On the 17th Day! of Christmas...

'Tis the Widespread Season
Dominicans excel when it comes to finding more reasons to celebrate while enjoying themselves. Prioritizing family and friends is a way of life that only further enriches the holidays. Around-the-clock leisure and festivities command daily activities that observe more than just Christmas, New Years, and their traditional Eves until the season officially ends on January 6th, when gifts are exchanged for Three Kings Day.

From Dusk 'til Dawn
During the holiday season, outdoor gatherings are staged around centralized meeting places where community members celebrate the nightly event known as El Chipero. Even the youngest of children join in the all-night revelries berthed in the country's socialization expertises of conversation, drinking, and dancing.

Island Carols
In Latin American countries where pulsing music is as essential to well being as food and water, holiday tunes included a much-improved, upbeat Merengue version of Feliz Navidad and Cascabeles, Jingle Bells. Otherwise, unrecognizable island standards are ever-present, including a silly little ditty entitled El Pavo y El Burro, a spoof about a turkey that lies around, getting fat all year while making fun of the hard-working burro until the tables turn at Christmas. Special compilations CDs of local holiday hits can be purchased anywhere music is sold.

Home for the Holidays; the Final Encore
Several rambles during my month-long visit divulged a greater appreciation and understanding of how holidays are celebrated around the Dominican Republic, but there was one common factor that was inescapable—ongoing problems for an impoverished people know no season. Yet everyone was still usually smiling and generous to a fault with hospitality, while managing best they could with what little they had. Conveying that holiday essence through words and pictures has been a challenging endeavor.

Celebrating with family and friends in Bayahibe also included sharing the daily struggles, while facing uncertainties as time marches on in the name of progress. Rapid changes have all but negated my previous local journals. Having these fleeting opportunities—both the joys and the strife—are reflected as a last-chance effort to preserve chronicles that are being trampled and obliterated throughout the country's tourist circuits.

I was blessed to have one final overindulgence, regardless of season, because at this point, there's no going "home" ever again. The family compound was pilfered within a week of returning to the States.

Quick Tips:

Silent Nights? Hardly!
Travelers looking to enjoy a peaceful, restful time should think twice before planning vacations during the holiday season. Entries detail cultural traditions/festivities that had many guests fuming over all-night revelries that deterred sleeping. Others were quite appalled that businesses closed for Christmas and New Years. The holy week of Easter is even more outlandish, with celebrations when Dominicans also invade resorts.

Global Weather Gone Mad
With the highest peaks in the Caribbean, DR was experiencing their first-ever snow flurries, while torrential downpours continued to wash away everything in low-lying areas. The Bayahibe area was spared ongoing deluges, but overcast skies and brisk tradewinds hampered boating and beach time. During the evening, pants, long-sleeves, and light jacket were definitely in order! The indoor thermometer immediately plunged to the lower 60s F/upper teens C when brought outside in the early mornings. Paying extra for air-conditioned rooms wasn't necessary.

Change in Tourist Cards
The mandatory US tourist card is now only good for 15 days instead of 90. When exiting customs, expect to pay fines if you've over-stayed. The cost averages about RD90 a week, payable in pesos or dollars/euros. During my stay, the exchange rate on U.S. dollars fluctuated between 29-31 pesos on the dollar.

Best Way To Get Around:

Grinch in the Making
Holiday travel is grueling enough, but plan to practice even more patience for Caribbean flights and airports. Islanders are guaranteed to have overpacked, not have sufficient documentations, and have numerous other reasons to prolong the process! Plan to arrive at the airport no less than two hours before your scheduled departure. Automated check-in services have yet to reach the islands. Endless lines are inevitable, as well as late departures.

Flight Reconfirmations
Redeeming miles back in June, American Airlines changed itinerary times twice by December. Flights connecting to DR seem to be dispensable with last-minute cancellations to regional airports, in lieu of pooling passengers to a final destination miles from intended location. Reconfirming return flights also means nothing. Two of my three flight segments home were cancelled; the San Juan connection was cancelled while I was standing at the check-in counter. Additional details are in the final Free Form.

For What It's Worth...
American Airlines has opened a new ticketing office inside Jumbo department store in La Romana with multilingual agents. For travelers in the southeastern region, I recommend actually stopping by the office, rather than trying to call the DR's AA numbers.

Snowbirds looking to escape frigid weather accompanying holiday seasons are heading to the Caribbean in trend-setting numbers. Most opt for gift-wrapped, all-inclusive packages at resorts, but sun-seekers are also independently flocking to coastal towns for extended stays. Should the Dominican Republic be your choice? Chances to celebrate are becoming more elaborate and mingled with age-old traditions.

Some will never see beyond expansive resort lobbies and dining rooms luxuriously decked with trimmings and their festive illuminated grounds. Staff members, donning beaming smiles and fur-trimmed Santa hats, have practiced holiday greetings in numerous languages to ensure everyone seizes the spirit. Unfortunately, trying to meet traveler’s expectations by masking local customs with carbon-copy comforts from "home" unravels the unique island character most initially sought. Anyone familiar with Dominican Republic will quickly realize how outside influences are reshaping regions surrendering to tourism booms, spoils of the holiday season included.

Towns luring travelers have reinvested tourist-spawned revenues towards holiday decorations not found 3 years ago. By far, Higuey had the most impressive displays within the cathedral and along streets lined with artificial palm trees of neon colors. By day, they appear rather cheesy but have a shimmering affect from pulsing lights come night. Unfortunately, few visitors will appreciate these since traveling after dark isn't recommended, and excursion companies rush to have patrons returned in time for dinner.

