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Cabarete Diaries, part 2
Chapter 424 (Beverly Hillbillies in the DR)
I am living in a parallel universe to the Beverly Hillbilly TV show. I’m basically living inside a combination of Green Acres, Beverly Hillbillies, and Duck Dynasty. No joke. I am deeply submersed in the mother-of-all redneck television shows.
Let me explain…
My Russian girlfriend has some Russian family members who have built a half-completed concrete shack with rebar sticking 20ft out of its roof like TV antennas. It’s exactly like what you would find up in the mountains of DR or Haiti, and resembles something you find in the jungles of Laos. The shack is only half completed and sits on a plot of land that possesses—despite it humble beginnings—a nice commanding view of a chicken shack and some nearby Canadian neighbors who like to have sex outdoors on their balcony.
This is La Mulata in a Nutshell. Craziness abounds at every corner.
My girlfriend’s Russian family had to go back to Russia. So, like a lot of people who move down to the DR only to find it’s not the paradise they thought, they packed up and left their house in the hands of a Dominican worker. The Dominican gets to live in a half-completed concrete shack for free, but it’s understood that he is to take care of the shack, the property around it, and some animals left behind—including one dog (un-spaded and pregnant every 6-months) and one crazy, but beautiful cross-eyed cat which makes it impossible to know which eye is staring at you and which one is staring at your crotch.
My girlfriend’s responsibility in all of this is to simply stop by the property once a week and make sure that the concrete walls are still standing, the electricity hasn’t been turned off, the cat and dog are still alive, and that the property looks presentable just in case any potential buyers decide to stop by to look for a Beverly Hillbillies property with “potential.”
Trust me, when I say that this shack and property is straight out of the Beverly Hillbillies TV show—I’m talking about but before Jed Clampett and Daisy Mosses discovered oil on their property and moved out of the mountains of Tennessee. This property is made up of unpainted concrete blocks, rusted rebar sticking out of the roof like weeds sprouting up in an abandoned parking lot, abandoned dog houses, magic mushrooms and weeds. There is also a concrete kitchen with a thatch roof that sits diss-attached from the main living quarters; it requires leaving the concrete shack completely and walking up a 45-degree hill to the outdoor kitchen.
There is a dog house where a dog once used to be chained up, and hence, etched into the ground is a sweeping 180 half-circle where a dog went back and forth thousands of times a day for about 3 or 4 years. However, there is a beautiful wall that surrounds the property and resembles something you might find in Tuscany, Italy. The wall itself is worth a lot of money, and it should not be under-estimated of its financial worth. I expect any day now that Haitians will come and disassemble the wall and carry it with them in order to build a Tuscany looking house up in the hills of La Mulata.
The property sits on top of a hill, and I must admit, it does possess a lot of “potential” because of its view, but the concrete shack needs to be torn down and built further up on the top part of the property so that one can have a commanding view of nearby neighbors having sex outdoors.
Like any good redneck property, there are animals. As I mentioned, there is a female dog that has never been spade, and as a result, has gotten pregnant so many ****ing times that her tits are now dragging on the ground like cow urns. The dog is no longer tied up, and is free to roam through the neighborhood sleep with whoever she wants. This dog has slept with every male dog within a 25-kilometer radius. This female dog must be the biggest whore in Sosua. She would make Passions look like Sesame Street. The pussy cat, on the other hand, roams freely, and…like any cat, is generally fancy free and well-groomed for any potential suitors that happen to stop by.
The neighbor’s house—and adjacent to this property—was once very beautiful, but seems recently to have fallen on hard times. It has a large posse of dogs that roam the perimeter of the property. Some of the neighbor’s dogs look like Doberman Pinchers, but the others look mixed. This is the same neighbor who was shot a few years back during a robbery. They’re Hillbillies, but have now gone back to Russia after experiencing a not to pleasant home invasion. He was lucky not to have died. He was shot in the stomach (inside the house) and nearly killed. How and the **** the thieves got past all of those dogs is beyond explanation.
Anyway, now the Russian family has returned back to Russia and have left the house in the care of some Haitians. It’s my understanding that the Haitian’s—no doubt beyond dirt poor—are supposed to be feeding all of the dogs—which are many. This should be interesting…dirt poor people trying to survive themselves, left to take care of a posse of dogs. But I don’t know the situation, other people could be feeding the dogs. I have no idea.
To surmise the situation: there is piece of property full of potential sitting up in the hills of La Mulata. It has a half-built concrete shack with rebar sticking straight up in the air like telephone poles. It has a nice commanding view of the surrounding hills of La Mulata and is enclosed in a beautiful, Tuscany-esque wall that has a commanding view of any approaching zombie apocalypse.
The property is for sale: $65,000 dollars and has a Deslinde title, and would make Daisy Moses, Elly May, Jethro Bodine, and Jed Clampett proud.
I am living in a parallel universe to the Beverly Hillbilly TV show. I’m basically living inside a combination of Green Acres, Beverly Hillbillies, and Duck Dynasty. No joke. I am deeply submersed in the mother-of-all redneck television shows.
