The Long Road to La Vega

In a week where I rode a horse through a river (didn’t fall off) and went paragliding (did fall off), you’d think I’d choose to write about something more exciting than a stroll through the countryside. But when I set out with a book and a bottle of water through the Dominican highlands, it felt like more of a quintessential experience than the aforementioned touristy adventures.

I was staying in Buena Vista, a tiny highway town that was very clearly unaccustomed to tourists. I’d say it was a one-horse town, but I saw at least six horses… you get the idea. The charming matron of my guesthouse would bring coffee every morning and then sit for a chat in Spanish, of which I understood maybe 10%; while evident, this did not seem to bother her. She’d pat my shoulder and ask what I was going to do that day, and I’d shrug and gesture at the collection of empty Presidente bottles. It was a solid relationship.

Feeling ambitious one Sunday, though, I struck out north towards the next city, La Vega. Travel literature had warned me that La Vega was potentially the ugliest city in the Dominican, and that the only highlight, if it could be labeled such, was a concrete cathedral that may have been the ugliest in the western hemisphere. On the other hand, it was Samana Santa and I had my hopes up to catch some urban Easter festivities, similar to the joy and colour and music I had found in Mexico during the same religious week the previous year. It was a sunny day and the weather in the mountains was a cool mid-twenties, so I weighed the ugly-versus-festival risk and decided on perambulation.

Trekking uphill beside the busy highway, I thumbed the occasional jeep or SUV; I wasn’t in a big hurry to catch a ride, and figured I might as well have some fun if I was going hitchhike. I needn’t have worried, as no one even slowed down for me. The two-lane highway was lined by thick growth that offered only a rare glimpse of the manicured hills stretching out through the high country. The Dominican does have some public parkland, but is otherwise populated enough that all the territory is taken up by farms or ranches or private residences, etc.; finding my way cross-country would have undoubtedly ended in a comical-to-you-but-not-me chase scene including some large farm dogs.

Two hours into my hike I came on a small settled area, consisting of a few restaurants, a tourist office and a colmado – these brightly-painted corner shops are a staple of Dominican culture, where locals can pick up basic supplies like potatoes, pineapples, and beer, but which more importantly act as a gathering spot for a game of dominoes or some gossip. My hilltop colmado was sadly vacant at that time of day, barring the proprietress, who asked me to watch the shop for her while she went home for lunch. I obliged, but didn’t have to serve anyone; I just read my book by the side of the road, sipping a near-frozen beer and finishing off a bottle of water to re-hydrate before the next leg of the trip. La señora gave me a familiar pat on the shoulder when she returned, sending me on my way with a packet of plantain chips for my trouble.

I headed north, downhill, and trees began to crowd the road, creating a cool bower that drastically improved my hiking disposition. I passed a signpost indicating the 15 kilometres to La Vega; I knew I’d have to catch a ride eventually, or be forced to turn back. Hiking four hours in flip flops, while not unheard of, was not on my agenda for the day. Still reluctant to give up the scenery, I lazily thumbed a few more cars and craned my neck around as I passed massive ranches and gorgeous vistas from the highlands. Eventually, unsolicited, a military pickup pulled over and told me to hop in.

Shoving aside a huge shotgun, I climbed into the back of the truck and smiled at the boys in the front seat; they couldn’t have been more than 18 years old. They yammered at me in Spanish until it became obvious that I could only answer the most basic of questions. I asked where they were headed, and they told me they just drove up and down the highway all day. They couldn’t take me all the way to La Vega, but they’d get me close. The road dropped down out of the mountains onto a low plain as colourful chicken shacks and motorcycle repair shops began to build into the rudimentary evidence of urbanization.

Making a u-turn at a busy Texaco station, the army lads gestured to a motorcycle taxi driver who came over with a big grin. The boys gave him some stern instructions and he happily waved me over to his bike. The driver, Angel, turned out to be a garrulous former-New Yorker, and he chatted my ear off in English for the five-minute ride into the city.

“Why you going to La Vega, amigo?”

“No reason,” I shrugged. “Something new to see.”

“Huh. It’s not a nice place. You call me when you’re bored and I’ll take you back to the Texaco.”

I laughed, but he wasn’t kidding.

Angel dropped me off at la Catedral de la Inmaculada Concepcion in central La Vega at about two in the afternoon, that sunny Sunday. The structure reminded me of the brutalist architecture of the University of Toronto’s Robart’s Library and of the entirety of the University of Waterloo’s original campus. I walked around the imposing edifice, briefly, but had no inclination to explore further. It was horrific, and showed no signs of celebration.

La Vega itself proved no better. Fleeing far from my festival expectations, el centro was a huddled mass of shuttered clothing shops and peluquerias. The buildings were low and grey, shouldering onto the sidewalk at random and forcing me to step across concrete gutters into thankfully-empty streets. I criss-crossed the downtown area, counting blocks east and north, etc., to keep my bearings from the cathedral as a compass point while exploring without a map or wifi. The few locals I met were friendly in the Dominican norm, smiling after I smiled, occasionally gesturing me into a shop or taxi. After two hours of giving it a chance, I gave it up. I hadn’t even stopped for a bite of chicken or a beer – that, itself, is sufficient condemnation of the city of La Vega.

Following vans on the street, I found the block where the guaguas returned south – these 12-seater minibuses are common through most of Latin America, public transport for a fraction of the cost of a taxi or even bus. I crowded into the van with 15 other people and was back in Buena Vista in half an hour. I banged on the roof to indicate my stop and rolled out the side door, home again.

The big woman behind the counter at my local colmado smiled as she cracked a Presidente for me, indicating that I should pull out a plastic chair to read my book. Reading was only tenable for an hour before the little town lit up with Easter celebrations, music blaring, people laughing, and BBQs smoking the heavenly smoke of roast chicken.

Todo bien.