DOMINICAN REPUBLIC PT. 5

I think the colors stand out the most to me. Colors that begin with the white sand contrasted against the baby blue skies. Skies that turn velvet black when the moon and stars take over for the sun and wink at you from their heavenly bed, coconut trees swaying in the evening wind as you walk along the beach at 11pm, feet happily bringing you down to the river mouth where you speak broken Spanglish with the eel fisherman; you’re too curious… you gotta know. And you learn that eels can not be grown in captivity and that these translucent, iridescent wiggly worm-like beings will be transported to Amsterdam and Tokyo where they then will be served in Michelin star restaurants to travelers not unlike myself. OK, maybe a little unlike myself. There aren’t any Michelin star restaurants in this pocket of the Dominican Republic that I can’t seem to stop going to — which is exactly how I like it. Because as it turns out, you don’t need a tire company to tell you where to eat. Any night of the week, you can find yourself dining on the freshest Italian, artfully presented French cuisine, or pay about $3 USD for the biggest, yummiest plate of fried plantains and slow roasted chicken you’ve ever had. America could never. Anthony Bourdain style. Yeah, he would have loved this place.

The colors, they start with the sea and sky and they never end. From the homes and businesses painted in every color of the rainbow (with an emphasis on pinks, blues, greens, and some blazing reds and yellows for oomph), to the actual rainbows that reach out from jungly mountaintops after each sudden (and always romantic) tropical downpour. These colors seep into every way of life here. The people are colorful, from the way they dress to the stories they tell.

I met a woman on a sunset drenched beach who had just finished hosting a women’s retreat. Dianna. But Dianna’s day job is hosting something called “Shake Your Ass to Heal Your Past,” an online breath work and twerking course to heal trauma. She taught me how to twerk and it quickly turned into us talking about the coincidences of the universe and shortly thereafter we were hugging and crying — and talking about boys over wine as the night sky lit up with stars and bachata music.

I met a Dominican family in a river one Sunday; we danced in the water as competing sound systems and beach BBQs erected on each side of the river blanketed us with melodies and a smoky promise of the best lunch ever. The matriarch of the family has sent me WhatsApp messages every day since, wishing good blessings upon me and my family. I took a photo of an older gentleman who owns a watch repair store when I was there two months prior, and when I showed him the photo this trip, the way his kind face erupted in smile nearly made me cry. My ATV broke down a few miles out of town and as luck — or more likely Dominican goodwill — would have it, a man at the colmado (a Dominican bodega and favorite meeting place of locals) popped the seat and fixed the fuse for me. Does it sound like I know what a fuse is or does? I don’t but luckily he did. I befriended an old Haitian man and despite our differing political views, hugged and kissed on the cheek every time we saw each other in the street. I fell in love with a beach dog there and each morning I would do a beach clean up with him and his pack as company. These dogs are local celebs with tons of friends, four legged and two, all around town. I wept near a natural spring as local teenage girls washed their hair, only taking breaks to show off their best jumps and dives, splashing their little brother and all his friends on purpose in the process. One day, I got locked out of my $20 a night place and as I waited for my landlord to bring the spare key, I played soccer with my 8 year old neighbor, trying my best to keep up with his rapid fire Dominican Spanish, in which I believe he was telling me all about his three dogs and what he had done that morning.

Yes the colors in a place like this are visceral and all consuming. Like dopamine just by opening your eyes and saying hi to your neighbor.

Because the thing about solo travel is, you’re only alone if you want to be. I find that travel cracks my curiosity wide open. Even more than normal and heightened when traveling by myself. I have a yearning to feel it all and live it all, I don’t want to be a tourist, I want to pretend like I live there even for a short spell. The best way I’ve found to do that is by immersing myself in the full range of color; from letting your gaze follow a greener-than-green gecko as it skitters up a coconut tree to befriending the guys down at the colmado.