GRACIAS DOMINICAN REPUBLIC...DAY 7 PART II

DAY 7 

Part II : I Become A Humanitarian. You're Welcome World. 


When we get back to our beautiful hotel we are met with the devastating news that our room is not $90 a night as we believed (and considered an outrageous splurge) but $90 a person. Not only could we not afford to stay another night now, but we had to stay in the cheapest place we could find to make up for the $180 we unknowingly paid for last nights room.
Sadly we waited outside at the end of the long dusty road for a taxi to take us to a surf camp we found for 30 bucks a night with the inclusion of dinner and breakfast. It was located right on a swamp and had a ridiculous name like Big Al's or something similarly horrendous, so we went in expecting the absolute worst.
The reality was a pleasant surprise. The place was old but clean with bright cheerful colors and lush tropical foliage everywhere. The owner was a loud, supremely friendly German man named Ali who announced our arrival with an echoing bellow to the entire camp. People popped out of their rooms, or lifted their heads lazily from hammocks to wave at us. We were shown to a surprisingly large room and told to meet Ali back at the front in 5 minutes for dinner. He had a special surprise for everyone.
This is our last night in Cabarete and we had wanted to go to a really nice dinner. Dinner came with our room though and there is no way Kimberly or I could turn down a free meal. Its just not in our constitution.
The dinner is supposed to take place at some rustic picnic tables at the end of a dock overlooking the mosquito nesting ground of a stinky swamp, but Ali tells everyone to load into some beat up old vans waiting at the front gate. We comply and are taken with the dozen other people staying at the camp to
an abandoned restaurant at the top of a steep hill. The open air tables overlook a stunning view of the
gentle ocean and everyone is in high spirits at being taken here. There is an open bar for us to enjoy, a
glorious sea breeze caressing our skin, and the smell of a BBQ pit being lit. The fact that this is included in our $30 room seems entirely too good to be true.
Things only get better when I start eating the most delicious chicken thats ever come across my lips. The chickens run wild on the island and give a whole new meaning to the term free range. Its so good I eat an entire chicken to myself.
Kimberly and I throw back free rum and Presidente as we listen to stories from the fellow surf campers. There is a Swiss medical student who has spent the last few weeks traveling around Haiti donating her time to medical clinics there. I should do something like that one day I think. Give back to the world.
One of the girls starts telling us about an incident that happened that morning. As she was surfing a local guy stepped on something called a stone fish. Apparently these horrible fish lie perfectly
camouflaged against the rocks so you can't see them until you step on one and it delivers the most
excruciating pain you've ever felt. She goes on to describe the locals reaction.
"He was rolling on the sand in absolute agony. Screaming and crying and begging people to cut his
foot off."
I stare at her in silent horror.  Something that hurts so bad you would have a limb cut off to make it stop? Something that I can't even see to avoid?
I am a firm believer that ignorance is bliss and could have happily lived the rest of my life never having known the stone fish existed. This girl has destroyed any chance I had of happily splashing in the waves tomorrow.
I glare angrily at her and turn away, furious at this loss of innocence. Sitting a few feet away from
me on the end of the bench is a guy I hadn't noticed up until now. He is awkwardly hunched over his chicken, slowly eating it and avoiding eye contact with everyone around him.
"Hi!" I say.
He looks up in panic, frantically looking around to see if I am talking to someone other than him.
He chokes down his chicken bite. "Me?"
He has a thick European accent and a soft nervous voice.
I scoot closer to him, I need to talk about anything to get that vision of stone fish out of my mind.
Reluctantly he gives up the information that he is from Sweden, his name is Sven, he has been here
for one week to try surfing and hasn't spoken to a single person.
"But what do you do every night?" I ask him in shock.
He says he surfs by himself in the day and then eats dinner alone and goes in his room and listens to music on his headphones until he can finally fall asleep.
I listen to this sad story and realize this is my chance to give back. Here is my chance to help another human being. To make a difference in the world.
"Tonight," I announce importantly. "You will go out with Kimberly and I!"
Sven is horribly, painfully shy, and he is not as instantly grateful for this news as I feel he should be.
In fact he flat out refuses to go anywhere with us.
I shamelessly peer pressure him into drinking some rum at the restaurant. We don't have to go anywhere I say soothingly.
After making Sven take his fourth shot of the delicious Dominican rum he begins to see the light.
"I guess I could try going to one bar with you," he says haltingly. "As long as it is not too crowded.
Or too loud! And I can't stay late."
I agree to his ludicrous demands and he reluctantly follows Kimberly and I down the hill to the row of beautiful beach bars lining the sands of Cabarete.
It is still early so the bars are somewhat deserted and Sven feels comfortable. We sit in a dark corner and sip on beers, Kimberly and I trying to draw the poor kid out of his shell.
As I walk to the bar to get another round for us, I hear loud whooping and shouts of "California!!! California!!!"
I strain my eyes to see a group of about 10 men and women waving excitedly and gesturing for us to
join them. A couple of them are lazily playing a set of bongo drums, a few of them are dancing slowly and dreamily. Most of the men are smoking giant cigars. They all are staring and grinning happily at us like we are their long lost best pals. I have no idea who these people are.
One of the men rushes towards me and lifts me in his arms, spinning us in fast circles until my head is spinning. He is tall and handsome with curly black hair and piercing green eyes. He sets me down
and kisses me warmly on both cheeks.
"It's fantastic to see you again California!" He slurs in a thick Italian accent.
I stare blankly at him and watch as two of the women embrace Kimberly tightly. She looks as confused as I do. Sven cowers by the bar, totally terrified at this new turn of events.
"Uh do I know you?" I ask haltingly.
He laughs uproariously and gives my forehead a big wet kiss.
