UPDATE...Redundancy

Hi. So, no one is reading these things, but I'm writing anyway.

In December will be Outlandish Journey II: Return of the Idiots.

Photos

Well, it happened. Just about a week ago, Isaac sent me pictures from the trip. If he would have only put them on a website rather than in an e-mail, you could see them.

I guess you'll have to wait until the photos from the trip in December are 1) taken and 2) posted.

That bike trip from last year

Memories of a Journey I Don’t Remember Very Well

It was sometime in August of 2008. If you ask Isaac, he’ll tell you some story about how I pushed back the departure date for the trip for a whimsical reason, an apparently unilateral decision which, given my hard deadline for arrival, inevitably led to an incredibly long and grueling final day of biking for which Isaac may never forgive me. In any case, it was at the end of the first week of August, and I apologize if, for your own peace of mind, you really need me to get more precise, because it’s not going to happen. Not now, at least.

So what exactly am I talking about? I don’t very remember very well. See, I’m writing this some five months after the trip. However, since you are once again forcing me to think more about this than I care to, I offer to you that I still think the best way to describe what we completed was coined months before the trip: “an Outlandish Journey”.

From the Oxford English Dictionary, I piece together

1. outlandish (adj): Of or belonging to a foreign country; foreign, alien; not native or indigenous.

2. outlandish (adj): Looking or sounding foreign; unfamiliar, strange. Hence, in extended use: odd, bizarre; going beyond what is considered normal or acceptable; outrageous, extravagant.

3. outlandish (adj): Out-of-the-way, remote; far removed from civilization.

4. outlandish (adj): Of or relating to the Outlanders or Uitlanders of the former South African (Transvaal) Republic.

5. outlandish (n): A foreigner

6. outlandish (n): A foreign language

and also

1. journey (n): A ‘spell’ or continued course of going or travelling, having its beginning and end in place or time, and thus viewed as a distinct whole; a march, ride, drive, or combination of these or other modes of progression to a certain more or less distant place, or extending over a certain distance or space of time; an excursion or expedition to some distance; a round of travel, usually applied to land-travel, or travel mainly by land, in contradistinction to a voyage by sea
2. journey (n): A day's travel; the distance travelled in a day or a specified number of days. An ordinary day's travel, the distance usually travelled in a day. As a measure of distance, varying with the mode of travel, etc.; usually estimated in the Middle Ages at 20 miles; the portion of a march or expedition actually done in one day, or accomplished each day;
3. journey (n): The daily course of the sun through the heavens.
4. journey (n): A day’s work
5. journey (n): (from the British Royal Mint) The coinage of a certain weight of gold or silver, orig. representing the amount of one day's work: viz. 180.0321 Troy ounces of gold (701 sovereigns or 1402 half-sovereigns), or 720 oz. of silver
6. journey (n): A set of trams in a colliery.

to provide several possibilities. To be more precise, a simple calculation reveals that there are exactly thirty-six (36) possibilities of combining these two groups of elements. However, normalized English syntax regarding adjectival premodifiers suggests that the last two entries for the first word can be eliminated. This narrows possibilities for my structural definition of what happened to twenty-four (24).

Choosing any two of these fundamentally defines what information I could easily include in this document. In other words, and to loosely borrow from fellow nerd Gayatri Spivak (as I am unfortunately prone to do), to define the happening is to endeavor to define the happening. For example, one option, (4:6) [read “four choose six”], would suggest that I would be writing on a group of South African train cars from the late nineteenth century. However interesting that may be, it is not the topic of this essay. And rather than eliminate the other twenty-two strawmen[1] before I finally lift the silken handkerchief and reveal the pigeon in my top hat, I should eschew the suspense and tell you what is the best choice for a structural definition of this increasingly lengthy work. However, as you may have guessed, things are not that simple.

As the amusement of writing this section now has left me, revealing once more how much of a chore it is to compose this, I now turn to share my secret with you. Basically, take the second entry for outlandish, fairydust in a bit of the first and third, and throw in a healthy portion of the first entry for journey. Please don’t ask me to elaborate or make this section smoother. Things will be clearer in hindsight…or at least they will remain behind us.

Setting the Scene

Right. So I have now written over two pages and avoided talking about, well, anything. If you know me, then you are quite familiar with my speaking style, and you know I tend toward too much information. To remedy this, suffice it to say that my friend Isaac and I rode our bikes from Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic to Haiti in the span of five days. This is a written history[2] of that outlandish journey.

I’m going to leave to Isaac the explanation of why he wanted to visit me in the DR (while I was doing dissertation research) and why he had to wait until the date he did to come. In any case, we had been discussing his visit for months prior. He had several things he thought about doing. He, of course, wanted to hit a beach or two. Also, since we had gone to Haiti together in 2003-2004, he (like everyone I accompany to Haiti) really wanted to go back. This usually meant a six (6) hour bus ride and $125 in transportation costs. He had recently gotten more excited about bicycling[3]. From this point, let me include a portion of a G-mail chat session from early April 2008.

Isaac: How fare is the closest beautiful beach from you?

Kiran: 30-45 minutes.

