Despite his cocolo background, Griffin spoke little English and lived a lonely existence in America, away from family and friends for the first time. For three years in the minors he got occasional starts with the Indians. In his first major-league at-bat, in 1976, he got a hit. The following winter he went back to San Pedro, to the Estrellas, where he developed skills as a switch-hitter. The ability to bat either left- or right-handed is a great advantage, because pitchers usually do better against batters who bat on the side from which they throw. A switch-hitter can bat on the opposite side no matter who is pitching, so Griffin returned from San Pedro a more valuable hitter.

After three years in which he played only occasionally, Griffin was traded to the Toronto Blue Jays for Victor Cruz. According to legend, Epy Guerrero stole him. But the truth is that the Blue Jays simply made a great trade. Cruz had been an excellent relief pitcher for Toronto, and Toronto fans could not understand why the Blue Jays would give up a top pitcher for an unknown who was not greatly appreciated in Cleveland.

But Griffin was noticed immediately in his new home. When the press saw him working out in 1980, he became the talk of spring training. They used words like "smooth" and "ballet of the infield" to describe his defensive skills. His first year in Toronto-his first complete season playing, because Cleveland had kept sending him down to the minors-Griffin won Rookie of the Year, the coveted Jackie Robinson t.i.tle.

When a young man from San Pedro got his hands on Major League Baseball money, he almost always did something for his family, and especially his mother. But in Griffin's day a signing bonus wasn't enough. Griffin did not see money until Toronto; once he had his first full season there, he built a large house for Mary Griffin on Carty Street in Consuelo. Later he put some earnings into a long gray stone house with a fountain in Rico Carty's newly developed neighborhood in central San Pedro.

Over an eighteen-season major-league career, Griffin became known as a reliable hitter, a fast enough runner to score numerous triples, a nearly unstoppable base stealer, and a smooth-handed, award-winning infielder who played in several World Series for both Toronto and the Dodgers and then went on to be an infield coach for the California Angels. In between seasons he played for the Estrellas. He seemed to relish his winters back in San Pedro: his comfortable house, the music, and the discos-including the one he bought by the waterfront. He even enjoyed going back to Consuelo, where his mother still lived.

Griffin projected a different kind of image of a Dominican in the major leagues. He was known as a leader and a peacemaker, a player with the kind of temperament that holds ball clubs together. He always made a special effort to help rookie players adapt to the team. Griffin always insisted that this wasn't new for Dominicans and that Rico Carty had helped him. Among his prized baseball souvenirs was an autographed photo of the Beeg Mon. But the American press seemed not to notice that Griffin contradicted the stereotype: for them he was simply another Dominican. In a 2001 interview, Sports Collectors Digest even used Juan Marichal's old moniker, calling Griffin "a Dominican dandy."

Baseball became a serious enterprise all over San Pedro wherever there was poverty, which was almost everywhere. Epy Guerrero found another smooth shortstop in Barrio Restauracin, the one-story tin-roofed neighborhood of crumbling pavement behind the outfield wall of Tetelo Vargas Stadium. Tony Fernndez was one of the street urchins who shimmied up palm trees to watch the Estrellas play and to occasionally grab a fly ball for later use. Some would even bring a net to grab the flies. Fernndez played informal games along the side of the stadium with a sock, or a real ball if he could snag one. Today boys still play sock baseball in the same spot.

Fernndez also found work tending the stadium grounds, which made a boy well positioned to get b.a.l.l.s. The Estrellas called him "Cabeza," head, because they thought his head was too big. In reality, like a lot of Dominican kids, his body was too small. But Fernndez's head was also a great a.s.set: he had an understanding of the game that went far beyond his years.

Everyone knew Cabeza, and several scouts had their eyes on him. He tirelessly practiced fielding ground b.a.l.l.s and other infield skills. But the scouts' interest cooled when they learned that Fernndez had bone chips in one of his knees, a disabling condition: while injuries are part of the game, no one wants to start off with an injured prospect. Guerrero, who always had surprising ways to grab promising players, took Fernndez to a hospital in Santo Domingo and paid for the operation. After his recovery, Guerrero signed him.

