Turkey: Safranbolu

Metro’s bus leaving at 14:00 is already full. (This is the reason why you should buy ticket in advance) Not wanting to wait until 1600, I follow a runner for Safran bus company to buy ticket for 15:00 (actually he lies, the bus leaves at 1530). There must be a fierce competition so you should not worry getting ripped off. Safran bus is not recommended in the Lonely Planet, but it charges the same 15 liras as Metro and drops you off at Safranbolu instead of Karabuck.

I am assigned to a seat on the first row, sitting next to an old lady. More people get on filling the back of the bus; I bite my finger nails, look around and open my guide book. Normally I read the section about the city I am current at or those I’m going next, but at that time I flip to the back of the book, skim and read the part about Women Travellers.

Men and unrelated women are not expected to sit beside each other in buses or dolmuses and lone women are often assigned seat at the front of the bus near the driver.

Immediately, I turn my head and wow most women are sitting behind while men occupy the middle and the back of the bus, exactly as described in the book. from that moment, the concept of Turkey’s being traditional and segregated society begins to take hold.

Traveling in winter has one big disadvantage. Days are very short. It is only 18:00 and it is already pitch-dark outside. I am getting a bit worried because I am not sure how to find hotel in this condition, let alone find the one in the historical center a few kilometers away from the otogar. The free shuttle bus from the otogar drops in Kirankoy in front of Metro bus company. I stand there for another ten minutes looking at street names hoping to locate them on the simple map of the old town Carsi. I move about a few meters when two young Turks approach me. “What do you need? We can help you.” A sympathetic, innocent looking one asks. Well, this is not Sultanahmet. There is no carpet nor souvenir shop around. These guys probably are not looking to “build relationship” with me for the reason you-know-what. Following two male strangers at night is not something I recommend to solo female travelers. But after a few days traveling in Turkey, I have a feeling that Turkish men are genuinely nice. Also, I usually make gut decision, and I think that these young men are trustable. We turn left at the intersection to a market street and turn right at Ulu Cami Yani passing a few hotels/pensions to reach Yorgancioglu Konak. After a string of laughing and misunderstanding because of the language barrier, they offer me a room for 20 lira per night. (http://www.yorgancioglukonak.com/) There is only another couple beside me since this is the low season. I get a room with two beds for the price of one. If I prefer I could have gotten the bigger three-bed room with a bigger show stand.

Safranbolu: Carsi

Staying in not my wish because for the same amount of money and perhaps a bit more I might be able to find a cheap room in Carsi, but at least this way I can hang out with these locals, Recep and his friend, who were born and grew up right here in Safranbolu. It is a wonderful experience to walk down the winding road lit by dim light and listen to the faint sound from the river below. Recep and his friend introduce me to the nocturnal version of the old town which I surely would not do it myself even if I stay at a pension right in the Carsi. How fortunate is that you end up meeting strangers who later become your travel guide and grow up in one of the Ottoman houses you come all this way to see.

We return to Kirankoy around 22:00 to grab a late dinner in a cheap eatery, 4 liras for a small soup, pilaf (sticky rice mixed with nuts cooked in oil) and koffe (meat balls).

I wash my clothes and myself before jumping onto the ready-made bed to watch the football match between FC Bacerlona and Mallorca. It is a surprise treat as I’ve been wanting to watch Barcelona for a long time after closely monitoring their progress only on the news.

I start the next morning a bit late since I have to spend two hours in an Internshop at Kirankoy to keep up with my travel writing before following the same winding path Celik Gulersoy Caddesi downt to the Ottoman village.

As charming as it may seem, Safranbolu is only popular among Turkish people and maybe sporadic visit by Korean and Japanese tourists. Americans travel here, and Europeans come here in a very small number. Thus, you can freely roam around and enjoy the authenticity of the town. The shop owners perhaps lack tourist experience so they don’t know how to rip you off. I revisit the alleys and mosques Recep and his friend took me the night before.