Isaac: I mean beautiful! Amazing.

Kiran: Well, the further you go, the better the beaches.

10:49 AM

Isaac: How fare is it from Santo- PAP?

*far

Kiran: 6 hours in a bus, 45 minutes in a plane. (Yeah, you got work on the brain.)

Isaac: So.. like 100 miles

Kiran: Hmmm.

10:50 AM

Isaac: What kinda plane?

Kiran: Smaller plane. Not a jet, not a crop duster.

Isaac: So how far could we get on bikes in two weeks? Could we get to the coast in a day and bike along the coast?

10:51 AM

Kiran: Port-au-Prince is 156 miles as the crow flies, or so I think. Which coast? Santo Domingo is on the coast.

Isaac: Oh yeah. I guess that does make sense. We should do a two week bike tour along the beach.

Kiran: You've got biking legs like that?

10:52 AM

Isaac: And into Haiti. Well, I mean sure. So do you.

Kiran: I'll need to build up to it.

Isaac: You're in better shape then I am. You better get on it.

Kiran: Right. I'll go biking tomorrow.

Isaac: LOL!

And from that, the seed of the trip was planted. During the next few months, we ironed out details, discussed items we’d need to purchase, set a schedule, and began to roll out plans.

In actuality, I did start biking more in April and May. I had boosted my training from a short 30 minute ride to a three (3) hour ride, going from my apartment to Boca Chica and back. I felt that if I kept this up, I’d for sure be able to make the five (5) hour trip to Juan Dolio and back in a few weeks. From there, I could work on strength training, and I’d be golden throughout the trip to Haiti. I had a friend, who came from the US to visit on her way to teach in Costa Rica, bring me a pair of professional (but tasteful) biking shorts. These really helped, and training became a pleasure. I had tried to get sponsorship from Timbuk2 bags, but wasn’t successful. Isaac tried to get sponsorship from Fat Tire Brewery in Ft. Collins, but to no avail. So, he took it upon himself to bankrupt himself by purchasing bike saddle bags, mounting gear, another pair of shorts for me, bike lights, vegan power bars, and a host of little do-dads that came in handy. (Unfortunately, the compressed air canisters were confiscated by the airline when he came.) With all this set up, we chose a date of early August (before the 2^nd rainy season), and things were in motion.

The ensuing months saw me fade into historical darkness, as I was g

The day of Isaac’s arrival, my media naranja and live-in girlfriend at the time (Jennie) and I went to the airport to meet him. It was a festive time. There was even some 1950s convertible filled with bachata musicians speeding around the airport and surrounding roads. His flight landed a bit early, and after 30-45 minutes, he emerged from the airport bowels. I greeted him with a heartfelt “Y Mas Gan”. We grabbed luggage and then took a cab homeward.

What remained was to pick up some last minute purchases around Santo Domingo and then to go on practice rides (to acclimate Isaac to the Caribbean heat).

Again, you’ll have to ask Isaac why he thought it would be good to be drinking Presidente beer until midnight or so one night, and wake up the next morning at 5am to train. In any case, he did it. He made the ride to Boca Chica easily enough. We had a leisurely lunch. On the way back, though, it was around 11am. The heat was high, and Isaac nearly puked from heat exhaustion. He eventually got the strength back to finish, but was done for the rest of the day.

We did another test ride or two…this time to the west. We passed Haina and reached San Cristòbal. Unlike what we would do on the actual ride, we stopped at the halfway point (in this case, San Cristòbal) and ate breakfast. Eggs, coffee, and bread. What would you eat?

During this time, we were encouraged and supported by Jennie. The day before our supposed departure, she took a bus to Haiti so that she could be there at the “finish line”, or at least be there when we finished the ride. She took a small duffle bag of our clothes, as we were spending an additional week or so in Haiti after we arrived.

Day Zero

Bikes were ready. Saddle bags were packed with organic raw vegan powerbars, bike supplies, money, and passports. Clothes were laid out. Since Isaac had problems waking up (and going to sleep for that matter), I committed to setting the alarm. However, I had my own sleep issues that morning—the specifics are not relevant here—so needless to say, we did not wake up. Isaac knocked at my door in a somewhat confused, angry, and groggy state, asking why were not up and riding. After a brief exchange, I went back to sleep.

I have no idea what we did for the rest of the day. Who cares, anyway? Surely, not you, dear reader, whose baited breath can be felt through space and time by me while I think of what to write next. Anyway, let’s get to the biking.

Sketch of Article

Day One: Santo Domingo to Baní (the 9^th)

We awoke around 4:30am, but it might as well have been 1:30am, given how dark it was. After a brief morning ritual, we dragged our bikes out of the apartment, across the courtyard, and out of the building to the street…Vicente Celestino Duarte. We switched on our lights. I placed one foot in the pedal strap. As I rolled back my tires an inch or two for leverage, I simultaneously inhaled with the same sort of nervous energy you have when you are about to speak in front of a large audience or when you jump off a six-story cliff into a lake. I let gravity pull the bike down the hill in front of me as I exhaled and secured my other foot in the pedal strap. It was about 5am. Thusly it began.

