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| The entrance to Rancho Wendy |
Just got dropped off at the bus terminal. They've sat 4 adults in a space built for 3 so I've got only half a cheek on my seat, the rest of my body weight pressing dangerously against the side door of the van, my backpack strapped against the back of the passenger seat by the seatbelt in front of me and I feel like crying. Not because I'm uncomfortable but because I am filled with emotion. Rancho Wendy showed me so much about both the beauty and difficulty of travel. This place was exactly what I was looking for: off the beaten path, astounding natural beauty, real people living their lives, no American -heck- no tourist for miles. I have traveled to places like this before. I yearn for these types of experiences.
Rancho Wendy also made me acutely aware of "privilege". Noone was anything but welcoming and kind; still at times, I felt like the rich white girl trying to "hang" with the locals. At a place like Rancho Wendy It's easy to forget you are basically at a hotel. It's hard to separate friendliness from business when you are essentially living, sleeping and eating in someone's modest home. When I arrived, Ramona, the owner, greeted me warmly; thankful that my Spanish was good enough to understand & be understood. She offered me a coffee. We sat at the dining room table drinking coffee & chatting. Then her sister and nieces and nephews arrived. Everyone moved outside. Sitting in the yard, kids running around, the glorious green mountains surrounding us; I felt at home. Then it hit me. Los Quemadas was the Latin Doppleganger of Chuisano San Domenico; my family's hometown in Italy and the place I spent many a wonderful summer growing up. The language, the food, the characters may have been different but the movement and feeling was distinctly familiar. I got comfortable there real quick, which is why I did not hesitate when Tinga asked if I wanted to take a ride with him on his motor scooter.
After a morning of hiking throughout the valley with my guide Carlos, I was spending the afternoon uploading and organizing my photos when Tinga arrived. The three of us, Carlos, Tinga and I, sat around the computer as I shared with them pictures from my earlier travels in Cabarete, the beaches of the Turks & Caicos and finally pictures of Chuisano; which I told them reminded me very much of Los Quemados.
"If you like the mountains and like to take beautiful pictures, I know a place very close to here. I can take you on my motor if you like."
It was late, nearly 5 in the afternoon.
"I don't know. Maybe tomorrow." I replied, " How long does it take?"
"Today, tomorrow if you want. It's only a half hour there and back."
"Oh, ok then. Let's go."
Tinga went for his scooter and then took me on the road and up the mountain. We stopped every so often at a clearing so that I could take advantage of the photo op. He chatted to me about a tourist who had been here years ago who became his girlfriend for 3 years and about his work in Santo Domingo and that he would be going back there in the morning. I wondered on the way back if I should give him some money for gas. After all, it had been a lovely & unexpected offer. We got back and I thanked Tinga for the ride but not before getting his email address so I could send him some photos from our ride. He disappeared and only later that evening did I remember I had not offered him any money to cover his gas costs.
The next morning Ramona came up to me at breakfast and timidly asked if I had enjoyed my ride in the mountains the day before. "Yes, very much"; I replied. She then went on to tell me that Tinga had asked her to get my "payment" from me for the ride and also explained to me that while Tinga had been employed as a Rancho Wendy guide in the past; he no longer worked for them.
I felt of surge of hot anger. Tinga had never, not before or after our ride, asked or spoke to me about payment. His proposal was nonchalant & friendly. He was sneaky, making me feel like he was offering me a ride when he was actually booking a private tour!
I felt a wave of guilt. How stupid could I be? Of course he wanted compensation. He had done something nice for me and I hadn't even offered anything in exchange. I should have at least given him something for gas. Here I am flaunting my digital camera and my laptop computer and I don't even give a poor Dominican kid a cent for taking time out to show me the countryside.
Then again, It's not very honest or sincere or kind to not be upfront about what is going on. If you expect payment for something you should 1. be direct and ask for it before you provide your service and 2. don't disappear without a word and make someone else do the dirty work for you.
My mind was spinning. I was right…about both things. Vasillating between anger and guilt, I wanted to find a comfortable space, a specific black or white answer as to how I should feel. But reality lives in shades of grey and for the rest of my time in the Dominican I felt those opposing forces playing with my thoughts. A day later, in the middle of a grueling hike, sitting in a little shack, where a local family offered some respite from the sun I pulled out my "sandwich", a hotdog bun with 2 crusty orange pieces of cheese barely filling 2/3rds of the bun's surface and chugged my bottled water. I suddenly felt like I was eating steak & lobster in the middle of a homeless shelter. I offered some of the remaining cheese and buns which were gratefully accepted but that did little to quell the uncomfortable knot in my stomach. Or sitting here, now, in this cramped mini-van that passes for a bus, the bright red $100 backpack stuffed to the gills in front of me might as well be emblazoned with the familiar & stylish LV's of a Louis Vuitton luggage set.
