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?
No comments:
Post a Comment