We made our way through the simple maze of the Colonial Zone streets and past the public mausoleum that is Parque Independencia[4]. One more turn led us down a tree-lined street that eventually opened onto the Malecon and the dark and expansive Caribbean sea beyond it. From this point, it was supposed to be an easy route, simply following the main road to the main highway, all the way to Port-au-Prince.

We had done a trial ride in this direction a few days before, so Isaac now felt confident enough to either lead or follow. We passed the Jaragua Hotel. We passed the Lebanese-Syrian-Palestinian Club. Shortly thereafter, I called out to Isaac that I had to stop. I had a minor nervous breakdown, but Isaac coached me through it. I got back on the bike but was crying for the first five minutes after we restarted. Eventually, I calmed down and focused on riding.

It’s an odd thing about riding. A bit of a moving contradiction. You see, smell, hear, feel, and unfortunately sometimes taste things while riding a bike that you completely miss in a motor vehicle; however, most of it drifts into a blurry dreamscape as quickly as it appeared. I remember crossing bridges to enter into Haina and San Cristóbal. The more bridges I crossed, the more their color changed from black to lighter shades of blue-green. I remember winding through San Cristóbal, making our way toward the highway instead of stopping at the breakfast spot we ate at a few days before. Towns were dusty, roads were crowded with cars, several which honked at us. Cobrador-s hung out the side of Toyota minivans and gawked at us. Men, women, and children along the road looked at us with tired and confused eyes. Air pollution was overwhelming at times. Okay, most of the time.

One remarkable event occurred on that morning. Isaac, due to his ability to bike the several big hills between Santo Domingo and Baní, had arrived at the merging point to the main highway before me. Unlike what you might expect for an onramp, the road we are on required us to cut across oncoming traffic and merge into the westbound lane. No overpass. No underpass. It was as if the people who designed the new highway said, “okay, you don’t have to use our road to go west from Santo Domingo, but if you’re going to try an alternate route, we will make rejoining us incredibly dangerous.” What this mean is that you have to use depth perception and timing to get into the westbound lane. So, even after Isaac’s “oh, I totally misjudged that huge truck that was flying down the highway toward me,” I still thought the same thing: that idiot almost got himself killed…and almost had me watch it. Fortunately, the sun had risen enough by that point so that Isaac’s towering frame and his large bike stood out to the truck driver. He looked like a drunken lamb wandering into a wolf’s den, though. The truck driver was a bit more alert. Feet slamming on the break and the clutch of the truck, one hand pressed equally as forcefully on the horn, and a firm grasping of the steering wheel at the ten o’clock position prevented a horrible mess. I had a good view of the entire incident.

I said it before, and I’ll say it again later: I don’t remember much from what happened on the ride. The next thing I recall, we were winding through Baní, looking for the hotel near the main square.

We easily found it and rented a room on the ground floor. The first room we saw was a bit tight for the two of us with our two bikes, so the women opened up a bigger room where we could stay for the same price. Leaving our gear, we walked to the restaurant next door to eat breakfast. It was about 10:30 am. I walked scouted out the area around our hotel, knowing I probably wouldn’t find anything, but hoping I might. The same colmado-s, clothing stores, and phone stores were there. I did find a theater that looked like a 1980s version of a spaceship, but I think the movies playing were as old as the building. When was Gung Ho released?

Isaac had been hyping the dunes for a few days, and now that we were in Baní, the talk grew more intense. I wanted to sleep and rest. He wanted to go to the beach. We argued and argued. I was depressed, and he was on vacation. In the end, he won. We walked down to a bus stop and, after a 45 minute wait, took a bus to “las dunas”. In the guidebook, the pictures made it look dreamlike. Maybe ten or fifteen foot dunes of white sand, dusted with a little vegetation. These towers were buttressed up against a sky bluer than the Windows XP frames. Beyond those, I imagined a peaceful aquamarine leviathan, gently pawing at the coast. In reality, things were less than picture perfect. First, we had no idea exactly where “the beach” was, let alone the dunes. We saw sand, but what was the difference between a pile of sand and the official dunes site? Hoping that at least the beach would meet our expectations, we piled on the back of a motorcycle that took us from the bus stop to what looked from afar like a resort area. This, too, dashed our illusions. The highlight of that outing for me was finding a real, live starfish. OF course, a few minutes later, a middle-aged man came by, picked up the starfish, and put it in a plastic bag. Illusions 0, Stark Reality 3. In summary, the dunes were dirty, the sky was partly cloudy, and the now seemingly lifeless water was mostly dark green accented with an occasional condom or Presidente bottle[5]. Of course, the salt flats were nice. Just don’t take any. What Would Gandhi Do?

Back in Baní, we changed clothes and went to dinner. At some barbecue restaurant, men walked to the table in cowboy hats[6], blue/white checkered shirts, and jeans. I took a phone call to deal with some personal drama. Then, we settled in to eat mediocre (at best) food. We wandered back home, and sometime, in our exhaustion, we went to sleep.

