Fiesta February

Recently we celebrated Dominican Independence Day. You might, as my brother did, presume they are celebrating independence from Spain, who ruled the DR from "discovery" in 1492, until when they ceded it to France in 1795, then again from 1809 to 1821. But no, they are celebrating independence from Haitian rule, which was a disastrous 22 year period (1822-1844) that created almost 2 centuries of animosity towards Haiti. Long story short, Haiti was prosperous and heavily populated, the DR was poor, Haiti appropriated land and drafted young men into their army, stole food, killed many and basically were jerks. A group of educated nationalists created a secret society and overthrew Haiti in 1844 and formed a government. The main players were called Duarte, Mella and Sánchez, and there are murals, statues and roads named after them in every little town. 

So, how did we celebrate Independence Day? Why, with a caminata, a kind of parade with no floats, as Dominicans do for EVERYTHING (political campaigns, church gatherings, memorials, funerals etc). Down the street we paraded with the other schools in town, while a herd of motos and pickups inched along behind us, just itching to get a moment to zip around the crowd.

Our wonderful teaching assistant Ginette getting into the spirit of things.

Seriously, how gorgeous are my kids???

The parade led us to the multiuso, a kind of aircraft hangar-style basketball court which is used for literally every purpose imaginable. 1,000 children and teachers sat on stone bleachers for hours. Yet it wasn´t quite as hellish as I expected.

First, some very important man with a very important job gave the longest and most boring speech about Dominican Independence while everyone ignored him and chatted away. I tuned right out but apparently it was very Haiti-hating. Then, each school did a different performance. There were traditional dances by a college dance group (below) and a couple of "baton ballet" performances. This particular dance style is a Latin phenomenon, and consists of young girls in cheerleader type outfits with batons. What differentiates baton ballet from your standard St. Patrick´s Day parade baton-twirlers is the dance moves, namely the twerking. These girls kept it pretty tame, with just a few pelvic thrusts, but other groups have been known to feature 7-year olds shaking their moneymaker on all fours like a Nicki Minaj robotic dog.

Not the baton ballet.

 Our school is kind of the odd one out in Las Terrenas. We operate differently, our students are a mix of Dominican, Haitian, Latin American, North American, European, well-off and poor. So, being thrown into a mix of all the other private schools was interesting. Some teenage girls were fascinated with our whiter kids, and pulled them onto their laps. They kept stroking poor William the Swede´s hair and talking about how they want a baby like that. I tried to throw out the "you don´t need a baby now, go to university first" spiel but they were too busy taking selfies with the blond Swede and cute norteamericana to listen.

Like all of Latin America, the DR celebrates Carnival, with the main party being in La Vega, in the centre of the country. Basically, it´s like St. Patrick´s Day, only instead of drunk lads strolling around hitting each other, they stroll around and hit everyone else. With inflated cow bladders. Dressed as diablos cojuelos (limping devils).

Never let this guy get a good aim at your ass.

People dress up, but not as much as they would for say, Halloween in Ireland or Carnival in Spain. Mainly, people stroll around drinking beer and trying to avoid vejigazos (wallops from the cow bladders).

Whiteface.

I went with a Colombian, a Basque, a Korean and two Dominicans and returned late that night tired and oh so sore. With a massive shiner on my arse.

Poor Minerva was not having fun...

Little but lethal.

After the madness of Carnival and Independence Day, I jumped on board straight away when I heard there was a trip to a remote beach being planned. My colleague Carmen and her boyfriend Javi are great for exploring the peninsula we live on with their scooter and a surfboard. They found a beach called La Lanza del Norte, which is about 40 minutes from where we live. So one Saturday, 5 adults (including myself) and 3 kids piled into a car, Carmen and Javi took their scooter and 5 more went on two motorbikes to check out this beach. We went past a load of film crews where Vin Diesel was filming his new movie, totally disinterested in seeing the bald bulk that is Vin, and found this little paradise. A guy who owns a villa off the beach had built 3 huts, one of which had a traditional wood-fired oven in it, and so we gathered firewood and got that going, as well as a grill. One of our group climbed a coconut tree and cut down a dozen cocos with his machete. We bought pan de coco or coconut bread, fresh off the fire on the way, and had rum with fresh passionfruit juice while Javi got cooking. He did sausages, baked potatoes and steak. Jesus, it was gorgeous.

Thank you, unidentified rich man who built this kitchen for us.

Having a crap time.

Ukrainian child + meat + plantain.

Hammock for one - good idea.

Hammock for two - bad idea.

Right now, it´s Semana Santa, Easter week, so Las Terrenas is packed with visitors from all over the country. And my wonderful cousin Cliona is here visiting, and we have been having lots of fun. So once it all dies down and Cliona goes, I´ll write about it. For today, I´ll leave you with photos.

Jesenia (a Colombian volunteer for the foundation I work for) and Samary, my friend Awdy´s mom. Samary made a sancocho, a traditional stew of root vegetables and meat, to celebrate the opening of  Awdy´s bar. She cooked it up over a gas burner on the street and fed everyone at midnight. It was amazing.

Watching the world go by in El Limón.

Hanging out by the river in El Limón.

My Slovenian student Klara in our new, beautiful playground.

He´s not wrong.

Girl, going places.