"I'll go get us drinks!" He grins at me and heads to the bar.
"Kimberly!" I whisper "Who the hell are these people?"
She has deduced from her conversation with the women that these are part of the group of Italians that we spent a night drinking and dancing and playing drums with back in Las Terrenas. They are the friends of Fabio and Sergio, both of whom recently flew home to Italy.
"Jesus. I must have had a lot more to drink that night than I thought." I mutter. They do look vaguely familiar now that I think about it. The drums, the cigars, the men with their white shirts un buttoned
down to their belly buttons.
The green eyed man reappears with a tray full of rum shots. He gives me the first one and winks
suggestively at me.
One of the women sees the look of mild alarm I exchange with Kimberly.
"Don't worry, Paulo is very friendly. But harmless." She gives me a reassuring pat directly on the ass, and throws back her rum.
"YEAH!! YEAH!! YEAH!!! " A booming, piercing voice shrieks behind me.
I spin around and see what looks like a stretched out version of Chris Rock. He is tall with absurdly long skinny arms and legs ending in the largest hands and feet I've ever seen on a person.
He claps the gigantic hands together right in front of my face and makes a sound I can only describe as a squak at me. Like the way you would imagine a pterodactyl sounding. I flinch and take a step backwards, stumbling straight into Paulo's arms.
"Bernard's here!" He says. "Come let's go." He nudges me forward and Kimberly and I are swept
along with the group.
"Wait." I plead with one of the Italian women. "I can't leave my friend, Sven."
Sven is still huddled by the bar, staring fiercely into his drink, hoping if he just doesn't make eye contact with anyone he will be forgotten.
"Him??" She seems surprised but gamely goes and grabs him. She is beautiful and tanned, with long dark hair and a flowing hippie skirt. Silver bangles jingle up and down her slender arms. When she gently pulls Sven off his barstool he stares at her in open mouthed horror. He looks as if he is being dragged toward certain death, instead of being lead by a beautiful woman for a night of drinking and dancing.
We follow the group down the beach, past gorgeous empty bar after bar. They are decorated with silk draperies, beautiful clean tile floors, ornate lanterns. They look tasteful, comfortable, luxurious, yet no one is in any of them. We keep walking through the sand until we reach the last bar in the row. It is dark, dingy, disgustingly filthy and absolutely overflowing with people.
Bernard leads us inside, parting the crowd with a combination of his giant appendages pushing people aside and his ear piercing squawks.
We head straight to the bar for more rum. I make sure Sven has his fill because I am worried he isn't having a good time and I have not forgot my good deed for the night. I order us another round and when I turn around I see Sven being pulled onto the dance floor by two very scantily clad women. They begin grinding provocatively against him, running their hands up and down his body. I take a closer look around the bar. I see Bernard in the corner, taking a handful of money from a ginger tourist and shoving a bag of something in his hands. I see women in barely any clothes leading drunk European men into the bathroom. When I look back towards Bernard he is shaking a woman in a bright pink tube top. His enormous hands envelop her plumb shoulders. They yell at each other and then she reluctantly pulls a wad of cash out of her underwear and hands it to him. It slowly begins dawning on me what kind of bar we are in. I also start to realize that not only is Bernard a drug dealer, but most likely a pimp as well. I see it register on Kimberly's face too and we both head onto the dance floor to rescue Sven from the prostitutes.
As we get closer though I stop in surprise. Sven is clumsily thrusting his little hips back at the hookers. He pulls one close and dances against her. His face is bright red and drenched in sweat. His glasses lay crooked across his eyes and his hair is sticking up every which way from the hookers running their fingers through it. Yet his expression is pure bliss. He looks up and sees me and grins widely giving me a thumbs up.
"Do you think he knows they are working girls?" Kimberly whispers with a chuckle.
"Who cares!" I exclaim. "Look how happy he is."
I stand there feeling good about myself and the wonderful thing I've done for another human being.
When our favorite song 'Pepe' comes blaring out of the speakers Kimberly and I scream with the rest of the crowd and start dancing madly. Bernard and the Italians quickly join us. Bernard alternately swings me around roughly, claps in my face, and screeches at me. It's horrible and Kimberly sprints from the dance floor before he can do the same to her. I twist and turn to avoid his monstrously huge feet as they spastically kick out at random. I try to get away, but his grip is too tight on my arms. Painfully tight in fact. Just as I begin to panic I hear a deep voice call out. "Bernard, California is
mine."
Paulo pulls me into his arms and whisks me around the dance floor. Sweat droplets fly at me from his drenched curls and the smell of his non deodorant wearing body is overwhelming. Some how though I don't mind. In fact I kind of like it.
After hours more of sweating, dancing, and drinking he looks deep into my eyes and invites me back to his villa in the hills.
"You have a villa in the hills?" I ask in surprise.
"Of course." He looks at me as if I would be daft to think otherwise.
He starts to pull me off the dance floor. I am tempted to follow, really tempted. But I catch sight of Sven. He is slumped face down onto the sticky, germ infested bar. One of the hookers is going through his pockets. And I remember, tonight is not about me. Tonight is the night I am selflessly giving back to man kind.
I reluctantly say good night to a very shocked Paulo and gather up Kimberly and Sven.
As we stumble home Sven sings us Swedish drinking songs and hiccups loud enough to attract an
entire pack of wild dogs. We burst through the gates of our surf camp, narrowly avoiding being infected with rabies. As we leave Sven at his door he looks up at me with bleary eyes.
"Do you think those girls really liked me?" He asks.
I gently pat his cheek and tell him I sure do.
I walk away to the unmistakable sound of Sven throwing up and understand why people volunteer. Helping someone the way I helped Sven, showing him a night filled with drinking, hookers, drug dealers and pimps, giving that sweet kid a once in a lifetime experience, it feels good. Damn good.

