Well it finally came, no thanks to my complaining and going insane waiting for it. Spring Break was awarded to all of us who are pretty much on permanent break as it is -- a generation of slackers detached from reality and just waiting so we can go on a vacation away from our everyday lives.
The weather in the D.C. skies was quite ominous as our plane roared down the runway, and it only took a few minutes into the flight for the 120 mph winds to start tossing our plane around and causing the guy in the back to wheeze air in and out of his vomit bag to keep from using it for its intended purpose. The pilot came on the overhead, "Sorry about that ladies and gentlemen. We were like a rock in a whirlwind there, and none of the preceding flights told us to look out for it." Very comforting to know that we almost died because of negligence on the part of some prior flight ... good start.
The flights thereafter were a breeze. A four hour to San Juan from Dulles, and then a 45-minute puddle hopper to Punta Cana, our destination. Punta Cana rests on the severe eastern shore of the Dominican Republic -- and with the western shore of the same island holding the Haitian revolution of recent news, we were very glad to be on the other side. Regardless of the local politics and their strife, they must be doing alright in some respects since they charge a $10 entrance fee at their customs stand and don't even search anyone's bags. Screw it! Take the damned money and let me through, we need sand and an escape from these prison-like commercial airline hubs!
Check in at the hotel was simple enough: We give them money; they give us a key to our room and a wrist band -- a deep blue color matching that of our livers after a week of wearing it. The resort was all-inclusive, and the blue band meant free food and free booze 24/7. What more can a guy ask for than a beach, a swim-up bar and an endless supply of pina colodas and 151 rum? Cigars, yes that's right: You can ask for that. But no fear, the DR holds one of the largest cigar industries in the whole world -- so not only are they good, but they're cheap, a concern since the local "Popular" bank did not accept Bank of America and it was a little difficult to acquire any more cash.
Luckily for us U.Va. derelicts, there was also quite familiar late night entertainment -- a disco in the basement of the resort. Okay, see if this sounds familiar: a dance club with no windows in a basement with an open bar and crowds of drunken crazies. If you are not big into blacking yourself out here at our fine institution of higher learning, then you have still at least heard of our local "Blackout Lodge." Our resort had its own blackout lodge and we went every night that the crowd of over 40 singles would allow. But in all honesty, it only takes a few shots of Sambuca to make one forget to care that one is dancing with middle-aged divorcees, but enough of that.
Though scuba trips to all the wonderful coral and wrecks surrounding our resort start at 9:30 in the morning, it is just about impossible to wake up that early for anything other than to hang up your wake-up call after destroying yourself the previous evening. Instead it was much more feasible to wake around noon each day, baste yourself in sunscreen and walk out to the beach. If the sun's harsh rays were too much, the cooling water of the Atlantic was just enough to keep you out there just about all day; that is, until you walk to the bar and see the drinks they are serving out of coconuts.
Now it tastes no different that the pina coladas you have been drinking all day, but something about having your fix out of a sliced coconut makes everything that much better, as if every problem you have ever had in your entire life can be washed away by the liquid that flows from this wonderful fruit, but instead you have just been sucked into getting drunk at three in the afternoon.
After a few nights of the Dominican excuse for Down Under, we decided to hang out at the beach bar and then the beach itself until all hours of the morning -- and due to an absence of music, we of course had to create our own. Stumbling upon a huge group of trashed Americans on the beach at four in the morning singing The Darkness's "I Believe in a Thing Called Love" must be extremely unsettling, especially considering none of us could even begin to mimic Justin Hawkins' high-pitched screech -- luckily our singing, which we of course enjoyed, secured our private beach, since no one else could stand the sight of us.
In fact, we were so demanding on the bar staff that they quickly gave us the pejorative title "Los Estudiates," of which we were no doubt quite proud. Even when we brought them The Darkness's CD to fill in for their Dominican drum music (very bad), they still had no respect for rocking out, and just stared at us in amazement and tried to cut us off from anymore drinks. Trying to stop serving me drinks is a mistake only a few local vendors and these few poor Dominicans have made -- but what were they going to do, kick us out of the resort? Well they tried with a couple of us, but to no avail. We are an unyielding force, and we will never leave.
Of course there were also the restaurants. Our favorite was the Japanese Hibachi grill because all 40 of us could eat at once and yell at the chefs while they prepared our food. Such a large crowd can only lead to debauchery, and we no doubt succeeded at that when we were all singing "Enter Sandman" for some reason and all the other Canadian patrons stared on in disbelief -- they didn't think it could be done, but oh yes it can. By the way, do you know what Canadians order when they are at the beach? It is a mixture of beer and Clamato cocktail. A drink I found so repulsive I had to ask one of them, "Is that good?" "Oh, it's great ay! I mean ya really don't know whacher talking aboot till yev tried one." I had to hide my laughter.
The casino caused much havoc among the gambling addicts who lost a huge portion of their signing bonuses with firms to the DR. These places are hideous -- have you ever heard of a Dominican Gambling Commission? It was so rigged Al Capone would have felt uneasy. But one of my dear friends who had already lost three nights in a row commented after I witnessed his stack of chips disappear, "You know Brett, I have lost a lot of money to this casino." "Yeah, that's what I hear. Maybe you should quit." "Yeah...I'm gonna go to my room and get some more money."
Our two excursions outside of the resort both proved to be quite interesting. The first was myself and one other friend to the bazaar to scavenge the local product. Of course, after being offered heroin by a beady-eyed AIDS carrier and being offered a woman's daughter for $20 we decided it was time to head back.
The ride home though was not quite as easy as the ride in. We opted for the motorcycles; each of us climbing on the back of a motorcycle and heading off down the street. Now, while this was quite fun, the drivers had no idea where our resort was and spoke no English. So after they had taken us to the third wrong resort, we decided we better get off and get a real cab. My driver then proceeded to reach to his front tire, let the air out and then demand that I pay him for his flat tire. Amazing!
The second excursion was a deep sea fishing expedition. A bus picked us up from the hotel at noon and after about a 45-minute ride, we reached the harbor. But of course we had prepared for the trip: We stopped en route and bought 40 40s each costing about 50 cents apiece. By the time the boat was actually deep enough to drop line into the water, we were already drunk -- luckily as the old proverb goes, "You can never be too drunk to fish." So fish we did, well, in some way. We only reeled in one 25-pound blue fin tuna, but it was well worth the trip to be out on a boat in the middle of the ocean without a care in the world completely faced with eight of your good friends.
As Montezuma's Revenge sat in and our hangovers began to get semi-lethal, the trip came to an end. But not until the last night of debauchery did we really realize we needed to go home -- and it took a man pulling a 12 gauge riot action shotgun on us to make us realize it. We loaded up and headed to the airport the next morning and waited in smelly customs lines to get back to our dear States. Landing back in America is a great feeling, even if you have just returned from an amazing vacation. We have become accustomed to the conveniences of American life way too much and can't live without them. Sure we can visit for a while, but you can only Keep On Rocking In the Third World for so long.
Brett Meeks can be reached at Meeks@cavalierdaily.com
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