A truly Dominican slot machine
Friday, March 31, 2006
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
Littlest Lechon
This tiny lechon was a pretty good dancer. But when his mom picked up the end of his whip and tried to get him to move, he resisted the idea.
El Muerto
This comparsa of the dead had a coffin pulled by a donkey wearing a suit. The members of the group included the dead guy in a bad wig, some mourners, a priest, and - for some reason - cowboys.
El burro con pantalon
This burro wearing clothes was funny for two reasons: 1) there is a merengue about animals wearing clothes and 2) we found out why our furry friends really shouldn't wear pants.
Tobacco float
The parade was in Villa Gonzalez, where a lot of tobacco is grown, so you can see who paid for the festivities! (They also gave out free cigars.)
Las Marchantas
These two girls from the flower-vendor comparsa were dying to take a picture with me.
Living the nightmare
3/20-3/22/06
I got my car back from the mechanic on Saturday just in time to attend another taping of Arriba el Merengue. I arrived a few minutes early and so took advantage of the station’s lunch counter to order a quick, cheap snack. While I was enjoying this, some folks came and told me they were replaying my performance of the previous week to start off this week’s show! But afterwards, the afternoon’s real entertainment arrived: Pedrito Reynoso y la Nueva Union Tipica. Yes, the same we’d seen in Rancho Merengue the week before. They were excellent as always and I had a good time. Especially when the guy standing next to me in the back of the room told me, “hey, you look a lot like the girl who played on the show last week.”
I had only just exited the studio and driven away in my car when my phone rang: it was Tonito of Los Confraternos, telling me I needed to get over to Betania’s right away in order to participate in one more carnival parade, this time in the neighboring town of Villa Gonzalez. I rushed over and found a bus – with a presidential seal, no less (thanks, Leonel!) – already filled and waiting. We threw my mask and costume in and hit the road.
We arrived in Villa Gonzalez at just the time the parade was scheduled to start (3:00) but, this being the DR, there was no hurry. Since I hadn’t had time to eat I got a coconut cookie, chips, and a bunch of water baggies to enjoy as we checked out some of the other groups, including some devils from Navarrete and a float decorated with a tobacco-drying house and live tobacco plants, provided of course by the Dominican Tobacco Institute (they also provided cigars to observers). Eventually we got dressed and found a spot in the parade lineup, where we stood around and waited a lot longer. Next to us was a burro dressed in jacket, pants, hat, and glasses pulling a cart with a coffin in it, which would be inhabited by a “muerto” in a suit, sunglasses, and bad wig and followed by a priest and mourners. This comparsa taught us the important lesson of why animals do not wear pants. I also saw the world’s smallest lechon: this kid of about 3 had a full costume complete with mask and wig, and boy could he dance! He could hardly stop moving, in fact, switching to a side to side bounce whenever he stopped with his lechon and hip-hop moves. When his mom wanted him to move to another spot, picking up the end of his whip to lead him, he strongly resisted the idea by leaning back with all his weight. It was about the cutest thing I was likely to see that day. Anyway, eventually the parade got moving, and it was pretty much about what I expected, if a little longer. By the end my bad knee was hurting, and only then did I realize that I, as lechon, was doing all the things the doctor had told me not to do: running, jumping, etc. Oops.
I then had a typical Monday, accordion lesson and all, though I stayed at Rafaelito’s until after dark trying to get the lyrics for all the merengues I’ve learned notated and paid a visit to my friend Domingo Arias as well. David David stopped by, telling me about a performance he’d be giving on a daytime talk show the next day, on Canal 25 (my favorite), and that’s where Sydney’s Very Bad Week began. Did you ever have one of those dreams where you find yourself on a stage with all these people looking at you, but you don’t know what you’re supposed to do and also you’re dressed completely inappropriately? Well, that dream came true for me on Tuesday, a day that will live in infamy. Always more than willing to see any group who happens to be performing before midnight, I headed over to the studio to see David’s band in my usual state: makeup-free, untidy hair, glasses, and a manicure somewhat the worse for the wear. So naturally, when David started telling the host that he should have me play too, I told them I didn’t want to, since I hadn’t come prepared for a performance. So imagine my surprise when, after the band had played a couple of songs, David and host Nelson asked me to come up; when I shook my head, they only insisted more, and with all the cameras on me, they left me little choice. I was completely furious, so not only did I look horrible I also played horribly. I found the whole experience completely disastrous and mortifying, and I was so angry I left the studio without talking to either of those responsible and headed to the Centro Leon, where I recounted the horror to my friends over a vodka cocktail. That made me feel slightly better, but not as much as one would think.
After that, I was hardly in the mood to go anywhere. But on Wednesday I pulled myself out of bed to go over to Chiqui’s, interview him at last, and continue to work on my list of groups and típico sites in Santiago, along with my comprehensive merengue tune list. That cheered me up a bit, and Chiqui’s “surprise” he’d told me about on the phone cheered me up even more: guavas he’d brought back from Dajabon that very day to make my favorite guava juice! Thursday started going downhill again, though, as on the way to work at the Centro Leon my car suddenly shut down in the middle of a very busy street. I got a couple of street vendors to push it out of the way for me, and then my mechanic came. He found a burnt fuse and replaced it, and the car started again with no problems, so I continued on my way. That afternoon, Chiqui and Domingo were going to accompany me to Maisal, a town about an hour away, to hunt down a drug trafficker who also happens to be the biggest patron of merengue típico around, with at least a dozen songs written in his honor. But when I went by Chiqui’s to pick him up, the car shut down once again. Instead of our planned trip, instead we had to stand around for ages waiting for El Negro, my mechanic, to come rescue me once again. This also put a crimp in my plans for Friday, a day uneventful except for my medical evaluation at the gym, which showed I’d lost 5 ½ pounds!
Saturday, at least, was another day. I met a visiting folklorist for lunch: Robert Baron of the New York State Council on the Arts. It was fun to catch up and talk shop (in English, no less), and I also got a delivery of New York Times Sunday crosswords, which should keep me busy for a while.
I got my car back from the mechanic on Saturday just in time to attend another taping of Arriba el Merengue. I arrived a few minutes early and so took advantage of the station’s lunch counter to order a quick, cheap snack. While I was enjoying this, some folks came and told me they were replaying my performance of the previous week to start off this week’s show! But afterwards, the afternoon’s real entertainment arrived: Pedrito Reynoso y la Nueva Union Tipica. Yes, the same we’d seen in Rancho Merengue the week before. They were excellent as always and I had a good time. Especially when the guy standing next to me in the back of the room told me, “hey, you look a lot like the girl who played on the show last week.”
I had only just exited the studio and driven away in my car when my phone rang: it was Tonito of Los Confraternos, telling me I needed to get over to Betania’s right away in order to participate in one more carnival parade, this time in the neighboring town of Villa Gonzalez. I rushed over and found a bus – with a presidential seal, no less (thanks, Leonel!) – already filled and waiting. We threw my mask and costume in and hit the road.
We arrived in Villa Gonzalez at just the time the parade was scheduled to start (3:00) but, this being the DR, there was no hurry. Since I hadn’t had time to eat I got a coconut cookie, chips, and a bunch of water baggies to enjoy as we checked out some of the other groups, including some devils from Navarrete and a float decorated with a tobacco-drying house and live tobacco plants, provided of course by the Dominican Tobacco Institute (they also provided cigars to observers). Eventually we got dressed and found a spot in the parade lineup, where we stood around and waited a lot longer. Next to us was a burro dressed in jacket, pants, hat, and glasses pulling a cart with a coffin in it, which would be inhabited by a “muerto” in a suit, sunglasses, and bad wig and followed by a priest and mourners. This comparsa taught us the important lesson of why animals do not wear pants. I also saw the world’s smallest lechon: this kid of about 3 had a full costume complete with mask and wig, and boy could he dance! He could hardly stop moving, in fact, switching to a side to side bounce whenever he stopped with his lechon and hip-hop moves. When his mom wanted him to move to another spot, picking up the end of his whip to lead him, he strongly resisted the idea by leaning back with all his weight. It was about the cutest thing I was likely to see that day. Anyway, eventually the parade got moving, and it was pretty much about what I expected, if a little longer. By the end my bad knee was hurting, and only then did I realize that I, as lechon, was doing all the things the doctor had told me not to do: running, jumping, etc. Oops.
I then had a typical Monday, accordion lesson and all, though I stayed at Rafaelito’s until after dark trying to get the lyrics for all the merengues I’ve learned notated and paid a visit to my friend Domingo Arias as well. David David stopped by, telling me about a performance he’d be giving on a daytime talk show the next day, on Canal 25 (my favorite), and that’s where Sydney’s Very Bad Week began. Did you ever have one of those dreams where you find yourself on a stage with all these people looking at you, but you don’t know what you’re supposed to do and also you’re dressed completely inappropriately? Well, that dream came true for me on Tuesday, a day that will live in infamy. Always more than willing to see any group who happens to be performing before midnight, I headed over to the studio to see David’s band in my usual state: makeup-free, untidy hair, glasses, and a manicure somewhat the worse for the wear. So naturally, when David started telling the host that he should have me play too, I told them I didn’t want to, since I hadn’t come prepared for a performance. So imagine my surprise when, after the band had played a couple of songs, David and host Nelson asked me to come up; when I shook my head, they only insisted more, and with all the cameras on me, they left me little choice. I was completely furious, so not only did I look horrible I also played horribly. I found the whole experience completely disastrous and mortifying, and I was so angry I left the studio without talking to either of those responsible and headed to the Centro Leon, where I recounted the horror to my friends over a vodka cocktail. That made me feel slightly better, but not as much as one would think.