Justification of such expenses is perhaps troubling with such an economic crisis. But even in remote towns tourists never visit were makeshift forms of holiday reminders, usually wicker nativity scenes with baby Jesus, the Virgin Mary larger than Joseph, and the Three Wise Men. Spanish-influenced culture celebrates la Noche Buena on Christmas Eve, and festivities continue until Epiphany, when the Three Kings pass gifts. Public displays are welcomed by locals but also serve as sad reminders. Few have little to give their children; most are fortunate enough to acquire something extra for a holiday meal. Yet, despite hardships, Dominicans still find cause to always celebrate best they can.

In Santo Domingo, extravagances of the season were on full display as locals and tourists from across the country-jammed streets. In many ways, the frenzied environment enhanced all I prefer avoiding. A fair share of holiday purchases had been made when returning to the hotel. And there, next to Puerta del Conde, was a homeless boy crashed on the sidewalk. Steps beyond, compassion warranted turning around amid mental bombardments of who, what's, and why's. No older than 14, at least he was breathing. Total helplessness spurred me onward, wondering how he might possibly define or celebrate the holiday season: alone or with someone... anyone?

Conditions were fairly bleak this time in Bayahibe. Weeks of rackin' out on the floor did little for physical rejuvenation, but I wouldn't have traded for the plushest resort suite thanks to renewals that come from time with family and friends. Regardless of season here, there's never very much, but they always have each other.

Waiting for the first público to depart at 7am, small talk regarding cool weather dominated topic while pacing about the village center inappropriately dressed. There was new appeal for eventually packing 20-plus people into the small minivan simply for warmth of body heat! Local holiday favorites had been playing on the radio when driver finally gave the all aboard call.

Bouncing along main street, Bayahibe, a chill crept up my spine from a voice that could light up the dawn quicker than all the village's crowing roosters - Whitney Houston, belting out a gospel rendition of Joy to the World. Regardless of English lyrics, it must have been soul-stirring the way usual conversations were hushed even before driver escalated it to deafening volume. By time the publico was weaving through La Romana's busy streets, the sun was also broadcasting welcomed warmth on this, the first day of winter officially beginning the Dominican holiday season.

With Mami now working full-time to help make ends meet, Junior and I had been delegated an immeasurable task list towards holiday readiness. Heading for the local One-Stop Shopping plaza, rude awakenings of reported price-gaugings walloped like a gold brick in forms of 18-pound turkeys or sides of pork priced the at equivalent of $48! Costs for everything had multiplied further because of the ravishing hurricane season that destroyed most local crops and livestock.

Mami had issued warnings about foolishly paying these kinds of prices, but unfortunately, there were no alternative substitutes for 10-pound bags of rice costing $6.75 or cans of beans or gandules at almost $2. Somehow appropriate, the only bargains to be found were on cases of 24 12-ounce Presidente beers for $4 and 1.75-liters of locally produced, high-quality rum for $9.

Pushing loaded carts through congested aisles, small arms hugging my waist from behind and the shriek of my name was startling in this foreign environment. Fatherless José, the family's first grandchild now living in La Romana, had been dropped off to purchase his annual holiday outfit and would be with us for duration of the season. He'd further procured the street - tigre finesse of a papichulo - but a curious mind and the never-ceasing conversation were excelling of a rambunctious 6-year-old, extending the magic of Christmas.

Needing a taxi, costing RD500/$17.25, for hauling our purchases from La Romana to Bayahibe, copious hand-scrawled signs cluttered roadsides more than usual promoting free concerts from the country's biggest Bachata and Merengue artists. Opportunities of giving back to their greatest supporters are anticipated holiday events jam-packing open-air roadhouse bars, car washes, and unsuspecting holes-in-the-walls. Unfortunately, there were no performances near Bayahibe, and friends' calls for tempting me back to nightly blow-outs along Santo Domingo's malecón didn't consent with local agenda.

Ay, Ay, Ay… Antony Santos
Every town or city barrio, regardless of size, has a centralized meeting place where community members regularly gather to socialize. During holiday season, the nightly festival is known as El Chipero, specializing in drinking and dancing in the streets until all hours. For Bayahibe, a tent had been erected off to the side in the village center with a pair of mandatory resources - a large reach-in freezer for keeping beer ice cold and a stereo system that could wake the dead. Anything else was merely an accessory.

Arriving more than 1 week before the acknowledged beginning of the season, this new set-up immediately caught my attention, as did first walking into the colmado and finding the bar full of acquaintances imbibing over suppressed conversations. Strangely, there was no song providing anticipated background music. One of the village elders had died that morning, and out of respect, there would be no music played in public places for the next 48 hours.

Self-restraints from 2 days of abstinence were unleashed full-force once mourning had ended just in time for arrival of the National Beer Company's newest commodity - 36-ounce Presidentes, known as Jumbo, and costing RD70 to outdo its counterparts of a 22-ounce Grande at RD50, or Pequeña at RD35.

El chipero proved to be a welcomed and contrary addition, slicing into happy hour at the nearby colmado, splitting crowds while all waging stereo wars could be heard for quite the radius. The main event never got underway until after 8pm, when the colmado closed and others began returning after the dinner hour.

Like Top 40 radio stations, Dominicans tend to play the latest hits repeatedly, so by second or third night, knowing all the words for singing along was part of the ritual. Mingling and dancing around the lighted Christmas tree, further inspired by mass consumption peppered with erratic firecrackers, conveys the socialization process into endless summer nights, when it's always like the weekend.

Final Countdown of the Island Elves...
Familiar holiday build-ups were enlivening, yet fleeting just the same, especially with numerous main events on the extended schedule. Seasonal preparations were different without trees to decorate or presents to wrap, but Mami's unbroken directions kept everyone occupied around the compound repairing and replacing things and straightening and cleaning getting ready for pending festivities and visitors.

