Climb of a Lifetime

Climbers Conquer Pico Duarte

Pico Duarte, the highest point in the Dominican Republic, beckoned with promises of adventure. The original instigators of the trip dropped out at the last minute, leaving four eager beavers crazy enough to commit to the expedition. The co-conspirators assumed alternative identities to protect their reputations as respectable citizens: La Doña (me), Mr. Congeniality (Fred), Euell Gibbons (Delbert McCluskey, an experienced AID officer), and Dirk Pathfinder (Adam Namm, a first-tour consular officer).

From Voluntary Nomads, Part Six: Dominican Republic Dramas, Chapter 26:

Climb of a Lifetime

The explorers prepared for a long weekend of camping and strenuous hiking. In spite of Dirk Pathfinder's sturdy self-image as the epitome of readiness, he forgot his toothbrush and had to borrow one from La Doña before leaving town. After triple-checking their checklists, the intrepid bunch set off for the mountainous world of pine trees and the climb of their lives.

The first leg of their journey took them to Jarabacoa for one night in the candlelit Hotel La Montaña. If it hadn't been so dark, they might have set up bowling pins in the unusually long hallway, but they retired for the night instead. Dirk and Euell went to bed in peace, but La Doña and Mr. Congeniality weren't as lucky.

La Doña, toothbrush (her own) in hand, entered the bathroom and lit a candle on the shelf above the sink. What she saw in the shadowy mirror reflection sent her rushing back to the bedroom, waving her toothbrush wildly above her head.

"Aaack!" she screamed at Mr. Congeniality.

Following the gist of La Doña's posturing, Mr. C. snuck a peek inside the bathroom door where he discovered a family of chartreuse tree frogs secured by their orange suction cup toes to the slick yellow tile of the wall. La Doña peered around his shoulder as he pulled the shower curtain to form a barrier between the frog zone and the area of human occupation.

"That's okay, I really didn't plan to shower anyway." La Doña kept an eye on the shower curtain as she hurried to take care of her most urgent bathroom needs.

As soon as Mr. Congeniality and La Doña cuddled into a comfortable spoon position, electric service resumed. Pupil-constricting light glared down from the single bulb hanging from the high ceiling. The frog family's quack-like croaks echoed in protest.

Before Mr. C. could find the light switch, La Doña spotted a large black something in the nearest corner of the ceiling.

"Hey," she exclaimed. "What's that?"

Mr. C. toddled across the saggy mattress for a closer look. "It's just a bat."

"Just? I can't sleep with that hanging over my head."

Mr. C. jumped down and surveyed the room for potential bat-extraction tools. He grabbed his running shoe and threw it at the bat. He picked up the other shoe and tried again. Pow, the bat fell to the floor and scuttled under the bed.

"Aack!" La Doña pulled knees to chest and scrunched up against the headboard.

Mr. C. jabbed at the bat with his shoe. The bat hissed and retreated further.

"Can't you get that out of here?" A hint of hysteria shrilled in La Doña's squeak.

Valiant Mr. C. thrust shoe into darkness again. This time the bat latched on. With a single mighty swing, Mr. C. launched both shoe and clinging bat out the open window and into the starry night. The bat flew away and the shoe hit the dirt two stories below.

La Doña and Mr. Congeniality laughed themselves to sleep with the quacks of tree frogs croaking in the background. They rested well in their blissful state of ignorance, completely unaware of the perils that lurked on the rugged trail to Pico Duarte. ###

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Scouts

Santo Domingo had well-established scouting programs that interested our young teens (Dakota at 14 and Tina, 13). Both the Girl Scout and Boy Scout troops sponsored activities almost every weekend and our lives filled up with preparations for ten-mile hikes and camping trips.

The scout leaders invited parents to participate in a few of the scouts' camping trips and some of the longer hikes. Our whole family went on the camping expedition to Saona Island.

From Voluntary Nomads, Part Six: Dominican Republic Dramas, Chapter 25:

Scouts

A Dominican naval vessel carried us out to sea. I stood at the rail and drank in the fresh sea air, keeping my eye on the horizon and watching for signs of the island. At first it looked like a tiny bump. The hump grew as we approached and it appeared to sprout fronds like a chia pet when we came closer.

I expected the ship to deliver us to the beach where we would set up our tents in the forest of coconut palms. But no, our captain cut the engines and dropped anchor in deep water several hundred meters off shore.

I felt my heart rate rise as a small motorboat putt-putted toward us. I didn't want to believe that such a feeble scow was meant to be our ferry. We had twenty people and an enormous pile of camping gear to convey across an expanse of water that seemed to widen as we waited. How many trips? Who would go first?