The morning bazaar is now opened with many shops selling pretty much the same things: wooden crafts, hand-made leather accessories, spice and sweets. I don’t know how they make any living in this season with such a low turnout of tourists; there are more shops than the number of tourists walking this town. An old man at a leather store waves at me twice to sit down on his chair while he enters the tiny door of his shop to make me a small present. He cuts a tiny piece of red wool and sews a tiny village slipper. From time to time he keeps assuring me “small present, no charge,” but I know fairly well I can not leave here without buying something else from him. I wish he sells wooden crafts or textiles but he only make leather, jewelry and knives which are of no interest to me. Eventually I pick out a smallest hand-made cooper bell which costs 6 liras. I guess, this is the price for the red slipper, the bell and the chance to take an up-close photo of a local man at work. A little later, I find a tourist postcard featuring him making his crafts.

Here in Turkey, I don’t feel hungry really but I feel the urge to sit down in a small eatery to look at Turkish dishes, to feel the atmosphere, and to sample cheap but delicious food. I order Safranbolu Isdender at a Sofrasi (small place where you eat) behind Cinci Han, at the corner of Hidirlik Yokusu Sokak, across from Pasa Mustafa Konagi. The dish is minced meat gozleme sliced served in yogurt and red sauce. They friendly lady owner gives me two pieces of Turkish SafranTat lokum and let me sample yaprak sarma, rice-spice mixture wrapped in vine leaves when I ask if I can take a photo of her preparing the dish.

Heading out from the restaurant to Izzet Mehmet Pasa Camil, I meet Recep and his friend sitting next to the fountain. Our exchange phone number last night wasn’t successful as they could not call me, and my phone did not save their numbers. They make a funny gesture knowing that I have not visited any museum house nor the city museum; they must have thought what kind of tourist I am.  Sensing that I might miss out something important, I tell them I will hurry there now and hopefully will catch them somewhere here.

The Ottoman house Kamakamlar Gezi Evi is not something spectacular, but for only 1.5 lira, it is worth half an hour of your time. Two-storey house is divided into different sections: male/female guest, bride, main rooms etc… using manequins dressing tradional costumes.  The human side models are a bıt pooky since the rooms are dark with me being the only one there.

I return to the square where I saw Recep earlier, but not able to find them. After spending fifteen minutes searching for them, I give up and let my feet and my natural wandering sense lead me to the city museum Kent Tarihi. The top floor is unimpressive as it houses photos of past Safranbolu, newspaper articles, a governmental office and a small artifact room. The more interesting part is located at the bottom room, showing pictures of Safranboluans working on traditional handcrafts and prototypes of Safranboluan trades, pharmacist, Turkish delight , spice shops as well as saddle-maker, shoemaker and blacksmith models at work.

Leaving the museum, I run into a curious group of young girls who keep staring at me and whisper something to their parents.  A friend who visited Turkey recently warned me about Asian being rare species in Turkey. Well I get my answer after encountering many curious people, not only salesmen from Istanbul, stop me short on the street to ask me if I am Korean or Japan (they are the only Asian tourists here).  Thus being Vietnamese makes me even rarer. Usually it is me who take photos of other people, but it is the other way around here. The girls stealthily look at me and take my photos with their cell phones from afar. When I walk pass them, they walk faster to keep being ın front of me just to take another look at my face as if  there aren’t enough Koreans and Japanese tourists here already.

Not able to find Recep and his friend anymore, I walk out to the road full of confident I am on the same road I walked here last night and this morning to get here. But who am I kidding? Being me, I’m not surprised realizing that I am working to somewhere else and not home. An old woman who can see details in my small map, a group of Turkish boys and two Turkish police who stops a minibus, I find myself squeezing with other Turks back into Kirankoy.

