Sex and the Diaspora

Memorial Day in the Dominican Republic: Downpours, Drinking, and Diaspora

By Renee B.

Friday, May 22:
11:25 am- I arrive in Punta, Cana, DR. I am greeted by beautiful black and brown faces and a warm, humid breeze that instantly make me feel at home. I pay the ten U.S. dollars required to enter the country and board the bus to the resort, taking a seat next to a friend from home. He speaks long-windedly about life at home in Chicago, while I ignore him and all but climb into his lap to get his coveted window seat view of Punta Cana. Despite the clouds and light drizzle, I find color everywhere. Coral colored sandy roads that lead to vibrant, green grass set before blue mountains in the distance take my breath away. Donkeys roam in the wild, just beyond the rugged, narrow roads. As we approach the busier parts of the city, we pass shops with crudely painted signs above them, though in this place they don't seem crude, only practical and non-pretentious. I laugh out loud at the sight of a currency exchange right next door to a liquor store and wonder to myself where the church is. That is, after all, the setup in the hood: currency exchange, liquor store, church. One shop has a porch where a man sitting in a chair, very casually holding a shotgun in his lap. There's got to be a story behind that. My eyes widen at the sight of afro-centric paintings, jewelry and clothing set before the shops, while honey and mahogany faces walk about the streets. I speak the language. The people look like me. I'm happy.

1pm- I arrive Hotel Ocean Blue & Sands, where the Urban Paradise Week is being hosted for the week. That means a LOT of people I know from the States. I didn't come here to see them, but being that I'm by myself, it probably won't hurt to know a few folks here. Sticky from the humidity, I take a shower and manage to arrange a wax from the spa. The aesthetician reminds me of an auntie, as if I've known her for years. It feels good to speak Spanish freely; it's been so long. I walk the grounds of the resort, breathing in the calm of the area and exhaling the chaos of the city I've left behind for the weekend. The locals approach me frequently, asking me if I'm from the area. Its funny how I can blend in anywhere, but being that my roots are in almost every part of the world, it's not so surprising. I decide to head to the pool bar and have a drink, perhaps socialize with some knuckleheads from home. I meet a young man from New York with Haitian roots and we chat over a couple Presidentes, the beer of the Dominican Republic. The bartender is a young lady who looks no older than 20. She's aloof, yet sassy. I immediately like her. My new friend from NY attempts to engage her in conversation, but she speaks no English. In fact, she indicates to me that she speaks no English and has no desire to visit the States. I'm not the least bit mad at her for it. Eventually, I end up translating a flirtatious conversation between the two, until the weather takes a turn for the worse and it begins to rain. I pick up my Presidente and retreat to my room.

7pm- Alone in my room. Nothing to do, but I have a nice beer buzz under my belt after having discovered that the mini-fridge is stocked with Presidentes. Feeling cocky, I wander into the casino, where I sit down next to a young man from Atlanta who is losing miserably in Texas Hold 'Em. We immediately click, and I extend our conversation to the dealer and the very stoic security guard. The stone-face security guard bears a name tag with a French last name, so my curiosity piques me to ask if he's Haitian, which he confirms that he is. I want so badly to ask him about his life on the other side of the Hispaniola Island--the politics, the poverty, the feeling there. Still, I feel like that would be prying, so we keep the conversation simple. Besides, I'm once again translating between them and my new ATL buddy and growing impatient with it. My friend informs me that I'm bad luck so we take the party to the main bar of the resort. The laid back environment coupled with the sensation of being miles from home and several drinks lead me to talk loudly, candidly, and non-stop. Merengue and reggaeton blare from the stereo as the two male bartenders dance while making drinks, sometimes with each other. I know Latin men well, and I know gay men well, but these men dancing together aren't gay. Still, the American men at the bar uncomfortably avoid eye contact with these men who they obviously find to be engaging in homosexual behavior. Funny, we look and act so much alike in so many ways, but still cannot help but be divided somehow. The playoff game is about to begin, so me and my adopted friend again move the party to the sports bar. At this point I am quite literally stumbling. By half time, I have convinced myself that I would go back to my room and get ready for the party. I all but fall out of the door where I am met by a good friend from home. Upon seeing how drunk I am, he demands that I go home. When I belligerently refuse, he more or less drags me to my room, away from the danger of myself, where I fall asleep, fully clothed, face-down on the bed.

Saturday, May 23:
10:30 am- I awaken, miraculously not hung over but no less confused about why I am fully clothed, wearing makeup. The sun is shining and I'm feeling lucky, so I decide to put on my sexy for the day. I shower, blow dry my hair straight, and throw on a flirty yellow dress with some heels that make my legs look awesome. With a final glance in the mirror, I grab my purse and step outside in search of breakfast. Immediately after the door closes behind me, I feel a tugging in the pit of my stomach: I've left my room key inside. Moments after that epiphany, a loud clap of thunder booms from the heavens and it proceeds to rain cats, dogs, chickens, and horses. My freshly blow dried hair? Destroyed! Looks like I'll be going natural for the duration of this trip. I duck under a restaurant that is of course closed, but has a nice veranda with a rocking chair. I post up and giggle at the Americans frantically running about, trying to avoid the rain. The locals carry on business as usual, unphased by the elements. The torrential downpour reminds me of my life at home: chaotic, unpredictable, never letting up. Yet here on this tiny island, it is cathartic. I experience my first moment's peace in weeks.

