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The Border with Haiti

I come to another military outpost. Again, I am told I need to get a permit to ride the trail I just rode. The military person explains in detail where I have to go and whom I have to talk with to get this permit, always being very friendly, pleasant and helpful. I assure him I will seek out the permit office and pay. Everything is good. He is surprised I came through the way I came.

Further, down the trail I run across an area of road covered in giant blue tarps. Haitians come here with huge sacks of potatoes they grow and sell them to someone who eventually comes up here with a truck. There is one military person here from the Dominican Republic, there are maybe a dozen Haitians hanging out in the shade with their potatoes.

They all seem to freak out a little when I ask in Spanish if I can take a photo but then the military person translated to them in Creole that I just want to take their photo for fun. They light up then. I take a couple shots. They get a kick at looking at their images on the camera.

The trail continues to be rugged and steep. I pass a young couple walking with a donkey loaded with firewood.

I ask if I can take a photo. The young girl got into trying to make a good pose, her tattered and torn t-shirt was no hindrance. I look at the image and remark how beautiful it is. I show her the photo. They are both beaming with friendliness.

I like to stop and chat with anyone I see out on the trail. It a huge pleasure and most times I cannot spoil the moment by whipping out my camera.

coming down

I finally hit the bottom of the mountain and hard packed road. I can see the village I am at on my map. I know exactly where I am now.

I pay 50 pesos for my park permit at the first official building I see. There is one guy working here, he is glad to sell me the permit and have his photo taken.

I continue along the border road until I reach the start of the carretera internacional (international road). Again I need my original passport to get the permit. This fifteen mile section of road runs along the Haitian side. Maybe this is an extra precaution because of the cholera outbreak. No big deal, I rode 90 percent of the border. Good enough. I expected this.

I do a U-turn and start to ride southeast, closer to a road leading home. I can make Cabarete in one day if I first put on some more miles today. My body is screaming from fatigue, my ass is raw. I am heading for home, this signals the completion of the ride. That feels good.

Today is Dia Independencia, Independence Day for the Dominican Republic, their independence from Haiti. Some villages had large celebrations and blocked off streets while others seemed like ghost towns. I assume because everyone is at the celebration.

I hit four roadblocks of children asking for donations for some cause. The young girls have a ball having their photos taken and looking at the images. Once I handed the camera over for them to look at, I thought the camera was going to be torn to shreds form the girls grabbing it from each other.

There are bands of roaming teenagers dressed in costumes wearing ghostly masks and cracking bullwhips. The masks have significance in the history of the celebration and in a way represent the conflict between the Dominican Republic and Haitian voodoo spirits.

I screamed the motorcycle toward home and made it to a sleazy $11 hotel in a large Caribbean port city, Azua.

I can clearly hear the Dia Independencia celebration from my room. I am toast. All I want to do is drink a beer at the hotel and reminisce about the ride. That works for me.

I think now, the Dominican Republic will forever feel like it was a dream.