The Prostitute's Children

Two fat women and a prostitute

The two women snicker. I sign out from hotmail and glance over at their direction. I didn't know Ronald and Graci were together, I say out loud. You mean his prostitute, Susanna cuts in. They cackle, chewing their baguettes coated with thick butter. Crumbs fall from their mouths onto the place mats. Rhiannon, the Irish, lights her breakfast cigarette. Susanna from Canada and Rhiannon are long-term guests at La Hacienda, the yellow house on the hill, the closest house to La Rancheta with wi-fi. Middle-aged and fat, they sip their coffees and fire up cigarettes wearing sarongs they knot over their freckled, sagging breasts. Is that what she is, I ask. Well, call her whatever you want, Susanna says between bites, grinning at Rhiannon. But of all the prostitutes in Las Galeras, he just had to choose the ugliest one.

Mosquito Bites

When I arrive at La Rancheta I meet my Danish neighbours, Sophie and Nicholas. Alba, their tubby, seven month old daughter rolls around on their patio floor. Across the path, Ronald prepares our dinner in the restaurant gazebo. We watch Alba flip from her back to her belly, pulling herself up with her arms and looks at the gecko crawling on the ceiling. Her head is dotted with mosquito bites, fresh wounds next to purple lesions.

At dinner, we devour Ronald's salmon bolognese with imported beer, red wine and tropical fruit flambe for dessert. Sophie, a communications student is Gwyneth Paltrow, only shorter and chubbier, smokes occasionally, and is scared to swim in the ocean. It's the sharks, she tells me. I know, I know, she quickly adds, the water is too shallow here, but still. You've seen Jaws, right? A dead ringer for Todd Louiso, Nicholas the pharmacist explains Denmark's state-sanctioned paternity leave benefits while bumming cigarettes from Ronald's shrinking pack of Marlboroughs. An hour later, Jan, the local Dutchman and proprietor of El Cabito joins us. Fifty-ish, pot-bellied and slightly attention whore-ic, he drinks and drinks Ronald's last stash of Duvel special Belgium beer, lighting cigarette after cigarette between gulps. I love the Dominican Republic, Jan exclaims. It's the last place in the world where a European can start a business without the locals bugging you.

Every once in a while I look over at Graci. I wait for her to join Ronald who sits with us: the Belgium, the Canadian, the Dutchman and the Danish couple at the largest dining table in the centre of the restaurant gazebo. But she stays behind the restaurant bar, scouring dirty pots, shooing flies away between scrubs.

Night Rituals

I head for bed a little after 10:30pm. I'm not sure what's weighing me down, my full stomach or the red wine swirling in my veins, making my head spin. Maybe it's the complimentary shots of rum Ronald served us after dessert. Or maybe it's the jet-lag and not having slept the last two nights. In my cabin I look at the fresh mosquito bite high on the left side of my back, just below the nape of my neck. A smooth, large, bright red bump. The first of many, the unforgiving sun will burn and flatten it to a dark scar by the end of the week. I crank up the fan, climb into bed and pull the white sheet over my head, hiding from the mosquitoes. The crickets that I never see holler all through the night, their piercing chirps hitting their peak at 7pm. A loud, dull thud hits the outside wall of my cabin waking me up. I find out a few nights later the crashing thuds are tree frogs hopping from shrubs and slamming themselves against my yellow-painted cabin. But on my first night, I walk to my door and peer through the wooden slats. Outside, I see nothing, but inside, I stomp on a cockroach creeping towards my bed. It becomes a nightly ritual, this stomping of the cockroaches. By morning, the bottom of my flip flops will hold the squishy remains of crunchy pests. Night rituals I never have to perform in Vancouver. I return to bed and hear, alongside the crickets, the moaning cats. That I hear in Vancouver often. Except in the Caribbean, the moaning is louder and goes on all night, desperate, yearning.

Morning Rituals

In the mornings, the crickets are silenced by the cock-a-doodle-doo of roosters and neighing horses. But it's the stench of horse shit that rouses my wake. With no watch and a cell phone that doesn't work in Las Galeras, I don't know how early it is on my first Dominican morning. Only Alba's crying next door hints it's about 7:30. Sophie and Nicholas warned and apologized for this racket the night before. They serve her breakfast around this time. I roll out from bed, my body attracted to the amber light, a hint of morning coolness seeping through the window slats of my cabin. My body never responds like this in Vancouver, its rainy, gray, mornings keep me in bed.

