Stu and Dave 'surfing' in the harbour

Bloody awful is the only way to describe Bryan Habana’s showing at the weekend. His mustache I mean, though his rugby talents weren’t nearly as prominent as that rat hanging below his nose. Add the entire Aussie team in and you’ve got a full display of bad facial hair. November, as I prefer to remember it, capped an excellent year for Irish rugby, played 11, won 10, drew 1. Kel and I listened online at the weekend and then caught the highlights on iPlayer, four seconds at a time. Sadly the internet in Luperon is pretty patchy.

The end of Movember marks a significant milestone for us, our first year on the water! You may have noticed a few updates on the blog recently, some design modifications and the addition of a Google maps image of our trip here, and here. I’ve really enjoying going through our ship’s log, which my captain faithfully completes (up to the BVIs anyhow), reflecting on our progress so far, remembering friends on land and sea along the way. You can check our progress to date, which today is all the way to West Palm Beach. Soon I’ll have got us all the way to Luperon and it’ll be ‘live’ from then on.

We’re grateful for the generosity of others that’s carried us through thus far. We started out with a small, but we thought sufficient amount of money to get through the year, and very quickly realised how expensive this sailing lark can be. Friends and acquaintances have stuck their necks out along the way to help us solve problems with gaffer tape and hose clamps, or just fed us when we were low on morale.

Morale has been a little low of late. Luperon has become a fairly depressing place, and one that we and our friends are keen to get out of. Last time I wrote about the corrupt officials, which is a pain in the ass, but the truly depressing aspects of life here are much more related to sex work and alcohol. Two weeks ago I was sitting in one of the two gringo bars in town, Shaggy’s, and overheard a hideous, and yet so typical conversation. I’ll disguise the names for the sake of confidentiality:

Gregorio was talking with Jimmyorio about the recent visit of his girlfriend’s (read sex worker’s) fourteen year old nephew to Luperon. He came for the weekend, and was excited to visit Luperon as he had never been here, and also to stay on a boat. The three of them were out in a local Dominican bar restaurant where the ladies of the night, and morning and afternoon, meet clients. Gregorio’s girlfriend disappears for a few minutes and comes back with a lady for her nephew and the two of them disappear for the evening. Sentences like “I just had so much respect for her” and “ I mean, imagine if your aunt bought you a piece of ass when you were 14” were among the most notable. Auntie Jacqui did bust out a few tricks that mum doesn’t need to know about, but buying ass was not on the list.

These guys are hanging out on the edge of reality, dying to believe their allure lies anywhere but their wallets. Mum just emailed having returned from Thailand, sorry Padraig Thy-land, and it sounds like a very parallel culture. The girls in town are astute, and sadly realise that the gringos present them with a much more lucrative revenue stream than any jobs in the area. And judging by the physical condition of the average gringo, and the recommended daily alcohol consumption in Luperon, they aren’t troubled too often to maintain their half of the contribution. Quite a few gringos who’ve been in Luperon harbour for more than a season have developed considerable alcohol problems, two I’ve met have severe liver problems and are off booze altogether, its a dead end town for some people, particularly older men.

The most damaging aspect of this gringo intervention is how Dominican men view their women. The prostitution that is essentially encouraged and facilitated by society as money makes its way to the families of the women overtly or through unspoken transactions. At the same time the women are dismissed as whores. It is not uncommon for Dominican men to have multiple girlfriends simultaneously, and to make no effort to hide it, resulting in an instability in relationships that women respond to by putting their wares on display to provide for themselves. Prostitution is perhaps too strong a word for what occurs among Dominicans, but it is certainly trading ass-ets.

Of course I wouldn’t want to comment on all this sexual activity without sampling it myself! Not quite, but a funny occurrence none the less. I’ve had a couple of humorous mix ups with my friend Moreno who works at the factory, one of which occurred recently and was reminded of as we went out to dinner with Yasmin and her family in Las Maras, a few miles outside of Luperon. Moreno and I communicate in pigeon Spanish often, and for a while I really felt like I was making progress. When Moreno invited me to attend his graduation ceremony for the George Washington school of English as he was being presented with a certificate I of course obliged, very happy to be included. I arrived at the prearranged time only to discover that I was actually the equivalent of a prom date for his 15 year old friend. We paraded up the street arm in arm captured on videos and cameras throughout the town, and I got on stage with Yasmin for a photo when she was presented with her certificate.

On Saturday night we were treated to dinner with Yasmin’s extended family from gran to cousins. They were fantastically hospitable, a big spread of pollo, papas fritas, huevos, kayote, berejenas, zanahoria, cerveza, jugo de chinola (check out Google Translate if you’re lost). We were totally stuffed. The whole evening proceeded in limited Spanish, Keli’s capacity being vastly superior to mine, and we took our photo album to show them some images of us from Ireland and Canada. Next year we’ll come back so that I can take Yasmin as my second wife. And sometime shortly after I predict that I will magically become a eunuch.

In a bid to lift the mood in Luperon Dave and I got the surfboard out a few days ago and tried some watersurfing, or is it surfskiing off the back of the dinghy. We had a laugh cruising round the anchorage and waking the boats nearby. It was great to get physical again in the water. I’m sure I’ve mentioned that that water is full of 18,000 people’s excrement on outgoing tides, and just to confirm that there are indeed fertile organisms in there I had a headache for three days and felt like my sinus’ were exploding. Some good bugs got flushed up there when I wiped out. We’ll get out there again though, it made me pine for clear waters again.

