Concho Travels

Yesterday, on a whim, I decided to ride the M route all the way around the city. Starting at the lush environs of PUCMM, the route makes a big circle, crossing a bridge and entering the jungle of the Zona Sur, passing through La Villa Olímpica, Pequín, along the Río Yaque between the shanties falling into the river (uninspiringly named Villa del Yaque) and the Nibaje district (so named that if you take the word apart, ni and baje, it means "Just don't go down there"), skirting the edge of the frenzied guagua terminal in the center of town, and then out the bullet-pockmarked Zona Oeste (such glorious neighborhoods as the famous Cienfuegos, Rafey ("Rrrrrrrrrrraaaaaaaaaaafffffffffffffeeeyyyyyy!!!!", home of the life-sustaining and life-taking vertedero (garbage dump), Las Colinas, Monterrico, etc. All the streetlights in that part of town have been shot at.

It got a little awkward as I was the only passenger for a while there.

Then, as we rolled into Cienfuegos, the driver finally couldn't contain his curiosity and asked me, "¿Tú va pa Puelto Plata?" (You going to Puerto Plata)

"No, 'toy paseando"

"Ah po' me da má plata o te pielde la bida, gringo" (translation: Well, give me more money or you die, gringo. I'm not sure what he actually said at that point.)

Kind abuelita sitting next to me: "Dale dinero, gringo." (Give him money)

Me: "Donde pueda. Pero no voy pa Puerto Plata."

"Ah po' o sako mi arrrrma e la meto en tu kabeza, gringo!" (translation: Well otherwise I'll take out my gun and put it in your head, gringo! - once again, I have no idea what he actually said)

I reach into my wallet and pull out another 15 pesos.

"Ah po' eliges bien, gringo!" (You chose well, gringo!)

His temperament eased significantly as the dusty, bullet-strewn, naked cinderblock houses of the Noroeste faded into the luxuriant concrete forests of the Nordeste (where the Cibao's wealthiest unsymbolically look down on the rest of the city), and proceeded to take me back to Puerta 2 of PUCMM.