Day Two: Baní to Azua (the 10^th)

4:30 or so: Awake. We fumbled around awkwardly, getting ready while trying to open our eyes. Isaac, holding more of the responsibility, fumbled more. I got ready fairly quickly and took my bike out of the room. Shortly thereafter, so did Isaac. The woman at the desk opened up the door for us, and we made our way out. I really don’t remember doing this, but I suppose we started riding toward Azua. It was dark and our lights were on, though no one may have been home.

The first chunk of time, getting out of town, I don’t recall. In fact, the first memory I have was wondering “how much longer am I going to be going up this damned slight (but annoying) incline?” Just outside of Baní, true to the map I remembered looking at weeks prior, there was some incline to face. It didn’t look to bad. What it was, though, was over an hour of uphill. Up. Up. Up. No straightaway, no mild downward hill to give a bit of a rest. Up. Up. Up. Perhaps the first thing Isaac and I said to each other that morning was… “when is this hill going to stop?” As the Earth slowly turned to show us the sun again, there were interesting visual tricks between mountains and lingering nighttime clouds. Things got brighter, from black to jet black, to deep navy, piercings of violet. Slowly, there was a minor eruption of pinks and oranges. It was quite on the road. No cars. Only the sound of a gentle breeze, one that grew louder if we went downhill. Eventually, though, things got mixed up a bit. We did a bit of up and down. But no matter what, it seemed like we kept going up. Finally, several hours later, the sun now fully up, we realized that favorite dictum of elevator operators: what goes up, must come down.

By this time, it was perhaps 7 or 8 in the morning. I continually hydrated from my camel pack with the baby water we bought at the store in Baní. But as I saw the hill before me, I secured the drinking tube and held on. This was no ordinary downhill.

Cars, of course, passed us frequently on the trip. I (unable to speak for Isaac) at least got used to the cars speeding by…perhaps like those gorillas got used to Jane Goodall. You know, like “hi, you look kind of like us, but you don’t move in the same way as us.” Curious, but wary.

This hill, though, got us going faster than I’ve ever moved on the ground without being in a motorized vehicle. I believe Isaac clocked us somewhere around 40-42 mph. If you’ve never done that, next time your friend or family member is driving down the West Side Highway or whatever relatively brisk thoroughfare, stick your head out the window. If you have glasses, take them off for effect. Then, imagine you have to keep your eyes open, free of the water that inevitably will be gushing from the air drying our your peepers, steering as to not run off the road/into a hole/into traffic, and if that wasn’t enough…try to smile and enjoy it. Not too wide. Bugs at that speed might just chip a tooth. It begs the question…how long does it take for a drop of sweat to go from the top of my head to the ground when traveling 40 mph?

In any case, I felt like I was flying! Cars, once zipping by us, now seemed to barely stroll pass us. Just when I thought it was about to end, there was a bend to the left, the end of the side of a small gray green mountain, exposing the brilliant, cool blue sea. The decline increased, and I got a complete adrenaline rush, peddling faster and faster. In the distance, I saw a white sandy beach that looked incredibly isolated and equally inviting. But we had other fish to fry. Just then, as I was imagining a quick dip in a cool pool, there was a flash of color and a metallic wooshing sound. Just then, a pack of bikers (some in spandex attire, some in t-shirt and shorts) zipped passed me. It let the air out of my high a little bit. Anyway, it was still cool to tear down that road.

At the bottom of the hill, we began the leg of the journey that would take us along the coast, just to the point where we climb another hill to reach Azua. Just as I was settling into a long stretch of straight riding (mountains to the right, sea to the left), the same troupe of buzzing metal flew by…going the other way. “Um, where the hell did they go, and how did they get there so fast?” Isaac was a ways away. I kept riding. Isaac took lead most of the time. However, I decided to take over for a while. I turned around, and he wasn’t there. I slowed a bit, but kept riding. Eventually, three kids on modified dirt bikes caught up with me. They indicated that Isaac got a flat a kilometer or two back. He apparently sent them ahead to catch me, so we all turned around and rode back. I think it was around then that he told them that I was on the Indian Olympic bicycling team, and that he was my coach.

I saw Isaac enveloped in a set of inner tubes and bike parts on the side of the road. I dropped my ride and offered water and help. We chatted with the kids…they were kids…they were like 15 or so. They were nice and helpful. I think Isaac even loaned a tool for them to fix their bikes. Yada yada yada. I hated having to fix tires. I didn’t have to worry about that during the trip…not yet. Back on the road we went.

We were less than 20 km from Azua, so we made that time fairly quickly. That last incline was a little hard, but not too bad. I, of course, was the last rider….not used to riding inclines, as I trained going back and forth to Boca Chica on Las Americas. Even riding, there. Once we got closer, we asked for information about a place to sleep and about the road to Barahona. The kids liked chatting with us. We finally reached Azua. We decided on a hotel that was at the far end of town. Easy to get out, I figured. We checked out the rooms, and then went for breakfast/lunch at the Pica Pollo/Chino joint around the corner. I had been fairly vegetarian since about 2003. However, living in the DR and doing that ride mandated protein in larger quantities than plants can easily provide. So I had some chicken and ricke and beans, and was done with it. We bought the kids food and drinks, got their information, took pictures, and went back to the hotel. Isaac took a rest.