After that, I was hardly in the mood to go anywhere. But on Wednesday I pulled myself out of bed to go over to Chiqui’s, interview him at last, and continue to work on my list of groups and típico sites in Santiago, along with my comprehensive merengue tune list. That cheered me up a bit, and Chiqui’s “surprise” he’d told me about on the phone cheered me up even more: guavas he’d brought back from Dajabon that very day to make my favorite guava juice! Thursday started going downhill again, though, as on the way to work at the Centro Leon my car suddenly shut down in the middle of a very busy street. I got a couple of street vendors to push it out of the way for me, and then my mechanic came. He found a burnt fuse and replaced it, and the car started again with no problems, so I continued on my way. That afternoon, Chiqui and Domingo were going to accompany me to Maisal, a town about an hour away, to hunt down a drug trafficker who also happens to be the biggest patron of merengue típico around, with at least a dozen songs written in his honor. But when I went by Chiqui’s to pick him up, the car shut down once again. Instead of our planned trip, instead we had to stand around for ages waiting for El Negro, my mechanic, to come rescue me once again. This also put a crimp in my plans for Friday, a day uneventful except for my medical evaluation at the gym, which showed I’d lost 5 ½ pounds!
Saturday, at least, was another day. I met a visiting folklorist for lunch: Robert Baron of the New York State Council on the Arts. It was fun to catch up and talk shop (in English, no less), and I also got a delivery of New York Times Sunday crosswords, which should keep me busy for a while.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Cayo Levantado
Finally got my whale-watching pictures back! Here is Cayo Levantado, the small island where we stopped and I bought this crappy disposable camera.
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Puerto Plata
A partial view of the city from the top of Isabel de Torres mountain, reached by cable car.
Sunday, March 19, 2006
TV debut
Look, I'm on TV! My first performance on "Arriba el Merengue," a must-see every Saturday for all tipico fans, went pretty well.
Gregorito
3/16/06
Last week I fulfilled a double goal on Thursday: to see my friend Chiqui play in his new post as accordionist for Monchy y la Patrulla Tipica, and to visit another, different gallera. I was also hoping that El Jefe de Maisal, a famous típico patron, would show up - he is rumored to frequent the municipal gallera of Mao, where we were going - and thus enable to me to reach yet another goal by interviewing him.
El Jefe never showed up, but in all other ways I enjoyed the experience. First, the journey out to Mao - "the town of the beautiful afternoons," it’s called - in the van with the musicians, who amused me with puns and whom I amused by commenting on all the political posters along the way. There was a particularly huge one for the unfortunately-named Dilepcio Martinez. "Isn’t that some sort of disease, as in ‘I suffer from Dilepcio?’" I asked, turning this poor candidate for public office into the butt of our jokes for the rest of the day. At Navarrete, we were afraid we’d run into one of the town’s famous road-blocking strikes, but it was only a construction project underway, so we made it to the gallera in plenty of time to hang out in the bed of someone’s pickup truck in the parking lot.
There wasn’t much action in the music area when we went inside the gallera, because everyone was busy watching and betting on the cockfights. So after the first set, Chiqui and I went over to check out the flying feathers and snap some shots of the roosters before and after, in a back building used for rooster condos. Then, since we were getting a little hungry we went outside to a tiny shack selling snacks and purchased cheese empanadas, homemade donuts and milk sweets.
During the second set, an old man in a striped shirt and porkpie hat showed up and started dancing by himself in a quirky style all his own. During the third set, I was invited up to play a couple of tunes with the band, which, I had been surprised to find out, included a saxophonist I had known from Brooklyn. It was a good thing, too, as I was beginning to get nervous about my upcoming television debut on Saturday, and needed the practice. Three sets and we were out, although not before I got my big chance to dance with Mr. Stripes, who told me his name was actually "Susso," though others present insisted it was "Sucio" (dirty).
How could I follow up such an exciting afternoon and evening? By cleaning my house, that’s how. That’s how I spent most of Friday, along with some grocery shopping and a quick email visit to the Centro Leon, in preparation for my dad’s arrival the next day. I also practiced accordion a bit and hit the hay early in preparation for the show. I wasn’t feeling too confident, but at least I had a new outfit to wear. I hurried over to Channel 25, located in the Centro de Recreo - former hangout of the city’s elite, arriving 15 minutes before the show was to start. Not to worry - I was the first to arrive out of my group (I was supposed to play with Rafaelito’s musicians), and only one was there from the group that was apparently slated to perform before us. I got roped into taking some photographs of that group, then gave my own camera to Manaury (official accordiongirl photographer) to do the same for me. However, though usually only two groups are featured, we had a special surprise accordionist there: King de la Rosa, on tour from New York. He played a few pieces in quartet, and then I was up. King loaned me his accordion since mine doesn’t have an internal mic and Rafaelito’s straps always are too big on me, even after adjustment, and I joked that since it had his name on it people might get us confused. Not to worry, as when I started playing my name (misspelled, of course) flashed across the screen along with my distinguishing characteristic: "First American to play the accordion!" My performance actually went fine, although it might have looked a bit odd that Rafaelito was standing behind me with his own accordion in order to coach the saxophonist, who wasn’t sure he knew the mambos I was going to play. (However, he did tell me that he stopped playing in various sections so that people would know that I was actually playing what they were hearing.) I was even given a medal! On the back, it congratulates me for my "contributions to Dominican folklore." Cool!
After that, I’d earned the right to take it easy, but instead I was grabbed to go on another show at 7 PM, and just as I was about to leave I discovered my best cardigan must have fallen out of my bag at the grocery store and had to take a detour to look for it. They hadn’t found it, I got to the program flustered and late, and played badly. Oh well: win some, lose some. I dropped by the Casa de Arte to forget my troubles by sitting around reading newspapers and discussing politics with local artists, then headed for the airport. Although Dad was one of the last out due to a misplaced box, we found each other eventually. He’d made a friend on the plane who had said he was heading to the casino at the Hotel Matum, right behind the monument, and since we were heading that direction anyway we decided to check out the gambling scene. There e found free fruity drinks, a merengue orquesta on stage, and a cockfight slot machine, but no Miami handymen, so we moved on to the old favorite: Kukara Macara, the Dominican cowboy restaurant. After some tasty fish (me) and grilled meat (Dad) we strolled up to the monument to check out what the kids were listening to with their big sound systems (reggaeton; some típico) and the nighttime view of Santiago. By then, we were surprised to find it was already 11:30 so we went home, where Dad got to see the sights of Chez Syd and I got to open Christmas presents in March.
Then it was Sunday, a perfect day for strolling around downtown, if a hot one, and then for cooling off in the Centro Leon with beer, sandwiches, and the new photography exhibit. After that, we just had time for a quick nap before hitting the clubs - or the ranchos, to be exact. I of course had to make sure Dad had a típico experience during his stay in the DR, so we went to see what was on at Rancho Merengue. Besides being the "home of the merengueros" and therefore a must-see, it also has early shows on Sunday, unlike the other ranchos that always start after 11 PM. And who did we find playing there but my old friend Pedrito Reynoso, with his newly re-formed group? Although they’d only broken off from Narciso only a month ago, they sounded great and apparently are soon to tour New York. Both Pedrito and Boca Chula, my favorite tamborero, had seen me on TV the day before and wanted me to play one with them later on; also their manager told me that soon he would be my manager too. But after the first set it was 8 PM and we were hungry. So we left for a rendezvous with Alvaro, the Italian restauranteur across the street from me. Good thing, too, as we got to try their new menu addition: actual Italian-style pizza on Sundays and Wednesdays. Together with a fish dish cooked in pineapple; wine; and a Sicilian olive appetizer, this made for two happy campers. Sleepy ones, too.
On Monday we had to get to my accordion lesson, but first we had time for an enormous, Dominican, carb-heavy lunch at a cafeteria downtown and a quick visit to the museum at the San Luis Fort. The house raven wouldn’t talk to me today, but I did find out that the reason he says "La Vega" is that the vans to that city pass right by the fort’s front gate so he constantly hears the shouts of the cobradores advertising their destination. From there, a steamy drive took us to Rafaelito’s where we found that the student who comes before me hadn’t even started yet. So we waited and chatted with the various neighborhood types that dropped by: an Indonesian kid who showed us how he makes his trick thumb "dance" to Tulile songs; a former New York resident whose English was actually better than average; El Flaco, the old tamborero I knew from Queens; the vendor of habichuela con dulce (sweet beans); and the local drug addict who always comes by to bother me and beg during my lesson. Then it was my turn and I learned two new merengues (both Tatico-era: Cualquiera llora and La jugada), which filled up all available space on my internal hard drive and left my brain feeling stuffed. But the coffee flavored with nutmeg that Carmen served and the vegetable pastelito (little, fried empanada) we got from our usual teenage vendor picked me up enough to get to our next date: a dominoes game at Chiqui’s house.
When we got there we found, to our disappointment, that Chiqui had been called to play in the capital. But the game would go on: Laura had invited his sister Yahaira to join us. Fueled by red-flavor soda and lit by a candle, since naturally the power was out, we played on for hours and - miracle of miracles - I won for the first time ever! Yahaira was an excellent partner, and finally I was learning some of the strategies. Therefore we won a record 8 out of 10 against Laura and Dad, even in spite of Laura’s highly animated cheerleading. A good time was had by all, but soon it was time for dinner. Just as the lights came back on, we left, and went on to dinner at a Chinese restaurant in my neighborhood.
On Tuesday we decided Dad couldn’t possibly leave without seeing the beach. So after running a couple of errands we made our way north over the mountains and to the coastal town of Puerto Plata. We didn’t want to spend too much time there, since our all-inclusive was awaiting us at Playa Dorada, but we did take a drive down the malecon to the old fort, stopped for a drink and a quesadilla at a restaurant with a good view and good food but horrible service, and then went past the main square to look at the beautiful old Dominican Victorian houses that surround it. Then, we pushed on to the beach, arriving at our hotel just as a busload of tourists did the same. We hastily checked in and ran off to our room. This resort was small but pleasant, and you really couldn’t beat the deal: only $65 per night per person including all drinks and meals and many activities. Our first order of business was to check out the beach itself, which was reached by a path that turned into a wooden footbridge over a pond where mangrove-like trees with long and tangled roots grew. But it was far too windy at the moment for either water sports or swimming. Instead, we enjoyed a couple of Presidentes and then took a stroll down the beach to check out the other hotels. After that, we were ready for a rest and a shower, and after that, for our buffet dinner, which was pretty darn good, especially the grilled fish and the rum raisin ice cream. Next we thought of watching a DVD, which a wall display said were available from reception. But it turned out the delivery car at the DVD place was broken down, so we couldn’t get any. Then we thought of playing pool so we purchased a coin to do so, but the tables were full. So it came to our last resort: the hotel show.
