I was by now looking for a country to visit that might have the edge and allure that had stimulated my interest in previous trips. I had read about the atrocities of the Papa Doc era and the fictional depictions of Graham Green; Haiti seemed like an interesting place to experience for myself.  

The cheapest way to get to Haiti was a flight to the Dominican Republic, the other half of the Island of Hispaniola.

Puerto Plata

The Dominican Republic is very Latin in feel, Spanish speaking. I was looking for a cheap hotel for one night and my Lonely Planet guide led me to a place outside the town centre. I was greeted by a spaced-out woman in her 20s offering her services and I quickly realised that I was at a place with low standards. There was one room free, but the door could not be locked, the frame having been damaged by an obvious forced entry. I decided to risk it and locked up my backpack and chained it to the bed.  

The town was hot and humid with plenty of trees and greenery and colonial style buildings. It being Sunday, there were few people, but it had a relaxed atmosphere with old men in decorative uniforms playing brass instruments on a bandstand. The calmness was undercut by the young men carrying automatic weapons outside banks and the night club. I walked around and returned to the 'hotel' to find signs that someone had tried, not too seriously, to gain entry to my bag. Thankfully the night was undisturbed, and I left for the border early next day.

Into Haiti - Port Au Prince

The minibus ride to the border was full of chaos. I was washed from bus to bus like a piece of flotsam not helped by my lack of Spanish. My bag managed to stay with me.

The border was very hot and sweaty and my entry into Haiti required money to change hands. Several people needed money for stamping documents and issuing visa. I made little progress with money changers and decided to walk the lengthy road between border posts and deal with currency in Haiti. As I toiled under the hot sun a white Nissan pickup pulled up beside me.

"Where are you trying to get to?" a middle-aged man with good English asked.

"Cape Haitian" I said without much more than a vague idea of where I was going.

I thought they were taking me to the bus, but it was soon clear that they meant to drop me on their way to Port Au Prince.

There were two people in the front of the pickup, Damien Vincent, the middle-aged mixed heritage man and a young Haitian woman, Rosaire Metallis; I settled into the back seat and soon found myself in absorbing conversation, being educated into the people and recent history of Haiti.

Damien was a highly educated man, having been a student at Columbia University in the U.S. and Ruskin College, Oxford where he was one of only fourteen foreign students to receive a scholarship. He was now a civil engineer. His experience had imbued him with great respect for upper class manners. He admired a servant who had declined to join celebrations as it was not his place and went on to tell how the son of David Frost asked a working-class racist to leave a party along with whoever had brought him.

His view of Haitian politics and economy was that it was run by the;U.S., which had sent troops in during the civil war, but did not know what would happen if they left. The Haitian Army had been disbanded and a new police force formed but he could foresee a coup by the old powerful men leading to a bloodbath. As a person trusted by the Americans (a U.S. educated professional) he had been made mayor of a border town. He obviously liked the power to make decisions and had banned pigs from town.

"They should be in the country"

He also described how the U.S. and Canadian troops had become bored and nearly fought amongst themselves. He went on to describe the differing sexual preferences of U.S. and Canadian soldiers, which, along with his power inclinations, should have acted as early warning signs, but I was too enamoured with his charm to notice.

As we drove, there was immediately a striking difference between Dominican Republic and Haiti. Whilst DR was still a forested tropical landscape, almost every Haitian hill was deforested bare earth. We passed a huge area which, he told me, was a hemp growing area before it was no longer needed for rope. Now it was uncultivated and being kept as bait for a developer. We did see a river divided to irrigate rice and an old sugar press at a site of a historical uprising.

His views of agricultural society were fairly conservative. Whilst women have an important role, the West, expressed as the U.N. were shifting the traditional balance with demands for equality. Previously, women controlled the wage packet and looked after the children. Now they are paid money but cannot work like men and also start their own small trading businesses, leaving childcare with older siblings, which led to rising problems. Alongside this, he felt that the growing money economy was damaging the strong communal bonds of mutual help and sharing. His proposed remedy was a 10% levy for farming cooperatives schemes and a further 10% for investment e.g. new pigs. His view was that rural people retained African beliefs which made them resistant to modern education, ideas and methods. Rural scenes were reminiscent of Africa with men carrying hoes in straw hats and women on donkeys in colourful dress.