I necessarily started looking for drama, so I called up my romantic interest. That occupied me for a while. Then, we went looking for baby water. We couldn’t find any, though, so we went to a few different places on motorcycle taxi. Eventually, we found a market or two (right by the “farmers’ market”. I got a couple of gallons and went back. I think I slept for a while. Perhaps there was dinner, but again…after such an exhausting ride, things go blurry. We prepared for the next day, and I went to sleep in my room. Isaac was next door.

Day Three: Azua to Barahona/Quemaito (the 11^th)

The boys warned us about riding out at 5am, saying that there were lots of thieves around, and we could get robbed. They also told us that there were 2 big hills going to Barahona, the last one being really big.

But at the moment, we were in the same situation as yesterday…riding with our bike lights, bidding farewell to the highway sign pointing to San Juan and Elias Piña. A stray military checkpoint popped up from time to time. That morning I again don’t remember much. I don’t know why anyone cares about that stuff anyway. Legs pumping, scenery, water, and power bars. That’s pretty much most of the ride. Punctuated with a few episodes. Got it? Stop pestering me.

The first hill was not that bad. I had gotten used to riding inclines and felt good. Then, there was a series of ups and downs, empty landscapes and dainty towns. People were up and going to work. A few waves and smiles. Some people looked at us like we were crazy, others like we weren’t from that planet. I thought we were making good time, and we started up a hill. I thought, “Great. It’s not even 9am and we’re taking the second hill. At this rate, we’ll be there around 10:30.” Isaac, playing my more reasonable side, reminded me that there is no way that the hill we just took was the second hill. The kids said it was big and long. Twenty minutes later, we found that they were all right.

Isaac has a great ability to ride mountains. Of course, he trained in Colorado, so he better. I did not have such training, so I went very slowly. I rode and rode, dropping gears. Eventually, I was in the lowest gear, and struggling to peddle. I pushed, I weaved, I tried to imagine some other place, I tried the old Catholic standby of guilting myself into riding on. Unfortunately, my legs were just about to give out. I got off the bike, looking up at a turn in the road. Not 5-10 minutes walking up, I saw Isaac riding down. “Damn, man. You almost made it. Great riding, though.” That’s what I like about Isaac. He’s a fairly miserable son-of-a-gun, but he really can be incredibly positive and encouraging when need be. Perhaps if I had gone a few minutes more, I would have made it. Apparently, a motorist told Isaac that I was walking up, and that’s what started him back down. Just before the top, I hopped back on and peddled ahead. No more rest…onward Christian soldiers! To the Promised Land of Barahona, Quemaito, food and rest!

We rode a bit further, and then got to another big downhill, dropping us into the valley before Barahona. This also had a spectacular view. As we were at the top going down, the entire plain opened before us, showing thousands of banana and palm trees, the sea to the far left, and mountains beyond mountains, beyond which was Haiti, all being warmly embraced by sunshine and blue skies. Quite honestly (and I know many of you women don’t like to see a man cry), it was so beautiful that I felt like crying. A bit of the way down, Isaac asked if he should take a picture, and I said yes. So he rode back up to get a picture, while I made my way down.

We snaked around and across a plain, and time kept ticking. We pulled over and had some water, resting on what perhaps once was a driveway to somewhere. I figured we’d be arriving soon, but it was already 10, and still no clear signs of Barahona. We rode on. Soon after, we got a bit of encouragement, as we entered Barahona. Unfortunately, that was just the province of Barahona. We rode on and on, passing the turn off to Tamayo, to Jimani, and Bahoruco. After crossing a set of railroad tracks, I could finally tell Isaac that we were close to Barahona, the city. He rode more determinedly now, pushing a greater distance between our bikes. We passed a few checkpoints, and I stopped for a water break. It was totally necessary, but I was almost out of water. I rode on, finding Isaac on the side of the road, also resting. We had reached the city limits of Barahona.

“You sure it’s only 3 km past town?” “Yes,” I assured him, “that’s what the guidebooks say.” But since he didn’t know the way through Barahona or to Quemaito or to the Hotel Casablanca, I had to lead. So I did, zipping through town, downhill. When we got to the downtown area, we stopped at a market to get food and drink. We went to a restaurant and ordered. I went to make a phone call (to keep my daily dose of drama going). I then returned and told Isaac I needed to use the internet. I went looking and left him with the bikes. Eventually, I found it, and read the e-mails I was requested to read. Making my way back, Isaac was pissed that I left him. I was too, but I hoped my smiling disposition would charm him into submission. It never works. But after he barked for a while, we got provisions and went on to Quemaito, Hotel Casablanca, and Sussana…the greatest chef within the national borders of the Dominican Republic.

Starting again, we rode into the mountains of the south. For some reason, though, the road seemed longer than 3 km. It was damned hot by that point. Isaac was getting bitchy. “Damnit, Kiran. It better be really close.” I kept reassuring him that it takes like no time at all to get from Quemaito to town, so we should be there soon. We were going through mountains again, so he pushed ahead of me. I told him to look for the Hotel on the left side. We stopped at the bottom of a hill, and he told me that if we didn’t find the hotel in the next hill or so, he was going to stop for a longer rest on the side of the road. Or was he going to kill me?