Today we celebrated Karmen’s birthday! First mate, cook and Captain Fun on Ellida, Karmen’s been an excellent friend to us since we first met in Georgetown, and pancake breakfast was a good way to usher in the day. Ellida are probably heading out of Luperon a little ahead of us, but we’re really excited about catching them further down the chain. We may indeed coordinate a passage to Hawaii at some stage. It’s not written in to Plan A yet, but in sailing we learn that an alphabet of plans can be overwritten with the slightest change in circumstance.

Dave and Danielle have been performing some heroic feats aboard Beannacht of late. Danielle and Keli have spent many hours in front of the sewing machine working on our dinghy cover and some dresses for Kel. Dave and I checked the alignment of our engine and transmission, and adjusted our PSS drip-less shaft seal. They’re also headed for St Maarten, hopefully ahead of us, and we’re excited about hanging out with them in future.

Muma - the town goat.

So this week we’re changing gear. It’s 25 days till Keli’s birthday, 26 till Christmas, and we’re injecting some urgency into our game. We’ve made some real improvements to the boat while in Luperon, not least by the efforts of Dennis and Pat during their visit, but it’s time to finish the projects that are open and postpone the rest for the New Year. I’ve a little more work to do for Lucas at the factory, but ideally we’ll leave Luperon before Christmas and make our way to St Maarten.

And that’s about it for now.

It started with a conversation over lunch a couple of weeks back with Monique and Ferdinand, friends of Keli. As part of my continuing attempts to understand the strange Canadians I bump into everyday I thought I would tackle the subject of hunting. I mean hunting? Canadians are nice to the point of extinction, probably the most inoffensive nation on earth? But over lunch I discovered that Monique’s family are hunters, and that both her and Ferdinand use their own guns to hunt deer, elk and moose during the fall. This I had to see.

We arrive at the Klein’s workshop to find Mrs Klein, aged 73, chiselling Elk blood and flesh off the table of an industrial bandsaw that could have cut a Mini Metro in two straight down the middle. Dressed in a 1950s pink blouse and trouser combo. Hair curled and set to perfection. Green sparkling eye shadow, dark eye-liner extending to the side, blusher on her cheeks.  She takes one look at Keli and grabs her in a big hug, chisel in one hand, bleach rag in the other.

Pelts hang all around the workshop, some killed by the Klein’s and others by customers waiting for Mr Klein to turn them into a fur coat or a handbag. Mr Klein explodes through the door, a giant of a man with hands like shovels and a belly built with meat he stalked, killed, butchered himself. A man of a previous age, with a touch of a bully or slave driver in him. Thoroughly Austrian, with a think accent, he bellowed at Mrs Klein and slapped me around the workshop encouraging me to laugh at his jokes. They were both wonderful.

We spent an hour with them, and after a few minutes talking in the workshop Monique led us upstairs to the trophy room where Mr Klein hangs his personal collection of heads and full bodies, and where he sells pelts and stuffed animals to the public. I was amazed. All four walls of the room were lined with mounted heads. The old pool table was buried in layers of bear, wolf, coyote, elk, and deer pelts. A stuffed cat in a basket sat on a sofa, awaiting collection by a loving owner who couldn’t let go. One wall section held the results of Africa on a hunting trip in the 70s: hippo, zebra, antelope heads, and a chess table held up by an elephant foot. The elephant had died of natural causes, and Mr Klein had purchased the foot.

Bears are only considered a problem in Canada when they’ve learned how to enter your house and open your fridge to get at the goodies. Until then they’re easy to live alongside. A bear on your sofa, drinking a warm beer and watching a movie is cool. If the beer is cool however, the bear is not. Mr Klein conversed passionately about Parks and Wildlife in BC, who kill the offending bears to protect the population, but then just dump the carcass in landfill. These were people who have survived a war, and understood what is was to live on very little. Meat is precious, and meat killed, butchered, and cooked by your own hand is optimum.

I love Canada. I’m so at home in its wild terrain and expansive landscapes. The seasons here are so potent, from long warm Okanagan summers to cold crisp Whistler winters. As I listened to the Kleins talk about how they used every part of the animals, and that they had 6 chest freezers full of meat that they had butchered themselves I got so excited about hunting and the prospect of sustaining myself without relying on Tescos.

Hunting for sport without an appreciation or need for the meat, or hunting species that are endangered, I have a problem with. But spending a long weekend tracking moose in northern BC. Learning about the habits of the animal, learning how to kill the animal with minimal suffering, carrying the carcass out to your truck with your own hands. It’s the disconnection from the reality of meat eating that I find offensive, not the reality of killing animals.

We headed up to Monique and Ferdinand’s for a long evening of wine, laughter and beautiful moose steaks. I felt so privileged to have met the Kleins and be welcomed into their very special home. One more step along the journey of my Canadian education, and other lesson on sustainable living that convinces me that turning our attention to growing our own food, and reconnecting with the reality of a diet that includes meat is essential if we plan to continue living on this planet for more than a decade or two more.

Next time it’s fitness and exercise, that thought is coming together. I’m gutted I didn’t have a camera to show you some of the incredible sights in the trophy room. I’m hatching a plan to return for a visit and take some shots of me wrestling grizzly bears!