He described how Palmeras, Merengue, and Cha Cha Cha had dominated prior to Salsa, a mixture of U.S. jazz and Cuban/Latin sounds. He proudly stated that Haitians dominated Caribbean culture and dance.

"Stand back when they dance, because they are such good dancers, more African flow than Spanish staccato."

Black Magic Women held a central place in Mambo (voodoo). She is a sexual figure whose character develops rather than being chosen, valued by fathers as sexual initiators for their sons. Wives are discouraged from being jealous of a black magic woman and she is recognised as a person who dominates social settings. She is available to men but never gives herself to them. She disdainful to men, thus removing their power and increasing want and respect. She uses hand and finger gestures to create appropriate signals.

It seemed that, like the Irish, Haitians left their homeland in large numbers. He claimed that up to a third of the population live in Miami, New York and all across the Caribbean. Many richer Haitians spent weekends in Miami.

We drew closer to Port Au Prince and saw evidence of the damage caused by flash flooding in villages and stopped to visit the tomb of Damien's father who he said had been killed as a revolutionary. Damien showed the first signs of another side as we passed lots of wires running higgledy-piggledy from the main electricity wires into homes. He grew angry at the poor people stealing electricity by illegally and dangerously connecting their own supplies to the main cables.

We eventually arrived at Damien's spacious house. He said that I could stay for a while if I wanted to and when I asked about paying for food, told me that it was Rosaire's house and I should talk to her. It was a strange and unexpected development because it was obvious that everything in the house belonged to him and the young Rosaire was the poor housekeeper. This felt like entry into the Magus, but I was here now and everything was comfortable, convenient and pleasant. Things became a little less comfortable as Rosaire made it clear that her company was on offer, but I managed to negotiate a way past and spent a comfortable night.

Next morning saw an enjoyable fruit-filled breakfast and friendly chatter with Damien. After breakfast Rosaire started the conversation about payment. Here was the sting. This was not friendship, but business. We tried to negotiate in my poor French, and it became clear she wanted $50 per night, which was way beyond my back packer budget. I somehow ended up with $100 for the rest of the week. I felt a little trapped between my wariness of the dangers of Port Au Prince and the alluring comfort of 'Rosaire's' house.

Eventually, Rosaire showed me the way into town, and I waited an hour in the bank to change a traveller's cheque. I found my first impressions of Port Au Prince to be less than encouraging. I was constantly warned by Haitians about security, drug sellers, pick pockets, with guns who shoot people etc. My confidence was decreasing and was obvious that Rosaire saw me as a bottomless wallet. We met some of her friends in a cafe who had an eclectic range of views. Some spoke English. One had spent time in the U.S. and spoke of how mulattos looked down on darker skinned people. The black drug dealers always had mulatto girlfriends. This status transferred to geography with Port Au Prince home to darker skins and Petionville high on the hill had lighter skins. He thought that Papa Doc Duvalier had had the right idea in wanting to shoot immigrant Arabs who refused to integrate. I was already thinking that I wanted to get away from Port Au Prince. Even the market was disappointing.

The next day dawned with another interesting talk with Damien that relaxed me somewhat. He told me about the drugs scene. The U.S. deported criminals back to Haiti; they were used to life in the fast lane and had formed a gang - the Muslims - here in Petionville. They found Haiti an easy drugs transit place and he told me

"There are several planes laying abandoned at the airport."

It seemed that drugs were a big and growing influence.

I was feeling more positive and decided to explore Port Au Prince on my own. The bus ride down the hill was trouble free and I began to walk warily towards the markets. I became aware of a young man a few metres behind me. I decided to check his intentions by crossing the road a couple of times. He came with me. I turned to face him.

"You want some good ganga?" he enquired secretively.

My refusal was enough to deter him.

My senses sharpened I found the markets welcoming. I saw only two other tourists. I called in at two hotels to check if they were options for my stay. They were expensive, but the price schedule on the wall set the scene. Rooms could be booked by the hour for a 'petit moment'. I was already aware that sex was serious currency for poor women in Haiti.

