Serie del Caribe 2004
31 Jan — 6 Feb
This year, we’re back at full strength and flying south to the Dominican Republic. Continental Flight 1950 leaves ice–bound Newark for sultry Santo Domingo.
Are Dominicans afraid to fly? One lady sounds like she’s having a baby, or an orgasm, with the slightest bump of turbulence. When the Boeing 777 touches down routinely, all the Dominican passengers break into cheers.
A cart welcomes us new arrivals with free drinks, white rum on ice. One of these would make a mean Molotov cocktail.
Renso Matias, the New York Times’ designated driver, drops us at our hotels in his long black Cadillac. “Rinso,” is good–natured, helpful and speaks just enough English for us to get by.
Walt’s British cell phone, which is supposed to work everywhere outside the United States, doesn’t work here. His US cell phone, which Verizon told him would not work here, does.
Santo Domingo is the oldest city in the Americas and in almost everything, she shows her age,. The weather is thickly tropical, hot and humid. The people are beautiful — smooth–skinned and supple, bright–eyed and quick to smile, despite their staggering poverty.
It’s not all smiles here. Men in camouflage uniforms and combat boots are everywhere, soldiers and various kinds of police. There also are young men with guns who are neither cops nor soldiers.
Walt and Kathy stay at the Renaissance Jaragua Hotel & Casino. It’s on the Malecon, a long boulevard and walk along the seashore. There’s no beach, only jagged rocks. Most of the beaches belong to private tourist resorts.
I meet Walt and Kathy for a sumptuous dinner at the Jaragua. Nachos warmed by a small earthen jar with coals inside, thin–sliced Norwegian salmon in capers and orange sauce, seafood coquilles, black bean soup, a mountainous hamburger that Kathy barely dented and coq au vin. We wash it all down with a California white zinfandel and multiple bottles of the dominant local beer, Presidente, which arrive at our table nearly frozen, with chunks of ice stuck to them. Total: $US60. Increible.
Kathy heads for the casino, Walt heads for bed and I head for my hotel. The taxi driver wants to take me to the house of this “nice girl” he knows, a theme that will be repeated several times in several cabs this week.
The Hotel Palacio is a 400–year–old pink former presidential palace, lovingly restored, with a quiet central courtyard and tile everywhere. My room actually has a well in it, a bricked, waist–high semi–circle that hotel management has thoughtfully covered with a thick sheet of glass. You can’t see the bottom.
The next day, Walt and I are off to Estadio Quisqueya for ticket info.
Walt’s first Dominican souvenir is a day–long headache from a close encounter with low stadium stairs. Mine is a purple baseball cap bearing a yellow star, the colors of the presidential election campaign of former President Leonel Fernández.
Under the incumbent, Hipolito Mejia, the economy has imploded. Many poor Dominicans risk death crossing 80 miles of ocean in small boats to seek work in Puerto Rico. If the election is honest, Fernández probably wins.
NOTE: Three months later, Fernández smoked Mejia like a good cigar, winning by almost 20 percent.
On Sundays, the Malecon bans cars. Kids fly kites, play basketball and soccer in the street. After dark, amorous couples take over the whitewashed concrete benches.
We watch the Super Bowl in Walt’s room. We miss the Janet Jackson halftime flashing, but see full replays of it later.
Day Two brings disaster. Walt’s Sony digital camera is down. All repair attempts fail. In the words of many Star Trek episodes, “It’s dead, Jim.”
Jay and Irene arrive and check in at the Palacio. Their room is bigger, but has no bottomless pit.
Now intact, the Posse has its first dinner together at Pat’e Palo, Spanish for “peg–leg Pete.” This place has been in business, on this same spot, since 1505.
As for dinner…Wow! Shrimp and crab–filled pasta shells, salmon, fettucine, chicken rolled in salmon and a whole phalanx of half–frozen Presidentes.
We return to our hotels in warm, cloying rain and nearly total darkness. Power outages occur nightly here. Those who can afford them run their homes on generators; the stench of diesel fumes fills the night. The taxi drivers have every pothole memorized, but on the equally cratered sidewalks, you’re on your own. A misstep here could snap your leg.
Plaza Colon, big enough for three football fields, stands right in front of us. It’s so dark, we walk right by it without seeing it. Twice.
Day Three, Estadio Quisqueya. We get bum–rushed by scalpers while we’re still in our cab.
One of them shows us a wad of choice “discounted” tickets, and even leads us into the empty stadium to show us “our seats.” Only the seats are not together and some of the ticket stubs are already torn off, loose in his calloused hands.
“No problem,” he assures us. “Just roll them up like this at the gate.” Not feeling assured, we head for the ticket window.
Next, we head for the post office in Zona Colonial to buy stamps for Walt’s postcards. Another first — a post office with no stamps. Naturally, the cabbie knows where they are…at the government tax office.
In Game 1 of the day–night doubleheader, Mexico faces Puerto Rico. Mexico lost all six games last year. This year, they play with speed, skill and spirit, while Puerto Rico plays the game in a nine–man coma. Mexico wins 10–4, and it’s really not that close.
As usual, the Mexican fans steal the show, dancing and singing atop the Mexican team dugout with painted faces and politicians masks, leading cheers through battery–powered bullhorns. They even their brought their own band.
In Game 2, the defending champion Dominicans shake off some sloppy defense and beat Venezuela 4–3 in 10 innings. Miguel Tejada strokes a home run and robs Magglio Ordoñez with a spectacular diving catch.