Fernndez had a seventeen-season major-league career, one season less than Griffin. Fernndez was not only a great fielder but a solid hitter, known for his triples, and he was a smart and swift base runner. He was famous for a strange but impressive maneuver, the kind of flourish for which shortstops become popular: he would leap to catch the ball and, while still in midair, toss it underhanded to first base.

Julio Cesar Franco grew up in Consuelo playing with socks and milk cartons. His father's name was Robles, but Julio-like Alfredo Griffin and many other Dominicans-chose to use his mother's name. His father worked in the Ingenio Consuelo, pulling the carts that loaded cane into the grinder for 230 Dominican pesos a month. In those days the peso was worth almost a dollar. Later he got a better job as a welder earning 450 pesos a month, an excellent sugar-mill salary.

"It was everybody's ambition to make the majors," Franco recalled. But among the boys he grew up and played with in Consuelo, Franco was the only one who succeeded. There were a lot of games, especially on weekends, but very few programs in which a teenager could get training in baseball's many basic skills. However, he did manage to find a program run by a man named Antonio Garca, whom everyone knew as simply "El Chico." El Chico was known in Consuelo as a stern disciplinarian. He educated the San Pedro teenagers in the very American rules of the major leagues, including being on time. They would play two games a day. One week the games would be in Consuelo; the next week they would be held in downtown San Pedro, and the Consuelo players would walk miles to get there. The first game would start at nine a.m., and after the game there would be lunch at the home of someone who lived nearby-a player or a coach-before the second game at three p.m. In the early 1970s, food was inexpensive in San Pedro because it was an agricultural community. After the second game they would all walk back to Consuelo.

Most players didn't have gloves; when it was their team's turn at bat, the fielders who had them left their gloves at their positions so their counterparts could use them. The "rich" kid of the neighborhood was Carlos Rymer, not because his family was really wealthy but because he had relatives in New York who sent equipment. All of the players would use it, but if Carlos got mad he would take his equipment and leave, shouting, "Game over!" Rymer signed as a pitcher with the Atlanta Braves, but more than thirty years later Franco could not conceal his boyish glee when pointing out that Rymer never made it out of Atlanta's minor-league system. Then again, none of his other childhood teammates did either. Few do.

By Franco's time, Major League Baseball knew about San Pedro and the scouts were out looking. "If you were an outstanding player," he recalled, "word got around and you got recognized."

Franco "got recognized" by another legendary Dominican scout, Quiqui Acevedo. Acevedo was ready to sign him to the Philadelphia Phillies when Franco was seventeen. He was to stay in a hotel in Santo Domingo and begin his baseball training. But Franco's mother thought that he was too young to drop out of school and start his career. Yes, it was an opportunity, but he would not have an education, he would be taken away at a young age, and the odds were against his ever getting to the major leagues. Families in San Pedro were beginning to understand that most boys who got signed would not succeed.

But after three months, Julio's older brother, Vicente, persuaded their mother to let Julio go to Santo Domingo and take a chance at stardom. She agreed, only on the condition that Julio be brought back home every weekend. And so Franco signed with the Phillies for $4,000, which was only slightly less than what his father earned in a year on his good salary. Like most young Macorisanos who first get their hands on some Major League Baseball money, he gave it to his mother.

Franco trained at the University of Santo Domingo, "the oldest university in the Americas," he proudly pointed out many years later. George Bell, a lean but broad-shouldered and muscular kid from the Santa Fe sugar mill in San Pedro, was also there, as was Juan Samuel from Barrio Restauracin, where Tony Fernndez grew up. All were signed by Acevedo to the Phillies.

George Bell was born in a neighborhood near the Tetelo Vargas Stadium, but he grew up in Santa Fe, where his father was an engineer on a locomotive that carried the cane from the fields to the mill. In the dead season he worked in the mill as a mechanic. The Bell family, like Julio Franco's in Consuelo, had a modest but above-average income; in San Pedro they were considered middle-cla.s.s. Bell's father's salary of 360 pesos a month-minimum wage was 90-was the envy of most Santa Fe workers. The sugar mill provided them with a three-bedroom house for their family of seven. Franco's mother sold food to sugar workers out of her home.

