Thunderstorms crash against a blue-grey sky, interrupting the gentle rustling of the wind through the palm trees, yet still I strive…to find even better locations for recovery. With the distinct exception of my Dominica sojourn years ago, I refuse to accept that I can visit an island without spending some time on the beach.. Here in the Dominican Republic, that quest was on once again. Significantly slowed by this bad wheel, the potential for engaging in my usual adventuresome ways would be all but eliminated. Not to worry though, because I knew that going in. I’m supposed to be convalescing. I’m supposed to be relaxing and recovering. Gallivanting down cobblestone streets or traipsing around museums or seeing any sights is sadly not in the plans.
The beach is a pretty fair consolation though, in my opinion. Any chance I can get to look at the ocean and be close enough to hear the crashing waves, I’m surely going to take. My hotel had a clear view of the Caribbean Sea that began just on the other side of George Washington Avenue, but being essentially in an urban area of this seaside town there was no beach close by.
The concierge and other locals let us know that the beach was a little ways past the airport at a place called Boca Chica. It was interesting to hear the varying reviews about said beach. Some people described it as nice, while others made a screwface and shook their head as if they had just caught a wiff of something unpleasant. Others still said that it was nice, but it has fallen off a bit. (Keep in mind that the bulk of these descriptions were in Spanish).
The very well groomed concierge lady (picture somebody with long hair, high cheek bones and an elegance that suggested perhaps she had adorned an evening gown and a sash at some point) said Playa Caribe was going to be our best bet, but that it was pretty far away and that a taxi could get a bit expensive. We were looking at about $50 each way and then we had to hope that we could catch one on the way back. This didn't seem like a terribly good plan since we had no knowledge of the area. The last thing I want to do is get caught out there with no way to leave. Since persuading a local to take us out there was not looking likely, it was time to make an exception to one of my long standing travel rules. I would have to rent a car in another country.
Technically, I have driven in Canada before, but that's not really like a foreign country. They drive just like we do here. In fact, they drive even slower and really follow all of the rules. Driving in third world countries, and even in very developed countries in Asia is completely BANANAS.This place tended to be closer to bananas than not. We'll call it platanos. The only saving grace here was that there wasn't an obscene amount of traffic as in a place like Bogota. The toughest thing would be pulling out of the hotel onto George Washington Avenue which was basically an expressway with no stop lights in sight. Finding the beach was relatively easy, given that this is an island and most of the time the big road on an island is one that goes around its edges. So we jumped in the red mitsubishi montero that they rented us and I was nominated to drive. I laughed to myself about the crippled guy getting the nod, but then again, I felt safer with my own driving skills. Besides, it was an automatic, so I didn't need my left leg to drive. I only needed to withstand the agony of keeping my left leg bent in this small car while we drove.
After what seemed like 2 or 3 minutes, I finally made the left onto George Washington Avenue and away we went. It never ceases to amaze me how people overestimate or are just plain wrong on distances and times that it takes to get somewhere in other places. It's probably because the breakneck pace of American life doesn't make time such an issue so it's not really paid attention to as much. In about 30 minutes, we had passed by the airport and were going through towns that were much more rural than Santo Domingo. I was surprised at how much it resembled the drive from Saigon up to Vung Tau in Vietnam. There were livestock roaming along the side of the road, chickens meandering around, and children playing way too close to the freeway, but you got the sense that they new better than to stray out there.
The first beach that we came upon was the aforementioned Boca Chica. There were lots of other cars making this turn, so it wasn't hard to find. Unfortunately, there were lots of cars making this turn, so it wasn't all that serene either. It was definitely a party out here at this place. Remember that scene in Boyz n the Hood, or Hustle and Flow where all of the cars were in the parking lot and everyone was rollin' through with the tops down and the music on loud? No? Okay..is D.C. in the house? Do cats still stroll on over to Hanes Point and wash and wax their cars out there on Sunday afternoon while playing their music as loud as possible so that as many people as possible notice them? Well, Boca Chica was like that. Going down that main strip was like driving through a parade and every man woman and child was gettin' their hustle on, trying to sell you dulces, cervezas, fans, agua...you name it. There were so many people on the sand that there was no reason to even stop the car. I was in search of west and wewaxation. People watching is always welcomed, but I'd settle for some crashing waves and a clean plot of sand. Back to the highway it was.
When we had driven another 15 or 20 minutes, it became apparent that we must've missed the turn and had gone too far. We stumbled upon another beach called Guayacanes, but it was just like Boca Chica with way too much goin' on. After doubling back, I saw the little sign that led to Playa Caribe (blink and you woulda missed it). This little stretch of beach was so small that it looked like someone's private seaside hideaway. It wasn't exactly pristine, fine white sand with aqua blue water like you might see in Turks and Caicos or the Bahamas, but it was nice. There were palapas with the Presidente cerveza logo on them all over the place and reclining beach chairs. We found some empties and I hobbled on over and plunked down. Just then the beach "commisioner" rolled up demanding payment for the "rental" of said beach chairs. It was only a couple bucks, so I didn't argue. He also sold us some Presidentes, so it was all good.
It was already late in the afternoon so hanging out there for a couple hours was about all we were able to do. That was just fine though. Watching the waves crash against the cliff in the distance and listening to the rustle of the wind through the palm trees was plenty for me. I was treated to the cat and mouse game that is inevitable when a group of teenagers spend Sunday at the beach. The ratios are always bad, but that never stops the group from having way too much fun. There were a group of about 20 kids who had to be about 15 or 16, but only about 5 girls. Naturally, the boys were acting up and the girls were kind of playing along, only slightly objecting to the throwing of sand or excessive splashing. After many failed attempts at a human pyramid, they switched their attention back to the young ladies. At one point the fellas were really getting crazy as they, standing in water up to their necks, had apparently removed their trunks and began waving them overhead while chanting something over and over again. The girls thought better of this and stayed back out of the water and waited this routine out for the 10-15 minutes that it endured.
The sun kept playing peek-a-boo behind the clouds all day, and it even started to rain. Nobody even flinched at the drops nor ran for cover though. I didn't bother to move the half of my body that was not totally under the shade of the palapa, and just let the warm rain drops hit me. It felt like a Carl Thomas song.
Summer rain
Whispers me to sleep
And wakes me up again
Sometimes I swear I hear her call my name
To wash away the pain
My summer rain
That made the rental car worth it right there.
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