Adventures in the Caribbean: Back to Santo Domingo

This morning we began the day with a plate each from our hotel's breakfast buffet before our van came to pick us up.  It whisked us through the Port-au-Prince streets and we once again found ourselves desperately trying to catch everything we were seeing outside--the people, the garbage, the homes, the streets, and those enormous black pigs again.

We could have driven those blocks for hours and we would never have been able to absorb it all.  

Eventually we got to the airport, through security, and onto the tarmac to board our plane.

We flew back to Santo Domingo, where we spent a couple hours shopping before making our way to the bus stop and then back to Boca Chica.  

Adventures in the Caribbean: Port-au-Prince, Haiti

The Plaza Hotel is no longer what it apparently used to be, and the service is as poor as the rumors say.  Still, it has a beautiful courtyard, and offers refuge from the chaos in the street. 

At the front desk I asked the woman if it would be possible to check in, and she replied that she thought it was too early.  I was quite disappointed, since I would have liked to change and have a moment to relax, but we acquiesced and simply asked if we could leave the backpack. 

Hoping to at least partially address our cash issue (we had $63 left), I asked if there was an ATM around. 

“Yes,” the lady said, pointing around the corner.  “But sometimes it works, and sometimes it doesn’t.”

We walked by it on our way to the front door, and, sure enough, it was blank and dark.

We decided to visit a supermarket first, to get water and something to eat.  We exited the hotel and turned left. 

We worked our way single file along the crowded sidewalk, avoiding cracks, holes, random rebar, garbage, parked motorbikes, people, and various goods for sale.  Despite the fact that we were the only nonblack people in sight, we appeared to be mostly ignored, which was nice, since I felt like we stood out worse than sore thumbs. 

Most of the people on the sidewalk were moving much as we were, quickly and purposefully.  Others were standing, or even sitting—talking, eating, selling, or buying. 

We passed what was basically a men’s clothing store, only out of the back of a truck, which was welcoming clients via a step on the sidewalk into the retail space, or else selling out the open back.  We passed women frying food, and boys selling cell phone parts, and squatting men eating noodles. 

The distance from hotel to supermarket is about 250 metres, but it felt like a triumph once we arrived; a sign outside said "Roi des Rois."    

Once inside, and past the security guard with his machine gun, we could have been in a European grocery store.  It was comfortably air conditioned, very clean, and, most importantly for us, took credit cards. 

We bought bottles of water and some apples and then more or less walked back toward the hotel, crossing the street to the compound of Mupanah--the Musee du Pantheon National Haitien.  The Mupanah grounds are part of the champs-de-mars, but are separated by a large iron fence.  The museum itself is more or less underground, with a large system of water fountains on the roof.  

The fountains were dry, but they made a nice seating area nonetheless.  

There was no one else on the roof, and although we were well back from the street and the sidewalk and the strong fences, we still had a bit of a view. 

We drank our water and ate our cookies and took some time to soak it all in. 

The guidebook had said the museum cost $1.40, but even at that price I was worried about spending the cash.  At that point I thought we needed $40 for the transfer back to the airport, and $10 each for our departure tax from Haiti.  Little did I know that that was actually $55!

We also needed $10 each for our entry tax for the Dominican  Republic, but I was trying not to worry about that, since there wasn’t much I could do, not matter how many times I went over the math in my head.  With the taxi and Haitian departure tax cash set aside, we had $3 to spare, which would cover our museum admission, with nothing left over.

“Well, what do you think?” I asked Andrea.  “We can afford it, but then that’s all our cash.”

We decided to do it.  After all, it was the only obvious choice of something safe to do, and it interested us, and anyway, we were now assured we could pay for food with credit card, so we wouldn’t go hungry.  Plus, we couldn’t very well just sit on the roof all day.

So we walked down to the entrance and stepped inside.  We blinked to get used to the relative darkness, looking down a hallway toward a cluster of Haitian flags. 

“Bonjour,” an important looking Haitian lady said.