George Bell was pure cocolo. His father's father was from the little British colony of Anguilla, where he had lived with a woman named Bell from the volcanic island of Montserrat, also British. According to family legend, Anguilla had so little that when Franco's paternal grandfather went to Santo Domingo to buy a machete and saw that the island was bigger and wealthier than his, he took a job cutting cane in San Pedro. His son, George's father, took George's paternal grandmother's name. George's mother's family was from Nevis, and George grew up speaking that uniquely San Pedro English with an accent that is part West Indian and part Spanish.

Bell said of his childhood in Santa Fe, "We played ball-any kind of ball." His father's first love was cricket. "I remember when I was eight years old, my dad took me to a baseball field to see a cricket match. He and his friends played a lot of cricket and a lot of golf." There was a golf course in Santa Fe for the sugar executives.

The boys of Santa Fe played a game they called cricket with a sock ball and four players in two-man teams: one to bowl and one to bat. The bowl was underhanded or sidearm, and there was an old license plate on the ground that served as a wicket. If the bowl hit the plate, you were out. There were three outs to a side. If you hit from one side to the other, it was a run. They played twelve-run games. A variation on this game, called plaquita and sometimes two-man baseball, is still played by the youth of San Pedro-cocolos as well as Spanish Macorisanos. They carve their own wooden cricket bats with machetes, the all-purpose tool of the cane fields.

When playing baseball, George always got hits and always won. He also boxed a little in the neighborhood-"Baseball and boxing were the only sports," he noted-and with his exceptionally strong body, athletic reflexes, and aggressive personality, it could have been said that he was a natural fighter. But Bell didn't like boxing as much as he liked baseball, and since his father played for and managed the sugar mill's team in Santa Fe, George grew up with it, starting as a batboy.

In the 1970s, television came to San Pedro, which meant the opportunity to watch American baseball broadcasts. The notable increase in top-ranked San Pedro players in the 1970s and 1980s was due to many factors; one was the fact that this was the first generation to grow up watching major-league games. If someone in the neighborhood had a television set, everyone would come over to see the game. In 1971 the Bells got a TV.

When George was fourteen years old, his family moved to a larger house in San Pedro. Just as the streets in Santo Domingo were a little tougher than those in San Pedro, the streets of central San Pedro were a little tougher than those of Santa Fe, Consuelo, and Angelina: if a teenage boy wandered into a different barrio, he would be jumped and beaten. There were no guns or knives, and Bell would say years later that it was not as dangerous as a poor neighborhood of New York, but he learned early on to stick to his own barrio, not go out alone, and concentrate on baseball.

In San Pedro, talented young players found other talented young players. Fifteen-year-old Bell came to know Tony Fernndez, the kid with the great hands and a bad leg who was always hanging around Tetelo Vargas Stadium practicing fielding ground b.a.l.l.s. Increasingly, San Pedro was a place to play baseball. Out in the cane fields or in the center of the city, there were baseball diamonds everywhere. On weekends, boys would play nine hours a day. According to Bell, about two of those hours were spent arguing about plays. But that, too, was baseball.

On weekends, instead of fighting, San Pedro boys who loved baseball would take on the next barrio in a series of five three-inning games. Each team contributed twenty pesos, and the losing team would go to the street stands and buy oranges, tropical fruit, ice cream-whatever treats they could find-and the two teams would have a party. To give themselves an incentive not to waste time bickering, the teams would give twenty pesos for the umpire to hold. If he decided that the boys were arguing too much, he could keep the money.

Bell's special talent was. .h.i.tting. When he was twelve years old, he was paid to hit on a team for sixteen-year-olds. As he got older he played for the Ingenio Santa Fe team against Julio Franco at Consuelo. Bell played second base, third base, and outfield. He loved third base, his father's position, but it demanded more fielding skills than he had. However, he was also drawn to the outfield, where his hero, Rico Carty, had played; in fact, Bell grew up to be a similar player: primarily a hitter. San Pedro was not just about shortstops.