Malcolm Gladwell reviews “Collapsed” by Jared Diamond

My favorite author reviews one of my favorite book.

n “Guns, Germs, and Steel,” Diamond looked at environmental and structural factors to explain why Western societies came to dominate the world. In “Collapse,” he continues that approach, only this time he looks at history’s losers—like the Easter Islanders, the Anasazi of the American Southwest, the Mayans, and the modern-day Rwandans. We live in an era preoccupied with the way that ideology and culture and politics and economics help shape the course of history. But Diamond isn’t particularly interested in any of those things—or, at least, he’s interested in them only insofar as they bear on what to him is the far more important question, which is a society’s relationship to its climate and geography and resources and neighbors. “Collapse” is a book about the most prosaic elements of the earth’s ecosystem—soil, trees, and water—because societies fail, in Diamond’s view, when they mismanage those environmental factors.

Link

Spain: Barcelona

Barcelona

The airport bus Girona-Barcelona operates from Nord station, a metro stop away from the center Catalunya.  It should have been an easy walk, but I am here for the first time, carrying a knapsack on my back thus in no mood for exploring, so I choose the easier way by crossing the street to the metro station heading for Catalunya.  No wonder Spaniards and Catalans are know for their relaxed and easy temperament.  Where else in a late winter evening, flocks of people can still on benches, watching flocks of other people walking. I want to have my first share of the Mediterranean air, sitting on a street bench to munch on my cookies but there is not a single space left for me.

The guidebook recommends a walk up and down the La Rambla which is only a couple of blocks away.  Finishing the cookie and spotting the sign to La Rambla, I fixed up my backpack and handbag to prepare for my walkabout.  Though other than walking and soaking in the spirit, there is not so much to see.  One peculiarity which sets this tourist street from others in Europe is the presence of many stands offerring birds, chicken, rabbits, hamsters and other pets. “What a sight!” It is a bit out of place but it is fun to watch.

Further down the La Rambla stands the colorful La Boqueria market. Spaniards enjoy pigs in an extravagant way as gigantic legs of ham are  on display everywhere, which I will soon find in every shops and bars across the country. Then there is seafood. Whoa! FOP (fresh of the plane) from the landlocked Czech Republic, where pork, chicken and beef are the major protein source of my daily meal, I can not help but stare with admiration at at shrimps, lobsters and their extended family competting for sellers’ attention with their bright and various shades of pink and orange.   Arm-spreading white octopus lie next to neighbor squids and strange-looking scarry fish I’ve never seen anywhere. Lovely but unfortunately dead rabbits hung up-side-down along side with bags of snails and fowls. It might seem weird and rude to enjoy oneself by the sight of dead animals, but I have never seen such “deadly” combination before. For years, the only hanging meat I saw were roasted chicken, ducks and pork mostly in China town and restaurants. Later on I saw skinned calves haging dry on dirty streets in Dominican Republic, but the dirty meet and dirty road only made me wanted to throw up.  Here, arrangement of the rabbits, the snails and the wild birds poses a strange beauty even in their death.

Too child-unfriendly? No if you take them to sweet delight sections which boasts  everything from chocolate, gummies, and candies of all kinds. I personally don’t like sweet which explains why I don’t bankcrupt in this market.  But I have never imagined sweet sight-shopping can be this fun and refreshing.

Spaniards, or in this case Catalans, know how to enjoy themselves!

Walking off the market, I bumped into an Italian man who asks me for direction.  Realizing that I am also a dumb dove as he is, he hastens off for a waiter preparing a table a few feet a way. Five minutes later, he walked back toward me telling me he knows how to get to there.  Since he continues talking to me, I followed him to the building where Gaudi first worked and Gaudi styled  lamp.  I don’t usually follow the first stranger I meet in a foreign place, but he is an art professor from Milan who recently transferred to teach here in Barcelona.  What more can I ask for? Who will give away a free art lecture from the master.  We continue to a local tapas bar where he order small portion of anchovy stuffed Reina olives and thin slices of pickled herring.  I can not believe my luck of meeting a knowledgeable travel partner on the very first day until the “charming” Italian professor demonstrates a “tradition” in southern Italy.  “We cheer by touching the glasses twice, on the top and the bottom.”  Then he raises his wine glass to touch mine “One, two…” he counts and then in the middle of the bar under the scrutiny of the Spaniards around, “and three,” he kisses me on the cheek.  “It’s our tradition in the south.”
Huh? It has been a long time since I first traveled solo, thus never fully prepared for this kind of being hit on this blatantly.

