Spring 98 Volume III Issue 2

The Dominican Republic begins somewhere in JFK Airport's Terminal 8. Standing in a crush of humanity, waiting to board my flight, I figured there must be something terribly attractive about the better half of the notorious island nation. It appeared, in fact, that at one time every resident of the DR had left for New York, found it to be utterly unsatisfying, and were now all trying to get back. On my flight. My anticipation of reaching this mysterious land was palpable.

I say mysterious for two reasons: first, the largest travel guide to the DR I could find was a somewhat diminutive, photo-filled, and fluffy 80 pages. It contained an entire two pages of historical "highlights," including an enlightening three paragraphs on voodoo (a delightfully hemic religion which has been inbred with Catholicism in the DR, and whose followers, I read, are periodically hacked to death by government troops). Second, nearly every conversation I had about my destination, including with my travel agent, went something like this:

"Where are you traveling to?"
"Puerto Plata."
"Puerto Plata?"
"That's right. Puerto Plata."
"Hmm. Puerto Plata. Is that 'Port of Plate?"
Actually, I think it would be 'Port of Silver."
"Ah."

For the modern-day American cigar smoker, journeying to the DR is something akin to a Muslim's visiting of Mecca or, perhaps more accurately, if it were illegal for that Muslim to actually go to Mecca, but there was a town near Mecca that was nearly as religiously significant, and so that Muslim went there. You see what I mean? Anyway, it seemed significant to be going to the DR, and yet, here was a place that remained, to most, very mysterious.

Puerto Plata anchors the northern "Amber Coast" of the DR, famous for its pre-historic German tourists perfectly preserved in amber crystals. This is where Spielberg got the DNA for the monsters Populating his next sci-fi/action movie, Nuremberg Park. Puerto Plata is a popular port of entry for tourists to the languid beach towns of the Amber Coast, and would be my launching point to the interior of the island. Over the hills which frame the tropical coast, and into the verdant growing regions near the central town of Santiago, it would be, I learned, a very different place from the carefree Caribbean atmosphere of the beach.

Landing at the modem airport, I spilled into the throng there to meet the returning population. I was to be met by a colleague from SMOKE - the man with the plan, the schedule, the directions, the contacts, and, most importantly, the car. My plane, however, was a bit late, due to the extra time required to load the worldly possessions of the prodigal passengers (American Airlines apparently waives its luggage allowance on the JFK-PP shuttle). The man was not immediately present. I wandered the airport in search of some sign of my ride, consistently amazed by the accommodating nature of the natives, who seemed to hang about the airport looking for any opportunity to heap kindness on wayward travelers. Offers to carry my luggage, help me look for my friend, drive me anywhere I wanted to go, and even to help me dial the phone, were unending. I mean, these people are nice.

Eventually I discovered that my compadre (and you know who you are), had pressed on without me. Ever the fearless traveler, I resolved to rent a (cheap) car, and set out into the wilds of the DR. As I loaded my luggage into the back of the primer-grey sub-micro, I found all my new friends ringing the vehicle, their hands out, pained expressions on their faces. Clearly they were as distraught as I to be parting company so soon. Nevertheless, I knew that the list of cigar factories to visit was long, and tarrying with the locals was not on my absent itinerary.

Consulting the map provided by the rental agency, which paid very little attention to landmarks smaller than things roughly the size of Cleveland, I discovered a far more direct route to Santiago than the one recommended by the car rental agent. I was choosing, oddly, to bypass the major route along the beach cities and shoot straight to Santiago. Time permitting, I would return to the beach for a more complete understanding of this unique Caribbean jewel.

Granted, the road I chose did appear smaller on my map than the other option. Slightly. I assumed, however, that on a map of that scale, the road must be of some significance to even make it in ink. And truthfully, the road itself was in fairly decent condition. Unfortunately, it traveled over a small set of mountains to reach the fertile central regions of the island. With, apparently, several small hamsters powering my vehicle, I wasn't at all convinced I wouldn't find myself in back of the little machine, pushing it through the mountain pass. On the good side, sitting in the driver's seat, as an average-sized man, there was not a spot in the car that I couldn't reach out and touch. How much could it possibly weigh?

The posture of the land changes rapidly upon leaving the touristrish coast. Tidy bars and restaurants catering to foreign money give way to improvised roadstands, generally offering nothing more than a few meager banana bunches and the occasional Coca-Cola. As practically the only car on the road, and definitely the only tourist, the intended clientele was not immediately apparent. Amazingly, the little sub-compact-that-could crested the pass and began the great coast into Santiago. Nearer to town, there was a general worsening in condition of the roadside capitalists, with a greater market penetration for Presidente, the local beer, than any other produce. Now, I like bananas as much as anyone, but Presidente is a damn good beer. I had started abandoned and alone. I had relied on a sketch of a map to lead me through questionable terrain. After half a day in the DR, I'd yet to have a cigar. And the most obvious cultural avatar of this torpid land was the green and white sign of an autocratic beer. Things were looking up.