“See that house there? It costs $4,000 a night to rent. I bought my house in La Romana for $4,000 dollars.”
My caddy, Hector, told me this as we drove along the fairway of Teeth of the Dog, one of the highest rated golf courses in the world. With 8 fairways along the ocean, the cool breeze and shade from palm trees provides golfers with one of the most challenging and beautiful 18 holes they have ever played. I am not a very good golfer, so putting on the same green that Tiger Woods has putted on felt like I was cheating “the system”. To tee off where Bush Sr. and Bill Clinton both recently played felt very special, as I ruined the moment with a terrible slice that almost hit one of the mansions that lined this exclusive course. Princes, billionaires, presidents, professionals, and celebrities have all played on “The Teeth”. And now so has an 18 year old kid who didn’t know there was a difference between a sand wedge and a pitching wedge, much less that they even existed.
Let me rewind and start from the beginning.
Friday
On Friday I went with some friends to Boca Chica, a beach about an hour away from Santo Domingo. There were 10 of us in this little truck that seats 5, but that is how it is here in the DR. “Going to the beach? Ok me too.” We had a great day, celebrating Dominican Independence day (27 of February). Dancing merengue in waist high Caribbean water as the sun sets across the ocean isn’t as terrible as it sounds, and if I was forced to I guess I could do it more often. Unfortunately my “waterproof” sunscreen changed its mind on how waterproof it was going to be, leaving me with a dark red sunburn that almost matched the intensity of the burns on the old, hairy, fat European men in speedos on the beach. Right now even my forehead is peeling.
Saturday
I got on a crowded bus in Santo Domingo with screaming toddlers and mothers breast feeding their babies. As we pulled away from the city, the driver put on a DVD for the passengers to watch. It was The Gods Must Be Crazy in Spanish. I arrived at the house of a friend named Jackaline in La Romana, a coastal town that is made up of sugar cane factories and cruise ships. After a dinner of fried fish and pineapple smoothies, I impressed Jackaline and her friends with my amazing dancing skills, showing off the natural dancing skills that God gave to white people.
The next morning I woke up early and went over to the golf course. Groups of probably important people were warming up on the putting green. Expensive cigars hung from their mouths as they joked around with the staff that knew them by name. I started off golfing with two businessmen from Spain, but let them go ahead, pretending that my sluggish pace was out of choice and not by the fact that I was spending too much time searching for lost balls among the tropical shrubbery*.
As I sat in my carrito (golf cart) watching the clear water of the ocean lap against the white sand of the beach a few feet away, I began to realize why it cost over 300 dollars to golf here. I was lucky enough to golf for free, an experience I will never forget, and one that I am thankful for.
After ending, and NO I will not tell you my score, I went up to the club house to cool off and rest with a Cubano sandwich and a cold Presidente (gasp how scandalous). I was picked up and given a tour of Casa de Campo and Altos de Chavon, which is basically private city for the rich and famous. While there I saw Chris Tucker talking with someone who could have been Miss Universe. Out of respect for his privacy I didn’t say anything to him, but now I wish I would have walked up and said “Man, don’t nobody understand the words comin’ outta yo mouth!” (a Rush Hour reference).
After a day of bumping elbows with people who were wearing designer clothes that I can’t even pronounce the name of, I got in a taxi to head back to Santo Domingo. The glitz and glamour of the yachts and Ferraris quickly faded as the taxi I was in got hit by a semi truck. Everybody was ok, but the cars were stuck together. After pulling them apart, the two drivers went their separate ways (here in the DR if there is an accident it is merely an inconvenience). At the next intersection there was a policeman, and the taxi driver leaned out the window to tell the policeman to stop the truck that hit us. The only problem with this “police report” was that the driver didn’t stop the taxi, and he didn’t look at the road either as he veered into oncoming traffic. The irony of getting into an accident while reporting an accident wouldn’t have been lost on me. This display of Dominican driving made me miss the express bus to Santo Domingo, so I took a smaller, more crowded bus back. I am convinced that the bus driver thought he was behind the wheel of a Corvette, as he swerved around a car a little too fast, giving a reason for the following journal entry:
“Tonight I was in a crowded bus that almost tipped over. It was the first time I have ever been in a bus that used only half of the wheels.”
After too many near death experiences for one night I finally arrived safe and sound at home, only to be greeted with a locked door. Everyone in the house had gone to bed, but after 20 minutes of door pounding I was thankfully let it.
sunburned and tired,
Levi
*Whenever you read this word, please pronounce it like in Monty Python and the Quest for the Holy Grail