“Bonjour,” we replied, turning to our left.  A very small desk was set up with a computer on it.  It hardly looked like your typical museum admission counter, but apparently it was that.  The price turned out to be $5 for foreigners, and they only accept cash.  After some deliberation we paid it anyway.

The museum is basically divided into two parts, an inner circle of small historical exhibits surrounding “symbolic” graves of Haitian heroes, and an outer semi-circle that serves as an art gallery.  The art gallery contains maybe a hundred works of art in total, all Haitian.  Some were beautiful, others ugly, and some simply strange. 

The inner circle holds the history exhibits.  These were interesting enough, and I definitely learned plenty about Haiti’s history, but the exhibits lacked much in the way of actual artifacts.  There was an anchor from Christopher Columbus’s Santa Maria, and things like coins, maps, letters, and weapons—and even a piece of the moon that President Nixon gave to Haiti—but overall it felt very bare. 

We finished our tour and walked back outside into the bright, hot sunlight. 

“What now?”

It was only 11:00—three hours too early to check in. 

In retrospect, it’s easy to think that we should have been braver, more willing to walk extra blocks, linger in front of monuments, or stop to take pictures.  But at the time, simply being amongst the champs-de-mars bustle felt courageous and trying to cross streets and stick together was remarkably draining physically, emotionally, and mentally.

We made our way across the street to walk alongside the where the National Palace had been, but there really was not much to see.  The palace had been ruined in the earthquake and demolition and removal has left little more than a flat, empty lot.

We decided to go back to the supermarket to get some lunch. 

This time we spent more time shopping and collected a veritable picnic, which we ate in the hotel courtyard by the pool.  

The courtyard really is the highlight of the Plaza Hotel, with its pink flowering trees, babbling pool, and walls full of artwork.

Even the chairs were tiled with floral designs. 

We enjoyed our picnic, although we had nothing to use to open the beer with.

Finally we were able to check in, and a porter led us to our room.  Our bathroom lacked a door, and the walls held excellent art, and otherwise the room was unremarkable. 

We freshened up some and then went back down to the pool for a dip.  

The pool water was awfully cold, and the day was already cooling off some, but it was lovely to swim nonetheless.  I swam a few laps while Andrea dangled her legs in.  Afterwards, we stretched out luxuriously on the well-padded deck chairs and dried in the sun.

We planned to eat supper safely in the courtyard of the hotel restaurant, but we decided to make a final trek to the supermarket, if for no other reason than it would give us a chance to get outside the hotel once more.  

The pace of traffic and pedestrians and life on the street had slowed since the morning.  There were more people loitering, and less people selling, and overall things felt a bit more relaxed.  No doubt our own comfort with Rue Capois was also improving.

We bought more bread, cheese, and beer, as well as water, apples, cookies, and juice for the next day. 

Back at the hotel, remarkably, the ATM was lit up and appeared to be working.  I did the math in my head and calculated that if the Haitian departure tax was $10 US, it should work out to just over 800 Haitian gourdes.  I took out 1000 just in case. 

We ate the bread and cheese and drank the beers at the table in our room.  Then we went for our real dinner at the hotel restaurant.  We sat on the patio in the courtyard and each ordered an entrée salad, which true to Haitian stereotype took a really long time.

Adventures in the Caribbean: Arriving in Port-au-Prince, Haiti

This morning we were up before the sun and notebook-negotiating with a cabbie again.  The ride to the airport was quick, with little traffic on the roads yet.  By the time we got to the airport, the sun had risen. 

Aerolineas Mas is not defunct.  In fact, based on our observations, there seems to be enough business for both Tortug’ Air and Aerolineas Mas, as both had plenty of passengers.  And since then I’ve become aware of a third airline flying the same type of plane on the same route: Sunrise Air. 

We checked in without a problem, but here’s an important thing to know about traveling between Dominican Republic and Haiti: both countries charge entrance and exit taxes.  Mostly these taxes are included in international airline fees, but not on this route.  The tax amounts change, but they were: $10 entry and $20 exit tax for Dominican Republic; $10 entry and $55 exit tax for Haiti.  Not cheap, especially that Haiti departure tax!

