I wrote this at the end of February on the last days of my 6 weeks in the Dominican Republic.
Traveler? Tourist? Vagabond? Backpacker? Choose a label, folks.
I’ve seen cutesy lists and quizzes, variations on this theme recently.
What am I when I travel?
Me+Cascada El Limon, Las Terrenas
The label seems arbitrary and generally unimportant, but I feel the difference.
I’m more sensitive now than I once was to the modern colonialism of tourism, the white folks who arrive already drunk from the plane, ready to mine whatever they want from this island—the sand, the sun, the fish, the rum—and leave the rest.
They don’t arrive empty-handed. They bring their culture, and from what I can tell, it doesn’t occur to them to question why they would go to the Caribbean to eat French pastries and pizza.
The DR is a starkly divided place. There’s rich white folks relaxing in the Disney Land version of a Caribbean island where Cuba Libres are bottomless, the buffet serves all-you-can-eat steak and sea bass, and “local culture” comes in the form of handicrafts in overpriced gift shops and Dominicans with jobs ensuring the white folks have fun.
I saw this artificial side of the DR in my first couple weeks. It made me uncomfortable, so I thought, “I want to experience the real DR.”
Be careful what you wish for, kid.
I got to experience the real DR. And stuff got real ugly, real fast.
I write this on my second-to-last morning here in the DR, and I’m feeling overwhelmed by the schizophrenia of it all. The crazy beauty and joy here, and the deep, deep ugliness.
How do you hold it all? How is there room for so much fun and laughter and dancing, and also for so much darkness?
I’ve been embraced by the family that runs the guesthouse, the mama who adopts each backpacker as her hijo or hija, fussing and caring, and endlessly feeding with filling, delicious meals that taste like love.
But then over pancakes with bachata blaring in the background, my friend tells me about getting sexually assaulted the night before while another backpacker tries to sort out getting a new phone after a prostitute pickpocketed him.
There’s the thrill of dancing all night with men who know how to dance. But the floor is shared with old white men dirty dancing with gorgeous Dominicans in their 20s. Looking for a night’s work, a little cash, a way out.
The dancing is fun, but the conversation inevitably accelerates to: “Tienes un novio?” Do you have a boyfriend?
Yes. The answer is always yes.
“Está aquí?” Is he here?
No. But the answer should always be yes. The answer should always be, Yeah, see that tall muscular guy who could kick your ass? He’s mine.
“Pero necesitas un novio de aquí. Ahora soy tu novio.” But you need a boyfriend from here. Now I’m your boyfriend.
I don’t know what they see when they look at me, but it feels like dollar signs. It feels like a passport. It feels like easy sex. It feels like they know what they want and will aggressively pursue it. It feels like they will take without asking.
It makes me deeply uncomfortable, but here I am, a traveler/vagabond/backpacker born into a wealth these people will never know, newly arrived in their country to take what I want and leave only with a phone full of photos and some cheap souvenirs.
I’m critical of the touristic colonialism, but I’m part of it.
Las Terrenas
I’m part of that imperialism that comes and wants to interact only with my idea of what this culture should be: bachata and fried fish and sunburn. I want what I want and not the rest. Not the poverty, the social issues, the ugliness of gender inequality, the culture of cheating.
How can I blame them for taking what they want when I’m doing the same thing?
When I only want to leave behind pesos, how can I blame them for looking at me and seeing only pesos?
When I only want to interact with people on my terms, how can I blame them for only wanting to interact with me on theirs?
When I live according to the arbitrary lines of my social norms—dancing close is fine but don’t you touch my ass—how can I blame them for living according to theirs?
There’s parts of this place I’m sad to leave. And there are parts I can’t wait to get an ocean away from.
I’m ready to go back to a place where I don’t get hit on constantly, where I can walk down the street without getting whistled at and catcalled. So I can go back to complaining about not feeling beautiful.
Rio San Juan
A place where I don’t get asked 4 times a day whether I want a boyfriend. So I can go back to complaining about men not being forward enough.
A place where gender inequality isn’t slapping me in the face constantly. So I can go back to pretending it doesn’t exist because I don’t see it.
How do you hold it all?
I was debating posting this for a while – what will people think? Would it be offensive? Do I seem ungrateful? And ultimately decided that as a writer, I need to speak the truth I see. And sometimes it’s uncomfortable.
But I’m interested in your reactions to this. Do you agree? Do you see it differently?
La Vie Bobo 