“It’s getting dark.” I said to Fa as we exited Gloria’s house. “We don’t want to get caught in the jungle after dark. You know what happens after dark, don’t you?”
“What?” Vuna Fa sounded a little incredulous. What would a 300 pound Tongan have to fear?
“Bad things man…bad things...” He and Glover lived closer to the beach than Corry and I did. Our house backed up to the river, and beyond that jungle. “You don’t hear the drums at night?”
I started moving towards the road, which lie in the opposite direction of the shortcut that went through the jungle directly to the river behind Enriquillo.
“I’m not green, Justo, I don’t get scared by that crap.” Fa said…not moving towards the road.
“Haitian Voodoo magic goes on in the jungle at night. They beat the drums and don’t invite any intruders.” So far I had said nothing to convince him. “A year ago Gloria’s husband came home from town after dark using the river trail…they haven’t even found all of his pieces yet.”
Fa didn’t take too long in thinking about that last statement, and he caught up with me to use the longer route back to town. We worked as missionaries in and around a small town called Enriquillo on the southern peninsula the Dominican Republic. Our official attire made us stand out among the local gentry: white shirt, tie, dress shoes, and slacks. We wore black nametags with our names, and the church that we served…though not that many Dominicans could read them to see who we were and why we were there. Still, they served their purpose. Everyone in town knew the four of us as “Los Mormones.”
We got to the dirt road and started double-timing it down the mountain. We were barely out of sight of Buena Vista when we heard a motorcycle come up behind us. We stopped to let it go by us and watched the driver slow down to talk to us.
“You don’t want to be out here at night.” He said in Spanish.
“We know,” I replied, “we didn’t pay close enough attention to the sun, so we are running back to down.”
“Hop on; I will take you both into town.” He said, scooting up to sit on the gas tank.
This was not the usual Honda Cub 50 bikes that we usually see around here. This was a Yamaha 300 series: practically a mini-van by Dominican standards. Still, with Fa at 300 pounds and me at over 200…conventional wisdom would scream “DON’T GET ON THE BIKE!”
Not much conventional wisdom makes it to the Dominican Republic.
I climbed on behind the driver, and Fa held on to me at the back end of the bike. We started down the winding road, gaining speed as the driver gained confidence in his ability to carry the load. As we dipped down and then back up in the hilly terrain, the sometimes paved road gave way completely to dirt. Then, as we topped a small rise to go straight down the mountain, the power to the motorbike cut out completely. No lights, no power brakes, and no control over the speed…as Jim Lovell said: we put Sir Isaac Newton in the pilot’s seat.
Initially the ride proved scary, but manageable. As long as Fa and I combined for over 500 pounds of weight, we wouldn’t lose too much control. But soon the road went from smooth dirt to washboard. Then it went from washboard to insane erosion. Despite the efforts of our weight, we bounced around quite a bit.
Fa fell off of the back.
With the driver sitting practically on top of the handlebars, what control we would have had
diminished almost completely. He did all he could to keep the wheel straight and not send us end over appetite down the hill. With me riding on top of the driver…well I wasn’t much help at all.
We started taking serious air. Every rut we hit sent us flying with no control over direction or speed. Every rock I saw seemed to have my name on it. I saw a lot of big rocks. What seemed like forever to me ended abruptly when the driver’s best efforts failed and we flew over the handlebars.
I rode the driver down the hill for a while, and then I fell off of him.
I rolled to a stop, and lay on the ground to wait for angels or something to come along and lead me to my final destination.
“Justo!” The only angels I heard sounded like Fa. “Justo, are you all right?”
Until that point I had felt no pain. Death has no pain, and if I had survived a 200 hundred yard fall down a mountain…then I should feel pain. Therefore, I must have died. At least those thoughts percolated through my mind as I lie in the rocky and rutted dirt.
Then the pain came. My leg hurt a little, a bit of throbbing just above the knee. Yeah…that was it. No pain beyond what felt like a soon-to-be bruise on my leg. I sat up as Fa reached me. He had some dirt on his white shirt…no blood, no guts, no bones sticking out where they should not.
“Yeah Fa, I’m alright.” I said as he helped me up. “I lost my watch, and the sole of my shoe is
holding on by a thread…literally. How are you?”
“I’m ok, just a fall ya know.”
Yeah…I knew.
“Where’s the driver?” I asked as I surveyed the wreckage.
Bits and pieces of the motorbike littered the road. We had nearly passed all of the way through dusk, and we couldn’t even find all of the pieces. In the middle of it all, face down in the dirt and unmoving, lay our driver.
“Fa…I think I killed him.” I said as we ran to his aid.
I learned from countless first aid classes from Cub Scout to Boy Scout that you never move an injured person for fear of turning a minor fracture in the head or spinal cord into a major (even deadly) break. Fa came from the school of Tongan first aid: slap him until he comes around.
It must be an island thing, because it worked. Fa had the Dominican on his feet in no time at all.
We moved around the road picking up pieces of bike and gave them to the driver who tried to put it back together like some motorized Lego toy. The whole time the driver mumbled about how the bike was his brother’s…and his brother would kill him.
Finally, night upon us, the driver kick-started the bike and it roared to life. He revved the engine and turned on the lights. The bike worked like before the accident.
“Do you want a ride?” The driver turned to us and asked with a smile.
“What?” Vuna Fa sounded a little incredulous. What would a 300 pound Tongan have to fear?
