I'm writing a new book.
Chapter 1
?You?re just in time, Gringo,? a roller skating drag queen dressed in a cheerleader outfit, informs me, handing me a burning tiki-torch: ?We?re just about to begin our journey.?
?What kind of journey?? I ask, laughing.
?A journey into myths and illusions,? she answers, before melting back into a sea of hair-extensions, colorful costumes, and false eyelashes.
I?m standing here in the middle of Cabarete, high on catnip, and about as far hallucinogenically as one can get without leaving the Caribbean. Gazing directly into my eyes right now is the most beautiful six-foot-three court jester I?ve ever seen in my life. Only, she?s not really gazing into my eyes, she?s gazing into my dogs?, Jesus?, eyes. He?s sitting beside me, wagging his tail, staring sideways at her pink sponge rollers atop her head.
Jesus tilts his head sideways, 45 degrees, and continues glancing up and down at her. Dogs are endlessly fascinated by odd structures. She?s beautiful?a six-foot-three Amazon with long brown legs and a hairdo that?s a miracle invention of peroxide, chopsticks, and large, pink sponge hair-curlers?all topped with a ?cap n bell?s? hat that jingle whenever she moves her head. She?s staring directly into Jesus? eyes while giving free advice to a group of religious protesters standing in-between us:
?Take the idea of equality,? she begins telling the group, ?What does this really mean? People are not, as a matter of fact, equal. Some people are smarter than others, some are more talented, some are more gifted, some more athletic, some are more attractive, and some are more fair. Equality is a moral idea. It?s not an assertion of fact. And it never has been.?
Jesus and I continue watching the court-jester. She?s fascinating. She makes a valid point about how equality works, but I can?t get over that big hair of hers. It?s too tall. At this height, it?s dangerous and needs grounding; otherwise, it?s a potential lightning conductor, a live transformer waiting to be struck by a passing thunderstorm.
I love the North Coast. It?s the only place I know where people are absurd and yet normal, bizarre and yet plain, outrageous and yet boring?a combination Broadway musical meets live sex show?The Sound of Music meets Deep Throat?only here, we have more nudity and eccentric personalities running around?of the sort we used to see in the 60?s and 70?s when hippies, free-spirits, and political radicals ran through the streets naked, wild, and free.
On the North Coast, diversity is everywhere: businessmen, surfers, students, aspiring writers, poets, police officers, transvestites, street hustlers, and politicians all sit next to one another inside beach side cafes and restaurants, conversing over coffee, rum, and beer. Outside, the streets are alive and full of life?people sit in underneath a canopy of towering palm and coconut trees enjoying a game of dominoes and cards. Jesus and I mostly sit on the beach at outdoor cafes watching surfers, bohemians, and eccentric characters stroll past with beers in their hands and flowers in their hair.
The neighborhoods on the North coast are as diverse as they are eccentric, as eccentric as they are eclectic. Steep hills and winding dirt roads converge and connect diverse neighborhoods together in a labyrinth of twisting streets and rolling hills. Meanwhile, old cars?Datsun?s and Toyota?s--from centuries past?roll up and down cascading hills where lush tropical flowers and gardens line the city streets, houses, and parks.
With all this beauty, there is bound to be an ugly, tragic side to the North coast: alcoholics, broken poets, and washed-up divorcees are attracted to this part of the island like a magnet. They gravitate down here seeking salvation, spiritual guidance, and redemption.
Hundreds of people arrive daily to the North Coast by every means available?planes, buses, gua-gua?s, motoconchos, cars, donkey?s, and riding lawnmowers. But the beach towns are not always glamorous or welcoming. People run out of money, mentally ill patients roam the streets day and night, and drug dealers ply their trade on street corners while street hustlers offer their bodies for a few dollars.
The north coast is a huge melting pot of diversity and taste. Everything is here?the beautiful and the ugly, the sophisticated and the vulgar, the poetic and profane?this is the Caribbean, where writers, artists, poets, and free spirits battle the disenfranchised, downtrodden, street hustlers and prostitutes for venereal disease and poetic influence.
For someone coming from the Midwest, the North coast offers not only an amazing amount of diversity, but a plethora of choices to satisfy nearly every known taste in the universe. Before migrating down here, I knew absolutely nothing about meringue and bachata music, hair extensions, and genital warts. For someone without any previous experience of surfers, hair salons, and venereal disease, the North coast wasn?t just a different city, it was a different galaxy altogether.