Unlike the Mexicans, the Dominican fans cheer not for their country but for Licey, the Dominican League team representing the D.R. in the Serie.
Our return to the Hotel Palacio is a scene out of “Bladerunner,” rattling through Zona Colonial in a battle–damaged Nissan taxi. The unlit streets are black and strewn with garbage. Black cats prowl while dogs lie on their sides, probably dreaming of nights without humidity.
Nobody has electricity, but everybody seems to have a cell phone.
On Day Four, Walt and Kathy sleep in. Jay and Irene are out exploring. I’m chillin’ in Paco’s Cafeteria, across from the shrine where three of the DR’s greatest national heroes are buried.
Paco’s is a sidewalk cafe at one end of the El Conde promenade. It’s open 24 hours, and someone is here, drinking Presidentes, 24 hours. I confine myself to a Cuban sandwich — ham, roast pork, melted manchego cheese and a pickle — and a “frozen lemon,” lemon juice, sugar and ice like a Slurpee. Wonderful in the heat.
At the crosswalk, a guy stands yelling out routes for the rusting buses that belch and rattle up to the curb. I used to wonder what a tobacco auctioneer on crack might sound like. Now, I know.
After lunch, we walk to the fortress that held off pirates in Columbus’ day. Jay hires a guide named Omar, who shows us around. We stare at the cistern used by Dominican dictator Rafael Trujillo to “enlighten” his foes, and the bullet holes left by the US Marines who assaulted Santo Domingo in 1965, when LBJ feared the country might go communist.
I drink a coconut hacked open with a machete. Lovely, and I don’t even like coconut.
We end the afternoon with Cuba Libres, daiquiris, piña coladas and mojitos at the Cubania cultural house in El Conde. This spot was used to simulate Havana in the film Godfather II. Kathy and Irene buy jewelry made of larimar, a stone found nowhere else in the world.
That night, we wander off to El Conuco, a traditional Dominican restaurant. The highlight is the floor show, especially the amazing dancers who take turns spinning on one foot while balanced atop an empty bottle of Cointreau. Don’t believe it? Have a look.
We close the night watching baseball in Walt’s room while Kathy gambles downstairs. Kathy cleans up and so do the Dominicans, 3–1 over valiant but overmatched Mexico.
We start Day Five at the Plaza Central mall with Venezuelan cachapas, a folded corn pancake filled with chicken, corn and veggies, 65 cents.
At the Shipwreck Museum, we see displays of sunken Caribbean treasures, but no windows and no a/c make it unbearable. We retreat to the Museum of Ham.
The Presidentes are properly frozen. We’re saved.
The Dominican Republic and Haiti share the island of Hispaniola. Before the Spanish got here, it was called Quisqueya, from the language of the Taino people. Taino art survives here, but the Taino themselves do not. The Spanish exterminated them.
The Dominicans lead the Serie, but Mexico is on their heels. A Mexican win and a Dominican loss tomorrow will force a playoff. Mexico’s dramatic improvement from a year ago is the talk of the Serie.
At a Malecon seaside restaurant, a waiter introduces us to a liqueur he calls guavaberri. This launches a fruitless search of Santo Domingo liquor stores. Only after returning home do we learn that guavaberry can only be obtained from St. Maarten. We’re on the wrong island.
I do believe Quisqueya is Taino for Land of The Cracked Windshields.
On Day Six, Jay and Irene head off with Renso to San Pedro de Macoris, “the Holy See of Shortstops.” Walt, Kathy and I are taking an SUV into the mountains.
There’s a bicycle lock holding the spare tire on the back of the Honda CR–V. The a/c promptly dies and there’s a strange noise that reminds Walt and Kathy of their former Ford Explorer, which broke down often.
They somehow find this comforting.
By the time we reach La Vega, we know what the noise is, a flat rear tire. We can’t get the spare off. Avis gave us the wrong key for the bike lock, and Santo Domingo is nearly a hundred miles away.
Avis promises to send a mechanic from Santiago in 20 to 30 minutes, which means at least an hour. We wait in the Texaco’s open–air cafe, surrounded by steel bars reminiscent of a jail cell. Tropical rain hammers down for an hour. Caballero, another Presidente, ¡por favor!
After nearly two hours, the mechanic arrives. He rubs his chin thoughtfully, then smashes the lock open with a crowbar. Problem solved.
In Jarabacoa, we see palatial mountain homes and mist–shrouded, forested slopes. Kathy looks up to see a pig being killed for dinner. We push on to Baiguate, where a five–minute walk through rain and minor rockslides brings us to a lovely little waterfall.
We rejoin Jay and Irene in Santo Domingo for our last dinner together, at the Tres Mosqueteros outdoor cafe in El Conde, where Kathy spends the evening feeding a stray cat.
Jay is allergic to cats and hates felines with religious fervor. He hisses at the creature and disses Kathy for abetting the furry spawn of Satan — all of which Kathy, filled with Christian charity and Chilean wine, blithely ignores.
There is no playoff. The Dominicans retain their crown. Mexico finishes a strong second, followed by Venezuela. Puerto Rico is this year’s train wreck at 0–6.
Today, we all go home. It’s been a great Serie.
Nine a.m. is big here. The shops open, the buses start to roll and the electricity comes back on, which means the ATM machine you tried at 8:30 will now work.
Time for one last walk around El Conde, one last “frozen lemon” at Paco’s. An old man scrambles across the boulevard, smiling with all six of his remaining teeth. “You Americano, yes?” What a nice gesture, I think. He ran all the way over here just to—
“I have this house across the street, a really nice girl…”