El desayuno, el almuerzo y la comida

Breakfast: Fresh pot-cooked rice, one egg, sunny-side up and pan fried sweet corn. Sweet corn from a can I buy for 40 pesos at the market in Las Galeras. I drink it down with Nescafe's Instant Coffee whose bitterness is made sweet with Carnation evaporated milk.

Lunch: Fried rice with sweet corn. Left over fried tuna and potatoes from dinner the night before, water to quench my thirst and two peach halves marinated in a light syrup preserved in a dusty can imported from St. Lucia.

Dinner: Fried rice with tuna and potatoes, sweet corn and red beans. Rancid cheap Italian red wine. Two more peach halves for dessert. The wick from the tea light is at the end of its slow burn. I feast on my pseudo Dominican-home cooked meal I make over a propane stove I fire up with a tank of gas and a red Bic lighter. The mosquitoes join me, gorging blood from my legs, my neck, my back, the soft underside of my arms.

(Note to self: Go with Ronald to the market tomorrow. I'm out of red beans.)

I Spy

It's after 9:30am, somewhere between my second and fifth day at La Rancheta. On the teak varnished table on my patio, I've set up shop, ready for a writing marathon. My little netbook takes centre-stage. To its right, a fresh lined notepad. Medium size Papermate pen in blue ink, the only pens I write with. Across the netbook, a stack of books: Caramelo. The Lover. The Capitalist System. Passion for Narrative. Colloquial Spanish of Latin America. A glass of water, over a paper napkin to the right of the notepad. Forty minutes later I've written nothing, but have read the mechanics of writing a half scene, the purpose of literary flashbacks and the structural shapes of converging and vertical novels. All of which have failed to fuel my creativity. Instead, I spy. Graci serving beer to passing tourists. The hen and her chicks pecking through the garden. Ronald fixing a clogged pipe, his bifocals magnifying his blue eyes ten-fold. William the horse wrangler, pissing in the outhouse. Rayselle, in a pink sundress walking to the Danish couple's cabin with the roll of toilet paper they requested. She doesn't hand over the toilet paper to Sophie or Nicholas; she leaves it on the edge of their patio and runs away before they see her. By noon, I give up. Writer's Block succeeds. Again.

Spanish Lessons

Rayselle, my Spanish tutor comes everyday at 8am. She waits for me at the restaurant gazebo and eats her baguette smeared with chocolate Nutella. It's the same breakfast her mother prepares for her everyday. Her mother, Marilyn, is always with her and makes their breakfast at the gazebo. While Rayselle eats and waits, Marilyn keeps herself busy, making the beds and cleaning the rental cabins of La Rancheta.

She only talks to me in Spanish. Rayselle believes that total immersion is the best way to learn. She's seven years old, goes to school everyday from two until five and says math is her favourite subject. When she's bored of teaching me, she watches me type and smiles when she puts her little fingers on top of mine when I navigate the keyboard's mouse. When she gets bored with that, she helps Marilyn out, mopping the cabin patios or the gazebo, raking dead leaves or replacing old towels with fresh ones. Once, I tried to move out of her way to make things easier for her. No, no, Rayselle protests. Sit, sit, she insists, pulling my bum back down to the plastic seat. Just sit down and write your stories she advises me. I can mop around you.

La China

One o'clock. It's market time in Las Galeras. I hop in Ronald's truck for the bumpy ride into town. Rayselle and two other girls sit at the back of the truck with crates of empty beer bottles and Sobi, one the three dogs that lazily protect La Rancheta. I ask Ronald if the two other girls are Graci's nieces. Her daughters, he tells me. Rosalie the eldest sings all the time. Veronica the youngest agrees all the time. They stay in town with their uncle during the week because it's closer to their school. Graci visits them every afternoon to make their lunch and greets them when school lets out. La Rancheta is their weekend home where they vacation with Graci, Ronald, three dogs, a cat and the guests with bad Spanish, too much money and messy living habits.