GRACIAS DOMINICAN REPUBLIC...DAY 7

DAY 7 

Part I
Cascading, the World's Greatest Sport 


Before I came to the Dominican I read about something called Cascading. It involves climbing up a series of waterfalls, sometimes using rope sometimes just your bare hands, and then jumping or sliding your way back down them. I think this sounds like one of the most awesome things I've ever heard of and about an hour from where we are staying is a place called 27 Falls that is supposed to be one of the best places in the world for Cascading. Luckily Kimberly is on the same page as me and we have our hotel help us book a guide to take us to the falls.

We wake up early filled with excitement and dress in bathing suits, board shorts, and water shoes.
A guy in a beat up old car picks us up right at 9 and we are on the way.
We both assume we are going straight to the falls but he tells us we have to go to downtown Sosua first to pick up some other people. I feel annoyed at this as I hate any sort of group tours and I thought it was just going to be Kimberly and I. I refuse to let anything spoil my excitement though. Cascading sounds like something I was born to do, and today is the day I fulfill my destiny.
We pull into a dirty parking lot and the driver tells us we will have to wait for a little while until a truck comes. Eventually an open air flatbed truck pulls up. There are two long wooden slabs bolted in along both sides of the truck bed, and some flimsy looking metal poles stick up at random intervals. It is unclear if they are supposed to serve as roll bars or simply as something to hold onto so we don't fall right out of the truck.
"Ok!" Our driver cheerfully shuttles us up into the back of the truck, waves encouragingly at us, hops in his car and zooms off before we can ask any questions.
Kimberly and I gingerly sit down on the rough wood and I take a look at our fellow passengers.
There is a Jamaican couple right across from us, both of them are hugely obese and wearing brightly colored muumuus. This confuses me since Cascading seems like a fairly difficult, vigorous sport and I can't imagine how these two even climbed into the truck let alone how they are going to be climbing up waterfalls. I try not to be judgmental though and keep looking down the row. There is another couple, younger and slightly more sporty looking that gives me some hope we are on the right bus. A husky local guy grins widely at us in welcome and introduces himself as Oscar, our guide for the day.
Right when I am about to confirm that the plan for the day is indeed Cascading, the truck takes off with a lurch and the wind rushes so loudly in our ears not a word can be said.
We stop at a resort on the way out of town to pick up the rest of the passengers for the day. Kimberly and I watch in silent fascination as 4 large, loud, African American girls from New York pile into the truck. They are all dressed to the nines with full makeup, jewelry, dresses, and high heels.
"Uh. Excuse me?" I blurt out loudly to Oscar. "Is this the right truck to go cascading? To twenty seven falls?"
"Of course!" He assures me at the exact same time as five other people on the bus ask 'what is cascading?'
I am about to stand up and demand to know what is going on but the truck is off again, flying over a speed bump that knocks me right back on to the hard wood bench. I have to grab tightly to the rusty metal bar to keep from falling out, and as much as I want to interrogate Oscar I know there is no use. He won't be able to hear a word I say.
I sit in increasing panic as the minutes roll by and we fly down a dirt highway. Today is our last chance to go cascading, and if we are on the wrong tour (as it seems more and more clear that we are) we need to get off it as soon as possible.
About 45 minutes later the truck finally slows down as we go through a poor residential neighborhood.
Children race after the truck and Oscar refuses to meet my eye or acknowledge me as he throws candy to them. The rest of the bus passengers snap photos and clap their hands in delight at Oscar's generosity.
We pull to a stop on the side of the dusty road and everyone piles out of the truck. Oscar runs off into a nearby wooden building and doesn't come back out for about 10 minutes. When he does he is holding a huge, vibrantly colored rooster in his hands. Trailing behind him is a withered old man, also tightly clutching a large rooster to his chest.
Oscar tells us a long, elaborate story about the history and importance of cock fighting in the Dominican Republic and then dramatically throws his rooster into the middle of where we are all standing and yells "Get back!"
The other man throws his rooster in also and the two roosters lazily circle each other and then start pecking causally at the ground.
One of the girls from New York starts screaming about the cruelty of the cock fight and Oscar assures her that these roosters have 'socks' covering their talons so it will be impossible for them to hurt each other. Him and the old man try to throw the roosters at each other a few more times, hoping to elicit some sort of response out of them. When it becomes obvious that the roosters are not going to react, Oscar and the old man take them back into the building.
I feel on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
"What are we doing here?" I moan. "Why are we in the middle of nowhere, watching a fake cock fight? Why aren't we cascading?"
The Jamaican man asks me what is this 'cascading' thing I keep talking about.
"What are you on this tour for?" I demand of him and his wife.
"We are here for the wood whittling." He says.
"What?" I ask, completely astonished. "Did you say wood whittling? Like as in people whittling wood?"
"Yes. We are supposed to watch the locals perfecting their trade of wood whittling."
I stare at him incredulously. What kind of a freak show would book a tour to watch people whittling wood? Literally one of the most boring things on earth you could watch.
I turn to the hispanic girl and her boyfriend frantically and ask them why they are here.
"For the coffee and chocolate factory tour." She says with a big smile.
Panic rises in me, nearly choking me.
I grip one of the New York girls arms and ask her the same question.
"I don't know." She shrugs. "Our resort just booked it for us. I think its to go shopping or something."
I sprint up the hill to find Oscar, my mind and heart racing. What is wrong with these people?? Wood whittling? Coffee making? Shopping?????
"Oscar!!!!" I scream.
He intercepts me and guides me to the truck while the old man shows the rest of the group, including Kimberly, into another building where the wood whittling spectacle will apparently take place.
"We are on the wrong tour! The wrong tour! I have to get back to town and get on the right bus."
"Senorita." He says soothingly. "Here, have some rum." He pulls out a bottle of delicious local rum and  a little paper cup, fills it to the brim and hands it to me.
"No!" I snap. "I don't want your rum! I want to know how I am going to get to the falls!" I actually really do want the rum. Once you get a taste for the sweet Dominican rum it is nearly impossible to resist.
"We are going there. I promise." He says, urging the cup to my mouth.
I can't take it anymore and take the shot of delicious rum. He immediately refills it.
"Tell me what is going on." I ask him as I throw back the second shot of rum.
Oscar explains to me that the company he works for books multiple tours in one to save money. They promise each person the tour of their dreams and then pile us all in the same truck and knock out all the activities they can. Every time he sees my anger start to rise he forces another shot down my throat, so by the time he tells me we will only get to cascade half of the falls because we still have to visit a coffee plantation, taste some chocolate, and go to some kind of flea market I actually feel ok with it.
Every one climbs back into the truck, Oscar keeps Kimberly and I doused with a steady stream of rum, and despite myself I have fun. The coffee and chocolate are the best I've ever had and we meet an adorable old woman named Mama Dora who I want to adopt as my Grandma and take her home with me. We drive further and further into the mountains until we come to a campsite of sorts and three local woman make us lunch with wild chicken, local herbs and onions, and spicy, incredible rice. It is so delicious I almost forget about cascading. Almost.
It is well into the afternoon by the time we arrive at the falls, and the rest of our party is annoyed and confused about what we are doing. The Jamaicans refuse to leave the truck at all, but the rest of the group hikes with Kimberly and I to the base of the falls.
Our new guides are two tiny, spry Dominican boys, no older than 17. One is named CheeChee and the other is just Roger, which somehow seems even more ridiculous. Their names are written in big bold print across the back of their shirts, in case we forget.
The hike to the falls is about a mile, and it is stiflingly hot and humid. We are drenched in sweat within minutes. Bugs of all sizes swarm around us, buzzing in our ears, trying to fly in our eyes and mouths and ears. Wild cows moo loudly from every direction. In the far distance you can hear the crashing and rumbling of the 27 waterfalls.
When one of the cows suddenly jumps out in front of us on the trail CheeChee screams like a girl and throws Kimberly in front of him. I take no comfort in the fact that our guide will apparently use us as a human shield at the slightest hint of danger. As soon as he inches past the cow with Kimberly blocking him he takes off at a dead sprint. We all watch him disappear as Roger apologizes. None of us understand, its a cow for gods sake. Are the cows in Dominican some crazy breed? When we finally catch up with him his only explanation is that cows are big.
"I'm not getting killed by a cow!" He tells us firmly, as if this makes all the sense in the world.
"I don't think CheeChee cares one bit if you are murdered by a cow though" I smirk at Kimberly.
When we get to the first fall and see how high the drop is that we will eventually have to jump down, the hispanic girl's boyfriend balks. No way, he says, you guys are freaking crazy. She, however is absolutely elated at the unexpected surprise and is eager to get going.
Kimberly and I grin at each other in excitement. Finally it is happening!
The four girls from New York decide to come along, despite the fact that none of them can swim and they don't have bathing suits. They gamely buckle on life vests and start climbing the first rickety ladder.
We spend the next 3 hours swimming through amazingly deep, dark winding canyons, climbing up slippery waterfalls with the help of the surprisingly strong CheeChee and Roger. The girls from New York scream the entire way, their shouts echoing off the walls, half terror, half exhilaration.
It is everything I hoped it would be, the way back down one of the funnest things I've ever done. We cliff dive the bigger waterfalls and slide down the other ones.
By the time we get back to the truck we are bonded as a group, all of us having shared this incredible experience. I even forgive little CheeChee for trying to kill my friend.
Our truck bounces back down the dangerously bumpy road, and I keep a firm grip on the rusted metal bars, as Kimberly's head sways back and forth until she finally head plants fast asleep onto the giant Jamaican mans shoulder. He looks at me in alarm. I shrug and tell him not to let her fall out. As he nervously holds her tight I feel the breeze rush through my still wet hair and watch the beautiful pink sun set over the hills in perfect, absolute contentment.

