What about your saucepans
Ten years in the life of a British woman
living in the Dominican Republic

The end of the road

This is a preview to the chapter The end of the road from the book What about your saucepans by Lindsay de Feliz.
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I left home for the hotel on the Friday. Once again I was looking forward to the rest and a bath, full of excitement and anticipation now the election was nearly over. On Saturday morning Danilo came to pick up more money, and I spent the day quietly in my room or in the bar, where the Internet signal was better, chatting to people online. I could feel the tension rising and was becoming more and more apprehensive as the day went by. Everyone said we would win, we were miles ahead in the polls, but I still could not shake off a feeling of unease. I tried to picture how it would be when it was all over and Danilo was Sindico, but somehow the picture was blurred and would not come into focus. During the day problems began to appear. There was an issue at the voting stations; instead of an equal number of officials from both political parties, the opposing party, the PRD had far more officials than we did, which was unusual and worried me a little.

In addition to the officially appointed personnel, each candidate could nominate one delegate and one assistant for each table to ensure there was no cheating, and we had that under control. Our delegates were in place and had been thoroughly trained over the past few weeks so there would not be a problem, and we hoped they would be able avert any potential skullduggery by the PRD officials in the voting stations.

Saturday passed slowly and in the evening I had a visit from Frederick, the head of our press team, to go through a few issues. He looked smart, as usual, in dark trousers and an open neck white shirt. We sat down on one of the sofas in the reception area.
“So, what do you think about the problem?” he asked, in a casual, off hand way, not able to meet my eyes.
“What problem?” I replied vaguely, not paying too much attention, concentrating more on lighting a cigarette.
“The problem with the ballot paper?” he persisted, a little nervously.
“What bloody problem with the ballot paper?” I asked crossly. I didn’t want to hear of any problems, and what could be wrong with the ballot paper?

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