Tainted love

Today I went to provision for our trip to Cuba, as on Cuba, you can't get basic things easily, such as soap, toilet paper, and food. This is mainly due to the embargo the U.S. has put on the filthy communists. This means that anyone who wishes to trade with Cuba cannot trade with the U.S., and most nations kowtow to the mighty dollar, so the Red Menace must languish in poverty. However, it is a relatively peaceful and safe place, said to be the safest place in the Americas, which is unlike Haiti, a country we will be giving a wide berth on our way to Cuba.

The island of Hispaniola is made up of two countries, Haiti and the Dominican Republic. Due to environmental mismanagement, Haiti is said to be a dustbowl, with grinding poverty. We have heard only negative stories from other sailors, who say it is very dangerous, and armed men will board your boat and strip it of everything, which is really no-ones idea of a carribean holiday, I mean, we all want the friendly guy to pour us a Just Juice as the steel drums play, not to pistol whip us into revealing the location of our money.

So to avoid this situation, we are going to head out to sea, and keep a 5 mile gap between us and Haiti, which means that this little town will be our last chance to get provisions. I may also not be able to write so frequently, dear readers, but will do my best.

I went into a small supermarket to buy our goods. A guy wearing an "I sail for Jesus" T-Shirt came to help me with my goods. He then made the universal hand gestures for lovemaking, and suggested that I could obtain this for $10 U.S. (this means he would settle for about $5). I searched my phrasebook in vain for "No, I do not want to sleep with your girlfriend/wife of dubious venereal hygene, thank you very much" but had to settle for "No, gracias".

It's so damn hot

It is, I tell you.

The locals all sit around in groups, talking. Is it because they are too hot to do anything, because they are unemployed, because they like talking, or a mixture of all three. I should ask someone, but I'm not sure how to prhase the question, or whether they would even understand what I am talking about, because most of these people have never and will never go to another country to compare themselves with. However, the people seem happy enough, the children seem well fed, and are give free reighn to wander around. A small boy attacks a chair languidly with a machette, a small girl plays about a foot from the road. I guess she's used to it, and her grandma is probably around somewhere. It must be nice for kids, there are always several friendly adults sitting on the porch talking or playing dominos. Dominos here is quite a popular game, guys slam the tiles down on the table, as they finger chips that I have not quite figured out the use of, save they represent money. A person looks on, like a waiter, who has change, and a piece of paper. I shall play soon, and show them how we do in New Zealand.

I ask the owner of a local ex-pat/sailor bar, and he says people sit around because they are lazy. He also says there is heaps of prostitution about, and that guys pimp their girlfriends. Thats enough hearsay for now.

They have hairless sheep here, immune to the devistating effects of fly blow. I walk with them a way down the mainstreet, then our paths diverge, me to to a shop, and them across a vacant lot. Well, not entirely vacant, it contains a hell of a lot of rubbish. The Dominicans have the attitute to rubbish that it's good, and should therefore be strewn everywhere.

In the main street there are some roadworks going on. About 30 guys stand or sit around talking while one guy digs a hole. I come back later, and the whole town is out to watch. I cant blame them, now a digger and a steamroller have joined the fray. Someone else is helping now too, he throws down cement mix to add to the clay and dirt that is being dumped upon the clay/dirt foundation.

Dogs are seen a little differently here, in that they are not. They seem to exist independantly of humans, like big stupid rats or something, eating scraps, fighting, and attacking the multitude of fleas that surely line their mangy hides.

I purchase some sweets in a shop from a stunning girl, one of the many I have seen, who could quite easily be a profesional model. Here though, if not lured into prostitution she will probably be a shop keeper. Which,. when you think about it, is for the best really, because models are unreachable, have nasty drug habits, and cause many girls to get complexes about themselves, whereas hot shop keepers will always say hi and they make buying the milk and newspaper more pleasant and while it's possible they have a drug habit, they are not role models, so its really their own buisness.

I head back to the boat. A teenager sits at the dock, looking longingly at a boat. I ask him if the boat is his. He responds in a kind of caw, I guess he cant talk. I ask him if he can take me to my boat. He caws again and raises one finger "one peso?" I ask. I figure the boat is not his. He then shakes the empty tank of the boat, takes a funnel, and searches other dinghies, which are undoubtely those of the other cruisers for extra fuel tanks. "No, its OK" I say.

