Iguana Mama - Mountain Biking, Hiking & Ecological Adventures

Jan Reynolds goes off the beaten track with El Mama in the beautiful untamed Dominican Republic
Mountainbiking UK
November, 1998
By Jan Renolds

Jolted to a halt, I stopped in my tracks. It was sheer beauty...a leasurely freewheel down to where the river ran through the valley below. To the German Missile on wheels, however, it was a challenge. He mutated into a whiff of sweat as he streaked past. He plunged into the water with enough speed to divide the river. As he fell, he flung his bike sideways underneath him and sprayed a sheet of water higher than any water-skier.9.9,8,9.9...

The lady doing her laundry at the water's edge was surprisingly unperturbed, as if crashing MTBing Germans were a common sight.

Which was a little odd... Mountain biking has only recently been introduced to the Dominican Republic by a woman known as Iguana Mama from the United States. Mrs Mama has trained local mechanics in the art of bike repair, blagged some cool bikes from an American company and started her own business called Iguana Mama Bike Shop. Having been a canoe and mountain guide, as well as a ski instructor, I don't often take tours, I like to sniff things out on my own. But after meeting the Mama, she persuaded me to ride with her international crew in the Cibao Valley.

Just as a good hostess should never try out a new recipe on her guests, a good tour operator should never deviate from the tested route with her clients... but not the Mama. She knew she had a cocky crew and she wanted to see if she could push it.

Soon we were doing garland-type loops through remote areas on bumpy ancient limestone cobbled roads. We didn't know which way to look: great ocean views one side, glimpses of unspoiled lives the other. The locals were entertained to see us blaze down the singletrack. But they were far more entertained to see us try to crawl our way up their incessant hills.

I'd just been searching my female body for any trace testosterone to help me pass a couple of guys up the last hill, and was enjoying the ride down the other side. Usually holding back on downhills, I'd let it rip because I didn't want my oxygen indebted thighs to have to work so hard up the next. Suddenly, a tribe of little smiles attached to small, wiry bodies jumped out of the bushes. The local kids stood beaming as they lined up along the roadside, hands high, palms facing out in eager expectation... not for money, just for a row of friendly high fives. I gingerly lifted my hand off the handlebars, diminishing braking options, and whapped 'um all hard like a set of dominoes. Whipping my head around I saw them all dancing and lining up for the next hit. I'd expected to see them spinning like revolving doors, with me sliding out of control across the road as I ate ancient ocean bottom.

We rode to a pool under a waterfall - some jumped the 30 feet from the top, others slid into the water, dissolving any sweat that hadn't already evaporated in these 70-80 degree temperatures and constant breezes.

We hit the main road after about three hours, heading for dinner at Cabarete - our home base while on the island. We dreamed of eating the sweet fruit passion, papaya, mango... We rolled into the Blue Moon, an Indian-owned, open-air feasting parlour, ready to eat our trusty bikes if necessary.

It wasn't. The food at this place won't blow your socks off... instead it will peel them off sumptuously, slowly and seductively. The waiters serve you as you lie on pillows, talking in hushed voices by candlelight. Sounds like a dream... I pinched myself: it was real.

I'd heard Iguana Mama mention Pico Duarte, the Caribbean's highest peak here on the island, and I wanted to go there. Apparently, riding the 10,000 foot peak wasn't an option, and wheeling to the base alone coud prove to be quite an adventure.

The mountain people had a small cluster of tiny, rustic homes at the foot of the mountain where they harvested cabbagess. There was very meagre trail access to the area; nothing a mountain bike couldn't cope with. The Mama set us up to ride to Pico Duarte with an avid group consisting of an ex-American football star, Canada's ex-national hockey goalie, a sporthead BMW racer and ski-racing girlfriend. And me.

Because we had a day to kill before the big ride, and Cabarete offers everything from world class windsurfing, fishing, surfing, whale watching, diving, bird watching, caving, sea kayaking... We all decided to try a brand-new venture called Get Wet. The idea was to do something other than ride to save our legs for the uphill ride to Pico Duarte.

Armed with wet suits and helmets, we abseiled into virgin territory, a steep river canyon, never logged becaue the only way down was over the cliffs on a rope. From there we swam the river, jumped off cliffs, explored caves, and abseiled down 200-feet waterfalls.

What I found humourous, and kept to myself, as I leaned out over the cliff to see what was going on, was Guntar, our massive guide, drilling bolts. No one had ever peeled out over this cliff before. At the bottom, everyone said the piss scared out of them warmed their wet suits nicely. We had bonded through fear, and it looked like riding together would be a breeze after this.

