When we arrived at the hotel, we were reminded we’d need to make arrangements for our return to the States sooner rather than later. There are forms for entry and exit into the Dominican Republic and the agency and hotel wanted to be sure we were on track so that we could enjoy our stay without the threat of paperwork over our heads or last-minute scrambling. It was also taken as a great opportunity to recommend a variety of other activities outside of the resort in which we could spend more dollars and contribute to the economy of the country (as stated by the girls’ dad repeatedly).
But the truth was, we were all up for some kind of adventure, a change from what would have been, eat, sun, eat, sun, eat, drink, repeat. So, we booked a dirt buggy/cenote/Dominican village/zipline/waterfall trip with the Bavaro Adventure Park. Aside from the fact that we were ill-prepared for an adventure, (we’d come with flip flops and swimsuits and cute clothes, but no close-toed water shoes, goggles, or bandanas) we set off on one with our souvenir shop t-shirts and fake Crocs over our swimsuits. We were the last ones on the bus, but everyone was very forgiving, and we sat listening to the local radio station, while our driver sang along, and we looked out the windows at the Dominican highwayscape unfold in front of us.
The teams that lead us on each of the adventures were fantastic, and startlingly good-looking! My word! One more beautiful than the next, skin glowing, melanin popping, smiles bright, energy radiating. I understand the vibes of a tourist destination, but there was an authenticity in connection that put me at ease. I cannot easily express what it is like to visit sites within my own country and be met with disdain, covert racism, and distrust, only to be welcomed in another country like family. I know that it makes some people uncomfortable when I describe these differences, makes people want to run from me, rather than consider the impact on our culture and in our daily lives, but being allowed to simply enjoy my vacation with my family, without the sticky residue of unresolved cultural trauma, guilt, and shame, and sometimes hatred was freeing.
We started with the buggies, almost cartoon style get-ups that had loud motors and lots of metal, big, fat tires, and a smell of petrol that could curl your nose hairs! We’d chosen to take two hardcore buggies instead of one fancier one that could seat the four of us, so that anyone who wanted could have a chance to drive.
I was first in the buggy with my 18-year-old, usually a tiny, mild-mannered sweetie pie, with rosy, pink cheeks and lips, and the warmest heart. It’s not just the pleases and thank you’s, but the heartfelt connection she makes with everything in the world. Something happened to this baby when she put on her sunglasses and covered her face with the bandana we’d bought at base camp. She put that Penelope Pitstop contraption into drive and (intentionally) hit every speed bump and puddle she could! We were covered in mud and dirt and sweat after the first run, and she was smiling from ear to ear!
All of us arrived at the first stop, a cenote, smiling, talking wildly of the drive, eager to strip down to our swimsuits and get into the water. The adventure park did not allow the use of cellphones on our excursions mostly so they could offer expensive photo packages, (There were photographers at every turn.) but also as a safety measure as so many visitors in the past had tried to take selfies and other photos while driving putting themselves and others in danger. I appreciated the call to being present, something most of us spend little time doing in the modern world. Even if just by habit, we reach for the safety of distraction.
From the cenote, we hopped back into the buggies to our next locale, a replica of a traditional Dominican home and a small shop for souvenirs and local treats. My youngest took the wheel with her father on that ride but didn’t feel as comfortable driving that buggy and made the switch once they arrived. She was clearly disappointed, so I moved nearer to her to offer some comfort. We drank cocoa and mamajuana1, and rubbed coconut oil products onto our skin before returning to camp for a traditional lunch.
We switched partners on the return, my oldest driving her dad and the youngest with me. I’d offered her a chance to drive a different vehicle, but by then she felt unsure of herself, so we sat side by side, she the co-pilot and me the driver. I’m not a driver. I don’t really care for it and certainly don’t take much excitement from it, but I wanted my girl to feel secure. I was focused and determined not to make any foolish mistakes or choices and asked her as we approached each puddle or bump how best to handle it. I wanted to be sure that if we got splashed or covered in mud, we’d made the decision together!
At lunch, the four of us were completely covered in mud. We tried as well as we could to clean ourselves off in a small fountain outside of the dining area, but it was pointless. Every driver and rider looked the same as we did, so we gave in and embraced it. Lunch was delicious-chicken, rice and peas, fried plantains, and we gobbled it all up before our final activity, the zipline and waterfall.
I’ve written about my zipline experience before at a local zipline course, and while I love flying above the lush vegetation, there is something about the suspension bridge that reaches to my core and simply terrifies me. It doesn’t matter than my entire family has gone safely before me or that I am securely attached, the sensation of falling to my death pulls at my throat and chest, and panic immediately sets in.
I walked looking just out in front of me, didn’t dare look around, blocked out the sounds around me, even the gentle encouragement of my family who knows how the bridges always terrify me. When I made it across in time to take the last zip into the water, I was trembling.