Let me explain…
My Russian girlfriend has some Russian family members who have built a half-completed concrete shack with rebar sticking 20ft out of its roof like TV antennas. It’s exactly like what you would find up in the mountains of DR or Haiti, and resembles something you find in the jungles of Laos. The shack is only half completed and sits on a plot of land that possesses—despite it humble beginnings—a nice commanding view of a chicken shack and some nearby Canadian neighbors who like to have sex outdoors on their balcony.
This is La Mulata in a Nutshell. Craziness abounds at every corner.
My girlfriend’s Russian family had to go back to Russia. So, like a lot of people who move down to the DR only to find it’s not the paradise they thought, they packed up and left their house in the hands of a Dominican worker. The Dominican gets to live in a half-completed concrete shack for free, but it’s understood that he is to take care of the shack, the property around it, and some animals left behind—including one dog (un-spaded and pregnant every 6-months) and one crazy, but beautiful cross-eyed cat which makes it impossible to know which eye is staring at you and which one is staring at your crotch.
My girlfriend’s responsibility in all of this is to simply stop by the property once a week and make sure that the concrete walls are still standing, the electricity hasn’t been turned off, the cat and dog are still alive, and that the property looks presentable just in case any potential buyers decide to stop by to look for a Beverly Hillbillies property with “potential.”
Trust me, when I say that this shack and property is straight out of the Beverly Hillbillies TV show—I’m talking about but before Jed Clampett and Daisy Mosses discovered oil on their property and moved out of the mountains of Tennessee. This property is made up of unpainted concrete blocks, rusted rebar sticking out of the roof like weeds sprouting up in an abandoned parking lot, abandoned dog houses, magic mushrooms and weeds. There is also a concrete kitchen with a thatch roof that sits diss-attached from the main living quarters; it requires leaving the concrete shack completely and walking up a 45-degree hill to the outdoor kitchen.
There is a dog house where a dog once used to be chained up, and hence, etched into the ground is a sweeping 180 half-circle where a dog went back and forth thousands of times a day for about 3 or 4 years. However, there is a beautiful wall that surrounds the property and resembles something you might find in Tuscany, Italy. The wall itself is worth a lot of money, and it should not be under-estimated of its financial worth. I expect any day now that Haitians will come and disassemble the wall and carry it with them in order to build a Tuscany looking house up in the hills of La Mulata.
The property sits on top of a hill, and I must admit, it does possess a lot of “potential” because of its view, but the concrete shack needs to be torn down and built further up on the top part of the property so that one can have a commanding view of nearby neighbors having sex outdoors.
Like any good redneck property, there are animals. As I mentioned, there is a female dog that has never been spade, and as a result, has gotten pregnant so many ****ing times that her tits are now dragging on the ground like cow urns. The dog is no longer tied up, and is free to roam through the neighborhood sleep with whoever she wants. This dog has slept with every male dog within a 25-kilometer radius. This female dog must be the biggest whore in Sosua. She would make Passions look like Sesame Street. The pussy cat, on the other hand, roams freely, and…like any cat, is generally fancy free and well-groomed for any potential suitors that happen to stop by.
The neighbor’s house—and adjacent to this property—was once very beautiful, but seems recently to have fallen on hard times. It has a large posse of dogs that roam the perimeter of the property. Some of the neighbor’s dogs look like Doberman Pinchers, but the others look mixed. This is the same neighbor who was shot a few years back during a robbery. They’re Hillbillies, but have now gone back to Russia after experiencing a not to pleasant home invasion. He was lucky not to have died. He was shot in the stomach (inside the house) and nearly killed. How and the **** the thieves got past all of those dogs is beyond explanation.
Anyway, now the Russian family has returned back to Russia and have left the house in the care of some Haitians. It’s my understanding that the Haitian’s—no doubt beyond dirt poor—are supposed to be feeding all of the dogs—which are many. This should be interesting…dirt poor people trying to survive themselves, left to take care of a posse of dogs. But I don’t know the situation, other people could be feeding the dogs. I have no idea.
To surmise the situation: there is piece of property full of potential sitting up in the hills of La Mulata. It has a half-built concrete shack with rebar sticking straight up in the air like telephone poles. It has a nice commanding view of the surrounding hills of La Mulata and is enclosed in a beautiful, Tuscany-esque wall that has a commanding view of any approaching zombie apocalypse.
The property is for sale: $65,000 dollars and has a Deslinde title, and would make Daisy Moses, Elly May, Jethro Bodine, and Jed Clampett proud.
Haha...i'm definitely not trying to sell this property, nor will i disclose the location of this property. I have to visit it once a week, and that's more than enough for me. Everytime i visit it, its like traveling back in time for me.
Frank
I hear you loud and clear. The jungle reclaims itself. Those who are unable or unwilling to fastidiously maintain their piece of Paradise, provide fertile ground for the jungle that is life in the DR - sex on balconies not withstanding.
Wonderful, as always. I confess I have never heard slack teats called "cow urns" before, but I shall employ it in future.