Indeed, the Hotel was just around the way, and we pulled up…exhausted. We got our room, parked our bikes, and went to the beach. We decided to stay another day, but of course, not without a discussion. I had wanted to get to Haiti sooner rather than later…my date was the 13^th. Isaac suggested perhaps taking time and arriving on the 14^th. Arguments, frustrations….It all came to pass. That night, we met some French people, one of whom, Bernard, runs a hotel not 2 blocks from my apartment in the Zona Colonial. There was also the US family, living in the Zona Colonial. Isaac got their contact information, but I never spoke with them after Quemaito.

Day Four: Quemaito (the 12^th)

The next day, we were treated to the fabulous breakfast by Susana that I had grown to love at Hotel Casablanca. Oats with fresh pineapple and bananas, good rich coffee, fresh juice, and bread. I wanted to do nothing but rest. Isaac, that little go-getter, wanted to keep riding. I told him he was crazy. He should rest. But noooooooooo, he didn’t listen to me. I went down to the water, slept, went down to the water, slept, read, and wrote. He came back and felt sore. I told you what? I can’t remember if I told him that, but I’m sure I meant to.

That afternoon, Isaac lamented that he missed the trip to the Larimar mines with the gringos and Bernard. He wanted some Larimar for gifts. It would have to wait.

That night, we had excellent food. The 1^st course was a tuna infused dish that absolutely blew me away. Why can’t my tuna fish taste like that? Then, we had a salad, followed by seafood soup. Seriously, the best food I’ve had in the DR…ever. Preparing for the long ride to Haiti, we went to sleep.

Day Five: Quemaito to Haiti (the 13^th)

I am pretty sure that Isaac and I never decided on whether we would stop at the border or ride on to Haiti. We had our ideas, but no closure ever came to the discussions. So when we got up at 3:30am to leave at 4 (which actually turned out to be more like 4:15am), we didn’t know what we were going to do. It was a rough start. It reminded me of leaving Santo Domingo. Isaac wasn’t feeling strong…probably due to long stretches of biking over days in the heat without a day of rest. DUMB ASS! But the fates had things in store for us, as well. Isaac got a flat before we reached Barahona. Eventually, we fixed that, rode up through town, and out toward Jimaní. I believe the police checkpoints made Isaac a little nervous, but the officers never said anything. Once we got on the road to Jimani, I saw a sign that said “Jimaní 123 km”. Ouch. That hurts. So we rode and rode. I was feeling great that morning. I could ride fast and steady, leaving Isaac behind for a change. The scenery was getting more and more desert like. Banana trees faded away, leaving that spindly scrawny tree that usually gets covered with white dirt along highways. However, the mountains were always near us…now, to our left. Riding riding riding. We looked for air for our tires, but couldn’t find any. We rode on. Time was passing by, and we still hadn’t reached Duverge. Once we did, it was only supposed to be 25 km to Jimaní. Damned travel books. They never help the way they should. In any case, we stopped in Duverge for some breakfast, and I bought some more liquid. We couldn’t find big water containers for sale, but we thought we could make it, so no worries. A motorcyclist told us that we still had a ways to go, but we should be able to make it in about an hour or so. It was after 10am. So we began to finish the last bit of riding through the DR. Little towns with their damned speed dips and bumps. I swear, we could have been there sooner if we didn’t have to slow down for all those pesky speed bumps/ditches. Lago Enriquillo was to our right…sometimes pretty, sometimes swampy. Isaac never quite caught his rhythm, and was complaining more and more. He just wasn’t used to the heat. I could understand that.

At some point, I got a flat. It was a slow leak, so even after pumping it up, we still had to fix it. That cost us two stops instead of one. And the sun got hotter, as did the concrete we rode on. It was perhaps over 100 degrees on the street. Isaac told me that he didn’t want to go into Port-au-Prince today. I insisted that we were going to do it. We would be monsters! I felt like doing incredible things! I felt strong! Unfortunately, Isaac did not. He was really starting to lose his cool, literally and figuratively. We rode on, and it was incredibly hot.

I stopped just before the 9km sign to Jimaní, as I knew that the next 3 km would be the biggest and last hill before Haiti. Everyone who has every gone to Haiti through Malpasse on bus or in a car knows that hill. It’s just incredible. It must be at least a 30 degree slant. But on the side of the rode, Isaac was someplace else. As he was behind me, I waited for him to arrive. When he did, he ran his bike well off the road, dropped it, took off his helmet and threw it. “Kiran, you motherfucker. Why the hell did you convince me to ride on this fucking exhausting ride, this too long of a trip, in the middle of all this heat? This was the dumbest idea you have every gotten me involved in.” I think he cursed my ancestors in Yiddish, but I can’t be certain. No matter. Neither I nor my ancestors speak Yiddish, so I just smiled.

I told him (perhaps out of partial insanity due to the heat), “I am riding to Port-au-Prince today. I don’t know what you’re doing.” He told me he was going to ride to Jimaní and then catch a bus back to Santo Domingo. We were talking it out. I even gave him Joris’s number, my roommate, so he could let him in the apartment. I thought Isaac and I were going to part ways for good right then. Then, miraculously, we rode on.

