Once You Go Back. 7

Previously, Buckey realized the stimulation and excitement of urban Santo Domingo and the beach resorts faded quickly. He longed for a way to reach the distant and almost unmapped wildlands. Link to Table of Contents and Previous Chapters.

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To be honest, all-inclusive resorts with mod landscapes of royal palms, hibiscus hedges, and mowed lawns bored the pressed pants off me. I suspected the rich people here preferred that their gardens were like the male models I’d spent the weekend with — easy on the eyes, handsome but bland. I’d held onto a dream of rough, rustic, and real.

Before I went to the Dominican Republic, I’d read a Spanish explorer’s account, “¡Hispaniola! Land crumpled as a piece of paper; where the tops of mountains soar into clouds that rained down to make churning ice-cold rivers through towering cloud forests then flow across white sand beaches into the seas."  

I could only fantasize about the plant diversity. 

When I asked around, I realized every person in Rubio’s glossy world had grown up in those crumpled hills, and they’d worked hard to wash off the dust and shine with the city lights. They made fun of the countryside, the wilds, the farms, and hicks beyond the resort gates. 

It made me sad that they didn’t appreciate their own country's natural beauty. They were not interested in road-tripping out there. It wasn’t feasible to do it alone. Suddenly, the city felt like that resort. Fake. Constricting. Even the urban canopy of green felt like a heavy, smog-holding ceiling. It reminded me of when I was a kid on restriction, the feeling of getting off the bus after school and knowing I couldn’t go fishing because I had to stay in my room. I needed to escape, to feel some dirt that wasn’t sanitized beach sand, to breathe fresh air and talk to some Gullah guys or the equivalent.

I pleaded with Rubio. He was my best chance to get out. He came through. Against his business judgment, he accepted an invitation to meet with a failing resort. This place happened to be near the part of the country that captured my fascination. It was way, way out in the wrong direction, toward Haiti. It was the wrong direction for a resort, too. Far from any city, with no airport and no power station, the locals didn’t understand the quality necessary for resort services; the beaches were pebbly, and the currents wild. Rubio suspected a drug lord had poured millions into the property’s sprawling pools, palm tree-shaded patios, elaborate spas, and a disco with private rooms. 

Resort management hoped a Rubio Rey's show would pull in the crowds. 

“There are two huge national park preserves near that resort,” I told Rubio. “Can we go?” I coaxed, showing him an old book with blurry photos of the two fantasy lands. 

The first was Parque Pelempito, where a coniferous wooded forest clung to 2,000-foot mountains then tumbled to an inland marsh and sea below actual sea level. The second was Parque Jaragua, a desert by the sea where dusty black coral ‘soils’ sprouted forests of cow tongue cactus trees and purple butterfly vines sprawled through golden barrel cactus by a sparkling bay.  

The parks were just miles away from the ghost town resort, and they called to me like a cold beer on a scorching hot day.

Rubio moved to squelch my fantasies, “We cannot go!” He explained that there were no roads into these parks and that it would require a special vehicle. 

“Por favor, Papi! Let’s go as far as we can,” I played the role of a desperate lover. Rubio liked to be a man who could provide anything. It worked. Later, he told me, “I spoke to the cook,” Rubio unwrapped the news like a present. “He described a remote little town. Lots of wilderness. We can take a trip in the morning.”