A Very Dominican Wedding by Benjamin Curtis
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Zoetry Agua Punta Cana
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Luis, a local Santo Domingan, is driving me back to the hotel just in time to get ready for the friend’s wedding I’ve flown 4000 miles to attend, and photograph. We’ve just been Guayavera shopping, this being the four-pocket, tie-less formal shirt that the Dominicans sport on such occasions.
It’s forty degrees outside, the traffic is wild, and I’m fretting about the wedding. Why didn’t I test my new flash a bit more thoroughly before the big event? The ‘official photographer’ tag is a daunting responsibility.
‘What’s impressed you most about the Dominican Republic?’ asks Luis.
‘Well…’ I don’t know where to start. There’s so much to like. Twenty of us flew out for the wedding and we spent the first four days in an all-inclusive five star resort, lazing on a palm-fringed Caribbean beach and sipping endless Piña Coladas at the in-pool bar. All the food and all the drink were free, 24 hours a day. That certainly impressed me. It was like life in a bounty advert, paradise, but too enclosed. By mid-week we couldn’t wait to get to the capital, Santo Domingo, to see a bit of ‘real’ Dominican life.
‘How about our customs?’ says Luis, still waiting for an answer. We pause at a busy crossroads before gliding miraculously through two lanes of criss-crossing traffic. ‘I know,’ he says, ‘what about the way we drive?’
‘That’s certainly different. You have less… regard for the signals.’ Having said this we have actually stopped at a traffic light, where a small melee of vendors are selling everything from sugar canes to handfuls of biros. A beautiful, dark girl with blonde hair strides past us under a pink parasol. ‘Ay… Rubita,’ mumbles Luis, and I think of something else I like about the Dominican Republic:
‘The way you pull, it’s an art form!’ For example: a man enters a crowded bar, spies his friend on the other side of the room surrounded by women, and a rapid exchange of coded facial gestures takes place between the two men. The newcomer thus discovers exactly who’s spoken for before he is even introduced. The ladies are no less astute, commonly attracting the man of their dreams with blunt, hand-written messages such as ‘pareces maricon, demuestrame lo contrario,’ you look gay, prove me wrong…
‘What else?’ says Luis.
‘The outdoor life.’ Passing through small towns on the way to the capital I’d been transfixed by silhouetted figures in wide-open doorways and dimly lit, breezy bar terraces, where couples swung to the sound of inaudible tunes. An open-air existence is the obvious solution to 365 days of tropical summer heat. (‘I’m planning on visiting Europe in winter,’ said one of Luis’s friends, ‘so I can try out an overcoat.’)
‘And I love the Dominican version of Spanish, and Bachata (the home-grown twangly guitar sound), and the fact that the money changer lowers my currency to me in a wicker basket. And Presidente beer, and that lethal rum cocktail you call ‘Vete a acostar’ (time for bed), and I’m just basically happy that no-one has hassled me once all week and that absolutely everyone is incredibly nice, all the time.’
‘Yes,’ says Luis, when I finish my rant, ‘it’s pretty good here.’
Once in the old, Colonial part of town, we move quickly through the tight grid of low, two-storey streets. The tricycle-mounted sellers are out in force, peddling coconut milk and freshly squeezed orange juice beneath the crumbling facades. This is the area to stay in, the place to go out at night, and where to see most of the historical sights.
Columbus arrived in the D.R. on his second voyage to the New World, staking a claim for Spain that practically destroyed the country’s indigenous indian population within three decades. Under the control of his brother, and later his son, up went Santo Domingo’s Cathedral, the oldest in Latin America, and a series of grand administrative buildings, most of which now house museums. The most interesting is the Museo de las Casas Reales, where an in-house guide provides an exhaustive (and rather exhausting) history of the city.
Back at the hotel the wedding guests are milling around downstairs, waiting for our transport to arrive. I slip into my Guayavera, grab the camera bag, and make a nervous last minute equipment check: four spare sets of batteries, an embarrassing quantity of film – all is well.
An hour later we are in the lush, tropical gardens of a Miami style mansion above the coast road outside the city. A guy with a semi-automatic weapon is keeping an eye on things in the car park (‘good security’ says Luis), which seems ironic as the D.R. must be the safest, most drug-free and unoppressive nation in all of the Americas. The bride arrives and there is much shedding of tears as the ceremony begins. I take an extravagant quantity of photos, just to make sure, and soon begin to relax.
When everyone heads back to the hotel, I’m in the car with Luis again, part of a small never-say-die convoy determined to carry on into the small hours. We’re briefly driving the wrong way up a four-lane, one-way interchange and the Europeans amongst us are screaming.
‘Do any of you want to drive?’ asks Luis.
‘NO no no…’
At last we pull up at a rather smart dockside club, guarded again by a wrinkled old chap with a Kalashnikov. Soon everybody has a bottle of Presidente beer in hand, and we’re trying hopelessly to pick up Merengue and Salsa moves from the locals, who don’t even step onto the dance floor unless they’re absolute experts.
Looking out across the estuary, at a vast cruise ship moored beneath the city lights, I’m suddenly struck by the idea of being extremely far from Europe. After five years of only travelling close to home, it’s been amazing to step out into the rest of the world again. I vow on the spot to put a classified ad. in the local press upon my return: “Photographer – weddings, only works Caribbean.”