Jungle River Hike

It was the last day Ivone and I would spend in the Dominican Republic. We wanted to make it a good one, at the same time escaping from the overly controlled, too-perfect resort we were living in. We had signed up for the excursion titled simply Jungle River Hike.

The excursion people said that it would take roughly five hours, and mysteriously, that we should take bathing suits and towels with us.

On the appointed day, hot and overcast, we waited in front of the reception area, looking for a truck that would take us and maybe others to the hike. It was a few minutes late. Rancho Salvaje was the name on the side. Horses were painted all over it. In a moment, a cheerful blonde woman walked up to us.

“Hi, you’re here for the trail ride?” She spoke perfect English and did not seem like a local.

I was confused. “Um, no. The Jungle River Hike.”

“Oh. Okay. My name is Sylvie, and that’s Ramon.” She pointed to a figure near the truck. “We’ll be leaving very soon.”

Ivone and I looked at each other, wondering if we’d made a mistake. We climbed into the back of the truck with only one other passenger, a middle aged guy who seemed overdressed in long pants and a light jacket. He didn’t speak or make eye contact.

The truck moved, and we took a jouncing, bouncing ride over some of Puerto Plata’s rougher roads. After twenty minutes or so we turned into a golf course near the beach. Ivone and I exchanged looks once again. The guy sitting with us finally spoke. “We’re here for me.” It turned out he was going for a trail ride on the beach. After picking up Juan, another local, we continued on.

We turned onto what became a mountain road, going past houses, farms, stores, and oddly, restaurants. There was life on this road, with some kids making their way to school, others just making a living. We pulled over near a small convenience store.

Sylvie turned off the ignition and got out, along with her little chihuahua, Shaggy. “I’m just getting water for the hike.” She disappeared inside while we got out and stretched our legs. When she returned she explained that Ramon would lead our hike, assisted by Juan. She had other matters to attend to, but would later take us to lunch.

I got my first good look at Ramon. He wore a striped shirt, jeans and sneakers. From his belt hung a machete, and his face wore a permanent scowl. If I encountered him on a city street, I’d probably give him a wide berth. But he seemed friendly enough; he even offered to carry my plastic bag.

Juan on the other hand was dressed for something other than a hike. His shoes looked like the ones I wore to the office. Juan would serve as the anchor to our group, bringing up the rear, while Ramon led the way.

The first surprise was a river crossing, the first of twenty four (Ivone counted them). I foolishly tried to keep my feet dry by stepping on rocks, but finally there was no other choice than to splash in. I got used to the sound of wet hiking shoes squeezing out water like a sponge as we walked on the drier sections.

Our guides would often stop to point out unusual sites, unusual for us anyway. Banana and avocado trees, edible gourds, and odd plants that closed when you touched them. Ramon often used his machete to deal a mighty thwack to the odd low hanging branch or small logs on the trail. Deep in the jungle, a song entered my head from an old Woody Allen movie:

Rebels are we,

Born to be free,

Just like the fish

In the sea!

I knew I wasn’t marching with a rebel army, but I couldn’t shake that tune.

After the umpteenth river crossing we began to notice a change. The loud sound of cascading water enveloped us, and soon, it was apparent why we were here. A magnificent waterfall, forty feet high, stood before us, feeding an inviting pool. Ivone and I couldn’t get our clothes off fast enough.

It was unusual to swim in the cool water still wearing my boots, but the rocky bottom made it necessary. I swam up to the waterfall, felt its full power, then lazily floated back to where Ivone was. Our two guides did not partake, but rested happily, giving us all the time we needed. Ramon was willing to take several photos of us frolicking in the water, or just standing there posing.

After 20 minutes or so, it seemed time to leave. On the way back we saw several more sights, including some mountain cowboys and their cattle. Ramon tried to sing the theme song from ‘Bonanza’, a television show (slightly) older than I am. He was off key and incorrect, but I fixed the song in my brain, where it took the place of ‘Rebels Are We’. I was grateful.

Sylvie was waiting for us at the truck. After we tipped them (they really earned it), Ramon and Juan left and the remainder of us headed to lunch. Ivone and I rode up front and started to get to know Sylvie. She was from Belgium and had come to the Dominican fifteen years before to visit her dad. She worked at his tourism excursion business for many years, and now she owned it. She loved it here, she said, although she did take trips to her home country now and then.

Instead of going back down the mountain, as I expected, Sylvie drove up. I could not imagine where we might be going, but within ten minutes or so we noticed a sign: Tubagua Eco Lodge.

It turned out to be a mountainside hotel and restaurant. Nothing fancy, but the views were spectacular. We took our places at an open air deck and took in the surroundings. Our host had purchased a large bottle of Presidente Light to go with our lunch, which was brought to us by a smiling landlady. On the table was fish, a vegetable of some sort, and plenty of rice. The beer went down smoothly and paired well with our food.