Menial duties included a row of zapatos left out for a local shoeshine boy to spit-polish and paying a migrant Haitian to hoe weeds from the adjoining dirt street in front of the compound. Willingness to save pesos doing these tasks myself was found appalling, and likely would have interrupted the delicate economic balance as these individuals' only humble means for earning income. Overeagerness to help pluck and clean our main course was also denied thanks to chasms of socially acceptable etiquette further dictated by, "What would the neighbors think?"

Islanders pride perceptions and appearances as one of the few things they have any control over, which also mandated numerous cosmetic overhauls. Lines at local barbershops were out the doors waiting for haircuts and shaves, while ladies which couldn't afford a trip to one of the local peluquerías dyed and styled hair in backyards and gave each other intricate manicures and pedicures. Pride was mutual for how locals can clean up from nappy-headed laborers by day into such refined revelers come night, something our family played a critical role in helping to accomplish.

Whether latest fashions or hand-me-downs, mountains of clothing were surfacing daily at Junior's lavandería for washing and ironing by hand, further exacerbated by items from hordes of tourists which had settled in, filling the village for a long winter's holiday siesta. Pitching in to help bolster the family's income also doubled for excuses of dodging Mami's tireless work ethic to be shared by everyone once she returned home on her 11:30am to 7pm break!

We often snickered over sharing cultural tricks of evasion, at times working hard at hardly working. There was still plenty of time found for sneaking off to the beach or accompanying José to a nearby sinkhole doubling as the public pool. Junior all but insisted on these recesses regardless of workloads, but my presence and willingness to cover also allowed him unfamiliar downtime as good as any concept of vacation, even if it was only hiding for a midday snooze.

Admiring our daily handiwork as el chipero gained nightly momentum was almost as rewarding as the individuals' fashionable transformations. The first few evenings were all but mandatory, running into friends and acquaintances while playing catch-up on each others' lives over the last year. Overindulgence in the dusty village center or discothèque well after roosters were announcing another workday's imminence caught up with me rather quickly.

Initial eagerness from returning home was one thing, but this was the holiday season with the biggest adventures lined up still days away. Age had a funny way of bridling in on the hectic schedules further confused by the additional time change since the islands don't acknowledge Daylight Savings Time. On Prancer and Dancer... but at this pace, it was no surprise the seasonal rush had transmuted the final reindeers name into Blitzed!

In the Dominican Republic, Christmas Eve, known as La Noche Buena, captures the full expressiveness of the advent season. Like a hen gathering her chicks, Mami came flying down the street that morning with cackling that brought neighbors running as quickly.

She'd just finished the breakfast shift while enduring quite the earful from irritated, sleep-deprived tourists. Concern and contempt towards complaints were muddled in swift spews when all eyes suspiciously turned to me on the front porch. A loaded question asking about sleep was really hinting to find if I'd joined the traditional contingency for parading all night through village streets, carousing with ancestral instruments, song, and dance.

A disheveled appearance implicated guilt, though no admittance was revealed about actually turning in early or brief arousals during passing encores. The jutting of Mami's lower lip familiarly accompanied balled fists on hips, and my silence on the subject reignited the neighbors' clamor. Rising from the chair amid referrals to unreasoning tourists, my silence was broken as I asserted, "Good, and I hope it's even louder tonight!" Amused howls supplemented Mami slapping high-fives before turning her nose up and feistily marching away.

Draining the last of the stout coffee did little to help me ponder the ever-growing tourist- and expat-spawned issues, drawing lines in the sand far beyond nearby beaches. Today, there were greater battles to be fought, evident in steady-flow strutting towards the baseball field with rooster in tow. Christmas Eve cock fights have been staged ever since Puerto Ricans fled U.S. occupation in 1898 and founded Bayahibe.

Cheers from the distant crowd began shortly after noon, with males of all ages tightly hemming a makeshift ring where five-minute bouts took place with game cocks sparring, but never until death. Neighbors challenged each other, birds got passed around for inspections based on waging bets, and feathers started to fly!

Height came in handy, with people layered seven-deep, but spectators often provided the better entertainment, battling heatedly amongst themselves. Brother Romeo, the dark-skinned black sheep of the family, was more than cocky in a white shirt and shades as the sport's local aficionado.

Fists full of pesos continued growing after every round, ushered with flashing devilish smiles and thumbs-up approvals; that is, until one of his roosters got its drumsticks flogged! Previous winnings were fleeting with pay-outs. When he began digging in his pockets, I accepted that as cue for departure, lest mine got cleaned out, too! Besides, watching a few rounds always suffices, though contests run through late afternoon.

How the Grinches Tried to Steal Christmas
Opting for a calmer environment, I returned to the house for beach gear but was interrupted when a large truck loaded with appliances and furniture stopped out front. A well-dressed Dominican, accompanied by driver and armed guard, entered the laundromat and asked for Junior. He had a hollow look when telling me to get Mami and then stay inside, indicating that this wasn't an unexpected delivery. Straining to eavesdrop through a slatted window, I thought Mami's unusual silence only confirmed misgivings. She hadn't made payments on her washing machine in over a year, and they'd come to repossess and collect in full!

Purchasing things based on credit has become standard global practice, along with living in debt. But for Dominicans trying to get ahead, the country's credit practices are highly suspect and seem destined to make people fail miserably. Payment installments are to be made every 15 days, with compounding interest rates at 12 percent or higher. Local utility bills get hand-delivered, but otherwise, there are no credit-billing system reminders because there is no reliable postal service. For numerous reasons, creditors count on customers not to remember or be able to make payments, waiting months, even years before sweeping in like vultures to pick already malnourished bones clean.

