Ile a Vache, Haiti

Why on earth would anyone want to go to Haiti - especially since the reports and images flooding TV's around the world look so grim? I guess the short answer is Ile a Vache is on the way. Heading west from the Dominican Republic, the next natural stop is this tiny island just eight miles off the mainland on the western end of Haiti. Known to sailors since the days of the Spanish explorers as an excellent anchorage, Port Morgan is a popular spot for modern day cruisers to break-up the days long voyage along the coast of Hispaniola. Reports among cruisers who had visited the island were unanimously positive. The cruising guide books of this area include Port Morgan as a must see stop and personal friends of our had visited there on their sailboat just last year. The wild card was the earthquake of course. While the island did not sustain much damage, we heard reports that a flood of refugees returning from the mainland was straining local infrastructure. 

Should we still go? Was it safe? There were definitely more questions than answers. There was also the matter of the supplies and aid we were carrying. We had become accidental relief agents. As we made our way along Puerto Rico, news that we were on our way to Ile a Vache reached other cruisers. Often they wanted to send along some food or clothing to the people of Haiti with us. Bags of canned food and clothing began to accumulate in our back cabin. After several emails back and forth with Diedier at the Port Morgan Hotel and Marina, Roy and I and Bill and Leona on Voyageur C had decided to buy some tools for a professional trade school (carpentry, masonry, tailoring, etc) that was operating on the island. Now word had reached some other cruisers in Boqueron that we were headed to Ile a Vache. Stan and Steve had befriended three young villagers on their last cruise to the island. Stan put out a call for donations and had soon we were being summoned to pick up the goods from the dock at Galligers. Ken and his family had rounded up supplies. These we added this to the mound in the back cabin. Stan slipped Bill on Voyageur C a few discrete envelopes asking him to deliver them to Samuel, Kahma, and another fellow. 

Our last stop in the Dominican Republic was at the secluded Bay of Eagles. I was feeling very nervous about going to Ile a Vache. Worst case scenario drama's were playing out in my mind. Since I still had a cell phone signal, we decided to call Port Morgan Hotel. Rose came on the line and assured me that all was well on the island. Yes, there had been some problems with the delivery of supplies, but that was in a village 45 minutes away from them she explained. "There are no problems on this part of  Ile a Vache, Michelle" Rose assured me. So, we left Bay of Eagles for Ile a Vache around 8 am the next morning. We motored for the first several hours. Still tucked into the lee of the island of Hispaniola, we had no wind and the sea was glassy. Slowly, slowly the winds began to build until we were sailing along smartly. Of course as night fell we were sailing along too smartly for comfort and decided to reef the jib. The winds continued to build and finally settled in at 20 - 25 knots just forward of the beam. Not an uncomfortable ride, but a hectic feeling one. Slowly, the winds calmed right down again and by dawn we motored again. As the sun came up we could see the island off to starboard. It looked flat on the south side, and we could see cliffs raising out of the bays further to the north. We anticipated another hour or so of motoring up the coast to our destination. 

Haiti had a different plan for us though. The wind switched back on from the north.Blowing from zero to twenty-five knots in a couple of minutes. Immediately the choppy seas grew to three to four feet coming directly at us. We could see Voyageur C lurching up into the waves, exposing a lot of bottom paint on the way back down.Great. Here we are tired and a little delirious from the overnight passage, coming into an unknown anchorage, (in Haiti of all places) and the wind is cranking like a maniac. We eye the various bays en route to the north end of the island. At least we can see a couple of places that we could retreat to if the north one is too rough. We pull out a little jib and tack the choppy seas. At least this makes you feel like headway is being made - slowly but surely. A painstaking hour passes as we inch up the island's coastline. Port Morgan Marina calls us back on the VHF to check our progress. Soon, we tell them, we'll be outside the bay soon. Finally, rounding the last point we look into the bay. It is not promising. Four foot rollers are training into the bay and crashing on the beach. I can't see the masts of other boats in the anchorage, but we do know from the chart that the calm water is around the reef and behind the mangroves.

We spot the powerboat coming out to greet us. It's a rough ride for him too as the boat rears and bucks from one wave to the next.  
Roy turns Bonanza 90 degrees and we go from traveling between the waves to moving with them. This is good and bad. Good that we are not crashing directly into them, bad that the waves now shove us  from behind. Powerboat guide is beconning in a reassuring way...I think. We know there is a reef to avoid to our port side, but exactly how far out does it come? Finally, I can see the masts of four boats in the anchorage. Another right angle turn and we slip in behind the reef and the mangroves. Miraculously, the anchorage is a calm pond.. No more washing machine action, no more rolling waves, even the wind is down to a rustle; it's quiet back in here.   We pick up a mooring beside a French catamaran and I slump into the cockpit relieved to be stopped. We made it to Haiti and I'm too exhausted to worry about what might happen next.