On the ride back, we got to know Sylvie even better, asking her more questions but also leaving a few silences. Shaggy the dog curled up on Ivone’s lap as he rested his little head on my arm. We told Sylvie we really were not resort people, and she suggested we stay at the Eco Lodge next time.

I was intrigued. “But how would we get there from the airport?”

“They pick you up.” Oh, okay. Problem solved.

Our host wanted to go home for a short break, since she would be leading a sunset trail ride later. So she dropped us off in Puerto Plata with a taxi driver she knew. This gentleman would take us back to the resort by way of several candy stores. (We didn’t buy any.)

We said our goodbyes to Sylvie, with hugs all around. I appreciated that she kept that amazing waterfall a secret, and hired such good people to guide us. Thanks again, and gracias, guys.

Don’t Know Much About…Dominican Republic

Back in the early 2000’s I belonged to a Yahoo group comprised of wanna-be writers. Each week we did a new exercise or contest to hone our craft. One week the plan was to disobey the old proverb, “Write what you know,” and do the opposite: write about something we knew nothing or little about. Pick a TV show you’ve never seen, they said, and write about it.

I’m not sure what the reason for this was, except that it’s fun to turn things on their head.

I picked The West Wing. Like a school kid who didn’t read the book before an oral report, I fumbled through it. “It’s about the White House…I guess…um…and people that work there…probably.” The fact that I still remember it made it all worthwhile, I suppose.

On the same note, I’m going to visit a country I’ve never been to and know very little about: the Dominican Republic. I’m such a newbie that I’m not even sure whether to put a “the” before it.

Here’s what I do know about the Dominican Republic.

David Ortiz, aka ‘Big Papi’ of the Boston Red Sox, hails from there.

It’s roughly the same neighborhood as Cuba, Haiti and Puerto Rico.

Big Papi got his nickname from a Boston sportscaster, who noticed that Ortiz called everyone he didn’t know “Papi”. He’s 6’3” by the way.

The plane trip is just under four hours from Boston.

Ortiz was a Minnesota Twin before coming to the Red Sox. His number, 34, was retired when he did, last year.

Chris Columbus may have stopped there a time or two.  Or three.

Big Papi’s Kitchen Home Plate Shaped Tortilla Chips are pretty awesome.

So there you have it. Travel agents have a pet peeve about people who pop into their offices on a frigid winter day, and announce, “I want to go someplace warm!” (Gee, thanks buddy, that really narrows it down.)

I wanted to go someplace warm.

My sister was a big help. We sat down together before her massive computer monitor to plan a trip for me and my girlfriend Ivone. It had been a long (if not especially cold) winter and we needed a getaway.

We checked out a few places, ‘all-inclusive’ being the common factor. Some had meal prices that were sky high. But not the Dominican Republic. Only 30 dollars a day; not bad. I liked the idea of ordering a gin and tonic at 10:00 in the morning, even though I probably wouldn’t.

So we’re going. Soon. I hope to fill in the gaps in my Dominican knowledge and write more about our travels to this exotic, mysterious land. Palm trees, beaches, sun, and pools are in our future. Maybe I’ll bring you back a T-shirt.

Kedi – Movie Review

So there are these cats. Lots of them, living freely on the streets of Istanbul. They all have a backstory, willingly told by the people who know them best. Cats being cats, interacting with other cats and with people, to an unusual soundtrack and flawless photography. Kedi is quite a documentary.

All of them have names. Psycho, Carefree, and Duman the Perfect Gentleman are the ones I remember. They come when called, sometimes, but are free to come and go. Most of the businesses in the street scenes have an open door policy. Some cats are shooed away but they always come back. The people are resigned to this, and secretly grateful.

These cats live on boats, in warehouses, in stone walls, on roofs and in cellars. Wherever they can. Sometimes they mingle with actual house cats, eat their food and leave without a how-do-you-do.

Fights over territory are not uncommon, even a “stay away from my man!” reminder from Psycho, who treats her ‘husband’ terribly but reacts like a angry snake when a pretty newcomer meows at him.

The animals look very healthy. Some see the local vet on a regular basis; the business owners foot the bill, sometimes using the tip jar as a kitty healthcare fund. Lots of kittens, some orphaned, some not, light up the screen.

There is one tragedy. One small kitten, banged up from a fight and unresponsive, is delivered to a caring human. He takes it to the vet for emergency treatment, but we never learn the outcome. I hope the little guy made it.

All told, seven cats are profiled, along with the people who see to their wellbeing. The Turkish dialogue is translated into easy-to-read subtitles, so we always know what’s going on. And the music – an eclectic mix of street music, cool jazz, and what might be 60’s pop music – made me smile more than once; a perfect companion to the sights and sounds of the city.