Anticipating the worst, we got some Planter’s Punch to help us through it, but it was actually pretty amusing: a contest they organized between four men to determine who would win the honor of being "Mr. Villas Doradas 2006." The volunteers consisted of three Brits and one Canadian, who kept getting drunker as the show progressed thanks to the mixed drinks one helper kept bringing them. Good thing, too, with the types of events they had to compete in. First, a hot-bod contest, where the guys had to strut out in their sexiest manner, whip off their shirts, and strike a couple of poses. The clear winner here was one of the Brits whose signature move consisted of removing his belt and hitting his butt with it, though the 50-something Malcolm came in a close second for good-sportedness. Then they had "Spanish lesson," followed by a related event in which they had to say "Gregorio, Gregorito" with their mouth full of water, gargle-style. At this point, an uninvited guest appeared on stage - an even drunker and more sunburned Brit with glasses and a broken foot - so they let him try, too. Next contestants had to invite a female partner on stage to lay across their backs as they tried to do push-ups. Unexpectedly, Malcolm was able to do nine - six more than even his exceedingly tall countryman with a girl half his size. Finally, a lip-sync/impersonation contest brought things to a rousing close. Malcolm did Bob Marley wearing an army jacket with cardboard electric guitar and a "spliff" made out of an entire sheet of notebook paper. Mr. 6’9" did Madonna in a sparkly tank, exceedingly short skirt, and blond wig. The Canadian was Michael Jackson in a black jacket with a corny moonwalk. But no one could compete with Belt Man’s Britney Spears in a bikini top, tennis skirt, and rouge as he really had the moves down. Thus, I felt we had been cheated when Tall Guy won anyway. All of his drunk British friends in the audience cheered so loudly no one else had a chance, but Belt Man and Malcolm will always be Mr. Villas Doradas to me.
In the morning we lazed about in bed for a while, getting up just in time not to miss the breakfast buffet, where I had pancakes and eggs, fortifying me for the upcoming hour of snorkeling. We got our masks and flippers and headed down the beach, scoping out some likely reefs close to shore. The water was murkier than last time I was there because the wind was whipping up all kinds of waves and stirring the sand, but still we saw a lot of fish at our first stop: mostly the friendly, stripey ones that ate bananas from our hands last time but also some longer pastel-colored ones and the long, skinny trumpet fish. Then we got a tip from a Brit who had seen an octopus down the way, so we went to check out his spot. This bigger reef also was home to bigger fish, including some maybe 18 inches or so in length, round in shape and with electric blue fins and markings. By this time the water was getting a bit chilly and checkout time was approaching, though, so we got out and headed back for showers, packing, and lunch. After that, and a game of pool, we were back on the road.
If we could figure out where it was, we thought we might make a stop at Puerto Plata’s teleferico (funicular). Sure enough, just as I was about to give up hope, a sign appeared pointing the way. The guide book told us that its hours of operation were unpredictable, seemingly breaking down whenever fewer than 3 people wanted a ride, but today there was nothing to worry about. There were a number of tourists, as well as about twice as many guides milling about. In no time at all we were riding the Italian-built cable car up 2000 meters to the top of the Isabel de Torres mountain that overlooks the port city. It was really a great view all the way up as we passed over a school baseball diamond, footpaths leading to backwoods homes, and plenty of tropical vegetation. At the top we found ourselves literally in the clouds, which made the air nice and cool. From there, we could see the whole city and the coastline down past Playa Dorada, along with the bay into which Christopher Columbus had sailed, finding as calm as a silver reflecting pool, hence its name. While in the 16th and 17th centuries this city was constantly raided by pirates landing in that same spot, today the bay was only occupied by a dredge and large transport ships, one of which we saw being towed out to sea.
On top of the mountain is a giant Christ statue much like the more famous one that stands above Rio de Janeiro and somewhat less like the not as famous milk-carton-shaped Christ of the Ozarks in Missouri. There is also a food stand, a gift shop, the start of some hiking trails, and a great scenic overlook that we enjoyed for a few minutes before heading back down the mountain. Someday it would be nice to come back and do the trails, although climbing the whole, very steep mountain would be difficult.
The ride back to Santiago was uneventful unless one counts the unbelievably slow trucks we encountered, which caused many daredevil feats of passing on the part of the drivers of Lexuses and SUVs. We got back in time to pay a visit to the old folklore museum, which astounded me by being open. Tomasito gave us the usual tour, but now we were also able to see the excellent prizewinning masks of this year’s competition. Dad agreed it was worth the stop but worried about the 1812 house’s fire safety. Unfortunately, after another great Italian dinner across the street, his visit had to come to an end. In the morning (Thursday morning) I woke up early to take him to the airport, had some coffee and a cheese roll there as we chatted until boarding time, and went back home to go back to sleep.
Since then, there has been little to report. Dad had noticed a couple of things in my car that should be looked at, so that same day I dropped it off at El Negro’s. Thinking I’d get it back the next day, I decided to work at home until that happened. But as things usually go here, it took longer than expected and I didn’t get it back til Saturday.
Last week I fulfilled a double goal on Thursday: to see my friend Chiqui play in his new post as accordionist for Monchy y la Patrulla Tipica, and to visit another, different gallera. I was also hoping that El Jefe de Maisal, a famous típico patron, would show up - he is rumored to frequent the municipal gallera of Mao, where we were going - and thus enable to me to reach yet another goal by interviewing him.
El Jefe never showed up, but in all other ways I enjoyed the experience. First, the journey out to Mao - "the town of the beautiful afternoons," it’s called - in the van with the musicians, who amused me with puns and whom I amused by commenting on all the political posters along the way. There was a particularly huge one for the unfortunately-named Dilepcio Martinez. "Isn’t that some sort of disease, as in ‘I suffer from Dilepcio?’" I asked, turning this poor candidate for public office into the butt of our jokes for the rest of the day. At Navarrete, we were afraid we’d run into one of the town’s famous road-blocking strikes, but it was only a construction project underway, so we made it to the gallera in plenty of time to hang out in the bed of someone’s pickup truck in the parking lot.
There wasn’t much action in the music area when we went inside the gallera, because everyone was busy watching and betting on the cockfights. So after the first set, Chiqui and I went over to check out the flying feathers and snap some shots of the roosters before and after, in a back building used for rooster condos. Then, since we were getting a little hungry we went outside to a tiny shack selling snacks and purchased cheese empanadas, homemade donuts and milk sweets.
During the second set, an old man in a striped shirt and porkpie hat showed up and started dancing by himself in a quirky style all his own. During the third set, I was invited up to play a couple of tunes with the band, which, I had been surprised to find out, included a saxophonist I had known from Brooklyn. It was a good thing, too, as I was beginning to get nervous about my upcoming television debut on Saturday, and needed the practice. Three sets and we were out, although not before I got my big chance to dance with Mr. Stripes, who told me his name was actually "Susso," though others present insisted it was "Sucio" (dirty).
How could I follow up such an exciting afternoon and evening? By cleaning my house, that’s how. That’s how I spent most of Friday, along with some grocery shopping and a quick email visit to the Centro Leon, in preparation for my dad’s arrival the next day. I also practiced accordion a bit and hit the hay early in preparation for the show. I wasn’t feeling too confident, but at least I had a new outfit to wear. I hurried over to Channel 25, located in the Centro de Recreo - former hangout of the city’s elite, arriving 15 minutes before the show was to start. Not to worry - I was the first to arrive out of my group (I was supposed to play with Rafaelito’s musicians), and only one was there from the group that was apparently slated to perform before us. I got roped into taking some photographs of that group, then gave my own camera to Manaury (official accordiongirl photographer) to do the same for me. However, though usually only two groups are featured, we had a special surprise accordionist there: King de la Rosa, on tour from New York. He played a few pieces in quartet, and then I was up. King loaned me his accordion since mine doesn’t have an internal mic and Rafaelito’s straps always are too big on me, even after adjustment, and I joked that since it had his name on it people might get us confused. Not to worry, as when I started playing my name (misspelled, of course) flashed across the screen along with my distinguishing characteristic: "First American to play the accordion!" My performance actually went fine, although it might have looked a bit odd that Rafaelito was standing behind me with his own accordion in order to coach the saxophonist, who wasn’t sure he knew the mambos I was going to play. (However, he did tell me that he stopped playing in various sections so that people would know that I was actually playing what they were hearing.) I was even given a medal! On the back, it congratulates me for my "contributions to Dominican folklore." Cool!
After that, I’d earned the right to take it easy, but instead I was grabbed to go on another show at 7 PM, and just as I was about to leave I discovered my best cardigan must have fallen out of my bag at the grocery store and had to take a detour to look for it. They hadn’t found it, I got to the program flustered and late, and played badly. Oh well: win some, lose some. I dropped by the Casa de Arte to forget my troubles by sitting around reading newspapers and discussing politics with local artists, then headed for the airport. Although Dad was one of the last out due to a misplaced box, we found each other eventually. He’d made a friend on the plane who had said he was heading to the casino at the Hotel Matum, right behind the monument, and since we were heading that direction anyway we decided to check out the gambling scene. There e found free fruity drinks, a merengue orquesta on stage, and a cockfight slot machine, but no Miami handymen, so we moved on to the old favorite: Kukara Macara, the Dominican cowboy restaurant. After some tasty fish (me) and grilled meat (Dad) we strolled up to the monument to check out what the kids were listening to with their big sound systems (reggaeton; some típico) and the nighttime view of Santiago. By then, we were surprised to find it was already 11:30 so we went home, where Dad got to see the sights of Chez Syd and I got to open Christmas presents in March.
