The United States is supposedly “the home of the brave and the land of the free,” but the Dominican Republic can easily contend for the title. All forms of transportation are a bit more spontaneous in that country including gold motoconchos motorcycles that carry at least one passenger carrying at least one item, which can be anything from a bag of groceries to a huge propane tank or a pair of truck axles. Motorcycles of all kinds outnumber cars and seem to have the upper hand, if not the right of way. But there is little evidence of bad temper or blowing the horn. Horseback riding was equally mundane for Dominicans but quite an experience for us.
We were staying in Puerto Plata at a tourist hotel with members of our church. After working on our project to paint a Haitian school in the mornings, we had the afternoons free and decided to go horseback riding. A Canadian team had a representative at our hotel and promised happy, well-fed horses. We were picked up by an open bus reminiscent of the transport used by mates golden friends of the revolution, and greeted by a very nice lady from the Bronx who had come to the Dominican Republic twenty years earlier. She had promised her employer that she would come back after a few months, but she was the woman who never came back. She first worked as an English teacher in hotels, then as a stable employee. She loved the job so much that she bought property across the street from the stable and she took on the unlikely position of horse whisperer and stable marketing agent.
We indicated in writing that we were not too old, not too fat or too weak to ride, and that we had ridden before. A Dominican lady took our forms and came back with a happy smile saying, “good goodyou are good riders. We have horses that like to be out front.” About twenty horses were brought out for the large group that had gathered, which included several small children. My horse was named Charro and my friend’s horse was named Casa Blanca. We rode and we were thankful that they were too small as they seemed to be the only two horses that one of the stable boys had to hold in. The friendly clerk said that Charro liked to play with the bit when he put it in his mouth and tried to We were told that all the horses were male, which was supposed to be a plus, but it wasn’t reassuring.
A young Dominican of the two-legged variety, inappropriately named Angel, moved to the front of the group and announced that he was the lead guide, but there were several more guides and we would need them. We burst out of the barn and hurtled down the paved street with Charro struggling to take the lead. Angel kept telling me not to get in front of him and threatened to fine me two hundred dollars if I didn’t comply. Although I thought I should tell Charro, I pulled on the kidneys as hard as I could. When this produced no results, Angel said, “Who’s in charge, you or him?” This was a question for Mr. Obvious. However, we soon headed down the side of the mountain on a dirt and gravel road, and Charro seemed content to be number two at the moment, although he was jockeying for position. Casa Blanca’s nose was pressed against my thigh as he tried to cut through the pack to claim the lead. However, I would have bet a lot of money on Charro.
We pass tropical forests and fields of pineapple, sugar cane, beans, corn and guava. It was hard to make out the individual plants as they flew by. After an hour we stop for a snack in a small soda, or store, in the middle of a field of grazing cows and a couple of bulls with very deep voices. “MOOOOOOOOO”, they complained when we invaded their territory. Music and dancing set a lively atmosphere at our rest stop. An extended family of Dominicans from the Bronx were on vacation and visiting relatives and were among those in the group. The very young children seemed to think it was great fun, and even the old grandmother loved it. We looked at a variety of tourist items including Larimar, a Dominican stone, which is pale blue like the sky and very beautiful. Colorful scarves, dresses, and carved items like lizards and turtles caught our eye. A couple of Michael Jackson’s paintings seemed a bit out of place among paintings of horses, Dominican villages, and mountainous landscapes, but Michael is omnipresent and I was happy to see a familiar face.
When we were refreshed and ready to ride again, Angel said we would take a different route back. We soon discovered that we would also take a different speed on the way back. We started with our brisk pace, which turned into a surprisingly comfortable trot on these incredible Dominican horses, called smooth step, or good rhythm. Then we started galloping. When I pleaded with him to slow down, the guide asked if he was crying and I said yes, so we stopped for a minute for him to catch me up and then started galloping again. I soon learned that I had to balance myself or else (and the rest wasn’t pretty), as we tore down the mountain path, a many-headed dragon. Once on the paved road, we sound like a group of mobsters trying to rob the stagecoach. Screaming and shooting, or at least pretending to, Angel sped us through the streets and past huge houses behind gates or walls, then smaller houses with puppies out front, then little shacks with puppies in front. the roofs. Accompanied by a cacophony of barking, yelling, and hoofbeats, we descended the mountain.
Another guide galloped up from behind and asked if we were okay. At the time I was laughing hysterically, which he interpreted as “Yes“, and said, “Happy people, happy horses, crazy people, crazy horses.” He was both happy and crazy, just like the horses. The townspeople waved as we passed like thunder. Previously, our guide had pointed out Dominican monkeys and parrots. He had learned that the adjective “Dominican” often meant “imaginary or not real,” since there really wasn’t much wildlife, at least not where we were. But the horses were definitely real, and the ride was the wildest and best he had ever experienced. come on come on, Faster faster!