Story: 'Super Fun Time' in the Caribbean

‘To be honest, it’s not quite what I expected.’ I said to my girlfriend as we sat on the perimeters of an executive golf course, the sky looking reassuringly blue. All around us flamingo pink apartment blocks stood brightly, looking as if the sun had just baked the paint dry. Even the palm trees looked new and unblemished, as if they’d been shipped over from Venice Beach that very afternoon. For a country so tarnished in bloody history, the decorators of the Occidental Caribbean Village have done a very good job in removing the stains. Without the presence of the towering Mount Isabel Torres, with its ring of mist clinging to its midriff, this sparkly complex could have been dropped into any beach resort in the world. Nothing about its design or atmosphere suggested anything other than a Butlins mini break, with its afternoon water aerobic sessions: (‘Sleepy time is over! Everybody, into the pool!’) and late evening drunken dance competitions. I didn’t fly seven thousand kilometres for this.
‘Let’s go into the town.’ I suggested ‘It’s not too far, we can walk.’ Without waiting for a response I was on my feet, making sure we hadn’t left any stray crisp packets that could waft on to the busy course, if only there was any wind. On the bus journey to the resort, we were told that the Dominican Republic has just suffered one of its heaviest hurricane seasons on record, stretching from early November to mid-January. With the turbulent weather over, the country was now basking in a relentless heat wave, with rising air pressure and temperatures peaking at nearly forty degrees centigrade. A statistic that I was more than willing to believe, given the distinct smell of sizzling flesh that drifted around the complex. My flip-flops cracked against my heels as we passed one of the stages. I could hear the poolside deejay high-jacking his way through an abysmal early nineties garage set, which seemed to make all around him wince collectively. With the sound of Craig David telling me to ‘Re-e-wind’ buzzing in my ear, I was determined to see the real Dominican Republic.
The coastal town of Puerto Plata was just over a mile away from the village. The name was given by Christopher Columbus in 1492, who, on his arrival to the island, noticed the silvery light which shimmered along the coast line, thus naming it the Silver Port (Puerto Plata.) Taxi drivers were waiting hopefully at the entrance of the complex, sitting on the bonnets of their American cars wearing aviator sunglasses and smoking cigarettes. The general consensus among them seemed to suggest that ‘walking’ was a bad idea, telling us in broken English that it was ‘too far and too hot’. I explained politely that we would be fine but they seemed unsure about my apparent optimism. They joked amongst themselves as if expecting me to return within twenty minutes with my hair on fire. ‘How bad can it be?’ I asked my girlfriend, looking for some kind of reassurance. Outside of the ‘super fun time’ gaudiness of the Occidental Village, the first taste of the beyond took me by surprise. The highway was in severe need of repair, the tarmac had cracked and peeled away from the aggregate like a biscuit topping. This however, didn’t phase the hordes of traffic that thundered along it. Speed, it seemed, was the answer. The next thing I noticed was that there didn’t appear to be any road markings. I estimated that there must be six lanes of traffic; three for each direction, but it seemed to me the term ‘direction’ and ‘lane’ were fairly loose. I felt like the girl at the beginning of Final Destination 2 who declares madly ‘I think I’m having a premonition!’ Cue fireballs, lorries jack-knifing across motorways and plenty of blood and screaming. A scooter zipped past me with a sharp ringing that caused me to step away from the road. The driver must have been, at most, fourteen. He rode bare-chested and without a helmet but darted through the traffic like Valentino Rossi; impatiently waiting for the right time to squeeze through. The next scooter I saw was carrying a tourist. She wore khaki shorts and a red and white striped T-shirt; her hands gripped tightly round the waist of another young rider, his eyes hidden under his mirrored sunglasses. Clearly the taxi drivers have some competition. We passed under a bridge which had a large campaign poster for the impending mayoral elections. I’m not quite sure what the poster said, but the look in the eye of the candidate seemed to suggest he was up for a fight. He may as well have been carrying a semi-automatic and wearing a beret. I wonder if he was ever elected.
After perhaps twenty minutes of walking, and at least seven scooters or taxis pulling up beside us offering us a ‘cheapy’ lift, my feet were beginning to burn. I had taken to carrying my bag in my hand as the straps were digging into my roasted shoulders. Something resembling a Renault Espace honked its horn at us and began to slow. Maybe he thought my face was a stop light. It indicated and pulled into the dusty lay-by, skidding slightly to a halt. The sliding door of the people carrier was missing. In its places is a Hispanic man of around thirty, who used his body as a blockade to keep the passengers onboard. He hung out of the opening with one hand, casually smoking a chubby cigar stub. In the other hand he gripped a tight roll of American dollars. Before we have a chance to say ‘no thank you’ he has already made the exit clear for us to board, telling us that he accepts all manner of payment: English, American or Dominican. We had only American dollars on us which he accepted with the promptness of a man with business on the mind. After we clambered inside the impossibly crowded minibus he resumed his position of ‘door’ and stuffed his takings into his pocket. He wore faded blue jeans and white vest drenched in sweat. He signalled to the driver that we were safely aboard (As safely as one can be in a car with no door.) and we joined the traffic heading towards Puerto Plata.
