he rides, his driver tries to haggle more money out of him. When I ride, I get treated to tour-guide commentary, attentive service ("Muy muy lento - bueno?"), invitations to merengue nights, once even a gallant peck on each cheek. A decidedly different experience from taking taxis back home.
2. Conchos are not just for tourists. Elderly ladies in Sunday best, sitting side-saddle with ankles crossed; whole families complete with small dog; mothers with tiny infants... all ride the motoconcho!
3. When motoconchos aren't driving fares around, their bikes seem to be put to use for transportation of all kinds of things. The back seat might be occupied by a big tank of propane, or an enormous cooler of beer, or a friend carrying an armful of long 2x4's - or, insanely, balancing a full-sized door on his head. Wonders to behold!
....
options
Playa Coson - the calm side.
Playa Bonita - the windy side.
Looking back down the windy side from Punta Bonita.
Directly in front of our bunaglow.This is our beach, Playa Bonita. It's on a little peninsula, one side of which is windy and wavey, the other calm and hot. We're sort of right in the middle. So I have my pick: bake in the sun and wallow in the tranquil waters, or body-surf and crash around in the waves. Fortunately, both options suit me just fine.
At some point, I'll talk about the 'real' Dominican, but I'm still in my honeymoon period with this location and its surreal beauty.
...
out from the jungle, into the sun
Our new digs. Hallelujah. Clean and bright, with the beach just outside our door. Yes, I am sorry to say that I'm not quite as rugged as I might like to think. I tried to make the best of our Jurassic Park experience (hell, I even said I relished it - ha!), but after 4 nights in our humid, dark, grimey hovel, I was done.
I don't need to relate the whole story. Suffice it to say that while exploring the exquisite Playa Bonita, (with long faces full of longing), we were rescued by a sweet Swiss man who recognized our need and managed to get us into an apartment... fully equipped with a kitchen stocked with cookware, high-power fans, a shower with serious water pressure, (yes, truly - hot as well as cold!), wifi, a beautiful patio, and even daily maid service. Only now that we're settled in are we realizing how on-edge and cranky we both were from day 1 as a result of our general discomforture and ever-constant demons of aversion! (A question of: acceptance or just change?) So, here we are. Working away happily, puttering in and out of doors, making lunch and eating it on the beach, going for a swim, walking in the surf and then cleaning up with hot showers, amusing ourselves with attempts at Spanish, and generally revelling in this new lifestyle. Me encanto esto!
I don't need to relate the whole story. Suffice it to say that while exploring the exquisite Playa Bonita, (with long faces full of longing), we were rescued by a sweet Swiss man who recognized our need and managed to get us into an apartment... fully equipped with a kitchen stocked with cookware, high-power fans, a shower with serious water pressure, (yes, truly - hot as well as cold!), wifi, a beautiful patio, and even daily maid service. Only now that we're settled in are we realizing how on-edge and cranky we both were from day 1 as a result of our general discomforture and ever-constant demons of aversion! (A question of: acceptance or just change?) So, here we are. Working away happily, puttering in and out of doors, making lunch and eating it on the beach, going for a swim, walking in the surf and then cleaning up with hot showers, amusing ourselves with attempts at Spanish, and generally revelling in this new lifestyle. Me encanto esto!
...
Friday, January 27, 2012
Thursday, January 26, 2012
make no assumptions
This morning - again, fresh after a rain:
Stepped on a large cockroach in the kitchen, and it didn’t bother me really. Adaptation, it really is amazing. We’re in the jungle now, and the status quo has shifted. Oy! I thought the rain was long finished, but suddenly the sun fades and it’s pelting down again. It is so beautiful up here, lush, and no wonder. Does this happen every morning? There’s a dog at my door, small and wiry and cute - he just looks in inquisitively for a while and then leaves. There's something on my chest – look down, kill the mosquito, too late. He’s full of my blood. Reminds me, time to take malaria pills.
I’m listening to Anne Sofie von Otter through headphones. Drowning out the noisy chaos – baby wailing, shouts and laughter of Dominicans working on the property, music, revving motorbike motors. We’re practically camping here, except that our tents have a solid roof, tile floor, toilet, sink, shower, fridge. But the outside is inside, since the windows are all open and the door is just a bug screen. You can’t really use the taps except to wash your body – cook and wash food with the bottled water. And anyways, the shower is little more than a trickle of cold water – easier to wash hair in the sink. There’s only one small dim light, and the night is so dark that we use candles and our headlamps. But I’m not complaining! I relish this. Life is so much simpler. Everything more deliberate. (eg. I think twice about whether I need another cup of tea, instead of just mindlessly flicking on the kettle again.) It feels kind of absurd to be typing on my laptop, reading on my e-reader, listening to an ipod. So contradictory and ironic. The fact that I need to go find an internet connection every day for work binds me to my alternate reality that I haven’t yet been able to shake off yet.