Gaudi

Followed the advise of my host E., I make a visit to Parc Guel the next morning.  E. lives in between the green Fontana and yellow Joanic metro stops, north of the city center. So walking to Parc Guel is a short fifteen minute walk to the main street and then up the hill. I didn’t know about Gaudi nor saw any of his work so I have no expectation of what I am about to see.  Once again, my jaws drop as I reach the end of the street and turn the corner to behold the entrance of the park.  I had never seen any architecture this elegant and original like that of Gaudi.  This is not to debase the beauty of Europe’s typical Gothic, Renaissance or Baroque. However the latter’s almost ubiquitious presence in every old town in big and small cities across Europe somehow diminishes their appeal to me.  When I first set foot in Europe and a couple of years after that, one gaze at any even commonplace buildings was enough to stop me from my track, force me to take out my camera an start to photo like a Japanese tourist.  But then my eyes got used to the familiarity of Gothic rose windows, pointed arches, tall spires to Baroque domes, abundant use of ornaments, and I stopped seeing.

So one hand holding the map, the other carrying the camera ready for action, I walk down Carrer de Padilla searching for Gaudi’s most impressve work, the Sagrada Familia. Gaudi has worked on this grand project for over 40 years until his death.  Coninuance of his work has been carried on after his death and scheuled to finish in another fifteen years or so.  This proves how grand this project is.

And then it happens.  As I squat on the ground trying to capture the immense height of the church, a small gypsy comes up and shows me a petition paper for rights of gypsies with two names from New Yorka and London. She says something like “your name here.”  Feeling good, I take out my pen and write down my name. Then just like magic, she removes her fingers to reveal the last column showing the money contributed (10 and 20 EUR) and asks “How much?” A ha! Now I start looking closely at the paper and discover the names are printed and not hand-writtened.  I have been axed. I can’t just shoo a little girl away so I give her 2 EUR.  A bunch of other gypsies then surround me and shove the same piece of paper into my face when I hear a shout from a man behind me. He keeps on shouting at them and signals “No”  and “gypsies steal” to me.

Suddenly it dawns on me. Not the kind of revelation that one has finally acknowledged God. Well, I should anyway given that he maybe sits somewhere across the street.  Rather It was an understanding about human motivation. It becames clear to me why us adults get more doutbful, we are on the look out all the time and trust others less. Because, as it is proved in my enounter with the young gypsy, the moment I get comfortable and doubt nothing, I am dubbed.

Park Guel                                                           Paneira

Sagrada Familia Casa de Bastilo

Dominican Republic – Day 10 – Jarabacoa

Left our hotel at 715 to hike to the largest waterfall in the country, Salto de Jimenoa Uno. No guide, no detailed map necessary, we used the simple map from our travel guide. Plus Honza is amazingly good when it comes to direction; it makes me think if he does not have the map printed somewhere in his head. Moreover, the direction to the waterfall is very straightforward: get out off the city to Shell gas station, following the pavement road for some kilometers, and this road will turn into a dirt, bumpy road all the way to the waterfall. It took us 2.30 hours to get there carrying on average pace. Riding a motorconcho would have been a good option, but wanted some kind of physical activities after sitting most of the time on the bus, sampling food and relaxing all week.