A haggard looking girl in her late twenties calls me over. "No, gracias" I say, not wanting to buy whatever it is she is selling. Nice girls are shy, right?

I got the sweets for the Cuban officials, who we shall be bumping into in a few days. Buerocracy, which is really a euphemism for institutionalised bribery, is rampant, and we are going to be boarded many times by guys who want coca cola and dolores americanos. That means dolores American, for you non native speakers. My theory is if we give them some sachet orange juice, biscuts, and some sweets for their kids, they will find it harder to ask for money. Either that, or they will think we are weak, and they will demand a higher tribute. Anyway, this gringo is going to find out one way or the other.

You get all these people over here who want money off you, for the most ridiculous things. This kind of crap happens all the time, so I have made a few simple rules for gringos:


1. It's best to say "no, gracias" to everyone who wants your attention, because they want to sell you something that a) you dont want or b) you want but they will put a mark up on it which you could save if you walked around the corner to the shop that sells it


2. People who say "my friend" all the time are actually not your friend. Though it may seem charming in a kind of dopey way, and may make you feel kindly to this person who has so quickly taken you into their confidence, in New Zealand the word that would be used in this instance is "mate", or perhaps in America "Buddy" or "Pal"
Now compare:

Juan: Hey, my friend. Come over here! I have something to show you, my friend, just for you, my friend!

to this:

John: Hey, mate, come over here! I have something to show you, mate! Just for you, mate!

You see? The normal distrust that we have for strangers is lost in translation.


3. Always ask for the price first. Repeat it several times, and make sure it is for every thing. "Es precio final? Es precio final?". Act like you are a sincere drunk. Then, give the person a big cheesy smile, say "Mi amigo! Tu es mi verdad amigo!"(you are my true friend") and shake his or her hand. Theres no way they can ask for more money later with a water tight agreement like that.

In the Country

Today we hired a motorcycle from our local ¨go to¨guy, who looks like a young Forrest Whitaker, who was one of the guys driving the officials to our boat yesterday. This guy wants to do everything for us, and wants to get paid. he pretty much flagged this bike-taxi dude down and told him to get off his bike so the gringos can have it. While I worried about the niceties of insurance and liability, my father rented it off him for about 15% below the market rate for bike rental. We set off into the coutnryside on a 125cc yamaha, which protested to no avail, roaring past all these simple houses. I always thought dirt poor was a figure of speech, but when your floor is actually made of dirt, well, then you dirt poor. The people are all lean and muscular, with near perfect skin. Now how do you feel? Bad huh? Don´t worry, me too. Seeing 5 year old kids lug water, and every guy with a washboard abdomen is a little disheartening. Yet the odd paradox about his place is that half the people are doing hard manual labour, and the other half are sitting around shooting the breeze.

In this country, if you want a girl, you got to have a motorbike. Then you can drive around with her on the back. If you don´t have a motorbike, you are stuck walking in the head, making ssurly, suspicious faces at foreigners. Why they do that, I don´t know. They are all healthy, have the physiques that office workers pay thousands to TRY to obtain, and the sun was shining. Is it cos I is light brown?

The history of these islands is terrible. Almost without exception the story goes like this - Native people arrive on islands, live together with various degrees of harmony for a thousand or so years, Spanish arrive, enslave, kill and give disease to populace, wither wiping them out entirely, or leaving less than 5000, many many african slaves are imported to work on sugar plantations, slaves win independance, vicious dictators rule, tourists pour in and sit on the beaches. I can understand why they may feel some greviances for such things, but it´s not my fault personally. Anyway, I carry liberal middle class guilt! Can´t they see that?

We got a flat tyre whilst driving, and got our bike fixed by what seemed to be a 13 year old mechanic - the guy was running his own store it seemed. Man, it just makes me think that I´ll be first up against the wall when the revolution comes. We tried to get the money back from the guy who rented us the bike, but he wasn´t having it at first, until we went to a regular genuine rental company with him, and the guy there told us that he, a genuine rental bike shop owner, would have paid. So the moral of the story is, go to geniune rental guys.

The chicken here tastes just great. They live outside you see, and enjoy sunlight, bugs and scraps.

I´ll write more when I know more.