Much to the excitement of the passengers, my girlfriend took out her video camera and began to film the scenery through the open window. The strip leading to the Silver Port is made up mostly of small shanty towns and abandoned, derelict buildings; most of which look like run down factories. Modest shacks had been assembled out of corrugated iron, with lines of washing shooting out towards nearby trees. Women wearing bandanas and billowy white dresses sat on deckchairs while their children played in the yellowy sun dried grass. This was a bit of a shock to me as it resembles real poverty, a million miles away from the glitzy goings on of the Occidental Village. It seems that the small tourist communities are sucking the life out of the rest of the country, like a collapsing star hoovering the light towards it.
After a few detours picking up yet more passengers, we finally arrive in town.
‘I think we should find a bar,’ I said enthusiastically. ‘And then maybe somewhere that makes cigars’ (Cuba was in spitting distance after all.) I imagined the residents were used to seeing westerners strutting round town thinking they’re Hannibal from the A-team. If only I were that cool. We quickly found a modest looking café with a skeleton staff of one. A yellow and green awning jutted out over several small tables, the area was empty but for one youngish looking man reading a newspaper. He was Dominican and wore a red Rolling Rock cap twisted slightly to the side. He smiled at us as we made for the counter. We ordered dos cervezas from the barman who was sweating over a hot plate, prodding orange peppers and gradually colouring a small cutlet of beef. He squeezed a chunk of lime into the bottle neck which squirted a thin spray of lime juice across the counter. Thankfully the beers were ice cold and tasted like honey and citrus.
As we sat down, the man with the red cap smiled at us again, while folding his newspaper neatly. I nodded politely. Before we had a chance to take a breath he was sitting next to us, unzipping a rucksack. My girlfriend looked fairly bewildered as if expecting him to slam a kilo of cocaine onto our table in a puff of white dust. Within a minute though, he had stacked perhaps thirty CDs in front of us, most of which looked unfamiliar. ‘Have a look.’ he said enthusiastically. While I sifted through his stock, he watches me carefully. I’m not even sure if he was selling them or just proudly showing off his collection, which strangely enough included Tom Jones. ‘Very nice’ I said neutrally ‘quite a collection.’
I had no wish to buy any of the CDs, but not wanting to offend, I offered to buy him a beer in exchange for some information: where would he recommend we go in Puerto Plata. He gratefully accepted and even offered us a gift; ‘Here take this. It’s my uncle’s band. They’re very good.’ I took the CD and slid it into my bag, shaking his hand in thanks. Later that evening, while drunk on rum and coke, I danced around our apartment listening to his uncle’s music. Despite the ear-bashing off-key trumpets and painstaking yodelling of the lead singer I can safely say it was the best thing I’d heard all week.

We found ourselves in a large tobacconist in the centre of town. The first thing you noticed when entering was, unsurprisingly, the smell. Deep, woody aromas of fresh tobacco, so dense that you could feel it tickle the back of your throat. It was almost hypnotic. Rows and rows of hand made cigars filled the shelves as well as the usual packs of brand cigarettes: Marlboro, Camels and American Spirits. First things first and I grabbed a two hundred pack of Marlboro white-tips (only in America) and slapped it satisfyingly into my palms as we walked through the rest of the shop. I was convinced I could smell caramel and bananas as we entered further inside. The scent was over powering. I asked one of shop assistants if he had any flavoured tobacco. He clapped his hands together and nodded.
‘Of course’ he said as he made his way to the back of the store. We followed him into an open area where at least ten wooden barrels stood, each filled compactly with dry cigar tobacco.
‘Smell it’ he told us shaking one of the barrels. I bent over one the containers and sucked hard through my nostrils. The smell was unmistakable and washed over me in a wave of sickly sweet intensity. It was caramel. I ran a hand inside the dry leaves and let it crumble between my fingers. I could only compare it to plunging a hand inside a cask of fresh coffee beans; the same kind of texture and smell working together to make you dizzy with contentment. If there wasn’t a shop full of people looking at me, I would have stayed there all afternoon, wildly hovering over the barrel like a retarded school child who has just discovered permanent markers.
After taking a quick look around the beautiful Church of San Felipe and the famed Amber Museum (which on first impression looks like the opulent pastel coloured mansion from Scarface), we took a walk through Independence Park. In the Parque Centre stands a white and olive-green gazebo which glimmered in the sun light. Along its wooden railings weaves thick ivy which had stretched as far as the roof and seemed to hold it in position. I sat on the top step and lit a cigar the size of a small log. It sizzled fiercely and let a spiral of white smoke float into the air. Some local kids were skating along the paved walkway that circled the park, their wheels rumbling gently. They’d stuffed their t-shirts into the back of their trousers and the high afternoon sun was washing over their tanned bodies.
The smell of the cigar was almost sugary but tasted like wood chippings, making my eyes water slightly. If I lapsed into a coughing fit I knew the game was up. We sat there for maybe an hour, watching as people come and go, the sun beginning to cool off and the park swimming in an orangey red glow. The plant life which grew there looked fresh and healthy. I actually imagined it to be natural, rather than being dumped casually in rows in a vain attempt to look Caribbean. I wondered how long it would be before this park is flattened to make way for another holiday village. How many years before these kids are wearing bright blue and yellow t-shirts, blowing whistles and encouraging disgruntled holidaymakers to ‘join in the super fun.’ Tourism has gripped the island hard, but behind the glitzy bubble of the Vegas style casinos and luxury golf courses there still lay a different world entirely. Luckily, this world seemed to belong here.