Travel and Accomodations

Flying over the island of Hispaniola at night, it seems as though the cartographers got the shape of the island wrong. Clearly illuminated against the Caribbean sea are the borders of Dominican Republic, stretching from La Altagracia Province in the east, closest to Puerto Rico, all the way to Independencia Province in the west. Somewhere in between, on the southern coast, is Santo Domingo, the capital city.

What is not visible at night is Haiti. Save for maybe a few lights from Port-au-Prince, the country does not exist when the sun goes down. It’s as if it has fallen into the ocean at night, only to be reborn in the morning. Market women light candles to the lwa, to Baron Samdi and Ezili Danto, but I cannot see them from my airplane. I cannot hear them cry for food for a child from this distance, I cannot see them toil for one more day to survive. All I can hear is the captain telling us that we are about to land, and I can see the plane getting lower. Welcome to Santo Domingo.

Las Americas International Airport is small, but very clean, neat and organized in comparison to Miami International Airport. The rush and hustle of Miami are absent, replaced by a relaxing island rhythm. What is most apparent from the airport, though, is that the owners are very aware of what tourists want to see: models snorkeling, children playing on the beach, lovers holding hands in the sunset. There is no mention of a harder reality. For most who visit any developing country, they will never get a sense of what the average native’s life is like. I wonder if this is a careful PR move on the part of the nation being toured, or a product of the ignorance of richer nations.

To get out of the airport and into Dominican Republic, we are led into a line where we will present our passport as well as some forms that we filled out while on the plane. Honestly, I don’t mind, because since we got off the plane I have been checking out I woman I presume to be native to the DR. She is tall and thin, with long black hair and longer legs. She is speaking Spanish to a man, who I am guessing might be a boyfriend, but I’m hoping he’s a brother or another relative.

“Tourist card?”

My concentration is broken by the guard at the front of the line, who speaks just enough English to demand a tourist card from the passenger in front of me.

“What’s a tourist card?” I ask Paola, who is behind me.

“I’m not quite sure. I don’t think we need one.”

She engages the guard, who I shall call Line General, in a brief conversation, all in Spanish, completely out of my range of understanding. I’m trying to keep an eye on Leggy Dominican Girl, who by this time is already through the check-in and heading out the door. It was good while it lasted, babe.

“We need a tourist card,” Paola confirms to me.

Sanjeev, who is already passed through, reminds us to get a receipt. I guess tourists don’t enter the country with Indian passports and visas. But American ones…

About 20 people, including Paola and I back out of the line under the watchful gaze of Mister Tourist Card Line General, himself. A kiosk in the back of the room sells us a tourist card for ten American dollars. They take only cash, and they do not offer a receipt.

The Line General takes our tourist card and lets us through. He does not give us a receipt. Total time with the tourist card: 47 seconds. Cost: $10. Entering Dominican Republic with the sovereignty of a tourist card: meaningless.

Just outside, we meet our guide and host, Luis, who tells us a private interest owns the airport. This tourist card idea seems to be a source of some extra revenue from rich tourists.

The roads of Dominican Republic are silent and empty at 2am. I do not remember passing three cars as we drive the quiet highway along the southern coast of the small country on the way to our hotel. The road itself, for that matter, is only sometimes divided into lanes, and only sometimes completely paved. On the way, the path changed from three small lanes to one massive super lane more than once, and the shoulder changed from pavement to dirt the same number of times.

The ocean, to our left, is eerily vast and quiet in comparison to the vibrancy of South Beach back in Miami. The thriving shore hotels that are customary to Florida, New Jersey, California, and South Carolina are not present outside Santo Domingo, and instead are replaced by miles of rocky beach that is likely the way that rum runners and pirates found it before America had a United States. To our right is an alternating landscape of fields, forests, and small towns made of square concrete buildings and advertisements for familiar products: Fram Filters, Exxon, Coca Cola.

Luis turns around with an interesting thought. “Have you been to the clubs here?”

I think the question is directed at me, but everyone joins the conversation.

“You were telling me about this the last time I was here, I think, Luis. I don’t quite think we made it out.” Sanjeev ponders this while Paola offers, “I can only imagine.”

“The disco here is great. People love to party. They really make time for it. They live for it. But the president has put a curfew out. I think it’s an effort to get him reelected, like he’s showing that he’s strengthening the moral fiber. I can’t believe they’re closing the clubs at midnight on weekdays and 2am on Friday and Saturday.” Luis sounds like he spends a lot of time at the club.

“Will it stay like that?” I ask, concerned about how unfair all of this sounds. I mean, who is the president to run the lives of his people?

“No, probably not. It will probably change back just as soon as he’s reelected.”

Interesting, I think.

We drive on into the night, towards the Hotel Santo Domingo.

 

My room is possibly the biggest room in the hotel. It’s at least 12 times bigger than my dorm room. I could probably play a half court game of basketball comfortably in this room, with space left over for bleachers and a concession stand. And it has a balcony that overlooks downtown Santo Domingo. For a second, I imagine that this is the kind of room the Ghost Hunters would investigate.

Putting my bags and the camera down, I notice my very own fruit plate on the desk next to the mirror across the room. And when I say across the room, I must say that I’m surprised that I can see it. I make the journey over to the fruit plate. “With the Compliments of Kurt Tschamper, Managing Director”. The note is crossed out dramatically with one big slash running from the top left of the card to the bottom right. I later learn that this means that there are no formalities between Mr. Tschamper and me. It’s good to know that I have such good friends already.

I look at the plate for a long while, wondering how long it has been there, and then wondering if it is safe to eat fruit in a foreign country. Sometimes drinking the water in these paces makes me sick, so who’s to say that the honeydew is any different? After a few minutes of deliberation, I finally build up my courage. I greedily eat some pineapple and kiwi, then cover the plate for breakfast in the morning.

At this point, I decide to clean up and go to bed. It’s nearly 3am.

I turn on the shower, run the water for a few seconds, and then put my hand under the stream. The water is lukewarm at best. I wait a few more seconds. Still no dice. The water feels only as warm as the water in grandma’s swimming pool. I bite the bullet, figuring at this time of night the hot water is done for the day. The water isn’t that cold, and after initially screaming like a little girl, I am able to clean myself without major discomfort. Well, except for the fact that there is no shampoo. Next time, bring shampoo, I think. I have definitely been spoiled by American hotels, where I leave with more shampoo than I came with.

After my shower, I arrange for a 9am wakeup call, and go to sleep in my cave.