Your friend,

Miguel

Break on Through

After two days of back breaking slog on the ocean, with a stop on a wee island in between, we have arrived in the Dominican Republic in a place called Samana late at night. In the morning we could see it was a pretty little bay where a bridge led out to a beautiful coconut palmed island, and, had the water not looked like that of a neglected aquarium, it would have been truely lovely. As it is, at night with a few cocktails in you, I doubt most people notice.

A wee while later, 5 dudes boarded our boat, and sat around, asking questions, though if we had been smuggling contraband, it would have been well unloaded by then. After filling out a few forms and giving them some corn chips, they left, satisfied, though one of them did say that he wouldn´t have minded having a cold coca cola from our fridge if we happened to have one, at which point I cursed him for his insolence, attempted to wrest his firearm off him, and was pistol-whipped until bloody. No, really.

This town seems more like the Carribean I remember from my last trip here, with tons of dudes roaring around on motorbikes, and/or trying to sell me stuff. The beer here is cheap, as is the food. The place is swarming with palm trees and heavy rain. The people seem pretty nice so far, relaxed, and yet hustling. It has an interesting history, this small town. A lot of Africans freed from slavery in America landed here on their way to Liberia, where they were being sent or wanted to go, I don´t know, and many of them stayed in Samana, making an English speaking community in this otherwise Spanish speaking country. However, a while later, and angry and paranoid dictator burnt the town down twice, and made them speak Spanish, and by that, I dont mean that he asked in a pleading tone of voice. However, one of the semi officials that boarded our boat said that his parents were from the USA, and spoke English in his home as he was growing up, so he had a reasonably good grasp of it.

Speaking Spanish is fun, and I take to heart the advice of an old sailor who said to gesticulate vigorously and waggle your eyebrows alot. Already I feel a lot more expert than I actually am, which really is the point of speaking a foreign language.

Well, I´ll write more as I see more,

Uncle Traveling Mike

Puerto Rico

We've been here for about a week, as it has taken some time to get supplies and get the boat ready to go. It has been sitting in a bay with many other boats, for about four and a half months, so there was a little maintenance to do, getting the engine ready and scraping weed off the bottom of the boat.

The weather ranges from 25-30 degrees, and the water is lovely, though we are waiting to swim until we get a little further away from the sewerage discharged by our fellow sailors.

Puerto Rico is much like Venezuela, except the people are generally richer, as this is an American protectorate. The people live in little colourful box-like houses, with iron bars across the windows. People seem to spend all their money on nice cars and none of it on roads, which have pot holes you could bathe in. The people are a mixture of African, Spanish and Amerindian ethnicity, which makes for some fine looking women, but, if you couple this with the many American fast food outlets, it can make for some generously proportioned rear ends, but hey, theres nothing wrong with a little "junk in the trunk", unless that junk gives you diabetes.

We will head out tomorrow or the next day, to the end of the island, and then a couple of days after that we will be in the Dominican Republic, where things will be a little more interesting.

I'm leaving today

They say if you stay in a place for 3 days, you come home and write a book, you stay there for three months, you come home and write a page, you stay there for 3 years and you come home and write nothing. Too lazy to write a book, I shall condense my ignorance into a few paragraphs and tell you of New York and it's surrounds.

We drove for several days through the country, on highways that boggled my mind. They were huge and repetitive, same scenery, that of trees in autumn colours, with long straight roads that occasionally veered gently left, or right, with pit stops at set intervals, all reminding me of some kind of ancient computer game. Once we got off the main highway, the scenery became reminiscent of a movie, big red barns, tall roved old houses, American flags jutting out proudly from the front porch, big orange pumpkins in time for halloween, rockingchairs. The make-up of car drivers changes here too, white white white. We stop at a crossroads where a willow tree hangs over a river. My father sleeps on the grass. Big gas guzzling S.U.V's roar by, into a nearby mall, one of the many that seem to be even out here in the sticks. I relieve myself in the river. It's a nice little place, a quiet spot surrounded by trafic. Kids probably swam in this stream once, I reflect, and who knows, perhaps they will again, though they should probably wait at least few minutes, I figure.

We carry on to New York City, which is of course, huge. This could possibly be the biggest concentration of grand buildings in the world, many of them crowded together on Manhatan Island. Central park, huge, absolutely massive, itself containing a sizeable lake, 30+ tennis courts, a zoo, a museum, and I do not know what else. I imagine it would be a great place for vagrants to live, if they could get away with it.