Pedro Gonzlez watched Bell play for Santa Fe, thought he was an interesting prospect, and brought him to a program in San Pedro. But it was Quiqui Acevedo who signed him with the Phillies for a $3,500 bonus.

Young Sosa was only five feet, nine inches tall, and very thin, and Acevedo wondered if he was ever going to develop a major-league body. Julio Franco, George Bell, Juan Samuel, Jose Moreno . . . by 1980, they had all been shipped off from their training program in Santo Domingo to American ballparks-along with dozens of others who would never make it to the majors. Juan Samuel was another Macorisano who would make baseball history by being awarded the Rookie of the Year t.i.tle; in fact, he was the first player in history to reach double digits in doubles, triples, home runs, and stolen bases his first four seasons in the major leagues and was only one triple short of doing it again his fifth year.

Those four-Franco, Bell, Samuel, and Moreno-all had stellar major-league careers, even though leaving their island and living in America was not easy for any of them.

It was a bit easier for George Bell than the others because he was comfortable in English, but he was ill prepared for life in Helena, Montana, in 1978 when the Phillies sent him there. When the electricity went off he was not surprised, because electricity regularly goes off in San Pedro; but when the lights did not come back on, someone had to explain to him about paying an electric bill.

While a black man was fairly unusual in Helena in 1978, Bell said, "I didn't have the problems of black Americans because I was a Latino. Helena girls liked the way I spoke Spanish. The Latinos were not treated like the blacks. I walked down the streets, went into stores, people were nice, and the countryside was beautiful."

"It was okay for George Bell," said Julio Franco. "He spoke English and he was in Helena. I was in b.u.t.te. There were Latin guys in Helena but not b.u.t.te. In 1978, I went to spring training in Sarasota, Florida. There were Spanish-speaking people around. There was a pool and a Ping-Pong table and a pool table. It was really nice. Then they said we were going to Montana. I didn't even know where Montana was, but I looked out a window and saw snow on the mountains. I didn't even own a coat! It was freezing cold there."

In what was becoming something of a cliche for Dominican ballplayers, Franco often resorted to eating Kentucky Fried Chicken because it was easy to order. However, he also bought food and cooked in the dormitory where he was living. There was one Spanish-speaking player who knew English, a Puerto Rican named Carlos Caba.s.sa. He taught Julio to speak English and then things got a little easier. But one of the players went to a local disco one evening, "and the cowboys beat him up and then we weren't allowed to go there. We learned never to go out at all."

Sammy Sosa was born in a shack on a well-trimmed unpaved street in Consuelo. The small, crumbling, toffee-colored structure still stands, a different family occupying it, around the corner from F Street where Julio Franco was born in a house about the same size, number 14, which was why Julio always wore that number. Like many homes in the Dominican Republic, these had only occasional electricity and running water that was not drinkable. Sosa's father drove a tractor, clearing harvested cane fields. It was not as good a job as the ones inside the mill, but it was much better than cutting cane. Sammy's mother, like George Bell's, earned money cooking and selling food out of her home.

When Sammy was six, his father died of a cerebral hemorrhage. Sammy's mother tried hard to support her three children. They moved to Santo Domingo and then back to central San Pedro, where Sammy wandered the streets with a shoe-shine box, competing with hundreds of other poor kids in search of customers.

Sosa's brother Luis was a boyhood baseball fanatic, but not Sammy. His heroes were not Juan Marichal and Rico Carty but Sugar Ray Leonard and Marvin Hagler. Like Alfredo Griffin and many other boys, he had fought a great deal on the streets in Consuelo. When he got to central San Pedro, he discovered a boxing school and started working out on the bags and sparring. His mother convinced him to give it up.