Perhaps a little light reading on the subject of hillbillies? It got fantastic reviews in The New York Times.
http://http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/27161156-hillbilly-elegy
Perhaps a little light reading on the subject of hillbillies? It got fantastic reviews in The New York Times.
http://http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/27161156-hillbilly-elegy
Chapter 426 (My Laboratory: The bar)
The next day, I kiss Big Red goodbye and jump on my bike and drive to work. It’s Sunday, it’s understood that there will be craziness and mayhem. It’s not a question of if there will be craziness, but how much craziness?
On Sunday’s, I like to grab my coffee and pour two of the strongest shots of Irish whiskey we have into my coffee; I need help dealing with the madness. We get a particularly diverse, animated crowd that roll in after church.
Every Sunday, like clockwork, a group of Holy Rollers will roll in after church and then suddenly, without warning, get the “Spirit” inside of them. If you have never seen or experienced this in person, it can be quite shocking to the senses. If it catches you off guard, and you are unaware of what exactly is going on, your instincts are to immediately jump up and down on their chest and perform CPR until paramedics arrive and take over. The person who is experiencing these religious hallucinations seems to be in dire need of immediate medical assistance. To see it a live demonstration in person is to be frightened, perplexed, confused and scared ****less.
These religious hallucinations tend to start with loud screams of “Hallelujah!” this is immediately followed by banshee shrieks, the tilting back of the head, and the rolling back of their eyes into the back of their heads—which is then followed by the speaking in tongues and epileptic-like convulsions on the ground that resemble a fish jumping around outside of water. But then suddenly—as quickly as it started—the person will snap out of it and jump up, throws their hands up into the air and begin screaming, “Praise Jesus!” “Praise Jesus!”
This is quickly followed by shouts of “Hallelujah” by fellow church members, and then everyone rejoices and begin clapping their hands together, and then spontaneously, they break out into church songs such as this: “Jesus loves me,” “Almighty Lord,” and “Take me Dear Lord to your Kingdom Hall.”
After each song is sung, there are some more shouts of validation, some more shouts of “Praise Jesus!” and then suddenly, as quickly as it started, people sit down and begin digging their hands into beef nachos made from donkey meat. They act as if nothing unusual just took place even as they spill guacamole and sour cream all over their mouths, tables, and hands.
On Sunday’s, I like to sit at the bar with my coffee & whiskey and study everyone. Whiskey puts me into the right frame of mind. I concentrate better.
Sunday’s bring in such an eclectic, crazy, diverse crowd of people that it defies definition. Everyone has funny nuances and strange habits, but the Jesus crowd takes the madness up a few notches into the stratosphere. The Jesus crowd tend to be funny, frightening, outrageous, bizarre, scary, and entertaining—all at the same time. When they’re not pontificating, they’re spreading the “Good Word” to people too inebriated to even understand what language they’re speaking.
Some of the Jesus freaks will get up and begin passing out magazines with colorful pictures of the sky opening up and Armageddon raining down on everyone below. The graphics on the front of these magazines are frightening, weird, and bizarre; they resemble something out of a 1950’s science fiction magazine. The staff love these so-called “Watchtower” magazines, because, they like to use them for cleaning up vomit, spilled drinks, and as toilet paper in their outhouses.
The next day, I kiss Big Red goodbye and jump on my bike and drive to work. It’s Sunday, it’s understood that there will be craziness and mayhem. It’s not a question of if there will be craziness, but how much craziness?
On Sunday’s, I like to grab my coffee and pour two of the strongest shots of Irish whiskey we have into my coffee; I need help dealing with the madness. We get a particularly diverse, animated crowd that roll in after church.
Every Sunday, like clockwork, a group of Holy Rollers will roll in after church and then suddenly, without warning, get the “Spirit” inside of them. If you have never seen or experienced this in person, it can be quite shocking to the senses. If it catches you off guard, and you are unaware of what exactly is going on, your instincts are to immediately jump up and down on their chest and perform CPR until paramedics arrive and take over. The person who is experiencing these religious hallucinations seems to be in dire need of immediate medical assistance. To see it a live demonstration in person is to be frightened, perplexed, confused and scared ****less.
These religious hallucinations tend to start with loud screams of “Hallelujah!” this is immediately followed by banshee shrieks, the tilting back of the head, and the rolling back of their eyes into the back of their heads—which is then followed by the speaking in tongues and epileptic-like convulsions on the ground that resemble a fish jumping around outside of water. But then suddenly—as quickly as it started—the person will snap out of it and jump up, throws their hands up into the air and begin screaming, “Praise Jesus!” “Praise Jesus!”
This is quickly followed by shouts of “Hallelujah” by fellow church members, and then everyone rejoices and begin clapping their hands together, and then spontaneously, they break out into church songs such as this: “Jesus loves me,” “Almighty Lord,” and “Take me Dear Lord to your Kingdom Hall.”
After each song is sung, there are some more shouts of validation, some more shouts of “Praise Jesus!” and then suddenly, as quickly as it started, people sit down and begin digging their hands into beef nachos made from donkey meat. They act as if nothing unusual just took place even as they spill guacamole and sour cream all over their mouths, tables, and hands.
On Sunday’s, I like to sit at the bar with my coffee & whiskey and study everyone. Whiskey puts me into the right frame of mind. I concentrate better.
