The Coconut Latitudes
Copyright © 2014 by Rita Gardner
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.
Published 2014
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN: 978-1-63152-901-6
e-ISBN: 978-1-63152-902-3
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014935216
Book design by Stacey Aaronson
Map of the Dominican Republic by Mike Morgenfeld
For information, address:
She Writes Press
1563 Solano Ave #546
Berkeley, CA 94707
To my family
Introduction
Before I am born, my father, for reasons shrouded in mystery, abruptly leaves a successful engineering career in the United States. He buys two hundred and fifty acres of remote beachfront land on Samana Bay in the Dominican Republic. This small, Spanish-speaking nation occupies two-thirds of the island of Hispaniola and is ruled by the dictator Rafael Trujillo. Haiti occupies the western third of the landmass. Trade winds blow year round all the way from the deserts in Africa, combing through palm groves and shaping the trunks into inverted commas. The island is also in the main path of hurricanes that storm through the Atlantic and Caribbean from June through November. In 1946, when I am six weeks old and my sister Berta is four, my father moves us into this instability. Our family lands—with a pile of suitcases, a box of books, and bright Fiesta dinnerware—years before there will be electric power or actual roads to Miches, the closest village.
At this time, access to our property is a four-hour boat trip from another town, or a daylong horseback ride over the Cordillera Oriental range. These mountains, my father says, will protect our land from the worst hurricanes. He hires a crew to plant ten thousand coconut seedlings and names the property Cocoloco Plantation. It will take several years for the palms to begin producing nuts. During that waiting period, he contracts with his former employer and the family sometimes travels with him to job sites around the globe.
When I’m five, we settle permanently in the small fishing village of Miches, four kilometers from our coconut finca. Finca is the Spanish word for farm, and dozens of such plantations stretch for miles along the empty shoreline on either side of town. My father originally joined with another American engineer on a larger parcel, but soon after the purchase, the partnership blew up and the land was divided. The family visits their finca frequently, and this is awkward since Berta and I are forbidden to speak to their children, a boy and a girl our same ages. It’s not easy to ignore them when they are right next door, but Daddy plants a high hedge of hibiscus between our properties so we can’t see their house. My mother goes along with whatever Daddy decides.
Other than the family we can’t talk to, we will be the only English-speaking people within a hundred kilometers. My father frequently says we are a damn happy family; we’ve arrived in paradise, and are the luckiest people in the world.
“Islands … seem to take revenge on those who regard them as
solutions or personal Edens.”
—Alastair Reid
Chapter One
Miches
It’s a sticky summer day when we first bounce over the mountain in a ratty jeep driven by an old man with brown leather skin. The windshield is cracked and dust covers everything. Our suitcases are piled on top, strapped down by frayed ropes. We’re not tied down by anything at all. We heave left and right as the jeep straddles the track that’s barely a road. I’m used to these raggedy roads in the Dominican Republic—riding in a vehicle is always clattery and bumpy on this island.
Daddy sits up front with the driver, and in the smelly backseat, Mama wedges in between my sister Berta and me, trying to hold on to us as we lurch up yet another switchback. Berta turns white, leans out the window, and throws up. Daddy mumbles something about how since she’s nine, she should be used to this by now and not get sick. The vehicle stops and I get sick too. Daddy tries to distract us by showing us a waterfall off in the distance, but all I can see is the mess I’ve made of my clothes. We pile in again and rumble onward, slowing down behind a donkey cart piled high with bananas. When we crest the mountain, we stop where the air is cool. There’s nothing left in our stomachs. The driver goes off in the bushes to pee, and Daddy climbs a rocky ledge. He waves his arms, motioning us to join him.
Berta clambers up the boulder, and Mama holds me until Daddy can grab me and pull me up beside him. He puts his arm around Mama and gives her a smacking kiss right on the lips. “There it is,” he points. “Our new home.”
