Crew list:

Don Boyd (your correspondent)

Joni Crosby (she who is to be obeyed)

Mik the dog (the world famous cruising Pug)

Miles travelled - 140 (nautical miles as measured straight line GPS)

* Engine hours -75.0 (34 charging)
* Sailing hours - 10

•Money spent:

F- Food / beer / ice / snacks on board / provisioning- $1,480.00 pesos ( $ 104.00 US)

C- Diesel / medicine / communication / propane - $1,380.00 pesos ( $ 97.00 US)

D- used outboard / guides / boat parts / - $ 3,125.00 pesos ( $ 226.00 US)

T- Eating out / drinking out / touring - $2,300.00 pesos ( $ 165.00 US)

Aprox. total this leg (because we got $ 200.00 selling an outboard) - $392.00 US

FAVOURITE PRICE SAMPLES - all at Luperon (or Santiago or Puerto Plata when with a"*" )

All Prices in Dominican Pesos. 14.3 peseos = $ 1.00 US:

rent a scooter for the day $ 200.00 Pesos ($ 14.00 US)/ diesel (jerry canned from the Texaco station $ 13.60 Pesos ($ 0.95 US) / one large grapefruit from street vendor $ 2.50 Pesos ($ 0.18 US)/ about a three pound chicken* $ 37.00 Pesos ($ 2.60 US)

One 700 ml Presidente Beer at Kiwi John's Bar and Grill $ 30.00 Pesos ($ 2.10 US) / One 700 ml Presidente Beer at most stores $ 20.00 Pesos ($ 1.40 US) / Dominican steak lunch at Kiwi John's Bar and Grill $ 35.00 Pesos ($ 2.45 US) / 12 oz coke at street bar $ 4.00 Pesos ($ 0.28 US) / cost to mail a postcard to Montreal $ 5.00 Pesos ($ 0.38 US) / cost to get RO drinking water from Porto Blanco Marina "FREE!!! / cost to have a hot shower at Porto Blanco Marina "FREE!!!

600 ml bottle of Pert Plus Shampoo* $ 55.00 Pesos ($ 3.85 US) / 150 ml of canned sardines* $ 3.50 Pesos ($ 0.25 US) / Cost per minute to call Montreal at Codetel $ 9.20 Pesos per minute ($ 0.65 US) / 700 ml Bottle of Brugal Rum $ 45.00 - 55.00 Pesos depending on type ($ 3.35 US - 3.85 US) / 8.8 ounzes of local freeze packed coffee* $ 22.00 Pesos ($ 1.53 US) / one pound dutch canned butter $ 57.00 Pesos ($ 4.00 US) / cost to take Guaguas (mini bus) from Luperon to Santiago (about 60 miles) $ 30.00 Pesos ($ 2.10 US) /

•High temperature this period 36.9 Celsius
•Lowest temperature this period 21.6 Celsius

Straight line distance from PCYC Montreal •1583 (nautical miles)

Ports visited:

¥West Bay near town dock, Luperon DR (anchor) ¥Puerto Escondido, on the north coast of the Samana Penisula, DR (anchor) ¥Samana Bay, on the south coast of the Samana Penisula, DR (anchor)

We had a few minor set backs since reaching the DR, most significant was that I got sick (flu) for well over a week. This is part of the reason that this instalment is later than usual. Believe me... until you have had the flu on a 27 boat, in 95 degree heat as the wind blows 35 knots tossing you about the harbour like a cork... you haven't lived!

Other notable set backs were:

- Our wind generator had it's blades destroyed when our sun tarp came loose while we were away in Puerto Plata. (Fortunately that was solved quickly with a call to Matrix Energy Systems and Brian Wilkenson in Kirkland who handles our AirMarine Wind generator and within three days we had new blades, with a current Montreal Gazette newspaper to boot!!!! Thanks Brian and thanks Kiwi John for letting us know that DHL actually could get us our package.)

- Our Apelco VHF radio's are all breaking (Apelco could care less... you will not be seeing any more Apelco products on this boat, they are not up to off shore cruising even in the slightest)

On a positive note, we sold our Nissan 3.5 for the exact same amount ( $ 200.00) as we paid for a reliable Johnson 4.0 in George Town. The Nissan's new owner was unconcerned with the list of Nissan problems we gave him and was as happy as a clam with his purchase.