Then it was Sunday, a perfect day for strolling around downtown, if a hot one, and then for cooling off in the Centro Leon with beer, sandwiches, and the new photography exhibit. After that, we just had time for a quick nap before hitting the clubs - or the ranchos, to be exact. I of course had to make sure Dad had a típico experience during his stay in the DR, so we went to see what was on at Rancho Merengue. Besides being the "home of the merengueros" and therefore a must-see, it also has early shows on Sunday, unlike the other ranchos that always start after 11 PM. And who did we find playing there but my old friend Pedrito Reynoso, with his newly re-formed group? Although they’d only broken off from Narciso only a month ago, they sounded great and apparently are soon to tour New York. Both Pedrito and Boca Chula, my favorite tamborero, had seen me on TV the day before and wanted me to play one with them later on; also their manager told me that soon he would be my manager too. But after the first set it was 8 PM and we were hungry. So we left for a rendezvous with Alvaro, the Italian restauranteur across the street from me. Good thing, too, as we got to try their new menu addition: actual Italian-style pizza on Sundays and Wednesdays. Together with a fish dish cooked in pineapple; wine; and a Sicilian olive appetizer, this made for two happy campers. Sleepy ones, too.
On Monday we had to get to my accordion lesson, but first we had time for an enormous, Dominican, carb-heavy lunch at a cafeteria downtown and a quick visit to the museum at the San Luis Fort. The house raven wouldn’t talk to me today, but I did find out that the reason he says "La Vega" is that the vans to that city pass right by the fort’s front gate so he constantly hears the shouts of the cobradores advertising their destination. From there, a steamy drive took us to Rafaelito’s where we found that the student who comes before me hadn’t even started yet. So we waited and chatted with the various neighborhood types that dropped by: an Indonesian kid who showed us how he makes his trick thumb "dance" to Tulile songs; a former New York resident whose English was actually better than average; El Flaco, the old tamborero I knew from Queens; the vendor of habichuela con dulce (sweet beans); and the local drug addict who always comes by to bother me and beg during my lesson. Then it was my turn and I learned two new merengues (both Tatico-era: Cualquiera llora and La jugada), which filled up all available space on my internal hard drive and left my brain feeling stuffed. But the coffee flavored with nutmeg that Carmen served and the vegetable pastelito (little, fried empanada) we got from our usual teenage vendor picked me up enough to get to our next date: a dominoes game at Chiqui’s house.
When we got there we found, to our disappointment, that Chiqui had been called to play in the capital. But the game would go on: Laura had invited his sister Yahaira to join us. Fueled by red-flavor soda and lit by a candle, since naturally the power was out, we played on for hours and - miracle of miracles - I won for the first time ever! Yahaira was an excellent partner, and finally I was learning some of the strategies. Therefore we won a record 8 out of 10 against Laura and Dad, even in spite of Laura’s highly animated cheerleading. A good time was had by all, but soon it was time for dinner. Just as the lights came back on, we left, and went on to dinner at a Chinese restaurant in my neighborhood.
On Tuesday we decided Dad couldn’t possibly leave without seeing the beach. So after running a couple of errands we made our way north over the mountains and to the coastal town of Puerto Plata. We didn’t want to spend too much time there, since our all-inclusive was awaiting us at Playa Dorada, but we did take a drive down the malecon to the old fort, stopped for a drink and a quesadilla at a restaurant with a good view and good food but horrible service, and then went past the main square to look at the beautiful old Dominican Victorian houses that surround it. Then, we pushed on to the beach, arriving at our hotel just as a busload of tourists did the same. We hastily checked in and ran off to our room. This resort was small but pleasant, and you really couldn’t beat the deal: only $65 per night per person including all drinks and meals and many activities. Our first order of business was to check out the beach itself, which was reached by a path that turned into a wooden footbridge over a pond where mangrove-like trees with long and tangled roots grew. But it was far too windy at the moment for either water sports or swimming. Instead, we enjoyed a couple of Presidentes and then took a stroll down the beach to check out the other hotels. After that, we were ready for a rest and a shower, and after that, for our buffet dinner, which was pretty darn good, especially the grilled fish and the rum raisin ice cream. Next we thought of watching a DVD, which a wall display said were available from reception. But it turned out the delivery car at the DVD place was broken down, so we couldn’t get any. Then we thought of playing pool so we purchased a coin to do so, but the tables were full. So it came to our last resort: the hotel show.
Anticipating the worst, we got some Planter’s Punch to help us through it, but it was actually pretty amusing: a contest they organized between four men to determine who would win the honor of being "Mr. Villas Doradas 2006." The volunteers consisted of three Brits and one Canadian, who kept getting drunker as the show progressed thanks to the mixed drinks one helper kept bringing them. Good thing, too, with the types of events they had to compete in. First, a hot-bod contest, where the guys had to strut out in their sexiest manner, whip off their shirts, and strike a couple of poses. The clear winner here was one of the Brits whose signature move consisted of removing his belt and hitting his butt with it, though the 50-something Malcolm came in a close second for good-sportedness. Then they had "Spanish lesson," followed by a related event in which they had to say "Gregorio, Gregorito" with their mouth full of water, gargle-style. At this point, an uninvited guest appeared on stage - an even drunker and more sunburned Brit with glasses and a broken foot - so they let him try, too. Next contestants had to invite a female partner on stage to lay across their backs as they tried to do push-ups. Unexpectedly, Malcolm was able to do nine - six more than even his exceedingly tall countryman with a girl half his size. Finally, a lip-sync/impersonation contest brought things to a rousing close. Malcolm did Bob Marley wearing an army jacket with cardboard electric guitar and a "spliff" made out of an entire sheet of notebook paper. Mr. 6’9" did Madonna in a sparkly tank, exceedingly short skirt, and blond wig. The Canadian was Michael Jackson in a black jacket with a corny moonwalk. But no one could compete with Belt Man’s Britney Spears in a bikini top, tennis skirt, and rouge as he really had the moves down. Thus, I felt we had been cheated when Tall Guy won anyway. All of his drunk British friends in the audience cheered so loudly no one else had a chance, but Belt Man and Malcolm will always be Mr. Villas Doradas to me.
In the morning we lazed about in bed for a while, getting up just in time not to miss the breakfast buffet, where I had pancakes and eggs, fortifying me for the upcoming hour of snorkeling. We got our masks and flippers and headed down the beach, scoping out some likely reefs close to shore. The water was murkier than last time I was there because the wind was whipping up all kinds of waves and stirring the sand, but still we saw a lot of fish at our first stop: mostly the friendly, stripey ones that ate bananas from our hands last time but also some longer pastel-colored ones and the long, skinny trumpet fish. Then we got a tip from a Brit who had seen an octopus down the way, so we went to check out his spot. This bigger reef also was home to bigger fish, including some maybe 18 inches or so in length, round in shape and with electric blue fins and markings. By this time the water was getting a bit chilly and checkout time was approaching, though, so we got out and headed back for showers, packing, and lunch. After that, and a game of pool, we were back on the road.
If we could figure out where it was, we thought we might make a stop at Puerto Plata’s teleferico (funicular). Sure enough, just as I was about to give up hope, a sign appeared pointing the way. The guide book told us that its hours of operation were unpredictable, seemingly breaking down whenever fewer than 3 people wanted a ride, but today there was nothing to worry about. There were a number of tourists, as well as about twice as many guides milling about. In no time at all we were riding the Italian-built cable car up 2000 meters to the top of the Isabel de Torres mountain that overlooks the port city. It was really a great view all the way up as we passed over a school baseball diamond, footpaths leading to backwoods homes, and plenty of tropical vegetation. At the top we found ourselves literally in the clouds, which made the air nice and cool. From there, we could see the whole city and the coastline down past Playa Dorada, along with the bay into which Christopher Columbus had sailed, finding as calm as a silver reflecting pool, hence its name. While in the 16th and 17th centuries this city was constantly raided by pirates landing in that same spot, today the bay was only occupied by a dredge and large transport ships, one of which we saw being towed out to sea.
On top of the mountain is a giant Christ statue much like the more famous one that stands above Rio de Janeiro and somewhat less like the not as famous milk-carton-shaped Christ of the Ozarks in Missouri. There is also a food stand, a gift shop, the start of some hiking trails, and a great scenic overlook that we enjoyed for a few minutes before heading back down the mountain. Someday it would be nice to come back and do the trails, although climbing the whole, very steep mountain would be difficult.
The ride back to Santiago was uneventful unless one counts the unbelievably slow trucks we encountered, which caused many daredevil feats of passing on the part of the drivers of Lexuses and SUVs. We got back in time to pay a visit to the old folklore museum, which astounded me by being open. Tomasito gave us the usual tour, but now we were also able to see the excellent prizewinning masks of this year’s competition. Dad agreed it was worth the stop but worried about the 1812 house’s fire safety. Unfortunately, after another great Italian dinner across the street, his visit had to come to an end. In the morning (Thursday morning) I woke up early to take him to the airport, had some coffee and a cheese roll there as we chatted until boarding time, and went back home to go back to sleep.
Since then, there has been little to report. Dad had noticed a couple of things in my car that should be looked at, so that same day I dropped it off at El Negro’s. Thinking I’d get it back the next day, I decided to work at home until that happened. But as things usually go here, it took longer than expected and I didn’t get it back til Saturday.
Thursday, March 09, 2006
Mountain view
The middle of the Samaná peninsula looks like this, as you climb up from sea level into the mountains.
Tatico
This bust of accordion legend Tatico Henriquez looks over at the Secretary of Education building in Nagua.
