Today we set out on an excursion to walk to El Limon falls. It did not go as planned.
We are staying in the Samaná region of Dominican Republic (DR), having relocated after a week in the busy Punta Cana resort area. Our small boutique hotel is quiet and I prefer it. We intended that more of our excursions would be from this area as there is a Parque Nacional (Los Haitises) nearby.
The promotional video for visiting El Limon showed couples walking up a hill with wide steps, and then swimming in the pool of the waterfall. The walk was given to be one hour– and sounded great after the lounging and eating we’d done at Punta Cana.
We are hikers, after all!
Our hotel is so small, we were the only passengers to board the open air truck. As soon as we boarded, the guide started to talk, in both Spanish and English, about how we should change our minds and take a horse up to the falls. We stuck to our plan, and he backed off, likely realizing he’d have another chance to persuade us.
When we were unloaded at El Limon, it proved to be a family farm. It smelled of limes immediately, although we didn’t see any growing. We sat around a table and were given a brief show and tell about chocolate, coffee, and a traditional alcoholic medicine/cordial called Mama Juana.
These talks and tastings seems pretty common. Then there are opportunities to buy from the local farm. This farm also had community members selling larimar, a blue stone found only in the DR. We were told several times that buying at the farm supports local, small businesses, unlike the shops at the resorts.
Then we were up and at it for the ascent to El Limon. The guide’s persuasian started again and we began to get a fuller picture. First, it had been raining. The trail for hikers and horses was the same trail, and as hikers, we would follow our group on foot behind the horses. This is not a pleasant way to hike. Next, there were two river crossings.
I looked at Mark and we relented. We would ride to the falls.
Now everyone was happy. We were fitted with riding helmets and galoshes. We filed out and saw a benign herd of very small horses. Pony size. They had homemade tack. Foam, some sort of saddle, western style, and lots of colorful rags for padding. The reins and stirrups were woven belts. We mounted from cement steps.
Thee last time I sat on a horse I was in middle school. Many people in my New Hampshire town had horses. Old New England farmhouses have barns, or a neighbor did, and with so many trails and dirt roads, it was easy to ride as a hobby. I am sure there were competition riders who really trained, but I don’t recall knowing people who rode like that. So, when my friend stopped by, I mounted her horse in my front yard and trotted off. Sitting on a horse is more or less easy. Riding is something else, and I definitely don’t know how to ride.
With no orientation, I just held onto the horn. What I soon realized was that my horse would be led up the trail by the teenager. Each of our horses had a young teenage boy leading. I told him my name and asked his, and it was something like Juandanni. He also told me the horse’s name but that escaped me.
Juandanni began the litany of the four things he knew how to say to English, the first and more frequent being” “The horse is a professional.” It became my mantra.
The trail conditions were very tough. I would not have wanted to be hiking. Although fairly wide, the trail was rocky, and the rocks were slippery. In areas without too many stones, the rain had filled the trail with mud, and on foot I would have sunk in a foot in some places.
It’s hard not to be in charge. The horse was in charge instead. Here is a list of thoughts I repeated:
Who wears shorts when riding? I would have worn leggings if I’d known!
This poor horse! I wish I only weighed 100 lbs or so!
Yikes! This downhill part– how is the horse going to manage that?
Yikes! This uphill part– how is the horse going to manage that?
On the way up, I was always looking ahead, and whenever I saw a steep part, which was nearly at all times, I closed my eyes. The horse is a professional.
If I fall off, and my eyes are closed, do I have a better or worse chance of not breaking my neck?
How is this teenager keeping up with this horse?
I wish I had a photo from the messy trail. Our photos were from the two “photo op” locations, at a river crossing and a view point. It looks benign. I am smilling. And trembling although that won’t show in the photo. The horse is a professional.
My young guide knew a few other things to say in English. “Lean forward,” when we were going up hill. “Lean backward,” he would call out, when we were going downhill. I thought this was to be helpful to the horse. Mark says it was to help insure I didn’t slide off in the direction of the incline.
Every so often I reached over to pat the neck of my horse. I thought:
Does the horse appreciate this gesture or think something like “Leave me alone, I am concentrating here!”
Eventually we emerged near the falls. Typically for any tourist stop, there is a bar, and several people selling gifts.
The last part of the trip was on foot– meaning my feet. At this point my young guide was showing all protective instincts. Hiking a wet, rocky trail is within my skill set, although slippery galoshes are not my prefered foot wear. Still, the teen would have no way of knowing that based on the forty-five minutes he’d known me. So, I let him hold my hand and hoped it felt steady. We crossed another river, the water running up over the tops of my boots and filling them up. He stopped me and wrenched the things off to empty them. Really, I could not have felt less graceful.
The brief time at the falls were a blur. The guides took many photos of us. They look pretty neat. So many times I will see a smiling photo of myself and part of the memory will be, not just the place we visited, but anything I was thinking or worrying about at the time. Clearly thoughts at the fall were anticipating the way back.
Just how tired was my little horse?
Like many a good hike, the way back seems faster. I like to think I kept my eyes open a lot more. I did start to realize my eyes were on the horse’s next steps, while the horse was concentrating on the steps right underneath. I am in awe that the horse didn’t scrape me off against vegetation or one of the rocky outcrops. “The horse is a professional.”
With a little research, I have since learned that the horses in the DR are Paso Fino, known for their light step and ability to travel for miles “without tiring rider or horse.” They are especially good trail riders. They’re descended from horses that Columbus brought to Hispaniola on his second trip, 1493.
My young guide had one more English sentence or two. He explained, every so often, that the horse worked for the company, and the company took care of the horse, but he did not work for the company, and the company did not pay him.
Yikes.
Just after we returned to the farm, the skies opened up and it poured tropical rain. If we’d lingered any longer, we would have been in it.
Mark divided all the pesos we had between the two boys.
There is no way we could have known beforehand what this excursion was going to be like.
Now, I few days later, all I can think is: “That child should have been in school.” There is no compulsory school in the DR. Primary school goes to grade five, and next is secondary. They do not have enough schools or teachers for the populations, so the students have split sessions– morning and afternoon.
We have both resolved to do careful research about excursions before our next Caribbean trip. So far, trusting the hotel has worked, but it did not in the case of Dominican Republic.
The horse was a professional, but the guide should not have been.