 

A Man's World

Men, men, and more macho men.. After two years of cruising along the
Windward and Leeward islands, this journey along the south coast of
the Dominican Republic has me culture shocked. Sure, speaking Spanish
is an issue, and yes, dealing with all the paperwork and fees is
daunting at times. But in the Dominican Republic you don't send a
woman to do the man's job and dealing with officals is strictly man
territory. So, gals, if you are frustrated with all the forms to fill
out in Antigua or are annoyed by the overtime charges for Saturday
immigration in Dominica, pull up a gin and tonic and read on.

We are in Barahona, an unexpected stop on the way out of the D.R.
Finding it impossible to get immigration clearance out of the country
in Las Salinas, we did the 40 mile, 5 hour motor trek across the bay
yesterday.

As we have come to expect, the immigration official came out to the
boat within minutes of our arrival. He picked up our passports and
returned them with the requested international departure stamps with
the hour. He said the despachios would be ready in the morning. Sounds
good, we'll just go pick them up. I'm doing pretty well with the
Spanish phrases so I head over with Roy to the Marina de Geurra office
the next day. Roy waits in the dingy and I walk up to the building. We
have forgotten that this is "Man Land". Off I go into my folly where
much hand shaking and Hola's and saying despachio ensues. I'm told
that the head man is just pulling up in a car. He walks up and we are
introduced. I shake his hand taking in the full military dress. Clean,
pressed and new, the uniform is a little tight in the midsection, but
impressive enough. He gives a few orders and two young Marina de
Geurra officers go inside to the offices. Someone finds me a plastic
chair to sit in, I get the feeling that I'm going to be here for
awhile and I wonder about the somewhat quizzical looks cast in my
direction.

The "head man" is a take charge kind of guy and once he settles in
under a shady tree beside the office, he indicates that I should go
inside and talk to the Commandant. My Spanish is getting me nowhere
and by now there are several young men of undeterminable rank
following me. The Commandant is behind his desk and he asks me some
questions in Spanish with a very cranky tone. I answer pleasantly with
my four year old's vocabulary . Neither of us are happy with the
results of this conversation. He leaves the room and I'm still
standing there when the youngest Marina de Guerre motions me back
outside. By now "head man's" girlfriend has arrived and she's sitting
in my chair. I'm relegated to the bench along with the youngest
officer. Finally it dawns on me, the folks here are expecting someone
else! Someone a lot taller with a deeper voice, perhaps.

Soon, along comes one of the port workers. Fresh out of a
spectacularly grimy engine room, his formerly white t-shirt and blue
jeans look stiff enough stand up all on their own. A big black smear
of something highlights his one cheek. Fernando arrives at my bench
and reveils that he is the translator. I am pleasantly and completely
shocked as the best English I've heard all week flows out of this
mouth. Fernando quickly explains that getting the despachio is no
problem, but really, he wonders, where is the captain? It's only
proper that both captains of the two Canadian boats should be present
for this process. Fernando is somewhat incredulous that I don't know
this. Now I understand. The issue isn't a lack of communication, it's
a lack of testostersone. No problem I tell him. I can see Roy has
abandoned the dingy, climbed up on the cement pier and is walking
towards us. Fernando tells Roy about the captain shortage, so Roy
heads back over to find Bill from Voyageur C. I go back to my bench
under the shade tree. The "head man" has called for the domino table
to be brought out and his girl friend nuzzles his big strong arms.
Sheesh. At least I can chat with Fernando. Fluent in English and
Greek, he reassures me that we'll be free to leave the D.R. tomorrow,
but there will be a fee of $30.00 per boat.

Captain Roy and Captain Bill arrive and they are immediately ushered
into the office by two Marina de Geurra officers followed closely by
Fernando. I wait for ten minutes under the tree then decide to go on
inside as well. I find the men standing around in the office opposite
to the Commandant's watching the youngest officer fill out the forms.
Fernando explains that this is the new guy and he's a bit slow. Who
wouldn't be slow. The lad is carefully typing our information into a
form on a manual typewriter. He is using carbon paper and you can bet
he doesn't have any white out in case of mistakes. No wonder he is
taking his time. I've already heard him get loudly reprimanded twice
in the past hour. He bravely completes the forms striking each key
slowly, but surely.

When he is finished we celebrate with a photo shoot. I feel like I'm
on a movie set with that manual typewriter and ancient office
furniture. Everyone has fun having their pictures taken. I give
Fernando 50 pesos for helping with the translations. He seems very
happy with that. Roy and Bill fork over the money to the Marina de
Geurra officer who was supervising the young typist. With the coveted
despachios in hand we head for the door. Outside, we all wave and
thank the "head man" as we walk quickly past the dominos table. I
notice that the girlfriend is very excited and appears to be winning
the game.

No doubt about it, it's a man's world here in the D.R. When it comes
to dealing with officials, gals, be prepared to put on a pretty smile
and let your man do the talking. Now when the officials come onboard I
imagine myself traveling back in time to an idealized day in 1950.
Honey, I sing up from the galley, Can I get you and "the customs boys"
another Presidente beer?