Anyway, before beginning this instalment, here is the second linked page of other people we have met down here cruising. To find out about the Tahiti Ketch "Lillian" or the Schooner "Sally Lightfoot", click here!.

Before any of you complain about this instalments title, "Welcome to the Third World" the other day I asked a guy in Kiwi John's (the local watering hole) a simple question:

"Hey buddy" I asked the Dominican, nursing a Grande Presidente Beer across the bar from me,"Why the is Dominican Republic a third world country even though it's so beautiful and so close the the USA."

He thought about it for a moment, took a swig of his beer and said, "Because Senior, it was too hard to finish second." Believe me, his answer was as serious as the DR is beautiful!

The walk from the new dinghy dock to Kiwi Johns, is full of sights and sound that you simply do not see in the west. As you approach the dock several hundred Snowy Egrets, perched in mangroves surrounding the harbour stare down on you. It's as if they are so many white smocked interns awaiting your medical emergency should your footing be poor exiting the dinghy for the dock. As you stroll the dirt road (mud if it's rained recently) a couple of piglets scurry across your path, followed by their several hundred pound mother. Dad just lays in some dust at the side of a pile of rubble.

A "motoconcho" a 75cc motor cycle of at least twenty years in age and without a muffler speeds by scaring a bunch of chickens but not a parrot, who doesn't even look over from the narrow side walk as he walks towards the waterfront as if going to some very important meeting. He passes a duck, a funny looking red faced creature, and the two avoid eye contact. Must have had an arguement over something years ago and there's still some bad blood between them.

Further on a fighting cock is tethered near the chair of an old man in a suit and hat biding his time until the cock fight begin at the arena at 14:00. An old lady, his wife I presume, sits on the veranda smoking a cigar and stareing down the street. I say "Hola" and she doesn't so much as blink. She's there always in literally the same condition literally every time I pass.

By the chicken restaurant, a bunch of chickens are hanging upside down, alive but not soon to be particularly well because they are awaiting their turn on the scale. They are tethered together in groups of five so that the chicken butcher can negotiate a price with the farmer who's motor cycled them to town. The farmers tiny bike has a home made trunk, woven from straw. The trunk must be five feet wide and sticks away out into the street on either side. He tells me with pride that he can carry almost 50 chickens on his bike.

As I near the telephone station, I notice that there are about five street dogs all piled up in front of Annas Chicken restaurant, having a nap. The dogs here all look the same, a mangy lean looking mutt, with a few fleas, and no apparent owner. It's funny that locals seem to ignore these mutts, but are very cautious even afraid of Mik when we bring him ashore. We never let the local dogs near Mik... we don't want any local dog baggage catching a free ride on a Canadian boat.

As I turn the corner towards Kiwi John's I am greeted by a herd of cattle being driven through town by two local ranchers, one on a horse the other on a donkey. They are perched on saddles of woven straw. It's the whole herd all right, from the largest bull, to the tiniest calf. They are in a pretty big hurry to get to the grazing in the fields on the other side of town. The only thing missing is a bunch of Spanish guys racing in front of them trying not to get trampled. It's quite a scene as motoconchos are sent scurrying out of the way of the herd. Cattle look different here. They are leaner, and look as if somehow they missed the era of human meddling in animal husbandry and gene selection. This must be the way cows looked when Columbus brought them here 500 years ago.

Kiwi Johns is open, but empty, probably because the power is off again troughout town. The sun hangs over town, blazing down as time nears siesta. I head back to the boat but not before seeing a bunch of cockroaches, paddling down a stream of water at the edge of the road in a large tropical leaf. They are singing in Spanish and look as if they are really enjoying their little ride down the sewer. The cock roaches remind me that it's a very hot day, and I had better get out of the sun as it has been known to make visiting gringoes loco. I return to the boat and get out of the sun.

We took a couple of land tours from Luperon, one to Santiago in the north mountains, and one to Puerto Plata on the north shore. We travel by "guagua" which are privately owned micro vans, that are no longer safe to drive, that are filled to the gunwales with people and livestock then driven at great risk along predetermined routes. We were in one, a Toyota Van that had twenty one people inside. It was very cramped.

I believe that all Dominicans are hearing impaired. This is a very noisy country. for example, the first thing a Guagua driver does after starting the motor is to turn on the radio. He'll tune into, but slightly off station of, some marangi music, and set the volume to full! Possibly it is to hide the sound of the grinding in the brakes, but I have noticed that not one of the 3,567,876 Motoconchos here have a muffler. The street level noise is unbelievable yet nobody ever complains about the rukkus. It is because... Dominicans are in fact deaf.

