I picked up the room phone. There has been a serious accident in room 1236. Send someone right away....Yes, room 1236.' I replace the phone in it's cradle and leaned over Paco, face down in the water. No bubbles. Good.
Walking across the room, I slid open the double glass door and stepped out onto the second floor balcony, it a DR brand Dominican cigar -- not premium but surprisingly good -- and gazed out over the coconut palm tree tops toward the teal blue Atlantic. Checkout is at noon, but management may want me out earlier. A new group of tourist buses will arrive this evening and the room really needs a thorough cleaning.
Paco? He was on duty at the front desk the night I arrived and was rude to me. Why is he now lifeless in the room behind me? From the looks of it, Paco lost his life because of a ceiling leak during last night's downpour and defective wiring of the bar fridge. This is the simple answer, but in the Dominican, things are often more complicated.
2
Just one week ago near midnight, my Sunquest charter from Toronto landed at the small unfinished airport east of Puerto Plata on the North coast of the Dominican Republic. At the immigration desk I was startled to see a crude, hand-lettered card that read CHRISTMAS TIPS! Christianity thrives in the Dominican, but I hadn't anticipated a collection at the Immigration Desk. After my passport was returned, I plunked down a Canadian toonie.
'Gracias, Papa,' said the immigration officer.
'Papa?'
'Papa Noel!' he said smiling, referring to my white beard. Feliz Navidad, I murmured and followed the travelers ahead of me into the darkness.
After a few minutes walking, I approached a tall young man sliding luggage into a bus baggage hold.
'Bahia Principe?' I asked.
'Yes, sir!'
I rolled my bag up in front of me. He reached out and seeing my hand move toward my shirt pocket, guided my bag to the front where it would be unloaded first. I'd been told to bring American dollar bills, 'hard cash' in the Dominican Republic and passed him a yanqui dollar.
'Gracias!' he sang out, flashing a high voltage smile.
'De nada,' I said and climbed aboard.
3
The resort bus jounced through the darkness and soon slowed to crawl through the tourist town of Sosua. A flourishing destination for global sex tourism, Sosua also serves local clients year round with increased business around Dominican Carnival and, of course, Christmas. Further on, Cabarete, a more diverse and upscale travel location, adds scuba diving, kite boarding and a casino.
After another hour, our bus slowed, turned off the main road, and crept through an unlit barrio at the edge of the resort where, I'm told, grounds workers, employees and the resort staff live. Finally the bus pulled in front of the brightly illuminated reception building where we disembarked and sleepily entered the spacious Bahia Principe lobby with tropical plants and exotic carved wooden statues.
The unhurried front desk personnel checked in multiple lines of tourists and directed us to electric golf carts that quietly carried us through the lush grounds in the early morning darkness.
I was delivered to a ground floor room with a flimsy door knob, a broken security chain, and a bullet hole --well, it looked like a bullet hole-- in the sliding glass door to the patio.
Back at the reception desk, it was now nearly 3:00 am, I described the room to a white shirted young man with PACO on his name tag. As I spoke, he stared into the far distance.
His eyes revealed nothing but he seemed to be thinking. Finally, in a measured voice, he said, 'As...long...as...possible.'
I tried again. 'When can I have a different room?'
Paco smiled triumphantly, and repeated, 'As... long... as... possible.'
4
I woke in bright sunshine, surprisingly well rested. Skirting a puddle of water in front of the bar fridge from a dawn downpour, the spoiled norteamericano remembered to use bottled water for teeth brushing and avoided getting shower water in his mouth.
After breakfast in an open thatched roof dining area of fresh orange juice, fresh fruit and coffee, I walked along the narrow beach away from the main resort area. At the edge of the resort I found a guard hut where I initialed an agreement relieving Bahia Principe of any responsibility for my safety once I left resort property.
Walking along the deserted beach, I suddenly felt eerily alone. It was as if I'd drifted back in time and was on a shoreline essentially unchanged since the landing, on Hispaniola in 1492, by Cristobal Colon as they call him here. I enjoyed the feeling, but the timelessness faded when I spotted a crumpled napkin and a plastic bottle washed up, perhaps, at high tide during the night. I returned to the guard hut and initialed my acceptance of the resort's renewed protection.
'Do you remember me?'
I looked around to see a sturdy young woman, more handsome than pretty, with shining brown eyes. Her complexion dark cinnamon, her black hair in cornrows, she wore a frilled white blouse and a full, multicolored skirt. Her name tag read AMBER.
5
The last time I'd seen her, Amber was a little girl of three or four, shy at first, but then running around and laughing with her sisters and brothers.
'Yes, I remember you,' I said as I stood, 'but I'm having trouble recognizing you.'
'Well, I'd know you,' she said, 'except now all this is white!' She pointed to my beard. 'After last night, everyone calls you 'Papa!'
'Last night?'
'Well, early this morning -- you know, with Paco.'
I must have looked uncomfortable. 'No, no, that was not your fault. Whenever he can, Paco struts around and picks someone to confront. He needs his feathers clipped.'
Before I could answer, she said, 'Look, I know you want to talk but I'm working right now. Sit and let me bring you a drink.' It was a little early in the day, but I asked for a dark rum with extra ice.
I watched Amber walk away and then return, and tried to connect this formidable young woman with the giggling waif of twenty years ago. I couldn't really.
She set down a plastic glass with my ron duro and ice on the table in front of me. 'I finish at three this afternoon,' she said, 'if you walk along the beach, past the Indian Market, then cross the river,' she gestured with her head,' I'll meet you on the beach. We can talk there.'
I nodded, and Amber with a sparkling smile started taking orders at the other tables now filling with resort guests drifting into the patio. I headed back along the walkway to my room.
Climbing the outside stairs to the second floor, I saw an electric service box under the stairwell. Slipping open the slide bolt, there was no security lock, I found old fashioned wire fuses with both 110 and 220 volt circuits and simple tools obviously used to connect and disconnect and repair the circuits.
(To be continued...)