We flew on a small, 19 passenger British Aerospace Jetstream, which was close to entirely full.  I got to sit right behind the cockpit and watch the pilots fly.  

The flight was less than an hour, and provided some beautiful views of the sea, the island, and especially Lago Enriquillo, Hispaniola’s biggest lake.

. . .

On the ground we went through customs with little incident.  The Port-au-Prince airport is not the nicest facility, but neither is it as bad as some travel reviews will lead you to believe. 

The friendliest people we encountered in Haiti were the man who met us at the airport and the driver of our van, who were different people, for some reason.  Neither spoke English or any version of French we could understand, but they knew where we needed to go, so that didn’t really matter.

By far the most memorable part of our visit to Port-au-Prince was the airport transfer.  I am not joking.  What we saw out the windows of our van as we passed by the largest slum in the Western Hemisphere, Cite Soleil, will always be with me: homes made haphazardly with seemingly random materials, sometimes on top of each other, almost all appearing to be in danger of falling.  They stretched in chaotic formation over a small hill, as far as I could see. 

Garbage was everywhere, but especially in the open sewage canals which ran between "neighborhoods."  Much to my astonishment, enormous blacks pigs roamed these canals, apparently eating the waste.  They were among the largest pigs I have ever seen, and I was surprised to see them, and even more surprised that they managed to survive in an environment in which people are surely starving.    

Meanwhile, around us, motorbikes, small cube vans and pickup trucks, 4x4s, and the occasional car made their way along, often, it seemed, paying more attention to their horns than which lane they were in.  The streets were crowded, although not jammed, and traffic moved more or less consistently, if not necessarily efficiently.  As far as traffic went, it was not significantly different than Santo Domingo, but there were fewer smaller vehicles, and significantly more 4x4s, presumably due to the condition of Haitian roads, especially outside of Port-au-Prince.  Also, there were tap taps. 

Of all the vehicles, the tap taps were by far the most interesting. Colourful in hand-painted ways reminiscent of Pakistani trucks, the tap taps are small Japanese-brand pickups, riding low under the weight of numerous bodies.  The cabs carry not only the driver, but a passenger or two or three, and, it appeared, a toll man or conductor of sorts as well.  The beds of the trucks have been enhanced with wooden walls and roof and benches, and carried anywhere from a couple to more than a dozen people.  I doubt there are any rules regarding how many people they can carry, and if there are any, I assume they are ignored.  Invariably, every possible inch of the exterior was painted in the brightest colors, and they all included a Christian message of some sort, whether a Bible verse reference or spiritual catchphrase.  Prospective passengers simply wave down the driver when needed and tap the roof or otherwise indicate when they need to get off.  How they know the routes I am not sure.   

The middle of the roads themselves were relatively clean and clear, and not even in especially bad condition by Canadian standards.  The countless pedestrians and huge amounts of garbage were largely confined to the sides of the roads, except when pedestrians tried crossing, which usually involved darting quickly to minimize honking and avoid being hit.  I never saw a vehicle slow down, let alone stop, for a pedestrian.  There were very few controlled intersections, and maybe only three that involved traffic lights, including one at which the traffic lights were not functioning.

Police were visible at several points on the trip, either in pickups or with motorbikes, but they were certainly ignoring what would be egregious and blatant traffic violations in Canada. 

Adventures in the Caribbean: Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic

Today, Epiphany, we took a single backpack and walked a few blocks into town to catch a mini-bus.  Apparently they all go to the same place, so there was no concern about boarding the wrong one.  Just in case, I stretched my Spanish to the max by asking, “A Santo Domingo?” 

It took us to the highway, where we were directed to switch buses.  This bus was packed, and we thought it was full. 

Nonsense—these buses have hidden seats that fold down, adding significantly to their capacity. 

Andrea and I were pointed towards the front bench, with a man excited to sit between us and practice his very poor English.  He annoyed me because I prefer to be left alone, but he was also somewhat interesting and helpful, and was apparently a Catholic “missionary,” as well as a father desperate to raise money for a medical procedure for his son. 