For now, Junior foiled current attempts paying about US$120 from the week's worth of earnings—about what Mami earns for an entire month, working 48+ hours a week as cook at a local restaurant. But over $500 was still owed, thanks to interest. Shrewd creditors, in turn, promise to help with even shadier terms of refinancing; this pitch was no different. For only $300, the family could have another new washer. They'd take back the old one, knock a portion of debt off the bill, and then wait for the whole nightmare of opportunity to recreate itself. They promised to return in January for renegotiations and to collect full payment. Then they headed down the block, spreading holiday cheer to other neighbors.

Discussions—even heated arguments—would've been preferable to the total silence enveloping the houses. There were more dark, looming clouds besides those in the overcast skies, extinguishing any fun-in-the-sun plans. Financially back at square-one, Junior resumed pressing the last of the laundry, eventually sharing mild-mannered resentments about how the family's crisis had been his life-long ruin, pillaging everything earned, including from years with the Chicago White Sox. The somber mood was eventually lifted when a friend stopped by with an invitation for a cruise up the coast. Especially during the holidays, resort employees take special liberties in treating family and friends to unprocurable opportunities.

Boarding at the village-front lagoon, detouring around into the harbor, and docking along cliffs hadn't been much of a ride until Elia's sharp whistle signaled for a dozen or so women and children to join us. By speedboat, Casa de Campo, one of the most luxurious resort communities in all the Caribbean, is a 5-minute ride. The passengers were reeling with excitement as we hugged the coast, passing along elaborate mansions before turning into the marina to glimpse a favorite attraction, Pedro Martinez's yacht.

I'd seen it before; it was now less impressive, overshadowed by another private vessel built like a mini-cruise ship. One can only guess what was really going through others' minds, but such spoils of displayed wealth only reinitiated gnawings in my stomach.

Silence was abandoned when I returned home to find Mami no longer concealing tension levels while trying to get everything done before heading to work. My delegations included finishing dinner preparations and setting the table for the most anticipated night of the year, but unfortunate circumstances had more than scattered the family. Rather consumed once everything was ready, Junior insisted on getting dressed and joining José and another friend for the carbon-grilled guinea hens and accompaniments, but I'd lost more than just my appetite, making for a lousy dinner companion.

This day couldn't have ended quickly enough, and I was more than eager to chafe, having the compound all to myself. Once the table had been cleared, a stout Cuba Libre sedated more than my perpetual guilt at having ample provisions, at considering myself blessed but never having enough to make a dent in the family's ongoing financial problems. Even adopted blood is thicker than water, and thankfully, so is the local rum. Conceding my turn to sleep in a bed was the least I could do, especially if I was numbed to the cuddle of a concrete floor...

When All is Calm, All is Bright
A pair of contemplative hours on the front porch had passed before anyone began stirring in the houses. Junior offered a "Feliz Navidad" with his "Buenas días", pulled up a chair, and dissolved into the peaceful morning while the village still slept. A warm breeze had whisked clouds away in consummating Christmas, a day that transpires like a lazy afterthought in DR. Honoring Mami's wishes of spending the day off in bed, my need for coffee was the motive for suggesting a late breakfast.

Julissa's Diner is a faithful stand-by, where postcard views all but surpass the inexpensive menu. Once selections had been made, calling my Missouri clan was a priority for exchanging the season’s greetings and contrasting their sub-zero weather with our tropical particulars. Purpose and ambience had rekindled our appetites, and second helpings of everything were definitely in order.

Contradicting what a difference a day can make, the proceeding inescapables calmly resurfaced through a father-son parley that transpired at high noon. In a land of such uncertainties, best-laid plans are futile, and entertaining dreams and desires is almost cruel. Yet these are the makings of hope, steeped in a cultivated resilience of survival. A pair of bedraggled tourists staggered in at around 2pm; four hours of solitude at the only place open in town had been a gift-wrapped gratuity.

There would be no visits or visitors and no special plans except to acknowledge the day for what it was: Christmas in Bayahibe. A long siesta was packaged with a brief beach appearance, generous helpings of leftovers, and traditional apples, nuts, and candies. Happy hour on the front porch got a late start once Junior left for church, and Mami celebrated by turning in early. Various friends, neighbors, and even strangers continued passing by until deciding to deck for el chipero, pulsing fervently. Scattered people return annually for Christmas, and interrelatedness stages an enormous family reunion. This year, I was also one of those arrivals, embraced just as closely. Second wind, third wind—good company inspires such ventures.

Mami was already up, thwarting my attempt to sneak in. Thankfully, the cup of coffee offered wasn't bait for a lecture, though she did mention hearing from irritable tourists at breakfast again. Mutual smiles substituted for words, and she quietly left me on the front porch.

Holiday traditions visiting family and friends were kept to a bare minimum, whether from absurd fuel/transportations costs or from no one having much to offer guests beyond a cup of coffee. Our family had no time or funds for jaunting about; Mami was rarely home for the few acquaintances passing by. Taking charge of my own calling plans, a visit was in order to the hamlet of Benarito.

For years, Reynaldo had been a friend and motoconcho driver, but upon arrival, my heart sank when he wasn't at his familiar post. Almost a week passed as I showed his picture, asking around before I got some accurate information that he was shuttling tourists with a Saona Island excursion company. Finally, camaraderie resumed where it had left off, but conversations were limited before daily departures and hurrying home in the evenings. Quality time together was compulsory!

We agreed to meet at "the cross" one morning where Highway 3 intersects the Bayahibe turn-off, but after an hour waiting, I hopped another motoconcho for the short ride. Entering Benarito, rather than just passing by, was virgin territory. As the driver jostled along dirt roads, the impoverished conditions were rudely alarming. Stopping at a cluster of clapboard shacks, his instructions were to head around back. Our sudden appearance hushed frenzied activities dominating Sunday morning chores until Reynaldo looked up, calling my name.

