Monday, February 13, 2006

Sunned and Cirrhotic, Part 1

I’m back from the DR and skipping work already! I rock.

So, my week was awesome and I’m tanned and my jeans are nice and tight thanks to my swollen liver. I don’t even know where to begin to describe the trip, but I guess all I can do is start that the beginning.

Day 1: Where ees da wenchel?

We arrived in Puerto Plata at around noon. None of us had slept in 2 days (we had to be at the airport at 3am – mofo). I tried to sleep on the plane but was put next to some trashy 40 year old woman and her 14 year old brat and neither would shut the fuck up.

ThePeach: *head on food tray, trying to slip into a gravol coma*
Trash: Have you been to Puerto Plata before?
ThePeach: *zzzHUH?* uhh ya, once. *closes eyes again*
Trash: I like the Caribbean because you can smoke your cigs anywhere and not get hassled.
ThePeach: *zzzHUH?* *opens one eye* ya, sure. *slowly closes eye*
Trash: I like a smoke with breakfast.
Trash-brat: Me too. *pokes ThePeach* Look out the window!! You can see the ocean!!!!
ThePeach: *jumps, hits head on seat ahead* HUH? Um no, that’s ok. I saw the ocean when we started flying over it 2 hours ago.
Trash-brat: Look again!!!
Trash: *grabs ThePeach’s arm* Look NOW!
ThePeach: *warily opens one eye* Pretty.
Trash-brat: Are you tired or something?
ThePeach: It’s 6am.
ThePeach: *takes 2 more gravol, prays to lose hearing*

And that, in a nutshell, was the plane ride.

We spent the rest of the day on the beach and at the pool bar, drinking away our sleeps. That night, after many drinks with names like “Tom Colling” and “Gas Hoper* (god bless broken English), we watched the nightly stage show. Note that this show usually consisted of the hotel workers dancing like monkeys, encouraging us to clap in time to the music (“Brap Brap!” = Clap Clap!), and pushing moral boundaries. For instance, in one “skit”, the workers managed to stereotype gays (sailor suits with no ass in them), encourage violence against women (shooting their wives after they catch them kissing other men), and insulting anyone of asian descent (taping on buck teeth and doing karate chops).

At one point, one of the workers (who I would later learn is named Billy Boy) pulled me up on stage to ‘participate’. I think we all know how well that turned out.

ThePeach: Let the fuck go of me.
BillyBoy: OHHH looky looky, hot mama!
ThePeach: Seriously, I will hurt you if you don’t let go of me.
BillyBoy: Ay yi yi, brap brap!
ThePeach: I’m getting the fuck out of here (runs off stage).

I’m so pleasant.

But I had no problem volunteering FauxHawk to take my place. I’m not gonna lie, I was a little afraid that he would either break up with me or beat me up, DR style, which they apparently smile upon. He was not pleased. He had to be a participant in some sort of game that took me about 20 minutes to understand. I’m no good at foreign languages. Especially broken English.

Worker: Brap brap! Hokay Yadies and Yentlemen! Ees time to play where ees da wenchel!
ThePeach: *what the fuck*
Worker: Where ees da wenchel!
FauxHawk: *gives me the evil eye*
Billy Boy: *dances like a monkey*
Worker: Where ees DA wenchel! Brap!
ThePeach: *seriously, what the fuck is he saying*
FauxHawk: *glare of death*
Billy Boy: *dances like a monkey*
Worker: Where ees da WENchel! Brap Brap! Where ees da wenCHEL! Brap Brap!
Audience: *puzzled*
Worker: *attaches whistle to back of pants, makes FauxHawk blow it*

It suddenly became clear. Where is the whistle. God, how I love broken English.

Where ees da wenchel then became the new greeting that our group used every time we saw each other. As did “Babeesoo”.

ThePeach: *waves to TheCrazy* Babeesoo?
TheCrazy: Babeesoo.

This is how our server pronounced what we would later find out was “Black bean soup”. At the restaurant, he went around the table asking “Babeesoo?”, and most of us nodded our heads since we didn’t know what the fuck he was saying. We were later all served a dark, beany soup and thus realized that we had all somehow ordered “Black Bean Soup”. By the way, it tasted like the inside of an ass. Not that I know what that tastes like. Oh, who the fuck am I kidding. It tasted exactly like the inside of an ass.

At the end of the show, as Billy Boy was dancing like a monkey in time to the music, the worker goes “ay yi yi, hot mama, I YOVE MY YOB!!”. That was heart warming. Until I later saw him downing shots at the bar, swearing in Spanish, and looking thoroughly depressed. I highly doubt that he actually “loves his job”. Although I do trust that he yoves the $3/month that his yob earns him. Now he can buy many wenchels for his 14 children and perhaps a nice pistol to shoot his wife with.



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