When Sammy was thirteen, an American businessman in whose shoe factory he worked took a liking to him and brought him a gift from the United States: a blue glove that cost a hundred dollars. In his eighteen seasons in the major leagues, Sosa always played with a blue glove. He joined a youth organization team that played in a park named after Rico Carty. With his powerful throwing arm, he could accurately fire the ball to bas.e.m.e.n to tag out runners. He hit home runs. Some of the local experts watching these games did not believe he was only fourteen. Sosa had power but no skills, and predictably every hit went to deep right field. But a coach named Hector Peguero began teaching him how to change his leg position and swing a little early to hit the ball just before it arrived so that it would pop off to left field, a technique known as pulling the ball.

When Sosa was fifteen years old, Acevedo signed him to the Phillies and hid him away in Santo Domingo for training with some forty other prospects, most of them older, some on their way to America. Acevedo brought Sosa's mother to Santo Domingo to negotiate the signing bonus. According to Sosa's autobiography, the negotiation process gave her the sickening feeling that she was selling her own son; demoralized, she accepted the first offer, which was $2,500.

Acevedo began training the boys and fattening them up at the university in Santo Domingo. They practiced and worked out from nine a.m. until three or four in the afternoon. "They fed us, washed our clothes," said Julio Franco about Acevedo's training program. "We all ate a lot. We were very skinny. Four times a day as much as you wanted. But we were running all day. Then we ate. Then we went to sleep."

Sosa was in the last group of prospects whom Acevedo signed to the Phillies. Acevedo had a falling-out with the organization and these last players never got their bonuses, nor did the Phillies send for them. They were simply dropped-a bitter disappointment for an impoverished Dominican teenager who had thought his life was about to be changed by Major League Baseball. The Atlanta Braves, Rico Carty's team, were very interested in San Pedro at the time and signed some of the best of this group. But Sosa was still young, only sixteen, and undeveloped.

Sosa went back to working with his old team and went to every scout and every tryout he could find. It was the 1980s and San Pedro was full of scouts, especially after the previous wave of rookies: Bell; Franco; Samuel; the shortstop Rafael Ramrez from Angelina, whom Pedro Gonzlez had signed to the Braves; and Pedro Guerrero, the Dodgers' popular first baseman from Santa Fe. But no one was interested in scrawny Sammy Sosa. Sosa remembers Pedro Gonzlez taking a look at him and saying that he didn't sign "undersized players." Gonzlez denied this story in his sometimes unmusical Cocolo, saying, "That's bulls.h.i.t." He argued that he would never dismiss a player for being too small, pointing out that he had signed Rafael Furcal, who, at five feet, nine inches, was one of the smallest players in the major leagues.

For two months Sammy played at the training camp Epy Guerrero had set up in the bushes just inland from Santa Domingo. Guerrero had said he liked Sosa; Sammy hoped Epy would sign him. He never did. Sosa spent a year in this desperate limbo while George Bell and Julio Franco were becoming stars. But a new scout in the Dominican Republic, Omar Minaya, was looking for Dominican talent for the Texas Rangers. Minaya offered Sosa a signing bonus of $3,000. Sosa asked for $4,000 and they settled on $3,500. Sosa would be saved. According to Sammy-not always a reliable source-he gave $3,300 to his mother and bought a used bicycle.

The Dominican players all had different temperaments, but they had one thing in common: they were determined to make it, because there was simply no other option. George Bell said, "Being c.o.c.ky, I always knew I would play in the majors. I knew I could do it. I could see a breaking ball from a fastball. I just knew. I could see it."

Julio Franco put it another way: "My feeling was I have to make it. It's all I've got. I mean, you leave school and that's all you've got. Of course, that was also true of the many more who didn't make it."

PART TWO.

DOLLARS.

La esperanza es la muerte de la muerte.

La esperanza es la esperanza

de reanudar la juventud del pueblo.

Hope is the death of death

Hope is the hope to restore people's youth.

-Pedro Mir, "Concierto de Esperanza para la Mano Izquierda" ("Concert of Hope for the Left Hand").

CHAPTER EIGHT.

The Fourth Incarnation of San Pedro.

