“It’s the middle of the night, we are in a foreign country, we don’t speak the language, we are in the wrong city, we don’t have our luggage and I’m exhilarated” is what I said to Anna on the first night of our vacation. It didn’t take much convincing to get us on a plane out of the snowy Midwest to a tropical paradise in January. Take your pick:
Anna and I had been looking forward to taking a trip to visit my old pal Danielle and see the great work she is doing with the Peace Corps, so we booked some tickets and made a plan. As it turns out, things aren’t as simple as hopping on a plane and finding yourself in a subtropical paradise, but I wasn’t about to let anything ruin my vacation, not: airline delays, missed connections, lost luggage, earthquakes, motorcycle accidents, or even manslaughter charges or kidnappings (Anna’s clarification: The Dominican Republic is actually quite safe, and we are not, nor have we ever been, accused of either of the latter two examples). No, a kidnapping is really just an opportunity meet new friends. We had intended to fly into Santiago, but ended up flying into Santo Domingo, instead. But, we thought, no big deal, we’d spend a night in a hotel in Santo Domingo, rent a car and a GPS and point it toward San Jose de las Matas, where we thought Danielle lived. We didn’t know exactly how to contact her—so far phone and email weren’t doing the trick—so we printed off a brochure of the cabana we had rented, and a picture of Danielle, figuring we would ask around (you know, using those language skills I never got around to learning) and that we would find her in no time.The trip to San Jose de las Matas required us to drive from Santo Domingo to Santiago (about 90 miles) and then head into the countryside from there. The road to Santiago is a divided highway that appears pretty similar to a freeway in its construction, but is different in use. Many people have small motorcycles (roughly 100cc), and they are everywhere—including going the wrong way down the right-hand shoulder of the freeway. There are guaguas, usually minivans, that shuttle between two cities without set schedules or stops, and because of this there are a lot of pedestrians on the highway; when someone wants to get off they just yell. When they are en route they often have the side door open with a guy hanging out yelling to pedestrians, carnival-barker style, to inform them of their destination, should they want a ride. In addition to the pedestrians and motorcycles, the roadside and shoulder are an ever-changing scene of grazing horses and donkeys tied to trees and vendors selling everything from roadside open-pit cooking, to hand-made hooked rugs and massive sweet potatoes. And yes, those are two guys riding on the back of a flatbed truck—on the freeway!
I have been an avid reader of Danielle’s blog for her entire Peace Corps assignment, so I knew that the town Danielle lives in is a very small one, where many people are related to one another, and most certainly know each other. When we got to San Jose de las Matas, we could see in the post-dusk “golden hour” that this town was slightly larger than the home base Danielle had described in her blog, so after driving around a little bit we decided to stop at a small bar and inquire. After some very rudimentary Spanish on Anna’s part—enough to establish that none of us were truly bilingual—the proprietor motioned for us to follow her. She picked up her toddling son, stood him in front of her on the running board of her motor scooter and took off, with us in hot pursuit. This unbelievably helpful woman paused to ask directions from some of the many people hanging out on their front porches enjoying the comfortable evening air, and eventually led us to the home of the landlord of the rental house. She knocked on the door and explained to the woman who answered that there were a couple of lost Americanos looking for her rental house. The Doña got her cell phone and called Danielle, and in a few short moments handed the phone to me, whereupon I heard “Nathan, I’m so glad you are alive. Now I’m going to kill you.” Danielle spoke with the Doña and asked her to call a taxi and explain to the taxi driver how to get to the cabana. The taxi soon arrived, and we followed it to the cabana. I had read on Danielle’s blog shortly before our trip that her road was “impassable” so we had opted for the midsize rental car, and we were really happy to have it when we went to Danielle’s village and found that it was riddled not only with potholes, but also the occasional mudpit capable of drowning a woolly mammoth.Part 2: El campo
We spent two nights in a beautiful cabana in the lush countryside. There is a broad divide between rich and poor in the Dominican Republic. In Santo Domingo there had been signs of affluence, including a Mercedes-Benz dealership, high-end boutiques and various other trappings of wealth. In the countryside, a wealthy person lives like your average middle-class person in the States (newer SUV, 3-bedroom home with 24-hour electricity, glass windows, etc.) and the poor live a strange mix of current technology and old-world subsistence agriculture. Having money, we had the privilege of living like wealthy Dominicans. Here you see the view of the patio, pool and sitting area.
