Samina

Today our mighty cruiseship pulled into Samina: a whisp of a port village on the outskirts of the Dominican Republic.

This place is poor. Real poor. As I sped, with my friend, down the only street in town, clutching the back of a motor-bike taxi, I looked back on the moments that were leanest in my life...and realized I have never known poverty.

We were deposited at a beach, located about 20 minutes outside of town. And, after picking our way down a stone-littered trail, we were confronted with a strip of brown land, slowly being licked by an even browner ocean.

Not promising.

Slightly further off, God, in His infinite wisdom, had seen fit to toss a handful of wooden shacks: like dice in some warped, cosmic yahtzee, against a squall of rocks and palm-trees. As one looked up from the valley, one would see choral stone breaktides, systematically retreating back up the hill.

Things weren't looking beachy.

Nevertheless, my friend and I plodded our way to a couple of beach chairs and planted our flag. This seemed as good a place to relax as any, in Samina. And so relax we shall!

Our waiter emerged from the shack-huddle mentioned a few paragraphs above. An affable fellow. His name was Ferbie. James and myself placed drink orders and stared up into the grey sky. A large bird was circling idly, whirling in dirvish fashion, lower and lower to the ground. At first I thought it was a pelican, and I eagerly anticipated watching his dive into the water. Pelican dives have always been a source of avian amusement for me. I suppose that I'm easily entertained. I was to be disappointed, this day however. It was not a pelican, soaring over our heads.

It was a vulture.

Hmmm...

Ferbie arrived with two large bottles of beer on his tray. James and I recieved them gratefully and proceeded to tip our wrists. As there was nothing in the way of watersports, no other visitors, and since there was no way in Hell that I wanted to set foot in the filthy water, drinking seemed to be the only activity worth partaking in. A couple of stray dogs trotted over to us and eyed us balefully. It seemed our sport had found an audience. This brought out the competitor in each of us, and the drinking continued in earnest.

Several beers later, Ferbie joined our group. We commenced in conversation. Ferbie, it seemed, was part-owner of this little establishment, and was anxious to know the tourists' point of view of his wares. We assured him that his service and beverages were beyond reproach. He then asked to see my hat...a cap that I had purchased in Aruba. I handed the bonnet over, and he tried it on. Since he cut a finer jib in it than me, I made it a gift for him, and we became friends.

The good times continued for a while, until James cast a drooping eye on his watch. Shock and horror! Our boat was going to leave in 20 minutes! Casting our towels into our beachbags, we waved our cash at our comrade and broke into a run for the road. As we stood there, waiting for a taxi to appear, I made a casual, yet depressing observation about the causeway.

It was decidedly bereft of taxis.

In the distance, a loud, long horn let out a slow, mournful wail. Our ship was calling to us, and we were helpless to respond! Thinking quickly, James and I ran back down to the beach, calling out to Ferbie. It was a long shot, but perhaps he could help us.

He could! Ferbie quickly led us to a friend who owned a dirtbike. A hurried transaction was sketched, and then the two of us climbed onto the back of the bike, and our chauffer made his way back up to the road.

As we lumbered along, I thought back on my childhood, when I had been forbidden to ride on the back of my friends' bicycles. I wondered what my parents would say if they saw their son now, not doubling, but tripling(!) on the back of a motorcycle. Our driver made a brief stop for gasoline, and then we were on our way, speeding downhill, back towards our impatient ship.

Somewhere along the way I came to contemplate the notion of Faith. It is indeed a strange commodity. We spend our lives hemming and hawing over the people and things we put our faith in. But in moments of crisis, we are forced to pay it out to utter strangers. And here I was, placing not only my faith but my also my life, in the hands of a man who I had never met, and who had only asked for five dollars to cover the gas of the trip.

It turned out to be faith well-spent. Our driver delivered us to our ship, and we offered him our eternal gratitude as we hurried up the gangway.

We may not have found a decent beach in Samina, but we did manage to place our faith in something solid.

I guess that made it worth the trip.



Jim Out.

Milch

There isn't much to do when your trapped on a cruise ship. So one of the things I do is watch DVD's (thank the Heavens that I brought my laptop...) I just finished Deadwood...which rocks! One of the features is an interview with David Milch, creator and executive producer.

I'm pretty sure this guy is one of the most brilliant guys alive. Seriously...if I could pick one person to get drunk and have a conversation with, he'd be really high on my list.