The oldest and most timeless part of San Pedro, Punta de Pescadores, never had a single reincarnation. Just before the bridge leading to the town along the mangrove coast of the Ro Higuamo, slightly upriver from the port on the opposite side, was a little village of pastel one-story houses on unpaved roads by the river's edge. In Ernest Hemingway's novel The Old Man and the Sea, the Cuban fisherman Santiago bravely goes to sea in his small open-deck boat to hand line for billfish as big as his craft. That way of life was still alive in twenty-first-century Punta de Pescadores. This was one of the rare San Pedro neighborhoods that did not produce Major League Baseball players. It produced fishermen.

They fished in deep-welled nineteen-foot open boats, the old ones made of wood, the newer ones of fibergla.s.s. It was essentially a rowboat, but with outboard engines mounted on the back. They had to go a long distance to catch fish-farther all the time as fish became scarcer, because too many were being caught and because of pollution.

Gasoline for the outboards was expensive, and the only viable fishery within rowing distance had been steadily vanishing since the 1990s. From their muddy sh.o.r.e, fishermen rowed a few hundred yards and dragged a net over the side. They would slap the water with the oars to scare the fish and drive them into the net. These small freshwater fish did not command a high price, but when they were plentiful, a full net-which the fishermen wove together by hand-would quickly pay for the $600 in nylon line used to make it.

This fishery was dying out because it was downstream from Cristbal Coln and a plant owned by CEMEX, the Mexican cement producer, both of which dumped pollutants in the river. A fisherman named Edwin said of CEMEX, in good New York English, "They kill everything. There is no fish left." Tony Echavara, the mayor, recognized the often-cited problem: "CEMEX is a problem because of pollution, but it is very important to the local economy."

CEMEX provided fourteen thousand jobs. The entire San Pedro sugar sector was now providing only two thousand jobs, and many of those for only half the year. Also, CEMEX brought supplies through the port, one of the few port activities left. They even provided one of the better youth baseball programs developing teenage major-league prospects.

Meanwhile, Edwin complained that although the price of gasoline was rising, the fishermen were forced to go farther every year to find fish. Their engines were small-usually only forty horsepower-but still burned twenty-five gallons in a day of fishing, which meant the first 140 pounds of fish that was caught only paid for the gasoline. Some days they caught less than 140 pounds.

Edwin grew up fishing from Punta de Pescadores but went abroad, becoming a Dom Yor, as Dominicans refer, not altogether kindly, to those who move to New York. He lived in Queens with his father, a former fisherman, until, as he put it, "I did something bad and was sent back." The reference to "something bad" was not awkward English but a touch of satire that made Dominicans laugh about the patronizing nature of U.S. policy. The U.S. government warned Dominicans with the ultimate threat: if you don't behave, we will make you go back to your hometown. Drug convictions most often led to deportation, but Edwin did not want to explain or give his last name. However, he came back with investment money and owned five nineteen-foot fishing boats.

Edwin fished the only profitable way left here, by taking his boats sixty miles out into the Caribbean. A line was planted with an anchor in 1,500 fathoms of water at one end and a buoy with a palm tree at the other. The palm, known as the balsa, provided shade, which attracted small fish, which in turn drew larger fish. The fisherman dragged a heavy handheld line with a baited hook through the shaded area and tried to hook a four-foot-long sharp-toothed, sleek, and silvery king mackerel, which Dominicans call a carite. Or the yellow fish with the huge foreheads and tender flesh that are sometimes five feet long and weigh more than fifty pounds, known here as dorado and sometimes in the U.S. as dolphin fish-except by the squeamish and politically correct, who prefer the Hawaiian name, mahimahi. There are also hefty yellowfin tuna, large sharks, and six- and seven-foot-long marlin.

Landing these fish on a small boat in open sea with a hand line takes considerable strength and stamina, and the battles may last ten minutes or longer. Some of these fish are strong enough to haul these boats; some are stronger than the forty-horsepower engine.

