Morning In Luperon

Very little happens here in Luperon. I heard a woman’s girlfriend got deported last week. I plan to look into that. Maybe there's some news here after all. But for now, this is all you get…… 
Dawn pierces the low, wispy clouds nestled under the distant mountains, shattering the stillness of the harbor. The blood red sun rises, pouring its heat into every hatchway and crevice as swarms of no-see-’ums hover around the window screens; a few manage to float through the webbing and leave their mark. An hour slowly passes until, mercifully, the trade winds appear. Our boat cautiously swings around to greet the morning breeze, placing our stern in the elusive shade. We creep out, coffee cups in hand and perch ourselves facing the tall western hilltops to take stock of the new day. A few fisherman who were up before the dawn lazily row back into the harbor with their meager catch drying on the worn floorboards of their faded wooden boats. Over on the docks, generators sputter to life, belching black soot into the crisp, salt air while motorcycles roar up and down the long pier loaded with gear. Salsa music drifts down from the town carried by the smoke of the cooking fires. Off in the distance, small scattered clumps of brush blaze in the low northern hills. A pall settles over the valley that’s quickly extinguished by the strengthening wind. 
We shoo fat flies away from a plate of yesterdays left-over fruit and swallow ripe slices that add to the sweetness of the coffee. Once satisfied, we load our packs, cast off in our dingy and venture across the bay into town where we steal through the dusty streets seeking shade while answering the townspeople’s morning hellos.
We fend off the hawkers as we carefully examine fresh papayas, mangoes and avocados. Some of us visit the bank while others breakfast; all of us buy beers. A low rumble sounds from off in the distance. Dark clouds emerge from the shadowy peaks that jut up from deep in the interior. We measure our day via their slow march towards us. A rusted truck pulls up across from our morning roosting spot and offloads a whole pig. Within minutes it’s dismembered. The chunks sizzle in a huge caldron that blocks the narrow sidewalk, staining the clothes of anyone who ventures too close.
The sun journeys upwards as its searing waves ripple over the low tin roofs. In no time, it is noon. Shop shutters slam shut. Traffic disappears. The aroma of rice, beans and plantains emanate from within the dark doorways, as the sun strikes its full fury down on those unwise enough to remain outdoors.
I sit sipping a beer while a bar girl hustles me for another. She’s missing three of her upper teeth. The cooling breeze of the fan halts during another blackout. My glass sweats out its chill in the still, humid air. A dog with a broken foot limps by, holding its twisted paw slightly above the rutted dirt road. It scurries to the side as a cart motors by brimming with green coconuts, driven by a man with one leg. I hold up one finger. He brakes to a halt. Grabbing the side, he hops on his remaining leg to the bed. His machete expertly amputates the top of the husk. Ice cubes from a large white bucket are added. A spoonful of sugar is stirred in. He hands me the shell and offers a straw along with a smile.