Three Guaguas and a Moto
It started with a BAM! The gasket blew out. But it actually started before that.
I got on the motobike and immediately clutched the handle bar behind me. That was first. I was always confident enough to straddle on any motorbike handless and just let my thighs do the work. But something within me felt off. A slight trepidation, ever the slightest, like maybe I don’t belong on this.
It could’ve been for the fact that I actually didn’t want to go on any trip. I was perfectly fine sitting in my hotel the rest of the day. But I went out for a walk, just to get some sun before it was too hot. See what was available for lunch at the end of the street and make my way back checking out the old African American church.
On the way back Samuel approached me. He started talking with me. He offered to walk me around and show me the town. Now, you must know this whole town was all but one mile on an arc of a bay. So I said sure. I tend to attract people when I travel. It happens.
I told him I wanted to see the church and he said sure he could walk me there. It was really only 50 feet away; you could see it from when he approached me.
He walked me up the steps of the old church. “Glory to God in the Highest” it said. There were two old folk sitting on a bench to the side, underneath an overhanging, just relaxing and avoiding the sun. I gave them a friendly wave as I walked up the steps and the gentleman raised his hand to wave back. Samuel explained that this church was built by people from Philadelphia. They were freed slaves and came down to the Domican Republic to start a new church slash life. The pews were original from the 1800s. The building - its sides covered in corrugated tin. Red, maybe from rust, but at some point they had painted it red to become the dominant color. Having just passed Fiona, I asked Samuel how this church survives in hurricanes. Doesn’t the wind blow it down? No, he says. And we always build it back up.
There was scaffolding all around the church with newly used lumber. Inside there were windows (more like openings) all along the side of the church. Window naves I suppose, without the glass and open to the outdoors, with painted storm shutters to protect from the elements outside. We walked back around the outside of the church.
This is the founders’ of the church, he pointed out. After they came down they said they wanted to be buried here. Not that they were planning to die but that when they did they wanted to be buried here. And so there were those heavy stone blocks, the pastor and his wife, right at the corner of the church.
It was sad. The wife had died so young. Twenty-six from Britain. She had married an American man, a pastor from Philadelphia, and they moved down to the Dominican Republic to start a new life and a new community of former slaves. And she died from I can’t remember quite what, but there was a tomb, alongside her husband. They got their wishes.
I just think of her, having been so young when she married and left the U.K., to move to the upstart U.S. and then move from a metropolitan city, with its English roots and colonial history, to an outpost on an Island where there was no one. And this is where they would form their new community.
After his wife died, shortly after arriving in the Dominican, the man continued to serve his church there, even though he was left wifeless with two young children. One would think that he would move back to Philly where he came from but he felt called to greater work. His wife was buried there, and he would continue the work they started out together. And there lies his plot. Poignant, unmissable reminders of the work they felt called to.
Samuel walked me around the edge of the church, pointing out the protruding lumber and steel. We walked off the property and he said he could show me more around town if I want. I said sure. So that’s when I got on his moto.
I had nothing better to do that day. I was just going to chill in my room until it got cooler in the evening. I really didn’t want to be outside. But he offered to show me around town and I had time to kill. Rather than walk around for a half hour under the sun, I suppose I could have him show me around town.
But the moment I got on the back of his moto I felt off. In years past I would’ve been totally fine. But I felt a hesitation as I stepped forward. Why was this? Was it because I had not been on one in years? Maybe his back was too small? Maybe thighs… too weak? Nonetheless I got on. There wasn’t much of a place to rest my feet. In other times and places, I would lean against the person in front of me. But I had just met him. Other times I would grip the moto with my thighs and lean back, arms wrapped across my chest, just letting my thighs do all the work, as I rode across, sort of looking like a man flying on a magic carpet.
Somehow, this was not possible. I nervously and strongly grasped the handle bar behind me. I could use a helmet I thought. And off we went. We really weren’t even going that fast. And yet I couldn’t let go of that handle bar. Why? I had no place to put my feet, no foot bars to put pressure against and brace myself on the moto. I was basically leaning back like an easy rider, with my ankles pointed up, only enough space for half my back heel, and gripping the bar with both hands behind my waist.
I sat like that for about 20-25 minutes. It was a long ride. I watched the kilometer pilings on the side of the road tick away. I wasn’t prepared for this. I had to push against what little space there was on that motorbike with my back heel to steady myself, curl my toes to keep my flip flops on, and then hold on to the back with my hands, which was actually the part of my body that was keeping me on the motobike. And we weren’t even going that fast. He also ran out of gas.
It was so not fun. We finally got to the place after maybe 20-30 minutes. I’m not sure why but it felt long. I had been on moto rides before in other countries, but perhaps those were in town, flat, even if there were no paved roads. Yet this was on an up and down mountain with semi-decently paved road. We weren’t even going that fast and still I was grasping that handlebar so tightly.
Well we got there. Here’s a waterfall he said. Uh, a waterfall was not what I wanted to do. I had seen it in the guidebook and wasn’t interested in a waterfall. I had seen that type of waterfall in other countries and had no interest. But we were here, so I got off the moto and started walking. But immediately I felt it. That anterior ligament was way too tired. Just two steps and I could feel it. I wasn’t ready for a hike. But here we were. So I started walking. And quickly it started going steeply uphill. My eyes opened. I asked Samuel how long this would take. He said 20 minutes. 20 minutes? I couldn’t do twenty minutes up a steep, rocky path on flip flops, and now my legs were shot. I tried a few more steps and around the corner came down a lady on a horse. She said it was steep. I was crazy. Either she said that or I thought it in my head. I asked her how long it was and she said it took 20 minutes. 20 minutes by horse! Samuel was joking! I can’t make this 20 minutes on flip flops. I’m no native!
So I immediately said I can’t do it. I didn’t even want to try any further. He said okay, sometimes people can do it (like the Germans) but if you’re not a regular hiker, even here, you can’t do it. So I go and take you somewhere else. So not three minutes off the bike, we hope back on it. My feet were so tired I could hardly grip. Thankfully the majority of the return trip was down hill (with ups and downs) and I could let my legs hang out over the motorbike. Samuel was kind enough to stop a few times to let my feet rest. But I think it was more to give the engine a rest and the fuel gauge was blinking from the moment I got on the motorbike.
We didn’t have a lot of power to go up those hills, plus when we reached the top of a crest he would turn off the engine and coast all the way down, to save gas you know. And once we bottomed out and gravity had taken its toll we would come to a complete stop. But after the first couple a times I think he might have caught on to me after the first few stops where I was just standing there, waiting for him to get going again. So later after we got to the bottom of a hill, engine off, and the wheels stopped moving, he would turn the engine back on for the next hill.
That was that. The trip up was nice. I would’ve been fine just driving up the hill with him and coming back down. But there was more to our excursion…