Suncream and Salsa - An Irish gringa in the DR: 2015

Saturday 12 December 2015

The Capital

Recently I´ve had reason to go to The Capital a couple of times. People here in Las Terrenas call it that, much like The Big Smoke to culchies. Santo Domingo, to call it by its real name, never appealed to me much, and I had previously only used it as a way to get to another part of the country. Now that I´ve spent more time there, I understand it better and can see its strong points. I´d still never live there, though.

You never know, your Christmas clothes could be in there.

I had to get from one side of the city to the other, and the easiest way to do that is in taxi. However, that´s the most expensive way (200-300 pesos). The guagua (25 pesos), is generally a minivan (or shared taxi) doing the same route every day, so I set out, determined to do this the cheap way. I passed through busy squares and shopping areas and tried to take it all in.

Preachers on street corners shouted into microphones while people gathered around them, nodding in agreement. Minivans, buses, motorcycles, cars - all presuming to be some form of public transport - weaved and honked and overtook on both sides. An impossible network of destinations. There are no maps of routes or ways to figure this out in advance. The only way to find out which one you need is to ask anyone and everyone. Some people look at you blankly, others are more helpful. Most are helpful.

Once you figure out what guagua you want, the journey is an experience in itself. There is the chofer (driver) and the cobrador, who deals with the money and recruitment of passengers. Yep, recruitment of passengers is the only way I can put it because these guys actively hunt them down and practically haul them up. The more passengers that get on, the more money they make, so even when the guagua seems full, they make room. And, incredibly, nobody complains.

The cobrador on my guagua (going to Avenida Duarte) was hanging out of the door pointing at people and shouting DUARTE? DUARTE? YOU GOING TO DUARTE? HEY YOU! DUARTE? WOMAN! DUARTE? SKINNY GUY! DUARTE? When we were stopped, he would jump out and look for customers, going off down side streets. One time he was gone for a good five minutes, and people were getting impatient. There was no traffic - we could have gone - and the driver kept inching slowly forward as if he just couldn´t wait to go. But he waited. And miraculously, the cobrador comes back with not one, not two, but three new customers, whether they wanted to or not.

When I was waiting for a guagua, he jumped out and said DUARTE? I said yes, so he takes me by the elbow and starts corralling me and another woman into the guagua. A rival cobrador nearby also going to Duarte got pissed and a shouting argument starts between them as they somehow keep screaming DUARTE??? People just walking down the street, not looking like they´re waiting for a bus are possible customers. When people ignored him he kept repeating it until they said no, and he shrugged, somewhat offended. Like, you don´t wanna get on my guagua? What´s your problem? This guy loves his job, puts every ounce of his being into it, and he is good at it. I was pretty sure there were people on this bus that had no intention of getting on a bus.

People wander through traffic selling things - water, ice-cream, potato chips. There was a man with a big tray of pork crackling wandering through the beeping, smoking mess of traffic, mostly stopped. They shout in the guagua and ask you to buy their wares. A man shook a load of chewing-gum in the door of the guagua and when nobody wanted to buy it, he called us mujeres tacañas, stingy women.

The shops bulge out onto the pavement and form tunnels of knockoff baseball and basketball shirts. Any wall can be a display wall, indoor or outdoor, dirty or clean. Lots of t-shirts with numbers and slogans that make no sense but kind of look like they do. Everything is brightly coloured.

The Ouginal Brant

There is an entire block dedicated to toilets, an enamel mountain spilling out onto the street. One street just holds mattress shops, some new and in wrapping, others old and unappealing, and some burnt and blackened. Why are they all together?

Shoe, shoe, shoe, cat, shoe, shoe shoe.

They pile things so high they seem sure to topple, but I haven´t seen it happen yet. There is rubbish everywhere; empty milk crates filled with dirty styrofoam containers, while all around people buy more food to put in more styrofoam containers. They love their styrofoam. There are guys all over the place selling food fried in pots of boiling oil. It looks pretty good. I particularly like the quipes, meat in bulgur wheat, deep fried. They come from the Lebanese immigrants into the DR in the 19th century. The Dominican touch is to artistically dribble catchup (ketchup) up and down them. Hotdogs on a stick are similarly garnished. You can also get grilled corn on the cob, baked sweet potato, fried yuca balls filled with plastic cheese and empanadas.