Go see Kedi. I’m hoping it comes around to Netflix eventually so I can see it again. I like these cats, and kind of miss them already.

Invisible Ink

Is it me, or is the print in magazines and other materials getting lighter and lighter?

Am I the only one who has to turn on a bright light, bring my eyes close, and rotate my head before deciphering the words on the page?

The letters are thin and spare, almost transparent. It’s as if someone invented a new font called Miser.

True, I’m no young whippersnapper anymore, and my eyes have seen better days. I have corrective lenses; Lord knows I paid enough for them. But I need to know – what’s the deal with the fading, fading print?

My guess? The high price of ink.

Hewlett Packard is to blame. You go into the electronics store and you see nothing but HP brand ink and ink jets. There may be other ink companies in the world, but you get the sense that this company, HP, is the only game in town. “You want to try one of those cheaper brands and risk unholy disaster?” the display seems to say. “I don’t think so.”

So we pay the high price. I was astounded when I bought my first printer, about 15 years ago. The salesman handed me the printer of my choice and then mentioned ink.

“You mean it doesn’t come with the printer?” I gasped.

“Nope, you gotta buy it. Let’s see, black and white, also color. Here ya go.” He stacked the little boxes on the other box. “Now, you’ll want a cable too, right? These here are made of solid gold.”

Walking to the cashier in a daze, I wondered how printing got so expensive.

I immediately felt sympathy for my company, who spent a lot more on ink than I did. I became a convert, using my work printer sparingly, going as far as taking gridlines off my spreadsheets before hitting the print button. No need to waste ink on those little frills.

But I grew incensed when a co-worker printed out a full color, 24-page PowerPoint file, with dark blue backgrounds with just a few white bullet points on each. Waste, waste!

I wanted to find out who did it, take them by the shoulders and shake vigorously. “In the names of Hewlett and Packard, what are you doing? This is a drain of our company’s resources, you fool. You’re the reason we have crappy pens!”

But I never did because the culprit let the pages sit by the community printer for four days until someone threw them out.

Based on several studies, ink is either $2,303 per gallon, $ 3,482 per gallon, or even the hold-on-to-your-hat price of $4,294 per gallon. As my friend Jeff would say, “That’s no bargain.”

So the fading, barely-there print phenomenon continues. At this rate we might soon see publications with completely white pages. We’ll have to carry around lemon juice and maybe a blow dryer to make the words emerge, at the same time releasing our inner third-grader. Maybe by then there’ll be a Dark Print section in the library, so people like me can actually see it. Maybe not.

As long as it’s not totally invisible…isible…ble…

The Group Walk

Ivone and I have been walking and hiking with groups for over a year now. It’s a different dynamic than when it’s just the two of us. Our last one was Sunday, in a woodsy area in Dover, Massachusetts.

I discovered the walk announcement on MeetUp.com, and told Ivone about it. She signed up just after I did. Twenty-six walkers in all agreed to go. Fairly large group. But better to have more people than too few, we’ve found.

We left Ivone’s house in Watertown around mid-morning and made it to Dover with time to spare. There we met the group, standing in a semi-circle around the organizer, Kevin. He was a large man, and had a smile for everyone. He had us “go around” and tell everyone our first name, and town.

“Don, New Hampshire” I said, leaving out the town. I knew if I said ‘Concord’ people would think I lived in Concord, Massachusetts, even though I make it clear that I don’t. It happens a lot.

All 26 were here, a motley group of men and women from a sixty mile radius. The weather had been springlike in recent days, but this morning it was cold and windy. The sun helped. Someone did a quick head count, and we entered the Noenet Woodlands.

It was an easy trail at first, but we soon ran into our first challenge. A wide stream, full with the runoff from last night’s rain. A couple of logs seemed to give some footholds, but one log was just floating there.

We all made it across except for an older gentlemen named Joel, who trusted the floating log and pitched headfirst into the brook. He came out looking pretty wet but not unhappy. We resumed our trek.

I mostly walked with Ivone, but the nature of trail walking means that sometime I pulled ahead, and sometimes she did, and we would find ourselves chatting with the others in the group. Something about walking in a common direction with a common goal made this easier than it would be in another place or situation.

At one point I was walking next to Joel, who introduced himself. He asked where I was from. “Concord, New Hampshire” I called out in a clear voice. He then started to tell me of the other groups he knew in Concord, one of them for retirees.

“I’m not retired,” I said. He seemed surprised, which in turn surprised me. I’m not that old! Also, it turned out the groups he mentioned were in Concord, Massachusetts.

Yup, it happens a lot.

We found a small rise and posed for a group shot. It was lunchtime, but all Ivone and I managed to eat was a granola bar in the short rest provided.