Sunday’s bring in such an eclectic, crazy, diverse crowd of people that it defies definition. Everyone has funny nuances and strange habits, but the Jesus crowd takes the madness up a few notches into the stratosphere. The Jesus crowd tend to be funny, frightening, outrageous, bizarre, scary, and entertaining—all at the same time. When they’re not pontificating, they’re spreading the “Good Word” to people too inebriated to even understand what language they’re speaking.
Some of the Jesus freaks will get up and begin passing out magazines with colorful pictures of the sky opening up and Armageddon raining down on everyone below. The graphics on the front of these magazines are frightening, weird, and bizarre; they resemble something out of a 1950’s science fiction magazine. The staff love these so-called “Watchtower” magazines, because, they like to use them for cleaning up vomit, spilled drinks, and as toilet paper in their outhouses.
Chapter 426 (Dominican Kafkaesque revisited)
In 1978, I was living in Bonao and going to High School. I lived with my aunt Angela, and uncle Jose (my dad’s brother), and my three cousins (all boys around my same age). My aunt and uncle were born and raised in Bonao, and together, on a good day, they possessed no more than an 8th grade education.
Like all humble people from the mountains, they worked hard. Really hard. They sold milk, grew coffee and cacao, raised cattle, and dabbled in some other agriculture. This was all a result of my Uncle Frank, who, being doctor in the USA, came back home to the DR with a little bit of money and started investing in agriculture and things. If it wasn’t for my uncle Frank, I wouldn’t be here, nor received the education I was lucky enough to get. He was also the only one—out of three boys—who had gotten a higher education…which led to him doing his internship at the University of Chicago.
Back to Bonao.
As a treat, my aunt Angela and uncle Jose would take us boys (all four of us) to Jacaranda (it sits along Highway 1, in Bonao) on Saturday evenings in the back of a beat-up white Datsun truck. All four of us boys sat, rain or shine, in the back of the Datsun truck, while my uncle and aunt sat up front.
At the time, Jacaranda had just gotten a Pizza oven. It would be impossible to overstate how remarkable this was. It would be no exaggeration to say that Bonao possessing a pizza oven in 1978 was equivalent to Man traveling to the Moon and back. No bull****. People walked, swam, and drove to Jacaranda to get pizza for the first time in their lives. Remember, back then, many poor people had never even been to Santo Domingo, let alone tried Pizza.
Being true blue Dominicans, my aunt and uncle didn’t know anything of the North American tradition of giving weekly financial allowances to children. Having grown up in the 1930’s & 40’s in the mountains of Bonao, they certainly never received an allowance themselves…so the concept of giving a weekly financial allowance to children was not only foreign to them, but a concept they would not have understood.
After living in Bonao for about a year, my father sent down $20 US dollars to me. This was at a time when $1 US dollar equaled $1 Dominican peso. Having $20 US dollars in your pocket was like being nouveau rich. I felt stinking rich. At the time, one Dominican chocolate bar only costs .010 cents. A bottle of Dominican rum was less than a bottle of coke. A bottle of rum costs less than a pack of bubble gum. Giving a kid $20 US dollars would be like today handing a child $100 US dollars.
After receiving the $20 US dollars, we went on our weekly Pizza trip to Jacaranda. Once there, me and my cousins immediately made a bee-line for one of the glass display cases. Inside the case, they had imported American Milky Way, Snickers, and some other American Chocolate bars that we had only dreamed about eating one day when we hit the lottery. I immediately bought one a Milky Way and Snicker's bar for each of my cousins and myself…this, despite one single Milky Way or Snickers costing $1 US dollar at the time. You had to be either totally ****ing insane or stinking filthy rich to even think about spending $1 US dollar in 1978 on a piece of American chocolate.
In a scene straight out of Willy Wonka & the Chocolate factory, we all ran outside to the curb and began opening our chocolate bars with great anticipation of finding a Golden Ticket. I’m serious, I cannot overstate how excited we were. Two of my cousins had never even seen an American chocolate bar. Handing them a Milky Way or Snicker’s bar was like handing a Drug addict a kilo of Cocaine or heroin. My cousins had only seen American chocolate on TV commercials. They had never tried it. They only dreamed about it. Handing them something that they had only seen on television was no different than handing a wine connoisseur a bottle of 1945 Lafitte Rothschild.
When we opened our Milky Way and Snickers up, each bar was completely covered in white, hairy moldy fungus.
I need to back up here for a second. Remember this was 1978. There was no refrigeration for candy like there is today. These chocolate bars were sitting behind glass display cases that were baking in the sun all day long. The chocolate basically sat behind magnifying glass cooking for 10 hours a day as the sun slowly arced across highway 1.
We ran back to the counter and showed our Milky Way and Snickers bars to the person working behind the display case. They were covered in mold and fungus. And oh yeah...the expiration date was sometime at the turn of century ( I almost forgot about that. They had been expired for several years). We hadn’t even taken a bite out of the chocolate, because, quite simply, it was completely covered in white, hairy mold and was totally uneatable. The person behind the case shrugged his shoulders and said, “I’m sorry, there is nothing I can do.” His reasoning: "He could no refund us our money because we had opened the chocolate up—therefore making it unsellable to someone else." In his eyes, we had damaged the chocolate by opening it, and therefore, rendering it useless.
