El Limon Waterfall

20 minutes east of Las Terrenas on the Samana Peninsula lies the little town of El Limon that we were told offers access to a beautiful waterfall, and after three days in our overly sedate beach environs, the time has come for some adventure. "Some dudes on motorcycles will just see you coming and will guide you to where the horses are," rings in my ears as the guy on a white bike makes eye contact with me and asks "El Limon?" to which I nod. We follow him to the south and soon we are pulling onto a steep, narrow road, rolling past a number a little farms with more chickens than seem plausible. We then see groups of horses that are being draped in plastic sheeting as an afternoon cloudburst opens up. We are ushered into a parking spot just past the horses and the guide group's leader just nods at me and says "diez minutos, no problema." Sure enough, 9 minutes later, the rain stops and we are negotiating a price for our crew. Each person is assigned a horse and a guide (ranging in age from 14-67) and then the clip clop of trotting is all we hear. The trail is rocky, uneven, and so steep at in sections that one of the horses in our group falls to all four knees but the guides assist it in standing and is thankfully uninjured. We stop about 1/4 mile from the waterfall and we finally catch a glimpse of it and understand what the recommendations were all about: rather than a more or less "solid" stream of water pouring off a cliff, this is broken up into a hundred fingers that trickle over the moss and jutting rocks. We leave the horses and with the help of the guides and a shakey handrail, we make it down the last few feet of the slick trail to the base of the fall where many visitors are taking a swim in the spill pool. I join in and am treated to an amazing sight while floating on my back of gallons of water falling from 60 feet above me. You can also swim behind the fall and duck into a little cave and enjoy the sound of all that water coming down. The nag of responsibility tugs at me as I remember the evening's scheduled fish fry and our as yet unbegun contribution to it, and realize it time to head back. After we clamber back up to the horse post, we see that our mounts are rested and fed and we let them confidently return us to the car.

The Moca Route

We've been using a new route to get to the north shore of the island which runs up and over a windy mountain pass through a town called Moca and allows one to be privy to a host of Dominican sights and sounds rarely seen in most other spots. Our first time taking it was on the way home from another sun and surf soaked weekend in the party town of Cabarete. Driving up two days before, we took the typical route through Santiago which produced, as it always does, a series of SNAFU turns that get you so far encsconsed in the belly of the town that you may as well rent an apartment and live there for a month or two. We knew that we couldn't handle another pass through Santiago on the way home so got good directions to go through Moca. As you leave Cabarete, you can see the green mountain whose pass you will be ascending just to the south of you and you wonder if your little car and its 1/2 cylinder can handle it. Los Brasos (the arms) is the first town drivers pass through and we promise ourselves to come stay at some point at the rumored-to-be amazing Blue Moon resort to be treated to a 6 course Indian feast. As we climbed in elevation, it was quickly obvious to us that we were in for a beautiful drive; the challenge with mountain driving, though, is of course to take in the strange and beautiful scenery while making sure you don't go careening off the edge of a cliff in mid-gawk and this is doubly true of The Moca Route as travellers must also contend with myriad road hazards - both moving and stationary - that suprise you faster than a springtime Seattle sunbreak. One of our favorite sights (and one that is often tough to catch on film because I usually feel like a putz taking peoples' pictures without their permission, and because we are in a moving vehicle, besides) is the bee hive of rollers on Dominican womens' heads. These heads of colorful rollers are ubiquitous on the Moca route and it seems to be the activity of the day for nearly all women, young or old. The men seem to be much more inclined to race their motorcycles or scooters at insanely high speeds up and down the narrow highway, often positioning themselves in "super man" pose with their stomachs on the seat and legs sticking straight out over the back tire - it's crazy to watch. The route takes drivers through dozens of blink-of-an-eye villages, each hosting a few domino games, colmados blasting enough bass to rip your face off, and a few dozen dogs - all female - with painfully swollen teets. Before we knew it, we had crested the pass; the valley spread out wide and yawning before us, its lushness breathtaking. A few minutes of brake-testing decline and we have reached the bottom of the hill and are on the Duarte heading for home.