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.
