Renting a motorcycle in Latin America is a bit like ordering street food from a cart with live animals next to it. You know it’s a risk. You do it anyway. While the goat looks you in the eye.
Maybe you meet a guy on Facebook who looks half-strangled by life, wheezing offers of a two-wheeled deathtrap for $5 a day. Maybe you don’t even ask if the brakes work—you just squint at the sun, wipe what you hope is animal blood of the tach, and go.
Welcome to world of low-budget international adventure motorcycling: where common sense takes a backseat to raw experience, and trust is less earned and more blindly hurled into the wind.
In Cabarete, Dominican Republic, I had the good fortune finding a motorcycle, or “moto” as they call them, on Facebook Marketplace for a whopping $5 a day — that’s the kind of promise for a good time that should come with its own waiver and a strong drink.
A license plate would have been useful too.
As most things can be delivered directly to you in the DR, (gasoline, rum, 7 gal of propane, weed, ecstasy, cocaine, groceries, more rum, etc.) my rental moto came directly to me.
The chipper guy handing it off spoke English with a wheeze. I just figured that’s how he spoke.
“Ride it! Show me you’re okay on 200cc. That’s a lot of power! I care about your safety, you know?”
I whipped a leg over the short bike, determined to show him this was no challenge for me. I did a figure eight, stalled, then stalled again when I let out the clutch thinking it was in neutral. “I’m good—no, really, I’m good,” I told him.
“This is no Harley,” I assured him.
Looking back, I should have been the one with concern plastered on his face, not him.
The bike he handed over was a “SUCATI” — Written in a bright red font that promised Ducati style and speed from what felt like and assemblage of tractor parts.
It was… iconically local. 90’s. Semi-functional. Glorious.
Plus, riding a motorcycle after the monotony of embracing life as a a home-dwelling, SUV-driving, reliable employee cog in the midwest for a decade, I could practically hear the chains breaking free.
We swapped numbers, cash, and he had his secretary text me a registration slip and a photo of a receipt.
“I know you Americans like small helmets so I brought you this!” He handed me a thin plastic construction hat that felt like it came with a kids’ meal.
With 200ccs of questionable engineering, a 5-up transmission, brakes that were more suggestive than effective, and a frame so flimsy and light I could squat it on my shoulders if I didn’t think doing so would bend it in half — it felt like a questionably rough girlfriend was now sputtering between my knees.
I couldn’t have been more excited.
She wasn’t fast. She wasn’t fancy. But she was perfect — the right height to carry passengers, groceries, and made me look like I’d been there a while.
In just a few days of riding, I saw these motos carrying:
- Entire families (Mom, Dad, 3 kids, and a sack of rice–not one helmet between them)
- Fridges
- Cages of chickens
- Full propane tanks
- 12-foot ladders
- Live goats (plural)
- Fruit stands (still selling fruit while riding, somehow)
- Full-sized sofas balanced between two riders, laughing like maniacs
- Plenty of chicas on the back, riding sideways like they were trotting on a horse in the vicorian era.
- Someone riding in traffic with a full-length mirror balanced sideways on their lap — a shiny murder wing promising to dole out gore at any moment. I’d never seen the physical embodiment of impending doom before, but there it was, wobbling past me at thirty miles an hour.
These bikes aren’t just vehicles here.
They’re beasts of burden.
They serve a purpose–grocery getters, family minivans, love machines, and mobile shops. They’re freedom boiled down to two wheels, an engine that might quit at any second, and a prayer that the brakes hold when it matters most.
Thanks to that $5/day SUCATI, the Dominican Republic cracked wide open for me.
I saw back alley streets tourists never touch, could get to the gym without walking an hour both ways, and feel like a real local as I shifted in flip-flops.
Day one on the road an oncomming car decided to pass in my lane, knowing I was currently in it. I sincerely thought they were trying to kill me, not that they didn’t see me. My heart pounded as I moved into the shoulder — crisis averted.
The second time a car pulled out to do the same deadly maneuver, I expected it and just got over.
The third time — honestly, I don’t even notice it happening anymore, it’s just the flow of traffic here. They aren’t being reckless or cruel, that’s just how everyone’s used to driving here.
By day three I was getting the hang of being invisible to automobile drivers and my front brakes gave out. I drove my steed to Sosúa where my moto rental owner lived to get it repaired.