We began to tackle km 9 to 6 toward Haiti. The road swerves up the mountain, providing some great views of the valley below to the left. On the right was more scrub brush and in the distance, what seemed to be the glimmer of Etann Somat, the lake on the Haiti side. I ran out of water on the hill. Isaac pulled ahead. The concrete was so hot that my feet began to feel hot. The peppered road emitted heat mirages, and I felt myself getting faint. My legs just weren’t going to make it. I saw where I had to go, and I just couldn’t. It was a quite a distance…perhaps a half kilometer or so. I had to stop, but I had nothing to cool me down. The shade under a few leaves from a thin tree was all I could get. No cars came by bringing a whisp of air to cool me. No motorcycles that could carry word of me passing out along the road. I pressed on, as Isaac was most surely at the summit, if not on his way down. He was out of sight, in any case. In what seemed like an hour (but was surely only about 15 minutes), I reached the summit. Then, I got on the bike and pumped downhill, energized by the symbolic nature of what descending that hill meant.

-No more big hills to go over.

-Less than 10 km to Haiti

-Closer to Haiti on a bike than I ever had been before.

-Water, food, and rest.

-Clarity on whether to ride into Port-au-Prince or not.

As I flew down that last hill, I remember even catching up with a man on a motorcycle. The hill was that big. Eventually, the hill flattened out, and I was pumping again along a straightaway. On the side of the rode, I saw Isaac. He was reclined under the shade of the thin brush. “Kiran, I can’t go anymore right now. I’m just gonna sit for a while and think.” What a punk. He’s bigger and stronger than me…why is he pulling this shit? Or so I thought. “Whatever. We’re 6km from Jimaní, and I’m out of water. I’m going on. See you later.” I was being an jerk, I know.

Eventually, I made my way across the bed of rocks that was once a river (I imagine). There was construction going on to rebuild the bridge that I believe the hurricane in 2007 knocked out. It was a damned nice bridge, I have to say. The construction workers also gave me a puzzled look. The spectacle of it all, combined with the signs saying “Bienvenidos a Jimaní” pushed me on. I rode harder, making a strong finish, slowing slightly as to not miss the bus station. That was where I would make my stand against the ferocious and angry Isaac. I looked around for a place with lots of drink, but could only find the bus station. I parked my bike inside and went to the counter to buy some Gatorade. I saw a couple of kids standing around, asking for money. I told them to do me a favor and look for a tall white man on a bicycle like me. I told them to stop him and have him come to me. I sat in the shade, trying to relax, but also keeping an eye out for Isaac. I just hope he doesn’t do anything silly like try and take a back street to the border.

He didn’t. The kids stopped him about 25 minutes later. We had some drinks and sat. I said that we should cross the border, and then decide what to do. He suggested resting in Jimaní and then going tomorrow, or perhaps later today when it wasn’t so hot. I told him we should cross the border ASAP, so we don’t get it closed on us. Yes, the border closes. An arbitrary point on the globe…closes. Silly, IMHO. So we rode the last 2-3 kilometers to Dominican immigration. I left the bikes with Isaac, took his passport and money, and went to immigration. I paid the fees ($20/person) and we went on. He was being pestered by some customs people, telling him that he had to go through customs. I told him to just ignore the man, pretend you don’t speak Spanish, or just talk with him until he goes away. This did not comfort Isaac. I kept working on getting our passports stamped and our papers to cross, but it was taking a bit longer, as there were more people for some reason. We got our passports back, and I handed Isaac his. We got on our bikes, showed papers to the people at the gate, and wheeled our bikes into Haiti. Then, we got on and rode the 1 kilometer to Haitian immigration. We skipped the police check, and I again went through Immigration for Isaac. We changed a bit of money and decided to eat at one of the vendors just beyond the gate to the rest of Haiti. We had a big plate of food, and I had drinks: Ragaman. It’s so bad for you, but it tastes so good to me. That was my first material sign of being in Haiti (rather than being on the border).

Isaac seemed a little relieved, even though we hadn’t figured out what we were going to do, yet. After talking, I told Isaac that I couldn’t ride anymore. My thighs were getting fairly chaffed, and I didn’t think I could ride…even if we went tomorrow. So, we agreed upon taking our bikes in a taptap for about 2500 goud. Isaac initially wanted to sit in the back, as there was almost all our junk. However, the taptap driver assured us that he was responsible for all the people who got free rides in the back, so we let it be.

He dropped us off at the gas station by Djoumbala on Wout Frè in Petyonvil. I didn’t want anyone knowing exactly where we were staying, as that would simply invite trouble. Plus, I didn’t know if Dja (my host) was going to be around. We had arranged something for me to enter the courtyard, but we would have to wait to get in the apartment until one of the workers or Laurie (the downstairs neighbor) came home. But before we could even do that, one of the people was asking us for more money. We had our bikes out of the truck, so we now just had to finalize the details and leave. They began to make a scene, so I made a scene. Then, a security guard came over. I explained how we came to a price when we left the border. He can’t change it when we arrive. Everyone agreed, though the driver wanted more money because he said that it was farther than he realized. Money exchanged hands, and we were alone with our bikes in Petyonvil.