Adorable bar
Las Terrenas, Samaná, is filled with adorable bars and restaurants that look like this. (The ocean is directly behind the building.)
Paradise
This is what the beach at Playa Bonita looks like. You might find yourself wondering if you're still in the world of the living. (At least, until you get sunburned.)
Playa Bonita
Another view of Playa Bonita. As you can see, the grass and trees go down almost to the water, making for a pleasantly shady beach.
Ballenato in Samaná
3/5 - 3/8/06
Research progresses: I finally made it over to Amantes de la Luz, the public library, to check out their newspaper collection and start looking for evidence of Santiago’s pre-tipico-book musical life. The same day, I interviewed one of the DJs from the main típico station, Super Regional. (You can listen to it online! Check it out!) Both informative and entertaining, and I’ve been invited to appear on the show to receive calls from afar one day soon. I’ll give you all the details as they become clear, so you can tune in too. Heck, you could even call us up!
Then, all of a sudden, I decided to take off to Samaná for the weekend with friends Angela and Noelia, both of whom work at the Centro Leon. Samaná is said to be one of the best, if not the best, places in the world to see humpback whales, as they come to this bay to breed every winter. And since there are only a couple of weeks left in whale-watching season this year – by law the tour boats only go until March 15 – it was just in time.
Thus, Friday morning found me arising rather than usual and hurriedly packing for the beach. Samana is quite a drive from Santiago. First we headed south on the Duarte highway past La Vega, turning off on the highway to San Francisco de Macoris just before hitting the mountains. San Francisco is only about 1/6 the size of Santiago but has a larger mall and a larger branch of La Sirena, as well as a bunch of exclusive gated communities with rows of enormous mansions. Why? Drug money. That’s pretty much the only thing the town seems to be known for.
Just past Macoris, however, things get quite scenic as one passes through emerald green rice paddies stretching off as flat as anything in both directions, punctuated by a stray palm tree or flamboyant here and there. A ways after that, you’ll find some unusual grassland where cattle graze under bonsai-shaped trees no taller than a man. Finally one comes to Nagua, a very hot seaside town where the sun seems to burn everything to a blinding white. There, I requested a quick stop. More merengue típico star accordionists have come from here than perhaps any other single town, including Maria Diaz, El Ciego de Nagua, and the legendary Tatico Henriquez. A few years ago, the town, spurred on by journalist, merengue conservator, and Nagua native Rafael Chaljub Mejia, erected a bust of Tatico in one of the town’s parks. Now, Tatico and his accordion look out over the Hall of Justice and Secretary of Education buildings. Unable to determine what magic the Naguan air contained to have spurred on all these famous fingers, I settled for a picture of myself with Tatico.
Nagua is the last town before heading out into the province of Samaná: it’s located right in the crook of where the arm of Samaná reaches out from the mainland. It’s a crossroads where you can either head up the coast towards Cabrera, El Prodigio’s hometown, or east along the peninsula. If you choose the latter, as we did, you drive right along the coast before heading south towards the town of Sanchez. There’s no tourism here because the beach is rocky rather than sandy, but you’ll pass through groves of coconut palms that grow all the way out to the water, providing shade to the tiny blue and pink-painted wooden houses of the local fishermen and other workers. As you get closer to Sanchez, the architecture changes. The road becomes lined with really charming houses similar to the historic Santiago Victorians, but with a different style of decoration, the ventilation panels featuring asterisk or square patterns rather than the scrollwork of Santiago. The vegetation also becomes thicker as you climb a ways into the hills. Then, as we neared the end of our journey (thank goodness, after three and a half hours) quite suddenly we dropped down towards the coast, and an amazing view spread out before us. The town of Samana sits in a semicircle around a calm bay where many sailboats are anchored. Two very small, thickly forested keys sit right in the middle of it and are connected to the mainland by a walkway that sits high above the water on arched legs, looking like something out of a fantasy film. Off in the distance one can see other, larger keys that resemble the whales we’d come here to see.
After that long drive we were dying to try out the local specialty: pescado con coco, fish in coconut sauce. Thus we beat a hasty path to the closest seafood restaurant with a view of the bay. We tided ourselves over with garlic bread while waiting for the main course, which turned out to be worth the wait. The coconut sauce is like that of a Thai curry without the spice, but just as flavorful, the fish was perfect, and the rice, beans, and tostones on the side hit the spot. Afterwards, we investigated the local hotel situation, which was unimpressive. Thus, my companions decided we should go see the whales first and then head to another town for overnight accommodations. As we tried to reach the whale-watching organizations listed in my tour books by phone, though, a hawker came along and made us an offer we couldn’t refuse. We thus ended up following him on his motorbike out to a launching spot for lanchas, small motor boats that would take us out to find large marine mammals. There, I hurriedly changed into my bathing suit in the smelly, waterless bathroom and jumped onto the boat – so hurriedly, in fact, that I ended up forgetting my camera. This eventuality changed our itinerary somewhat, and we ended up making a stop on Cayo Levantado (Raised Key) before heading out for our date with the whales. (I called ahead to tell them we’d be a bit late.)
Cayo Levantado has no motor vehicles, but it does have a couple of hotels and a lovely white sand beach backed by a bunch of small food and alcoholic beverage stands. On the path from dock (where we had to leap up nearly five feet to reach it from our little boat) to beach there were stands selling tourist items, and we just caught the woman we needed before she left for the day, enabling me to buy an overpriced disposable camera to capture our afternoon’s adventures. We then had about 40 minutes to relax on the beach and enjoy the view of the wooded Samana coastline over a drink. Noelia and I shared a large beer – which reminds me, why do we not have large beers for sharing in the U.S.? – and Angela ordered a pina colada. It came in an attractive hollowed-out pineapple, but she reported it had no discernible alcohol content. We found out the guide who accompanied us was actually a baseball player who usually lived in Santo Domingo but was here recovering from an arm injury. The water was a little cool with the cloud cover coming and going but we jumped in anyway, and I swam around until the lancha camed back for us and we hopped back aboard.
The cloud cover was getting thicker as we headed out into the middle of the bay, and the water was choppy. But our captain, who as it happened was sporting a t-shirt from a school in Bushwick / Ridgewood, was far from daunted. He sped along those waves as if they were the Indy 500 track, but they definitely weren’t, as our rear ends soon discovered. Eventually we yelled to our baseball friend to toss us some life jackets to use as seat cushions. He agreed that at this point they were less useful as “salvavidas” (lifesavers) than as “salvanalgas” (buttsavers). It was a good thing we had them, because it took us quite a while of roaming the bay before we found whales. In the meantime, I passed the time by making bad whale jokes in Spanish. E.g. "y las ballenas, tocan mucho ballenato?" A bad pun on "vallenato," Colombian accordion music, which if one didn't know any better, and if one were German, one might think derived from the word for whale (ballena) rather than "valle" for valley. (I actually saw this spurious etymology on a Latin music web site developed by Germans.)
The first one we saw was kind of far away, but it was easy to observe his antics: shooting huge columns of foam from his blowhole, jumping up and down, putting his enormous tail up and slapping the water. We headed over to him at top speed, but he dove again before we got there. Then we saw another lancha not far from us, so we headed for them to see if they’d found anything. They said there was a whale there, but it had just gone under. We waited for a while (Angela wondered why it was called “whale-watching,” when it was clearly “whale-waiting”) and then we did see one. And then another. It’s obvious while they’re called humpbacks, because what you see when they come up to breathe and go under again is a hump with a fin in the middle of it briefly sticking up above the surface, sea serpent-like. Soon we even saw a baby whale, lighter in color than the adults and of course much smaller, though still as big as a truck. The baby skimmed the surface for a minute and then went under, and just as I was wondering, “where’s the mother?” she came up too. The two of them came up to breathe side by side, and while the mom exhaled in a big puff, the baby spit out water from its blowhole in a stream like that of a garden hose. They didn’t stay long, prompting the guides to wonder why they were all in such a hurry this afternoon – apparently, that morning the whales wouldn’t leave them alone, jumping up all over the place. I guess the whales had better things to do than entertain us, though. Anyway, it was just as well as it was getting late and we still didn’t have a hotel. Reaching for our salvanalgas, we prepared for the trip back.
Angela and Noelia had fixed on Las Terrenas for our nighttime destination – kind of a long drive that would take us over the steep mountains that run down the middle of the peninsula, so we were anxious to get going. Still a bit damp, we piled in the car and took off. It was certainly scenic, even at dusk. We passed through El Limon, the takeoff point for mule trips to the Limon waterfall. This is the stunning cascade shown in the movie Jurassic Park, and I vow to return to it later, although Angela warns us that it’s a tough hike from the point the mules have to stop up to the falls. When we drop down to the north coast and suddenly find ourselves in a town again, it’s past dark and we are once again starving.
Las Terrenas just after dark is all twinkly fairy lights on thatch-rooved restaurants, and white sand and waves lit by moonlight. The tiny beachfront bars and inviting B&Bs are all connected by one dirt road that follows the coastline from the town graveyard all the way down. Seldom has anything looked more inviting to me. But we were feeling sticky and salty so we decided to find a hotel and shower off before going any further. We went down the line inquiring within, and though some of them didn’t have anything available to meet our 3-person, 3-bed needs there were some good deals to be had, especially for families and larger groups. One beautiful hotel with a pool and Jacuzzi has 2-bedroom, 2- bath apartments with kitchen renting for US $110. The one we ended up with was less picturesque but conveniently located near the restaurants. We got a room that could have slept five for US $60. It did have two strange features, though: no door on the shower area, and when you flushed the toilet, which was in a separate room, the sink made loud gurgling noises that cracked us up every time. This establishment was run by a French couple that still didn’t speak Spanish, making communication problematic, as we found out when a discussion erupted between Angela and the ruddy-faced Frenchman. He had indicated that there was a secure parking area for her newly-purchased vehicle, but when she went to park there she found an unguarded, ungated empty lot with no other cars to be seen. Feeling uncertain about this location, she hoped to leave the car in the single space in front of the hotel, instead, where the watchman could keep an eye on it. The car would have fit in there and allowed the gate to be closed if the owner had moved his ATV a foot or two over, but this he would not do, insisting that the rear lot was perfectly safe because last week “muchos dominicanos avec grandes carros” had left their SUVs there with no problems. This incensed Angela even further as he seemed to be saying something stereotypical about Dominicans and flashy cars, and things ended at an impasse, both parties walking away in a huff.