2pm- The rain let up long enough for me to grab lunch with some friends by the beach. I move to the pool, bikini-clad, reading The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency when you'll never believe what happens next: that's right, it begins to rain--hard. I begrudgingly take my book and my Presidente to the patio of my room, which is covered and has a beautiful view of the resort. After about 10 minutes, I notice that the entire floor of the patio is soaked with rain water, so I lazily kick my wet feet up onto a table. Then comes another distraction, as my book (which I stole from my roommate) has begun to get wet, as have my clothes. Perhaps it's time to move indoors. A puddle of water near the entrance of the patio catches my eye, which I quickly cover with a towel. Just as I pat myself on the back for fixing that situation, water gushes into the room from the patio, Moses and Red Sea style. Time to think fast! I scoop up my suitcase and place it on a table, endlessly grateful to myself for not having my things scattered about the room. By the time I'm done doing that, there is 3 inches of water covering the floor. By the time I call the front desk, there is 4 inches of water on my floor. Time to get the hell out of here! I wait the situation out in a friend's room, where a few Chicagoans are also waiting out the rain...over drinks, of course. My friend and his girlfriend apparently have an 'open relationship,' and she does not hesitate to proposition me. I respectfully decline, trying not to blush, though their situation could certainly be a topic for my next Island Vibes article. All the same, it's time to get the hell out of here, too.

Sunday, May 23:
10:30 am- I'm awakened by a phone call from Island Vibes’ resident photographer, Aaron J., who has just arrived to the resort. We have brunch with some mutual friends then head over to the pool, where an Urban Paradise pool party is in full effect. After about an hour, Aaron and I discover that we are both equally bored with being on the resort around a bunch of Americans; it's time to plot an escape and see the real Dominican Republic.

3 pm- After negotiating with the concierge for what seemed like forever, we finally manage to hustle a good deal on a cab. We hop into a cab and begin our journey into the local town, Higuey. We pass areas where the poverty is tangible, yet awkwardly set against an awe-inspiring backdrop of natural beauty. Wild dogs roam the streets everywhere. As we ascend the mountains into the more developed part of town, we gain a feel for the area. It's Sunday, but there is no shortage of activity. The locals are out shopping, watching sports and laughing at the bars, and riding mopeds in the streets. There is a sense of community and love there that is familiar and brand new all at the same time. Aaron and I ask the driver a million obnoxious questions about the area, and he nonchalantly tells us about the schools, the churches, the wealth and lack thereof, and even the local cell phone providers. Whenever his cell phone rings, we jokingly ask him "es la novia?" or "is that the girlfriend," tickled by our own humor. Finally, we stop at a restaurant where I have an incredible meal of Camarones al Ajillo, Arroz Amarillo, and Tostones...and a pretty decent bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. The waitress is sweet as pie, and I'm struck by the kindness of every local I've met thus far. On the way back, the driver's cell phone rings again. Aaron and I present our joke again (which hasn't gotten old to us) when the driver replies "no tengo novia. Tengo una esposa" or "I don't have a girlfriend, I have a wife." I stare at his baby face before delicately asking him how old he is. He's 25 years old, and has 4 children. My mood turns somber for a minute. I think about the abundance of worthless things that I value in the States and how much I complain about not having them and feel utterly silly upon looking at this very young man busting his hump to feed his family in a country with half the opportunity as mine. And I vow to value every thing I have from that point on.

10 pm- I've decided to hit the Urban Paradise pajama party tonight. After all, it's my last night in the DR. When I arrive, the entire place is sweaty. The patrons are sweaty, the staff is sweaty, the floor and walls are sweaty. The air is filled with passion, and folks are drunk. Locals and vacationers from the States alike party hard together, dancing as if their lives depend on it. I guess brown folk in every part of the world are simply born to dance. It's comforting. And I'm having a great time.

2 am- I'll be back in Chicago in a matter of hours. I find myself walking the grounds of the resort, ending up at the beach. As I stare across the vast ocean with its whispering waves, I wonder what country is just beyond that water. I feel a closeness to this place, having talked, drank, danced, and shared within it and with its people all weekend. Love and comfort bubble up from inside me at the thought of the kind men and women here just like myself, just like my family, just like my friends, grinding for their future, for their children, for their happiness. Something about the Caribbean makes these concepts so succinct, so natural. I quietly ask God to bless the Dominican Republic and for me to be able to take a piece of it back with me that will pass through customs that I will never lose. With that thought, the sun peaked over the ocean's horizon, and I turned around and started my long journey home.

(Renee B. is a is a contributor to Island Vibes Magazine and writes about social issues and sexuality, from her perspective. For comments, please feel free to contact her at renee@islandvibesmag.com.)