Ceasing work for a greeting with a hug, his gaunt frame, clad in water-soaked underwear, rekindled my concerns of malnutrition, although he'd already assured me it was his natural physique. Reynaldo wasn't surprised about my tracking him down, but he also indicated picking me up in due time. My cocked eyebrow and suspicious smile caused us both to laugh, his fawn-like eyes glowing with warmth.

Family members were still captivated by me, likely the first foreigner to ever come calling. Reynaldo began unreciprocated introductions with his wife, sisters-in-law, nieces, and a stove-up older lady, obviously matriarch of the family, but my mind stalled on the first reference. He'd failed mentioning any marriage since my last visit, or they'd already celebrated an anniversary and were now expecting their first child in June.

A chair was quickly fetched, along with cold glass of water with instructions to wait while he finished. Surveying the surroundings, I gathered that the compound had five small houses and a shed surrounded by dense growth of banana plants, sugar cane, and other garden staples. At times, chickens well outnumbered the people.

A distant outhouse smell indicated no indoor plumbing, further confirmed by stacks of laundry and dishes being washed in outdoor basins. A main electrical source was never traced, yet something powered televisions and stereos from each of the houses. Eventually, Reynaldo disappeared out back and reemerged, wrapped in a tattered towel, clean and ready to dress for the official beginning his day off.

He was eager to show where he lived: a portion in one of the houses containing a bedroom and kitchen/dining room. Photos and things shared over time were proudly displayed, along with numerous electronic gadgets contrasting the simple life. Sitting side-by-side in the back doorway, Reynaldo accepted congratulations with still little to say about his new life, beyond hoping his first child was a girl and hinting to name me padrino/godfather. He reconfirmed that the girl with a slight swell was Maria, a 15-year old he'd known and loved for three years. Yet, typical of traditional culture, she never directly spoke to or looked at me, and Reynaldo showed no interest in having their picture taken together.

Now working as a boat captain six days a week, he earned RD 7,000 monthly—about US$230, not including tips. While no longer driving a motoconcho, his first purchase from increased income had been a smaller, more economical motorcycle he was anxious to show me, with details lacking from everything else!

Unfortunately, I found he's yet another potential victim of the living-on-credit craze: Payments of RD 2,000 every 15 days were already well behind. Whether from lack of understanding or serious concern, the dire nature of the subject never registered, and Reynaldo terminated the lecture while placing Maria side-saddle behind him for making a colmado run.

Left to my own devices, still under the watchful eyes of curious strangers, I assessed the other modern-day amenities scattered about, potentially costing more than could ever be paid. Upon return, Reynaldo sensed my pensiveness and invited me to climb on behind him. He made a familiar fuss about my being positioned comfortably, had a camera ready, and so revealed his genuine nature. And with his customary "¿todo bien?", we were off. As to where, it wasn't important.

A Machito Named Kevin
Sentimental roles were realized while riding carefree on the back of a bike, with Reynaldo assuredly at the helm. In the States, mentally retreating to our family compound's front porches is my frequent comfort, but I was now reminded of another at-home place that would take a backseat no more.

Coursing along shaded country roads with endless vistas to either side, staring at the back of Reynaldo's head, familiarly recaptured my attention. There had been no indication of anything beyond a mid-afternoon joyride until coming to a collection of homes swallowed in dense orchard. Reynaldo was between guide-like spiels, identifying various plants, when we turned down the lane.

An older lady busy with yard work motioned us onward through a jungle-like garden perfumed with blossom scents; the purpose of the expedition was revealed when greeting a pair of gentleman. Reynaldo was looking for a conejo machito/buck rabbit to keep with his two young females. We entered a large fenced-in shed that had Noah's Ark qualities, with menagerie scurrying about, but close inspections didn't expose any males. They suggested trying a neighbor, and so began my vocabulary-expanding education regarding rabbits!

Several stops turned up nothing but warm welcomes and potential prospects further down the road until happening upon a huge buck with nests full of fertile evidence. Reynaldo's decisive focus was broken when asking for 400 pesos, with promise to repay. Indicating that the rabbit would be for his 20th the following week, his puzzlement turned out to be over the concept of a birthday present, which he'd never received.

Once coffee was served and the rabbit placed inside a plastic feed bag, and I securely hooked my fingers into Reynaldo's belt loop while holding the bag with the agitated rabbit outward in the other hand. Unfortunately, it did little to steady my balance. Hee-hawing about becoming a rabbit rancher further induced our squirmings, until banter stalled with him repeatedly saying my name. Kevin—that was the name Reynaldo had chosen for his new rabbit. He snickered a couple of reasons before also pointing out that it was white.

Santa, with his loaded sled, couldn't have garnered the attention we received when pulling up. Family members I'd yet to see appeared as Reynaldo proudly displayed his new rabbit. Once in the cage, within seconds of getting acquainted, Kevin began fulfilling his intended purpose… just like rabbits. Asking if Mama Juana was in the water, Reynaldo insinuated that's what could help measure up to my namesake. Adults chimed agreements while glued to the Sunday matinee. Swarming children confirmed his enhanced virility; the first nests of bunnies were expected within weeks...

Ties That Bind
Maria set the table and quickly disappeared. We hastily finished the mountain of rice laced with stewed codfish and beans while Reynaldo picked, distracted by a dubbed Van Damme feature on television. He indicated that his half-remaining meal would be for dinner, provoking me to wonder whose meal I'd just devoured. Wielding a large machete, he went back to the chores earlier interrupted while various family members still kept watchful eyes on the tuckered-out rabbits.

