Last night, for the first time since I moved to my community, I went out at night. There was a band playing, one of the guitarists of which is in my Brigada Verde group, so I walked to the top of the hill, accompanied by some very nice, respectful young boys/men (again, what do you call them when they're in their late teens??) who miraculously transformed into Tigueres the moment we got to the colmado. (An aside to define some terms: Tiguere is essentially a young man who's too cool for school, and around whom one must keep a watchful eye on their young daughters. A colmado is a little bar/convenient store, often with a patio where a band might play. They generally sell rice and beans by day, beer and rum by night.)
When we arrived, the mini-Tigueres and I, we immediately ran into the family of the guitarist, one of the more well off-families in my community. At first we all stood on the curb on the outskirts of the festivities, and I was a little afraid that's how it was going to be for hours, but the family soon invited me to accompany them to a table. When I asked my mini-Tigueres if they were coming to sit down, I was gently informed that Tigueres, even amateur ones such as my companions, generally stick to the shadows where they can scope everything and everyone out. Makes sense. If it sounds shady, that's because it sort of is.
Glad to have a place to plop, as I was unfortunately much more tired than I realized when I agreed to this outing, I accompanied the family (mother, father, and two gorgeous daughters in their 20s) to sit right next to the band, and right next to a table of Dominican men who looked like American football players. Here I began to intently observe the dating rites that are so particular to Dominican (or maybe just Latin) culture. The football-players of course immediately took interest in the Dominican women I was with, but since their father was present, a delicate dance of respect was performed. It began with the purchase of a large beer by one of the football-players, which he set directly in front of the alpha-male in our group (the girls' father). He then proceeded to alternate dance requests between the daughters, being careful not to show any favoritism, and danced much more conservatively with both than I'm sure he would have had parents not been present. As I was clearly included as part of the family on this evening, the football players asked me to dance too, after which everyone congratulated me on being able to dance merengue (not my favorite). They had all been on the edges of their seats, watching me with nervous smiles, until they satisfied themselves that I wasn't going to embarrass them by falling down or stepping on someone's toes.
While watching these interactions, as well as the strikingly familiar dating rites of the younger Dominicans in the crowd, was very entertaining and culturally enlightening, my favorite part of the evening by far can be summed up in two words: Menthe Dulce. This literally means "sweet mint", and is the nickname of this little old man who has to be at least 90 who walks (or hobbles really) daily from house to house, cutting people's weeds with his machete in exchange for meals. I didn't even know he could walk up the hill to get to the colmado, let alone take part in the festivities, but low and behold, come 11:00 on Saturday night Menthe was dancing a wild merengue with a young woman on the dance floor, sans walking stick! I couldn't contain my laughter, and the family I was with laughed at me laughing until we were all just tickled pink. They proceeded to point out each time Menthe entered the dance floor for the rest of the evening, and it never once ceased to amuse me. He was probably dancing wilder than anyone else on the floor, and although it could have resulted from a general lack of balance, something else struck me as even more likely: Menthe Dulce is a Tiguere in disguise.
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