Côte-des-Neiges (Chapter XIV)
By: Juan Alberto Cirez
Tags: Music, Mental Health, Relationships, Technology, Fiction

I’ve Got Dreams to Remember…

“The sign for Playa Dorada Beach Resort will be on your right,” I said.

Candy nodded and continued on Calle Principal, the main throughfare in the Complejo Hotelero Playa Dorada, or Playa Dorada Hotel Complex. The place hadn’t changed much since the last time I was there. It looked pretty much as I remembered from the first time I visited the site, in early September of 1989 and every visit since.

Like many recent arrival in Puerto Plata, back then I was looking for work at one of the many resorts inside the sprawling complex. The wages — even for a lowly janitor — were ten times that of the average laborer in one of the garment factories inside the city’s Free Economic Zone, or Zona Franca.

Being fluent in both English and French — my parents being West Indians and Haitians immigrant respectively — I was sure to land a front-line position in either Guest Services or Food & Beverages. The first thing that shocked me then — and continued to shock me every time I visited or worked a shift— was how incredibly clean it all was.

The streets, then as today, were meticulously paved and swept clean on a daily basis, without a single pothole or blemish. The road signs were shinny and new, the lawn expertly manicured and the roadside lined with palm trees, native birds, plants and flower beds — an explosion of colors, scents and sounds that overwhelmed the senses. And not a single piece of trash in sight.

Rows upon rows of Leuenbergeria quisqueyana or Rosa de Bayahibe, the country’s national flower — adorned the street. The flower, endemic to the island, is a rare cactus that grows leaves, the flower itself is a delicate pink color. It is native to the Bayahibe area near La Romana, on the southeastern coast.

Cubanola domingensis, or campanita, which are small showy trees jostled for position under the sun. The distinctive notes of Magnolia Pallescens, an endemic species of Magnolia perfumed the mid-day air. Flowering red Cayenas or Hibiscus rosa-sinensis, Trinitaria, or Bougainvillea spectabilis Willd and Coralillos — the later being a plant originating in India which has managed to make Hispaniola its home — added a burst of color.

Calyptronoma, Hemithrinax and Zombia palm trees, standing guard, arrayed like a pinnately Terracotta Army on either side of the street, with scattered clusters nearby. The sturdy trunks of Roystonea regia or Cuban Royal Palm serving as staggered lampposts for the Mercury-vapor lamps.

Of the islands in the Caribbean, Cuba has the most species of palm trees, but Hispaniola, having similar geography and topography, is not that far behind. The ambundance and sheer variety of these plants in Playa Dorada made that fact abundantly clear.

The pitch black, recently re-surfaced hard top, with its bright yellow pavement markings, made the perfect canvas on which to project this amazing rainbow of colors, shapes and textures. The roar of the waves, brushing against the white sands just behind the green canopy, added the perfect accent.

The distant whiffs of BBQ’d Longaniza sausages, the faint but punchy syncopated chords of Tambora Drums, Güira and Accordion — the implements of Merengue Tipico, or Perico ripiao, the national music — provided the perfect soundtrack for what was shaping up to be one of the best weeks of our lives.

“Watch out for pedestrians,” I warned. “Drunken tourists are not known for observing traffic laws.”

Not sooner I had finished the sentence that a group of German tourists staggered onto the street with reckless abandon. They appeared to be on their way to beach, oblivious of their surroundings and completely ignoring the tour bus a mere ten feet away.

Luckily the driver was attentive enough to anticipate their idiocy, applying the brakes and gently rolling to a complete stop with room to spare. Half naked and fit — both male and female — they made their way down the path next to the Jack Tar Village Resort & Casino, rounded a corner and disappeared from view. The driver released the brakes, shifted the bus into gear and continued on his way.

“Fuck!” Candy swore in surprise, counting her blessings we were far enough away to be forewarned. She slowed down again to go over a speed bump, glancing at the flower beds adorning the divided median strip on the road.

“Did you see the young girl?” she asked, before the drunken bunch rounded the bend. She was referring to the youngest female in the group. She was topless, like her other friends. Her fresh, innocent face as blissful as her breasts were firm and ripen. She could not have been older than eighteen years old, or four years my junior at the time.

“What about her?” I asked, glancing up and quickly looking away. Best not take any chances at staring, I thought. Flying too close to the sun, I remembered, did not turn out well for Icarus.

“See how happy and carefree she looked?” She asked forebodingly. “She probably thought she was safe among her friends.”

“Huh?” I asked. Unsure where she was going with that line, but deciding to let her speak and see where it led.

“She doesn’t realize one or more of her ‘pals’ can turn against her and rape her.” She seemed to be speaking from experience, I thought.

“That’s kind of dark,” I said. Quickly adding, “and random. What brought on that thought?”

“It happened to me when I was sixteen,” she said matter-of-factly. “It happened at Plage Jean-Doré, during a weekend trip to Parc Jean-Drapeau with some friends from high school.”

“Jesus, Candy. You’ve never told me that,” I said, reaching out and taking her hand in my hands. “I am so sorry. What happened?”

“There isn’t much to say, really. Two of the guys in the group waited until I was alone and isolated and assaulted me. I fought them off until I blacked out.”

“The last thing I remember was grabbing a rock, swinging it with every ounce of strength I had left and hitting one of them on the side of the head. The other one must have knocked me unconscious because I don’t remember much after that.”

“Jesus!” I exclaimed in horror.

“When I came to I screamed bloody murder. I ran until I found a payphone on the parking lot and called the police.”

“They tried to say it was consensual, but I didn’t fucking budge,” she said proudly.

“When the police arrived and called my parents they came running. They took me straight to the hospital to get a rape kit, then drove me to The Service de police de la Ville de Montréal —Le SPVM — station in Longueuil and I pressed charges.”