Repeated invitations for later joining him, Maria, and friends at a roadside bar had already been denied. With a last hope for changing my decision, Reynaldo put on bachata and began dancing around the kitchen. He walked me through the latest steps until I could successfully lead. Still not wanting to be out drinking after dark, my only prerogative was hideous common sense, rather than throwing caution to the tropical tradewinds.

Heading towards the setting sun, Reynaldo slowed when passing the familiar roadside bar. Reverberating music overpowered sounds from traffic whizzing by an arm's length away. Perhaps the night would've been as rewarding as the day, but I was satisfied; content knowing there'd be other times and opportunities. Arriving at the cross, a couple of motoconcho drivers sprang into action, but Reynaldo pulled me back, saying to wait. Small talk continued until I flagged down another driver. Reynaldo assured me that this was a friend I'd be safe with and immediately started issuing instructions for heading towards Bayahibe.

We were off with a wave good-bye, and I had already begun processing the day's events when driver circled into the gas station. Within moments, Reynaldo pulled up, already troubling to make sure everything was okay, but more urgently to reconfirm how many days I had left, see if I had any plans for tomorrow, and to ask if my decision had changed about tonight, all while repeating my name with goofy grin. Not knowing whether it was the rabbit or me generating such affection didn't matter. A mutual legacy, so to speak, had been exchanged—one that will propagate reminders of a lasting bond regardless of time or distance apart.

The final days of 2004 were fleeting, like the remaining grains of sand shifting to plunge through the gooseneck of an hourglass. Nightly blow-outs were still running full-tilt at El Chipero, but after three weeks of intermittent appearances, desires for more of the same had fizzled. With Mami working and Junior tied to the church as an associate pastor, having the compound to myself come evenings provided about the only tranquil retreat to be found these days.

With Mama Juana always an arm's reach away, accompanied by music from the village center, should I not feel like changing CDs, darkness was comforting, deterring views of high-rise buildings springing up along the waterfront one block away.

People randomly passed, always with a "buenas noches" while some pulled up chairs for a chance to practice English or have extended conversation. Talks of what used to be were pleasant strolls down memory lanes, yet no one cared to broach the subject of irreversible changes within Bayahibe that eventually would leave everyone out in the cold.

The Dominican Republic was experiencing their harshest winter ever, with snow flurries in the mountains and coastal temperatures plunging to the upper 50s/lower 60s. Raiding closets to borrow pants and jackets was essential for more than staying comfortably. Cooler weather not only multiplies mosquitoes, but has them invading indoors for keeping warm too. As if the troubled country already didn't have enough to worry about, outbreaks of malaria are back on the rise. Perhaps the key word is worry, something the family chastises my overindulging in, but even they couldn't deny conditions were spinning out of control with hopes that a new year would somehow be better.

Widespread carnage was sweeping the village on December 30th, with preparations for feasting. Hooved and feathered creatures which hadn't drowned or been swept away during hurricane season were facing demises in backyards everywhere. Putting goat on my José Kevo's menu would require a cooking lesson.

Returning with 10 pounds of chivo, another neighbor was scurrying from the house; his large bag of something was abrading my leg. While putting meat away, a rather heated interchange out back suspended efforts. Mami was pawing through a cooler of seafood, accusing local fishermen of trying to unload lobsters that wouldn't pass for shrimp. Scalded exit justified earlier encounter.

Wondering if we'd had another communication breakdown regarding dinner plans, Mami unleashed breathless accounting how Italian bosses sprang a private New Year's Eve dinner party. A couple of other vendors came and were chased away before José was sent to resummon Ómar, almost running me over. He was smiling, now knowing Mami would pay top-peso with kick-back for herself in reimbursement. Asking about the goat, she grabbed a large bowl, tossed a flurry of ingredients for marinating, and placed a covered dish on the shelf. An island secret? Apparently, leaving meat unrefrigerated for 24 hours...

Obstacles of Perseverance
The laundromat was chaotic, trying to accommodate last-minute decisions for what locals would model that night for New Year's Eve. An unplanned break occurred when the neighbor returned to find her home flooding. A small stream was gushing down the unpaved street, draining toward the first two houses, thanks to a construction worker breaking the main waterline while digging a trench. How long the problem had been flowing was anyone's guess, but Celeni's rampage had rallied the block. Eventually, the village mayor appeared with the head of the utilities company. Professional demeanors calmed the uproar, but the only solution was shutting off the village's water supply with no guarantees of restoration heading into the holiday weekend.

Thankfully, the last load of wash had been completed, and most homes still had access to outdoor rain towers, which were the main source until indoor plumbing debuted in the late 90s. Preparing for night on the town would involve lugging buckets of water into showers and rinsing off a coffee can at a time. Speculations were offered of how tourists would manage, but I told Mami that if they started complaining to smile rapidly, saying, "¡Bienvenido a la República Dominicana!"

The creolle-stewed goat was a success staged in late afternoon to accommodate varied schedules. The last of the dishes were almost done when Mami stampeded in, looking to organize a bucket brigade. Numerous containers would have to be filled, carried three blocks to the restaurant, and boiled in a cauldron. Suggesting she start the fire while I retrieved round two, common sense lacking panic turned up another source across the street. With preparations running behind, assistance disguised as another cooking lesson was worth missing open rounds of el Chipero around the corner.

Feeling somewhat drained, it was after 9pm when we returned home. An ice-cold Presidente momentarily refreshed but registered no desires for festive consumptions to sedate restlessness. Mami had things under control, gulping the beer she'd asked for while revelers passed, streaming into the village center.