Everyone’s mood improved, however, after we showered and went across the street to an inviting-looking Italian restaurant with specialties in seafood pasta. All tables were full so we sat at the bar and ordered wine. The Italian bartender, from somewhere near Bologna, was fun to talk to and very friendly, serving our group a complementary plate of prosciutto and crusty bread as we ordered wine. I got the house white, a variety I’d never heard of (Trebbiano) but which was very good and from the bartender’s hometown. We were already on our second glass by the time we got seated, but no matter, we were in a good mood. I got the shrimp ravioli and arugula salad, while the others ordered the spaghetti langostina (lobster). Both were excellent, the desserts less so, but we didn’t mind since we’d enjoyed our seaside dinner so much. After all that, we were only in the mood for sleep, and headed off to bed happy.
Our sleep was interrupted on several occasions by music emanating from the pool area, but still, it was hard not to wake up in a good mood when a day of laying around on the beach awaited. First, though, a big breakfast was in order, as we were all in agreement that a good vacation also means eating well. Oddly, we only found one restaurant among the many in the area that was open for Sunday breakfast, and they didn’t have the pancakes we were hoping for. Still, eggs, toast, cheese, coffee, and juice filled us up and got us adequately prepared for sunbathing. After eating, we headed through town – there is actually a typical Dominican town here, back behind the beachfront businesses – and out to Playa Bonita.
The beach lived up to its name. Another beachfront dirt road leads past a series of lovely hotels, all no bigger than two-story farmhouses but with thatched rooves and cabanas hung with hammocks, and lawns of soft grass shaded with palm trees running down almost to the water. We parked in front of one of these and headed down the beach to an unpopulated area, putting our towels down between two palm trees. Here was spent a happy and lazy couple of hours, even though the cloud cover and breeze made it a little too cool to go in the water until right at the end. From there, we went back to the hotel to collect our things, bid farewell to the unfriendly Frenchman, and try out the wood-fired pizza restaurant for lunch. (Oddly, though the place was named “Pizza Plaza,” underneath this it advertised, “specializing in fish and seafood.”) Since arugula is my favorite green, I ordered the Margarita + Rucula pizza, wondering if it might be grown in this area – it’s so fresh over here, but is usually in short supply in Santiago. The pizzas were great but rather larger than expected, so we had leftovers to stink up the car with all the way home. After lunch, we just had time to squeeze in one more brief visit to the Las Terrenas beach, where we found a disco lite blasting merengue and bachata at us. However, the lyrics were quite appropriate, as one merenguero sung to us, “how beautiful are the waves.”
The way home was uneventful, but the pizza smell emanating from the trunk made us hungry so we had to make a pit stop at the enormous La Sirena store in San Francisco de Macoris. We bought Ruffles, Sun Chips, and Coke for the drive, and I also discovered that in spite of having applied sun block at least three times, I had got burnt in a rather odd pattern (two stripes across my midsection, and splotches on one side only of each leg). I guess I really should only be allowed to sit in the shade from now on. I helped myself to a handful of aloe lotion from a tester bottle, which helped to make the rest of the drive more comfortable. Needless to say, we all slept well that night and ate pizza.
Since then, I’ve been daydreaming of Samana and having a little beach house there where I could happily write books in the shade of the coconut palms. But in the meantime, I had to get back to work and back to my routine. This entailed my accordion lesson on Monday, followed by coffee and a dominoes game with Chiqui and Laura, visits to Amantes de la Luz (where I nearly fell asleep over my dusty newspapers) and the Centro Leon on Tuesday, and taking in a Dominican film at the Casa de Arte on Tuesday evening. “Negocios son negocios” (business is business) was actually a very amusing comedy about a dorky guy in Santo Domingo who gets mistaken for the new financial manager of a major bank. Wacky high jinks ensue. I recommend it.
Research progresses: I finally made it over to Amantes de la Luz, the public library, to check out their newspaper collection and start looking for evidence of Santiago’s pre-tipico-book musical life. The same day, I interviewed one of the DJs from the main típico station, Super Regional. (You can listen to it online! Check it out!) Both informative and entertaining, and I’ve been invited to appear on the show to receive calls from afar one day soon. I’ll give you all the details as they become clear, so you can tune in too. Heck, you could even call us up!
Then, all of a sudden, I decided to take off to Samaná for the weekend with friends Angela and Noelia, both of whom work at the Centro Leon. Samaná is said to be one of the best, if not the best, places in the world to see humpback whales, as they come to this bay to breed every winter. And since there are only a couple of weeks left in whale-watching season this year – by law the tour boats only go until March 15 – it was just in time.
Thus, Friday morning found me arising rather than usual and hurriedly packing for the beach. Samana is quite a drive from Santiago. First we headed south on the Duarte highway past La Vega, turning off on the highway to San Francisco de Macoris just before hitting the mountains. San Francisco is only about 1/6 the size of Santiago but has a larger mall and a larger branch of La Sirena, as well as a bunch of exclusive gated communities with rows of enormous mansions. Why? Drug money. That’s pretty much the only thing the town seems to be known for.
Just past Macoris, however, things get quite scenic as one passes through emerald green rice paddies stretching off as flat as anything in both directions, punctuated by a stray palm tree or flamboyant here and there. A ways after that, you’ll find some unusual grassland where cattle graze under bonsai-shaped trees no taller than a man. Finally one comes to Nagua, a very hot seaside town where the sun seems to burn everything to a blinding white. There, I requested a quick stop. More merengue típico star accordionists have come from here than perhaps any other single town, including Maria Diaz, El Ciego de Nagua, and the legendary Tatico Henriquez. A few years ago, the town, spurred on by journalist, merengue conservator, and Nagua native Rafael Chaljub Mejia, erected a bust of Tatico in one of the town’s parks. Now, Tatico and his accordion look out over the Hall of Justice and Secretary of Education buildings. Unable to determine what magic the Naguan air contained to have spurred on all these famous fingers, I settled for a picture of myself with Tatico.
Nagua is the last town before heading out into the province of Samaná: it’s located right in the crook of where the arm of Samaná reaches out from the mainland. It’s a crossroads where you can either head up the coast towards Cabrera, El Prodigio’s hometown, or east along the peninsula. If you choose the latter, as we did, you drive right along the coast before heading south towards the town of Sanchez. There’s no tourism here because the beach is rocky rather than sandy, but you’ll pass through groves of coconut palms that grow all the way out to the water, providing shade to the tiny blue and pink-painted wooden houses of the local fishermen and other workers. As you get closer to Sanchez, the architecture changes. The road becomes lined with really charming houses similar to the historic Santiago Victorians, but with a different style of decoration, the ventilation panels featuring asterisk or square patterns rather than the scrollwork of Santiago. The vegetation also becomes thicker as you climb a ways into the hills. Then, as we neared the end of our journey (thank goodness, after three and a half hours) quite suddenly we dropped down towards the coast, and an amazing view spread out before us. The town of Samana sits in a semicircle around a calm bay where many sailboats are anchored. Two very small, thickly forested keys sit right in the middle of it and are connected to the mainland by a walkway that sits high above the water on arched legs, looking like something out of a fantasy film. Off in the distance one can see other, larger keys that resemble the whales we’d come here to see.
After that long drive we were dying to try out the local specialty: pescado con coco, fish in coconut sauce. Thus we beat a hasty path to the closest seafood restaurant with a view of the bay. We tided ourselves over with garlic bread while waiting for the main course, which turned out to be worth the wait. The coconut sauce is like that of a Thai curry without the spice, but just as flavorful, the fish was perfect, and the rice, beans, and tostones on the side hit the spot. Afterwards, we investigated the local hotel situation, which was unimpressive. Thus, my companions decided we should go see the whales first and then head to another town for overnight accommodations. As we tried to reach the whale-watching organizations listed in my tour books by phone, though, a hawker came along and made us an offer we couldn’t refuse. We thus ended up following him on his motorbike out to a launching spot for lanchas, small motor boats that would take us out to find large marine mammals. There, I hurriedly changed into my bathing suit in the smelly, waterless bathroom and jumped onto the boat – so hurriedly, in fact, that I ended up forgetting my camera. This eventuality changed our itinerary somewhat, and we ended up making a stop on Cayo Levantado (Raised Key) before heading out for our date with the whales. (I called ahead to tell them we’d be a bit late.)
Cayo Levantado has no motor vehicles, but it does have a couple of hotels and a lovely white sand beach backed by a bunch of small food and alcoholic beverage stands. On the path from dock (where we had to leap up nearly five feet to reach it from our little boat) to beach there were stands selling tourist items, and we just caught the woman we needed before she left for the day, enabling me to buy an overpriced disposable camera to capture our afternoon’s adventures. We then had about 40 minutes to relax on the beach and enjoy the view of the wooded Samana coastline over a drink. Noelia and I shared a large beer – which reminds me, why do we not have large beers for sharing in the U.S.? – and Angela ordered a pina colada. It came in an attractive hollowed-out pineapple, but she reported it had no discernible alcohol content. We found out the guide who accompanied us was actually a baseball player who usually lived in Santo Domingo but was here recovering from an arm injury. The water was a little cool with the cloud cover coming and going but we jumped in anyway, and I swam around until the lancha camed back for us and we hopped back aboard.