It is a culture of the-one-that-got-away stories, which was also the basis for Hemingway's novel. Edwin and his friend Ramn Fernndez, known in Punta de Pescadores as Sanbobi, once hooked what they estimated to be a thousand-pound blue marlin. It was clearly longer than their boat. Sanbobi hooked it on a steel cable and was so jubilant that he could not stop laughing and joking. The more somber Edwin, operating the boat, just said repeatedly, "That's a lot of money out there." But Sanbobi had the giant by a steel cable, and so he kept laughing as he struggled to bring it in until finally the marlin did the impossible and snapped the cable, swimming free.

Both Sanbobi and Edwin had for the time being given up on deep-sea fishing because of the cost of gasoline and instead were finding smaller fish closer to sh.o.r.e. But there were no fish in the mangroves, the rooty growth along the banks of the Higuamo where oysters used to grow before the pollution killed them. Sanbobi still believed he was better off than his father, who was a worker for the Cristbal Coln mill. Of fishing he said, "It's cash every day," in contrast to his father's seasonal employment.

The fishermen went out in the morning. In the afternoon the action switched to the other side of the river in downtown San Pedro, where the fish were taken to market, most of them stored at extremely low temperatures in walk-in freezers-a precarious business in a country known for power outages. The fishermen putt-putted back from sea and up the river with about five fish, four to seven feet long, tying up at a concrete landing with corrugated metal roofs. The fish were gutted and then hefted onto a large basket made of steel concrete-reinforcement rods and hung on a scale. Prices varied depending on the fish. A gruff man playing dominos on the dock explained dryly, "Fish are all different. Women are all the same." The men all laugh.

Everything-gutted fish, sh.e.l.led conch, and bags of clawless tropical spiny lobsters and crabs-was immediately dragged into the freezers, their floors covered in b.l.o.o.d.y ice. Fresh fish is not a commercial concept in the tropics.

The best place to eat fish in San Pedro was the Robby Mar, which started in 1989 on the river next to the fish market. It had a pleasant white tableclothed terrace with a view of the river and its dense, tangled mangroves. Neither stuffy-pretentious nor downscale-ugly, which are the two usual choices, it would have been popular with tourists, but tourists did not turn up very often for a meal in local restaurants because the price of a room in a resort hotel included all meals. The tourism industry did not want tourists straying away from the resorts: something might happen to them, and that would be bad for tourism.

Without tourists, Robby Mar, located near much of the city government, did lunches for government officials, who-baseball players aside-had the best jobs in San Pedro. On some days half of the restaurant was taken over by the town fire department-some twenty men and women in white uniforms with dazzling arrays of metals and battle ribbons on their chests. After a few guavaberries, everyone just had to hope that no fires started during lunchtime.

The restaurant specialized in local seafood with a long menu that included some rare specialties and some very popular San Pedro dishes, such as congrejos al ajillo.

Grind garlic in a food processor with salt and oil. If you have olive oil, it's much better. Boil crabs, take out meat, cook with a little b.u.t.ter and add garlic sauce. The same recipe can be used with fish.

But this whole world might be ending: the San Pedro of fishermen and waterfront, the original San Pedro before baseball, sugar, and even poets. Sanbobi gave Punta de Pescadores at most twenty more years. "Kids just aren't becoming fishermen anymore," he said. It is a trade that has gotten more and more difficult. It was different when the only alternatives were baseball and sugar. But now there were a few choices in between. Or at least it seemed that way.

San Pedro de Macors entered the twenty-first century in the town's third reincarnation. Originally it was a rural fishing town, then it turned into a booming sugar center, then it became the wretchedly poor failed sugar town of the Trujillo years, when baseball was the only respite from the mills and the only way out for a lucky few. Then came the fourth reincarnation, in which San Pedro had a slightly more developed economy and baseball was no longer the only alternative to sugar, just the only good one.

Sugar was still there, but it was now secondary to employers such as CEMEX and Cesar Iglesias, an old San Pedro factory making soap, flour, and b.u.t.ter that had eight thousand workers.

The Porvenir mill was off a street in central San Pedro. It used to be in the northern rural area like Consuelo. But the town-which, like the country, tripled in population in a generation-grew around Porvenir just as it may eventually grow past Consuelo. That is what is happening in the Dominican Republic: more and more rural areas are being taken over by the shacks of urban sprawl. Already a grid of dirt roads with modest concrete houses with corrugated metal roofing had spread north of Porvenir.

