You are not one of them, not part of the herd.  The suburban luxury of the all inclusive hotel has its charms, but now you want to escape, to live, to experience.  You are after all a bohemian at heart, one whose interests go beyond watching half-naked, pink Brits drown themselves in suntan lotion and free beer.  You are an adventurer who wants to experience  the real Puerto Plata, at least for a few hours.

The guard at gate, the hotel's brochures, even the resort's bartender have all warned you that the city is a dangerous place. Sure, they have a vested interest in keeping you penned in, but in essence they are right.  You can die, and here is how:

One: The manhole as  tourist trap

It looks solid, it feels the solid, but if you trust your senses then you will be lost.  Every night  Dominicans in search of  entertainment gather around the nearest of manhole covers which have been strewn over streets and sidewalks.  They crank up the music, order a cerveza  from one of the street vendors, then wait.

In due time, a gringo will show up.  He suspects nothing as he steps on what appears to be solid metal.  One moment he walks upright, liberally anointing the locals with a goofy grin, the next he lies prostate on the street, his leg  swallowed by the unexpected gap in the road.  The solid metal plate?  Just the ruse, a trick of the mind. The tourist is no more, or at least his tail bone isn't.

Two: The motorcyclists of the apocalypse.

No taxis for you.   That would be a concession to your bourgeois soul.  If the motorcycle is good enough for that family of four, then surely it is good enough for you.  There is no time to lose.  The city is to be explored, so you hop on the back of the nearest motoconcho.

There is an odd smell, or is it a scent?  Childhood memories awaken.  Remember when you swiped your brother's moth-eaten teddy bear and doused it with your fathers aftershave?  It's something like that. You feel slightly faint.  Still, you manage to notice that you're going the wrong way around the traffic circle.  Never mind.  I'm sure he knows what he's doing.  Look at the way he just avoided that pickup truck with fifteen children crammed in its bed.  Adorable, aren't they?

Sure you will survive. You're almost there. Strange how that van's tires are wobbling on its axis.  Good, we're passing it.  A donkey cart in the middle of the street?  Are we going to stop?  Oh no!  The poor animal!  Oh no, no ,no .

The donkey made it. Unlike you, it instinctively knew how to survive the seven circles of traffic hell. It also knew that you should have ponied up the extra few bucks to take a taxi. 

 
Three:  Frogger Version 2.0

You have to have it . That Technicolor painting of Bob Marley is perfect kitsch. Getting it means crossing the street but that octogenarian over there just did it, so how hard can it be? It's only a narrow one-way street after all.

You wait for the motorcyclists who is dragging the eight meter long piece of re-bar behind him. How pretty those sparks would look at night. Here comes another rider whose passenger is carrying a propane tank . Impressive, you think, before you spot the one who is transporting a kitchen sink. Now the coast is clear.

You are conscious for few more seconds, long enough to admire the perfect blue of the sky as it melts with the roofs of the old wooden buildings. The old man shakes his head: only Gringos don't look both ways before crossing a one way street.

Four: It is a Gun in His Pocket.

Four “Presidentes Grandes” down the hatch.  That's eight of our beers for twelve dollars, tip included. No wonder you are feeling a bit frisky. She has, after all, been staring at you all night. Even a Canadian can't misinterpret these signs. Maybe she likes the looks of your socks as they stick out from underneath your sandals. Or it could be your baseball cap. A Blue Jays fan perhaps? After all, they love their baseball down here. Be it as it may: it's time to make your move.

Why he is so upset, you will never know. It could be that he thinks that the Gringo has mistaken his girlfriend for a prostitute or maybe he just had a bad day. It does not matter, for it is time to teach you a lesson. Honour is at stake.

Reaching behind his back, he grabs his gun from underneath his brightly coloured Polo shirt. Come to think off it, you had noticed all those strange bulges before, but had not given them a second  thought. Surely he will not fire: this is not the wild west, eh. Or is it?

Five:  The Venus in The Fly Trap

The Malecon, a large avenue hugging the coastline,  is pulsating to the tune of a dozen car radios cranked to  ear shattering levels. Their owners are sitting next to their cars, sipping whatever they brought from home or bought from one of the nearby vendors. Bluewhite moonlight mixes with the orange glow of the street lights and together with the wall of sound,  the effect is utterly hypnotizing. There is nothing like it at home.

Unlike in Halifax, the generations mingle freely. As you watch young and old gather, you notice that middle aged men seem to be the main beneficiaries in all of this.  Even you, a pale and pudgy representative of aging Canadiana seem to have caught the interest of the opposite sex. Take those two young women coming towards you for example. They must be half your age...

Some tourists bring home tacky carvings of ancient Haitian gods. Others leave the island with them something infinitely more nasty. While the first souvenir will result in a defaced living room wall, the other kind can have truly tragic consequences. Still, a few rums too many and it becomes easy to forget the dangers of the siren's song. As for those two women: they will be back on the Malecon tomorrow night looking for their next careless Lothario.

Epilogue:

You return to the manicured lawns of  Playa Dorada. What a day! A drink down a Sam's, the bar that time forgot, followed by a stroll on that picture postcard beach, bereft of any tourists. Only some local kids were splashing around in  the waves.

Then there was Harry with the bright blue eyes,  the ninety-nine year old son of a British carpenter. He took time out from running his little store to tell you about the Iroquois and the Algonquin, how they used to dock in Puerto Plata before the war,  each time disgorging a small number Canadians and American tourist who came ashore just to order some furniture from him.   

The  food in town was also lovely and cheap: three dollars for a local dish of rice, salad, and meat. As agreeable as the town's population, who, on the whole, were quite friendly. Sure some of the vendors  could be a bit pesky and the wait staff was exceedingly slow and sullen, but that is to be expected. In any case, the drinks you had with some locals down at the “Rancho Typico” made up for any inconveniences. 

Overall, you are happy that you ventured into town, even if it was just for a few hours. Still, in the back of your mind you can't help but feel that your small trip was not without its risk. You count at least five ways in which you could have died.

Frank Streicher has just returned from a three month stint observing tourists on the North Coast of the Dominican Republic. His tailbone should be fully healed by the summer.  You can contact him at This email address is being protected from spam bots, you need Javascript enabled to view it .