TRAVEL MEMOIR

Faking My Way Around The Dominican Republic

And the Oscar goes to… ME

The banging on the door ripped me from my coma-like sleep. I was still fully dressed. So disoriented, I didn’t know where I was or what was happening. The room had an amber glow as the last shards of dusk flickered through the billowy curtains. Then it clicked. Matteo…

He was a no-show for my airport pick-up earlier that day and I was royally pissed off. So much for falling into each other’s arms again. I’d played that scene out in my head for the past six weeks since we last saw each other.

He sauntered past me, all exasperated, taking my hand and pulling me into the room as the door slammed behind us.

“Bella, Bella! I’m so sorry! I got caught up and my phone died. I was so worried about you!” he said as he kissed my cheek.

My cheek. Was he for real? Who was I, his mother?

I was disjointed as my head throbbed and my vision blurred from the onslaught of jetlag. Not that I knew what it was until that moment. My mouth was dry, I couldn’t form any words. Like a dehydrated deer in the headlights.

“Come. I’m taking you out to dinner. You’ll meet my friends. A couple, they just had baby, like you.” He smiled.

My baby was nineteen, and she could hold her own. His friends were not like me.

I’m not sure why I held back from ripping him a new arsehole, but my gut told me I needed to be cautious. I played along and pretended to believe him.

“Well, I had an interesting time with your friends in Miami,” I said a little too snappy through the gravel in my mouth.

According to his friends, Matteo was an FBI informant, a rat. He was exiled and never allowed to return as part of a deal he’d cut with them to keep himself out of jail. After that bomb drop, I almost took the first plane back to Sydney but we’d been drinking so I assumed they were joking.

His eyes narrowed and a look came over him I hadn’t seen before. I felt a sudden chill in the balmy air. What was going on? I’d been planning this moment for weeks and it didn’t look like this.

Tread carefully, the voice in my head whispered.

“Bella,” the look vanished and he was back. “I hope you didn’t believe those bastardos! Storytellers and liars, all of them!”

Yeah, they’re not the only ones.

He didn’t ravish me before going to dinner, didn’t even try. He was not the Matteo I remembered.

I’d been in the Dominican Republic less than twenty-four hours and I knew instinctively I was in trouble.

At the restaurant sitting directly opposite me, she was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. And coming from Miami, that was saying something. She looked like Rihanna. Her smile made my heart flutter and I didn’t even bat for that team. Her style was classy and cool, she looked every bit the rockstar. I noticed all the women did as I scanned the upscale restaurant.

Third-world boundaries didn’t touch this part of the city. Was I really in the same country or were jetlag and Matteo playing tricks on me?

Old insecurities started taking shape and sparked a pang of anxiety. I felt intimidated and self-conscious like my style was suddenly outdated. I was an amateur in comparison to the exotic creatures surrounding me.

Fuck. FUCK!

I can’t lose my shit in this place. A mental breakdown had to wait. I needed my wits and I’d need an Academy Award performance to get me through this situation.

Rihanna didn’t speak a word of English. It was going to be a long night.

Her husband, a young Tony Soprano look-a-like, was rugged and stylish. He exuded a magnetism fit for a gangster boss, and his energy was warm and welcoming. He made Matteo look like a boy scout, a silly kid brother at best.

Oh geez, what must they be thinking, is all that was going through my mind.

They spoke Spanish, as almost everyone did in the Dominican. All I could do was smile, like a performing monkey. I wish I understood what Matteo was saying, even his body language was off. They kept glancing at me like I was a lost puppy, full of sympathy for what I didn’t know.

Tony spoke broken English and engaged well in conversation. He was translating for his wife who looked bored and disinterested. Tony seemed kind and genuine, which only made me wonder what they were doing with someone like Matteo.

I went back to my room alone after dinner. And as the penny dropped deeper, I cried myself to sleep.

The next morning, I had to pull myself together. Plans had been made with Tony and Rihanna and I was surprisingly relieved. The less alone time with Matteo the better. I was stunned at the turn of events, but I was sixteen thousand kilometres from home and had to get a grip. I was going to make the most of it even if it killed me. That probably wasn’t off the cards.

Tony picked me up in his BMW. Matteo sat shotgun while I took my place in the back. Rihanna was home with the baby, which was probably less tiring than trying to talk to me. The whole thing was bizarre. I felt like an unwanted relative. But Tony went out of his way for me. Proud of his adopted country, his intentions were obvious. I was a visitor and that meant showing me the best of the Dominican. He was a lifeline I wasn’t expecting.

Cafes, shopping malls, bars, and nightclubs, wherever we went Tony was treated like a king. It was clear Matteo was his lapdog, a try-hard riding on Tony’s coattails. But he was so far out of Tony’s league he didn’t even know he was the sidekick.

Fuckwit.

I’d known men like Tony before, humble, respectful, a businessman with integrity. So, it didn’t take me long to realise he was probably a drug lord.

I played the clueless card and knew how not to overplay it. I may have looked like a dumb blonde to the likes of Matteo, but I knew this game. It’s a fine line between oblivious and awareness, a careful balancing act that you don’t fuck up. One wrong move and you’re fish food.

I had to keep my wits on high alert. Act normal. Be the tourist.

I arranged outings and shopping sprees when Tony wasn’t with us. The thought of alone time in the bedroom with Matteo made me cringe. So much for the sex-fest of my life! I was doing all I could to avoid intimacy, acting like an overzealous tourist on speed.

Matteo played along. I was probably making it easy for him. How dumb did he think I was? I felt like his sister, not a lover! And an embarrassing sister at that.