The hillsides spill all the way down to the bluest water I’ve ever seen, a bay of shimmering light so bright it makes me blink. Daddy smiles. “See—there’s Miches town.” He gestures toward the inner curve of the bay to a scattering of small buildings crouched along a rocky shoreline with a few streets spreading out like a broken spider web. I blink and imagine the little houses are insects trapped in the web and then I shudder and tell myself not to think like that. I squint again at a long snaky river at the edge of town and then, to the right of it, a long sweep of sandy beach that stretches out like a sliver of new moon. The beach sweeps out to a point of land and disappears on the other side in a white-gold haze. The shore is lined with green fringe, and a smaller patch of a light color stands out like a ragged square of carpet. Daddy waves his arm toward the pale green at the far end of the bay. “There,” he says as tears roll down his face. “That’s Cocoloco Plantation. We’ll always be able to pick it out from here.”
“How come?” Berta asks.
“Because my plantings are young palms—all the other plantations have been here for decades and the fronds get dark green with age. So Cocoloco will always stand out.”
“Always?”
“Well, until the trees grow really, really old—thirty or more years.”
The driver peers over the rocks to see what we’re all looking at. He smiles and I can see he’s missing most of his front teeth. “Bonito, sí.” He nods. Pretty. Daddy lets me go and jumps back to the road.
I’m left alone up on the rock and it’s dizzying way up here. This island is all I’ve known. We’ve moved several times before, but this is going to be, as Mama says, permanent. Forever, whatever that means. I’m lightheaded, and I whimper when I look down the edge of the cliff. Daddy glares at me as if I shouldn’t be afraid and pulls me down to the ground without a word. I remember him telling Mama that if I were a boy I’d learn more quickly, and I figure he thinks I should just be able to jump down off the rock like it’s nothing. We pack ourselves back into the car and the bay gets closer as we shudder downward.
We pull into the village of Miches, passing a church and small plaza. In a few minutes we’re through what there is of town and the jeep sputters to a stop next to a pasture. A bunch of cows amble up to a sagging barbed wire fence, swishing their tails. Beyond the field is a wide stretch of brown water, the Yeguada River. Daddy has bought a small lot at the edge of town by a pasture, far away from the nearest house. The property fronts the bay and is bordered on one side by a laguna that used to drain out to the ocean but is now sealed up into a pond that keeps stray animals from enteri
ng our yard.
The village is mostly farmers, fishermen, and tradespeople. The public guagua bus rattles its way over the mountain three times a week. It weaves through town, picking up passengers, passing the butcher shop over by the river, the tiny post office, the police station with its two officers and a three-legged dog, a clínica with a part-time doctor, and two grocery stores.
Instead of a nice concrete home with tile floors and rooms for servants—like other plantation owners in bigger towns build—our home will be small, with no servants, and it will be made entirely of aluminum. A neighbor sniffs and rolls his eyes. “Aluminio?” Daddy assures the doubters it will be as solid as concrete, and hurricane-proof.
While we wait for the house sections to arrive, we rent a cottage owned by someone from the capital who only visits Miches a few times a year. Don Elpidio, a local farmer we meet soon after moving in, whispers to Daddy over rum one night that the owners are mala gente, bad people. He makes a gesture with his hand, mimicking a slash across his throat. Daddy laughs. Mama is busy talking to his wife, Doña Selenia, and doesn’t seem to hear the men’s conversation. Berta is playing cards with their daughter Carmen, and they giggle as Berta tries to explain the rules of “Fish.” I shift closer to Berta and beg her to let me play.
Berta waves me off at first. “You’re too little.”
“I’m not.”
“Déjala jugar,” Carmen says. Let her play. Berta rolls her eyes but gives me some cards. I stick my tongue out at her. Then we both laugh and I forget about the bad people who own this house. The next morning I overhear Daddy repeating what Don Elpidio had said the night before—that our rented house belongs to two brothers who work for El Jefe, Trujillo himself. The dictator’s full title is His Excellency Generalísimo Doctor Rafael Leonidas Trujillo, Benefactor of the Republic, and he’s ruled the Dominican Republic for twenty years. It’s also okay to refer to him as El Jefe, The Chief. Mama and Daddy sit Berta and me down to tell us we are never, ever to speak badly about Trujillo or say anything at all about the government. But Don Elpidio says that the brothers who own our rented house are asesinos.