Small town life

I am becoming a small town girl. I sat at a table sharing a sandwich with my roomie/buddy/wifey Rebecca on the side of a busy road in Las Terrenas. We started counting how many people we knew, and knew by name. For close to an hour I was happily entertained watching the comings and goings of neighbours, familiar faces and strangers. This is what people do here all day long, every day, and I get it. All plugged in to this little hive of activity and inactivity, a theatre in which the actors and the audience are one and the same.

It´s been a long time since I´ve written a blog entry, and so much has happened since then. I went home, for one, for the first time in almost a year. I had never been so long away from Ireland and I was a nervous wreck of anticipation for the 2 weeks prior to my joyful Christmas trip. The trip itself started out not so joyful when I realised I had messed up my booking and had no ticket (while in the check-in line) but I eventually got on a plane and got home to my beloved home in Howth, Co. Dublin. This blog is not to talk about my time at home, so all I´ll say is it was truly wonderful.

Beach trip with my class

On the way back I had to fly through Frankfurt (thanks to my booking disaster) and got on a Thomas Cook plane going to Puerto Plata with lots of resort-goers. Much like the first time I flew to the DR, I was squeezed beside a very fat woman who was taking up a fair amount of my seat´s space. That first flight was such a positive experience, with my lovely chubby neighbour being such a dote, that I knew this time would be good too. And it was. She was called Felicia, and across the aisle was her sister Marisa. They have been living in Italy for almost 30 years, their brothers live there too, they have kids and Marisa has a grandchild. They live a very Dominican life there in Italy, eating rice, beans and meat every day and speaking Spanish at home. They used to come home every 3 or 4 years until 14 years ago when their mother died and they came home for her funeral, after that they couldn´t face returning to their motherland without their mother. Then, a couple of weeks before the flight, Marisa convinced Felicia to go and so there they were, nervously anticipating their return home.  We chatted on and off throughout the 8 ½ hour flight and when I got to Puerto Plata their family insisted on giving me a lift to my hotel and invited me to the family reunion that evening. I love fat ladies on planes.

School trip to Cayo Levantado aka Bacardi Island

Anyway, the next day I get the guagua to Las Terrenas and there are two girls on it, maybe about 18. One of them is wearing a bellytop, and you can tell she´s had a baby. The other one´s skin-tight leggings stretch over her enormous arse like clingfilm wrapped around a pumpkin. They have takeout fried chicken and it smells good. They screech and holler as they chat a fair bit but that´s normal enough, so so far I´m only paying attention because of that delicious chicken smell. I have tried to think of a way to describe these girls in Irish terms, but alas, a comparison that won´t offend anyone escapes me.

My lovely kiddos on Valentine´s Day. I got so many cards.

Then, Leggings decides to climb over the seats into the seat beside the driver, and starts yelling at her friend to join her. She seems to be flirting with the driver and the other men at the front of the minibus. She keeps yelling back at her friend to join her. Her friend, rolling her eyes and a little embarrassed, eventually does. After a while, Leggings falls asleep. We travel on for a couple of hours. She wakes up and starts whining about being hungry. Then she needs to pee, and says she is gonna jump out of the guagua to do so, but the driver and her friend convince her to hold on. Soon after we stop in a comedor, a small restaurant/cafe, and everyone gets off the guagua to stretch their legs, pee and get food. The driver eats and gives the rest of his meal to Leggings. When we get back on the guagua, she is still sat down in the comedor, on the side of the road. The driver tells her to get on the guagua, and she just throws a tantrum. Refuses to come. It transpires (because everyone on the bus is chatting about it) that she has no money to pay the guagua. The driver is willing to take her for for free if she´ll just get back on the bleedin´ bus, but she digs her heels in and cry-eats the rest of his lunch. Friend of Leggings doesn´t know what to do. The guagua inches away, stops, beeps, inches away again, stops, beeps, repeats the cycle until eventually, Friend gets back on the bus, leaving Leggings sat at the side of the road, stubbornly refusing to look at anyone. We leave. Everyone starts asking Friend of Leggings questions: Why are they going to Las Terrenas? (Unclear) How are they travelling with no money? (They were going to stay with friends) Is Leggings always crazy? (Friend doesn´t know, she barely knows her). What is Leggings going to do? (Friend has no idea. Leggings has no money and no phone and is in a random town hours away from home). Why are you both travelling with no bags? "What about your panties?", shouts one concerened passenger. Friend is getting visibly more upset. Everyone is sharing their opinions. Friend asks driver to stop the bus and gets off in the middle of nowhere, on the side of the highway with the intention of hitchhiking back to get Leggings. Someone gives her 50 pesos (€1). We drive off. I turn back and get a glimpse of Friend standing between a field and a busy highway, looking lost and think WHAT THE HELL JUST HAPPENED THERE? 

Work problems? Need to dominate your man? We have a potion for that!

The Botanica, where you buy potions, voodoo dolls and candles.

I love the guagua drama of this place. I love the gossipy aul´ wan observation of everything, from huge drama to everyday traffic. The longer   I´m here, the more I get pulled in.

I love the bad art, but that is a whole other blog in itself. Along with Second Hand T-shirts of Las Terrenas, and Things You Can Fit On The Back Of A Moto.

I leave here in 4 months and have no plans to come back. I know it´s going to be an emotional 4 months. In that time, 3 people from home are coming to visit - first my cousin Cliona, then my dearest Rebecca, then my Spanish-Irish hermano Pablo. The way my head is at right now, totally in the pulse and flow of this place, it´s going to be insane having a part of home here. I can´t wait to show them this place and to feel the strangeness of it again through them.