GRACIAS DOMINICAN REPUBLIC...DAY 6

DAY 6

Part I 
I Like My Beaches A Little On The Trashy Side 

Kimberly and I had planned on waking up early to take a yoga class. The place we are staying has a gorgeous yoga studio made entirely out of bamboo, built high in the trees so it overlooks the ocean. It is like something you would only see in a magazine and we are both really excited about it.
Kimberly jumps up at the crack of dawn, full of energy, but either because of the rich dinner we ate the night before or because of the massive amounts of alcohol I drank I don't feel quite the same.
My head is pounding and my stomach is a wreck. I opt to stay in our room and recover at my own speed while Kimberly takes the yoga class.
As I am stepping out of a very long, very hot shower I hear a high pitched voice in my room.
"Hola? It's me, Ralphio!"
I groan under my breath. How the hell did he even get in our room? I vow to kick Kimberly later for not locking the door.
"Can you kindly leave the room Ralphio? I still need to get dressed!" I shout from the bathroom.
"Thats ok!" Ralphio says in his annoying sing song voice. "I will just sit down and wait for you, then we can go to breakfast together!"
Jesus. I restrain myself from running out in my towel and removing him from the room by brutal force.
"I will meet you out there! Ok?"
He takes some convincing but I finally get him out of our room and quickly dead bolt the door.
I wait as long as I can to head to breakfast in the hopes that he will already be gone, but of course the first thing I see is Ralphio frantically waving me over to his table.
I focus on the sound of the waves crashing behind my back, the warm sunshine gently caressing me, and the luscious fresh fruit I am eating, determined to drown out the incessant sound of Ralphio chattering about himself.
Kimberly soon joins us, positively glowing from what she claims was the greatest yoga class of her entire lifetime. I glare at her through breakfast but it has no effect on her blissful state. I don't think she evens notices Ralphio describing every single time he has ever done yoga to us in excruciatingly boring detail.
We manage to lose him long enough after breakfast to call a cab to take us to the main stretch of beach in Sosua. As our cab is driving slowly down the long, pot holed dirt road leading out of the hotel, we hear screaming.
Kimberly and I look out the back window to see Ralphio running as fast as he can after the cab. He is wearing nothing but his silk boxers again with a blue and white striped towel slung over his shoulder and a giant camera bouncing around his neck.
"Wait for me!!!" He shouts.
"Andale! Andale!" I shout at the cab driver. Even with my limited Spanish I feel that this should clearly mean step on it but the cab driver stops instead.
Ralphio breathlessly jumps in the backseat, crawling over Kimberly to seat in the middle of the two of us. He talks happily the entire way to the beach, oblivious to our obvious dismay at having him there.
When we get out of the cab Kimberly tells him her and I need some alone time and we sprint into the crowds of people in the streets.
After running several blocks we stop to take in our surroundings. Sosua is a disarming mix of beautiful serenity and in your face corruption. A main dirt road follows along soft white sand leading to a  glistening cove of turquoise water. Children scream and splash in the water. Tourists snorkel and jet ski in the crystal clear ocean. Yet less than 30 feet away as you walk the shade dappled dirt path, prostitutes and drug dealers beckon to you from inside filthy dark bars. Walk a couple feet and see a happy couple dancing to a live band in the sand. Walk a couple more and have a prostitute with dirty knees reaching out for you.
Face one direction and see the inviting soft sand and cleansing ocean water, turn the other and see a man doing drugs in the most disgusting bathroom you've ever laid eyes upon.
We spend hours soaking in these contrasts. Laying in the sun, drinking beers in thrillingly decrepit bars, dancing under the shady trees, swimming in the perfect water, eating pizza covered with giant freshly caught prawns, politely turning down offers of drugs and hookers. Just another day at the beach.

Part II
All Animals Can Swim, Right? 