Anna and I, Danielle and her host brother, spent time at the cabana chilling out, telling tall tales, cooking Dominican-style oatmeal and Danielle’s fantastic stir-fry, and generally having an awesome time.Danielle lives more like a poor Dominican, without an inverter/car battery system—which would provide consistent electricity—and with metal louver frame windows instead of glass. Danielle’s cinder block dwelling is situated at the top of a hill and fairly close to the road (I guess you could call it a road). The view is amazing, and we have a camera with a panoramic function.
We spent some time hanging out in San Jose de las Matas, (nickname: Sajoma) where we visited an art studio and checked out some very cool original art and high-design coffee tables. We also ran some errands like food shopping and using the ATM. We had planned to buy some clothing in Sajoma, as our luggage had been lost and we had been wearing the same clothing for days at this point—some of it still damp from earlier attempts at hand-washing. When Danielle’s cell phone rang and the person on the other end said something to the effect of, “We have luggage for Mista Bragg, Americano, where are you?” we could hardly believe it. Moments later, two airline employees in a van arrived at the corner and, after a quick ID check, we had our luggage back. We had honestly thought it was gone forever, and I was just hoping that whatever airline executive was wearing my bathing suit was doing it justice. Upon closer inspection, it turns out our bags were just missing in action.
While in Sajoma, Danielle and Anna enjoyed some of the economic advantages of coming from a wealthy country and got their hair washed and dried for a mere pittance. 
The economic disparities are striking, and this trip has caused me to think a great deal about capitalism. Many things are really cheap in the Dominican Republic; even hard goods that are not so dependent on labor, like wood clothing hangers, for instance, are a lot cheaper than any price that we have been able to find in the states. Yes, we have shopped around for wood hanger prices. This has led me to believe that the free market only “works” when it is making someone money—and with money comes power, and with power comes more money. The hangers are cheaper in the D.R. because no one would be able to afford them or buy them if they cost what they do in the U.S. The means of production controls the price, and rather than selling at prices consistent with the costs of production, they are selling at “market price” which, as near as I can tell, is an arbitrary amount. This supports my belief that the free market should be constrained in the interest of the public. 
The D.R. is an example of capitalism in Latin America. The D.R. was never under a socialist regime, due to the various interventions of the U.S. and the personality cult regime of the former dictator, Trujillo, who ruled from 1931 to 1961. In some cases, the invisible hand of capitalism works—for example, of all things: food safety. Bottled water appears to be safe to drink, even though it is oftentimes produced by a Dominican bottler and most tap water in the D.R. is not potable. Government regulations appear to be nonexistent or irrelevant for many things—including stopping at red lights—and I don’t think that bottled water is regulated for safety; nonetheless, the water is safe without regulations. As near as I can tell, when a company sells bad water word gets around and they are put out of business. Take note TARP recipients, this is how capitalism is supposed to work; when someone F’s up, they go belly up (I’m talking about you, Bank of America, AIG Morgan Stanley, Goldman Sachs and JP Morgan Chase). At the same time, the free market in the D.R. fails horribly at providing passable roads, real opportunities for the people to change their economic status, and reliable electric power. But, I digress; this is supposed to be about my vacation, not my political rant. (Joanna’s interjection: This is where Nathan normally segues into a discussion of R-value legislation.)The weather was warm, and we had a little rain. We didn’t mind the rain so much, except when it kept Nathan from going to 27 Waterfalls to go canyoning, which is jumping off a waterfall with a life jacket and helmet. The weather was wonderful, and very mild, despite Danielle’s insistence that it was “cold and rainy.” It was a balmy 68 degrees most of the time, but I guess comfort is relative, depending on what you are used to. A lot of cool things grow in the D.R. that we don’t have in the Midwest: palm trees, coconut trees, bananas, sugar cane and coffee.
I am reminded that a sub-tropical paradise isn’t always a paradise without safe drinking water and hot water, but still, can you say “all-you-can-eat banana buffet”?
La Bandera translates to “the flag,” and is what they call the national dish that every Dominican who is able to eat lunch eats for lunch. It typically includes rice, beans, chicken, casabe (a flatbread made from yuca root—commonly known in the States as cassava, and not to be confused with yucca), salad (shredded cabbage, head lettuce and green tomatoes) and anything else that they wish to add in, such as seasonal fruits like mangos or avocados. We ate lunch one day at Danielle’s host family’s house. Danielle explained to us that the embellished version of La Bandera that we were served was akin to their Christmas dinner. Potato salad is a special treat and this was served to us because we were guests. The orange juice was quite good, however somewhat different from what I am accustomed to; with the pulp strained out, and not made from concentrate, it tastes much more complex—like it was made from actual oranges. There were actually two serving bowls of rice on the table: one was white rice prepared as you would expect, and the other, smaller bowl was concón, the slightly-burnt, crunchy rice left at the bottom of the pan after cooking, which is really good, especially when mixed with the saucy beans.
