The Fabled Ensenada Beach

I am sitting in the back of a big, flat-bed truck.  It will be another hour before we are near my site.  Strong wind and harsh raindrops are pelting me in the face.  My dog, Chewy, is huddled between my legs, snout in my armpit, soaked through, shaking from cold and fear.  I am surrounded by 25 screaming lunatics. 

5 days earlier:

Tuesday after CTS (Business plan competition) class:  “Andy, Tirzo quiere que te subas a su casa.”  Hmm, ok I’ll head over there one of these days.

Wednesday passing by Tirzo’s house on a moto: “ANDY ANDY parate!!”  Whispering, “oye vamos a playa y queremos que vaya con nosotros.”  Ummm, can’t say now, might have a softball game, I’ll let you know later.  “Ay pero Andy como gozamos ahí, ay sí, lo pasamos demasiao bien Andy, ay sí.”  Ya ya ya. Like I said, I can’t say right now, I’ll tell you later.”  The disappointment is apparent on his face.

After speaking with Scott, who showed interest in this trip, and finding out we had no softball game Sunday, I confirmed.

Scott conveniently finished being a PCV and had to turn in his phone, thus I couldn’t reach him Saturday. 

Information about the trip:  It costs $200 pesos.  They’ll pick us up ‘pa’ ya’.  We’ll ride in some sort of large flatbed truck.  The beach is called “La Ensenada.”  It is perfect for Dominicans as it doesn’t get deep for like 50 yards, and few Dominicans know how to swim.

I think to myself, a trip to the beach, should be fun, tranquilo, I’ll bring my pup.  I’ll even bring the football, maybe teach these kids a thing or two.

Reality of trip:  $200 peso cost.  Picked up ‘pa’ ya’ in a flatbed truck, about 25 of us in the back, along with Chewy and I.  We are sitting in the middle of the bed, ass on hard iron floor, no back support, I am keeping Chewy quieto while 23 Dominicans are SCREAMING and YELLING like its their first time in the back of a truck.  Chewy is losing his mind.  I am going deaf.  BUT, the sun is shining, we are going to the beach, how bad could it be?

One and one half hours later we arrive.  The entrance is lined with various busses, parked back to back to back.  The music is deafening from 100 yards.  We make our way along the beach. There are hundreds of people, it is 9:30 am, everyone has a bottle of rum in their hand.  Everyone must shout in order to communicate.  We settle on a spot.  Tirzo is asking people for 50 pesos to pay for a table.  I ask someone in our group, “It’s 50 pesos from 25 people to ONE table?”  He looks at me like I’ve just asked him what the meaning of life is.  I quickly realize I will be getting no useful information out of him.  Finally Tirzo comes to me, I say I will sit on the ground.

So I hang my pack on our little shrub-tree, tie Chewy to the tree as he cowers in fear from the hundreds of legs passing by and deafening sounds coming from the restaurants.  I take out my book, clear my spot under the shrub, removing twigs, rocks, and shards of glass.  I am the only person reading on the entire beach of this I am sure. 

It is quite a sight:  Hundreds stumbling around before noon.  The standard outfit is wife beater, gym shorts, sandals with socks – and not Velcro sandals, thong sandals; very Dominican.  Not a single person beyond the dark line way out in the water where the depth increases beyond waist level.  Each restaurant is a wooden shack with tin roof, shoulder to shoulder, serving fried fish and fried plantains.  They are all playing the same music, the same songs from a not-so-long playlist (which is the playlist for every Dominican establishment in the country).  These songs are being played at a staggering volume.  And although they all play the same songs, they of course are not played synchronously, which made for a clashing sound of drums, fast-paced Merengue Típico horns, high-pitched Bachata chords and the voices of the common people shouting over it all.        

Now I like to have a good time at the beach as much as the next guy, but my idea of a good time isn’t getting belligerently drunk at 11am, slicing my foot open on a hard of broken glass and throwing as much garbage as I can create into the ocean.

At 10am, I went for walk with Chewy.  I went west, to the point where I could only hope that beyond awaited less people.  I was right!  Less people, noise and garbage!  Jackpot!  We broke into a jog and took in the tranquil views and lapping waves…well I did anyway.  Any time we were within 10 feet of the water Chewy was tugging for dear life in the opposite direction.

