Luperon

(View from our anchorage at Luperon)

 

 

As captain, it was my privilege to spend our first morning in the Dominican Republic clearing the boat and its crew through customs.  It was Christmas Eve and Friday.  Everyone would be going home early to their families.  If I didn't get us cleared right away, it was very likely I wouldn't be able to until Monday.  While I waited in one office after another (port authority, customs and immigration, office of agriculture, office of the commandant at the naval station) struggling to understand the slurred Dominican accents of bored government officials, the rest of the crew were confined to the boat, yellow quarantine flag flying.  They weren't legally allowed to go ashore until I'd gotten them cleared in.  They spent the morning hanging out, napping and snacking.  When I finally returned, angry and exhausted, they were rested and ready.  

 

(Mark waits for the rest to be ready to head ashore)

 

The four of us piled into dinghy for the long ride to the dinghy dock and town pier. Once tied up, we clambered unsteadily ashore and, set forth to explore the town.  It was our first time setting foot on land since Clarence Town a full week prior.  Initial impressions were favorable.  After the emptiness of the sea and the largely uninhabited cays of the Bahamas, Luperon was a shock to the senses, vibrant and raw and pulsing with energy and color.  

 

(The crew of a fishing boat washing up as they motor to the docks)

 

 

One story buildings with rusty corrugated metal roofs lined both sides of the main road.  Concrete and rough-cut clapboard walls were brightly painted in greens and blues, yellows and pinks.  The spaces between buildings were filled with lush palm and banana trees.  Bachata music blared from storefront speakers.  Motorcycles roared down the dirt streets kicking up clouds of yellow dust that swirled in the glaring afternoon sun.

(Exploring the streets of Luperon)

We wandered the town in a dazed little group, soaking up the sights and sounds.  As we passed the front deck of one restaurant near the harbor, a man called out to us in English.  Steve, a native of Key West, called us in.  His restaurant, "Capt'n Steve's," offered free WiFi, a full BBQ chicken dinner for 100 pesos (conversion rate of 37:1), and an owner who spoke English and had eleven years of knowledge in the country to share with us.  We'd found our base of operations.

That night, advised by a fellow sailor, we took our dinghy over to the Puerto Blanco Marina for an evening of caroling.  Fortified by the first cheap beer we'd found since leaving Ft. Lauderdale, we became a powerful addition to the rather pathetic choir.

Christmas morning got off to a late start.  We shambled in to town and spent the day online and on the phone, conversing with family and sipping fruit smoothies.  The town was quiet.  We had nothing to do.  By spending a week aboard ship, no one had been able to get each other presents.  We bought each other breakfast and toasted our success in reaching Hispaniola.

(A local tows a boat past Strolla)