It’s 5:30AM. I wake to the scrape of a match as Andrew searches for light in the cabin. My eyes open slightly , I slide out of the mosquito net and stumble out the door to greet a morning colder than I had thought possible, stars high and bold in the predawn. Andrew is already brewing ginger tea.
We sip mostly in silence before lacing shoes, rolling packs, and bidding our hostess goodbye. Then down the path and up the road towards the black-to-gold of the mountain morning, vapor upon our breaths.
The sun hasn’t crested the ridge as we plod to Beckett’s crossroads and weigh our chances of a hitchhike. A silence hangs over the breaking chill. Godot doesn’t show as we sit on our packs and await the hints of fate: the far-off whir of a motorcycle engine. A machine bound from country to town, with space for a traveler just behind the driver.
Here the day’s journey begins on someone else’s whim – the shopkeeper who sold me a fifth of cheap whiskey last night pulls into view on his cycle, and Andrew clambers on with a directive to meet me in the city. My own ride is not long in coming; a loaded pickup looms upon the junction in minutes, and I hop on the tailgate.
Movement begins in earnest. We are bound for Christmas in the mountains – Andrew and I – some hundred miles distant.
*
The early morning sun glints off of DR highway 1, upon my tired eyes and cramped body in the overloaded minibus between La Vega and Santiago. But we arrive, monuments overhead and people all around, with our packs burdening our shoulders yet not quite fitting the appearance of tourists.
Sequestered in a call center, I am ripped off for an hour’s conversation about mostly nothing with my parents. Then I pay fifty cents to leave a message on an answering machine in the south island of New Zealand. Communications completed, I listen to music while sitting on the stoop outside, watching the masses on street and sidewalk.
“A million footsteps, as left foot drags behind my right, but I keep walkin’ from daybreak ‘til the fallen light.”
Sting
“. . .And miles to go before I sleep.”
Robert Frost
“They are that that talks of going, but never gets away.”
Robert Frost
Then the wassail is prepared, gifts loaded into already-fat packs, to bring to the lord of the mountains at his lodge in the high forest. Good wine and liquor, chocolate and peanut butter, and even a softporn magazine in English, because he does read the articles. The supermarket seethes with us late-shopping masses, and we fight to bring our haul to the front, staying connected in the same building via cell phones.
The bus pulls slowly from the stop as I entreat the driver to wait just ten seconds more. Andrew frantically makes up his mind between red and green fleece hats at the market stand close by, then pays and jumps to the door as we pass, a green one clutched in his hands as the prize of the day. We have heard rumors of true cold in those mountains, and my companion is taking no chances. The last bus pulls away from Santiago. I have elbowed a woman in the face in order to secure my cramped seat thereupon.
The last city on the line and it is five PM. The sun recedes behind a now-thick sheet of low clouds. Sabaneta is in the same landscape as my other home in the valley: not quite in the shadow of the mountains, but not far from their reach either. One last futile check for Santa hats in the town and we flag down motorcycle taxis for the ride up. The view expands as we fly along on shockingly-well-maintained, winding roads, and the glades of pine begin to appear on the hillsides. An hour of wind in our hair and we pull to a stop at the lodge, pay our overcharging drivers and slump heavily down on the porch. No one’s home, but our host is soon in coming. Through smiles and hugs, we greet the Christmas season.
I pull my jacket on in the new night and hope for a frost.
We sip mostly in silence before lacing shoes, rolling packs, and bidding our hostess goodbye. Then down the path and up the road towards the black-to-gold of the mountain morning, vapor upon our breaths.
The sun hasn’t crested the ridge as we plod to Beckett’s crossroads and weigh our chances of a hitchhike. A silence hangs over the breaking chill. Godot doesn’t show as we sit on our packs and await the hints of fate: the far-off whir of a motorcycle engine. A machine bound from country to town, with space for a traveler just behind the driver.
Here the day’s journey begins on someone else’s whim – the shopkeeper who sold me a fifth of cheap whiskey last night pulls into view on his cycle, and Andrew clambers on with a directive to meet me in the city. My own ride is not long in coming; a loaded pickup looms upon the junction in minutes, and I hop on the tailgate.
Movement begins in earnest. We are bound for Christmas in the mountains – Andrew and I – some hundred miles distant.
*
The early morning sun glints off of DR highway 1, upon my tired eyes and cramped body in the overloaded minibus between La Vega and Santiago. But we arrive, monuments overhead and people all around, with our packs burdening our shoulders yet not quite fitting the appearance of tourists.
Sequestered in a call center, I am ripped off for an hour’s conversation about mostly nothing with my parents. Then I pay fifty cents to leave a message on an answering machine in the south island of New Zealand. Communications completed, I listen to music while sitting on the stoop outside, watching the masses on street and sidewalk.
“A million footsteps, as left foot drags behind my right, but I keep walkin’ from daybreak ‘til the fallen light.”
Sting
“. . .And miles to go before I sleep.”
Robert Frost
“They are that that talks of going, but never gets away.”
Robert Frost
Then the wassail is prepared, gifts loaded into already-fat packs, to bring to the lord of the mountains at his lodge in the high forest. Good wine and liquor, chocolate and peanut butter, and even a softporn magazine in English, because he does read the articles. The supermarket seethes with us late-shopping masses, and we fight to bring our haul to the front, staying connected in the same building via cell phones.
The bus pulls slowly from the stop as I entreat the driver to wait just ten seconds more. Andrew frantically makes up his mind between red and green fleece hats at the market stand close by, then pays and jumps to the door as we pass, a green one clutched in his hands as the prize of the day. We have heard rumors of true cold in those mountains, and my companion is taking no chances. The last bus pulls away from Santiago. I have elbowed a woman in the face in order to secure my cramped seat thereupon.
The last city on the line and it is five PM. The sun recedes behind a now-thick sheet of low clouds. Sabaneta is in the same landscape as my other home in the valley: not quite in the shadow of the mountains, but not far from their reach either. One last futile check for Santa hats in the town and we flag down motorcycle taxis for the ride up. The view expands as we fly along on shockingly-well-maintained, winding roads, and the glades of pine begin to appear on the hillsides. An hour of wind in our hair and we pull to a stop at the lodge, pay our overcharging drivers and slump heavily down on the porch. No one’s home, but our host is soon in coming. Through smiles and hugs, we greet the Christmas season.
I pull my jacket on in the new night and hope for a frost.
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