Anyway, after a passionate, rousing sermon, he sold CDs to an awful lot of the passengers, including me, for 50 pesos, or about $1.  I felt ripped off, but if the guy was a scammer, he managed to scam an awful lot of locals too. 

The bus ride cost 70 pesos each, which we paid en route to the employee who was in charge of collecting money, opening the door, and yelling to potential passengers to let them know where the bus was going.  All in all, it was an impressive, efficient, cost-effective, and slightly intimidating transit system.

. . .

In Santo Domingo we walked along the waterfront to our hotel, the Renaissance Jaragua Marriot.  It is one of Santo Domingo’s nicest hotels, but only cost $100 for the night, a real steal we thought.  We could see the Caribbean from the window of our room.  It was tremendously hot, so we gulped down lemon-lime ice water from a cooler in the lobby, and bought some sandwiches at the café. 

Then we headed back out to get some cash and see the old town.  After a hot, 8 kilometre walk, we had seen most of what we wanted to, which included old churches;

 city walls;

 a fortress;

public squares;

and so on.  

We also saw a big statue of Christopher Columbus. 

. . .

Back at our room we showered and rested for a bit, then went down to find a taxi.  I had brought a little notebook with the names of the places we might need, as well as a few Spanish phrases like “how much to . . .?” and things like that.  Using this I bargained with our cabbie and we settled on 300 pesos for the fare, or about $6. 

The atmosphere outside the stadium was madness, with fans more or less evenly decked out in red or blue, and loud and boisterous.  We queued for tickets, and in retrospect I realize I was supposed to pick a side to sit on—either Licey or Escogido, but I could not understand the ticket seller, so he asked me in English if I spoke Spanish, I said no, and he just handed me a pair of tickets for 1000 pesos.

We got inside—me after a thorough pat-down, and Andrea untouched—and bought bottles of water and ice-cold cans of El Presidente beer, all for about a couple of dollars.  We found our seats, on the Escogido side, it turned out.  We were just below an impromptu band made up of fans, not stadium or team employees like they would be in Canada.

Man, did we have fun.  The game was compelling, but the best part for me was the atmosphere—those Dominicans really know how to get into a baseball game.  Andrea’s highlight was the margaritas, which truly were something else, albeit not as cheap as almost everything else in Dominican ($7!).

Since our flight was early the next day, and since we were in no way invested in the game’s outcome, we left after the sixth inning.  I managed to watch the final two innings on TV in our hotel room—Licey had extended their lead from 3-1 when we left to 7-1.  Escogido briefly made it interesting with two runs in the bottom of the ninth, but 7-3 was the final. Licey went on to win the 2014 championship.

Adventures in the Caribbean: The Hispaniola Plan

Many Canadians love all-inclusive beach vacations down south—low cost, little hassle, high heat, and all the food and alcohol you want. 

But if you’re like me, you can only do so much lying on the beach while drinking tall cool drinks—as lovely as that can be.  If you’re like me, you want some adventure mixed in with your relaxation.

Last week, stuck in piles of snow and way-too-cold weather, my girlfriend Andrea and I scooped up a last-minute, heavily discounted, all-inclusive, one-week Air Transat vacation to the Dominican Republic that left January 3, 2014.  Once we booked the trip, I immediately began scheming ways to get off the resort and see other parts of the island.  Our flight was to Punta Cana, where we would be transferred to our resort a couple of hours west to Boca Chica, a town thirty or so kilometers east of the capital of Santo Domingo. 

The proximity to Santo Domingo made that an obvious place to visit.  I had trouble finding reliable information in English on how to do things like visit Santo Domingo’s old town on our own, but I did find this helpful blog that explained the bus system well. 

Boca Chica is infamous for its prostitutes, but also happens to be a popular beach destination for Dominicans trying to escape the big city, so there is fairly efficient and (by Canadian standards) very cheap transportation between Boca Chica and Santo Domingo. 

