Dispatches from Republica Dominicana Part 4: Las Muchachas Estan Gritando!

Las Muchachas Estan Gritando! (The young ladies are screaming!)

The Dominicans know how to party, anywhere; they also know how to keep a party going well beyond when stamina would call it a night.  I don’t know where they get their staying power?  Perhaps it is the diet? Perhaps the sun?  Or perhaps it is the national character which embraces the now in Taoist-like proportions.  Not thinking about tomorrow may be their greatest resource – the source of their happiness and fountain of youth – and simultaneously a leading factor in many of their social challenges.  But, it was great while the fun lasted?

Tara, the intern from Germany, organized many outings for the students at our school.  Each week she’d enthusiastically tell us about all the options available and the cost of each.  We loved participating in this active social life of the school – some were free or very reasonable, while others were a bit out of our budget.  Since February was Carnival, we thought we’d go along with the tour to La Vega where the people celebrated this annual party/parade rather enthusiastically.   Tara forewarned us that this was a “Dominican” organized tour, and while she was sure we would indeed go somewhere and that there would be rum, she was unwilling to make any other assurances.  “You just have to go along with it, and see where it goes.”   We agreed and handed over our RD$’s.

Early on Sunday morning, we meet our transportation for the day, a sizable vehicle with about 24 seats, big windows and a friendly driver.  It’s no big deal that we have to roll start the bus out of the parking lot, pushing it a few yards as the driver pops the clutch.  I had a few of these kinds of cars in my day, so I’m not alarmed, we’re on another adventure.  We drive through the towns east of us, and more folks get on the bus.  By the time we’ve gone 10 miles, the bus is filled to capacity, but we take on a few more anyway.  There are 4 butts in seats designed to hold 2 and the aisle is standing room only.  We’re used to these close quarters, but I am starting to fear for the bus, as 1^st gear becomes necessary on even the smallest hill.  Since we’re taking the mountain route to La Vega, downshifting as the bus struggles up the inclines becomes as natural as squeezing my ass in between the two people next to me. 

The atmosphere is enthusiastic.  Our tour guides, begin to pass out the rum and cokes, and the cervezas, and the most recent group of ladies to climb aboard our little magic bus have brought the party!  They brought the music on their phones and every 3-7 seconds one of them yells a long and shrill, “Whhhooooo--ooo!”  It is the international party language of, “I’m having the most awweesoome time, really I am, aren’t yoouu?”  Everybody gets into it, even we who crawled up into the nerd row behind the driver.  As we roll through small villages in the campo, our party bus makes an impression.  

Las muchachas are screaming. 

It takes about three hours to work our way through the mountains to La Vega, but far less for the alcohol to work its way through our systems.  We stop at a random house so that the ladies can knock on the door and ask to use the toilet.  The woman agrees, but I’m sure she didn’t anticipate the line of 18 which quickly forms.  On the other side of the road, the caballeros find the nearest tree or simply face away from the road.  As the traffic goes rushing past us, there is something reassuring in a large group of men standing in broad day light urinating on the side of the road.  Were it only me, I might be embarrassed, or go to longer strides to hide what I was doing, but since everyone’s doing it…

Las muchachas continue to scream.

When we park near the parade route, our guides pass out their cell phone numbers and give us a wrist band.  Things feel pretty official now, we’re told we’re going to have some lunch and then we have a designated pavilion where we can watch the parade without getting hit by the golpear that all the young men who march in the parade carry.

A word or two about the Carnival parades in La Vega.  They are infamous for their authentic dedication to a strange Dominican tradition.  Young men elaborately dressed up as some sort of demon carry one around and try to hit women or men, but mostly women, on their backsides with an inflated balloon like object on the end of a rope.  Traditionally it is a pig’s bladder filled with air, and even when swung with gusto can’t do much damage.  The modern golpear in La Vega is probably a small inner tube inflated to very high pressure, wrapped with duck tape and then covered with a thin layer of green and white nylon.  These bad boys are heavy, tough, and swung with enthusiasm by the mostly intoxicated participants in the parade.  There's only one way to say it, they hurt like a mother fucker.

The costumes are truly amazing and as unbelievably loud as the music.  Carnival has all the crowded noise and crush of humanity of Mardi Gras, without all the beads and boobs.  Wall space is a huge premium as everyone tries to back away as far as possible from the swinging globes.  There is so much chaos, because the people and the parade are inexorably entwined.  This only serves to distract attention away from the nearest assailant.  A young demon catches me unawares and nearly breaks my leg – or so it feels.  My immediate response is fear, utter bewilderment and rage, not unlike unexpectedly rolling the lawn mower over a nest of ground wasps.  Not since childhood have I wanted to tackle and beat the crap out of someone so much than in that moment.  Reason kicks in, I am not about to start something, especially when they outnumber me 10 to 1.

