Into the Hills

We did what we weren’t sup­posed to do. We paid a local man to take us horse­back rid­ing. He was walk­ing up and down the beach, wav­ing papers and shout­ing, “Horses!” We sig­nalled for him to come over, and we nego­ti­ated a price.

This was my sis­ter, her boyfriend, and me. We had been warned by the hotel per­son­nel not to make arrange­ments with the local peo­ple. “They’ll try to sell you any­thing,” they told us, “but don’t lis­ten. If you want any­thing, just ask us.” 

Our hotel was in a com­pound with sev­eral other hotels. A con­crete wall sep­a­rated us from the rest of the coun­try. There was only one entrance, and the gates were guarded by men wear­ing guns, stern expres­sions and cam­ou­flage outfits.

I had never rid­den a horse before. And I was bored at the hotel. I looked toward the hills — lush and trop­i­cal and misted by low-sprawling clouds. “I want to go over there,” I told the man on the beach.

“Oh, we will take you,” he nod­ded. “We will take you on a horse for six hours. We will show you the beauty of this country.”

He wore a faded red T-shirt, stained under the arms, and his face was greasy with sweat. He wiped his fore­head with a hand­ker­chief and smiled. His black mous­tache hung over his upper lip and his teeth glis­tened in the sun.

He asked for ten dol­lars up front, “to buy the beer and food for your lunch,” and told us to bring another twenty dol­lars the next morning.

He picked us up early. The sun was low in the sky and a cool breeze blew in from the ocean. He waited for us out­side the guarded gates, and as soon as he saw us com­ing, he became agi­tated and ges­tured with his arms that we should get into his van.

His van was large, white and caked with dirt. The inside was gut­ted of uphol­stery and car­pet­ing; all that remained were two dusty seats, sticky and held together with mask­ing tape. The smells of dog, sweat and urine min­gled in the air. 

He climbed into the driver’s seat and held out his hand for his money. He counted it care­fully, crum­pled it into a ball and shoved it in his pocket. “We are going to have a good time today,” he said. He turned on the igni­tion; an angry groan sounded as the van lurched into motion. I could see his eyes flash­ing in the rear-view mir­ror as he exam­ined us. “The weather is ­per­fect,” he said. “You are going to love it.”

We drove down a busy high­way and turned off onto a jagged road that was paved with shat­tered rocks. The dri­ver stopped in front of a wooden build­ing with no walls, only tall tim­ber pil­lars and a depleted roof. Several dogs lazed about, and a woman hung laun­dry on a thin piece of rope. Five horses were teth­ered to a nearby tree.

Two young men approached the van. The older one had a faint mous­tache; he was thin and mus­cu­lar. He didn’t say any­thing, but smiled with­out open­ing his mouth. The younger one wore a ban­dana to hold back his wild curly hair. His face was round and his cheeks were pink. He smiled openly and walked with a swag­ger. “Ola!” he said.

Our dri­ver turned to face us. “These are your guides. They will take you to the moun­tains and the sugar cane; they will show you the beauty of our country.”

We stepped out of the van onto the hard­ened dirt of the dri­ve­way. He called out to the young men in Spanish, and they nod­ded their heads. 

“Goodbye,” he said to us, “I will see you in six hours.” He waved his hand and drove away.

The young men bus­ied them­selves with sad­dling the horses.

“I am Alex,” the younger one said. “That one over there,” he nod­ded toward the older one, “is Tony.”

We were each given a horse, but they were more like mules: short and thick in the mid­dle, stout and sturdy. They blinked their eyes like cows, as though they had no intel­li­gence or emotion.

“Do not walk behind them,” Alex warned, “or they will kick you.” He helped us into our sad­dles and led us to the jagged road.

We started uphill: a slow and solemn parade. The horses stepped cau­tiously. Their heads hung low, nod­ding in a tired and obe­di­ent way.

“They don’t like the road,” Alex explained. “It is too rocky. It hurts their feet. They have walked this way many times. And they know it is long and hard.”

The road was nar­row; only two horses could walk beside each other at a time. Occasionally our way was impeded by large pits, formed by heavy rain­falls, and we were forced to keep to the shoul­der, brush­ing tree branches and vines out of our faces.

