Flash, Crash & Splash

I lived in Puerto Plata, Dominican Republic off-and-on for some eight years. As a tourist you see one side of the place—as a resident, it’s totally different. Odd things occur….

But then again, maybe it’s not so much the place but rather in the makeup of those who move there from other countries. As the saying goes, the ex-pats who live there are either, ‘wanted or unwanted’.

Perhaps because most of us slotted into this category we tended to behave rather carelessly—drinking way too much, riding our motorcycles too fast and generally having a cavalier attitude toward life and death.

All of us had nick-names because surnames were not always known. As in old English times, these generally had to do with a person’s occupation. I was Pepe Pete because I ran a chain of donut stores called Pepe Postre. There was Tile George, Carpenter Pete, Lettuce George and many more.

Three of the lads managed to acquire new ‘aka’s’ over the course of one week. Here’s how it happened:

The first came by his new moniker because he worked for American Airlines. Whilst sheltering from a storm under the wing of a plane it was struck by lightning, knocking him unconscious. Otherwise none the worse for wear, he was subsequently known as Flash!

Crash was Jim Hastie. He didn’t suffer any personal harm but his Volkswagen Beetle was demolished. The vehicle was innocently parked on a wide road when a drunk driver walloped into it. And because Jim had parked facing the wrong way, he was charged with something or other. The drunk who slammed into him got off with a modest fine.

Donuts in D.R.

Splash had previously been referred to as Zingara Joe. He lived on, and occasionally ran, an old rust bucket of a freighter called Zingara. His mode of land transport was a BMW motorcycle which he parked beside a stack of timber on the dock. This pile of wood had, for whatever reason, remained where it was for a number of years.

But during the fatal week, while Joe was guzzling rum at Cappy’s Bar, someone decided to move the pile of timber closer to the edge of the pier.

When Joe left the trough he was on automatic pilot. He weaved his way to the pier, pulled up beside his woodpile and flipped down the kick-stand. When he leaned the bike over the stand juuust missed the edge of the dock. Joe and the bike plummeted ten feet to the surface of the water—where Joe was dropped off—then the bike carried on for another thirty-odd feet to the bottom.

As he bobbed around in the filthy water of the harbour, somewhat disorientated, Joe felt a weight on his shoulder. He turned to find a huge water rat perched there looking similarly bemused. It was subsequently determined that the rodent had made its nest in the seat of the bike.

Joe told me later that he’d been amazed at the quality of the wiring on the bike. When he finally managed to clamber back onto the dock, he looked down to see his headlight still shining.