Kimberly and I had been told with good reason not to stay in Sosua after nightfall so we head back to our hotel well before sunset. I felt a tinge of guilt about leaving Ralphio behind but we had no way of finding him, and I figured he would be okay. Sure enough he is right there to enthusiastically greet us when we pull up.
We bypass him quickly and head straight to the beach by our hotel. We had arranged previously to go horse back riding along the beach. Kimberly has never been riding on the beach and is hoping it will be just like what she has seen in the movies. She asks me repeatedly if I think the horses will really run along the water.
"Yes I think so. They usually don't mind getting their hooves a little wet." I tell her knowledgeably.
Standing by the water with three shiny little horses is a young teenage boy who shyly introduces himself as Carlos. He tells me my horse is named Don Quixote and I am pleased to see that all the horses are healthy and well treated and Carlos is incredibly respectful of them. I had heard horror stories about how badly the horses could be treated on the island and tried hard to find a responsible stable.
Carlos takes us off at a gallop through a grove of almond trees. Kimberly is terrified because she isn't that used to being on a horse, I am terrified because of the almond trees. Turns out almonds grow on trees (who knew?) in these surprisingly large hairy pods. I still don't understand how you get an almond out of that thing and keep thinking something must be getting lost in the translation. All I know is they are very hard and fall with alarming velocity. I have been nearly killed numerous times at our hotel and now it is like we are riding through a minefield. The giant almond pods smash down around us, one hits my saddle horn so hard it makes a dent, another brushes past my leg and violently explodes around my horses hooves. I am convinced one is going to land right on my head and knock me unconscious, which is not an ideal situation when you are on the back of a galloping horse. Eventually, though, I begin to realize that by some miracle nothing was actually hitting me. In fact, it was almost like an invisible force field was around me that the deadly almonds could not penetrate. I sat up a little straighter on my horse and an almond whizzed by my head, but did not make contact.
I felt like Wonder Woman.
I spurred Don Quixote on past Kimberly and Carlos, screaming incoherently about being untouchable, and burst out of the almond grove onto the sandy beach. Kimberly's horse followed close behind, as horses will do, and Carlos shouts after us to slow down.
Don Quixote is as giddy as I am about our newfound invincibility and charges straight into the ocean. Not running alongside the water as I envisioned but smack into the water as if he is determined to swim out to the middle of the sea. Kimberly's horse follows with her screaming wildly after me.
"Dayna!!! What's happening? What are they doing?"
Don Quixote takes the crashing waves to his face like a champ and he is now neck deep and continuing to swim out to deeper waters. I've never been on a swimming horse before and I hold on for all I'm worth, completely submerged from my chest down.
"What are they doing? Where are they going?" Kimberly asks me breathlessly.
"I honestly have no idea." I burst out laughing at the ridiculousness of the situation. Carlos is hysterical on the shore yelling at us to come back. Kimberlys terror, and our horses determination to swim away to nowhere, its too much and I cannot stop laughing.
Laughter is contagious and Kimberly is soon laughing too, and I swear I hear Don Quixote chuckle. He finally stops swimming and there we are floating on two horses as they doggie paddle in the middle of the Caribbean and the giant glowing sun sinks slowly behind us. Our poor guide Carlos paces back and forth on the distant shore begging for us to come back in.
"Come on old boy." I soak in the glorious moment and then turn my horse's reins back toward shore.
Carlos is flooded with relief as our horses gently shake off the salt water and tamely start walking along the sand. He mutters under his breath about us being crazy ass white girls and keeps a very close eye on us the rest of the ride.
We pass a disturbing amount of men with guns, both guards with machine guns and locals waving around handguns for no apparent reason. We trot by raised huts on the beach that look completely unlivable but have children and dogs playing happily in front of them and cooking smoke drifting from inside. We stop and chat with some local guys trying to catch a giant fish in a homemade net. They have been patiently trying to bring the fish to shore for hours and just when they almost have it it escapes. They pull handguns from their pockets and desperately try to shoot it which scares the shit out of me, but the fish darts off into the sea. The men scream with anger and frustration and I try to look nonchalant about guns being causally carried and shot. I remind myself that I am Wonder Woman.
By the time we get back to the hotel Carlos seems to have forgiven us and I give both him and Don Quixote wistful hugs goodbye. I'm going to miss them.
Kimberly and I quickly change and head to Cabarete, another nearby beach town, for dinner and drinks.
After a huge dinner of rice and fresh seafood we choose a beautiful bar right on the sand and sink into huge red bean bag chairs inside a gorgeous open air orange silk tent. We stick our toes in the still warm sand, listen to the soothing sound of the nearby sea, and drink delicious mojito after mojito as we laugh about the events of our crazy day. Swimming on a horse in the open ocean, check. Turning down more than one hooker in a day, check. Being impenetrable to deadly falling objects AND finally cool in the face of danger, check and check.

GRACIAS DOMINICAN REPUBLIC...DAY 5

Part II 

Mas Mamajuana 

Kimberly and I gingerly take a seat at the grungy bar amongst all the gaping men. She whispers to me not to order a beer because it will make them think we like 'to party'. We both politely refuse a drink when the bartender offers, even though all I want is a huge glass of local rum.

As the bar patrons continue to stare silently at us Kimberly hisses at me to be cool. 

"I am being cool!" I snap back. 

I take out my gigantic book and nonchalantly start reading it. I'm not sure how much cooler I can get. 

Kimberly starts talking to the bartender to determine if a bus really will pass through this deserted gas station to take us to Sosua. He tells her that a local bus called a guagua would eventually show up and we could take that all the way. He seems very confused about why two white girls would be in his bar and why we would be trying to take a guagua. He keeps asking Kimberly who we are and how we ended up here. 

"He thinks we are missionaries." Kimberly tells me. 

"Why?"

"Because we won't drink a beer and because he thinks your giant book is the bible." She tells me. 

"Haha!" I burst out laughing. For some reason I think this is hilarious and even though my laughter has caused everyone in the bar to stare at me with renewed interest, I can't seem to stop.
"It really does look like the bible!" I choke out. 