The hike was for me “nice.” If you know me well, you will learn that I use “nice” quite a lot when I don’t want to be unnecessarily negative. I saw prettier landscape, interesting scenery. On the contrary, Honza liked that Jarabacoa was not overtly touristic area, and he got to see for the first time coconut trees, banana plants where he could touch hanging clusters of banana from the tree. You have to understand this: Honza is from the Czech Republic, the city of ancient castles and churches; the closest thing he has to coconuts and bananas are those sold in Tesco supermarket. Whereas I grew up in a mediocre neighborhood in Southeast Asia; my house stood by the dead end of the street, next to a coconut tree and across from an abandon garden full of banana plants. The garden later was made into my aunt house.

We paid 100 pesos each for the entrance to the waterfall, which was another 1 km hike down from the road. The fee included a free bottle of water and a Spanish speaking local guide. Due to the heavy rain a this week, the water turned dirt brown because of excess soils from the mountain. The water in the pool was freezing cold, no chance for a swim after hike; but who wants to swim in brown water anyway?

The guide offered to take us to the other waterfall, Salto de Jimenoa Dos through some shortcut, but we were not sure if we had to pay him more as we left most of our money at the hotel. We refused and hiked back to the city center.

We rested in our hotel for two hours before walked out to the central park where I wrote postcards for my friends. The Post Office closed at 4 pm. so we will send them tomorrow morning before we leave. We ate 5 deep-fried half-moon shaped dough from a street stand before coming to our favorite Internet shop at Ramon Maria Pina Equina and Libertad.

Sep 10 2008

Dominican Republic – Day 8 – Leaving Jimani

After the money incident yesterday evening, we wanted to leave the hotel as early as possible so we packed our stuff and left without having breakfast. But you know, we had nothing to worry about because this country was a a great street food culture. Down from our street was a man selling deep-fried cheese dough for 15 pesos per piece. (We update the real name later). On the way to the gua-guas station to Santo Domingo, we bought a sweet drink with milk, similar to ochata drink from Mexico, and mango juice for 45 pesos. That was our nutrient breakfast for the day.

It would have been an uneventful trip from Jimani back to the capital  if we weren’t checked almost 10 times. Yes you read it right, 10 times. Every half an hour or so, we passed a military post and had to stop for them to check our passports. These “authorities” focused mostly on the black (Haitians) and us. There were four Haitians who didn’t have to show any ID at all. When were asked, they simply pointed to the 2nd driver. At first I thought that the man kept their passports, but later on I noticed that perhaps, there was a secret business going on. When the police asked the man, he simply waved his hand, smiled and said “bueno.” At our 2nd checkpoint, we refused to hand the passport to a punk-looking guy because he wore T-shirt and jeans without any governmental sign or ID to prove that he was a police.  We thought that we already showed our passport just 15 minutes ago, so we held on to our passport and only let him read while someone told us that this guy was really a policeman. We heard many voices from the front shouting “americano, americano.” Probably they meant that we were Americans and there was no need to check us.  Eventually we learned that the man in military uniform only sat outside and sent  his 2nd man to do the job.

At the  2nd check point, we saw the 2nd driver handed money to the police/military.

To fulfill our mission of sampling local food all day, we bought sweet on the street from a Haitian girl carrying an aluminum bowl of sweet and nuts on her head.  Our minivan ran  over a goat; I saw the poor chap sliding to the side of the street. I felt pity for whoever owned that goat; they must have lost a fortune thought I did not know what the use of the goats in this region. Then on the other side, we saw a huge chunk of foundation under the bridge broken up because of the rain the night before. Other than that, there was nothing interesting to talk about.

Now, I really feel mosquito bites on my legs as I have been scratching my skin out.