I lost US $4 dollars right there on four chocolate bars. $4 was 20% of my money I received in one year from the USA.
In 1978, I was living in Bonao and going to High School. I lived with my aunt Angela, and uncle Jose (my dad’s brother), and my three cousins (all boys around my same age). My aunt and uncle were born and raised in Bonao, and together, on a good day, they possessed no more than an 8th grade education.
Like all humble people from the mountains, they worked hard. Really hard. They sold milk, grew coffee and cacao, raised cattle, and dabbled in some other agriculture. This was all a result of my Uncle Frank, who, being doctor in the USA, came back home to the DR with a little bit of money and started investing in agriculture and things. If it wasn’t for my uncle Frank, I wouldn’t be here, nor received the education I was lucky enough to get. He was also the only one—out of three boys—who had gotten a higher education…which led to him doing his internship at the University of Chicago.
Back to Bonao.
As a treat, my aunt Angela and uncle Jose would take us boys (all four of us) to Jacaranda (it sits along Highway 1, in Bonao) on Saturday evenings in the back of a beat-up white Datsun truck. All four of us boys sat, rain or shine, in the back of the Datsun truck, while my uncle and aunt sat up front.
At the time, Jacaranda had just gotten a Pizza oven. It would be impossible to overstate how remarkable this was. It would be no exaggeration to say that Bonao possessing a pizza oven in 1978 was equivalent to Man traveling to the Moon and back. No bull****. People walked, swam, and drove to Jacaranda to get pizza for the first time in their lives. Remember, back then, many poor people had never even been to Santo Domingo, let alone tried Pizza.
Being true blue Dominicans, my aunt and uncle didn’t know anything of the North American tradition of giving weekly financial allowances to children. Having grown up in the 1930’s & 40’s in the mountains of Bonao, they certainly never received an allowance themselves…so the concept of giving a weekly financial allowance to children was not only foreign to them, but a concept they would not have understood.
After living in Bonao for about a year, my father sent down $20 US dollars to me. This was at a time when $1 US dollar equaled $1 Dominican peso. Having $20 US dollars in your pocket was like being nouveau rich. I felt stinking rich. At the time, one Dominican chocolate bar only costs .010 cents. A bottle of Dominican rum was less than a bottle of coke. A bottle of rum costs less than a pack of bubble gum. Giving a kid $20 US dollars would be like today handing a child $100 US dollars.
After receiving the $20 US dollars, we went on our weekly Pizza trip to Jacaranda. Once there, me and my cousins immediately made a bee-line for one of the glass display cases. Inside the case, they had imported American Milky Way, Snickers, and some other American Chocolate bars that we had only dreamed about eating one day when we hit the lottery. I immediately bought one a Milky Way and Snicker's bar for each of my cousins and myself…this, despite one single Milky Way or Snickers costing $1 US dollar at the time. You had to be either totally ****ing insane or stinking filthy rich to even think about spending $1 US dollar in 1978 on a piece of American chocolate.
In a scene straight out of Willy Wonka & the Chocolate factory, we all ran outside to the curb and began opening our chocolate bars with great anticipation of finding a Golden Ticket. I’m serious, I cannot overstate how excited we were. Two of my cousins had never even seen an American chocolate bar. Handing them a Milky Way or Snicker’s bar was like handing a Drug addict a kilo of Cocaine or heroin. My cousins had only seen American chocolate on TV commercials. They had never tried it. They only dreamed about it. Handing them something that they had only seen on television was no different than handing a wine connoisseur a bottle of 1945 Lafitte Rothschild.
When we opened our Milky Way and Snickers up, each bar was completely covered in white, hairy moldy fungus.
I need to back up here for a second. Remember this was 1978. There was no refrigeration for candy like there is today. These chocolate bars were sitting behind glass display cases that were baking in the sun all day long. The chocolate basically sat behind magnifying glass cooking for 10 hours a day as the sun slowly arced across highway 1.
We ran back to the counter and showed our Milky Way and Snickers bars to the person working behind the display case. They were covered in mold and fungus. And oh yeah...the expiration date was sometime at the turn of century ( I almost forgot about that. They had been expired for several years). We hadn’t even taken a bite out of the chocolate, because, quite simply, it was completely covered in white, hairy mold and was totally uneatable. The person behind the case shrugged his shoulders and said, “I’m sorry, there is nothing I can do.” His reasoning: "He could no refund us our money because we had opened the chocolate up—therefore making it unsellable to someone else." In his eyes, we had damaged the chocolate by opening it, and therefore, rendering it useless.
I lost US $4 dollars right there on four chocolate bars. $4 was 20% of my money I received in one year from the USA.
Ah, know we better understand your rage about SOV customer service. Dr. Freud would say your early bad customer service experience jaded you for a life of misery. Sing two rounds of "Let it Go" from Disney's Frozen and in the morning you'll be all better !
:laugh::laugh::laugh:
I want to see him belting out the song on video!
Thanks for the mental image abuela.
