Eco Lodge – Rustic Accommodations and Mental Rot

There is this thing that Brits say to indicate that kids aren’t going to go to school for a couple of days. I don’t think it is “midterm” since that has a specific meaning for Americans. It might be “half-term,” but that sounds silly. But whatever it is, that’s what we had last weekend, and we took advantage of it to get out of Dodge and stay at an eco-lodge that was described to us as rustic.

I know, I know, “you had me at rustic.”

There is something fun about arriving at a hotel and being unsure who works there—or if anyone works there at all. When our navigation system gave up on us, we searched around for some indication of which way to go and found one in the form of a tired scrap of wood that used to say “eco-lodge.” We left our car at a haphazard angle amidst the disorder and wandered down the encouragingly well-manicured path. This led us directly past the un-attended covid sanitization station, through the “restaurant,” and straight to the railing overlooking the whole north coast.

In my younger years, I might have been troubled that there didn’t seem to be anyone here, that the bar was unattended, and that by some definitions, we were trespassing. But I’m well past that now. I was comfortably sitting staring at the sea, the kids were playing chess, and I was musing about whether or not the refrigerator contained cold beer before someone finally wandered in and said hi.

He didn’t introduce himself or seem to work there.

But he did ask to play the next chess game. I eventually asked if he knew who to get beer from, and he popped up and got one for me himself—ah, so he does kind of work here. In time, it came out that he was the owner’s son-in-law, which likely created his enjoyable, relaxed demeanor. He was not worried about the business or getting fired, but he was concerned about losing a chess game to our son.

Eventually, the lord of the manor presented himself. I was still smiling in acceptance of the piece of paper on which I was supposed to tally how many beers I helped myself to when he informed us that he didn’t have a cook for dinner. He balked at the idea that we would drive to town and instead insisted that we—he clearly meant Holly—cook dinner in the kitchen. Seth helped, and they created something he calls “Bhorlobhock.” It’s okay; you’ve never heard of it. He made it up.

But during our stay, it was the best thing that came out of that kitchen.

After the Bhorlobhock was finished and the last beer of the night was tallied up, the chess-playing son-in-law escorted us to our room, which was charming. However, it didn’t seem to be the room we booked. I definitely did not select a room with only one twin bed for the three boys to share. No, we were assured there was also a loft. Yes, up there, with no railing and holes in the floor that led to the closet and toilet. Yeah, great.

In the interest of our progeny surviving to a marriageable age, we decided they should not sleep up there. Instead, we wrapped them up on the porch sofas and hammock. Which was perfect; they thought the whole thing was a fun adventure, and I didn’t have to worry about a child falling to his death in the middle of the night. Win-win!

But by the third night, it was hard to see some of the boys through the layer of bug bites, and we decided sleeping outside was no longer going to work. So we concluded that we adults should sleep in the loft. We have life insurance, after all. And the boys have learned that if we die, they get to live with their aunt and uncle—so they are always encouraging us to do dangerous things.

But I have to say, going to the bathroom in the middle of the night, entirely by feel, in darkness so thorough you can’t see your hand in front of your face, down the rickety hand-made ladder, around the structural post, to the bathroom and back again, I’ve never been so relieved to be again ensconced in mosquito netting. As though its fibrous stands could save me from plummeting to our next hospital visit.

Rustic has many definitions.

But rustic was not how the lodge described itself—that was the disclaimer applied by the gentleman who recommended the place. The lodge called itself “eco.” Which means something, I guess. Merriam Webster gives it two definitions:

1. habitat or environment
2. ecological or environmental

So, yeah, whatever. But this is where it gets fun. Eco comes from the Greek word for ‘house.’ Which is fantastic. Yup, this was an eco-lodge, which is to say it was a house-lodge. Which means we were able to stay there. Beyond that, I’m not sure that it claims a lot on the eco spectrum. Maybe the fact that the shower was mostly outdoors, or that lizards and insects let themselves into the rooms a will. I guess that is eco.

Mostly I think that having the moniker ‘eco’ allows you to charge extra money for the same service. I’m not speaking exclusively about our stay last weekend but about many such businesses. And don’t get me started on the word ‘green!’ You can bathe in petroleum and light rainforests on fire for fun, but as long as your business has the word ‘green’ in its name, we all assume that you are singlehandedly saving the planet for future generations.

Okay, we’re getting off-topic. We went to a lodge for the weekend. We saw some nature, we really did.

In fact, the highlight of time at the lodge was our guided hike to and through nature. A local named Juanin slowly and patiently strolled us through his little slice of paradise. He indicated his house on top of a nearby hill from one lonely bend in the road; his grandfather built it eighty years ago. He named every plant we passed, greeted every person by name, and showed us the field—now a cow pasture—where he used to play baseball as a child. He picked a dozen or more plant leaves and fruits for us to try and overfilled our backpack with more to take home. He spoke comfortably about the Dominican Republic and was curious about other places we had been.

From the kids’ perspective, Jaunin won when the jungle opened up a bit, and they found a startlingly blue waterfall and pond that he invited them to jump into. It was off the beaten path, not on any map I could find, and absolutely beautiful. Importantly, from my perspective, he was willing to converse slowly and patiently, always understanding of my limited Spanish. Juanin is an absolute joy as a guide and as a person. I’m grateful to have met him.

So one can quibble about whether or not our lodge was eco or not, and you can debate the merits thereof. Further, you can wax poetic about places being rustic and consider whether that is a virtue or a failing. But at the end of it all, we got away for a couple of days to a lovely place with interesting people.

And that’s just it, isn’t it? That is what we miss as much as anything. Until the world shut down, my toothbrush had been in a different place every two days or so. And this simple variation forced me to use my brain enough to keep it from turning to mush. But for the last year—yes, this all started a full year ago—my toothbrush tends to be in the same place every morning, and I can almost hear my frontal lobe beginning to rot. But this ‘rustic’ lodge—this two-day break from routine, complete with a toilet-inspired, middle-of-night near-death experience, pushed back my cerebral decay for at least a week.

Now, what to do next week…

PS … and let’s not talk about how the host “as a matter of principle” does not include tax, service charge, booking fees, or credit card processing fees into his advertised price—nearly doubling the agreed-upon price. Yeah, let’s not talk about that.