31 August 2009 -- It is okay to die

Approximately 8,000 people live in the local town of Luperon. In the last couple of months a few people have died and it seems clear that this culture is comfortable with death. Funeral processions are a model of economic efficiency, with a homemade wooden casket carried in the back of a well-worn Toyota pickup truck, people fill the street walking behind the casket, picking flowers as they go. The most significant difference, though, is the remembrance celebration. A few days ago, a motorcycle rider hit a cow and died. Very few of the motorcycles have working headlights, so nighttime riding is really russian roulette. Nobody locally wears a helmet or protective clothing. Speed limits are not enforced and alcohol seems to be an ever-present influence. Plus, it is okay for cows, horses, mules, donkeys, goats, chickens, people, and children to use the road as they wish. I cannot imagine how many laws, lawyers, politicians, tax hikes, surveillance cameras, cops, state troopers, and do-gooders it would take to fix such a situation. But here, it is simply okay. The guy that died was described as 'poco loco' (a little crazy) with the implication simply being that his time was up. After his death, the street in front of his house was blocked off, a festival tent was erected, and a beer truck arrived, all in preparation for the nine days of remembrance celebration following a death. Accepting death so easily allows for a simplified legal system and a common-sense health care system. People in the Dominican Republic are regularly rated as some of the happiest people in the world. Maybe Americans should start celebrating at funerals.

12-14 August 2009 -- Surf Camp

Two months of dreaming about learning to surf finally resulted in action. Wednesday, 12 August, after Spanish lessons I headed to a surf school in the nearby town of Cabarete. Water and electricity are in short supply nationally, but the Dominican government maintains an adequate supply in tourist areas by shorting the rural areas. After three months of flagrant abuse, the local country folk rioted and blocked some roads, which generated police patrols and police road blocks, then morphed into a sympathetic transportation strike on the day I headed out. So, a 50-mile trip became a 7-hour adventure. The few scab taxis were extra full and I became part of a 9-person blob stuffed in a Toyota Corolla. Almost dark, I arrived just in time to check into the bungalow and eat the included barbecue chicken dinner. A babel of accents from most major languages drifted around as a European and American mix of people talked late into the night. The surf truck left at 6:30 am. A Dominican named Roberto gave me a quick introduction on standing up on the board and we walked into the ocean for an hour of lessons. My beginner's mistakes were obvious and Roberto's main contribution was simply confirming what I was painfully aware of. My un-polished gyrations were not entertaining enough, so Roberto would slip into an interlude of dancing and singing Dominican rap songs, while bobbing in the waves. The first time, I thought he was drowning or having a worm fit. Another hour alone produced tangible progress. Riding back to the bungalows on the surf truck was a couple of TV producers from New York, whose obviously-dead marriage needed more than the artificial support a few days at surf camp could provide two non-athletic middle-aged introverts. They wanted to "see" and "understand" the local people, but my explanation of why their vacation deprived the local people of water and electricity was met with blank incomprehension. Obviously some New Yorkers are so enlightened that their flight or fright instinct has disappeared and they can no longer produce enough emotion to even argue or deny, but simply wall out un-scripted data and retreat into their own soothing programming. Eating brunch back at the surf camp allowed the two Dominican cooks to inform me of their "availability". All afternoon and evening, a large storm drenched the area, so I skipped afternoon surfing by sitting under the dripping eaves talking with Mikhail, a Russian citizen attending college in Toronto, Canada. The next morning, the surf zone had a strong cross current, so an hour of struggle produced only three decent beginner rides. With similar or worse conditions expected the following day, I decided to head home to Luperon and return at a later date during better conditions. Brunch yielded a unique conversation with a 27-year-old school teacher from Los Angeles, who was quite happy she received more attention from Dominican men than the older, fatter white women who travel there for "romance". It is definitely not just dirty old men anymore. Gender equality in civilized nations now allows aggressive displays of female wantonness as middle-aged white women roam certain parts of the world. A successful vacation seems to mean cramming as much sun on your skin, as much food in your stomach, as many t-shirts in your luggage, and as many charges on your credit cards as possible in the few days you can take off of work before someone actually misses you. A walk through Cabarete showed the town was so geared towards producing successful vacations that some prices were actually ten-times higher in the tourist areas. After all, the quicker you go broke, the quicker you can return to work and tell your friends what a great time you had. At this point, I was desperate to return to the relative sanity of Luperon. Where we sit in the dark, so the Cabarete tourists can have ice in their drinks. A shipload of 600 German Jews settled this area just prior to WWII. The United States was smart enough to turn them away. Their development of a modern day Babylon makes me wonder if the world is sane.