Chapter 427 (The Russians are coming; the Russians are coming!)
Recently I got to thinking about the Russians in the DR. The Russians are a mystery wrapped inside an enigma. I don’t remember exactly when they started pouring into the DR and the North Coast, but like most people, I started noticing them more and more around 2005/2006.
Despite my recent negative experience, I like Russians. I like Russians a lot. I live with two Russians—one of which is the best cook, mother, and friend I know. She’s also a sweet person who never gossips. Ever! Unlike other cultures, she never sits around talking about people. She has her Russians friends over to our condo every week. They’re good people. Wonderful people. They’re educated and smart. They love nothing more than to sit around eating, drinking, and talking about interesting things. They do not sit around and gossip and talk about stupid things. They’re educated and smart, and they all learn and speak Spanish. They’re beautiful, good people, and very devoted to their families…which we know from growing up in America…is not what we have been taught. Russians are extremely family oriented and very devoted to their children and their child’s education. The kids are smart.
As business people, well…that’s another story, and one that I am going to try to address right here and be fair and nuanced about.
How many people remember “City Market” supermarket (near Sosua)? It sat in-between Coastal gas station and El Choco restaurant. It was my favorite supermarket on the North Coast. I went there every single day religiously. Alexander—the beautiful German chef/business woman who owns Mura Mai restaurant in Sosua—managed City Market supermarket. To say that she did a good job would be a gross understatement. She was a wonderful business woman who knew customer service. Good customer service is not rocket science. Here are some of the things Alexander did that still stands out as Marketing genius 101:
1. She only played Jazz music throughout the supermarket. It was commercial free, and came directly from the internet. The station was Smooth Jazz 101. It wasn’t loud, and the music was soothing to listen to; it played quietly in the background. It was enjoyable to listen to because it was so unobtrusive.
2. At 11am everyday, rain or shine, she had a full salad bar set up; it was full of marinated vegetables, grilled meat, seafood, “real” Mozzarella cheese, peppers, and some other things that you seldom see in places in the DR, but are very common in the USA. The salad bar was well-maintained, and the supermarket staff constantly filled it up and cleaned up around it. It was very clean. To say that it was unique would be understating just how rare it was to see something like this on the North Coast inside a supermarket.
3. The cafe was beautiful. No, it was stunning. It was like a Starbucks. I sat there everyday on a big, beautiful leather sofa, drinking coffee until I started hyperventilating and passed out in a caffeine induced coma. I needed heart defibulators to resuscitate me and bring me back to life. Once I was conscious again, I laid off the caffeine and started drinking Belgium Raspberry beer (Lambic). You were allowed to purchase Belgium beers and drink it inside the caf?. How fantastic was that? The sofas were big and wonderful; it was something you might find in a Startbuck’s or an eclectic caf? in the USA.
4. Every day, they had warm, fresh chocolate croissants. You could get them right when they came out of the oven. They were wonderful, amazing. They also had a very extensive dessert selection—which included fresh cakes and pies. Alexander’s brother-in-law made many of the wonderful cakes and pies. They always filled up the display case.
5. The shelves were always fully stocked with fresh produce.
6. They had free Wifi for the customers.
7. Alexander always came around and spoke with the customers inside the cafe.
Now what happened after City Market got sold to some Russians should be a crime and be obligatory for business students to study at university. What they did violated every business rule ever conceived in business school. I will attempt to address a few of them right here because they really deserve attention to what “Not to do” in a business.
This what they did the moment they sold City Market and it became known as “Favorito” supermarket (The sign still stands on the front of the building, I believe).
1. They got rid of the Smooth Internet Jazz station and started playing Bachata music and some other horrible music. They played it slightly louder than the previous Jazz station. Now, Bachata music is fine when you are inside a nightclub, bar, colmado, or sitting inside a jail cell on the North Coast, but it’s not the type of music you want to listen to when you are drinking coffee and trying to have a conversation, and the employees around you start wailing and singing along with the song, and then the paint and cement starts cracking on the ceilings and walls and raining down on your fresh perm. It’s fair to say that Bachata music and other types of music (hard rock, Metal, Celin Dion, etc) should never be played inside a supermarket or caf?. It’s what you play when you want to torture your neighbors or some Muslim terrorists
2. The got rid of the free internet for their customers.
3. They got rid of the wonderful salad bar.
4. They stopped stocking the shelves and produce like it was before.
5. They got rid of the fresh Chocolate croissants.
Slowly but surely, people stopped coming altogether. They were out of business, I believe, in less than one year. One year!! Everything they could have done to ruin a perfectly good business, they managed to pull off and do in less than one month. They changed everything they could. It was as astonishing as it was shocking!
And this only tells only part of the story about Russians and their business sense and their customer service and marketing sense.
Whenever you leave a bad taste in the mouth of a customer, you have lost a fantastic opportunity to not only keep a customer, but also to gain that customer’s friends, family, co-workers, acquaintances, etc.
Everyone who has ever taken a very basic business or marketing class already knows this. This is business 101. It’s simple. It’s easy. It’s not Rocket Science. But it is absolutely astonishing how many people have no clue about it.
