"Erectile" Vomiting, My Very Own Sanky and Motoconchos in the Rain

Well, it finally happened. I am officially in the Domincan Republic, greeted by the joys of an extreme case of Las Touristas, or the Dominican Bug.  After meeting my adult students,  I felt a sudden stirring deep in my loins (and not my favorite kind, either).  Mind you, I've been suffering from severe stomach distress since Santo Domingo, but I knew at the first rumbling that this was  going to be special.  Within three hours, I was prostrate on my bathroom floor-- a tasty place to be to begin with-- with my face in our moldy, smelly bowl.  For nearly 24 hours, I "erectile vomited", as Ingrid, in her lovely, mistaken English announced while my back end kept up the pace with aplomb.  In between bouts of that, I lay in my bed, clutching my innards, asking myself why I would do such a thing as this to myself-- come to this place and put myself through such emotional, physical and mental torture-- for what?!.  Ostensibly, it was to write my travel st

ory and to inspire myself to mimic Wigeria's adventure so my book might ring more true for Pam and the folks at Viking and all its potential readers.  But when alone, sick and crying, I began to wonder if it was purely insanity that brought me here.  I considered my life closely; love and friendships; past and present; potential future(s) and my dreams.  I decided it was right, I was exactly where I was supposed to be and a well-timed call to my rock (Thor) confirmed this.  I'm sure how long I'll stay here, depending on work and writing productivity, but I should let myself go and enjoy it in its true Dominican essence, to its fullest, while I can.  And last night, I finally did, I think.

The girls, of course, were ready to go out by 9:30 and I decided, since I was feeling much better, quite empty and sick of being alone with my own thoughts, that I would accompany them.  We ended up at a Domincan beach bar, La Dune, where dancing was the only thing on the menu and that's where I met Rudy, the adorable boy in the picture above.  Rudy, a 19-year-old sanky who wouldn't take no for an answer (as I'd heard was how all sanky's were, and he stayed

 true to the rumor) taught me how to Bachatta and in between bouts of stulted dancing on my part, he told me his story.  It starts with the death of his parents at 12 and time spent as a shoe

 boy in the streets of Santo Domingo, then some time in the military at 16 and 17, and ends with him in Las Terrenas ostensibly working as a sanky, but not having much luck.  Rudy is short, maybe 5'5 (note the pics of us dancing) which he says is a problem for most white ladies. He is also, he thinks, too honest.  And he falls in love to easily.  Apparently so, for when I first met him, he was staring at me so intently that he tripped when he got up to come over to us.  The first thing he said to me in Spanish was that he loved me; my hair, my eyes and my beautiful, small lips shaped like bow (Dominican men pour it on thick, ladies.  Heinz 57 thick). He grabbed my hands and started singing.  He wanted to know where I was from, what kind of flowers were my favorite, if I liked to lay in the sun.  So funny.  I blushed and told him I had a boyfriend whom I cared for very much and though my man was open minded, fine with flirting and a professional flirt himself,  falling for a sanky wasn't something he'd appreciate too much so thanks but no thanks.  The girls only laughed at my discomfort and reminded me that here,"tengo un macho novio" means nothing to Dominican men, especially sankies.  With Ingrid's help (she speaks lovely, perfect Spanish), I got the picture across, he dropped the smarmy romanticisms and we just chatted in his broken English I in my choppy Spanish, with Ingrid as interpreter.  And then we danced.  And wow, could he dance.  He was very patient and kind.  He didn't laugh when I stepped on his feet and eventually, I got into the Dominican groove of it.  And what a groove.  Hips and thighs, hands in the air, laughter, smiles, singing.  It was joy, even though we were one of only a few couples moving around the floor.  The girls sat and laughed at me, with me, and Rudy was, I think, very happy.  Very proud. Perhaps a bit star struck, even. At the end of the night, he kissed my hand and thanked me for listening to him, for dancing with him and he said he respected me for being true to my man, as he hadn't found a women yet who had been true to hers here; whether Dominican, American, French, German or Italian.  I got dance lessons and a real view of what a Sanky's life is like and I'm glad I did.  Another part of the adventure fulfilled, I guess.  

Then we went home, via motoconcho, in the rain.  The sky has been pelting us with rain intermittently for the past week and last night it opened up and drenche

d the world.  We were about two miles from the house so we flagged two conchos, climbed on, and went screaming and holding on for dear life as the driver went through

 traffic down a one-way street.  The rain got in our eyes and our ears, our driver laughed as we giggled and we passed by throngs of Dominicans in the streets, dancing with one another in the rain.  They sure know how to live here, and I'm going to

 figure out how to do it to.