Inside the market, I scan the aisle of canned fruit and vegetables. Mountains of rice in burlap sacks and half-opened boxes of feminine products teeter behind me. The ceiling fans whirl slowly, losing coolness against the midday heat. 85 pesos for a can of cream stye corn or the 40 peso can of generic sweet corn kernels? 90 pesos for red beans, 81 pesos for 3 pounds of rice and 185 pesos for can of mixed fruit cocktail. 130 pesos for a half litre of warm orange juice. I return the can of mixed fruit cocktail and the half litre carton of orange juice. A young Dominican enters the pinched aisle at the opposite end and walks towards me. Ola, I say. Perdon, as I try to squeeze past him.

A small commotion erupts at the checkout counter. This person says they were first in line while that one claims they were first. The situation comes to an impasse when a towering, white tourist cuts in line, commanding the market's attention. Armed in khaki from collar-bone to his sports sandals, he tames his shoulder length salt and pepper hair in place with flashy aviator sunglasses. Mr. Salt-and-Pepper. He smirks, greeting the plump checkout girl by cocking his chin forward and points to a pack of king size Marlboroughs behind the counter, next to the Duracell batteries. The Dominicans watch as he pulls out peso bills from his fat, black leather wallet. He counts the soft pesos carefully, scrutinizing each one before handing them over to the plump checkout girl. He cocks his chin once more, chau-chau. The commotion of who was first and who was really first in line heats up again as Mr. Salt-and-Pepper departs from the market.

La China.* Is what they call me. Not European, not Dominican. The young Dominican who approaches me at the market is no different. From Canada, I answer when asked. But I know what he's really asking. Mi padres son de las Pilipinas. Donde esta eso, he asks, shaking his head. In my poor Spanish, I explain, the Philippines is near China. My grandmother is half Chinese. Ay si, si! He understands, nodding his head like a pecking chicken. He smiles and points to my eyes, La China. Tu es muy bonita.

*Pronounced Chee-Nah

Leaving the market, I look across the street, to my left. Mr. Salt-and-Pepper roaring the engine of his purple sports car. It occupies the entire narrow dirt strip of the Las Galeras barrio; motorconchos and gua guas are forced to the side, waiting for him to pass. It's not a Ferrari or a fancy Lexus that Mr. Salt-and-Pepper drives. It's the type of sports car that could actually race in the Indy 500, the type of sports car my little brother played with in Hot Wheel miniatures: bullet-shaped hood, massive rear wing, globular tires. The seats are just a few inches off the ground. Next to him sits a young Dominican woman with long, straight hair parted down the middle. Her hair falls past her shoulders and covers what her tiny orange tank top cannot. She giggles each time Mr. Salt-and-Pepper rips the engine. The louder the roar, the juicier the giggle. Her firm black breasts bounce just a little bit higher after each giggle, against the rumble of the white man's engine.

The Danish Kitchen

The morning they leave, the Danish couple's patio kitchen is raided by flies. They buzz hungrily around a week's worth of food waste collected in a cooking pot on top of the stove. On the other side of the patio, the table is strewn with plastic water bottles, used napkins and a broken candle holder. Dirty plates, spoons covered with baby food and a frying pan with dried bits of scrambled eggs litter the wooden counter. A near empty jar of Nescafe Instant Coffee stands next to a small bottle of canola oil lying on its side; they decorate the shelf nailed above the sink and the stove. The mini fridge perched on two gray bricks under the sink is left unplugged. The door, slightly ajar, welcomes the pilgrimage of ants as they crawl towards the lukewarm icebox. A puddle of drinking water pools on the floor half way between the fridge and the foot of the blue column that supports the arching frame of the patio ceiling. Marilyn walks to the vacant cabin, broom, mop and bucket of soapy water in tow. She sets them down and removes her flip flops before politely stepping onto the patio. She runs water from the patio kitchen and I hear the clank of moving plates ready to be washed.

Short shorts

Write. Write. Write, I tell myself, but it's no use. My writing is worse than my swimming at this point. A panic begins. All the effort of saving, working overtime at numerous jobs, budgeting, rolling pennies for the last year and half will be for nothing if I don't complete the stories I committed myself to write in the Caribbean. They're the reason I'm here. Sigh. The next six weeks might just have to be a tropical vacation. What a fucking waste. I take a break, walk around the garden, taking pictures. I sit back down and work on writing exercises that's sure to warm my brain. Write the first thing that pops in your head. Stream of consciousness writing. Write what I see, what I hear: all the shades of green and yellow in the garden. The sleeping dogs, the motorconchos that drive by. The burping pipes and the rustle of falling dead leaves. The same Spanish ballads the girls play over and over again. Marilyn cleaning after the Danish couple. Marilyn's pink shirt and flip flops. Marilyn's skinny jeans. How skinny Marilyn is. How skinny Graci is. How women in Las Galeras, except for the plump checkout girl at the market, are all skinny. By 5pm, I've written nearly a 1000 words of crap. Frustrated, I pack things up before the mosquitoes begin their evening swarm.