In the afternoon I visited the small but nicely presented museum. It had few historical items such as a Columbus anchor and slavery artefacts. A gallery was devoted to Toussaint Louverture and his heroic status in the first successful slave revolt that had achieved semi-independence in 1803 after a long campaign. There was also a small gallery of abstract and figurative paintings with super saturated colour.

I finished the day with a brief visit to the luxurious Olafson Hotel, 'the best bar in the Caribbean', featured in Graham Greene's Comedians, as well as a watering hole for him and the Burtons. It was a gingerbread-style wooden, balconied building with detailed wood patterning and roof decoration.

I had been able to breathe again and had a relaxed evening of chat with Damien.

The next was not so good. Damien's ego centric behaviour was beginning to have an effect. I went for a walk in Petionville. It was hot and dusty and disgustingly wealthy with lots of blanc, art galleries selling crap for $1,000. The poor were squeezed in the spaces in between. An unsettling afternoon with hints about cash, some strange catcalls outside and a mysterious visitor who visited Damien for a long talk.

In the evening Damien announced that there was a band at the Olafson and we could go. A tropical downpour started the evening, but eventually the band played a modern set of voodoo rhythms to a dance floor of rich middle-aged tourists mainly looking for company, and locals looking to satisfy their needs in return for money.

It was good to be free to wander in Port Au Prince next day on my own. There seemed to be a little hostility in the reactions of people near the port, but nothing developed and the reason was not clear. I found myself in the Place Independence, the main square. I sat on a bench, and it was not long before two mid-teens schoolgirls approached to talk. One was pregnant and the other wanted to practice her good English. She lived with her parents but wanted to move to her mother's house. She had not gone to school today because her father had no money for her. Max a 25-year-old man joined us. He had trained as a plumber in Texas for a year but was now full of woes. He had a wife and kids, no work having only a hunger and thirst to satisfy. He said that Haitians did not help each other. It had only been a few days, but it was already obvious what a struggle life was. Most people I had spoken to in their early 20s had stories of dead parents, spouses and the daily search for ways to survive was paramount. Even though I could follow creole well, it seemed that most conversation I overheard was concerned with money. The word "dollar" chimed frequently.

I was determined to move soon, and the evening confirmed my decision as Damien's charm mask slipped further. He became more and more self-obsessed, turning every conversation towards sex and spending the evening with his young woman from town.

The next morning Rosaire made it clear she wanted $200 for my stay with whatever else she could get for herself. I went to Damien and told him that I did not have that kind of money had no access to money beyond the traveller cheques I carried for the journey. I told him I was leaving and gave Rosaire a fair amount. Damien had his charm mask on again and presented himself as the easy-going pragmatist, but could not resist a final barb:

"In Haiti you have to choose between the rich and poor world. You are en route for the consulate and will be begging them to send you home when everything is gone." Rosaire watched me leave with a sullen face. She could not leave.

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Jacmel  

I found the bus for Jacmel and sat down for a four-hour ride through the mountains. As I leave the bus in the early afternoon, I am immediately grabbed by a young man who tells me of two hotels. The first is obviously a brothel, with 'petit moment' rates and I need to be out by 8 a.m. because they have a reservation until 1 p.m. The second hotel is closed.

A second young man enters and tells me he knows a better place. This sets up friction between the two, which I think I can only diffuse by tipping both. It does not work well; the first man, who I later discover, is dangerous and begins to provoke and hit the other. Eventually, he subsides and I set off with my new new teenage friend.

As we set off for the next hotel, we had some pleasant chatter about his life, and we were passed by two women who looked to be in their late twenties. They obviously knew him and greeted him, followed by gales of laughter as they walked away. He looked abashed.

"What did they say?"

"They asked me if you were my father." said the young black man. I laughed and he relaxed.

The hotel was all that he promised and well within budget. It was run by a Canadian from Quebec who had given up his civil service job in 1990 to rent the hotel. He and his dog earned enough from tourism to live. It was a relief to find a person I could trust. He warned me to avoid Northwest Haiti because there was a reported famine with people dying.

Ferand had a love/hate relationship with Haitian people. He confirmed the view of the centrality of sex, saying that it was usual for teen girls to have many partners with the resulting children. Grandmothers were the key element of child-rearing. He felt there was little communal care and family was the only source of support. They were very open people who show their emotions in instant smiles or scowls. This all felt very African. He told me that people from the famine had been rejected because local people feared that more would come. People could be cruel to each other and to their animals. The U.S. had also ordered the mass slaughter of the staple pigs to stop swine fever and then sold them new stock.