Recently I got to thinking about the Russians in the DR. The Russians are a mystery wrapped inside an enigma. I don’t remember exactly when they started pouring into the DR and the North Coast, but like most people, I started noticing them more and more around 2005/2006.
Despite my recent negative experience, I like Russians. I like Russians a lot. I live with two Russians—one of which is the best cook, mother, and friend I know. She’s also a sweet person who never gossips. Ever! Unlike other cultures, she never sits around talking about people. She has her Russians friends over to our condo every week. They’re good people. Wonderful people. They’re educated and smart. They love nothing more than to sit around eating, drinking, and talking about interesting things. They do not sit around and gossip and talk about stupid things. They’re educated and smart, and they all learn and speak Spanish. They’re beautiful, good people, and very devoted to their families…which we know from growing up in America…is not what we have been taught. Russians are extremely family oriented and very devoted to their children and their child’s education. The kids are smart.
As business people, well…that’s another story, and one that I am going to try to address right here and be fair and nuanced about.
How many people remember “City Market” supermarket (near Sosua)? It sat in-between Coastal gas station and El Choco restaurant. It was my favorite supermarket on the North Coast. I went there every single day religiously. Alexander—the beautiful German chef/business woman who owns Mura Mai restaurant in Sosua—managed City Market supermarket. To say that she did a good job would be a gross understatement. She was a wonderful business woman who knew customer service. Good customer service is not rocket science. Here are some of the things Alexander did that still stands out as Marketing genius 101:
1. She only played Jazz music throughout the supermarket. It was commercial free, and came directly from the internet. The station was Smooth Jazz 101. It wasn’t loud, and the music was soothing to listen to; it played quietly in the background. It was enjoyable to listen to because it was so unobtrusive.
2. At 11am everyday, rain or shine, she had a full salad bar set up; it was full of marinated vegetables, grilled meat, seafood, “real” Mozzarella cheese, peppers, and some other things that you seldom see in places in the DR, but are very common in the USA. The salad bar was well-maintained, and the supermarket staff constantly filled it up and cleaned up around it. It was very clean. To say that it was unique would be understating just how rare it was to see something like this on the North Coast inside a supermarket.
3. The cafe was beautiful. No, it was stunning. It was like a Starbucks. I sat there everyday on a big, beautiful leather sofa, drinking coffee until I started hyperventilating and passed out in a caffeine induced coma. I needed heart defibulators to resuscitate me and bring me back to life. Once I was conscious again, I laid off the caffeine and started drinking Belgium Raspberry beer (Lambic). You were allowed to purchase Belgium beers and drink it inside the caf?. How fantastic was that? The sofas were big and wonderful; it was something you might find in a Startbuck’s or an eclectic caf? in the USA.
4. Every day, they had warm, fresh chocolate croissants. You could get them right when they came out of the oven. They were wonderful, amazing. They also had a very extensive dessert selection—which included fresh cakes and pies. Alexander’s brother-in-law made many of the wonderful cakes and pies. They always filled up the display case.
5. The shelves were always fully stocked with fresh produce.
6. They had free Wifi for the customers.
7. Alexander always came around and spoke with the customers inside the cafe.
Now what happened after City Market got sold to some Russians should be a crime and be obligatory for business students to study at university. What they did violated every business rule ever conceived in business school. I will attempt to address a few of them right here because they really deserve attention to what “Not to do” in a business.
This what they did the moment they sold City Market and it became known as “Favorito” supermarket (The sign still stands on the front of the building, I believe).
1. They got rid of the Smooth Internet Jazz station and started playing Bachata music and some other horrible music. They played it slightly louder than the previous Jazz station. Now, Bachata music is fine when you are inside a nightclub, bar, colmado, or sitting inside a jail cell on the North Coast, but it’s not the type of music you want to listen to when you are drinking coffee and trying to have a conversation, and the employees around you start wailing and singing along with the song, and then the paint and cement starts cracking on the ceilings and walls and raining down on your fresh perm. It’s fair to say that Bachata music and other types of music (hard rock, Metal, Celin Dion, etc) should never be played inside a supermarket or caf?. It’s what you play when you want to torture your neighbors or some Muslim terrorists
2. The got rid of the free internet for their customers.
3. They got rid of the wonderful salad bar.
4. They stopped stocking the shelves and produce like it was before.
5. They got rid of the fresh Chocolate croissants.
Slowly but surely, people stopped coming altogether. They were out of business, I believe, in less than one year. One year!! Everything they could have done to ruin a perfectly good business, they managed to pull off and do in less than one month. They changed everything they could. It was as astonishing as it was shocking!
And this only tells only part of the story about Russians and their business sense and their customer service and marketing sense.
Whenever you leave a bad taste in the mouth of a customer, you have lost a fantastic opportunity to not only keep a customer, but also to gain that customer’s friends, family, co-workers, acquaintances, etc.
Everyone who has ever taken a very basic business or marketing class already knows this. This is business 101. It’s simple. It’s easy. It’s not Rocket Science. But it is absolutely astonishing how many people have no clue about it.
The Russian apparently thought that a market should be like market in Russia. Markets in Russia lack competition.