Sep 8 2008

Dominican Republic – Day 7 – Jimani Border

Another 40 pesos spent for the publico to the border 2.5 km away. We imagined “funny” things, and sadly we did. Before we even got to the border gate, we had to walk through a construction site with earth movers adding more sand to the road. Beyond this area was a sizable mud pool almost knee-high blocking the gate. On the other side of this gate was the “duty-free zone” / open market that we read about online. It was more or less a no-man land Haitian and Dominicans could cross freely to do business. After this market was the Haitian border. Unfortunately, due to the rain and flood, the market was closed with empty wooden stalls.On the Dominican side, many Haitian men a few Dominicans sitting by the bricked wall and doing the usually thing which was nothing. We felt all eyes focused on us. One predator singled us out from the moment we got off the publico; first he asked basic questions and then after voluntarily walked with us for sometime, tried to convince us to cross the border. Wanted to get rid of him, we said that we would have a beer in that bar across the street. Still, he followed us to the bar and ordered for us a beer plus one for him. We didn’t know until we were charged for two beers. Then he tailed us to the border gate and carried on with his promotion in Spanish, something like “You go with me over there for 100 pesos, otherwise you will pay these guys (border control) $10.” Partly he was right. To leave the DR, you have to pay departure tax, to get back you pay another $10 for tourist card. By then, we had given up our desire to cross into Haiti just so that we could say to people that we were there. Every single person we talked to Dominican or Haitian warned us that it was not okay to travel to Haiti just by ourselves unless we had a Dominican or Haitian friend with us. Plus the market was flooded everywhere, no point to cross.

I really wanted to stay longer, to soak in what I see, to remember what I could because I could not blatantly take out my DLR camera and started shooting (I lost my pocket camera), but Honza and I became increasingly uneasy by this guy and his friends around. Plus Honza already recorded a few minutes of the border, so we decided to walk away. Then this guy got really pissed off and demanded money for walking with us the entire time “caminar contigo paralla aqui…” “10 dollares,” he said. “Porque, no necesito ti, compre ti un cerveza…” (I didn´t need you, I bought you a beer) I shot back. He liked the beer part but still wanted money. We walked away from the open center, heading to the road for cars and motorcycles and still not able to get rid of him. Without a second thought, I waved a motorconcho (100 pesos), and we rode away . It was funny how we had been hesitating to ride motorconcho because we didn´t think it was safe let alone riding two on one, but when the time pressed, we did it without a blink of an eye. The Haitian tail was cut though he managed to shout out to the driver “200 pesos” (charge them more), and we enjoyed the windy blowing into our face on the short ride back from the border

We returned to the city and accidentally walked into a “baseball” game at a street corner. The young Dominican players played an impressive game with only bamboo bats and tennis ball. You would think that you would see a bunch of nuts running around hitting on the tennis ball and missed, but oh boy were they good. More than half of the hits resulted in home-runs. If only they got a chance to grow up in the US and got mommy daddy drove to baseball practice to maybe later got a scholarship to the university.

We dined at a small cafeteria nearby, having grill-cheese, chicken sandwich and blended papayas drink. The papaya drink was heavenly refreshing, as the rest of Dominican cold fresh juice you can buy everywhere on the street. I also had half an hour conversation with the lady in funny Spanish about Haitian immigrants in the country; how they rented house here for maximum 1000 pesos/month; that there were many jobs for them here in Jimani, mostly in agriculture, construction and helper. Business is not busy here in Dominican Republic, but I notice many Dominicans have helpers, mostly Haitians. Probably paying them is very cheap.

After the cafeteria, we walked down the street to another corner and saw a Haitian woman and a little Haitian boy selling sausages and ordered three more for 10 pesos each. Heh, we seem to eat all day don´t we? We didn´t care about food, we only wanted to sit at the corner like the rest of the local and just watching the street and listening to loud music from the bar beyond. For some reason, they turn music very loud in this country

It was a typical Caribbean evening indeed.

Sep 7 2008

Dominican Republic – Day 7 – Jimani

Not able to make few hours trip (indirect connection) to either Ellas Pinas for Dajabon for the Haitian Market on only Monday or Friday; we opted to head further west to the remain border city Jimani, hoping to catch similar open market. We found an article on the Internet about some woman´experience at the border and crossing to the free-duty zone to shop without having to show any identification. The trip to the border cost a fixed 170 pesos. The price list hanged on the window so you don´t need to bargain or fear being cheated. The landscape again brought back the feeling of a semi Third-World country, a typical sight of the Southwest. We passed Lake Enriquillo but were not able to see much because of meters of scrubs and bushes separating the lake and the road.

