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.

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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