“What happened to the two guys?” I asked. Not sure if that was the right question to ask, but unable to think of a better one.

“They ended up taking a plea deal and served eight years of a ten year sentence. Each,” she said with pride and satisfaction in her voice.

“I’m nobody’s victim.” She said resolutely. She seemed to be reliving the moment in her mind, yet did not seem to be diminished by the experience. While I expected to see pain and shame, I only saw defiance.

“My father taught me to never be silent,” she said after a moment.

“He taught me to fight, to never be a victim, and never surrender. When I was attacked, I spoke up and defended myself.” I brought her hand to my lips and kissed it. I felt more connected to her, to her life and her story in that small moment in ways I had never been before.

“These idiots were about to get run over,” she said looking at group disappear from view, returning to the here and now, and locking away her ghosts — I held onto her hand.

“Oh yeah,” I said sarcastically, grateful at the chance to move the conversation onto a lighter topic. “Now imagine a million more like them roaming the country, throwing themselves in front of speeding vehicles. Too drunk to realize they are tempting fate.”

“One million?” She asked in surprise.

“Yeah.” I said matter-of-factly.

“Give or take a few thousands,” I explained. “Maybe less right now that it is the low season, but come September, it will be a mad house.”

“Jesus!” She sighted in amazement. “Scrapping dead tourists off the pavement must be a thriving business in this country.”

“You would think so,” I said mockingly.

“The truth is, everybody here knows how important they are to the economy — and how quickly things would go to shit if ‘dem gringos start dying for any reason — so everybody goes out of their way to keep them alive while they get drunk as skunks.”

It was not an exaggeration. By the first decades of the 21st century, Hispaniola was one of the top vacation destination for visitors from the European mainland, The United States and Canada. Its popularity was so that even wealthy visitors from countries in South America began to make the island their port of call.

This was due in large part to the island’s rich history as the first permanent European settlement in the Americas, and its unique culture. A culture borne out of an uneasy modus vivendy between Spanish Catholicism, African animism and Taíno or Arawaken traditions. But also because of the warmth and welcoming nature of its people, and the friendly atmosphere. Not to mention its great beaches and tropical, unique climate.

“Who are they?” She asked. “The tourists? Where do they come from?”

“Mostly Germans, Austrians, Dutch, and British.”

“There is a significant number of Americans in Casa de Campo near La Romana, but they represent the upscale traveler looking for luxury.”

“Small in numbers, but big spenders?” She asked.

“That’s right,” I concurred.

“But the government is now courting the regular folks,” I added. “They tend to spend less and stay in all-inclusive resorts like most of these,” I said sweeping my hands, motioning to the resort complex around us. “But they make up for that in sheer numbers.”

“Ah,” she said with a knowing smile. “High volume/low margin.”

The marketing executive in her understood the concept of economies of scale instinctively. “That explains the French-Canadians,” she said with a laugh.

Les touristes Québécois arriving on the island liked to party and have good time, but they were mostly blue collar workers and civil servants. People who knew the value of a dollar and what it took to earn it. Spendthrifts, they were not.

“There are some Scandinavians — mostly from Finland — coming in now as well,” I explained, but after a moment of reflection conceded, “but you’re right, these are folks like you and me. People who work for a living.”

Beginning in the last years of the 1980s planeloads of eager Canadians, British, Germans, Austrians and even Scandinavian tourists would land at Punta Cana International Airport, Las Américas International Airport, Cibao International Airport and beginning in the first few years of the twentieth-fist century, La Romana Casa De Campo International Airport.

“So the whole country is like a giant resort?” She asked, a bit puzzled.

“No, not the whole country,” I clarified.

“Just the coastal regions on the Southeast and Northwest coasts. Although there are efforts underway to develop Samana Bay in the Northeast and Barahona in the Southwest. But these areas are reserved for ecotourism and cruise ships — as opposed to massive hotels and resort complexes like this one.”

A smaller number of visitors also reached the island by sea, via several ferry terminals scattered throughout. The largest of these was The Port of Santo Domingo‘s Sans Souci and Don Diego Terminals, followed by and the Central Romana Port’s Terminal Turistica or Tourist Terminal in La Romana.

There were smaller facilities like The Port of Puerto Plata — which was superseded by the Amber Cove facilities in the early decades of the twentieth-first century. This new facility was marketed as the Caribbean’s newest cruise ship destination. Amber Cove Cruise Center⁸, is located on the Bay of Maimon, or Bahía de Maimón near the city of Puerto Plata in the country’s Northwest Coast.

The new two-berth Amber Cove Cruise Center is able to accommodate up to 8,000 cruise passengers and 2,000 crew members daily. When completed in 2015, its USD $82 million price tag represented one of the largest cruise industry investments ever made in the country.

The Cayo Levantado Port in Arroyo Barril, Samana,was the smallest in the country and was geared primarily for ecotourism, as the area is a popular whale watching spot. Every year around the middle of January, like clockwork, the famous Humpback whales of Samana⁹,¹⁰,¹¹ arrive, having traveled all the way from the North Atlantic to relax and frolic in the warm waters of the Caribbean Sea.

“When we come back from our visit to La Romana, we will drive to Cabarete and Samana and I will show you the area.”

“It’s quite beautiful,” I promised. She smiled and nodded, pointing to the Puerto Plata Beach Resort sign up ahead.

“Ei meu açucar mascavo,” she said, using her favorite term of endearment,

“While we are here, what’s something that you’d like to try, but that you‘ve been too scared to try?” The question took me by surprise and I had to think about a bit. I surprised myself even further by my own response,

“I would like us to grow closer and get to know each other better.”

“I think we can manage that, Meu amor,” she said with certainty.