Sailing Around the World the Wrong Way: Volume I

Traveling all day and night, we arrived at Luperon on Hispaniola Island.  Figure 67 is a map of the Dominican Republic showing the location of Luperon on the north coast.  The facilities there are few and far between, as the people are dirt poor as opposed to the plush resorts of the Bahamas.  Luperon soon became our favorite harbor.  The welcome that we received there was similar to the welcome that the first sailors to Hawaii must have received.  Many men have never managed to leave Luperon.  Some that we talked to have been willingly trapped there for over twenty years.  More than likely, they will never leave the island. 

We were adopted by an elderly couple, their daughter, and their son-in-law who owned a bar and restaurant.  They took us on a tour of the city, dirt streets and all, in a new, air conditioned car.  They transported us to get groceries at the supermarket and the farmers’ fruit market.  They showed us how to use the phone at the phone company.  You have to stand in line behind about 20 people and wait for an hour or two before you are ushered to a booth.  Your call is then timed and you pay at the desk when you leave.  This is a half-day project, but these are the only public phones in a city of 20,000 people. 

We were invited to sit in front of their house to visit after it cooled down that night.  A table was placed on the sidewalk with a few chairs from their thatched-roof bar across the street.  Mom and Dad asked the questions and the son-in-law translated them into English.  He was a retired Special Education teacher from Rhode Island.  His young wife, 20 years old or less, and her new son who was being breast-fed completed the assembled group.  Soon, another young lady showed up and started shucking beans.  Then another younger girl came with a baby of her own.  Then there were more women and the scene became unreal.  School kids, in clean, starched uniforms, came by, said hello, and went home to change.  After they were transformed, the girls wore shorts, mini-skirts, push-ups, see-through blouses, high heels, lipstick, and hairdos verging on the ridiculous. 

The boys rode by on their motorbikes: Hondas, Suzukis, and Kawasakis.  They were doing wheelies, throwing dirt and mud everywhere.  They were waving, smiling, and yelling at the girls.  Several of these teenagers gathered around us, smiling, winking, and trying to get our attention.  A few attempts were made at small talk. 

The older couple wanted to know if we knew how to dance the Merengue.  We answered no and were escorted hand-in-hand by a number of pretty girls across the street to the bar.  The music was turned up and away we went!  We were not allowed to stop until it was daylight and we were exhausted.  Later, when we were escorted back to the dinghy, we had several inquiries about seeing the boat and staying overnight.  The next night we were invited back, only this time there was a bigger crowd and more cousins showed up.  The natives especially liked to hear about snow, the palaces that we live in, basketball stars, baseball, how many cars we own, our clothes, and how many sons available for marriage.  It’s no wonder that parents wanted an American husband for their daughters.  We are all looked upon as millionaires.  Their average income is about $420 per year per person.  I’m embarrassed to say that my wife and I spend more than that per week.  What a contrast.  It’s no wonder that few single American men escape the Dominican Republic.  For us, a one night stay lasted a week before we could tear ourselves away.