Children and adults were extinguishing the last of an endless month's supply of firecrackers, bottle rockets, and M-80s dangerously within the crowd. Coerced smiles and conversations while trying to track the next explosion were disengaging.

As the night wore on, amusements revealed time finally mattered, though few wear watches. Ones who did were all reporting differences heading towards midnight, but there was no count-down or official announcement when the new year finally arrived. The cue came with the first sonic-boom, echoing from down the coast, prompting migration towards the waterfront. Imposing fireworks shows lit up the night from nearby resorts, with visible displays over the moonlit Caribbean, as far away as Casa de Campo and La Romana.

A small hand grabbed mine; it turned out to be José. Picking him up to give him a better view, the 5-year-old running unaccompanied in the streets all night had had one too many sips, laying his head on my shoulder while sucking his thumb. Putting him to bed was an excuse for returning to the compound.

Mami hobbled home shortly later, asking for another beer. She'd just settled on the front porch when one of her bosses appeared with a hysterical dinner guest in tow. The tourist had locked keys and camera inside her cabaña. To no surprise, owners/managers were nowhere to be found, and Mami loyally agreed to track them down.

Music and firecrackers were still barraging, but holiday anxieties were alleviated with the comforts of home. Junior returned shortly after 1am, opting to sit under the streetlamp. His steadfast calmness was soothing as we dared to dream about what 2005 may hold. At 4:15am, Mami had yet to return...

Toewritings in the Sand... Like Handwritings on the Wall
A thermos of coffee was waiting outside my door, but otherwise, there were no signs of life at 11am. Deciding to snooze the day away, at least a bed of sand was justified. Passing along the waterfront, a friend was bearing brunt from tourists coming off another sleepless night, further agitated by no place open for breakfast or boats for hire. Pretending not to understand English, he later expressed sentiments regarding Dominicans deserving time-off, too, before proudly announcing he'd pre-booked another group at triple the rate. The snorkeling invitation wasn't the least bit tempting.

Unexpectedly having extended time with IgoUgo guide Donnaparadise, also in Bayahibe for the month, was worth bypassing the siesta while analyzing inscrutable island fixations and other paralleling circumstances. Channeling my toes through the sand, I toyed with making this a New Years resolution with daily possibility.

Clouds and winds hindered expected heavy traffic, and apart from having a front-row seat to a group of carefree teenagers, Donna had been at it since early morning. With another year's arrival, I coveted the lifestyle of being young and Dominican rather than a middle-aged fool, trying to play catch-up.

Returning to the village, el Chipero had gotten an early start since colmado was closed, and few indicated having funds for Boca de Yuma's traditional spree. Promises for returning later went unfulfilled. Plenty of spirits were still at the house, but I also couldn't deny time was quickly escaping, with less than a week remaining.

Raiding the refrigerator accumulated a plate of leftovers. The fork striking plate without previous sounds from the microwave roused Mami from her room with pleas not to tolerate the preferred manner of eating food cold. Offering to fix her a plate, all she wanted was a beer. Joining any males at the table was rare; subduedness was even more unusual. Overwhelming silence was finally broken when inquiring for feedback on what she should do.

Capitalizing on daily struggles, her vulnerability had been targeted by foreigners in opening rounds of the long-feared forced buy-out. Ridiculously low offers had already been made, my unexpected arrival scattering the vultures. Holding out until the end would empower top-dollar, but even undervalued price on prime real estate was a small fortune for solving immediate problems, leaving little consideration for the future.

Mosquito-proofing myself for sleeping out on the porch gave Junior freedom to prepare the following day's sermon. It took some time before drifting off with lullabies from the village center. I headed to the colmado the next morning to buy eggs as el chipero's tent and cooler were being loaded into a truck, much to ex-pat onlookers’ and tourists’ approval.

Shepherds commonly fill nativity scenes as first to have received announcement of the Christ child's birth. Perhaps there's irony these peasants are nowhere to be found in an impoverished country's Christmas story. Full significance is placed on arrival of the three wealthy kings bearing gifts.

Tradition is part of the Spaniards' cultural influence, but even presence of presents from the Kings has given way to concepts of the jolly bearded one from the north. Epiphany, known as Three Kings Day in Latin America, ushers in the final event of the drawn-out holiday season when gifts are exchanged, regardless of who supposedly brought them.

Like the night before Christmas, a sense of eager restlessness instigated one of Junior's profoundly intense, tacit moods. Knowing sleep wouldn't be coming soon for either of us, luring him out was accomplished sharing childhood memories of Christmas Eve while seeking his from Three Kings Day. He managed a smile when asking about leaving shoes on the front porch full of straw for the camels as traditionally practiced in Spain. We quibbled about camels on the island and my promising to send pictures of ones in Santo Domingo's zoo.

As children, they too were rushed to bed early the night before, but observance had definite island flair placing a sprig of mint, cigarette, and something to drink under their beds for when the Kings passed. Sharing a room and a bed with two younger brothers, they grew up hoping odds were better in triplicate, including water, beer, and Mama Juana in their glasses. But his childhood was in the days before $1 store toys, and the Kings usually left pencils and paper or candy. My favorite memory was the year he found a baseball waiting, but the desired bicycle never materialized.

Whether understanding as a child or not, Junior was now quick to emphasize they grew up poor, not bad, all but opposite of holiday spoils I'd taken for granted. Togetherness eventually sufficed for the gap in discussion well after the light went out. Tossings and turnings accompanied insomnias throughout the long night, knowing at this point there weren't enough camels or Santas in the world for delivering dreams and miracles.

