This is my second post about my trip to Punta Cana in the Dominican Republic.
As I mentioned previously, I hate to fly. It scares the shit out of me, but I will say this, as we came into the Punta Cana airport, we had to fly over the Dominican Republic.
And my God, was it gorgeous. Beautiful lush green meeting bleached sand meeting light blue ocean. When I looked up the GDP of the Dominican Republic it listed three things:
Sammy Sosa
Pedro Martinez
Yearly GDP: the equivalent of a local mini-mart in Alabama.
And I could see why. When you live somewhere this beautiful, well, it's real easy to say 'fuck it, let's hit the beach, we'll work tomorrow.' Now, you cobble 40 years of those days together and you get what you have in the Dominican Republic: a Third World Country where the people are very nice, but not very motivated to do much.
We finally get out of the airport and get on our bus that will take us to our resort. We pull into the main entrance and let me say I was wowed. Big time. We had people taking care of us from the moment we arrived.
We then went to our suite. It was the most awesome room I have ever stayed in, anywhere. View of the Atlantic, view of the pool (which was topless - which at first blush sounds awesome, but quickly turns to a bit of a nightmare), and the facilities were top notch. Stocked bar.
And whiskey.
I love whiskey.
Once, a very long time ago, when I was about 21, I was drinking at some hole in the wall bar somewhere in New Jersey. I asked the bartender for a good whiskey, as I didn't know of one, being unfamiliar with the concoction. He suggested Glenfiddich. I said ok. He then asked me if I wanted it on the rocks.
There was a guy sitting to my left, and he immediately piped up (with a British, or Scottish accent, not sure which, and didn't care enough to find out), and said 'do not put ice in that drink, it's sacrilege.' He said it with such conviction that I figured he knew what he was talking about. And ever since then, I have never ordered whiskey on the rocks.
Punta Cana is pretty hot. And you can't drink the water, so you're constantly drinking bottled water. Also, most of the population, even at the resorts, do not speak English with anything resembling proficiency. At our resort, there were bars everywhere. You walk up, you order and invariably, unless you order beer, they ask 'Ice?' Now, 'no,' the last time I checked was the same in Spanish or English. At least, I think they spoke Spanish.
Then I'd get the look. The 'are you a crazy American gringo' look when I said no ice. The look that said 'are you sure you don't want to reconsider, as you are making a really poor decision with regards to your choice of libations.' I stood resolute. No ice. Anywhere. Near. My whiskey.
But these people were relentless. It could be the same bartender from the night before, and I would have to repeat the whole godforsaken process just to get my whiskey without ice. At one point, I think I got frustrated and told the bartender that if there was any ice, anywhere remotely near my Johnny Walker, I would hunt him down, his kids, dig up his grandparents, and kick all of their asses. I tried saying it in Spanish. It probably came out 'I want to bone your dead grandmother' for all I know, but to his credit, he didn't seem upset. And I got my whiskey without ice.
Ah, but the battle was far from over. My wife and I went to the 'Italian' restaraunt at the resort. The waiter comes over, 'would you like something to drink?' My wife orders. I say 'Johnny Walker Black, no ice.' 'No ice?' 'NO ICE.' He wanders off.
My wife gets her drink. My drink is nowhere to be found. Our appetizers come out. Still no whiskey. I flag down the waiter. 'Could I get a whiskey, no ice?' 'No ice?' This was quickly turning into an Abbot and Costello routine.
He wanders off. Our dinners arrive. Still no whiskey.
Half way through the dinner, I see our waiter, grinning triumphantly, glass of brown liquid in his hand, and I can see there is no ice. I am ecstatic. Finally, all the explanations have paid off. Then I thought, 'fuck, I should have ordered a double, as I will have to go through all of this again.' He places the glass, with no small amount of flourish, on the table in front of me.
And then I see it. I can see his fingerprints on the glass.
Oh no. As I reach for the glass, I know. I fucking know what took so long.
My hand touches the glass. It's colder than Meryl Streep in 'The Devil Wears Prada.'
That's what took so long. They put the fucking glass in the freezer. For twenty five minutes.
I ordered beer or vodka for the rest of the trip. I couldn't keep up the fight.
My wife and I went on one of those excursions to see the country. We ended up in some truck that had an open back. Our guide was pretty cool, and there was a long day planned of various stops along the way. The first stop was a school. We get into the classroom, and the kids sing some song. For all I know, they were saying 'Die motherfucking Yankees, die.' But they were cute while they did it, so we gave them some money and went on to our next stop.
The trip seemed to go on for an eternity, and we eventually ended up at some old ass looking bridge with some concrete steps down to the water, which ended at a 'dock.' I am using the word 'dock' in the loosest possible sense here. There was also a 'boat' at the end of the dock. I am also using the word 'boat' in the loosest possible sense here. So we pile in, and the guide breaks out the beer. No whiskey though, and I sure as hell wasn't going to ask for it.
So we drifted along this river, flanked by rice fields and grazing horses and cattle. It was actually quite beautiful. The people we were with were very nice. I had a few beers and was starting to relax, envisioning this trip like the upriver trip in 'Apocalypse Now' - except, you know, without Robert Duvall trying to kill me to get his surfboard back.
Just as it's getting a bit boring, we round a bend, and see people in the middle of the river. Me and the other passengers thought it was a bit strange. As we got closer, we realized that they were in the river, they were in the ocean. We were coming up to where the river met the ocean. It was absolutely stunning. We then 'dock' at some concrete steps and walk up to the beach, and start going down a path. We then come to a clearing.