Here's one of the more poignant things that he had to say:



I picked a road to go down, and I want to walk on it as long as God intends. I've never been on any road that I didn't find interesting. You just have to know how to look...and what allows you to look...and to see...is humility, which doesn't require of the road that it conform to your expectations...or your previous experience with roads.


Wise words, Mr. Milch. Wise cock-suckin' mother fuckin' words.


Jim Out.

Miami

I just left Miami Florida. And I'm just a tiny bit more wise.

I arrived there, earlier this morning. As usual, I rode in with style, proudly straddling the prow of the luxury cruise ship that is currently employing me to perform comedy (suckers!).

Okay...I wasn't exactly straddling the prow when we arrived. In truth I was fast asleep in my cabin. When I woke up and realized I wasn't being gently rocked back to sleep, I figured we had arrived in Miami. I got up, got out of bed, and dragged a comb across my head. Then I headed out into the moist Miami heat.

Today I had a mission. My friend, Darren, was also in Miami. Like me, he had been employed to perform comedy...on a different luxury cruise ship (not suckers, this time, though...Darren's pretty funny). ANYWAY, I whipped out my trusty cell phone, and gave him a call. We made plans to meet for lunch at...ugh...Hooters. I snapped my cell shut smartly, hailed a cab, and bid him ho to Hooters.

It was at this point that I realized that I didn't have any American Currency.

No problem, thought I. I will simply ask to be let off at the nearest ATM.

But Miami is a strange little city. It is not like Toronto, where ATM's abound, and shopkeeps stand outside their stores, begging you to spend valuable user fees at the machines that occupy their establishments. There are no towering bank buildings, seducing you into their fluorescent-lit alcoves to discretely slip in your card and frantically push in your number.

Miami is a ATM-less wasteland. There was nary a one to be seen on our journey to the restaurant.

Eventually we reached our destination...a giant mall that housed the Hooters in which my friend was waiting. I asked the cabby to wait while I enter the mall, find an ATM, get cash, and return.

He agreed with no fuss. There was no mention of keeping my wallet. He seemed quite willing to trust me...a total stranger...to return with his payment.

I will admit that, as I strolled through the shopping centre, searching for the elusive bank machine, that I harboured thoughts of double-crossing this man. It would have been a relatively simple little heist. In fact, all that would be required would be to not return to his car. I would save steps and money. I entertained the idea of committing this menial sin during my entire journey to the (finally!) ATM. I even stopped when I discovered the Hooters, and considered just going in and forgetting the driver all-together.

In the end, however, I chose to do the right thing, and I returned to the cab stand, cash in hand.

It seems that the driver suspected that I would do the same thing. He had left. For some reason, I decided to make an attempt to locate him and give him his payment. At this point it would have been easier just to shrug it off as a free cab-ride, and find my friend. But for some reason, I didn't. I found the cabby, too...at a stop sign at the end of the parking lot. I gave him his money and a healthy tip for his worry, and headed into the Hooters, feeling just a little bit like a weakling for my honesty.

I mean...really. What harm would there have been if I just took off on the guy?

At the...ugh...Hooters, Darren and I had a lovely little reunion, and a most amicable catching-up. After the meal, we made our way out of the restaurant. I decided to check the time, reaching into my pocket for my trusty cell phone...

...which wasn't there.

Yep...I had lost my cell phone. In a city that wasn't mine. In a country that wasn't mine either.

Shit.

Darren lent me his, and I made the phone call to Roger's Customer Service, where my phone was locked from making incoming calls. I then silently cursed myself for being so stupid and losing the only cell phone I had actually spent significant money purchasing...plus a reliable way to stay in touch with family and friends, while on my trip, plus all those phone numbers and personal info.

When I got back onto the ship, I went online to send an email to my family, to let them know of my predicament. There was a message from my sister in my inbox.

The cabby had found her number on my phone and called her. He was fed-exing my phone to her. She would send it to me ASAP.

There was a reason, after all, for not ducking out on a ten dollar cab fare.

And my honesty was not a giving in to any sort of weakness. It was a moment where I treated a fellow human fairly, and they did me the same service in return.

And so I'm a bit more wise as I proudly straddle to prow of my luxury cruise ship, heading out to sea.

Okay...I'm laying on my bunk in my cabin.

But I'm still a bit more wise.


Jim Out.