The mill itself, Porvenir, "Future," was a shack, albeit a large one five or six stories high but mostly slapped together with the ubiquitous Caribbean building material, corrugated metal. It was dark inside, but hot white rays of sunlight shot through seams in the metal skin, slashing across the huge dark s.p.a.ce at dramatic angles. Workers who stood on top of a two-story-high tank for cane juice could look longingly at a ball field where young signed prospects trained for the Pittsburgh Pirates.

The tall, dark shed housed monstrous nineteenth-century cast-iron machinery: two-story-high cogwheels with menacing teeth for cane crushing; wood-burning furnaces for cooking the juice, stacks of chopped trees at the ready; tall cane elevators; and huge conveyor belts.

All this for what was now four months of operation a year. Some of the better jobs lasted six months. Some workers earned 20 pesos an hour to clean machines and others 800 pesos a month to supervise. Some workers had nothing to do at all. Porvenir was controlled by the ruling Dominican Liberation Party, the PLD, and party members in good standing could get paid to do absolutely nothing. And some of those jobs were year-round. Killing time, unlike cane crushing, is not seasonal. And so some workers were at the mill in the dead season, showing up every day, sitting around, sometimes gratefully wearing purple hats, the party color, with a picture of Leonel Fernndez on them because they did have reason to say " Gracias, Presidente."

Guards stood at a chain-link gate manipulating a thick chain and a padlock, letting people in and out as though the era of Trujillo were still alive and well at the sugar mill. A woman worker wanted to go out, explaining that she had a family emergency, and the guard told her that if she left she would not be let back in until the next day, thereby forfeiting a day's wages.

In a good year, when there was not much rain, Porvenir produced forty-two tons of sugar in its four-month operation. In Brazil the waste from crushed cane, bioma.s.s, fueled cane ethanol production to meet most of the country's energy needs. But in the Dominican Republic, which did not produce ethanol and ran on expensive imported oil, a little bioma.s.s was sold to paper mills and the rest was just burned as sc.r.a.p.

Twenty-first-century Consuelo still looked like a village: most streets were unpaved, and two-story buildings stood out. The mill in Consuelo, more s.p.a.cious than Porvenir, was set in an immense area of weed-covered lots and, like Porvenir, was covered in corrugated metal several stories high. The mill was fenced off and surrounded by a dirt road. Along the other side of that road were green wood-shuttered Caribbean houses originally built for the upper-echelon mill workers, fine old houses rotting in the tropics. The families of those mill workers still lived in these homes, although most of the residents didn't work in the mill anymore.

Inside, one of the crushing machines was stamped Farrel Foundry and Machine Co., Ansonia, Conn., 1912. After the 1950s, parts were no longer available for these monsters, stories high, with teeth, shafts, and belts. Now Consuelo had its own machine shop with lathes and other machinist's tools where parts were made to keep these antiques running. Nor did they depend on the vagaries of Dominican utilities: Consuelo had its own power plant. A generation earlier, this had been the leading San Pedro mill, and once the zafra began, there could be no stopping, night or day, for eight months. But now the company struggled to stay running for four months.

At a small street bar, just a shed by the side of the road, two men were having coffee-good strong Dominican coffee that tasted as though half the sugar of Consuelo had been dumped in it. People in sugar towns eat sugar. They start sucking on cane stalks as children and develop a sugar-craving palate.

The man behind the bar spoke Creole because his father had come to Consuelo to cut cane from Haiti. The only other customer spoke English because his father had come to Consuelo to cut cane from Saint Kitts. He had been a sugar maker, sometimes called a chemist: the man who supervised the actual boiling and making.

Did that job pay well?

"No, the only job in a sugar mill that pays well is owner."

Despite their different languages, they understood each other and asked a question that was still frequently asked in San Pedro: Why wasn't sugar profitable anymore? "I don't know what happened," said the one who spoke Creole.