“I’m scared,” I whisper to Mama that night when she tucks me into bed.
“There’s nothing to be scared of.”
“But Berta says asesino means killer. Will they hurt us?”
“No, no.” Mama pats me on the head. “People like to talk about things they don’t understand. These men are more like special police, and I’m sure they don’t kill innocent people.” She pulls the mosquito netting closed. “Go to sleep now. Everything’s fine.” Berta, in her bunk, snorts under her breath as if she doesn’t believe Mama. I pull the web of netting around me and stare through my cocoon at the moonlight outside the window.
A TRUCK ARRIVES, bearing the metal sections that will become a house. The concrete foundation has already been laid. Sure enough, like Daddy promised, everything is aluminum—the posts, the roof, the walls, the windows, and the front and back doors. Daddy slices open one of the large cartons, pulling out one of several heavy sacks of fasteners. “See? Just like they said—five thousand nuts and bolts. That’s it—all we need to put this whole goddamn thing together.”
Within six days, we have a home—four small rooms with open passageways between them. The living room has a small dining table pushed against one wall. Mama rolls out the Peruvian rug made from llama wool that she’s had since the year my parents got married and spent two years in the Andes Mountain on a job site. Daddy builds all our furniture and paints everything the same shade of turquoise. Everything. Bed frames, chairs, table, dressers, mirror frames, and even a shelf in the bathroom. His chair, in Adirondack style with wide arms, takes up an entire corner of the living room, and we kids are not to sit in it.
The front porch is a concrete extension designed like a half moon, the media luna. For parties and dancing, Daddy says. One night, after the house is finished, Daddy and Mama crank up our wind-up Victrola record player. Lantern glow and the light of a full moon overhead make everything feel almost cozy.
“See?” Daddy crows. “This is the life.” He twirls Mama around to “When You’re Smiling,” a Perry Como song. He dips her back like the dancers on the cover of a tango record and points up at the moon. “All those working stiffs back in the States with their god-awful jobs and their boring lives—they don’t know what they’re missing.”
He starts to sing, in Spanish, the song he made up about Miches. “Ay, Miches, ay Miches, que linda es la vida aqui.” How pretty life is in Miches. Mama laughs and finishes her drink.
Berta and I rattle dishes in the kitchen, soaping and rinsing, washing away the rum that clings to the glasses. Most nights are not like this. Daddy is drinking more and more until his voice gets slurry and he yells at us before slumping off to bed. I’m beginning to dread the nighttime.
Mama plants zinnias and ferns in a neat border alongside the kitchen. The finishing touch is the porch step, which Daddy says we’ll build ourselves. Berta mixes the cement, and Mama and Daddy pour it into the wooden mold. When it’s almost dry, Berta and I leave our footprints in the hardening concrete. Mama takes her little finger and carves her and Daddy’s initials into a corner. Mama decides to call our house “Casalata” because when it’s all closed up it looks just like a tin can, or lata.
We have our first foreign visitors, members of the English consulate in Ciudad Trujillo, when they somehow hear about the Americans in this part of the island and find us. They’ve never seen a house like this. Daddy is dressed for company, in clean khaki shorts and a short-sleeved shirt. Usually he doesn’t bother wearing shirts at all, and he is brown from working outdoors. He raps on the metal wall. “It’s hurricane-proof. The locals here thought I was crazy when I told them what I was doing. I had a case of rum riding on this. With the road from El Seybo still mostly a donkey trail, no one could figure out how anyone could get a whole house over the mountain; they didn’t know about prefab. Needless to say, I won the bet here—the Micheros toasted us with a roast pig and a guitar concert by one of the best damn musicians I’ve ever heard.”