Incongruously, there is a Chinatown in Santo Domingo. Not quite on par with New York´s Chinatown, this one was inaugurated in 2008 with the express intention of attracting tourists. Asians of all types were strongly encouraged to set up business, and a couple of blocks were enclosed in one of those arches that signify Chinatown like a big gold M signifies McDonalds. To add authenticity, the city erected some historically accurate statues, like The Chinese Immigrant, or the Chinese Princess, as seen below.

"Chinese princess"

The most famous area of the city is the Colonial Zone, which is steeped in history. It´s the oldest European settlement in the New World and was founded by Christopher Columbus´s younger brother Bartholomew. It was kind of the raping and pillaging base-point for the Spanish as they went about annihilating all Carribean cultures. There are lots of streets and squares named after these invaders and ruins or crumbling remains of 16th century buildings. In the Parque Colón, (Columbus Park) there is a bronze statue of the famous invader. Clambering up the statue is Anacaona, a Taíno (the native people of these islands) chief. She and her brothers negociated with the conquistadores when they arrived on the island, but she ended up being executed for refusing to be a concubine to the Spanish. Needless to say, I feel like she should me immortalised in bronze and have a square named after her rather than Columbus.

Columbus, presumably pointing the sun, which he also intends to claim for Spain.

The legendary Anacaona

What´s interesting about the Zona Colonial is the decay. You can walk among the ruins of a hospital or a monastery, 500 years old, with the constant background noise of bachata music and horns beeping. What might have been a nice building facade 200 years ago is now crumbling and lethal looking, but a woman is hanging her laundry out the upstairs window and you can buy fried chicken downstairs.

Lethal balconies.

While in Santo Domingo, I took a day trip out to Boca Chica, the nearest beach to the capital and possibly the crappiest stretch of sand ever. Astonishingly, people come from Europe to spend a week in beach hotels there. The most crowded, dirty beach in the south of Spain would be better than this. The views are of the port of Santo Domingo, industrial and ugly. The beach is crowded with restaurants all along it. But there were two things that made it unbearable for me - the beach vendors and the dogs. The beach vendors sell coconuts, sunglasses, phone covers, shrimp, straw hats, towels, and a million other things I don´t want. A never-ending stream of hisses and sleaze and annoyance. They would try every single time they walked by, though we had said no the previous ten times. At least every 5 minutes somebody would try and sell us something. But the dogs were the worst. There were loads of beach dogs, just as there are in Las Terrenas, but these poor creatures were hungry and skinny and sad looking. It broke my heart. I ended up buying fried chicken for one little pup whose ribs were sticking out. Las Terrenas is possibly the best place to be a dog in this country, thanks to Amigos de Lucky, an association that spays, neuters and vaccinates dogs here.

I wanted to take this lil dude home.

This poor old girl was mangey and bony and saggy, scrounging around for food while fat Germans got massages.

As I get to know more people in Santo Domingo, I get to see how different people here live. Las Terrenas is a small town, 3 hours from the capital, and it feels like a small town. I went with my friend Vivi to a Thanksgiving dinner hosted by a group of bilingual, Latino/North American med students in a gorgeous apartment in a lovely area. A new friend Carlina and her friend took me out to a rock bar and a beautiful cocktail bar with an open courtyard. Both are well travelled and bilingual and doing interesting things. More people in the capital wear their hair natural, rather than braided or chemically straightened. There are other music options. There are museums and newspapers. People read. But, it is still a noisy, loud, poor, overcrowded, dirty city, and though it has its strong points, it made me appreciate my small town more.

This just about sums up this country. A little book stand in the bus station, with sex positions and prayers side by side.

Tuesday 3 November 2015

Slovember

It´s low season, and town is quiet. There´s been a lot of rain - all the Carribean hurricanes seem to bypass us but make it really really wet. Rain is good, there´s been drought and the beautiful waterfall in El Limón is dry. Meaning all the people who live from the tourism there are screwed. On the downside, there´s not much to do here when it´s raining, except for go to a bar and drink. In the interests of my liver, especially with Christmas in Ireland coming, I am trying to not do that. Much.