I walk into town again. Houses, those impossibly tiny homes, open right onto the street - people hang out of them. They all stare at me as I pass by, all smile and say "hola" back. A little boy joins me half-way into town. "Inglese?" "Yes!" "Hello, miss," he says shyly. We chat a little bit, not understanding each other at all. I tell him my nombre, he shakes my hand. Big grin.
It's real life. So vivid.
..
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
First days in the Dominican
Awake to a coolness on my face. Slowly register that it’s a wetness, that the sound of torrential rains fills the room.
The thatched roof is leaking.
No. Window.
Window is open.
A few minutes later, the cocks begin to crow. One of them, nearest to the bungalow, has a raspy voice and his cock-a-doodle sounds more like a roar.
Eyes open.
The roof isn’t thatched. The ceiling is peeling plaster. Reach for my headlamp, turn it on to check the time. 6:28 – not light yet? That’s a surprise. Thought it would be light before 6am. I'm anxious for the sun to rise. I want to get outside and walk into town.
Get up, change out of my sweat-soaked pajamas. Fill a pot with water from the hand-pumped water-bottle, boil it on the camp stove.
Now it’s 7:15 and I’ve got tea and an apple banana, some distant music has come on, sounds like (want it to be?) merengue, sky is pink and grey, a baby babbles a few bungalows down, the air is warm and moist as a tropical plant conservatorium back home, and unknown-unseen birds layer their calls and songs on the air.
I’m admiring my new watch. It’s pink and red, translucent plastic, adorned with cheery cherub faces, meant for a little girl. It was 100 pesos and the first watch I could find. (38 pesos=$1 CDN) It was either that or give up on knowing the time completely... there are no electronic devices in the room with digital clock faces, I have no cell phone here, I don’t yet have internet, and I need to brush up on my Spanish for ‘what time is it is?’ Actually, I’d be happy to live by the sun and moon here. But when you tell a motoconcho to come pick you up at the remote beach at X:00, you don’t want to miss your ride home.
No. Window.
Window is open.
A few minutes later, the cocks begin to crow. One of them, nearest to the bungalow, has a raspy voice and his cock-a-doodle sounds more like a roar.
Eyes open.
The roof isn’t thatched. The ceiling is peeling plaster. Reach for my headlamp, turn it on to check the time. 6:28 – not light yet? That’s a surprise. Thought it would be light before 6am. I'm anxious for the sun to rise. I want to get outside and walk into town.
Get up, change out of my sweat-soaked pajamas. Fill a pot with water from the hand-pumped water-bottle, boil it on the camp stove.
Now it’s 7:15 and I’ve got tea and an apple banana, some distant music has come on, sounds like (want it to be?) merengue, sky is pink and grey, a baby babbles a few bungalows down, the air is warm and moist as a tropical plant conservatorium back home, and unknown-unseen birds layer their calls and songs on the air.
I’m admiring my new watch. It’s pink and red, translucent plastic, adorned with cheery cherub faces, meant for a little girl. It was 100 pesos and the first watch I could find. (38 pesos=$1 CDN) It was either that or give up on knowing the time completely... there are no electronic devices in the room with digital clock faces, I have no cell phone here, I don’t yet have internet, and I need to brush up on my Spanish for ‘what time is it is?’ Actually, I’d be happy to live by the sun and moon here. But when you tell a motoconcho to come pick you up at the remote beach at X:00, you don’t want to miss your ride home.
A lot of the vegetation and sounds are familiar from Hawaii. Yes... stepping off the plane yesterday was a deep plunge into relief. The sweet return to paradise. (The air, it’s a balm!) But the rest of the day was a high-speed hopscotch of culture shock. Cause this sure ain’t America. It’s chaos and simplicity. Kids play catch outside in the streets, a tangle of motorbikes and scooters and clunky old trucks weave around them, families slouch comfortably around card tables under thatch terraces or shade of trees, houses tiny and bright and bare. Most shops are no bigger than closets and about as well-lit. Nothing really happens inside it seems, and why would it?
It's now almost 5pm, and I'm sitting at an outdoor Cafe with wifi, am very relieved that the internet works, and I can connect to work. It's been a blazingly hot day - the rainclouds were gone by 10am - and I've got the colour to prove it. Siesta is over and the shops are open again. There's a near-constant trickle of motorbikes passing by. Two men have been breaking up pavement right out front of the cafe for hours. Not with jackhammers as you might expect. With sledgehammers. Whack! Pause. Whack! Pause. The Dominican beer is delicious. Don't know yet about the Dominican food. There's a lot of pollo and carne and mystery items on the menus - so I have only eaten paninis so far. (Cheese&tomato&bread, hallelujah). The beach here in Las Terrenas is beautiful, and apparently it's the least attractive one in Samana. There's nobody on it, in spite of golden sand and bright azure water and waving palms. The locals tell us where the really nice beaches are. I guess when you live in the Caribbean, you have different standards...
So now, not much to do but buy some more pineapples and avocado, wine and beer, etc., wave down a motoconcho, hang on for dear life, and spend the evening at the bungalow. Maybe in the hammock. Maybe writing some music. It ain't half bad.
..
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