Education and poverty were huge problems and because people had so little, small symbols of status e.g. school uniform were important to them.

I showed Ferand a few names and addresses Damien had given me for my travels. He said that they were Ton Ton Macoute supporters, the highly corrupt elite that had kept Papa Doc Duvalier in power for so many blood-soaked years. He said that there were about 15 political parties, most of whom were Macoute supporters, but received only about 2% of the vote. He said that there was no middle class in Haiti, you were either very rich or very poor. In 1991, the Macoute years, some of his French-Canadian friends had been arrested for distributing anti-government literature in creole. The wife was arrested to pressure the husband.

"They still cannot speak creole, let alone write it."

The Macoute had never been disarmed, and he had several stories of atrocities. One old man had told him how Papa Doc had visited Jacmel to arrange for two opponents to be publicly burned alive. Even in the present, collaborators who had betrayed neighbours to the army were despised. His worry was had Macoute supporters were infiltrating all state organisations, awaiting their chance.

Basinble, a land of waterfalls and lakes proved to be a pretty, but unspectacular tourist trap for local and foreign tourists. Three rivers had to be waded, and compulsory guides argued about money. On the way voodoo drumming and chanting was accompanied by a lack of friendliness that ensured that it did not become part of the tourist activity.

On return to Jacmel I found an evangelical meeting starting in the park accompanied by bandstand filled with musicians playing bluesy creole ballads. Nico, my teenage hotel guide, arrived, only to again find himself accosted by a jealous rival. He offered to take me to a voodoo ceremony. He gave a brief description of how traditional rum must be taken as a ritual gift. I was unsure but agreed to meet him later in the evening, but when we met it seemed that the 11p.m start could be earlier if I desired. Then the rum demands increased and I was clear that this was just a tourist trap to fund the party. In. I politely declined the invitation and never saw Nico again. Ferand confirmed my suspicions. As I wandered, I found a jetty full of fishers who dangled lines attached to cardboard rolls that toppled when a fish bit. I caused an angry response when I accidentally kicked over a roll, but my extravagant apologies calmed the situation.

Jacmel to Du Forte - Les Cayes

The following day I made my way to the bus stop to find a playground scene. Two men were fighting in the middle of a circle of shouting men and boys. I decided not to intervene. We were crowded onto a large truck with tarpaulins covering our legs against threatening rain. A one-hour trip standing on the tailgate of a small lorry with another cocky, overcharging lad led to final leg in a tap tap taxi to Les Cayes.

Les Cayes was a quiet town with a large, pleasant sea front and busy market. Other streets appeared deserted. This was a more classical Caribbean scene with palm fringed sandy bays and sparkling blue seas. The several bars were home to various gambling games including Ludo. By now I was getting used to the mixture of master-respect, disdain, humour and derision. There was little space for respect or tolerance. People seemed to like nothing better than ordering you about.

The next day was an exploration day. I squeezed onto the very crowded tap tap pick up. We all had to stand and as we started the trip to Camp Perrin an evangelical preacher began preaching through a loud hailer followed by his parishioners, hymn singing all the way while others hummed along. By the time we reached Camp Perrin it was too late to reach my planned destination of Mayacana, so I went for a long walk in the heat beside a river with lush greenery and banana and orange groves. In spite of the rural aspect there was house every 200-400 metres, often with a woman sitting outside. It felt like the depression photos of the American South. The people seemed much more relaxed and friendly here in rural Haiti, greeting without demands. At last I reached an unexpectedly large village at what seemed like the edge of a cloud forest, where life briefly returned to normal with arrival of a 17-year-old boy wanting money for education, Nike trainers and many other luxuries he felt were requirements. As we reached the church, what seemed like the whole village arrived with black pigs of all shapes and sizes on leads. Then a man arrived with a picnic freezer box. He was here to vaccinate the pigs. A lively and enthusiastic atmosphere developed as people jostled for position, one 30 something woman even offering her own arm up for vaccination. I was tempted to try to stay for the night, but my young man made it too difficult, so I traced my walking route back to Camp Perrin with more friendly greetings, including the young man's parents.