Chapter 1
?You?re just in time, Gringo,? a roller skating drag queen dressed in a cheerleader outfit, informs me, handing me a burning tiki-torch: ?We?re just about to begin our journey.?
?What kind of journey?? I ask, laughing.
?A journey into myths and illusions,? she answers, before melting back into a sea of hair-extensions, colorful costumes, and false eyelashes.
I?m standing here in the middle of Cabarete, high on catnip, and about as far hallucinogenically as one can get without leaving the Caribbean. Gazing directly into my eyes right now is the most beautiful six-foot-three court jester I?ve ever seen in my life. Only, she?s not really gazing into my eyes, she?s gazing into my dogs?, Jesus?, eyes. He?s sitting beside me, wagging his tail, staring sideways at her pink sponge rollers atop her head.
Jesus tilts his head sideways, 45 degrees, and continues glancing up and down at her. Dogs are endlessly fascinated by odd structures. She?s beautiful?a six-foot-three Amazon with long brown legs and a hairdo that?s a miracle invention of peroxide, chopsticks, and large, pink sponge hair-curlers?all topped with a ?cap n bell?s? hat that jingle whenever she moves her head. She?s staring directly into Jesus? eyes while giving free advice to a group of religious protesters standing in-between us:
?Take the idea of equality,? she begins telling the group, ?What does this really mean? People are not, as a matter of fact, equal. Some people are smarter than others, some are more talented, some are more gifted, some more athletic, some are more attractive, and some are more fair. Equality is a moral idea. It?s not an assertion of fact. And it never has been.?
Jesus and I continue watching the court-jester. She?s fascinating. She makes a valid point about how equality works, but I can?t get over that big hair of hers. It?s too tall. At this height, it?s dangerous and needs grounding; otherwise, it?s a potential lightning conductor, a live transformer waiting to be struck by a passing thunderstorm.
I love the North Coast. It?s the only place I know where people are absurd and yet normal, bizarre and yet plain, outrageous and yet boring?a combination Broadway musical meets live sex show?The Sound of Music meets Deep Throat?only here, we have more nudity and eccentric personalities running around?of the sort we used to see in the 60?s and 70?s when hippies, free-spirits, and political radicals ran through the streets naked, wild, and free.
On the North Coast, diversity is everywhere: businessmen, surfers, students, aspiring writers, poets, police officers, transvestites, street hustlers, and politicians all sit next to one another inside beach side cafes and restaurants, conversing over coffee, rum, and beer. Outside, the streets are alive and full of life?people sit in underneath a canopy of towering palm and coconut trees enjoying a game of dominoes and cards. Jesus and I mostly sit on the beach at outdoor cafes watching surfers, bohemians, and eccentric characters stroll past with beers in their hands and flowers in their hair.
The neighborhoods on the North coast are as diverse as they are eccentric, as eccentric as they are eclectic. Steep hills and winding dirt roads converge and connect diverse neighborhoods together in a labyrinth of twisting streets and rolling hills. Meanwhile, old cars?Datsun?s and Toyota?s--from centuries past?roll up and down cascading hills where lush tropical flowers and gardens line the city streets, houses, and parks.
With all this beauty, there is bound to be an ugly, tragic side to the North coast: alcoholics, broken poets, and washed-up divorcees are attracted to this part of the island like a magnet. They gravitate down here seeking salvation, spiritual guidance, and redemption.
Hundreds of people arrive daily to the North Coast by every means available?planes, buses, gua-gua?s, motoconchos, cars, donkey?s, and riding lawnmowers. But the beach towns are not always glamorous or welcoming. People run out of money, mentally ill patients roam the streets day and night, and drug dealers ply their trade on street corners while street hustlers offer their bodies for a few dollars.
The north coast is a huge melting pot of diversity and taste. Everything is here?the beautiful and the ugly, the sophisticated and the vulgar, the poetic and profane?this is the Caribbean, where writers, artists, poets, and free spirits battle the disenfranchised, downtrodden, street hustlers and prostitutes for venereal disease and poetic influence.
For someone coming from the Midwest, the North coast offers not only an amazing amount of diversity, but a plethora of choices to satisfy nearly every known taste in the universe. Before migrating down here, I knew absolutely nothing about meringue and bachata music, hair extensions, and genital warts. For someone without any previous experience of surfers, hair salons, and venereal disease, the North coast wasn?t just a different city, it was a different galaxy altogether.