Needless to say this takes some of the fun out of the experience for me, especially when our lunch doesn’t materialize, and the pavilion won’t accept our wristbands.  Again, it’s a Dominican tour and my expectations for organization are pretty low.  But what they lack in organization, they make up for in enthusiasm, and in that we are not disappointed.  So, we wind our way through the noise and hustle to a quiet little Dominican neighborhood restaurant just a few blocks away where we devour delicious beans, rice, vegetables, and French fries, while enjoying the company of our friends and delightful hosts for about $3 each.  The pause and refueling revives our spirits and we wander back out into the chaos for another go.  

As the evening winds down and the parade participants stop walking in an organized fashion toward some parade end point and dissolve into the parties and dancing happening at each block, we make our way back to the bus.  We were told to be back at the bus by 7 pm.  Most of the folks are here by 7:30 and ready to go.  We wait for las muchachas, by 8:30 we hear them before we see them, and they are still screaming.  

Back on the bus we roll down a shallow slope to get the van going.  He pops the clutch... Nothing.  We don’t even have lights now, nothing but a dead van.  We take up most of the street in a very busy section of La Vega that is now crammed with post-parade traffic, but everyone remains tranquillo.  Thank God for rum, right?  Our driver pulls out his phone and leans under the dash.  After a few minutes of looking and using his phone to both call his boss and see the fuse box, he identifies the problem.  Stopping a random car in the street, he returns with the correct fuse.  He puts it in the slot; we push the bus a few yards, and BOOM!  We’re back in business.  Gotta love the resourcefulness of people in the developing world.

But the fun is not over, not by a long shot.  We drive over to the other side of town where a free concert is going on at the baseball stadium.  When we arrive, our guides tell us to return to the bus at 11pm.

The stadium is huge and so is the crowd.  Once we enter the cue, we are going in whether we want to or not.  There is no turning back.  With our hands on baggage, cameras, and wallets we are swept along with another thousand people as we bump and grind our way into the stadium.  The field is full of people dancing to the music, lots of young kids out late with no school in the morning.  I’m more interested in a nice seat and occupy a prime spot behind home plate.  It really doesn’t matter that the stage is deep in center field, I can’t really understand what they’re saying or care much for the music they’re playing anyway, but we are "in for a pound."  We go with the flow and try to grab dinner on the bites of popcorn or potato chips that the hawkers try to sell to us every 3 minutes. 

At 11pm, we’re all exhausted and eager to go, but it is clear that only about half of the people who came with us are here.  We pile aboard and wait, because this bus isn’t going anywhere for a while.  

By midnight, nearly all the folks are back, all of the students from our school (minus the 2 who said “screw it” and took a cab the 2 hours back to Sosua), the 2 eastern European women who showed up with new Dominican boyfriends, even las muchachas.  Who’s missing?  Oh, just the 2 kids in the front seat who were so irritated by the tardiness of their bus mates earlier in the evening.  I guess they thought they’d get their revenge as they climb into the bus with a victorious “Whhhooooo!” over an hour and a half late.  This, of course, kick starts las muchachas who aren’t phased by the delay and start all over again.

Just before 1 am we get the big bus moving.  Fortunately for us, we’re taking the more direct route back to Sosua, but we’ve still got more than 2 hours to go.  Everyone except las muchachas starts dreaming of their beds.  

Las muchachas are still screaming.

At this point in the adventure “go with the flow” transforms into survival mode.  There can be no negotiations with terrorism, any plea toward peace and quiet could only be received as a challenge to which they must rise.  We can’t go there, so I withdraw into the world of the book I brought along.  If I couldn’t sleep, at least I could put up a wall of imagination against their unbelievable stamina which is matched now only by their volume.  Let it be known that the group of girls still partying it up are a small minority on the bus.  We are not alone culturally in our collective annoyance, Dominicans, Europeans, Americans, all show the weary face of survival. 

After about an hour, even our captors begin to nod off and quiet down.  They slump into the crowded seats letting their heads roll or lean on whomever’s shoulder is nearest.  The bumps in the road illicit the smallest “whoops” from their mouths as they get jostled from sleep, but even they cannot sustain wakefulness.  Good for us, our driver did.  The Dominican roads are some of the darkest places I’ve seen, and as our bus wound its way through the countryside back to the coast, it felt very alone on that highway.   

Somewhere along the way about 20 minutes from home, las muchachas recharge and return to life.  It’s like a horror-show.  Just when we thought the monsters were dead and vanquished, they arise to strike again!  

Las muchachas start screaming.

As we lumber back into town, I can feel our bed calling me – I’m almost home and I can get away from this noise.  It’s now 3:45 am as we roll into Sosua.  As the door opens, I grab my backpack and Shari’s hand and push our way toward the exit.  I am done with this bus.  In my eagerness to get to bed, I leave my book sitting in my seat.  It’s a small price to pay for the peace and quiet of the street.  We trudge back home barely checking that all of our friends made it out alive.  They’re walking, but we need to walk faster and leave them to it. 

 

After a quick shower, we collapse in bed, quiet and soft.  I have to laugh about the day, it was an adventure.  Adventures are experiences where we don't know what's going to happen, and that's why we do them.  I had very little expectations about this day; still, they were exceeded and I'll never forget it or the piercing screams of las muchachas.