Back at Les Cayes, a political convention was under way with a voodoo drumming crowd waving a couple flags half-heartedly processed through the market. On the bus to Les Cayes I came across a quiet young man wearing small-lensed sunglasses. I noticed he was packing a pistol in a holster He got off at a village along the way, but nobody took any notice of his John Wayne walk into town.

Les Cayes - Port Au Prince - Okap (Cap Haitien)

My plans for an early start were ill-conceived . There was no water or electricity all night. In spite of that I rose at 3.30, managed to wash downstairs, but had problems with my ruck sack which took me up to 5.00. A boy told me that the first bus had left at 4.00 and then people coming downstairs persuaded me that it was not safe to leave until 6.30. Another hour in bed.

More bad news, the bus station was a long walk from town, but the bus stopped for passengers en route for the station. The four-and-a-half-hour trip was comfortable on the open-topped vehicle with friendly company, tarpaulin to shield the rain and space to stretch out. At Port Au Prince my plans to go straight to Okap were hindered by the fact that the Okap bus was a 45-minute walk away. This was going to be a long day. It was 1 p.m. in the heat of the day that I finally found a transit sized pick-up bus, which least had tyres to sit on. The bus boy and most of the travellers were adolescent and not too sophisticated except for one friendly woman who proved to be good company. I was occasionally the target for adolescent humour. Six hours into the eight hours journey a tropical down pour beat onto the tarp roof. At 9 p.m. we arrived at a bus station on the edge of town. It was pitch black and I quickly weighed up the options. There was a large house 50 metres away across the road that looked like a guest house, with people outside, or I could walk into an unknown town in the pitch dark. I walked to the house. There were two entrances at either end. A man was sitting in front of the one to the left. I asked if there was a room. He looked at me disdainfully and shook his head without a word. It did not seem like a safe house and my anxiety levels were increasing. I gingerly went into the second shabby entrance to be met by a more accommodating young man. Yes, he had a room, but the price was inflated. I was only too relieved to be inside and asked to see the room, knowing that I had no choice. He showed me lavatory on the way. The lavatory bowl had been ripped out, lying at the side leaving just a pipe exposed. He did not see this as unusual and I nodded. We reached the doorway and a young woman, as customary, offered me for the night. I declined as elegantly as I could manage, paid the man and went inside. The lock had long since been smashed in and I again considered how to reduce my vulnerability as much as possible. I pushed the bed against the door and settled on the bed in my clothes with the aim to get through the night and leave at the first signs of dawn. The power failed intermittently, there were sounds of lorries being mended, music and shouts throughout the night and I drifted into fitful sleep. The sun brought me to my feet, and I looked out to see a road with lorries and people on the move. No-one was awake in the house, and I was relieved and happy to leave to walk into town along a road lined with rice and bean sellers.

Okap, turned out to be a pleasant and relaxed, organised on an easily understood grid system. It seemed that peoples' friendliness increased in proportion to the distance from Port Au Prince. The usual helpful young man showed me another flop house at less than half the price I had been charged the night before. Eventually, we found the Hotel Columbia, where I chatted to a charming owner and went off to explore the harbour, the relaxed markets and engage in discussion with a young man about the existence of God. People were doing anything they could for a dollar; pushing wheelbarrows, carrying loads, guiding hustling, but mainly buying and selling. Okap had a reputation for smuggling, and I watched as a container was dumped in a narrow street and cleared by locals in less than 30 minutes. By afternoon I read and caught up on missed sleep before feasting on spicy creole hot cashew-based food.

Next day, I rose early to attempt the one and a half hour, seven kilometre walk to the Citadel.

The climb was steep in the humid heat and water taps every kilometre were needed. The views were stunning. I had, by now, developed hard skin against would be guides and only succumbed to the winning smile of Celia who sold me a berry necklace. A substantial stone castle had been erected at the top of the mountain with the bustling, playful local life in the courtyard innocently creating impressions of previous times. I wondered at the effort it would have taken to take the stone up the steep rough track, let alone build the high walls and ramparts.