The prospect of transfer from naval vessel to lowly tub terrified me. The waves were too high. The ship lurched one way as the scow sloughed in the opposite direction. To step across the gap required some of the same skills as tightrope walking. I gasped as each scout made the leap. When my turn came, I held my breath and threw myself across the void. I stumbled and flopped like a flounder into the Scout Master's lap. Everyone laughed at my graceless landing so I hammed it up a bit, high on adrenaline and the thrill of landing in the boat instead of in the ocean.

On shore, the leaders told us that the main danger on this expedition was falling coconuts. They shocked and amazed us with terrible tales about legendary fatal head conkings. I kept a wary eye on the fruit hanging high above us, although I wasn't sure if the warnings were serious or tongue-in-cheek. All of the scouting activities went on as planned, and no one in our party got bonked.

Only a month after that successful scouting adventure on Saona Island, I felt inspired to assist the Girl Scout leader with a beach camping trip. We drove out of Santo Domingo with two vanloads of girls and gear and found a perfect spot near the town of Bayahibe. The scouts pitched their tents and made a fire ring for the evening's campfire. Then I suggested a hike on the beach.

We flipped a coin. Heads, we go north; tails, to the south. The twenty-five centavo piece landed heads up. About fifteen minutes up the beach from our campsite, we found a long, shallow tide pool that begged to be explored. As the girls poked sea urchins and chased tiny tropical fish and combative crabs, I climbed a rocky outcrop to see what lay beyond.

I took one look and spun around at once. The beach beyond the rock barrier was crowded with people. Naked people. Unclothed male human beings. Birthday-suited men demonstrating mutual affection.

I clambered down the rocks and quietly urged my charges to return to camp to begin dinner preparations.

When we went beach combing the following day, I led the way without a coin toss. We headed south, the opposite direction of yesterday's exploration. ###

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Club Med

Hedonism may not be the only attraction of the Caribbean, but it is a powerful one. Certainly the pursuit of pleasure was all I had in mind when I booked a long weekend for our family at Club Med, Punta Cana, in the Dominican Republic.

From Voluntary Nomads, Part Six: Dominican Republic Dramas, Chapter 24:

Club Med

We joined a group of embassy folks who gathered at Club Med to enjoy the many activities provided at this all-inclusive resort. Dakota and Tina found their friends and made a beeline to the sports activities led by the Club Med G.O.s (Gracious Organizers). Dakota and his buddies headed straight for the windsurfing beach; Tina's bunch homed in on the archery field. Fred and I went sailing for an hour before we parted ways. I wanted to try aerobics. Fred had his eye on the juggling class.

I found out later why the juggling class appealed to Fred. The G.O. was a curvaceous young French cutie whose string bikini had no top half. Impossible as it might have seemed, somehow the whole class, including Fred, did learn to juggle.

The aerobics class pumped me up. I jumped and kicked and hopped around with the best of them. Cardiovascular conditioning from years of running gave me a huge endurance advantage. Lacking proper shoes, I pranced barefoot on the hardwood stage like a Martha Graham clone. There was no logical reason not to do two classes back-to-back, so I did, and finished the second one wanting more.

With our friends at dinner, an all-you-can-eat sumptuous buffet prepared by a team of French chefs, we all babbled our enthusiasm about the Club Med activities, classes, and food. I sipped a plummy young cabernet and made multiple forays to the bread and cheese bar. Crusty, butter-infused garlic bread sang a harmonious duet with ambrosia-rimmed, creamy Camembert.

Constant refills of beer mugs and wine glasses energized the atmosphere and the party gathered steam. Everybody agreed that the post-dinner show in the auditorium should crown our evening.

Guests filled the tiers of wooden bench seats and excited chatter all but drowned out the piped-in background music. Then the lights dimmed and the Master of Ceremonies stepped out onto center stage.

"Okay everybody – it's time for Crazy Signs!"

All of the guests stood up to mimic the moves of the G.O.s as they demonstrated Club Med's signature communal dance. A wild combination of the Hokey Pokey and the Macarena, Crazy Signs drove us insane as we stumbled through the complicated series of waves, claps, stomps, kicks, twists, turns, bends, and shouts. It also broke the ice and set us up for the next act: the Couples' Contest.

Our M.C. called for three couples to volunteer as contestants. The row of embassy people behind Fred and me yelled and whistled while the M.C. chose the first two couples. We didn't know the conspirators in back of us were pointing and gesturing as well as hollering.

Couple Number 3? Fred and Nancy.