Then I see them.
Oh, fuck. Oh, no, anything but this.
Horses. Lots of horses. It's not that I don't like horses, I think they're beautiful creatures. I just want nothing to do with them. So I'm sitting there as the rest of the group walks up and the guys who are handling the horses are starting to bring them into the clearing. Oh God, Oh God, Oh God.
My wife is well aware of my stand on horses. Pity? Sympathy? Yeah, not so much. One of the handlers points to me and motions for me to come over to the horse he has. With much trepidation, I look around, surveying the beauty all around me, knowing that I'll never see it again because I'm surely going to die in the next five minutes.
I get on the back of the horse. I decide to name the horse. I decide to name the horse 'Fred.' Why 'Fred?' Because it's a non-threatening name. I figure if I name it something blase, then the horse will follow suit. Made perfect sense to me.
Fred begins to move. He must have been able to tell that I had absolutely no experience on the back of a horse because he just did whatever he wanted. I quickly wracked my brain for all of the information that I knew regarding horse riding. My knowledge on horse riding is extremely nascent and can be summed up as follows:
They like carrots.
Don't fall off.
'Whoa' is the 'failsafe' word.
I have developed the above from my extensive movie watching. I figured I was well armed with the information necessary to go ahead and not die.
I was wrong.
First of all, every fucking movie I have ever seen has characters saying 'Whoa horsey' and the fucker stops. I guess either the people making these movies had never ridden a horse, or Fred had never seen any of those movies. Maybe it's because "Whoa" doesn't translate into Spanish.
Whatever, but when I said 'Whoa' nothing happened. No pause, no nothing, just Fred blithely going after the horses in front of us. Fred apparently believed he was Secretariat, because all he wanted to do was be the frontrunner. Which was fucking annoying, especially when I specifically forbid him from such conduct. How did I forbid it?
By shouting 'Fred, fucking stop, you goddamn animal, Fred, FRED, FRED, WHOA HORSEY, GODDAMNIT FRED.'
I know I was starting to get through to him, because he decided to spite me. The fucking jerk. We're coming up to a bend, and the trial narrows. Which means Fred can't pass. Or so I thought.
HE GOES OFF THE GODDAMN TRAIL INTO THE TREES.
I don't know if you're aware of this, but I found out the hard way. Palm trees appear to be designed so that horses can pass under them without hitting anything while the rider gets pelted with palm fronds in his face.
Oh, and have I mentioned my nuts? Yeah, like I said, I've never been on a horse before. For those of you who don't know, your legs are spread across the horse like you're hooking for hobos. Which means your nuts (if you're a guy, like me) are squarely on the saddle. Which is hard. Factor in the bouncing gate of the fabulous fucking Fred, and my foray through the fucking jungle went something like this:
Relief of nuts as I went up in the saddle (Ahhhh), Smacked in the face with a palm branch (Thwack), yelling at Fred (Goddamnit Motherfucker, back on the trail), agony as my nuts reaquanted themselves with the saddle (GODDAMNIT), Palm frond to the face again (Thwack!).
Ahh, Thwack, Goddamnit Motherfucker, back on the trail, GODDAMNIT, Thwack. There was the occasional 'Whoa Horsey' thrown in there as well, but it became apparent that it only works in the movies.
Rinse and repeat.
We finally emerge from the jungle, Fred trotting along like the Mafia bet on him, and me, beaten, bruised, and frankly near death. Or wishing for death, I can't remember which. It was the toughest 5 minutes of my life.*
So what was my wife doing? Taking pictures. Of me. That's right. I nearly die a horrible death and all she can think to do is snap some pictures for the vacation album. So much for 'cherish.' It was at that moment that I resolved that if I had to die, there were two lives that were going to precede mine into the abyss.
So did I kill Fred?
No, I didn't. So what saved him (and by extension, my wife)?
Puppies.
We arrived at the stable (the place where the bastard demon spawn known as 'horses' congregate to discuss how they will attempt to kill their next unsuspecting victim) and dismounted. My nuts felt like the size of two cantaloupes trying to occupy the space of a thimble. I was dehydrated. I was broken, battered, a former shell of the once proud man I used to be. Then I saw them.
A bunch of dogs lazing around, and some puppies. Who then came up to me. They were so freakin' cute. And I'm such a goddamn sucker. So that, coupled with a generous helping of straight rum, made me abandon my plans of visiting furious and unpleasant mayhem upon my wife and Fred.
Consequently, the stable provided a bottle of rum with a picture of my wife and I (atop Fred and whatever docile sweet creature she got to ride on) along with a CD.
A CD of Spanish techno music. You think techno in English sucks? Yeah, it's fucking Bach compared to this shit.
Anyway, that's how I nearly died (one of several times) while on vacation.
And know this Fred: I ever get back to Punta Cana and see you again, I'm giving you two names:
Crazy. And Glue. Motherfucker.
I am never riding a horse again.
*'5 minutes' probably was only 30 seconds but it feels like eternity when your nuts are almost literally on fire, you're hunched over dodging foliage that the VC would exclaim 'that's WAY too fucking thick, I'm not going in there!), trying to yell commands to a horse that doesn't listen, meanwhile praying to God, Satan, and Umfufu (the God of water holes on a golf course, don't ask, I was desperate) that Fred goes off a cliff so that you have the satisfaction of knowing that when you hit the ground, at least Fred would die first. So excuse me if I was a bit too fucking busy to get a stopwatch out on the 'Devil's Run,' as I like to call it.
No comments:
Post a Comment