Then, our vacation in Haiti started, which is another story all together. And I definitely will not tell you, dear reader, that story. You’ve pushed me too far, as it is. I will simply say that I went to see friends and family in Haiti, and I sent Isaac to Soukri with a friend. We returned on a CaribeTours bus, putting the bikes underneath. The CaribeTours employee and the Dominican authorities tried to make Isaac and I pay $60 for each bike to cross back over, but we refused. We got home in Santo Domingo around 6pm, and rode our bikes though rush hour traffic down 27 de Febrero (the equivalent to perhaps Broadway in New York) to Duarte, rode through Chinatown, passed through the Muralla [old wall of Santo Domingo], and coasted down Vicente Celestino Duarte toward the front of my apartment building. I increased pressure on the hand breaks, eventually creeping to a halt just as I let out a long breath. It was as if I had been holding it since I was in Haiti. My left foot slipped out of the pedal strap, dropping gently to the ground. I leaned to my left and freed my right foot from its constraints, sweeping it over the back of my bike and the saddle bags. It, too, drifted to earth. I was back.

During the following days, I had to go to the hospital, as I got a staph infection in two places due to ill-fitting bike shorts. Yeah, it was gross. Should I have taken pictures, you deranged buffoon? Anyway, I got a professional cleaning by a cute female doctor (who was totally hitting on me while cleaning pus out of my wounds. Nothing gets a woman hotter than squeezing purulent muscular thighs. Yeah, she asked for my number.) That and antibiotics fixed everything after 2 weeks.

Reflections:

There are several points that you, bloody reader, might want me to address. Why didn’t we wait and ride to Port-au-Prince? Doesn’t that destroy the journey? [Short answer: no.] How come I didn’t make a bigger deal about crossing into Haiti? [The amount of text I spent on it reflects the amount of energy we spent on it at the time.]

What I can tell you is that arriving at my door, I was not the same person. I felt different, and I looked at the world differently.

What I can also tell you is that I owe several people thanks. First and foremost, I thank my dear, dear, lifelong friend, Isaac “Baron” Hilpman. As I hinted in the article, he helped me so much throughout this outlandish journey, and also throughout the larger one that is my life. You, dear reader, should be so lucky as to have such a friend as he. His height is far superseded by the range of his heart. In this case, size isn’t as important as the quality of interaction between two people. I love you, Isaac. Secondly, I would like to thank the kids who helped us going to Azua. You will probably never see this, and even if you do, you probably won’t be able to read it. But know that your company was immensely appreciated. Thirdly, thanks to all the people who encouraged us along the way: the juice and pate vendors, the people at grocery stores and colmado-s, people at the hotels (guests and workers), those on the street who waved, gave us fists of support, a kind “uepa!” or asked if we were in the Olympics.

Upon returning to the DR, I slowly began telling people what I did. Apparently, I was somewhat of a celebrity. People in different neighborhoods began talking about the two foreigners who rode their bikes to Haiti. People thought I was crazy, but they had incredible amounts of respect for us.

Now that the outlandish journey is…well…at least at a pit stop, the idea has been kicked around to do this again. Isaac and I would like to do this as a benefit ride to help communities in Haiti and the DR. Perhaps we will. How cool would it be to have a yearly bike ride, where Dominicans and Haitians cross borders and break boundaries together in solidarity and difference? We’ll see.

In closing [thank gawd I get to stop filling pages just for the sake of blathering…and getting Isaac to release photos of the trip], I want to say that I am impressed with what Isaac and I did. Without a doubt in my mind, I will forever remember what happened on that trip (even if I don’t write it all down). I’ll be curious to see how Isaac recounts the tale. With as little ego as possible, I am deeply proud of what I believe to be the greatest achievement of my life so far, this Outlandish Journey.

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[1] Out of respect for that eminent commentator on social issues (and on gender specifically), George Carlin, I suggest that you consider (for as long as it takes you to finish reading this sentence) using strawwoman or perhaps strawpeople when referring to a strawman argument.

[2] This is not the definitive version of the story. I reserve the right to change details or whole sections of the story in other versions, written or oral, as I see fit.

[3] I had grown to appreciate it as well, after having biked the island of Manhattan on the recommendation of one of my professors, Steven Gregory. I liked it so much that I bought a bike in Santo Domingo after arriving.

[4] It’s kind of like the Taj Mahal, except that instead of a wonder of global architecture embodying the spirit of a great love of a Indian ruler for his wife, it’s more like the combination of a neglected park, a convenient spot outside of which sex workers congregate, a public place for students to dutifully copy the monthly displays for perfunctory school reports, a concrete bandstand for overblown nationalist spectacles, and…oh, yeah, a unimpressive chamber where the number of the entombed is rarely outnumbered by the number of their visitors.

[5] See Isaac’s pictures for some images of this.

[6] While not working, the waiters took their hats off, replacing them only when a customer showed up.