Mama is tall with crinkly blue eyes and soft brown hair with hints of gray. She has pinned her hair up and is wearing lipstick in honor of the guests. Her plaid shirt matches Daddy’s. She sends Berta to the kitchen to refill the plate of Saltine crackers and cheese our guests have emptied. I sit at the edge of the porch, playing jacks and listening to the chatter, when I hear one of the visitors remark how well behaved we children are.
“Well, with all our travels, they have to be,” my father says, leaning forward and lowering his voice. “We can take them anywhere. Hell, when I finished the London job there was a celebration at the Hotel Ritz—and the maître d’ said he couldn’t let us in because of the kids. I told him he wouldn’t hear a squawk out of them. Right, Emily?”
My mother nods, but she also shakes her head in my direction, like she’s trying to tell Daddy something. I wonder what she’s trying to say, but Daddy doesn’t see her gesture. He swigs a glass of rum like it’s water, then slides his glass over to Mama for another one.
I bounce the hard rubber ball and pick up a jack as a faint memory, a little fuzzy around the edges, comes into focus. It’s a rainy day in a noisy big city—London—and the whole family is dressed up and eating lunch. I stare in wonder at what looks like a sky full of gold stars all bunched together and hanging down from a very high place, the stars bursting out of sparkling branches. A chandelier, Mama calls it.
I squash an ant that’s climbing up on one of the jacks.
“So what’s your secret?” our visitor asks Mama, swatting at a fly. Mama opens her mouth but Daddy answers.
“Oh, it’s no secret, really. See, children—they’re like horses. You just have to break their spirit when they’re young. Then they don’t give you any trouble.” Daddy lights a cigarette, taking a long drag. He slurps some more rum then takes the guest by his arm and says, “Here, I’ll show you the view from our dock
. Prettiest harbor you ever saw.”
Mama looks down and doesn’t say anything. Berta stands in the doorway, frowning. She tugs at a strand of hair so hard she pulls it out. My stomach hurts, like the time the jeep that brought us over the mountain hit a deep gully where the road was all washed out. I don’t really understand the business about horses, or what a spirit is—maybe a ghost?
That night I dream about broken bones that won’t grow back right, ever. I wake crying from the nightmare, and Berta holds me, saying, “Shhh, you just had a bad dream.”
I am afraid to move, in case I can’t, but my arms and legs seem to work just fine.
Chapter Two
Tropical Storms
On mornings like this, after a rare night that Daddy hasn’t yelled at us, Mama talks with a smile in her voice. Sleep softens Daddy’s edges, like when I take my finger and blur the charcoal line on a drawing. A lopsided grin changes his face as he plays with me. I look like Daddy, lanky, with his brown eyes that droop just a bit at the ends, and my smile is wide like his too. Daddy likes to paint watercolors, and when I show an interest in art, he sends for a paint-by-number set from a store in the capital. He shows me how just the right amount of blue and yellow becomes the perfect green of a coconut frond.
I fetch the mail every day—the daily newspaper and the few letters that find their way to us from Mama’s sister, Aunt Betty. Mama sits on the porch in the morning with a cup of coffee and a cigarette, mending a torn shirt or making a new set of napkins. Her stitches are tiny, almost as straight as if she’d taken her work to the village seamstress with the foot-pedal Singer machine. Sometimes when Daddy is away by himself at the finca, she writes long letters to her sister. Some of the village ladies come to visit Mama in the afternoons. She serves them lemonade and cookies, but their visits aren’t very long because Mama’s not much for gossip. This irritates Doña Titina, who is always full of rumors or scandalous news, such as when a neighbor took a machete to her husband when she caught him with another woman or when the town drunk fell into the ocean and almost drowned. She says it like it was funny but it makes me shiver.
The Coconut Latitudes: Secrets, Storms, and Survival in the Caribbean Page 1