Beyond Santo Domingo’s old town, the best idea for Dominican adventure came from a guide book: béisbol.  I am a huge baseball fan, so I persuaded Andrea that we should catch a Dominican winter league game while in Santo Domingo.

So my pre-trip plan was this: once in Santo Domingo we would tour the old town on foot, then taxi to the Estadio Quisqueya, where we would buy our tickets and watch the ball game—one in a playoff round-robin between Santo Domingo’s two teams, the Tigres del Licey and the Leones del Escogido, on Monday, January 6. 

After the game I was less confident about how to get back to Boca Chica, but I read somewhere that a taxi would only set us back $40 or so, which did not seem like the end of the world.

. . . 

On January 2, the night before we left, with my alarm set for 5:00 the next morning, and the taxi scheduled to pick us up at 5:30, I couldn’t sleep and got obsessed with another idea for adventure: visiting Haiti.  Santo Domingo and Haiti’s capital Port-au-Prince are less than 350 kilometers apart, after all.

I had already looked into this cursorily, but had given up, deciding it was too much trouble.  I had found out the following: 

·        rental cars are not allowed across the border, so that was out of the question;

·        buses do run between Santo Domingo and Port-au-Prince, but somehow the trip takes at least 8 hours, involves significant hassle at the border, and all arrive in Port-au-Prince after dark—not a situation we as white, Anglo tourists wanted to put ourselves in;

·        kayak.com showed that the fastest, cheapest flight option involved going through Miami, and was exorbitantly priced;

·        commercial ferries run between Santo Domingo and San Juan, Puerto Rico, but not between Dominican Republic and Haiti.

That night, however, as the hours of potential sleep dwindled, I wanted to look again.  I hated the thought of being so close and not getting to see Haiti.  “We can go some other time,” I tried to advise myself; but I was too taken with the idea of seeing Port-au-Prince just four years after the devastating earthquake to allow myself to be dissuaded.

I fired up my laptop and began researching again.  I happened to find the website of a hotel in Jacmel, Haiti that happened to mention flights from Santo Domingo to Port-au-Prince (PAP) on an airline called Aerolineas Mas, a local Dominican airline operating out of Santo Domingo’s secondary airport, La Isabela International Airport (JBQ). 

The link was broken, but I managed to find the airline’s website on Google.  It was entirely in Spanish, but I was able to figure it out enough to realize we could fly roundtrip JBQ-PAP, leaving the morning of January 7, and returning the morning of January 8: the cost, about $300 each  Not cheap, certainly, but not unaffordable either. 

“Maybe this is a crazy thought,” I told myself, “spending that kind of money for a 24 hour visit.”  

But I booked a room for the night of 7^th at the Plaza Hotel, directly across from Port-au-Prince’s famous Champs De Mars, in Port-au-Prince, and one in Santo Domingo for the night of the 6^th, just in case.  I would be able to cancel them at no cost if necessary, and even if we didn’t go, staying over in Santo Domingo after the baseball game seemed to make middle-of-the-night sense.

The next morning en route to the airport, I pitched the idea to Andrea. 

“I really want to go to Haiti,” she said, much to my surprise.

. . .

So it was that the next day, Saturday the 4^th, we were in our hotel’s lobby attempting to buy flights to Port-au-Prince.  This was far more difficult than we expected, because the Aerolineas Mas website’s reservation system seemed to be missing a crucial field for credit card information.  Emails and phone calls to the company went unresponded, so we began assuming that the airline was defunct.  

But now Andrea was almost as motivated as I was, and this morning she managed to discover a second airline—Tortug’ Air—that flew the JBQ-PAP route with roughly the same schedule, and for exactly the same price.  Moreover, their website was nearly identical, except it had the one key field necessary to complete the reservation.

With tickets bought, I emailed the Plaza Hotel in Port-au-Prince to arrange airport transfer for the hefty fee of $50 US. 

Then I spoke to the Boca Chica resort concierge to confirm my plans for getting from Boca Chica to Santo Domingo, and I spoke to the Air Transat representative to ensure it would be okay to abandon our hotel room for two nights.  We were, more or less, all set.