We started our ride under hot sun on a blacktop road. Sweaty, hard work for hours. The views were inspiring as we rose, with the road edge falling off into cliffs down to rivers lined with lush verdant banks.

At a natural breaking point, I stopped at a gathering of local people, vehicles and donkeys. I sniffed around and found a cock fight going on. There was heavy betting, even an official ring, with a referee announcer. I also noticed a plethora of policemen, some of whom were collecting side arms...

The next day, we ventured through the Dia Duarte. Rolling flats lulled us for about an hour as we dodged chickens, cows and donkeys. Eventually, we came to the entrance of a relatively new park set around the base of Pico. It's good to hear that a percentage of the land has been set aside as National Parks. The DR is environmentally militant - you must get government permission to chop down a tree or risk a week in jail.

Here, the road turned to the classic coral, limestone mixture. When wet, I was told this made the base for the mud-walled homes. Before long, we stopped to loll in a stream, soak our feet and eat in this coffee, tobacco, and banana country.

Soon I began to feel the heat and the effort, and I noticed everyone else was too. But now we were in fairy land... Stunted trees formed natural fence posts for the fields; streams were cool and plentiful, and any time we passed a remote plantation peope would run out and watch, or even follow along for a few minutes.

In the warm rich glow of the late afternoon light. I rode by the immense cabbage fields with Goalie Girl, waving back to the locals tossing the cabbages they'd just picked. Everyone was content, if not a bit giddy from the long, full day of riding. But we finally arrived at the base. As the sun disappeared and we were engulfed by shadows, we built a huge bonfire which drew out the local kids. Someone put on a merengue tape in a battery-operated deck. Small kids were dancing in pairs in wild rhythm. They must have been dancing in the crib to be this good.

The kids all took us as partners and began teaching us Gringos. Then hot chambre, a local stew of seafoods, roots and tubers, which sounds weird but tastes incredible, was served. The woman, nursing her ninth child, had cooked it up. Most of us crashed around the fire after local rum-inspired stories. These people know how to have a good time.

The descent the next morning was fast and hilarious. Rain, drizzle and mud changed the picture. I now understood how the coral and limestone could make mud houses. When this hard stuff gets wet, it's Slime City, Wipeoutsville. The slick red mud sucks you in, then slides you out We were all dark red and dripping with mud hours later at the rancho, where Trish our Maama came to pick us up, knackered but eager.

This republic was created for one hell of a good time. I'll be happy to come back to Mama.

The cuisine is a world mix... The local traditional food is mainly rice and beans with either chicken or beef, or plantains which are like green bananas, either boiled, fried, or mashed. Antonio, with his beach side restaurant named after him, double roasts his own home grown coffee, which makes for the best eye opener. Pescador and Mireau's will stuff you with seafood and euro-Californian cuisine, respectively. For a fantasia of tastes take the half hour ride to the hill to the Blue Moon and eat off your own banana leaf while reclining on cushions.

If you're partial to fish, watch out for ciguataria. Fish that live in the mangrove or eat off the reefs can carry disese which affects your nervous system. Total recovery is normal but the wait can be painful. Shellfish are safe and there are plenty of them.

Flight prices vary from month to month - available from most major and regional airports. A flight between the end July - mid Sept with Unijet (0870 511 4114) is approx £599. From the beginning of May - mid May it drops to around £387. Most tour operators charge a suppliment if your visit is for more than 2 weeks.

The currency is pesos, and there's no limit, but British travellers are advised to bring US dollars (exchange rates when going to press were £1=21.70 pesos/£1=$1.6073).

*You MUST see a doctor before you go to see if you need injections/to take tablets for: hepatitis, malaria, typhoid, tetanus.

*You travel into the country on a tourist card. It can either be bought from the airport in Puerto Plata for around $10, or obtained from the Dominican Tourist board in London. There's also a $10 departure tax. Most tour operators include both in their prices.

Rides are a mix of roads, paved, dirt, jeep/farm trails, singletrack. Find loops to do, you have to do sections of paved stuff to get to most places from the cost, but the paved roads over the high country have lots of cool dirt roads and trails running off. The red clay/volcanic dirt is slick when wet.

Trish, the owner of Iguana Mama Tours, knows everybody on the island so she can arrange for caving, surfing, windsurfing, white-water rafting, horseback riding, scuba diving, whale watching and a whole lot more. The Nanny Estates have condos with a couple of bedrooms and hot views. You are right on the beach and they have their own pool, bar and restaurant.

Tel: 001 809 571 0908 or Fax: 001 809 571 0734 or e-mail: info@iguanamama.com or visit her website: http://www.iguanamama.com/. The Dominican Republic Embassy can be reached on 0891 600260, or at 139 Inverness Terrace, London W2 6JF