On the 17th Day of Christmas...
Despondence carried over even after suggesting Junior look under the bed to see if the Kings had passed leaving him anything. During the sleepless night, downing a beer had inspired placing the empty bottle with cigarette butt, half-eaten cookie, and three 500 peso bills, the last of my Dominican money. A heartfelt thanks was followed by making sure I understood only children received gifts for the occasion. Asking who his father was, response indicated appropriateness. Regardless of age, $45 wouldn't cover cost of a bicycle but was rendered for anything except paying bills.

Bags had been packed the day before in hopes of enjoying a final leisure morning. Reynaldo stopped by on his way to work, willing to risk reprimand for prolonging conversation. It was gracious to see him one last time, but the whole farewell process is cumbersome; something I'd rather avoid when it comes to people.

As for current places and things, absorbing nostalgia while having coffee on the front porch was obligatory, knowing that even if returning as early as summer, chances were the family compound would already be sold. Even if it wasn't, monumental changes in Bayahibe since my last visit, which had surpassed combined changes in the preceding 7 years, had created blunt insinuations there would never again be any looking or going/coming back. Trying to deny the obvious, could'ves and should'ves began welling-up regarding last-chance opportunities that had been missed forever.

A group of rowdy boys came running up the block momentarily shifting focus to what hurried anticipations were regarding. Based on the village's dire circumstances, Dominican owner of Hotel Bayahibe was in his second year of distributing toys. Rounding the corner, I was rather startled by the crowd that had assembled at the hotel entrance, hordes of women accompanying children in hopes of receiving gifts they couldn't provide.

The excitement was uplifting as youngsters were making bee-line exits for the street to marvel and show-off their playthings while immediately putting them to use. Whether believing Santa or Magi had dropped off the jackpot, delight radiating from kids' and adults' faces surpassed any of the previous days' intended celebrations. No matter how one chooses to define the holidays, children are the ones who convey reason for the season while reminding there's also still a child within all of us.

Mami had finished the breakfast shift and passed in the streets with a confiscated haul for whipping up one last meal. She wrapped her arm in mine as we made the short walk home while issuing her final set of instructions and wishes. Junior joined me at the table, but neither of us ate much, a feat hard to swallow when a lump is in one's throat. Reassurance was the only thing left to provide. We were family and nothing was ever going to change that regardless of what transpired.

One pm was quickly impending. Weighted down with more than just my bags, I said goodbye to more than just the family and headed to meet Donnaparadise for a ride to the airport.

Fit for a King...
Waiting for check-in, gloom was diverted with the seductiveness of spending 3 days with my mistress. We'd shared another one-night stand on my way down while verifying street festivals for the Three Kings and additional celebrations scheduled until heading to the States on Sunday. Temptations on the mental To Do list comforted departure.

Security thankfully wasn't checking luggage thoroughly; bags of coffee, dulces/candies, and other local necessities tightly concealing items buried below sure to be confiscated. The young man behind the ticket counter eagerly deviated from mandatory questioning when finding my purpose of travel included more than playing tourist. Calling up my itinerary, the final segment had been cancelled. Beyond explaining where Springfield, MO, was, changing my final destination to another regional airport was discussed, even if connecting through Dallas rather than Chicago.

The mix-and-match process was holding up the line, obvious from audible grumblings of Dominicans and tourists. Search was futile, and before an itinerary could be mapped, an announcement wailed the San Juan flight had been cancelled! Waiting passengers stormed the counter. Once security regained control, they were sent to round up those already completing the process. An apology accompanied detailing new options.

They were transferring everyone to Punta Cana, 2 hours east, for catching a later flight; something American Airlines is obviously practicing more since my arriving flight from San Juan was delayed waiting to shift Punta Cana passengers. However, an agent confided there was no guarantee that flight wouldn't be cancelled, too. A confirmed flight from Santo Domingo would arrive at 11pm, or I could rebook the following day.

Returning to Bayahibe for repeating the good-bye process was not an option. Pecking on his computer, flights to Miami were available. Thoughts of another layover night in Boca Chica further repressed my decision. Asking if they'd provide ground transfer, the conversation switched to English, stating a flight was that afternoon from La Romana. Agreement stung with thoughts of bypassing San Juan. Booking segments home for the following day, the sympathetic agent promised to take care of me.

The terminal was near capacity, prompting escape to an outdoor patio. Jets from around the world continued landing, except for American's flight from Miami. Derision of the enclosed area felt like a zoo's cage, trapped inside with a European assortment while employees gawked from a safe distance beyond. Departure was almost 2 hours late; the plane circling back over the sea afforded one last glimpse of Bayahibe's coast before racing off into the sunset.

Miami's skyline was radiating on the circular tour landing pattern, proposing a later appearance on Little Havana's Calle Ocho, but any fortitude not poured out over the previous month was quickly expropriated surviving the chaos of the crowded airport's expansions under never-ending construction! By the time I'd retrieved bags, cleared customs, and gone on a wild goose chase finding a special services counter, my last frayed nerve had conceded.

The shuttle arrived at the Wyndham Hotel, the name itself suggesting privilege even if it was an airport branch. Once calling Missouri to reconfirm arrival, gratifying hunger was priority, the meal voucher covering an endless buffet. Fatigue was compounded from additional helpings, though I willingly bypassed the Cuban rice and beans. A poolside lounger endorsed lethargy; Caribbean music obscurely wafting melted to my core. Miami would have to wait.

Returning to the room was a well-deserved reward. Perhaps the agent's promise to care for me was simply doing his job, even if he forgot to collect departure tax and recoded flights to receive miles. But after a long season emulating Santa, the provided simple pleasures were like gift-wrapped treasures. A full stomach, an actual shower head surging hot water, a bed to sleep in… for once, it was better to receive than to give, and I slept like one of the Kings recovering from making his holiday rounds