Joseph, the owner of Hotel Columbia, was a 61-year-old eldest of seventeen children. His family lived in New York, and he manages to earn enough to visit them every three months and to pay for the education of his four children. He had lived in New York but didn't like paying the taxes and preferred low tax Haiti, where anything goes. He had built this hotel, owned a farm and a place in Port Au Prince. Joseph was a highly Christian man who talked of how voodoo is against God. He said that 60% of Haitians followed voodoo and believed in zombies. I asked him if he thought zombies existed and he said,

"No, and I would like to see them try to come in here!" He went to say that he could spot one in a crowd if they tried.

"De devil, him get you anywhere, he very clever."

Pointe du Nord and Monte Rouge

This area was the birthplace of the great hero Toussaint Louverture, who led the first successful slave revolt against the French and the British and later the Spanish colonisers in 1804 which ended colonial rule after thirteen years of fluctuating alliances and battles.

A short tap tap ride to the nearby tranquil and beautiful village of Monte Rouge where every 14 th August a huge celebration takes place around a huge spreading tree. The obligatory late teens boy attached himself, demanding that I send him a guitar from England. Nearby was the remains of a viaduct and the Bois Cayman where rebellion was spawned, now the site of a water pipe in the shade for showering.

The teen's mother was busy gluing tissue paper into Christmas-style bell-shaped decorations, while nearby voodoo drummers were playing, but without dancers. It seemed that Mambo was some way away and I was of little interest to them.

Pointe du Nord is the site of a yearly ten-day festival of voodoo but was now very quiet and sleepy. A walled area of swimming pool size was full of mud for splashing about in during festivities. It seemed that activity was working towards this event.

My last evening with Joseph and a meal of lame, a green bread fruit the size of a small football tasting like sweet potato and cassava. Joseph, touchingly, said he would miss me and wished I could stay another day to come to his farm.

Border - Santiago - Santa Domingo

The warmth of my fond farewells to Joseph and the staff soon dissipated with hassles from tap tap drivers over inflated fares, which turned out well, as usual. I settled to talk to yet another U.S. veteran. He had been in Miami for seventeen years but had been deported for criminal activity and lost his green card. He was desperate because he could neither find work nor go back and has five children in all over the place. The trip to the border was quick and dusty but getting through the border checkpoints was unusually easy thanks to a fax from the Haitian Tourist Ministry received in U.K. The officer tried to make sense of it for a long time before waiving me through with no charge.

Re-entering the Dominican Republic was like entering a time warp to another world. The bus was comfortable, nobody argued, pushed, shoved or called me 'blanc'. I was not I liked it; Haiti had been so harsh and tough, but I was already missing it. The roads were so good and fast that I decided that I could make it to Santa Domingo. Suddenly everything seemed so remarkably easy. I walked straight into a cheap hotel and had time for a walk straight into the middle of a children's carnival. Crowds of children in fancy costumes, decorated from head to toe with ribbons and bows leaving them looking like fancy chickens. Some were indians, a devil theme was popular, and some were less obvious to the untrained eye. Most had cow bells attached and spent most of their time hitting each other about the head with inflated sausages. There seemed little shape to the event, though; the kids came and went around the streets and ended up gathering in the local park. Perhaps in my impatience and tiredness I missed the point. The evening was quiet at a cheap restaurant with the only companion, a disappointed 30ish woman who could offer a massage.

The next day started with a lazy start at the fruit market and bank and a walk around the impressive houses from the 16 th century post Columbus and colonial eras, my relaxation only disturbed by the emptying of the overweight and decidedly odd contents of an American cruise liner. I was quickly bored by the Hispanic/US culture, although would-be guides were polite and take no for an answer. I briefly flirted with the idea of returning to Haiti.

San Christobel is 26 kilometres from San Domingo and the site of important Pomier pre-Columbian caves with art from 2,000 years ago over a long period of time by Taino, Kalinago and Igneri inhabitants. Travel proved tedious, taking an hour to get there. There was no guagua to the site and several nice women eventually persuade me to take a motor choncho ride. The motor bike rider proved to be a rip-off merchant so I transferred to another where Karma decided that the chain would fall off, requiring repair.

When I eventually arrived at the entrance to the caves I was immediately faced by three problems.