It is not hard for me to admit when I am afraid, but that wasn’t always so. Showing fear when I was a girl left me vulnerable. To my father, to my sister, to the mean girls waiting for blood in the water to attack. I worked hard on my poker face, the only giveaway my straight-forward stare, maybe the tension in my jaw. Fear meant weakness. It was the crack in which not light, but elbows and violent swings, psychological terror could get in. It was a confession, offering oneself for sacrifice, a guarantee to be left in the square to be humiliated. It has been incredibly hard to lose this sensation.
The turbulence, the thunderstorm, the earthquake, driving the buggy over unknown terrain, the suspension bridge, parenting alone has scared the shit out of me. We were traveling together, we do, because I don’t want the girls to have no contact, no memories, no connection, no childhood with their father, but he might not see it the same.
I know that we don’t always see things as others do, nor we as they do. He doesn’t know that he can’t read them because he doesn’t know them, that the three of us became ‘we’ out of necessity. Because he was given permission to be afraid of nothing-violence, abandonment, judgment. Because he’d been given permission to expect parenting to be mothering and fathering to be posturing and grilling and paying (which he did/does) while missing the nuance that makes our children themselves, fully dimensional and thrilling to experience.
When he left the days before Covid lockdown, none of us could have known we’d not see him again for nearly a year. None of us could have known how we’d tell that story differently, or that it would mean we’d never find our way back again. Turbulence, thunderstorms, violent storms and disasters couldn’t shake me anymore, but it wouldn’t mean I wasn’t afraid.
No one would know without knowing the tells. I don’t wear a ring, nor does he anymore. We go to separate quarters at the end of the day, he in a place of his own and the three of us together. We have learned to divide a space into three parts, making sure everyone has a comfortable place to sleep, a towel and a washcloth. That there are enough plugs. Everyone knows that mommy’s bed always has space for one or another or both and at home, the dog. Everyone knows that mommy will find the solutions walking across the suspension bridge even if she is scared out of her wits.
But we sit in the dining hall ordering food together, tasting one another’s meals, ordering drinks for each other, touching the small of each other’s backs. Sometimes I laugh out loud as if with an old, dear friend at something he says or does, and I swim out to meet him in the ocean or at the center of the pool and tell him he needs more sunscreen on his head and on his shoulders. I will spray his back and give him something to read or do so I can relax too. I’ll ask more of the questions and lead the way and introduce us first.
But when they are scared or unsure, they look to me. My oldest looks to be sure that he is well-cared for, encourages me to be sweeter when I want to scream, assures me that he needs my love and attention more than I need his (in so many words). She knows I don’t like driving too and am terrified of the suspension bridge and that my best boy (our dog) is like my imaginary friends growing up and that I didn’t want to give them up either.
We were soaking wet when we got on the bus back to the resort and peeled off our muddy clothes and walked to the ocean. Like many of the world’s shores, there was an excess of seaweed which had made swimming in the ocean unpleasant in the first days, but somehow it had cleared in one place, and we all waded in.
We are ocean swimmers. The girls learned in the turquoise waters of Barbados as little kiddos. I during my summers on the Cape and on the Jersey Shore and in the Carolinas. He in Le Pouliguen where he summered as a child in France. The salt and the sand and the rhythm of the waves returns us all to ourselves. Lying back staring at the sky, being lulled by the waves, expanding our senses reminds us again of who we are individually and collectively.
That night we ate and drank well, (we’d chose hibachi for dinner) all of us fresh and clean after the day. Everyone sun-kissed, satiated. In the morning, I could feel the tightness of my body where I’d clenched and held my legs driving, tucked under me on the zipline, held on tightly to the suspension wires for dear life. The next day would be all about sunbathing and reading, going to evening concerts, and participating in resort activities, daydreaming, buying souvenirs.
Before we knew it, our trip was over, our passports stamped with somewhere new. We’d navigated unknown terrain and spoken another language, poorly but courageously. On our way home we sat all together, watching movies and TV shows, and nodding off with the hum of the plane engine. The Lyft dropped us at home, and we said goodbye in the driveway. He, eager to get back home to pack for his next trip days after this one, and we excited to see our boy who’d been left behind with a sitter.
And though we were tired, I took a shower and unpacked a little and cuddled up with my dog before falling into the deepest sleep, drifting with the sensation of waves lapping at my body and the rhythm of it all rocking me back to the life I’d left just a week and a lifetime earlier.
a spiced alcoholic beverage made by infusing a mixture of rum, red wine, and honey with tree bark and herbs. The specific herbs that make up Mamajuana were originally prepared as a herbal tea by the native Taíno; post-Columbus, alcohol was added to the recipe.