One big downside of the rain is that the river swells and carries lots of trash into the sea. After a storm, the beaches are disgusting with washed-up rubbish. But because it´s low season, nobody cleans it. It breaks your heart to see so many plastic bottles. I pick them up as I walk along, but there are no bins either, so I really need to start bringing bags to collect them in.

Where the river washes into the sea.

This is the mouth of the river, right on the beach.

Another downside: with lots of rain come lots of mosquitoes. One day I got bit 53 times! These days I´ve given up on the natural stuff and am spraying myself with copious amounts of poison/DEET daily. There´s a lot of dengue in the country at the moment, several people I know have gotten it, so I guess DEET is a lesser evil right now. It´s so strong it strips my toenail polish :/

I hate goddamn mosquitoes,

Work is good, school is good, and we´re halfway through the first term. I have 14 kids in my 3rd/4th grade class, a mix of Dominican, Haitian, American, British, Italian, Swedish and Slovenian. 4 of them speak English fluently, 2 to a high level and the rest are beginners. I teach one day in English and one day in Spanish and it´s going pretty well.

I did a Dominican cookery class with Rosa, a woman who cooks in my boss´s house. She showed us how to make pork, beans, pigeon peas with coconut, tayota, aubergine and rice (apparently not just boiling in water!). I love Dominican food and I´m determined to bring this cheap, healthy eating to Ireland. Or at least attempt to cook it once. They put a seasoning with MSG and sopita, a stock cube, on everything it seems but it tastes so damn good. My version will have no MSG.

To be honest, things are kind of boring here for me, which means I have to shake up my life and make it more interesting. It´s this small town living I guess - there´s nothing to do after sunset except go out to bars. I´m working 7 days a week at the moment, 5 in the school and 2 in a bar/restaurant called Lazy Dog. The great thing about working in a bar is that you meet people, it´s so social. I´d be even more bored without it. I´m going to the capital, Santo Domingo, next weekend and CAN´T WAIT. Shops! Cinema! Shops!

A strange run-down little residence. It´s like the owners abandoned ship but the tenants kept on living there.

The lack of activity has had me thinking a lot, about this country, how I feel about it and how that has changed. When I first came, as open as I thought I was to a new culture, I now realise that I was only seeing the Dominican culture through the lens of my own ideology, my European culture. My reactions were based on everything I know as a European, and sometimes misinformed. Which is to be expected, and a good reminder to always be aware of my own ignorance.

Some examples:

Resting bitch face.
A large amount of Dominican women (and I would go so far as to say half of them) have a severe case of resting bitch face. I would love to know why, and it is a topic I need to delve into in the future, but it´s definitely true. It put me off at first, but now I know that the bitch mask does not define the person.

Freebies/favours.
I was always so suspicious of freebies and favours, like a unknown shopkeeper telling you to pay him another day when you´re a few pesos short, someone offering you a lift, or help with something. There´s no such thing as a free lunch, everyone wants something. But business and friendship here are inextricably tied, there are many links in the chain of one transaction, and the more "friends" you have, the better. Sometimes they´re real friends, sometimes they´re acquaintances, but you can still scratch each other´s backs.

The hisses.
When someone hisses at me, I now realise it might be a friend just wanting to get my attention to say hello. It´s not agressive. It´s like shouting out "hey!". But, it is mostly guys just wanting to blow me a kiss.

Which brings us on to my biggest culture clash so far, the hardest thing for me to accept - the men. It´s impossible to draw a line between cultural difference and misogyny, because what is culture but the behaviours and beliefs that characterise a society? And if misogny is inherent in that society (OK, misogyny is inherent in ALL societies, but here it´s stronger than in most of Europe), does one have to accept the misogny, or a certain amount of it, to accept the culture? How much do you fight it? When do you take offense and when do you dismiss it as not important?