Firstly, you had to be in a group with a guide, secondly, the fee was set at a cruise ship rate and thirdly, my wallet was getting dangerously thin. I was not going to go back disappointed and planned a special forces raid on the caves. I checked the terrain and climbed the barrier to the caves. Bats flew in the entrance and in the cave, I saw the large range of birds, fishes, human figures and masked faces long daubed on the walls. It was moving to be in the presence of human activity from so long before, enhanced by being alone with the silence and lack of distraction. At the end I decided not go back the same way, so left at the secondary exit did an expert jungle walk and scrambled down a bank... Straight into the site encampment. I did not have to try hard to act dumb and was told that it was not permitted to visit the caves alone. I made my excuses and left, with mixed feelings of elation at the hide and seek adventure and guilt at not contributing to the upkeep of the caves.

There was still time to see the natural pools in Toma. The beautiful tropical forest walk led me to the pools which turned out to have been converted into a municipal swimming pool. On a second forest walk I managed to flag down a pick-up which gave a free ride back to San Christobel. Back in town news of my insurgent activity had obviously reached the guards at the museum. I was under surveillance the whole time and received a telling-off for being naughty and taking a photo.

In the evening, I had a meal and enthusiastically set off for Reyes Street, the home of 50s Cuban son. Unfortunately, it was not at home, only the crowd of ladies in Duarte all in mini-skirts plying their trade. I was grabbed by a large plump woman, but she was no match for my SAS, honed skills and I escaped and stuck to the road on my walk home.

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Same Constanza

I found the Guagua early next morning and the nice old man, who was the conductor, tried to rip me off. Having enjoyed the lovely mountain scenery, arrived to be successfully ripped-off by a disabled man and cornered by the obligatory young man in search of $20 - "No Comprende."

Constanza was a small town set in a bowl of hills. It was not obvious where the good walks were in this area of supposed waterfalls. People directed me to a river, which yielded a fine uphill walk to a blockage caused by a land slip of boulders. The other side of the slip, the scree on the slopes looked scarily precarious. After pause for thought I risked it and entered a deep, narrow valley, where for the first time I became aware of birds and insects such as dragonflies and butterflies. The waterfall proved to be less spectacular than promised. A small fall of water like a bathroom shower cascaded unspectacularly. I set out to find the source, a pipe pumping water for irrigation with a hole to allow the flow down over the rocks for the waterfall.

At night, the town sprang into life; an evening fun fair with a horrendously unsafe-looking big wheel and rickety swings and boats powered by small truck engines. There was great excitement also around the floodlit baseball match and a basketball game. In spite of the threadbare fair, the town looked prosperous with well-dressed inhabitants, shops with expensive items like antique objects d'art, electrical goods and major banks. Cultivated land was fenced and heavily protected.

Jarabacosa

A larger town in the same bowl of hills setting. This was more touristy and Hotels were expensive. I eventually found a cheap hotel, again with the lock broken. There was no running water, but the rooms were clean. I decided to risk it.

This town had two genuine waterfalls; I chose the larger one. It turned out to be a tourist trap, but featured people jumping 40 to 50 metres into the pools below. I soon left for the walk to the smaller waterfall. I sat alone for a while with the soothing sound of water and the lack of sound of people. Eventually my peace was broken by the arrival of self-conscious young American with Dominican friends. He was personally pleasant but consumed with the desire to show how wild and tough he was, that is until he had to get into the cold water, which took some time. His Dominican friends drank lots of rum in the water and strutted around the young American. They were obviously manipulating him, but he did not notice and was happy with his lot.

I walked back the 7-8 km to find my door burst open, but nothing taken. I was offered company again but made my excuses and managed to change rooms. My security arrangements worked this time. Restaurants were hard to find so I ate a pizza at a street stall and spent some time in the hotel bar with dubious characters and ladies, but got fed up with the offers of companionship and went off to be sick all night,

Jaracaboa - Dahajabon - Puerto Plata

The trip was drawing to a close and I rose early feeling drained by a night of sickness. The world did not rise with me. I left my room to find the heel of a woman' shoe lying by my door, the last remnant of a 'petit moment'. As I reached the gate I realised that the gates were locked and no one was yet awake. I eventually found the family flat and woke a none-too-happy concierge.

My plan was to take a Guagua to Vega and then a Público on to Santiago. D.R. had other ideas. An old vehicle tried to charge me three times the going rate but decided after a short distance that there were too few passengers en route so passed me onto a taxi, which in turn passed me onto an old rattletrap. Eventually, I and my backpack arrived at the going rate charge.