Along this stretch of beach were some very fancy vacation homes and condo rentals.  I eventually came to a hotel and realized I had reached Punta Rusia, a beach fabled for its beauty.  I went in, grabbed some information and looked at some rooms (bungalow style) since our group is thinking of going there for our 1 year anniversary.  Then I sallied forth to more virgin beach.  Ahhh the serenity.  I slowly tried to inch Chewy into the water.  He hated it.  Every once in a while, trying to get away, he would dash into the water and cut away.  Standing still in it, he almost got comfortable.  Almost.  I took him deep so he had to swim out.  Letting his poor self rest a second, I tied him to a tree and I basked in the shallow waves.  But alas, it was almost lunch time, and I wouldn’t want to miss the sight of a thousand Dominicans taking out their Tupperware and enjoying the rice beans and meat or espagetis they prepped at 5am that morning.

So we walked back, taking our sweet time, for some reason the hundreds of shouting people and clashing music didn’t sound appealing.  I walked close to the lapping waves, trying to accustom Chewy.  Man he hates water – a true Dominican dog, a viralata. 

Enjoying the sandwich I packed, sitting beside my pup, the looks I got!  A gringo amidst a see of Dominicans, with a dog, on a LEASH, NOT eating la bandera, but eating a sandwich, a SANDWICH!

The muchachos tell me they are taking my football out to play in the water.  Fine, that’s why I brought it, enjoy, but be careful.

They decide to play 50 yards out, right where the water gets deep.  I have an equation for you: what happens when a group of young, irresponsible muchachos who cannot properly throw or catch a dry football on solid ground, attempt to play with it in the water, in the deep end?  Oh yeah, and exactly NONE of them know how to swim?

You got it, lost football.

Disturbed from my peaceful state – reading with noise-cancelling ear-buds in – by one of the girls from my CTS class:

Her: Andy! The muchachos were playing with the ball out there and the wind took it.  It’s gone.   

Me: Well can any of them swim?

Her: No.

Me:  Then why were they playing out in the deep part?

Her: Eh la verdad.  It’s true.

Me.  Well can I go get it?  I know how to swim.

Her: No, they can’t even see it anymore.

Me:  Why didn’t they tell me before, I could have gotten it?

Her: They are going to do a recolecta and pay you back for the ball.

Me: (Yeah right) Ok, that’s the right thing to do.

I go back to my book.  Pit pat, pitpatpitpatpitpat.  The rain begins to fall.  Slowly first, like a slow clap in the movies.  I know what’s coming.  I scramble to get my book and ipod into the plastic bag in my backpack before the full-blown applause comes.  Just in time, all is safe.  Poor Chewy, never should have brought him.  I sit with him and shelter his shivering body from the onslaught of rain as best I can.

It is an agaucero, a downpour.  Our things are covered, yet somehow are still soaked through.  We make a run for the large shelter.  Everyone is there, ‘showering’ off all the sand and whatever garbage they couldn’t manage to toss into the ocean is left there.  Once our group arrives, we decide to leave as the downpour has no end in sight.  Of all the busses there, ours was the only ONE that was an OPEN, FLATBED TRUCK. 

Four lucky people sit inside with the driver.  About 8 lucky people sit in the shadow of the truck cabin in the bed, sheltered from the wind and rain drops pelting myself and the rest of the unlucky shcmucks sitting at or near the back of the bed.  Chewy is huddled between my legs and my pack, covered with my soaked towel and snout in my armpit, shivering, from the cold and scared shitless from the onslaught of shouting and celebratory screaming coming from the mouths of my traveling companions.  We are both the only miserable ones on board.  I can hardly keep my eyes open as the downpour has not let up and it’s getting colder as we maintain our level of wet and wind chill. 

The road was in bad shape when we got closer to my site, so we had to walk another 30 minutes to our houses in more rain and mud.  Wahoo!

When they told me there’d be another trip in 3 weeks, I said they’d have to pay me to come, and they could start with a new football.  They laughed and laughed and laughed.