The people are multiracial, with whites seeming to be a minority, even in the richest areas. There are many Hispanic people coming to and living in America now, doing the jobs no-one else wants to do, kind of like Pacific Islanders and Indo-Asian people in New Zealand. I get the feeling Al-Quaeda and their ilk have a skewed idea of what America is. Had they detonated a bomb in the more rural setting, I feel they would have struck those they were really after.

I cross Brooklyn bridge, I walk through China Town. Posters advertise a "made in 24hr" play starring Julia Styles. Anything made in 24 hours I figure will be severely distorted by caffeine, hysteria and sleep deprivation, but I do like the accessability of the stars, and had I been there on one of the nights it was playing, i definitely would have gone.

I meet a few Irish guys at the hostel. I ask them what they think

Guy one: It's great, it's been a real blast

Guy two: Funny though, cos we're Irish, everyone keeps telling us about ancestors they have, and how their grandfathers brother's friend is from ireland

Guy one: Yeah, what about that girl who said her ancestor was a O'Andrews or O'Craig or something, you know, I swear she just banged an "O" on a last name, and made the whole thing up I rekkon. White people seem to want to have some kind of identity, loik bein Italian, or Jewish, or whatever


I walk past front steps into brick apartment buildings that remind me of sesame street, and I see city hall, and picture the Marshmellow man against the skyline, the ghostbusters powering up to nail him. I look at the statue of liberty and imagine all the people coming in from European deprivation, desperate for a different kind of life. It's a little like visiting a giant movie set.

This is L.A.

After an uneventful flight we arrived at L.A.X. Theres something about Los Angeles, perhaps its the dryness, the light pastel colours of the buildings, or the effect the smog has on the light, but everything looks washed out and old.

Our next plane was leaving from Longbeach airport, and was due to take us to New York, and the best way to Longbeach was by train. At the train station, I see a bunch of young guys and girls, dressed in kind of homie regalia hanging out under this huge overpass, with massive concrete pillars supporting it. A car pulls up, and then doubles back. A couple of the guys from the group of people hanging out then walked over to the car, and started talking excitedly to the guys in the car, one of the young homies pointed a finger at the car, and as he raised his voice, I realised that he was pointing it as if it was a gun, then one of the girls screamed "he's got a gun!" - suddenly both the young guys ran for the pillars, an Asian dude in the car behind does a quick U-turn, and screeches off. I see this arm lolling out the first cars window with a big silver pistol, kind of aiming casually in their direction, and then the arm hangs limp down by the door, as much to say "ahh, I can't be fucked" and the car drives off. A few people chat excitedly as the trian pulls up and everyone gets on board. "Compton" a voice called out over the intercom, "Next stop, Compton". I studiously avoid making eye contact with anyone.
An old guy gets on the train - "watches, you want some watches, they nice watches..". A couple of youths laugh, one of them humours him "yeah maybe later, you come back and see me". The youths get into a conversation, like they were in a movie

A: I bet that she disses you

B: How much?

A: I bet choo fai dallas

B: but waht do you consider a diss?

A: I don't know man, if she bring you down or sompin

B: So if she say "you aint on my level"

A: Yeah

B: What if she say "you aint on my level", and I bring the shit up, I say "but I wanna be on your level, are you feeling me?"

We get off the train. Another old guy forages through a rubbish bin for recyclable bottles and puts them in a big plastic bag. He's not wearing a uniform, so I figure its a freelance thing.

We talk to this Guatemalan girl, an older guy joins in the conversation. "Cuba? Oh, you goin to Cuba? Well, we can't go there you see. This is a free country, we should be able to go anywhere we want. Anyone should be able to go anywhere they want." He's fervent, and he's local, so I dare not disagree. "People come here to make more money, and I don't blame them." He starts to talk to the Guatemalan girl about what kind of visa she is on. "Well, you could get married" the guy says, "that would get you residency. One day, I'm going to marry a foreign girl, so that she can get residency." He pulls out a bunch of rings to show us. "I sell these, you know, to make a little money. I don't need it, you understand. I'm at a stage where I don't need to work, I worked all my life." He asks the girl which ring she likes. He tells her she can keep it. "Now you're married" he jokes.

The city may look faded to me, but the people don't. When you live in a place where you might get shot, and where you have to hustle a little, that gives you a kind of charge.