"I told you to be cool!" Kimberly exclaims.
I excuse myself to go to the bathroom and regain my composure. I head to the side of the building, which seems the most likely place for a bathroom. The bartender comes running after me, saying something in Spanish.
"Banos?" I ask politely.
He points at the nearest door but when I try to open it he grabs my arm.
"Senorita!" He says urgently, and then says a bunch more Spanish words I can't undertand.
I stare at him blankly.
He points to the bathroom door and then rubs his crotch. Then he points at mine.
"No comprende!" I say in horror.
"No, no Senorita!" He stares deep into my eyes and then vigorously rubs his crotch while pointing at mine.
"No Gracias!" I say firmly, and try to push past him into the bathroom. I am still desperately trying to be cool but I can feel any semblance of calm rapidly slipping away.
He grabs me again and I debate hitting him and making a run for it. I am much bigger than him and I am trained in martial arts. The problem is I don't know where I would run to since we are in the middle of nowhere. Also, I would feel a little guilty about leaving Kimberly behind.
"Please." He says in broken English. "Please wait."
"No Gracias!!!!" I shout at him. "No Gracias!!!!!"
He runs back into the bar.
My mind is racing. Did he go to grab a few of his friends cause he sensed I was about to kick his ass? Is he going to come back with a weapon?
As I am standing there like a fool trying to decide what to do he comes sprinting back with a piece of newspaper in his hand. What the hell?
He carefully folds the paper into a square as I watch in fascination. I honestly have no idea what is happening at this point.
He shows me the square of paper, then wipes his crotch with it, then points to my privates and sadly shakes his head and says no.
It takes two more times of this demonstration while I stand there dumbly gaping at him before his meaning finally dawns on me.
"No toilet paper!!!" I shout joyously as if I have just guessed the game winning question at an important match of charades,. "You have no toilet paper!!!"
He stares at me as I laugh uproariously, not sure if I finally understand him or if I am just bat shit crazy.
I pull out a spare roll of toilet paper I have been carrying around in my purse, a handy little trick I learned in China.
"No problemo!!" I chuckle. "Gracias! Gracias!" I tell him as I pat him on the back. I want to say thank you but can't remember how so I just keep saying gracias.
We both laugh and he looks relieved that I no longer think he is trying to rape me.
When I come back out of the bathroom the entire bar, including Kimberly, is laughing hysterically.
The bartender is clearly imitating me fearfully screaming 'no gracias!!!' over and over. He is laughing so hard that tears are running down his face. When he sees me he rushes over and puts his arm around me still doubled over in laughter. Everyone hoots and hollers and yells No Gracias!! at me.
I glare at everyone, especially Kimberly who is laughing the hardest, grab my giant book and storm outside to read it in the rain. Screw all of them.
Kimberly rushes after me.
"Hahahaha!!!" She gasps. "That is the funniest story I ever heard! He says all you know how to say in Spanish is gracias and no gracias."
"I know how to say other things!" I snap. "Like...uno mas, and donde esta, and, and hola!" I finish lamely.
A little bit of sun is starting to peak through and all the men from the bar drift outside to sit with us.
Although I am still mad at them for laughing at me, the community joke did have the favorable effect of making them look at us as friends. There is no desire or danger lingering in the air, instead they treat us protectively and almost affectionately. They want to know every detail of who we are and how we came to be here, and what we think of their country so far.
When the right bus finally drives by down the road they run out and chase it for us, and make it drive right up to the bar to pick us up. They load our luggage and then all 20 of them stand there waving fondly and shouting Adios at us.
The bus is packed full of people and Kimberly and I take the last two remaining spots. I sit next to a pretty little teenage girl and Kimberly next to a middle aged woman and her baby.
True to form, Kimberly is asleep within the first ten minutes of our ride. I stay wide eyed awake for the entire three hour journey. I watch in shock as certain passengers, including old woman are forced to ride on the outside of the rusty, run down bus. Not understanding what is happening I try to give up my seat to them, but am quickly hushed by everyone around me. (I learn later that these people are Haitians and that the Dominicans are deeply racist towards them, refusing to let them ride inside the same bus as them.) The rain continues to pelt down and we drive through puddles that are so deep they nearly come up to the buses windows. I have no idea how we make it through without getting stuck and I feel sick for the people riding on the outside of the bus. They are soaked and muddy and hanging on to the slippery rails for dear life as we barrel through the flooded roads.
The same song keeps playing over and over on the bus loudspeakers. It sounds like some sort of love ballad from the 80s and the girl next to me sings softly in a sweet voice. By the fifth or sixth time I am able to join in with her and she grins at me in surprise. I feel oddly connected to her as I sing unfamiliar words in unison with her, as we drive through streets and cities that are utterly foreign to me.
We finally make it to a bus stop that says Sosua and I shake Kimberly awake. We have to take a taxi to get to our hotel which turns out to be on a cliff far outside of the town.
It is pitch black out by the time we check in and still pouring rain. We haul our luggage in to the front desk, soaked and muddy and bed raggled from the long day.
The lobby is beautiful and calming, shiny varnished wood everywhere, big comfy chairs, and shelves filled with books. The hotel consists of a dozen cabanas spread through out the property, all made using natural native materials, such as drift wood, coral, shells, etc. It is gorgeous and peaceful and just what I need right now.
The only thing ruining the perfect vibe of the place is a strange guy sitting in nothing but silk boxers on a couch in the lobby. He is absurdly skinny, and his bony naked limbs are spread out awkwardly as he types intently on his Apple laptop.
He looks up at us casually.
"Hola Senoritas!!" He says in a loud, high pitched, sing song voice. He gets up lazily and strolls towards us.
"I'm Ralphio." He says, holding out a limp hand for us to shake. "It's nice to finally have some company around here."
Seriously? We come to this beautiful, relaxing retreat to get away from it all and have to run into this guy?
"I'm photographing the place." He says importantly. "I am very good friends with the owner, so they brought me here to help with their horrible web site. I am Chilean but I live in New York." He tells us, as if we are hanging on his every word or something.
Up close his eyelashes are obscenely long and full. In fact as I peer closer it appears that he is wearing fake lashes along with mascara and eyeliner. His silky boxers look in danger of slipping off his jutting hip bones, and I need to be far away from him in case this happens.
"Okay! Ralphio, nice to meet you but we need to get to our room." I abruptly interrupt him.
Kimberly and I make a dash for our cabana.
The cabana is perfect. There is a huge porch with an inviting hammock on the outside, and the inside is all smooth gray rock and warm shiny wood. It is incredibly romantic with rose pedals strewn everywhere, even in the toilet.
"I feel like we are on our honeymoon!" I laugh to Kimberly.
I haven't had a chance to eat anything today except for almonds and power bars and I am unbearably hungry.
Even though I dread running into Ralphio again we have to take the risk and head to the hotel restaurant.
The restaurant is in a large bamboo open aired gazebo. It is still raining and large almonds fall from the nearby trees, pelting the roof with a surprisingly violent noise. We can hear waves crashing against rocks close by.
As soon as we sit down a waiter puts two shot glasses filled with an amber liquid in front of us.
"Mamajuana." He says.
I remember reading about mamajuana in my travel book. It is a mixture of red wine and rum infused with local herbs and roots. It is supposed to be dangerous because the ingredients are unknown and can have various effects on people.
I feel a tinge of apprehension but after the day we just had I figure screw it.
Kimberly and I cheers and throw them back. It is sweet and delicious, like nothing I have ever tasted before. I quickly order another one.
We continue to drink mamajuana and order a bottle of red wine and a mushroom pasta. Everything at the restaurant is organic and locally sourced.
I don't know if it is the mamajuana or what but the pasta is by far the most delicious thing I have ever tasted. There are about 15 different types of earthy, meaty, incredible mushrooms, and a rich creamy sauce coats every bite of the housemade pasta. It is unreal.
We devour everything and are so satisfied and happy that we don't even care when Ralphio shows up at our table. Thankfully he has put pants on for dinner.
He is every bit as annoying and pretentious as before, but with the help of more mamajuana it becomes more amusing than anything.
Kimberly and I laugh until our stomachs hurt, as he stares uncertainly at us. This just reminds me of earlier in the afternoon and makes me laugh even harder.
When he offers to give us a tour of the place we agree just so we can see what the rest of the cabanas look like. They are all incredible and unique.
He of course ends the tour with his own cabana which resembles a treehouse.
Ralphio ruins the gloriousness of the treehouse by forcing us to look at his photographs. As Kimberly and I flip through page after page of increasingly weird pictures, Ralpio has put on a silk kimono and lit a joint. He sways around the room smoking his joint asking us if we love his photos.
He puts on some music and begins dancing in what he must think is a seductive manner, smiling and gesturing at Kimberly and me to join him. We refuse and he drifts into his own world, dancing and jumping around on the window seat. I watch him in horrified fascination as he flutters his fake eyelashes at me.
When he turns around to stare dreamily out the window, Kimberly grabs my hand and points at his bed.   On the shelf above it is the biggest roll of condoms I have ever seen in my life. Literally hundreds of them.
I can't make eye contact with Kimberly because I know if I do I will be lost in laughter.
"Ladies." Ralphio calls. "Come sit with me."
I meet Kimberly's eye and know there is nothing for it but to run. We bolt out the door together and run all the way back to our cabana where we collapse on the bed in laughter. The kind of gut wrenching, breath taking, soul shaking laughter that doesn't happen nearly often enough. I laugh uncontrollably about everything that happened this day, everything that happened this trip. I laugh my heart out, and I don't ever want it to end.

GRACIAS DOMINICAN REPUBLIC...DAY 5

DAY 5 

How Do You Say "Please Don't Kill Me" in Spanish??

As much as Kimberly and I like Las Terrenas we only have so much time in the Dominican and we want to see as much of the country as we can. We are moving on today to the Puerto Plato region at the north side of the island, close to the Haiti border. 