Hello! Ola! I look over my shoulder at the cobble-stoned path and see Susanna, her graying hair in a bun held together with a chopstick. A beige fanny-pack disturbs her solid black attire. Ola! I say. She's come by to exchange contact information with the Irish couple. They'll be back shortly, I tell her. They went into town for dinner. We catch up a bit, talking about nothing. Graci appears and enters the restaurant gazebo. Ola, she quietly greets us, nodding her head. Susanna rolls her eyes at me. How can she not be prostitute? Susanna tsks, tsks under her breath. Just look at those shorts and her top, she hisses. I glance at my short shorts, at my baby-doll shirt that doesn't close in the back. I wonder if she notices.

The Caribbean Can Opener Heavyweight Champ

“Rosaliiieee! Veronicaaaaa!” I look up from my computer and watch the girls walk towards the bungalow from the restaurant gazebo. The Irish couple, both six feet tall and pasty, checked out half an hour earlier. “Rosalie, Veronica, andale,” Graci cries. Through the trees and shrubbery, I see Rosalie carrying a crate of empty beer and wine bottles. Veronica, follows, a garbage bag in each hand. It continues, this traffic of garbage and empty bottles from the bungalow to the wooden gates of La Rancheta; Rosalie, the keeper of bottles, Veronica, the mistress of garbage. Graci remains inside, sweeping, mopping, dusting. Finally, she emerges and carries with her a mop, a broom, a bucket and a bundle of soiled sheets.

That evening, I ask Ronald if I can borrow the can opener from the restaurant. He shakes his head. The can opener is broken, he explains. Just ask for Graci for help. She pauses from the dinner she's cooking for Ronald and her daughters and from the dish rack, pulls out a knife. Smoother than a serrated butter knife, bigger than a steak knife, narrower than a butcher's. Eyes on the target, holding steady the sharp side of the blade between her bony thumb, index and middle fingers, Graci punctures the cans of tuna, sweet corn and red beans with a baby machete, chopping through the tins with measured, smooth slices. Tiny, tubular veins pump her sinewy arms, propelling rhythmic, even cuts. Whoah. I glance at Ronald. He beams and winks at me, smiling proudly at Graci, Caribbean Can Opener Heavyweight Champ. The prostitute of La Rancheta. Every year, for years and years, Ronald would bring back state of the art can openers from Belgium. As Graci tears open the final can, a watery paste from the red beans spits at me. But all the time they break. I don't know what it is about the construction of these things. Graci, he says, is more better than any European can opener.

Fruit

The tourists are Tammy Faye Baker loyalists: one tube of black mascara per eye, thick rings of fuchsia lipliner under a layer of gooey lip gloss. Old belly rolls and cellulite. Frosted hair streaks and more bling on one hand than Lil Jon has grills in his mouth. Pink manicured nails enough to make Bollywood starlets perform musical epics of envy. Sun-baked skin charred to the colour of papaya flesh glisten with the sheen of coconut oil; or blister under the sharp heat to a deep, raw pink like the snug kernels of a ripe pomegranate. Grandfathers parade their hairless, peacock chests, flat asses counterweight fat bellies. Tiny black speedos lift, lift, lift and cushion the mushy leftover fruit of their youth. Pasty young men with crooked postures and baseball hats worn backwards pull the waistbands of their swimming trunks higher, higher, hiding the lower back hair that escape from their shorts. The Dominican beach is salted with French, German, Italian and English gibberish. I am the only China at the beach. The only China in all of Las Galeras.