We had recently watched the documentary Food, Inc. —which is a fascinating movie, you should rent it—and have since given a lot more thought to the origins of our food. The chicken we were served came from actual free-range—not “free-range” —birds, and much more closely resembled what chickens naturally grow to look like, rather than the scientifically-grown breasts with incidental beaks and claws that we are served in the U.S.Part 3: An earthquake felt as far as Santiago After our time spent in the cabana, we went to Santiago, the second largest city in the D.R. with a population of 1.3 million people. We drove to Santiago in our rental car, and driving in the D.R., particularly the big city, is quite an experience. In the countryside, the speed limits and red lights are, for all intents and purposes, meaningless. In Santiago, the rule of law appears to be slightly more meaningful, however the volume of cars and small motorcycles combined with narrow streets makes for insanity. There is a language of car horns that has developed, which is quite interesting: one beep means “I’m about to do something crazy” or “don’t hit me,” two beeps mean “look out” or “I’m about to merge—you had better yield.”
We went into a souvenir bazaar in Santiago to buy some things, and to find out what it feels like when you are the gazelle who trips, and is then surrounded by lions. I was bent down looking at something when Danielle said, “I think that was an earthquake,” and then I noticed an aftershock. Anna noticed nothing, working as she does in a turn-of-the-century building that reverberates with every loading dock delivery. There was a little commotion, with people shouting and being generally excited, but otherwise our vacation plans were uninterrupted. As you can see, the building we were in appears to be open-span construction. Without an engineering degree I am not really qualified to guess whether or not this building would have withstood a magnitude 7 earthquake—but this is the internet, so credentials are meaningless, and I’m guessing that my life would have been much different had the epicenter been 130 miles northeast. It got me to thinking about how precious life is. I have also been reflecting on what my life is and how it has changed. I left a pressure-cooker of a job a year ago, and I guess this trip was partly to celebrate the anniversary of having my life back. I’m feeling very lucky that I have been able to live a life every day that is fulfilling and enjoyable, because before you know it, it could all be gone.
We visited the Monument to the Heroes of the Restoration, which was originally constructed by the dictator Trujillo in the 1940s as a monument to himself (Freud would have so much to say about this); because of it’s placement and size, it told residents “I’m watching you.” The name was changed following the assassination of Trujillo, orchestrated by the CIA (the Agency’s level of involvement varies, depending on the source) in 1961, and subsequent end of his regime.We stayed at an awesome place in Santiago, called the Camp David Ranch Hotel. The exact history is somewhat unclear, but it is generally understood that it is in some way associated with Trujillo. One guidebook claimed that Camp David was Trujillo’s mountain palace, but a member of the staff told us that it had belonged to a friend of the Trujillo family. In any event, they have a bunch of his old cars there, including the one in which he was assassinated. I have decided that we stayed in Trujillo’s bed. Anna thinks that’s kind of morbid.
Camp David also has a gourmet restaurant and, at 2500 feet above sea level, an amazing view of all of Santiago. We gorged ourselves on amazing food, and found out a little more about the name “Camp David.” It turns out that when the current owners bought the property they named it for their son, David, who we think was our waiter—he had a proprietary air about him.Part 3: Fun and sun on the sand
For the final third of our trip, we drove to Cabarete, said so long to our rental car, and gave ourselves over to the beach. We chilled out, walked on the beach, ate good seafood and generally enjoyed the coastal subtropical paradise. We read, sea-kayaked, cooked and politely turned down sales of: seashells, pirated DVDs, shoe-shines (ostensibly for our suede Merrells) and more motorcycle taxis than you can shake a stick at. We thoroughly enjoyed our time on the beach for several days until we had to fly out. I’m not sure how to sum up the experiences we had in the D.R., and passing judgment on an entire country is all but impossible, not to mention presumptuous, so I will leave you with a list of things we are grateful for:- Clean drinking water
- Three meals a day and good nutrition
- A roof over our heads
- Functioning government (all jokes aside)
- Twenty-four-hour-a-day electricity
- Hot water/indoor plumbing/washer and dryer
- The opportunities to be educated, work, eat and live a comfortable life available to us as Americans
- Reliably passable roads
- Animal welfare (Did we mention the entire island is filled with roaming feral dogs?)
- The privilege of international travel
- Planning for our next trip to the D.R.
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