Ryan's Journal

Audrey and I ate dinner at a place that was on a low cliff literally feet from the waves last night – the seas got angry and walls of water were shooting twenty-plus feet into the air behind our table. She ate lobster, I went with the fishes, and there were a healthy number of pina coladas thrown in for good measure – it’s a rough life.

The ocean stayed rough today, and visibility was down to a few feet while snorkeling so most of the fishes remained clouded in whatever the stuff is that makes visibility bad. Ted and friends arrived late in the evening, I was introduced to a number of people whose names I almost immediately forgot, and we’re now less than twenty-four hours away from taking a boat off for the whale extravaganza. Happiness factor remains very high.

It’s late… today was much like the past five days – wakey, food, lazy, beach (fishies), nappy, food, lazy, rainy, sleepy. Audrey got here last night so I now have a dinner partner, and Ted and company arrive tomorrow evening. One and a half more days of lounging until whales.

The fishes have finally been found. After several days of not seeing any signs of ocean life at all – fish, crab, shell, seabird – I finally found a reef about 100m off of the beach that has a respectable variety of the little buggers swimming around. My brain has serious deficiences when it comes to remembering the name of any fish other than “parrot fish” or “shark”, so aside from a single parrot fish I’m sadly unable to name any of the myriad critters that were encountered on the afternoon swim.

Also, an addendum to yesterday’s finding about ice cream and hookers – while enjoying a delicious and refreshing strawberry popsicle about an hour ago I was accosted twice. There are two possibilities:

1. A lot of people are out looking for a little Afternoon Delight in this town, and I happened to wander through during rush hour.
2. While ice cream indicates “Please do not proposition me”, a popsicle signifies “I would appreciate it if you would ask me if I need a girl, massage, or in some other way prevent me from eating this scrumptious treat.”

It is unclear which possibility is more likely, and also somewhat mystifying how I’ve now written two consecutive journal entries involving the world’s oldest profession.

Lonely Planet describes the town I’m staying in thusly:

“The inescapable fact of Sosua is the prostitution – it’s the sex tourism capital of the north coast. Bar after bar is full of sex workers, and men both single and in groups can expect to be accosted and propositioned, on the street, on the beach, and even in restaurants.“

Either things have quieted down since this book was written or else I have managed to avoid the worst of it by staying in during the evenings, but aside from a few “Hey baby”‘s and a demanding group of ladies who hang around on one particular street corner offering “massages” I haven’t seen much of this “inescapable fact”. That said, I have noticed that I get fewer cat-calls when I’m eating ice cream – apparently a grown man enjoying a double-scoop cone doesn’t quite scream “HORNY!” like a guy unencumbered by frozen deliciousness might.

The slow-down plan has gone into full effect – rather than chasing all over the island I’ve decided to settle down in Sosua and enjoy the beach life. This plan comes with significant advantages – prior to this evening I had never eaten surf and turf, but that was rectified tonight in a very, very good way. Happiness factor: 9.8.

The day’s other notable event was the advent of the beach filter. Much like someone who lives next to train tracks will eventually learn to sleep through the nightly ruckus, I seem to have developed some sort of portly-geriatrics-in-small-swimwear filter that has served me well and makes the beach experience much more pleasant. With this new-found ability to mostly ignore distractions on the beach, what remains is a generally-impressive display of the human form, although I’m still unable to avoid a shock whenever a guy in a banana hammock strolls past – I’m very, very hopeful that the necessary filter for that scenario will engage as soon as possible. In addition to people-watching, the day’s beach trip also provided a chance to get some sun and do some snorkeling. Two hours after starting out I returned sandy, whiteish-red, and without having seen a single fish, but between the bikinis, the soft sand, the crashing waves, and the great weather I wouldn’t really change much. The whale trip starts in five days, and until then there will be much napping, sunning, swimming, eating, and otherwise enjoying the latitude.

Yesterday’s flight out of San Juan was delayed for an hour due to mechanical problems – the gate agent announced the delay, then a short time later said that we were good to fly. He corrected himself five minutes later saying “the ground folks said we were OK, but the pilot wants to change planes.” This pronouncement was followed ten minutes later by (essentially) “well, they’ve decided to go ahead and use this plane.” It was a confident group of passengers that boarded that twin-propeller aircraft.

Having now been here for a little more than twenty-four hours, the Dominican Republic seems to be a place that is full of magic that must be sought out. The area I’m staying in is home to a number of big resort hotels and the associated throng of middle-aged folks that frequent them, and, while pretty, it feels very commercial. Lonely Planet says that there is more of the same in the neighboring towns, but I’m convinced that there must be some amazing and isolated spots available to those who know how to find them. That said, despite the in-your-face souvenir vendors and crowds there’s a huge allure to hanging out on the beach and eating fish dinners on cliffs over the water while watching the sun set, so I’m very tempted to simply tranform into resort/beach bum Ryan and relax here for the next six days.

Exploring today revealed that there are two main beaches in the immediate area – one seems to be more popular with the locals, and is a chaotic, bustling hub of activity with cabana bars and restaurants tucked back under the trees at the beach’s edge. The second borders a large resort and is quieter but more sterile. Prior to departing I joked with many of my co-workers that I’d be bringing my banana thong along – many of the visitors to the resort beach apparently said the same thing, although not in jest; it’s disturbing on a number of levels to see an old man on the beach and know without any doubt how well endowed he is. The flip side of the equation is that the ladies’ swimwear is similarly revealing, but while this is in general a good thing, nature has dictated that less is not always more for every female body size and age, and I had at least a dozen cringe-worthy moments while strolling along the water.

The great whale trip of 2009 is underway. After enjoying wet suit night on Wednesday (the wet suit fits, but is apparently inappropriate for lounging in the living room) I got everything packed up and headed off to the airport for a redeye flight last night. In a battle that most people have probably waged I gave up territory early and had to surrender the armrest and some of my footspace to the guy in the middle seat. I tried to stand my ground when he fell asleep and started drifting left, but man-touch issues prevailed and I ended up crunched up against the window. Sleep was not one of the evening’s highlights.

The layover in Puerto Rico is four hours, which is just long enough to make visiting Old San Juan a temptation. However, given that there is only one flight a day to Puerto Plata and my mastery of Spanish is less than masterful the sightseeing has been deferred for a future trip. Instead, the plan turned into a “find-the-breakfast” exercise, which led to Cinnabon. I walked up to the counter, pointed at a pastry behind the window, and politely asked if I could have one.

“No, they aren’t ready yet” was the reply.

Undeterred, I asked what was ready.

“Only what you see behind the window” she replied, pointing at the pastry I had previously chosen.

Since I’m the one who is sleep deprived I will assume that a person of average intelligence would have been able to crack this code. Because I am not such a person I pointed at the pastry next to my original choice, crossed my fingers, and was rewarded with a sticky, gooey mess that tasted like butter and sadness. Now approximately two hours remain until my flight boards for the next leg of this journey, leaving ample time for watching other travelers stroll past. Sadly, a large percentage of these travelers seem to be sunburned elderly people who have made the very, very unfortunate decision to attire themselves in ways that reveal well-aged body parts that no one should have to see, and especially not early in the morning while operating on only an hour or two of sleep.