 

Along the way we met hikers and walkers not in our group, many of them with dogs. Ivone always stopped to admire and greet the animals; I on the other hand could be counted on to walk right by. I’m a cat person, I guess.

We somehow managed to travel in a loop, so we didn’t have to traverse Floating Log Brook again. After our walk of roughly two hours and four miles, we came out into the parking lot, tired and hungry. No one really knew the area, but someone had heard of a restaurant called Three Squares. Ten of us were game to try it.

A short drive away, Ivone and I joined the remains of our walking group for wine, beer, and brunch. Good company, laughter, and a little gossip. A great way to end any group activity.

Especially the gossip.

Because the Moxie Man Said So

I may have lost my mind, or part of it. But I recently bought a 12-pack of Diet Moxie.

Yes, Moxie.

If you’re from New England or Pennsylvania, you might know it, or even tasted it. I was a young boy of nine, somewhere in Massachusetts at a relative’s house. 1968 rings a bell. In those days, soda came in bottles, some very fancy, almost works of art. I opened the refrigerator door, and there was one bottle of Moxie.

Hmm, I thought. Same color as Coca-Cola. It looked good standing there. The day was warm and I was thirsty. I asked if I could have it.

I’m not sure if I was warned, but permission was granted. I opened the bottle with one of those wall mounted openers (do they still exist?) And then I took a sip.

It was sweet – at first. Then within seconds came the aftertaste, the mother of all aftertastes. Even now, it’s hard to describe. It’s like suddenly your tongue is coated in a dreadful, sulfurous, chemical bath of awfulness.

What the hell, my nine-year old brain thought. What the hell?

I can’t remember if anyone was laughing or even if anyone was watching. But no one blamed me for setting the bottle on a counter and walking away.

Over the years I saw the odd Moxie sign and other paraphernalia. The memory of that sip always came back to me. Each time I shuddered anew.

So last week, I was in the soda aisle of Market Basket (my girlfriend calls it Basket Market), thinking I needed a change. I was tired of Diet Coke, Diet Pepsi, and Diet Dr. Pepper. And what should present itself but a shelf full of my old friend, Moxie.

Moxie comes in cans now. On the side of the box and on each can, the old Moxie lettering is still there, as well as Moxie Man. He’s a good looking dude, a contemporary of Babe Ruth with a white suit and glossy, movie star hair. Moxie Man glares out at you, pointing. “Drink Moxie” is the caption underneath. I obeyed and grabbed a good supply of the stuff.

I planned to drink my first Moxie at work, with my lunchtime sandwich. I figured food might kill the taste if I really hated it. Came the day, I was ready. I cracked the seal, and after giving Moxie Man a thumb up, took a sip.

It wasn’t bad. Then it was. But not that bad. Or maybe pretty bad. I don’t know!

I managed to finish the can, and I’ve had two more since. Hey, I wasn’t crazy about my first sip of beer, either, but then I got wise. It might be the same with Moxie. I love acquiring a taste for things that most people don’t like. Progressive Rock, anyone? So, it’s Moxie for me, for nine more cans at least.

Moxie Man, I shall do it.

Holly Jolly Holly Jolly, Oh

Music has always been a large part of my holiday.

It’s there on the radio, weeks before. It’s in the stores. It’s on TV, and YouTube. I looked up one of my seasonal favorites there, even though I own the album.

It’s called Winter Song, by Angel.  (You’ll have to look up, or imagine, the awesome video.)

I figure it’s impossible to hear every Christmas song ever recorded in just a few weeks. Some I missed, like I Believe in Father Christmas by Greg Lake, and the Eagles’ version of Please Come Home for Christmas. I’m sure I’ll hear them again.

But I did hear a few others this season. In no particular order…

Christmas Wrapping by the Waitresses. Funny lyrics, sung with attitude. “A&P has provided me with the world’s smallest turkey.”

Frosty by Jimmy Durante (“…and two eyes, made outta coal”)

Rudolph by Burl Ives (“But do you recall, the most famous reindeer of all?”)

Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree – Brenda Lee

Father Christmas (Give Us Your Money) – The Kinks

(I would have loved to post the video here – it’s great.  But WordPress said no.)

An oddly speeded up version of Bing Crosby’s Mele Kalikimaka. (Now why would they do that?)

And that awful Paul McCartney song, you know the one. It’s the Jar-Jar Binks of Christmas tunes.

I have two Christmas CD’s in my car. One is the Peanuts soundtrack by Vince Gueraldi that almost everyone seems to have. I listened to it all the way through on a long car trip.

The other is by the Kingston Trio from 1960, called Last Month of the Year. Very good but it brings back bittersweet memories. The Trio are still around, stopped in New Hampshire last year for a show.

By now I’m a little Bing Crosby and Nat King Cole’d out, but there’s always next year.