Las Salinas, Dominican Republic

March 1, 2010

Las Salinas,
On the chart Las Salinas looks like a great anchorage. It is tucked
into a corner of Bahia de Calderas and we haven't seen such a
protected anchorage since the lagoon in St. Maartin. Land surrounds
us. Even with the wind picking up, the water is calm - riffling
slightly in a small chop. The dry, mountainous landscape is ruggedly
beautiful and reminds us that we aren't in the eastern Caribbean
anymore. All went well as we rounded the point and came into the
channel that was well marked with red and green bouys. At the end of
the channel, as advertised in the guide book, we spotted a small
marina and hotel. We dropped the hook and in true Dominican Republic
style, we were visited by the Marina de Guerrre within moments of
stopping. No worries about checking in here. It's such a small place
that newcomers are noticed right away.

Hotel Las Salinas is no rural outpost either. Onshore we find several
small cabanas with couches and rocking chairs situated on a green
lawn. As we walk past the helicopter landing pad, up the stairs to the
pool area we emerge at the main building. It's just so hard to figure
this place out. While on the surface the place is impressive, one
can't help get the feeling that things are not as they appear. The
phase "a 3 dress up like a 9" comes to mind. The pool area is an
example of this idea. On first blush things look great, but a careful
look reveals broken pumps, a defunct pool bar and more than slightly
murky water.

The reverse is also true. A nine dressed up like a 3? When we saw the
helicopter pad for the first time, I thought...as if this has been
landed on in the past five years! Surprise for us, the next day in
comes the chopper and out climbs two men in business attire and a
couple of chic looking women. Same thing with the salt pan business.
We took a walk to the work area and thought we had stepped back in
time. Rusty train tracks leading to a rickety wooden storage depot and
an abandoned air about it. The large cone of salt crystals was a clue
that work was indeed ongoing, but this was difficult to imagine.
Surprise again! The next morning the sounds of heavy machinery
starting up woke us up. The operation came alive with workers in the
salt ponds, tractor trailer trucks loading and unloading, a full blown
business thriving in what certainly looked like ruins to us.

Another surprise here was the flamingos. Roy and I went off exploring
the large bay one morning and come across a flock of pink flamingos.
Again, what a contradiction. Five minutes before we spotted these
brilliant birds, we were checking out a giant passenger ferry that was
aground in the industrial part of the port. The "Queen of St.
Petersbourgh" was no longer floating, but stationary nose first into
the mangroves. Who knows it she'll sail again, but here the DR we've
learned to expect the unexpected.

Customs Crazy

February 18, 2010
No wind at all this morning. We watch two men in a traditional parogue
slowly sailing downwind towards Isla Saona. We head out in the dingy
towards the mangrove lake at Punta Palmillas. You can see stingrays,
jellyfish, schools of bone fish and fan corals through the shallow,
crystal clear water. We come across the sailboat we spotted earlier
and notice one man is snorkeling ahead of the drifting boat. He dives
down, comes up, and continues swimming ahead. Coming back to our
anchorage we move along the north shore of Isla Saona. It drops off
abruptly along the iron shore coastline going from two or three feet
to fifteen feet or so. Looking down from the dingy is like snorkeling
without getting in the water. So clear and so full of life. Bright
purple fan coral, brain coral, tiny reef fish and jelly fish are
everywhere.

We still have not checked into the Dominican Republic, so we pull up
anchor and head over to Casa de Campo marina. The waves were still
pretty energetic in the channel leading to the marina, so it was a bit
of a science project getting the lines and fenders organized for the
landing. An English speaking woman answered the VHF radio call
eventually and a dingy was sent out to greet us and lead us into our
slip. Turns out our spot was along side a cement dock between a power
boat and a 60 foot catamaran. Roy did a great job bringing us in
sideways between the two. We were met by the dock master who told us
the authorities were on their way and we should just wait for them
aboard our boat. Later we could check into the marina.

Before too long a golf cart pulled up with three people. The young
Dominican who spoke a smattering of English explained that he was from
the tax department and needed to collect ten dollars US per person as
a tourist tax. Accompanying him were the agriculture and sanitation
representatives who also needed ten bucks each. They dutifully filled
out receipts and handed them to Roy. Next golf cart that arrived had
four people onboard. The officer in full army fatigues walked the dock
as a much younger army officer took off his shoes and climbed onboard.
A woman who I believe was the customs officer also got into the
cockpit, along with the final team member, whose capacity remained a
mystery. After the filling in of the forms and signing of signatures
and carefully compiling receipts came the paying of the money. We paid
the army officer $63.00 for the boat entry and crew entry. He then
asked for a "propina" for the three of them. A little souvenir the
woman said. Roy pretended that he didn't understand for awhile, but I
broke first. We settled on ten dollars. They were not impressed with
our offering, but they took it and left. So our total for clearing
into the country, at Casa de Campo marina was one hundred an thirteen
dollars. Voyageur C came away with paying ten dollars more than us,
being more generous with the propina. Both amounts were much less than
the $160 dollars quoted in the cruising guide. They say this country
has a "culture of tipping" – something we haven't had to deal with
through out the Eastern Caribbean. Something we'll have to get used to
and fast.