I still ignore the hisses. I mostly say "hola" back to any random guy who says "Hola linda" to me on the street (linda=beautiful), but I don´t look at him and I keep on walking. I´ve got better at disengaging myself from interactions I don´t want to be in, and better at spotting them. But then I wonder, do I compromise my beliefs, my feminism and my sense of self by not reacting the way I would if men in Ireland talked to me like that? I don´t know, and I don´t know will I ever know what to accept and what to fight. I think maybe the line moves as I learn and adapt and accept.

My iPhone keeps breaking and being revived by a rice nap, so I want to post the photos that were on it when it went the last time:

This old man has incredible knees. He´s always crouched down planting and weeding, I don´t know how he does it.

Dominican scaffolding.

This little girl was found on the beach and lived with me and my housemate for a few days until we found her a new home.

Gaeilge! On a mural here! I investigated, and turns out nobody knew what language it was, they just found it online...

Tuesday 8 September 2015

Provincetown

I am back in Las Terrenas after switching universes for three months. I couldn´t write about it because my brain couldn´t reflect yet, I was just doing and going and being and didn´t stop. But now I am melting back into the Carribean pace of life and can finally reflect on these last three months.

Provincetown. What a place.

I decided to go to the USA for the summer because I had a family reunion in New Hampshire that I was not going to miss and I didn´t have enough money to pay for flights to Ireland and the States and back to the DR. So I stayed in the States all summer. I had been to Provincetown a few times with my family because my Mom´s good friend David lives there, and I had always wanted to spend a summer there, so here was my chance. And wow. What an overwhelming experience. I felt all the feelings this summer – lonely, lost, excited, intrigued, happy, curious, content, then sad again because I was leaving. I knew in theory that a new move to a place where I knew only one person would be difficult at first, but living it is another story. And then it became wonderful. But first, some P-town info.

Provincetown is at the tip of Cape Cod ("The Strong Right Arm of Massachusetts"). It was the first place the Pilgrims of the Mayflower landed in 1620, though it was soon ditched for the more sheltered Plymouth. It became a place where sailors and fishermen docked and smuggled and drank, and eventually turned into a busy whaling port in 18th century. Portuguese sailors started to join the whaling ships and by the 20th century the town was dominated by Portuguese families. Then came the artists, and with them, the gays. Creative people started coming to Provincetown in the summer from New York and the arts flourished there - Tennessee Williams and Eugene O´Neill were some famous residents then,Tony Kushner and John Waters are some famous residents now.

Now, Provincetown is the gayest town in the USA, according to census data, and the most liberal, least racist and least misogynistic place I have ever been. Yes, there is every stereotype of homosexuality on display. Yes, there is a fair bit of nudity. Yes, there are a lot of Broadway show tunes played (if I ever hear "Seasons of Love" from Rent again, it´ll be too soon). But there´s also everyone else - the summer workers that come from all walks of life, the jaded year-rounders who just can´t wait for all summer folk to go back to New York and Boston, the families (straight and gay), the old folk, the day trippers, the whale fanatics, the kids, the performers there to do some shows, the artists there to open their summer galleries.

So, back to me. Now remember, I´d been in the developing world for 6 months, living in basic conditions in a town where you can´t buy much and culinary options are limited. I had a little joyful freakout when I landed in JFK and had an hour to kill in my layover. I went straight to the bathroom, obviously, and marvelled at the powerful flush. I could have hung out all day in that shiny, bright, white, mosquito-free bathroom where you can flush your poop and the sink squirts foamy antiseptic soap onto your hands without you touching a thing. Hot water! Hand driers! Newness! I was like Annie when she arrives in Mr. Warbucks mansion the first time. And that was only the bathroom. Next, the food court. I almost cried when I saw the salad bar. I mean, American food is exciting for me anyways (so many options!) but after DR life I felt like it was the first time I ever saw a broccoli-cranberry-feta-walnut salad. The dressings options were excessive. I wanted them all. And there wasn´t only salad - there was food of all ethnicities, and quite frankly it was too much, especially seeing as I had eaten a lot of free blue crisps on the Jet Blue flight there. I circled the food court for a good 20 minutes and finally managed to get an extremely overpriced box of millions of salads and then Whatsapped my girlfriends about the experience. The thrill.

Giddy, I was.