Alexander?the beautiful German chef/business woman who owns Mura Mai restaurant in Sosua?managed City Market supermarket. To say that she did a good job would be a gross understatement. She was a wonderful business woman who knew customer service.
Alex is the real deal, no doubt about it. She's back in the kitchen in Morua Mai, BTW, and it had slipped just a bit while she was away, but things are now back on track.
DISCLAIMER: Alex and Raphael are two of my dearest friends here.
I always wondered what the deal was with that shuttered up supermarket, and in addition to amusing me, Frank, you've educated me as well. Thanks for another great diary entry. You're on a roll, dude!
Alex is the real deal, no doubt about it. She's back in the kitchen in Morua Mai, BTW, and it had slipped just a bit while she was away, but things are now back on track.
DISCLAIMER: Alex and Raphael are two of my dearest friends here.
I always wondered what the deal was with that shuttered up supermarket, and in addition to amusing me, Frank, you've educated me as well. Thanks for another great diary entry. You're on a roll, dude!
Chapter 428 ("No Losers Allowed"...unless you can pass a test!)
So, a year year ago, I'm sitting with this Mensa Club here in Starbucks in Ohio. A couple of the guys ride motorcycles to this Starbucks store. I'm like, "Hey, i want to join your group."
A few of the people look up at me and smirk at the corner of their mouths. I'm wearing my standard shorts full of holes, old faded T-shirt, and torn sandals. One of the older men (a professor) looks up and says to me,
"I'm sorry, but to get into the group, you need to pass a test."
"A test? OK, give me the test!"
At this point, i'm thinking, "How hard can this test be? I've taken tests my whole life. At this point, I had just taken a 3-hour math test (no calculators allowed) in Cabarete given to me by Mike Colvin from Barrick Gold Mine. Now, that was a ****ing hard test! Before i took the math test, Mike told me that Dominican engineers have walked out of this test. I passed it.
The Mensa group tell me that they will give me the test the following morning and that I am to bring two number #2 pencils. They also tell me that this is not a "Mensa Test," and that even if i manage to pass the test, I will not be a member of Mensa.
I'm like, "Ok, whatever, just give me the test."
I need back up a little. Everyone in this Mensa group is in their 60's and 70's. The youngest guy in the group, Harley Charlie, is 59yrs old. He's a big wig at Time Warner. Everyone is professionals. Everyone has a higher education. The only reason i want into this group is because of this:
A.) I'm horny, and a few of the older women have smoking hot daughters.
B.) Three of the men ride motorcycles to Starbucks every morning.
C.) I get a discount on Panty Hose & wine if i can get into the club.
The next morning i show up with two #2 pencils. i sit at one of the wooden tables where i am surrounded by two proctors who watch my every move. The test takes 50-minutes and involves answering 40-questions.
They correct the test in front of you. I passed the test, and today, I enjoy 20% discounts on Silky Sheer Lace Panty Hose, and most importantly, a nice discount on wine at a nearby wine store--owned by one of the Mensa group members.
[video=youtube_share;ePMRZ6NDUwY]https://youtu.be/ePMRZ6NDUwY[/video]
So, a year year ago, I'm sitting with this Mensa Club here in Starbucks in Ohio. A couple of the guys ride motorcycles to this Starbucks store. I'm like, "Hey, i want to join your group."
A few of the people look up at me and smirk at the corner of their mouths. I'm wearing my standard shorts full of holes, old faded T-shirt, and torn sandals. One of the older men (a professor) looks up and says to me,
"I'm sorry, but to get into the group, you need to pass a test."
"A test? OK, give me the test!"
At this point, i'm thinking, "How hard can this test be? I've taken tests my whole life. At this point, I had just taken a 3-hour math test (no calculators allowed) in Cabarete given to me by Mike Colvin from Barrick Gold Mine. Now, that was a ****ing hard test! Before i took the math test, Mike told me that Dominican engineers have walked out of this test. I passed it.
The Mensa group tell me that they will give me the test the following morning and that I am to bring two number #2 pencils. They also tell me that this is not a "Mensa Test," and that even if i manage to pass the test, I will not be a member of Mensa.
I'm like, "Ok, whatever, just give me the test."
I need back up a little. Everyone in this Mensa group is in their 60's and 70's. The youngest guy in the group, Harley Charlie, is 59yrs old. He's a big wig at Time Warner. Everyone is professionals. Everyone has a higher education. The only reason i want into this group is because of this:
A.) I'm horny, and a few of the older women have smoking hot daughters.
B.) Three of the men ride motorcycles to Starbucks every morning.
C.) I get a discount on Panty Hose & wine if i can get into the club.
The next morning i show up with two #2 pencils. i sit at one of the wooden tables where i am surrounded by two proctors who watch my every move. The test takes 50-minutes and involves answering 40-questions.
They correct the test in front of you. I passed the test, and today, I enjoy 20% discounts on Silky Sheer Lace Panty Hose, and most importantly, a nice discount on wine at a nearby wine store--owned by one of the Mensa group members.
[video=youtube_share;ePMRZ6NDUwY]https://youtu.be/ePMRZ6NDUwY[/video]