The cloud cover was getting thicker as we headed out into the middle of the bay, and the water was choppy. But our captain, who as it happened was sporting a t-shirt from a school in Bushwick / Ridgewood, was far from daunted. He sped along those waves as if they were the Indy 500 track, but they definitely weren’t, as our rear ends soon discovered. Eventually we yelled to our baseball friend to toss us some life jackets to use as seat cushions. He agreed that at this point they were less useful as “salvavidas” (lifesavers) than as “salvanalgas” (buttsavers). It was a good thing we had them, because it took us quite a while of roaming the bay before we found whales. In the meantime, I passed the time by making bad whale jokes in Spanish. E.g. "y las ballenas, tocan mucho ballenato?" A bad pun on "vallenato," Colombian accordion music, which if one didn't know any better, and if one were German, one might think derived from the word for whale (ballena) rather than "valle" for valley. (I actually saw this spurious etymology on a Latin music web site developed by Germans.)
The first one we saw was kind of far away, but it was easy to observe his antics: shooting huge columns of foam from his blowhole, jumping up and down, putting his enormous tail up and slapping the water. We headed over to him at top speed, but he dove again before we got there. Then we saw another lancha not far from us, so we headed for them to see if they’d found anything. They said there was a whale there, but it had just gone under. We waited for a while (Angela wondered why it was called “whale-watching,” when it was clearly “whale-waiting”) and then we did see one. And then another. It’s obvious while they’re called humpbacks, because what you see when they come up to breathe and go under again is a hump with a fin in the middle of it briefly sticking up above the surface, sea serpent-like. Soon we even saw a baby whale, lighter in color than the adults and of course much smaller, though still as big as a truck. The baby skimmed the surface for a minute and then went under, and just as I was wondering, “where’s the mother?” she came up too. The two of them came up to breathe side by side, and while the mom exhaled in a big puff, the baby spit out water from its blowhole in a stream like that of a garden hose. They didn’t stay long, prompting the guides to wonder why they were all in such a hurry this afternoon – apparently, that morning the whales wouldn’t leave them alone, jumping up all over the place. I guess the whales had better things to do than entertain us, though. Anyway, it was just as well as it was getting late and we still didn’t have a hotel. Reaching for our salvanalgas, we prepared for the trip back.
Angela and Noelia had fixed on Las Terrenas for our nighttime destination – kind of a long drive that would take us over the steep mountains that run down the middle of the peninsula, so we were anxious to get going. Still a bit damp, we piled in the car and took off. It was certainly scenic, even at dusk. We passed through El Limon, the takeoff point for mule trips to the Limon waterfall. This is the stunning cascade shown in the movie Jurassic Park, and I vow to return to it later, although Angela warns us that it’s a tough hike from the point the mules have to stop up to the falls. When we drop down to the north coast and suddenly find ourselves in a town again, it’s past dark and we are once again starving.
Las Terrenas just after dark is all twinkly fairy lights on thatch-rooved restaurants, and white sand and waves lit by moonlight. The tiny beachfront bars and inviting B&Bs are all connected by one dirt road that follows the coastline from the town graveyard all the way down. Seldom has anything looked more inviting to me. But we were feeling sticky and salty so we decided to find a hotel and shower off before going any further. We went down the line inquiring within, and though some of them didn’t have anything available to meet our 3-person, 3-bed needs there were some good deals to be had, especially for families and larger groups. One beautiful hotel with a pool and Jacuzzi has 2-bedroom, 2- bath apartments with kitchen renting for US $110. The one we ended up with was less picturesque but conveniently located near the restaurants. We got a room that could have slept five for US $60. It did have two strange features, though: no door on the shower area, and when you flushed the toilet, which was in a separate room, the sink made loud gurgling noises that cracked us up every time. This establishment was run by a French couple that still didn’t speak Spanish, making communication problematic, as we found out when a discussion erupted between Angela and the ruddy-faced Frenchman. He had indicated that there was a secure parking area for her newly-purchased vehicle, but when she went to park there she found an unguarded, ungated empty lot with no other cars to be seen. Feeling uncertain about this location, she hoped to leave the car in the single space in front of the hotel, instead, where the watchman could keep an eye on it. The car would have fit in there and allowed the gate to be closed if the owner had moved his ATV a foot or two over, but this he would not do, insisting that the rear lot was perfectly safe because last week “muchos dominicanos avec grandes carros” had left their SUVs there with no problems. This incensed Angela even further as he seemed to be saying something stereotypical about Dominicans and flashy cars, and things ended at an impasse, both parties walking away in a huff.
Everyone’s mood improved, however, after we showered and went across the street to an inviting-looking Italian restaurant with specialties in seafood pasta. All tables were full so we sat at the bar and ordered wine. The Italian bartender, from somewhere near Bologna, was fun to talk to and very friendly, serving our group a complementary plate of prosciutto and crusty bread as we ordered wine. I got the house white, a variety I’d never heard of (Trebbiano) but which was very good and from the bartender’s hometown. We were already on our second glass by the time we got seated, but no matter, we were in a good mood. I got the shrimp ravioli and arugula salad, while the others ordered the spaghetti langostina (lobster). Both were excellent, the desserts less so, but we didn’t mind since we’d enjoyed our seaside dinner so much. After all that, we were only in the mood for sleep, and headed off to bed happy.
Our sleep was interrupted on several occasions by music emanating from the pool area, but still, it was hard not to wake up in a good mood when a day of laying around on the beach awaited. First, though, a big breakfast was in order, as we were all in agreement that a good vacation also means eating well. Oddly, we only found one restaurant among the many in the area that was open for Sunday breakfast, and they didn’t have the pancakes we were hoping for. Still, eggs, toast, cheese, coffee, and juice filled us up and got us adequately prepared for sunbathing. After eating, we headed through town – there is actually a typical Dominican town here, back behind the beachfront businesses – and out to Playa Bonita.
The beach lived up to its name. Another beachfront dirt road leads past a series of lovely hotels, all no bigger than two-story farmhouses but with thatched rooves and cabanas hung with hammocks, and lawns of soft grass shaded with palm trees running down almost to the water. We parked in front of one of these and headed down the beach to an unpopulated area, putting our towels down between two palm trees. Here was spent a happy and lazy couple of hours, even though the cloud cover and breeze made it a little too cool to go in the water until right at the end. From there, we went back to the hotel to collect our things, bid farewell to the unfriendly Frenchman, and try out the wood-fired pizza restaurant for lunch. (Oddly, though the place was named “Pizza Plaza,” underneath this it advertised, “specializing in fish and seafood.”) Since arugula is my favorite green, I ordered the Margarita + Rucula pizza, wondering if it might be grown in this area – it’s so fresh over here, but is usually in short supply in Santiago. The pizzas were great but rather larger than expected, so we had leftovers to stink up the car with all the way home. After lunch, we just had time to squeeze in one more brief visit to the Las Terrenas beach, where we found a disco lite blasting merengue and bachata at us. However, the lyrics were quite appropriate, as one merenguero sung to us, “how beautiful are the waves.”
The way home was uneventful, but the pizza smell emanating from the trunk made us hungry so we had to make a pit stop at the enormous La Sirena store in San Francisco de Macoris. We bought Ruffles, Sun Chips, and Coke for the drive, and I also discovered that in spite of having applied sun block at least three times, I had got burnt in a rather odd pattern (two stripes across my midsection, and splotches on one side only of each leg). I guess I really should only be allowed to sit in the shade from now on. I helped myself to a handful of aloe lotion from a tester bottle, which helped to make the rest of the drive more comfortable. Needless to say, we all slept well that night and ate pizza.
Since then, I’ve been daydreaming of Samana and having a little beach house there where I could happily write books in the shade of the coconut palms. But in the meantime, I had to get back to work and back to my routine. This entailed my accordion lesson on Monday, followed by coffee and a dominoes game with Chiqui and Laura, visits to Amantes de la Luz (where I nearly fell asleep over my dusty newspapers) and the Centro Leon on Tuesday, and taking in a Dominican film at the Casa de Arte on Tuesday evening. “Negocios son negocios” (business is business) was actually a very amusing comedy about a dorky guy in Santo Domingo who gets mistaken for the new financial manager of a major bank. Wacky high jinks ensue. I recommend it.
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
Carnival wrap-up
2/27 – 3/2/06
I really needed a rest on Friday after all the excitement, but instead I did an interview of my old friend David, then some grocery shopping, and finally attended a street party in the La Joya neighborhood. La Joya is the source of one of the two original styles of Santiago lechon masks, and also has a reputation for being tough. Two local 10-year-old boys tried to prove this correct to me by telling me about knives and tattoos they planned on getting. My palos-playing friends were performing there along with a son and salsa group. I danced a fair amount, and would have danced more, but the only available son partners were the neighborhood drunkards, and you can only go so far with them. But dancing palos sure gives you a workout. The palos group wanted me to join them for their next gig on the following evening, too, but I decided I’d better rest up for the big parade on Sunday. Plus, we had another introductory barrio parade Saturday afternoon.
I spent Saturday morning gluing more mirrors and buttons on my costume. In the afternoon, we all met up at Tonito’s aunt’s house, since she lives in the barrio in question: Ensanche Libertad. As usual, though, there was a lot of waiting entailed before the parade would begin. Plenty of time for me to hang out with the aunt in her kitchen, drink coffee and eat crackers. Just as well, I thought; I need some energy for another long, long walk with lots of dancing. I was wrong, though: this parade was abnormally short. We didn’t have our disco lite this time, so we had to dance to the music of others, and I only just had time to work up a little bit of thirst before we were done already and back where we’d started! The parade was more entertaining for me than some of the past ones, though, since we were just in front of a comparsa (a carnival group with some sort of theatrical shtick) that was a huge hit with the crowd, getting first screams and then cacophonous laughter on every block. Representing the Drug Enforcement Agency, they were wearing sunglasses and flak jackets with DEA printed on the back and carrying submachine guns made of painted wood. They’d all ride around in this big black Pathfinder, honking like crazy, and when they got to an intersection they’d screech to a halt and all pile out. Then they’d run around and find some unsuspecting guy in the crowd to “arrest” and throw in the back of the car, only to let him out again at the next stop. They even had a guy with a TV camera for them to stick their hands in front of.