After coming down off my salad buzz, I connected to Boston where my friend Nikki picked me up and brought me to her house where I had the longest, hottest shower anyone ever had, ever. Then we went to a Mexican place (new flavours! beer menu!) and I continued to marvel at everything as if I´d been living in the jungle for a decade. Nikki drove me up the Cape to Provincetown the next day, and so began my adventure. Kind of.

I had a job set up in a great restaurant, and somewhere to live. My new colleagues were all lovely and friendly and town was beautiful and starting to buzz with summer fun. But I was still new and didn´t really have any friends and found myself bored and lonely. The thing about wonderful places is that they´re so much more wonderful with friends. I´d have an afternoon off and no-one to hang with, or Saturday night free and nothing to do. I made an effort to meet people and luckily the place I worked in had a great late-night bar, so if nothing else at least I could hang out in the smoking area where my co-workers were working security or just hanging out. It took a full month for my summer to really kick off, and when it did I was thrilled with it all. I knew so many people, so many different characters about town. Many just to exchange pleasantries, a HEYYY GURL, HOW YOU DOIN´?, and some others I got to know a bit better. Life was busy, vibrant and so much fun.

Provincetown is...

The seasonal workers who come back every year. They winter in New York or Boston or Bulgaria or Jamaica or Colorado or Arizona or California and they summer in P-town. They work hard, know everyone and party hard.
The gorgeous New York gay boys who bartend or waiter to support their creative life/party lifestyle. They make fast friends and are hella fun. I want to be around them all the time.
The fun loving Bulgarian kid with big ambitions and plans and a Jack Russell sidekick.
The Bulgarian guys who say they are grossed out by the gayness but they keep coming back.
The crazy kids who have a lot of drama but are so engaging and fun that a week in their company makes you BFFs.
The wearied veterans who have been coming for too many seasons but keep coming back.
The famous film director who smiles at you like he´s on something.
The Ru Paul´s Drag Race stars. I was star-struck the first time I saw them, after a while you´re surprised when they don´t show up to a beach party.
The straight women who have been coming here for seasons.
The families of all shapes and sizes and colours. Though really, everyone hates family week. Kids are messy and loud and don´t tip.
The handsome artist with a thin moustache who is so sweet and friendly and you only find out about his super cool life after you feel like you already know him.
The hairy smiley man, always in a tank top, who turns out is a professional opera singer.
The street musicians.
The people who push their dogs in strollers or carry them in those baby carriers you wear on your chest.
Da Shuffler, a 14 year old boy who comes and dances in a lycra multi-coloured sleeveless jumpsuit on the street to pop songs. He dances like no one is watching. His mom brings him to town for a few days at a time and everyone loves him. He does it to make people happy, and it works.
Whale freaks. They work on the whale boats and the wonder of seeing whales breach and feed every day means they can´t think about anything else. I don´t blame them.
The guys who come every year for carnival, often in big groups, and plan their costumes months in advance. Custom made stilettoes, creative costumes, they decorate their rental houses and gardens and have a new outfit for Tea Dance every day.
Tea Dance @ the Boatslip Beach Club. Not a cup of tea in sight.
The Hat Sisters.
Scarbie. “Love that lamb burger!”
The man with the moustache, full beard, muumuus and floral head garlands. He was a fabulous gem, sashaying around town in amazing get ups and being charming.
Bear Week.
The annual Carnival. This year´s theme was Candyland. Town goes insane. Check it out here.

For those of you who aren´t all over gay culture, Ru Paul´s Drag Race is like a drag queen version of America´s Next Top Model, only bleedin´ hilarious. Several stars of the show had gigs on in town, and I met a fair few of them. Cue fan-girl screaming. Also, Bear Week is when a particularly hairy and large subculture of gay men descend upon the town and take over. Here is a short drone video that shows the daytime bear culture...nighttime involves a lot more leather.

Though Provincetown is incredible, my summer wouldn´t have been as wonderful as it was if it didn´t include my family. First my aunt and my cousin visited me in my first week, and I was so happy to see them. Then my parents came to Boston so I took the ferry to see them, soon after my brother flew over and we all went to New Hampshire for a family reunion with my wonderful American family. And to top it all off, my parents came to Provincetown for a few days before heading home. I am a lucky lucky girl.