I've been at the beach everyday. I'm not working on my tan, I'm working on my swimming: back stroke, front crawl, doggy paddle, treading water (or trying to) for two minutes straight. Kicking, attempting to exhale and inhale properly, holding my breath under water for as long as I can. I practice paddling my arms the way Keanu Reeves and Patrick Swayze do in Point Break. I'm doing this for surf camp next week—it's not the surfing. It's the drowning. For the first time in my life I'm petrified of water, the possibility of sinking to the bottom of the warm, clear-blue salty body of the Caribbean...is probably going to happen. I've convinced myself to use those floatation devices little kids wear around their arms when they're learning how to swim. At surf camp. I'm less scared of looking stupid in front of pro surfers than I am of dying.

I've fallen asleep only to wake up, suddenly. It's after 2pm and the sun has fried the watery peninsula into a searing hotland. Eurotrash techno music from the volleyball court a few feet away pound against my waking ears. Blanched teenagers serve and slam the ball, each victory or defeat met with French or German cheers. A redhead attempts to serve the next round, but misses her footing, catapulting the ball offside, towards the water. It sails over spit-roasting tourists, their eyes, shielded by the tint of Raybans and Oakleys, follow the trail of the rogue ball. It begins its quick descent, aiming at a young Dominican wearing a palm leaf hat, oblivious to the impending crash. He rakes and combs the white sand clean from marooning black seaweed brought in by the swells. The ball bounces against the wheelbarrow of seaweed and the Dominican, startled, drops his rake, falls to his knees and holds on to his palm leaf hat. His tattered blue golf shirt and wet jeans he rolled to his knees are covered with a sheet of sand, whiter than the wrinkled, sunburnt faces that laugh and laugh and laugh.

Walking back to La Rancheta, I see a Dominican teenager sitting under a palm tree near the edge of the beach. Where the sand ends and the dirt path begins. I smile at her. Ola. She looks up at me, surprised, and nods with a slow uncertainty. Ola, she whispers back, cowering closer to the palm tree, merging with its deep brown trunk.

The Caribbean Can Opener Heavyweight Champ 2

I walk around the grounds of La Rancheta looking for the Caribbean Can Opener Heavyweight Champ. Donde esta su madre, I ask Rosalie. At the market, she answers. Buying stuff for dinner. Veronica agrees, si, si. At the market. I ask about the busted can opener that Ronald keeps at the bar. It's broken, but I did manage to use it once. Rosalie eyes the cans of tuna and red beans in my hands and says she'll do it. She'll open them. Si? I hesitate. Her yellow sundress and chocolate-smeared mouth makes me doubt her motor skills with a knife. A big knife. Si, she answers taking the cans. She sets them on the counter and pulls out the same baby machete Graci used a few nights earlier. Just like Graci, she holds the sharp side of the blade steady with her tiny thumb, index and middle finger and prepares to punch a hole through the can. I don't have the words in Spanish, so I cry out in English, Be careful! Don't cut your fingers! She stops. Que? She looks at me, baby machete in one hand, the can of red beans in the other. I look right back at her. Rosalie ignores me and like her mother, slices through the tin can, quickly, evenly, with the smooth coolness of a Caribbean Can Opener Heavyweight Champ.

Sense and Servitude

I'm restless from another winning afternoon of not writing. I gather up my stuff and head to the beach hoping to clear my head, relax my shoulders and shake the panic that won't go away. Past the dirt path, right before the spread of white sand, I see a large Dominican family sitting by a palm tree. In the water to my right, two little Dominican children swim the shallow waters. There's very little sand in this part of the water, just sharp bodies of rock and seaweed. Further along the path, I see the same Dominican teenager a few days earlier sitting under a different palm tree. It's branches are lower, hanging closer to the ground, offering more shade. Except it's early evening, a breeze blankets the coast. The sun has begun yawning, preparing its retreat. There's no need for shade. As before, she sticks close to the trunk of the palm tree, pulling her knees tighter to her chest. I keep walking. Finally, I look up and read a sign nailed to a tree that I missed all the times I went to the beach:

NO PASE. PROPIEDAD PRIVIDA.