Kimberly goes for a morning run as I pack up the rest of my stuff and then read my book outside our hotel room under the glorious blue sky. I am still working through the huge black hard cover book, and I desperately want to finish so I can stop having to lug the 5 pound monster around. 

I am fairly engrossed in it when a loud crashing sound startles me. I look up to see that in the few minutes I had been reading the sky has gone from crystal clear blue to a dark, angry, ominous grey. Thunder is booming loud and close and jagged lightning is streaking across the sky seemingly inches in front of me. How the hell did that happen so fast?

The skies open and pour down rain so hard and fast and in such a huge quantity that it is impossible to see anything. I stumble my way inside our hotel room, myself and my book already completely soaked. 

That's when I remember Kimberly is still out there. 

Twenty minutes later she still isn't back and I start worrying about what to do. I can't go searching for her since I can't even open my eyes outside without my contacts being washed away. Not to mention I can't see through the impenetrable rain anyways. 

Another 10 minutes go by and I decide I have to risk it, that's what friends are for right? Plus I like the idea of myself as a hero. I put on my bathing suit and Kimberly's swim goggles (brillant idea if I do say so myself) and head out to find my poor scared friend and carry her back to safety. 

I crash straight into her as soon as I walk out the door. 

"Kimberly! I was just coming to save you!" I gasp.

"How could you possibly have saved me?" She asks. "You can't see anything out there! And why are you wearing my goggles? And a bathing suit? Are you going swimming?" She looks at me like I am a total idiot. 

I feel that it is obvious why I am wearing the goggles and bathing suit but I explain anyways. 

"No! I am wearing the goggles so my contacts stay in and so I can see through the rain! Exactly the way you can see underwater with them. And the bathing suit is so my clothes don't get wet." I say patiently. "And I had a plan of how to find you." 

"Oh yeah, what plan was that?" She asks sarcastically.

She is wet and pissed that her ipod is broken from the rain, and I actually didn't have any plan whatsoever other than barreling outside with goggles on, so I decide to change the subject.

"Do you think we should still try to leave today? You think a bus can even drive in this?"

After much debating the rain lets up a little and we decide to go for it. We don't want to waste a whole day just sitting in our hotel room anyway, 

Kimberly has the front desk call us a cab to the bus station and shortly after an unmarked minivan pulls up. The driver leaps out in jeans and a black leather jacket, which seems a highly unpractical outfit to me. He throws our luggage in the back of the van and frantically gestures for us to hop in. 

"Is this even our taxi?" I ask Kimberly suspiciously. 

She shrugs. "I guess. Let's just get in." 

Kimberly sits in the front so she can tell him where to take us. It is still raining, but not as heavily as before, so it is possible to sort of see out the window. We get about five miles out of town when the driver suddenly pulls over and says something to Kimberly in Spanish, then gets out of the car. 

"What did he say?" I ask her anxiously. 

"Uh...I'm not totally sure. He either said he is picking up his friend or his friend is picking us up. Or maybe that he is picking up something for a friend..." 

"What??" I squawk. I am beginning to have serious doubts about her translating abilities. 

I crane my head around to see what the driver is doing. The rain is starting to get really heavy again. 

I am squinting through the back window when the door pops open. 

The driver is yelling something at us and tugging at my hand.

"What's he saying?" I scream at Kimberly. 

"He is saying get out." She says as she steps out of the van. I see he has already set our luggage on the side of the road. 

My instinct is to refuse to get out. It is seriously pouring and we are on the side of a dirt mountain road miles from anywhere. 

Leather jacket is still screaming in my face though, and tugging more and more urgently at my arm. Plus I guess I shouldn't leave Kimberly or my luggage so I reluctantly get out. 

The minivan peels away as the driver shouts something out the window at us. 

"He says wait here for his friend." Kimberly says. 

"What the fuck?" I mutter under my breath. 

There we stand, two drenched blond girls, one with a suitcase, one with a backpack. We are in a puddle up to our ankles, and we can see or hear nothing other than relentless rain.  

God only knows how much time passes before a beat up sedan pulls up and honks at us. 

A little man with a squashed beret on his head is in the driver seat, honking and waving at us. 

"Ask him if he is friends with the minivan!" I order Kimberly. 

She tries but his only response is to keep honking. 

"Do we get in???" I ask her. 

"Better than standing on the road." 

We haul our own luggage into the car, and take a seat. 

Kimberly gets the guy, who may or may not be the other guys friend, to agree to take us to the bus station. I have no idea what is going on at this point but figure I have no other choice but to just go with the flow. I lean back in my seat and think about how cool and easy going I am being. 

After about 10 minutes the guy pulls up to what looks like a deserted gas station and tells us to get out. 

"Come on!!!" I shriek hysterically. "This is not the bus station!!" A girl can only take so much.

Kimberly gets in a heated argument with him but he insists this is where you get the bus to Puerto Plata. 

He points to a building in the corner of the empty gas station and tells us to wait in there.
We have no choice but to get back out into the pouring rain with our luggage.
Kimberly and I walk across the filthy wet lot and enter the dark building to discover it is a bar of some sort. A long piece of wood makes up a dingy countertop with assorted plastic bar stools pulled up to it. We stumble through the door and a dead silence falls over the place as twenty men jerk their heads up from their beers to stare at us in bug eyed, eager fascination.
Great, I sigh. Just fucking great.

GRACIAS DOMINICAN REPUBLIC...DAY 4

DAY 4

The Crazies Come Out At Night

I wake up to find our toilet clogged. In the Dominican Republic you aren't supposed to flush any toilet paper at all. There are signs in all the bathrooms to remind you toilet paper needs to go in the trash can, but after an entire lifetime of flushing it I find it has become a pretty automatic reflex for me. Every time I throw it in the toilet I think, Aw Crap, and debate scooping it out and putting it in the trash. But ultimately I decide screw that and just flush it anyways. Apparently that wasn't the greatest decision making as now our toilet refuses to flush at all. 