The trip to Santiago, through tobacco country and the generous mountains was something else, not only for the scenery but for the smell of burning brake pads and a stop to let the guagua cool down. It also gave everyone a chance to admire an old lady's turkey that she'd tied into a sac so that only the bird's head was free. Free to look around, free to cluck now and then, free to peck at the visiting Canadian's leg next to him.

Santiago is a busy, noisy, very un-touristy place. There are ten million stores here, most of which are small and sell clothes from the sixties. The giant "La Sirenas" department store is like a Dominican "KMart", except that the prices are in peso's and all of the cashes are open... with two cashiers at each! One to ring in the item, the other to bag it! Service from the sixties!!! That alone makes the gaugaus ride worth the trip.

The streets of Santiago are choked full of smoke belching cars and trucks. There are none newer than ten years old and under Dominican law, only can be licensed when the owner can prove that the vehicle has at least ten major dents, a faulty exhaust system, and a horn that works! Trash and street people abound, but you do not feel unsafe as you might in the same backdrop in the USA; the place is just third world, not dangerous.

To say that the Dominican Republic can be challenging without the right "frame of mind" is an understatement. Take for example our experience with the "Immigration Man" here in Luperon. When he took our $ 20.00 US, it was supposed to buy a "Tarjeta de turista - Tourist Card" which is an official looking green inked piece of paper that looks a little like a government savings bond that's been washed in water that's too hot. It has a serial number, and we were told that it is one of the items of paper work that we must present each time we are boarded by officials as we travel in the DR.

He, of course, did not give us nor anyone else in the anchorage, (about fifty boats), the card. The fee went directly into his pocket. When we complained en-mass to local officials that we were unable to get this card from the immigration guy, a series of meetings to deal with the problem were arranged.

At the biggest meeting, at the town hall, a reporter showed all sorts of concern, a judge expressed his disbelief, a priest listened intently to our tale, the local commandant nodded his head while Luperon people walked in and out of the hall. After several hours nothing had happened and we realised that there were no Dominicans in the hall, just cruisers. It was siesta and everyone was gone... nobody had told the cruisers they were going, and as usual nothing had happened. The immigration man had wisely skipped town until things quieted down, which they did after a week or two and business went on as usual. The locals just didn't care that the immigration officer was a thief.

When we finally left Luperon we did so on what we thought was a good weather window... we were wrong. The window was there, but had stalled midway accross the DR, and we sailed out of relitively light winds straight into the winter trades. 30 knots and 10 foot seas on the nose all the way from Sosua to Puerto Escondido, on the north coast of the Samana Penisula. It took 30 hours when if the winds had been favorable it should have taken 18!!!! It wasn't a disaster, but it wasn't comfie.

The big reward for our trouble was Puerto Escondido. It is a scene from the islands of Bora Bora, lush mountains coming down to a tropical fjoid. We landed the dinghy on white sand beach near a high cave draped with vines and frawns. A fishing boat set it nets just off shore, using two young boys to row the unpainted boat in a semi circle so that his "purse net" could capture several dozen small silvery fish.

We made several trips ashore, but the crashing surf made it a challenging manoeuvre, and on our last run we in fact flipped the dinghy over a couple of times in the breakers, popping Joni and I out into the surf, leaving a very wet and confused Pug dog at the helm of a racing outboard! Mik, pink tongue flapping in the breeze, ears swept back into a streamlined racing position and a with glazed eyes, buzzed the anchorage before returning to rescue us. All was well.

Another overnight sail, so that we could take advantage of the generally lighter winds evening brings, brought us to Samana. I hadn't been here for many years when I had visited with some friends to look into buying some beach properties. We really enjoyed the place and found it to have a distinctive charm and beauty quite unique from the rest of the DR, and after several weeks returned to Canada without buying any land. As daylight returned to the Island and we sailed past some of the beaches we'd looked at it was still a lovely a place as can exist on earth. The huge hotels and condos that now share the beaches and hills suggest that we should have bought the beach properties!

I went ashore to check in with the local conmadante and almost immediately bumped into an old friend, Oliver Miller. Oliver is a chicken farmer who'd been our guide and translator back when we were looking at beach properties, and he recognised me right away!