Last weekend we enjoyed three long days of Las Terrenas’ annual “Etno Mix!” From morning ‘til night the local’s hot spot, playa Punta Popi, was wafting incredible scents of global cuisine across the sea. There was Spanish paella, German goulash, Italian pasta, French crepes and American hotdogs. The Dominican’s had a booth loaded with the nation’s prized beer served from the freezer, Presidente (comparable to Key Stone Light from a college basement keg), along with fresh hotdogs on a stick. Not corndogs, but naked dogs, somehow different from the U.S. booth’s hotdogs because these are ordered as “Chinchillas”, the Spanish name for the exact same sausage of rejected meat. And chinchillas have mayo. Yum.
There was a Haitian booth with, unfortunately, the same meals offered three blocks down at a local Dominican restaurant. To make up for less interesting food was their rum. Though we didn’t personally make a purchase (a limited budget means we made a choice for French Pate instead), we got a taste along with a great story. The rum served has always been high-class, but its popularity has skyrocketed since the earthquake shattered all means of producing it, along with half of all bottles remaining.
Unable to enjoy all the fun, Matteson and I were asked to work two shifts, taking charge of the burgers, beers, and Statue of Liberty. Aware of his burger-flipping talent back stateside, Matteson was assigned grill-duty. This included but was not limited to a fresh spatula, a seat behind the booth, one Budweiser (a definite upgrade from the usual Presidente) and, brace yourself, an American flag apron. He wore it as any good housewife would.
I proudly stood front and center beside the “I Heart America” sign and took full charge of the money-holding fanny pack, with just enough pockets for every peso there is. There are a lot, mind you. 1, 5, 10, 20, 50, 100, 200, 500, 1000… and I had a zipper for each.
While working, we had the opportunity to meet a delightful mix of some of the most interesting American’s I will ever have the pleasure of meeting – and hope never to meet again. One preached of a better nation, claiming to be a “citizen of the world” with a “passion for peace,” though every comment of his was tainted with curse words, prejudices, racism and a bit of spit. Say it don’t spray it, buddy. Another went on and on about black and white, though at first I couldn’t tell if he was speaking English or Spanish. By the time I realized it was English, I couldn’t decipher if he was discussing people or checkerboards.
Outside our booth, the Etno Mix was as exciting (but felt much safer). The colors were brilliant; booths decorated with endless flags and posters of self-identification, falsely edited photos for promotion, fact books and, of course, the occasional downed power line. At night the lights were bright and the music vibrated our innards, gladly. Hiding behind a large speaker - so our library kids wouldn’t pull us into the swarm of flailing limbs - we watched all ages jump along to the local version of Hannah Montana. Except her voice was raspier, her hair darker, and her breasts far too large to be doing hops and skips. The kids loved her enough not to notice, but her outfit looked like some mix between a Hansel & Gretel and Candy Striper’s Halloween costume. Every audience member under the age of 15 was captivated by what we, Matteson and I, agreed to be a nauseating mash-up of oranges, yellows, stripes and glitter on a puffy skirted dress and frilly laced sleeves. As I stood there taking in all the chaos I realized – I must be getting older. I remember the days when Lance Bass’ bleached, spiked hair was just to die for, and the soprano pipes of Nick Carter were, like totally, perfection.
Beyond the stage were boys wrestling in the sand, couples on the beach, and girls in every pose begging for friends to take their photo. Behind the crowd across the water was constant heat-lightening, brightening the grounds and the mountains beyond.
It was quite an event we were lucky to enjoy, once a year in Las Terrenas.
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