Moto concho: a typical mode of transport in Dominica in which the driver of an antiquated motorcycle packs on as much weight as physically possible for a negotiated fare. The fare will be two or three times higher for foreigners than locals, negotiating is advisable and arm grabbing is permissible. The drive itself should include potholes the size of a crater, close encounters with children and old people, several near misses of death and cows.
Thus, on a moto concho I found myself in the Domincan Republic, sandwiched between our slightly overweight driver and Gerhard on a slightly-larger-than-a-scooter motorcycle with two bags of groceries containing two gallons of water, 2 litres of coke, ritz crackers and cigarettes, swerving in and out of oncoming traffic trying to dodge pedestrians, chickens, dogs and traffic police. Outside of Las Terrenas on our way to the hotel, the asphault gave way to dirt roads with potholes that look like craters formed from falling asteroids or small atomic bombs. Luckily, the driver was a trained expert in avoiding these and only once was I uncomfortably thrust into the driver's pelvis. Besides trying to save the water and laughing to Gerhard's groans behind me, all I could think about was whether it was okay to have my hand tightly clenched around the driver's waist. Or is that considered gay? Maybe I shouldn't be touching the driver? But surely stradling him from behind must count as touching? Maybe the hand should only be hovering besides his waist? Or on his shoulder? Going through another pothole I decided to leave my hand safely, and tightly, around his waist. He's used to it, I thought. I'm not.
On the third day of my vacation I woke up very content. Gerhard and I had fled the sweat and grime of Santo Domingo, survived a 4 hour bus journey across the island to the Samana peninsula, and arrived at our resort, Acaya, at Playa Bonita. The bus journey wasn't as bad as I was expecting. I had pleaded with Gerhard to fly, saying I didn't want to waste 4 hours of my holiday on the bus when the flight was only 30 minutes, but my sense of convenience lost out to two German's practicalities. Our host, Berndt, had already bought the bus tickets before I could even form my argument.
I am always surprised at the bus networks of any country outside of America. They are efficient, clean and (gasp) used! If you transported America's network to any developing world you would have a 78 ford truck with room in the back with chickens and the dogs. Instead, what you get are old Greyhound buses with tvs and airconditioning. Granted, the tvs don't work and the airconditioning can't be adjusted (making them more like moving freezers than buss) but are always on time, and always packed. America has given up on buses. The stations are no more than public restrooms filled with homeless and drug users; some of these derelict stations are even shared with another transport outcast - the train.