The owner of the moto rental agency laughed at my high expectations for a functioning front break, but agreed to repair it. I figured I was already asking for a lot, not knowing how involved the repair would be, and didn’t mention the non-functional tach. And spedo. And headlight. And rear brake that locked up solid if you stepped on in hard enough. I was desperate to give in to island life and be tranquillo, loco—or, chill, bro.
I hopped on the back of my bike with him driving and we zoomed down an ally where a guy was fixing bikes in the middle of the road with some kids, several dogs, and a pizza on the ground. He was simultaneously repairing three bikes with a pile of tools from the trunk of a car.
People must have thought there was something wrong with me as I slow blinked at every single new experience. The repair guy said he’d check it and to give him an hour. “Wanna do some errands?” my wheezy friend asked — and off we went in a brand new car. Air conditioning and air bags? What luxury!
Within an hour I’d met his mom, his niece, his coworkers, his girlfriend, his storefront… And between cars angrily honking at us, running red lights, using the oncoming lane despite oncoming traffic’s objections, I already wanted back on the safety of my own two wheels.
As oncoming cars honked at us, he explained he owned over 200 “motos,” most of them rented out to motoconchos — the wild mix of taxi driver, courier, and daredevil you find everywhere here, all riding 200cc bikes held together by prayer and duct tape. Tail lights, license plates, helmets, and driving sober all optional.
He explained that his wheeze was from fifteen years of cocaine eating a hole in his throat. He did the math and insisted a weight of a car in powder had gone up his nose since he was fourteen. “Now, I’m clean. I don’t smoke. I don’t drink. I’m lucky to be alive. I’ve got my family! I just don’t party any more and that’s okay.”
Holy hell. I’m from Vegas and I’ve never met someone that’s lived that hard that wasn’t currently homeless.
As we parted ways he said, “Didn’t you say something about wanting a better helmet?” and handed me a normal motorcycle helmet with a DOT sticker on the back. I’m 44. I like my brains in my skull. I was thrilled with the upgrade.
As you could guess, my favorite thing about going full–local with my whip was meeting memorable people. Seriously — my moto rental guy had my back and I doubt I’ll ever forget him.
Also, know that riding a motorcycle, especially one that looks local, says Free transportation if you can flag me down.
One day two kids a mile from town yelled at me. Why not I figured. The second I stopped, they hopped on. Did they think they could take me on if I was stranger danger?! Couldn’t they tell I was a dangerous foreigner who ate children with a side of Freedom Fries?
They were all of ten years old and had no fear in their eyes. “Donde?!” I yelled. “Alli!” the yelled back and pointed straight ahead, and off we went towards town. Seeing how safe those kids felt hitchiking warmed my heart.
That’s the magic that two wheels on planet earth can conjure up–rando human connections.
Turn the throttle and the universe will provide.
Just don’t put undeserved faith in your brakes.
In case you’re looking for practical advice about renting a scooter or motorcycle in the Dominican Republic, here are a few tips:
- The good deals on motorcycle or scooter rentals are on facebook marketplace. Look for “motorcycle” “moto” “renta” and you’ll find people renting things.
- The longer you rent something, the cheaper it is. Houses, scooters, etc. get very cheap when you pay by the month. My 200cc moto was $150 a month. If you rent a scooter off the street it’s $30 a day plus fees.
- Be prepared to find a “Repuestos” shop, or “Repair” shop to maintain your new-to-you whip. Parts and labor are silly cheap in the DR. My shifter broke and it was $4.50 for a new one. I tipped the on-site mechanic $3.00 for the work. It took longer to figure out how to pay in cash than the repair took.
- There are no rules to driving here. Much like Mexico, momentum wins. Scooters and motorcycles stick to the right except to pass, but if traffic’s slow, you can do whatever you want to get around anyone or anything and it’s not rude. Honestly, you’ll block traffic if you don’t, so get scootin’!
- You can buy a helmet in the Repuesto shop, but don’t count on it being quality. Bring your own if you can.
- Be friendly. Get the number of a motoconcho or two. If you run out of gas or need pizza, that’s the number you call. They’re shockingly fast. They might bring you a gallon of gas in a bleach bottle, but it’ll do.
- Police will not extort you if you’re wearing a helmet and have a license plate. Insurance isn’t really enforced. In three months of riding daily I was never stopped, even without a license plate.
- Drinking while driving is normal here, even on motorcycles. Beware… or enjoy?
- Potholes can be 2ft wide and 8in deep. Good luck.
- Invest in a cheap helmet lock or you’ll be clubbing with a helmet in one hand a beer in the other. Don’t be that guy (me)!
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