I was the one who should have been embarrassed. He was an egotistical womanizing player with no filter. A shameless flirt, big talker, all ego, a fucking arsehole. By day three he made my skin crawl.

So this is what paradise looks like

“Marcia, I have house, north in Rio San Juan — or Cabrera, I can’t remember. We leave Santo Domingo, few days, I show you real paradise.” Tony said.

Sign me up. I’m there. If only we could lose the dipshit.

It was a road trip straight from the pages of National Geographic. I was awestruck, no acting necessary.

We passed shanty towns that weaved through thick jungle. Barefoot kids kicked footballs along dirt roads while women hung washing on vines between trees. It was like every documentary I’d ever seen. The road led to a coastline so pristine it took my breath away. It was everything I dreamed it would be, minus the romance.

I remember walking along the beach one afternoon, white sand for miles. Tears stung my eyes and rolled down my cheeks as the reality of my circumstances sunk in further.

There I was in a tropical paradise, walking alone on the most beautiful beach I’d ever seen, while fuckface went for a run — code for cruising the resort up ahead, seeing which brown-skinned beauty he could conquer in under thirty minutes.

Sadness wrapped its ugly arms around me, and I thought of my ex-husband of all things. How we dreamed of a place like that. Being in paradise together, drinking in the sun. He would’ve held my hand without embarrassment. I’d never felt more alone in my life.

Later that night Matteo and Rihanna were busy cooking in the kitchen. She was giggling and he was prancing around — the guy seriously needed sedation. Tony and I sipped drinks while we played cards out of earshot.

“Marcia, you are sophisticated beautiful mature woman, you should not waste time with Matteo. He’s idiot, child, not your level. Your man is waiting in the future.”

I almost burst out crying. It was the kindest thing I’d heard since leaving home. I felt an instant connection to this stranger, the drug lord. He saw me. He knew the truth of what was happening. He may have even been psychic.

Three years later I would meet the man he spoke of, but at the time I just felt hopeless.

I decided to leave the Dominican early. I had to get away from Matteo and his split personalities. I was disgusted, not only with him but with myself for allowing it to happen.

I was ashamed of being taken in by a con man.

From sadness to silent rage, I’d go back to Miami and party my arse off. I’d hook up with his friends and try to salvage what was left of my failed holiday. I wasn’t sure how to escape without raising suspicion. Matteo seemed unimpressed with Tony’s affection towards me. I had a feeling my visit wasn’t playing out how he expected. His plans had gone haywire since the couple outstayed their welcome.

When we got back to Santo Domingo, I took action.

“Matteo, I’m so sorry but I’m wanted back at work urgently. There is a crisis and I’m the only one who can sort it. I must leave tomorrow.”

I’ll be writing my acceptance speech later.

I worked as a customer service supervisor in a swimwear company. How bad could it get, honestly?

Matteo’s look of shock wasn’t fake. First time for everything.

“Bella, no. I’ve booked a day cruise tomorrow. It’s the Caribbean! You can’t leave till you see this island! Just us. It be nice to have a proper goodbye, if you must go…” And the fake smile was back again.

My flight back to Miami was nine pm that night, we’d be back by five he promised. I saw no way out. At least we’d be in public.

The catamaran was enormous and packed to the rafters. I must have stood out like Dolly Parton on a Pirate ship. There was no going under the radar. Determined to enjoy my last day, I didn’t care that Matteo was ignoring me.

I sat alone as the warm breeze and sprays of sea salt whipped my hair. I saw him in the distance, on the prowl, making a group of young Jamaican beauties laugh. They looked younger than my daughter. He was in his element — piece of fucking work this guy!

I should’ve rescued them, but they probably didn’t speak English.

I felt humiliated and exposed. People knew we’d arrived together. I bet the captain thought I was his sugar mummy. Matteo had said something to him as we boarded, and the captain looked at me like I was dessert. He was shady as shit, so was the crew. They probably were pirates.

We stopped for lunch on an island that appeared out of nowhere. Like a life-sized perfect 3-D image had been plonked down in the middle of the ocean. I couldn’t find the words to express the beauty of it, not that it mattered. Dickhead was still with the girls, not a care in the world for my safety.

The heat was unbearable, but I didn’t strip down to my bikini like all the other women. I didn’t wear a bikini. I preferred a full piece. I already looked like an albino in comparison to the voluptuous dark beauties, even though my tan was golden. Their bikinis were nothing more than strategically placed string so I may as well have been wearing a wet suit.

I decided to sit under a tree and pretend I was in pain. I would drink the delicious vats of punch instead and drown my pathetic sorrows. That was mistake number ninety-eight on my Caribbean disaster cruise and my nightmare Dominican romance.

I made my flight back to Miami with minutes to spare. Matteo offered to drive me to the airport. I don’t know why, a last attempt at chivalry because I was leaving early perhaps. Did he suddenly grow a conscience? Not fucking likely. I told him work had already arranged transfers, no need to worry. I felt like I’d dodged a bullet as my taxi left him in the rearview. I’d never felt so relieved to be leaving a tropical island.

I didn’t want to end up as shark bait in the Caribbean, so I said nothing about the FBI or anything else I’d learned in Miami.

It was seven days of the best acting performance of my life. I would have won the award for Best Actress in a Nightmare Documentary Feature, hands down!

Thank you for taking the time to read my story. I write for you, dear reader — and to remember, just in case I get dementia one day.

My heartfelt thanks to Darren Weir for his expert editing and endless advice. He has polished this to perfection.

© Marcia Abboud 2024