Written on 20 February 2019
What am I doing here?
It's something I've been asking myself since I landed in Punta Cana last Wednesday, sweating profusely the moment I stepped off the plane, mildly annoyed by the speed in which my bag hit the carousel. Promises promises.
I went to my editor, I begged him, I pleaded. The idiot listened, so here I am, searching for the “real” Dominican Republic. A place I know little to nothing about. Six weeks to write a long read on this jewel of the Caribbean. I've barely left my hotel.
I sold it as a piece on White Privilege and the slow death of colonialism. So far the only conversations I've had is shouting no thank you through the door when housekeeping come around.
I did drive into Las Terranas, in an American made truck playing American music so I could buy American products from the supermarket that apparently only exists for American tourists to get their Cheeto fix.
The locals, the “real” Dominica, they just stare at this gringo in his big ugly car, and I think about stopping and attempting to chat to the people running stalls, the young guys on the corner, dressed all in Nike and revving their motorcycles, the shirtless men shooting pool and supping on Presidente in a petrol station forecourt. But I keep driving, out of town and back to the comfort of my hotel room. Promises promises.
Still, I have a few weeks, and I'm thinking of checking out that cockfighting arena. Was it really for cockfighting? Or was that tubby, baseball cap clad American at breakfast just having a laugh? No doubt he's had about as much contact with the “real” Dominican Republic as I have.
I could always change my remit, pretend I was always planning to write a piece for the Travel Section, review this hotel and the surrounding beaches.
Either way, it was a mistake to come here. I'm not Hunter Thompson. Shit, I'm not even Michael Palin. And, to be honest, the armed guards that keep watch at the gate of my hotel makes me worry that the “real” Dominican Republic might just be a little too real for a young journalist predisposed to comfort.