Chickens On The Bus

Chickens On The Bus


Anyone familiar with third world travel knows the term “chicken bus” all too well. With a sigh, a pinch of the nose, and a rearrangement of my valuables I boarded the bus that was to take me high into the mountains of the Dominican Republic. Once seated I sneaked a quick peek at the young guy next to me. He was well dressed and carried on his lap a large hessian sack. He smelt absolutely awful, and the sack seemed to be wriggling. I shot him an inquisitive look and with a grin he reached a hand deep into the bag and pulled out a chicken, sat it on his lap and laughed. He spent the rest of the bus ride trying to ask for my number. I spent the bus ride telling him in Spanish that I don't speak Spanish.

A few hours and one rusty motor cycle concho (taxi) later I arrived safe at my destination, the angelically named “Rancho Wendy”. It turns out by Ranch they mean a small house, a few emaciated horses and some roughly converted stable accommodations. But the location was beautiful, the estate framed by the most luscious green mountains. Being the only guest and foreigner in the whole town I felt a little uneasy. With my sun bleached blonde hair I was attracting curious looks from the locals. All alone in my stable that night I couldn't help but hold back a few tears. The bolt on the door did not seem big enough, the toilet didn't work, and a huge spider was my designated roommate. However as I turned the lights off my whole room lit up with fireflies, flickering above me and dancing me to sleep. Loneliness, it seems, is a state of mind

The next day I set out by foot to find a local waterfall. I got lost. Instead, while attempting to ask for directions in broken Spanish, I found an old plantation owner. I passed by him sitting in his little outdoor kitchen surrounded by a bevy of scrawny dogs and chickens, cheerfully preparing some lunch. He kindly invited me in, fed me, and showed me around his humble farm. He took me to the waterfall and taught me how to open a cocoa plant with a machete, revealing the deliciously slimy white seeds inside. I would visit him everyday and with my lack of Spanish and his non existent English we would attempt the most entertaining of conversations. He would tell me about his wife and five children then we would sit back in silence and watch the river bubbling by. To this day, when I'm caught in the hustle and bustle of modern life, I find myself dreaming of Rancho Wendy. I wonder if I return will I find the old man sitting alone in his little outdoor kitchen, waiting to cook me lunch?