“Bad things man…bad things...” He and Glover lived closer to the beach than Corry and I did. Our house backed up to the river, and beyond that jungle. “You don’t hear the drums at night?”
I started moving towards the road, which lie in the opposite direction of the shortcut that went through the jungle directly to the river behind Enriquillo.
“I’m not green, Justo, I don’t get scared by that crap.” Fa said…not moving towards the road.
“Haitian Voodoo magic goes on in the jungle at night. They beat the drums and don’t invite any intruders.” So far I had said nothing to convince him. “A year ago Gloria’s husband came home from town after dark using the river trail…they haven’t even found all of his pieces yet.”
Fa didn’t take too long in thinking about that last statement, and he caught up with me to use the longer route back to town. We worked as missionaries in and around a small town called Enriquillo on the southern peninsula the Dominican Republic. Our official attire made us stand out among the local gentry: white shirt, tie, dress shoes, and slacks. We wore black nametags with our names, and the church that we served…though not that many Dominicans could read them to see who we were and why we were there. Still, they served their purpose. Everyone in town knew the four of us as “Los Mormones.”
We got to the dirt road and started double-timing it down the mountain. We were barely out of sight of Buena Vista when we heard a motorcycle come up behind us. We stopped to let it go by us and watched the driver slow down to talk to us.
“You don’t want to be out here at night.” He said in Spanish.
“We know,” I replied, “we didn’t pay close enough attention to the sun, so we are running back to down.”
“Hop on; I will take you both into town.” He said, scooting up to sit on the gas tank.
This was not the usual Honda Cub 50 bikes that we usually see around here. This was a Yamaha 300 series: practically a mini-van by Dominican standards. Still, with Fa at 300 pounds and me at over 200…conventional wisdom would scream “DON’T GET ON THE BIKE!”
Not much conventional wisdom makes it to the Dominican Republic.
I climbed on behind the driver, and Fa held on to me at the back end of the bike. We started down the winding road, gaining speed as the driver gained confidence in his ability to carry the load. As we dipped down and then back up in the hilly terrain, the sometimes paved road gave way completely to dirt. Then, as we topped a small rise to go straight down the mountain, the power to the motorbike cut out completely. No lights, no power brakes, and no control over the speed…as Jim Lovell said: we put Sir Isaac Newton in the pilot’s seat.
Initially the ride proved scary, but manageable. As long as Fa and I combined for over 500 pounds of weight, we wouldn’t lose too much control. But soon the road went from smooth dirt to washboard. Then it went from washboard to insane erosion. Despite the efforts of our weight, we bounced around quite a bit.
Fa fell off of the back.
With the driver sitting practically on top of the handlebars, what control we would have had
diminished almost completely. He did all he could to keep the wheel straight and not send us end over appetite down the hill. With me riding on top of the driver…well I wasn’t much help at all.
We started taking serious air. Every rut we hit sent us flying with no control over direction or speed. Every rock I saw seemed to have my name on it. I saw a lot of big rocks. What seemed like forever to me ended abruptly when the driver’s best efforts failed and we flew over the handlebars.
I rode the driver down the hill for a while, and then I fell off of him.
I rolled to a stop, and lay on the ground to wait for angels or something to come along and lead me to my final destination.
“Justo!” The only angels I heard sounded like Fa. “Justo, are you all right?”
Until that point I had felt no pain. Death has no pain, and if I had survived a 200 hundred yard fall down a mountain…then I should feel pain. Therefore, I must have died. At least those thoughts percolated through my mind as I lie in the rocky and rutted dirt.
Then the pain came. My leg hurt a little, a bit of throbbing just above the knee. Yeah…that was it. No pain beyond what felt like a soon-to-be bruise on my leg. I sat up as Fa reached me. He had some dirt on his white shirt…no blood, no guts, no bones sticking out where they should not.
“Yeah Fa, I’m alright.” I said as he helped me up. “I lost my watch, and the sole of my shoe is
holding on by a thread…literally. How are you?”
“I’m ok, just a fall ya know.”
Yeah…I knew.
“Where’s the driver?” I asked as I surveyed the wreckage.
Bits and pieces of the motorbike littered the road. We had nearly passed all of the way through dusk, and we couldn’t even find all of the pieces. In the middle of it all, face down in the dirt and unmoving, lay our driver.
“Fa…I think I killed him.” I said as we ran to his aid.
I learned from countless first aid classes from Cub Scout to Boy Scout that you never move an injured person for fear of turning a minor fracture in the head or spinal cord into a major (even deadly) break. Fa came from the school of Tongan first aid: slap him until he comes around.
It must be an island thing, because it worked. Fa had the Dominican on his feet in no time at all.
We moved around the road picking up pieces of bike and gave them to the driver who tried to put it back together like some motorized Lego toy. The whole time the driver mumbled about how the bike was his brother’s…and his brother would kill him.
Finally, night upon us, the driver kick-started the bike and it roared to life. He revved the engine and turned on the lights. The bike worked like before the accident.
“Do you want a ride?” The driver turned to us and asked with a smile.
2 comments:
Justo!
Thanks for the memories. I served in Barahona, so I remember Enriquillo quite well, as we'd go there once a week to talk with the ZLs.
Thanks for the link to the blog...
-Darren Smith
I may be biased, but I really like the way you write. Thanks for the chuckle and the opportunity to share part of your mission.
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