It's after 7pm. The bright Dominican sky has softened to a sleepy sunset. Reggaeton and Latin music play from the cd player in the restaurant gazebo. Ronald is cooking dinner for a Dominican-American couple who've made reservations for La Rancheta's popular European and Dominican cuisine. Graci sets the table: place mat under service platter (but not intended for use!), fish fork and salad fork to the left. Fish knife and salad knife to the right. Red wine glass and water goblet. Finger bowl on hand if needed. Red hibiscus and yellow allamanda flowers colour the dinner setting. European sensibilities provided by Dominican servitude. Across the cobble-stoned path, through the tired branches of the giant ficus, sitting behind my laptop, I watch Ronald take Graci by the hand and dance with her under the dry palm leaves of the gazebo hut. They cha-cha and laugh to the sizzle of frying fish, against the flicker of red Christmas lights that vine the drift wood and teak beams. The white glow of tea lights flirt with fire-flies and crickets that only come out at night.

Abrazame or Gracias, Denada

Abrazame ahora, quiero hacerte el amor, quiero que me lleves en tu corazon, abrazame amor, abrazame...La Rancheta has been taken over by women: Graci, Rosaline and Veronica; Rayselle and Marilyn; and Karin, Ronald's business partner who drops by and checks on things. Ronald is in Santo Domingo stocking up on beer, napkins, napkin holders, glassware, toothpicks, stock items not available in Las Galeras. Then off to Puerto Plata to pick up Belgium tourists at the airport. The crickets are drowned out by Rosalie's powerhouse vocals to Luis Miguel Del Amargue's popular bachata track, “Abrazame”. Graci is busily preparing dinner, her aggressive chopping and dicing contradicts her frame, so tiny you can hardly see the top of her head behind the bar. Veronica sings back up as she and Rosalie set the table, Rosalie stopping intermittently to cha-cha, samba, rumba. Ay, abrazme, que el tiempo, corre lentamente cuando tu no estas. Ay, besame, que quiero, en tu despedida amarte una vez mas...

I'm in my kitchen preparing my boring but affordable dinner of fried rice, tuna and potatoes. I look up from my peeling and wave at Graci walking up the path. In her hands, a plate of yautia fritters, which she extends outwardly. Para usted. Oh wow, I say, stunned. I take the plate from her as if I were holding someone else's baby, carefully with awe. I smile big, and want to hug this woman. Seriously bear hug her. Break her ribs, I'll hug her so hard. But I don't. Instead, a Mucho gracias. Denada Graci says, before walking back to the gazebo. I take a bite of the yautia fritters. Ho.lee.Fuck. Eso fue delicioso! I cry, running to the gazebo. Perfecto! Usted es un gran cocinero! Mucho gracias! I don't have enough Spanish words for praise, so I repeat: Eso fue delicioso! Perfecto! Usted es un gran cocinero! Mucho gracias! Graci laughs, Denada, denada. We smile awkwardly, our only medium of communication these last two days. Gracias. Denada. Ay, ahora no se porque, Te vas a marchar si te amo, Ay, quedate, conmigo, sabes que tu amo desde nino...

After dinner, theirs at the gazebo, mine on my patio, I watch Rosalie sing and teach Veronica how to cha-cha. Holding her hands, Rosalie instructs: grapevine left, grapevine right, step back, step front, now clap! Graci sits down with her legs raised on the table, dish-cloth over her shoulder. Resting her head on her left hand, cigarette in the other, she exhales slowly, smiling sleepily at her daughters. Abrazame ahora, quiero hacerte el amor, quiero que me lleves en tu corazon, abrazame amor, abrazame...

Street Sense

Muchos hombres en la calle, I tell Confiser, the taxi driver from El Catey Airport. He agrees, chuckling, si, si. Men are everywhere, on motorconchos, sitting on rickety benches, eating at local cantinas, flagging down gua guas. Gathering in groups of four or five, the hombres banter, sporting chucks, pressed jeans and faux designer sunglasses. Standing outside of their metal corrugated roof-top casas along unpaved dusty roads, they watch the traffic, staring at tourists who snap pictures of Dominican landscape and wildlife.

Donde estan las mujeres, I ask Confiser. We drive deeper into Samana, closer to Las Terranas. After Las Terranas, Las Galeras. In Las Galeras, La Rancheta. I see no women anywhere along the bumpy drive to La Rancheta. Las mujeres estan en las casas. Making babies, taking care of babies. Cooking, cleaning, washing clothes. The usual things. Confiser tells me this, laughing. I don't say anything. Women can't do those things on the street, he reminds me.