I had been trying buy a voodoo drum as I had travelled but found prices too high and on one occasion found myself dealing with a young man who thought I wanted to hire drummers -'a tricky moment'. I had become fixated on getting a drum and went back to the Haitian border for one last try. I saw a young boy who had touted me before and as explained what I was seeking he was joined young men who seemed interested in the situation. One asked me to wait at the border while he conducted research.

While I waited a human tide of Haitians came from the Dominican markets carrying anything from small items to barrow loads of vegetables or clothes. Most looked very poor. It was a bleak reminder of the harshness of Haitian life compared to the Dominicans. The D.R. border guards treated them like shit. Young soldiers of only seventeen or eighteen years carried guns, badly maintained. One had a knife strapped to his boot wearing shades for extra effect. All people selling shoes and trainers were stopped. It was not clear if the guards were interested in trading, stealing or contraband. Some small boys ran errands for the young soldiers, keeping them supplied with booze. Later that day we were stopped and made to get out of the bus at three of our checkpoints. I was given a cursory glance, but the Haitians were given a hard time by the puffed up little macho men in uniform. One man was told to hand over his passport by a lazy, older soldier, sitting in the middle of his acolytes. He made a show at looking at the passport photo and made sarcastic remarks drawing laughs from his friends, forcing the Haitian man to join in the grinning. There was the stench of rancid racism in the air. The darker your skin, the more likely you were to be poor, doing backbreaking work and treated as sub-human with no dignity or rights. If you had light skin, drove a 4x4 then, you could come and go as you please without hindrance.

At last, my young researcher returned with two tambors, but without skins. I told him I was interested but needed a complete drum. He disappeared for another hour and returned excitedly with a small, decorated drum - perfect. I asked a guard to let me go to the bridge linking the two countries in no-man's land and for once there was no problem. We did the deal with a bonus for his hard work, but this sets off demands from his friend.

"What about me?"

That was settled and then a young Dominican soldier demanded money or the trade can't happen. An argument breaks out and as the Haitians and the soldier argue I grab the drum and run for the border, shouting "thanks" as I go. All of the way back soldiers stop me because they want to beat the drum like children who want fun but are not really sure what to do with it.

Puerto Plata

My last stop and after a crowded and frustrating ride I was dropped just outside the Swedish Guest House, a more upmarket stay than I am used to but why not have a bit of luxury before I leave.

As I leave the bus a very excited young spots me and rushes towards me,

"Princess Di morte, morte"

My lack of emotion leaves him puzzled.

A batty and bossy Swedish woman in her 60s has pretty little chalet-style with a small garden, all fenced in and secure.

She twitters around me obviously wanting as much contact as possible and consumed by the breaking Princess Di story. She tries to send me to an adjacent disco with Norwegian guests, but I am tired and after a walk I am ready for bed, reflecting how different this is to sleeping in a brothel. The disco comes to me, 'Any Move You Make' , played many times keeping me awake long into the night.

A relaxed start to the morning and then I went by Público and Guagua to Rio San Juan, where I avoided the tourist boat trip and took a pleasant walk with palm s and bird life to a quiet town, surprisingly empty of tourists. The beach, however, was as bad as I had imagined. It was full of overweight young Europeans showing off bodies and breasts, herded onto buses, frying on the beaches and herding back on the bus to the hotel bar.

Last day at the Swedish Guest House. Krystina loved the contact with her guests and used her broken English to tell her story. She had been married three times but thought she was too demanding and dominant for marriage. She had a passion for travel but was scathing about most of the Caribbean countries except Jamaica and her favourite, Venezuela. Dominican Republic was a cultural desert. Myself and Norwegian Per were herded into her sitting room for chatter, drinks and TV entertainment consisting of a Miami Hispanic quiz, a talent show and finally her channel surfing brought us Princess Di's funeral.  

"Oh, she was so beautiful"

I left to pack and bid a fond farewell to lovely, garrulous Krystina and her heart of gold; a gentle ending to a surreal experience of two such contrasting countries as gritty, harsh, Haiti and macho Dominican Republic.

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Paul Hague explains.

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