Hotel Independencia

We arrived in Jimani at 1pm. The gua-guas dropped us at an interesection which after walking about 10 minutes, we saw an hotel sign, Hotel Independencia. We were actually looking for Hotel Jimani, recommended by the book, but decided to stopped here and inquired about prices. The hotel keeper, probably a Haitian, offered us a room for 300 pesos (<$10). Definitely a good deal compared to $20 or more at hotel Jimani. We asked him a couple of questions about the town and thought that we found a nice one to seek further help. However, in the evening when we gave him 500 pesos, he started to blah blah which we could not understand but we both knew that the price was more than 300 pesos. We handed him a piece of paper to write on, and he wrote something like 300 for dias and 200 for noche. I probably appeared angry to him and tried to reason with my shabby Spanish ”Pero tu dice trece cientos y yo creo solamente 300 para todos, dias y noche. Vamos en la manana maxima 12.” After a while, he signed okay that he would return us the change. However, when he brought us the change, he changed his mind one more time and only gave us 400 pesos. Even though 400 pesos was still a very good deal, but we were pissed because this was a blatant rip-off. I could demand to see the owner and complained beside showing my Lonelyplanet guide and told them that I would write very bad review for them. But then I didn´t want to cause any trouble since I had to stay the night. Who knew what the owner or the hotel keeper would do? Plus I already said to Honza that it was okay if the Haitian cheated on my by telling me a higher price than the normal one he would charge the local. It was just that I hated the style.

Some shady hotel like this does not give you a receipt so you kinda have to hope that when you leave in the morning, they don´t ask you for money again. Fortunately, nothing like this has happened to us.

At the border

…to be continue…

sep 7 2008

Dominican Republic – Day 6 – Barahona

Explored the open market in the town. Most of them were Haitians selling tennis shoes, vegetables, fruits, rice, beans, fried snacks among other junks. Again, I could not freely took pictures as I wished for fear someone would either steal or scream at me. (The latter happened)  The street was extremely dirty and muddy, packed with sellers, buyers, motor riders from everywhere. I bought 15 pesos of yuca for breakfast before hailing a gua-guas to Paraiso (80 pesos), a beach 40 km South of Barahona. (Paraiso beach was described in previous post) There we had about 30 minutes for ourselves before four local boys came over and swam with us. As everyone here, the boys automatically assumed that we were “Americano.” They were quite animated typical young boys except for one Haitian who rather looked quiet and shy. He was the only one swimming with his jeans on. They posed for a few pictures, showed us a string of small fish they caught in the ocean. When we were leaving, we saw one boy banging on dried coconut parts on the sand. He cracked open and pulled out tiny bits of coconut pulp and gave us some. It was not tasty at all but it was an interesting bite. Was not able to find any restaurant or food stands any where in the city, we got on another gua-guas carrying avocado back to Barahona.

Seafood restaurants are nowhere in sight in this country. One would think that being surrounded by the ocean, seafood would be cheap and abundant everywhere. Instead, we found only fried chickens.

Craving for watery food, I chose to eat at a typical China Pica Pollos so I could ordered a bowl of soup. I was expecting the version of European version of soup bowl, instead the waitress brought out bowl three times bigger.

We returned to the hotel to wash off the salty water and returned to the center to roam the park. I brought with me a pair of shoes for the local boy to clean. I already picked out my favorite little 9-year-old Dominicano I met yesterday, but he was nowhere to be found. When I saw him, before I was able to wave at him, somebody else had asked for his services. I then chose a Haitian and gave him 25 pesos. The real price, 10 pesos, was unbelievably cheap.