A bronze Adonis G.O. guided me to a chair and handed me a heart-shaped scrap of cloth and a threaded needle. He wrapped a red silk scarf around my eyes and then pushed Fred over my knees so that Fred's rear faced the audience. At the M.C.'s signal, we female halves of the three chump couples revealed our total lack of skill at blind-appliqué. The guys yelped when stuck, and the audience cheered. The sadism applause meter gave second place to Fred and me for that event.

Humiliation escalated with the break-dancing contest. Fred got down on the floor and tried to spin around on his back. I blushed ten degrees of flame red while I tripped over my tangled moon walking feet. Couple Number 3 sagged to third place.

I wasn't overjoyed to see the blindfold coming my way again. But this time I carried the victory and won first place for wrapping Fred like a mummy in toilet paper.

Then Fred shook and shimmied in a grass skirt for second place in the hula dance competition.

My face ached from the self-conscious grin stretched from cheek to cheek. What could possibly come next?

Balloons. Each patsy girl had to run the full length of the stage and plop down on a balloon in her guy's lap. I ran as fast as I could and pounced with all my might. I bounced. The other couples' bursting balloons popped and banged like fireworks. The audience roared. The M.C. insisted that I try again. I sprinted across the stage and plunked harder. I ricocheted higher. Same result on my third try. Oh, the shame of it.

At the end of the Couples Contest, the M.C. awarded second place to Couple Number 3 and gave free drinks to all the contestants. For future show-nights at Club Med, Fred and I took care to sit behind our friends, not in front of them. ###

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Spike

After we arrived in the Dominican Republic in April 1985, we promised Dakota and Tina they could each get a pet. Tina found a beautiful black kitten she named Carbon (accent on the last syllable in Spanish, meaning coal). Dakota wanted a puppy.

From Voluntary Nomads, Part Six: Dominican Republic Dramas, Chapter 23, here is:

Spike

Our vet told us about a breeder he knew whose pair of boxers had just produced a litter of ten. He gave me the address and phone number and I called to set up an appointment for Dakota to see the newborns and pick one.

Dakota chose the only brindle puppy. I could see the love in his eyes when he looked up at me as he stroked the tiny head. "I'm gonna call him Spike."

A few weeks later, Spike was weaned prematurely when his mother stopped lactating. We brought Spike home and bottle-fed him. At first the adorable little fellow needed extra care to overcome his poor beginning as the runt of his litter. Technically Spike belonged to Dakota, but most of his treatments required adult-level skills. Who better than Mom to fill in? While Dakota and Tina studied at school and Fred worked at the embassy, Spike and I consulted with Dr. Nova.

Between visits to the veterinary clinic, Spike and I stayed at home. I administered the medication for the calcium deficiency that made his legs too weak to hold him up, and I rubbed him with the ointments prescribed for his mangy skin rash. His artistically cropped ears needed daily bandage changes as well. I wiped up his little puddles and other housebreaking mishaps when Dakota wasn't around to perform that chore. Spike also depended on me to protect him from Carbón the cat, big enough to overpower the awkward little puppy.

By the time Spike was six months old, he had outgrown his puppy problems and developed into a healthy dog. At the end of every busy day, when I sank into my rattan rocker, Spike appeared, pushed against my hand to demand a vigorous butt scratch, then plopped down beside me. He rested his plush chin on top of my bare foot and gazed up at me as I stroked his head until he dozed.

One evening after we had assumed our usual positions, Spike jerked awake and jumped up. He sniffed the air in all directions and trotted to the dining room. I followed to see what had aroused him. A gray-brown blur scurried along the wall and froze in the corner. No doubt in my mind, the intruder was a rat, possibly a refugee from the vacant-lot-cum-garbage-dump across the street. I intercepted Spike, swooped him into my arms and scrambled up onto the top of the dining room table.

Spike barked. I screamed. Fred, Dakota, and Tina ran in.

"Let the dog go!" Fred's shout echoed in the high-ceilinged room.

"No, no, the rat might bite." I clutched squirming Spike closer to my chest.

The rat took off, scrabbled for footing on the slick terrazzo floor, and headed straight for Dakota's room. Tina jumped up on the table beside me and buried her face in Spike's shoulder. Fred and Dakota shot us withering looks, strode to the bedroom, and slammed the door.

Muffled thumps, grunts, bangs and thuds sounded across the hall. Spike whined and quivered in my arms as the bedroom door swung open. In one hand Fred brandished Dakota's tennis racket. In the other he clamped the tail of a limp, blood-streaked rat. Beside him, Dakota cocked his baseball bat and mimed a home-run swing. I wished I could apologize to Spike for spoiling his fun, but if Fred and Dakota couldn't understand my motives, how could the dog?

After our hunters disposed of their quarry and embellished their tale a few more times, we calmed down. Spike curled up with his head on my foot as if to say, "No hard feelings, Mom." ###

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