Visitor in Trujillolcmd

Vacationing in the Caribbean, TIME Associate Editor George G. Daniels spent three days in the Dominican Republic, where Dictator Rafael Leonidas Trujillo is tensely on guard against any attack by Caribbean revolutionaries. His report:

No one batted an eye when I presented my tourist card with its "Occupation: Journalist." They quietly took my picture, checked me electronically for weapons, secretly searched my belongings, fastened a couple of plainclothes cops to me like leeches, and turned me loose.

What I saw was the bristling little dictatorship of Generalissimo Trujillo. The Dominicans brag that they have 25,000 men under arms, an air force of 50 jets, and a navy of 19 frigate-destroyer escort-type vessels, all highly efficient. The troops looked neat and tough. Drive west from the center of Ciudad Trujillo, and you come on huge fields with possibly 2,000 to 3,000 men drilling in squad-sized groups. These are the draftees, and their D.I.s strut and chant like U.S. marines, all very sharp. On the air route from the east, there is a brand-new jet base at San Isidro, about 15 miles from Ciudad Trujillo, with what looked like 8,000-9,000-ft. run, ways and high-speed taxi strips. What is more, Trujillo's navy actually sails--one or two of the frigates were constantly on the horizon while I was there.

In Lock Step. The city they like to show visitors looks something like the better residential sections of Palm Beach, Fla. The ten-minute drive from the airport takes the visitor past block after block of modern houses that range from $50,000 on up to $200,000. This one belongs to Trujillo's son, that one to his daughter. Brother Hector, the nominal

President, lives here; this is one of the Chief's houses; his uncle owns this one, aunt that one. Out in the country there are magnificent ranches owned by the Chief, a handsome estate with a small French chateau owned by one of his daughters.

Trujillo's country home near San Cristobal, 20 miles west in the foothills, is as big as a castle and guarded like one. I went up there with my two policemen buddies, and a soldier dogged me so closely it looked as if we were in lock step. The house itself is an immense pile of plate glass and yellowish-brown stone, with galleries running all around. On the next hilltop was a huge neon sign about 50 ft. by 20 ft. that flashes at night, "telling people," my buddies said, "of all Trujillo's good works."

Painted Slums. What the Dominicans do not like to talk about is the poverty. They show visitors the new housing project across the river from Ciudad Trujillo, but it is very small potatoes compared with the slums that make up the bulk of the city. The hovels are all freshly painted, generally an ocher or a sky blue or sea green, with a barn-red trim framing the doors and windows. That's the way El Benefactor wants it, and everybody paints once or twice a year. But the houses themselves are miserable one-or two-room shacks, so old and termite-riddled that they list crazily against one another. The children are naked and dirty, the women haggard, and much of the cooking is done on the sidewalk over charcoal braziers--rice, fried bananas, very little meat.

No one begs in the Dominican Republic. First offense draws six months on the work farm, the second offense a couple of years, the third, life imprisonment. "Either they work," said my guide, "or they don't eat." Nor is there much unofficial crime, petty thievery and such. What's the penalty? "The penalty, sir, is that you don't do it again."

The restaurants, casinos and nightclubs are empty, except for pistol-packing bigwigs, and only a few of them. The Hotel Jaragua is almost deserted, and the 310-room Embajador, which cost $6,000,000 or so, had about 20 guests. I'm convinced that the slot machines and games are fixed in favor of the tourists, in hopes that someone will spread the good word back home. At least, I could not lose for winning on the slots, and I watched a blackjack dealer accomplish a nearly impossible feat: he went over 21 on three of five hands, thus keeping the one occupied table at the Embajador going.

Maybe one of the reasons the place is so unattractive is the way they study the stranger. On the second day, in the car, one of my cop chums turned to me and said: "You're German, aren't you?" "No," I said. "I'm Irish-English." "Well, what about your middle name?" he said. "You mean 'Goetz?' " I asked. "Yes." So I said I had just a little German in me, and remembered that the only place my middle name appeared was on my passport (I had not used it on my tourist card), which I had locked in my dispatch case in my room.

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