Odysseus Returns to Ithica

We've entered Las Galeras. I've made it. I'm here. The half-finished, half-started, scrappy bits and tattered short stories who've been demanding my attention the last three years will finally have it. I fall against the gray head rest inside Confiser's air-conditioned taxi, and look dreamily at the fan-like palm leaves, turquoise beaches and loose, wild horses running against the traffic. The bachata music booming from Confiser's stereo is like a hero's welcome song. I'm Odysseus returning to Ithaca. It feels like home. Home being the space where, for six weeks, I can call myself a writer—or at least pretend to be one and not feel stupid. Or fraudulent. Or guilty for wanting to be someone I've been told I can't be. In the Caribbean, I am who I want to be. Me. I'm home.

The Yellow Casa

La Rancheta is located 2.5 km's (20 minute walk) from the crossroads in Las Galeras. Close enough to walk to the village but far away from the disco and traffic noise.

Confiser drives through the main road of Las Galeras, my bum jumping from the potholes that scar the semi-paved strip. I read the directions I printed from the La Rancheta website and look for signs, landmarks. Tourist-friendly, but largely pescado con coco: election posters wave from poles, deafening motoconchos ferrying three, sometimes four passengers dust the street, food vendors parked next to cantinas, Dominicanas gossiping, braiding each other's hair. Children playing on the middle of the road, barefoot with backpacks. Las Galeras, the farthest village closest to the ocean in the Samana Peninsula. Las Galeras, located at the end of the earth, is how it is often described. The end of the earth being mountains, white sandy beaches and warm turquoise water.

...take a right at the crossroads in Las Galeras where the “Tourist Services” building is located. (if you miss the turn and end up on the beach, turn around and take your first left)

We turn right at the crossroads and spot a sign indicating that Grand Paradise aka Casa Marine Inclusive Resort is just down the road. Confiser parks in front of the resort and I explain that I'm going to La Rancheta, past Casa Marine. Por favor, mas derecho. La Rancheta es a lado de Casa Marine. I point at the pictures from the printout, Casa Marine, no. La Rancheta, si. We continue driving, the smooth black path of the resort turning gray, loose rocks filling jagged potholes, the dirt road crumbling at the edges. A horse wrangler in a banana leaf hat armed with a machete bursts from the forest, leading a herd of semi-tamed horses. My eyes widen, holy shit. Confiser drives straight ahead, blind to the madness of it all.

After you pass the entrance to the all inclusive resort (Grand Paradise) the pavement ends and La Rancheta is located just a short distance down this dirt road on the right hand side-there is a sign out front.

There! Over there! I point to the La Rancheta sign just as the directions says, on the right-hand side of the road. Aqui, aqui, I cry excitedly as Confiser pull up in front of the green double-door gate. To the left of the gate, on a stone wall, a red and yellow sign advertises La Rancheta's breakfast, bistro, bedrooms and special Belgium beer. Ola! Hello! From behind the gate a middle-aged man with blond shoulder length dreadlocks greets me. His unbuttoned blue Hawaiian shirt displaying a slight paunch that hangs over his beige cargo pants he rolled to his knees. He drops his cigarette, grinding it with his flip flops before shaking my hand. Are you Ronald? I ask. He nods, welcoming me to La Rancheta. Taking my backpack and carry-on suitcase, he holds open the green fence and points to it. At the end of cobble-stoned path, lined by tropical plants, blushing with hibiscus flowers, guarded by a large, sleepy ficus, she stood, waiting. My yellow casa.

You will be happy you made the effort.

Graciela

Ronald introduces me to Graciela. Graci for short. Ola, she nods, smiling shyly. Her fingers cradle a half-lit cigarette. I return a clumsy Ola, my poor Spanish turning shy, Graci's tongue resisting English. Ronald, carrying my backpack and carry-on suitcase, walks me to my cabin. Trailing behind him, I turn back to look at Graci: her flat-ironed hair is pulled in a droopy ponytail, her bangs a blunt, straight curtain against her forehead. Skin black as a moonlit sky, wide-set eyes and clean, tight, cheekbones. An island smile glowing laugh lines. Sinewy arms and broomstick legs. Childish breasts and slender hips betray her age and those of her pubescent daughters. I smile at her again, the only language I can offer in the absence of Espagnol. Graci, I repeat. Si, she answers, puffing her cigarette. Graci. Graciela. From the Spanish, Gracias.

Thank you.