Then the jun­gle encroached, over­tak­ing parts of the road. Trees — green, pul­sat­ing, leafy — grew up and out and into one another. Vines tan­gled and flour­ished in small and dim places. Flowers bloomed like red puck­ered lips. Everything gleamed with heat and emanated lan­guorous mois­ture. Dead trees and shrubs lit­tered the soil, and brown, with­ered vines hung from branches or sprawled on the ground like spec­tres flung at the feet of those who had van­quished them. The air was musty— thick with the scent of decom­pos­ing vegetation.

Houses were fit­ted onto small plots and set back, half-hidden, a short dis­tance from the road. They were sim­ple, rec­tan­gu­lar build­ings, made from clay, painted lime green and gaudy pink, faded by the sun and dusted by dirt. Their win­dows had no panes and their door­ways had no doors. 

“Do you have chil­dren?” Alex asked.

“No.” 

“But you are mar­ried?” he add­ressed my sis­ter and her boyfriend.

“No,” they answered, “we are wait­ing until the time is right.”

“Ah,” Alex laughed, “I see. Things are dif­fer­ent here. The nights are long — we hear the music of the crick­ets, and it is very dark. There is noth­ing for us to do, but be together. It is the Dominican way.”

I have heard other peo­ple speak of the Dominican way. Just the other night I was caught in a storm; rain came down in heavy sheets and light­ning flashed across the sky. I stood under the hotel awning and watched the night flicker like a light bulb. A cus­to­dian passed by me. “Dominican storm,” he said, shrug­ging his shoulders.

“Do you have chil­dren?” I asked Alex.

“Yes, I have a baby,” Alex said. “He has three.”

Tony smiled with his mouth closed.

“Really?” I looked at Alex, his round and youth­ful face.

“Yes,” Alex chuck­led. “Of course.”

The road tapered into an uneven trail, lead­ing us out of the jun­gle and into a maze of sugar cane, which grew tall and wild in thick, twisted masses. It tow­ered above my head and whipped my ankles with its bristly stalks.

“Over there,” Alex pointed. “That is where the women used to weigh the sugar.” A dilap­i­dated shack stood ­lop­sided in the dis­tance; sugar cane poked through its roof.

“What hap­pened?” I asked.

He sighed. “No money.”

A cow with a rusted bell turned to watch us pass by. She chewed list­lessly on a piece of sugar cane.

“Soon we will stop and eat a Dominican meal,” Alex said.

We teth­ered our horses to a wooden fence, walked to a small barn and sat down at a makeshift table. Two women brought us plates of food: roasted chicken, kid­ney beans, fresh pineap­ple and rice.

“In the Dominican,” Alex grinned, “we eat a good meal.”

After we had fin­ished eat­ing, the women cleared away our plates and stared at us expectantly.

Tony cleared his throat, and Alex said, “You need to pay for your meal.”

My sis­ter and I looked at each other. We hadn’t brought any money.

“This is ridicu­lous,” my sister’s boyfriend said. “Our meal was sup­posed to be included.”

“How much money do you have?” my sis­ter asked him.

“I don’t have what they’re ask­ing for.”

“Give it to them,” she said. “They have children.”

My sister’s boyfriend handed Alex and Tony a few folded bills, which they pushed deep into their pock­ets with­out look­ing. They turned silently, walked toward the horses and made ready for the jour­ney home.

The whole way back, the horses were rest­less and shook their heads at one another. They were no longer con­tent to walk side by side but com­peted to be out in front, nip­ping at each other’s necks and push­ing each other out of the way.

“They are anx­ious to go home,” Alex explained.

The sky was cloud­ing over, and in the dis­tance there were rum­blings of an after­noon rainstorm.

No one said any­thing or looked at each other for a very long time. I con­cen­trated on adjust­ing to the unsteady motion of my horse as he trot­ted swiftly along the jagged road.

Suddenly Alex said, “I think it must be very hard in your coun­try. You have so many beau­ti­ful things. I would get lost. And I would never get any­thing done.”

“But your coun­try is very beau­ti­ful,” I said.

“I know,” he said, wav­ing his hand in front of his face. “It is my home. It is all I know.”