Our weekend in the DR

This past weekend we took a trip to the Dominican Republic (which most people simply call "The D.R."). We had a fairly simple job: drive in, pick up some plastic cones that are used for starting seedlings in our tree nurseries, and return to Haiti with them. We went with Pancha, our friend and co-worker here in Haiti; she speaks Spanish and we hoped that with our combined powers we could accomplish the mission. Easy enough, right?

We left Port-au-Prince all smiles, with hopes and dreams of experiencing the well-developed vacationland on the other side of the border. There were rumors of smooth roads, hot showers, and stores stocked to overflowing. We had planned to leave early in the morning last Friday in order to get the border crossing over with as soon as possible. One problem: the truck went to the shop on Thursday to get a final look-over, and they decided it should get a new clutch. Okay. Truck should be done by 9am. We actually got the truck shortly after 9, miraculously, and departed around 10am.

An hour later, we arrived at the border. There we found a rope across the road and police standing around; as we pulled up to the stop, some people came up to the truck and asked for our passports. A cop comes over and looks at our papers. He told us there was a problem: the paper saying we have permission to drive the truck (on MCC letterhead, signed by our country representative) does not have a stamp. "Not sufficient," the cop snorts at us. "What?!"
"You need a stamp," he says again. "You can't pass."
Another guy now chimes in. "It's not a problem; just park over there."
We do, and he explains we need to pay the cop for this error in our paperwork. Okay, so we give some money for that; are we clear now? No, of course not. This guy now needs money to get our passports through immigration.
We finally got through the Haiti side to arrive at the D.R. border patrol. They say park, we park, they take papers, we stand out in the parking lot waiting for someone to finish eating lunch so he can stamp our passports, and then they ask for money to enter the country.
Well, we bought the necessary tourist cards ahead of time, but they are now missing. Where did they go? The guy that has been handling our passports is also missing. We express our displeasure about the missing cards and finally they reappear in the hands of passport handler: phew. But of course we just paid for new cards, so now those cards are useless for this trip. At least we'll have them for next time.
Are we free to go?
No, now it seems the insurance we have for the truck is not sufficient. Just pay this person some money, of course, and they can take care of that for you. Finally, after almost two hours, we leave the border area a little bit lighter in the pocketbook. We are all smiles again, happy to be away from people preying upon others and the disorder of the border. Everyone knows someone that can solve your problem, as long as you have just a little bit more money.

We arrived at our hotel, and it was amazing. We ate pizza and put our bare feet in grass (yeah for grass!). We got warm showers and slept in a nice bed (ah, the little things). The next morning we easily picked up the cones at a plastics manufacturing company, after which we spent the late morning and afternoon with the director of Floresta, Carlos Disla, and he packed the day with community visits, nursery visits, eating, and picking up a few things at a large store. He was amazing and gave us a lot of his time, energy, and patience.

Unfortunately we had to leave the next day, so we set off for Haiti early Sunday. We had no problem returning to the border: we even had time to stop at a beautiful clear swimming hole with a pool hall/bar next to it (with crazy-loud music, of course).

We arrived at the border again, this time thinking we could do everything on our own and not pay any "helpers" or "fixers." We got pretty far into the process: we paid a $20 exit tax, paid a little more to solve some "problems," and finally left the D.R. side again feeling a little taken advantage of but good that at least we made it through.

After driving a mere ten feet, we realized we had a flat tire. What? It was fine during the whole hour we sat in the parking lot, so why now? Well, we did have a fairly constant stream of demands for money from the kids that inhabit this weird no-country between the borders; we chatted with them a bit but didn't give any money because we were dealing with the frustration of the border "officials." Next time, though, we'll be sure to pay off the kids so they won't mess with our tires. So we fix the flat with no shortage of people wanting to "help," but at this point I'm getting pretty cranky as the offers of help seem to be thinly-disguised attempts to extract money from you.

So we changed the tire and drive the 1/2 mile between customs offices, which is nothing, just a dirt road along the water. We arrived at the Haiti side and quickly got our passports stamped to leave and are about to drive away when a "helper" flags us down and gets an official to look inside the truck. The questions begin about what we have and where we're going: "Well, this is an entirely different matter."

We then need to visit a battery of people, asking each what we need to do in order to leave and what needs to happen. This takes hours....yes hours, until finally they tell us we need to pay them 15,000 Haitian gourdes to enter Haiti with our purchases. That's about $400 U.S.
"How did you come up with that amount? What percentage are you using?"
"You don't work with the government so you don't need to know."
Well, surprisingly, we didn't have $400 in cash with us, so we called the guy that made this run last time. Nope, he never paid anything like that. Okay. So we call our country representative, and he talks to the "director" at the border and asks if we can send a check to them.
"No, of course not."
"Can he go to the customs office in Port-au-Prince and pay there so we can cross?"
"No, you can only pay cash here at this office. You can't pay at the head office in Port-au-Prince, this is a new tax here."
Right. So we plead and argue and beg, with no luck. They say they must take everything and keep it until we return with the money. Even better. So we beg and plead some more, but eventually they tossed everything into a huge steel shipping container. We wanted to take pictures of the whole thing so our supplies wouldn't disappear, but tempers immediately flared. "No! No pictures, we need to protect our workers!"
From what? "So do you even know how many cones you're taking from us?"
"Of course! That man knows!"
We ask that man... blank stare....
" He doesn't even know how many he took!"
"What country are you from?" the man asks.
"America."
"Of course! Americans! *&^ %$#@ #%^*&* !!!"
Of course they kept all our receipts and paperwork in a folder. They tore off a paper stub for us to claim our goods later: no name, no telephone number, just a 1" x 3" piece of paper with a number on it.

This is about 4 hours after arriving at the border. We are now mentally, emotionally, and financially spent. We want to leave, but over comes our "helper," the one who pointed our load out to the officials. He proceeds to ask for money for all of his "help." Of course!

We finally get out of the border area with the sun setting in front of us and an hour or so of driving in the dark in Haiti, which is about as fun as it sounds: it's an obstacle course of goats, cows, children, bikes, and pedestrians all using the road at night. We get back to the office, tired and grumpy, get some food, and try to laugh at the whole situation. We vow to never visit the D.R. again by car. Take a bus, catch a plane, or swim, anything besides driving yourself.

*Update*
The cones were all retrieved at the border two days later. Pancha and Joseph returned with money and the slip of paper but were met with more demands for paperwork and other documents. After talking/discussing/pleading with the officials ,eventually everything was returned.

Today (Dec. 13, 2008) the cones arrived in Desarmes. Finally.

Thanks, Pancha and Joseph!