Anyway, once we came to the premature end of our walk, all the lechon groups gathered around in a circle at one intersection. There was a photographer on top of one of the buildings on the corner there snapping our pictures, and an emcee making announcements. The barrio organization that had gotten this little event together gave certificates of recognition and a shout-out to each group, at which point the relevant lechones would run/dance/whip around in a circle for a minute. This was a nice touch, but while we made our circle, Tonito got a little too whip-happy and ended up whipping one of the horns right off Betania’s mask. That sort of put an end to the party, though not to the rum. Betania headed straight to the mask-makers as soon as we managed to strip off our costumes, in order to be ready for the Big Day.
Finally we made it to the last Sunday – the big, official parade. Unfortunately, I didn’t sleep well and got up feeling kind of disgusting. I tried to rest a bit more before leaving but Betania had told me to be there around 1:00 in order to leave at 2: today, instead of leaving on foot from the house, we had a bus to take us down to the monument area, where the parade was to start. So I got there around 1:20, and absolutely no one was there except for one Confraterno gluing things onto his son’s unfinished costume. I sat there for a while . . . then a while longer . . . getting more and more sleepy, and no one else showed up. I got tired of this after about an hour and a half so decided to run home for a quick nap. I did and an hour later returned just in time for the bus.
Down in a parking lot behind the monument, we got suited up, took a picture, and – surprise, surprise – stood around for a long time. I wished I had my camera to take picture of the even more luxurious costumes that had come out for this, the day of judgment, but there wasn’t any way to carry it and be a lechon at the same time. There were some great ones, though: one group seemed to have taken feathers as their unifying theme, so one had his horns completely wrapped barber-pole style in many colors of feather boas, while another had ostrich feathers in fluorescent colors tied to his, and a third had boas running down the sides of his costume as accents. Eventually, we got lined up behind our new and improved disco lite (no rusty pick-ups in the final parade, especially since the Federation money finally came through) and stood around some more. And then we got moving.
Today being the final parade, we had few opportunities to remove our masks for a breather, and combined with the obligation to keep dancing and the intense sun this made for an extremely sweaty afternoon. (At the end, when I did take my mask off and hand it to one of the security, he asked me, “did you pour water on this?”) There were points I thought I couldn’t keep going – in fact, our youngest member had to rest for a bit, and I saw another kid collapsed from the heat being carried out at one point – but the crowd’s excitement kept our feet moving. Also, there were tons of little kids there that wanted to touch you and shake your hand, and people with cameras who wanted to take your picture. I finally felt I had the hang of the lechon’s characteristic dance movements and the clown spirit a lechon should have. When we reached the end of the route, the underpass to Las Hermanas Mirabal avenue, I danced around lechon-style with Polanquito for a bit and Betania commented that we moved just alike. I took this as a compliment, considering Polanquito’s 60-some years of lechon experience.
Our job well done, we celebrated once again with beer and bachata, and then I took off for a hard-earned dinner. Still, the next day it was clear that I’d lost some weight. Being a lechon is hard work! Say, this could be the next fad diet…
After carnival, most anything is a let-down. But I tried to keep the excitement alive by going to see “Walk the Line” (a.k.a. “Johnny & June: Pasion y locura”), which I enjoyed very much. I left the theater just in time to catch the fireworks display in celebration of Dominican Independence Day, which put a nice end to a lazy Monday (by force – everything was closed, and Rafaelito cancelled class again because he had to go to Puerto Plata for the 3rd anniversary of his mother’s death). Both Tuesday and Thursday were spent in the exciting pursuit of writing grant applications and catching up on email. Which leaves Wednesday, most of which was spent chatting with other típico-heads at Rafaelito’s house; briefly rehearsing a couple of tunes for my upcoming TV performance, and interviewing a Robalagallina about his experiences as a carnival transvestite. And that takes me up to the present, which finds me watching American Idol with Spanish subtitles, interspersed with music videos, one of which is from a Shah Rukh Khan Hindi film. That was unexpected!
I really needed a rest on Friday after all the excitement, but instead I did an interview of my old friend David, then some grocery shopping, and finally attended a street party in the La Joya neighborhood. La Joya is the source of one of the two original styles of Santiago lechon masks, and also has a reputation for being tough. Two local 10-year-old boys tried to prove this correct to me by telling me about knives and tattoos they planned on getting. My palos-playing friends were performing there along with a son and salsa group. I danced a fair amount, and would have danced more, but the only available son partners were the neighborhood drunkards, and you can only go so far with them. But dancing palos sure gives you a workout. The palos group wanted me to join them for their next gig on the following evening, too, but I decided I’d better rest up for the big parade on Sunday. Plus, we had another introductory barrio parade Saturday afternoon.
I spent Saturday morning gluing more mirrors and buttons on my costume. In the afternoon, we all met up at Tonito’s aunt’s house, since she lives in the barrio in question: Ensanche Libertad. As usual, though, there was a lot of waiting entailed before the parade would begin. Plenty of time for me to hang out with the aunt in her kitchen, drink coffee and eat crackers. Just as well, I thought; I need some energy for another long, long walk with lots of dancing. I was wrong, though: this parade was abnormally short. We didn’t have our disco lite this time, so we had to dance to the music of others, and I only just had time to work up a little bit of thirst before we were done already and back where we’d started! The parade was more entertaining for me than some of the past ones, though, since we were just in front of a comparsa (a carnival group with some sort of theatrical shtick) that was a huge hit with the crowd, getting first screams and then cacophonous laughter on every block. Representing the Drug Enforcement Agency, they were wearing sunglasses and flak jackets with DEA printed on the back and carrying submachine guns made of painted wood. They’d all ride around in this big black Pathfinder, honking like crazy, and when they got to an intersection they’d screech to a halt and all pile out. Then they’d run around and find some unsuspecting guy in the crowd to “arrest” and throw in the back of the car, only to let him out again at the next stop. They even had a guy with a TV camera for them to stick their hands in front of.
Anyway, once we came to the premature end of our walk, all the lechon groups gathered around in a circle at one intersection. There was a photographer on top of one of the buildings on the corner there snapping our pictures, and an emcee making announcements. The barrio organization that had gotten this little event together gave certificates of recognition and a shout-out to each group, at which point the relevant lechones would run/dance/whip around in a circle for a minute. This was a nice touch, but while we made our circle, Tonito got a little too whip-happy and ended up whipping one of the horns right off Betania’s mask. That sort of put an end to the party, though not to the rum. Betania headed straight to the mask-makers as soon as we managed to strip off our costumes, in order to be ready for the Big Day.
Finally we made it to the last Sunday – the big, official parade. Unfortunately, I didn’t sleep well and got up feeling kind of disgusting. I tried to rest a bit more before leaving but Betania had told me to be there around 1:00 in order to leave at 2: today, instead of leaving on foot from the house, we had a bus to take us down to the monument area, where the parade was to start. So I got there around 1:20, and absolutely no one was there except for one Confraterno gluing things onto his son’s unfinished costume. I sat there for a while . . . then a while longer . . . getting more and more sleepy, and no one else showed up. I got tired of this after about an hour and a half so decided to run home for a quick nap. I did and an hour later returned just in time for the bus.
Down in a parking lot behind the monument, we got suited up, took a picture, and – surprise, surprise – stood around for a long time. I wished I had my camera to take picture of the even more luxurious costumes that had come out for this, the day of judgment, but there wasn’t any way to carry it and be a lechon at the same time. There were some great ones, though: one group seemed to have taken feathers as their unifying theme, so one had his horns completely wrapped barber-pole style in many colors of feather boas, while another had ostrich feathers in fluorescent colors tied to his, and a third had boas running down the sides of his costume as accents. Eventually, we got lined up behind our new and improved disco lite (no rusty pick-ups in the final parade, especially since the Federation money finally came through) and stood around some more. And then we got moving.
Today being the final parade, we had few opportunities to remove our masks for a breather, and combined with the obligation to keep dancing and the intense sun this made for an extremely sweaty afternoon. (At the end, when I did take my mask off and hand it to one of the security, he asked me, “did you pour water on this?”) There were points I thought I couldn’t keep going – in fact, our youngest member had to rest for a bit, and I saw another kid collapsed from the heat being carried out at one point – but the crowd’s excitement kept our feet moving. Also, there were tons of little kids there that wanted to touch you and shake your hand, and people with cameras who wanted to take your picture. I finally felt I had the hang of the lechon’s characteristic dance movements and the clown spirit a lechon should have. When we reached the end of the route, the underpass to Las Hermanas Mirabal avenue, I danced around lechon-style with Polanquito for a bit and Betania commented that we moved just alike. I took this as a compliment, considering Polanquito’s 60-some years of lechon experience.
Our job well done, we celebrated once again with beer and bachata, and then I took off for a hard-earned dinner. Still, the next day it was clear that I’d lost some weight. Being a lechon is hard work! Say, this could be the next fad diet…
After carnival, most anything is a let-down. But I tried to keep the excitement alive by going to see “Walk the Line” (a.k.a. “Johnny & June: Pasion y locura”), which I enjoyed very much. I left the theater just in time to catch the fireworks display in celebration of Dominican Independence Day, which put a nice end to a lazy Monday (by force – everything was closed, and Rafaelito cancelled class again because he had to go to Puerto Plata for the 3rd anniversary of his mother’s death). Both Tuesday and Thursday were spent in the exciting pursuit of writing grant applications and catching up on email. Which leaves Wednesday, most of which was spent chatting with other típico-heads at Rafaelito’s house; briefly rehearsing a couple of tunes for my upcoming TV performance, and interviewing a Robalagallina about his experiences as a carnival transvestite. And that takes me up to the present, which finds me watching American Idol with Spanish subtitles, interspersed with music videos, one of which is from a Shah Rukh Khan Hindi film. That was unexpected!
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