Found and Internet shop and blogged for 2 hours beside asking the lady there for information about Jimani, the border town we would visit the day after.

sep 6 2008

Dominican Republic – Day 5 – To Barahona

I finally found a dictionary for 160 pesos at a supermarket to supplement my heavy phrase book which had become useless as the day went by.  Reading news in Spanish was still a challenge but surprisingly doable.  Only a few weeks ago, I was not able to follow through simple paragraphs of news in Spanish sites, but here only a few days I can do it somewhat easily. It has nothing to do with my skills, rather it´s all about the excitement of being here and forced to just do it.

Not able to find a gua-guas to Barahona, we opted with Carribe Tours (250 pesos/oneway) since this was the only name we knew to tell the publico driver. The trip took a little more than 3 hours with almost half an hour being stuck in the city.

If you only see tourism promotion ads about Dominican Republic, you will think of this country as a Carribean paradise with picture perfect beaches. Beautiful it really is; we made a short trip this morning to Paraiso beach  south of Barahona this morning (day 6) and found only ourselves ruling the entire blue-green beach with four other local boys. If this simple, isolated non-tourist beach during hurricane season is as beautiful as this, how superb those advertised in ads along the North Coast are?

However, during our entire bus ride from the capital to Barahona, we passed by many desolate landscape of the Southwest, with tattered wooden houses behind puddles of brown mudd left over from the rain. Old men, young men, women and children stood or sat idly in front of the house, starring at vehicles passing through. I saw a bony old man taking a bath by a muddy river/creek next to aconstruction site. It was not all  depressing sight as there was also plenty of green patch of banana fields, palm trees and the imposing mountain range lying behind.  Whenever I looked at the afar mountain, I got a bit depressed. This means that there is noway how I can get to Jarabacoa from here without either returning to Santo Domingo or heading to Santiago.

We arrived at Barahona around 5 pm. and immediately took a liking to this small coastal city. As usually motoconchos honking and driving everywhere and waving at us for a ride. Fortunately, it was only a walk down from the Carribe bus station to our hotel El Cacique, which we found from Lonelyplanet. The price range from 3 years ago was $9-14, so we expected $15 for the cheapest choice. We found a room with fan for only 350 pesos/$10. Rooms with air-condition and TV cost 650 pesos.

We fumbled into a deserting open market which promised to be an interesting exploration for tomorrow.

Dominican Republic – Day 4

We finally connected to an AIESEC friend and moved across the city from West to East to stay at her parents´ house in Caterena Mella, El Brisal. Our previous host, M., gave us a dead-on precise direction that we were able to find the house after two publico connections. By now, we have become quite a pro in term of finding ourselves around the street on publico, Jan´s favorite public transportation. We could have cared less about the lack of space, air and abundant amount of sweat around us as the fixed prices, 20 pesos per trip and the crazy fun of the experience, already win us over.

Most of the day was spent to find the Aquarium and the Modern Art Museum. The Aquarium (fee: 30 pesos) was closed because of the hurricane season. I don´t recommend the Modern Art Museum because there was almost nothing special there except for one floor displaying photos of life in Dominican Republic. For some reason, we continued to get lost finding this museum. However because of this, we met an illegal Haitian young men who sold fruit (bananas, avocado and pinaples) on the street and ended up chatting with him for half an hour.  He seemed like a decent young guy who spoke okay English beside Haitian-Creoles, French and Spanish. In the beginning, we wanted to only buy coconut from his friend, but his nice demeanor and eagerness to talk dragged us to his fruit tricycle. I took a few photos of him and his “business.”  We exchanged email addressed as I promised I will send him photos once I returned home.

(…More later..)

We had a nice time later at the friend´s home with mom fixing us quick dinner and juice in addition to hanging our laundry. I was told that Dominicans ate light dinner so I was not surprised that we were served baked dough and a plate of salad.  Here we had a chance to observe a typical Dominican life, people stood outside by the fence or on the street talking to one another. Street vendors roamed the street selling plantanos and avocado.