"Kimberly!!" I shout. "Our toilet won't flush!"
"Have you been putting toilet paper down it?" She asks me.
"No!" I say indignantly. "Have you?"
"Maybe once or twice."
I shake my head at her in disappointment. "Well you are going to have to go ask for a plunger or something." I say.
"I don't know how to say toilet plunger in Spanish!" Kimberly exclaims.
"I'm sure you can figure out how to get the point across." I smile encouragingly at her and then gently shoo her out the door.
After I change into my bathing suit I watch out the window as Kimberly pantomimes to the guy at the front desk plunging a toilet. It takes her a few tries of demonstrating wiping herself, throwing imaginary paper in a toilet, flushing, and then vigorously plunging it, but he finally understands and she comes back triumphantly with plunger in hand.
After taking care of business we eat a fabulous breakfast of eggs and fresh peppers and onions and olive oil hot sauce. The coffee and sugar are locally grown and both work miracles to revive your body after long nights of drinking and dancing.
Today is our last day in Las Terrenas so we explore the town a little more. Away from the beach it is almost unbearably hot, dry, and dusty. The roads are all dirt and there isn't much other than random electronic stores and tiny dark houses. The most exciting thing that happens is when we spot our dog, Bacon, running along behind us on the street. I am intensely relieved that he wasn't killed by the machete maniac after I went to sleep. He sticks with us for a bit then Kimberly and I say heartfelt farewells to him.
"Good bye Bacon!!!" I scream as he trots off without a single glance back. I still feel that he will always remember me though.
Kimberly and I spend the rest of the day soaking up the sun, gentle waves, throbbing dance music, and local beers at our favorite beach spot. I eat a huge plate of grilled vegetables and more of the fresh caught prawns, while Kimberly claims she isn't that hungry. This confuses me since I have seen Kimberly's appetite be just as huge as mine, but I do not let it deter me from enjoying my giant lunch.
We again watch the glorious sunset and appreciate the locals having intense dance offs in the soft, warm sand as the lingering glow of the sun finally fades.
We head back to our hotel room to change and then walk to dinner. Sadly, no admiring fans scream 'California!' at us on the way, but I do not let that dampen my spirits.
We are having dinner at a little place that is rumored to have the greatest pizza on the whole island. There is an old fashioned, rustic vibe to the pizza place. You can see a big wood burning oven in the kitchen as soon as you walk in, and although the floor may not be scattered with peanut shells it is certainly covered in mounds of sand.
We sit down, order a large pizza covered with an assortment of locally grown peppers, onions, and mushrooms, and a couple of Presidentes.
Right when we settle back with our beers a loud, drunk man stumbles in the front door. He leans against the hostess stand and starts yelling at the girl behind it.
"Jesus." I say. "That guy is about to be kicked the hell out of here."
Its like a car accident you can't help but rubber neck at as he stumbles his way further into the restaurant. He is coming straight for Kimberly and I when he takes an abrupt detour into the kitchen.
"Oh shit!" Kimberly says. "What does he think hes doing?"
Our waitress comes up and tells Kimberly in Spanish that our pizza will be right out. Kimberly asks her what about the drunk in the kitchen and she says oh that is just the owner of the place. She says he is French and a little on the crazy side.
As she says this the guy comes barreling out of the kitchen and right to our table. He yells at the waitress and she runs off. He turns to Kimberly and I and we both chorus an uncertain Hola! at him.
He scoffs and says "Parlez-vous Francais?" in a superior tone.
This is finally my time to shine. Kimberly has been translating this whole trip but I know for a fact that she speaks zero French. I took four years of French in high school. Granted, all I can remember is how to say my name, nice to meet you, and can I please have another chocolate croissant?, but I feel pretty confident I can wing it.
I tell him my name in a cultured French accent and then point at Kimberly and say Mademoiselle es Kimberly, since I can't remember how to introduce someone else. I then say 'Enchantee' and dramatically present my hand for him to kiss, just like I learned in class.
Instead of gently brushing his lips against the back of my hand as I was taught to expect he grabs a nearby chair, flips it around so he can sit on it backwards, snatches up my beer and takes a huge swig.
Kimberly gives me a funny look. "What did you say to him?" She hisses.
"Uh...I think I said our names and nice to meet you." I say a little uncertainly.
"You sure you didn't say 'Sit down! Please join us! Have some of my beer!'?" She mutters under her breath.
I glare at her and turn back to the guy to try to prove I really can speak French. I rack my brain and finally remember how to ask him how he is doing. He goes off on a loud, guttural rampage of which not one word sounds even remotely French.
I hesitantly ask him if I can have a chocolate croissant just to see if we are on the same page, but there is no recognition in his face, it is like we are speaking entirely different languages.
"I don't think he is speaking French." I whisper to Kimberly.
She listens for a minute and then informs me that he isn't speaking Spanish either.
We stare at each other and wonder what to do when he slams his fist down hard in the middle of the table.
We both jump in alarm and giggle nervously. He leans towards me, grabs my forearm, and yells indecipherable words in my face.
"I have no idea what you are saying!"I shout back.
He squeezes my arm tightly and I try to pry his fingers off. I use an old karate move where you start with the pinkie first to break the grip. He has a crazed look in his eye and a little bit of spittle on his chin as he finally lets go of me.
He grabs my beer, drinks down the rest of it, slams it on the table, says something rude to Kimberly and saunters off.
We stare at each other in stunned silence.
"What the fuck was that?" I ask softly.
Just then the waitress arrives with our pizza. She smiles apologetically as I shakily ask for another beer.
We eat the undeniably delicious pizza with the hot pepper infused olive oil, but I have to say my appetite is somewhat soured. Part way through my new beer and my third slice of pizza I start to feel better and we begin laughing over what happened.
"Seriously what the hell was he saying? What language was that??" I sputter as we both crack up.
"Oh crap!" Kimberly says in alarm. I look up and the crazy owner is stumbling back in the front door. He grabs a menu from the hostess stand and throws it dramatically on the ground, then marches up to our table.
He stands there quietly for several seconds and then grabs a piece of our pizza and takes a couple thoughtful bites. A look of disgust spreads across his face, he tosses it back on our table, glares at us, grunts, and walks back out as he screams at the kitchen staff one last time.
"How the hell does this place stay in business??" I wonder out loud.
We get our check and leave as quick as we can in case he comes back again.
We stop at our little rum bar on the way out and have a final rum with our favorite bartender, then decide to call it a night and head back to our hotel. We have a long day of traveling ahead of us tomorrow.
As we are laying in bed we rehash how crazy the guy was. I do a hilarious imitation of him and Kimberly starts busting up. Then she falls asleep mid laugh.
Watching Kimberly go to sleep is like watching that scene in The Princess Bride where the Sicilian dies. One minute she is laughing hysterically and the next she is out cold.
I shake my head fondly at her and slowly drift to sleep myself, thinking about crazy Frenchmen, how that dog Bacon will fare without me, and what the next city we visit can possibly have in store for us.

GRACIAS DOMINICAN REPUBLIC...DAY 3

DAY 3 

Part II 
My Time in the Spotlight  

After eating a huge plate of freshly grilled shrimp with the heads still attached and numerous bottles of the delicious local beer I feel completely recovered. Kimberly and I dance and mingle on the sand to the beautiful pink sunset. The sunsets seem to last forever here. The sun slowly sinks into the water while the sky changes from one shade of pearly pink to the next. Everyone shows off their dance moves and cheers when the flaming golden sun finally disappears into the sea.
Kimberly and I keep getting told that it is incredibly rare for Americans to visit this part of the Dominican. Most Americans flock straight to the all inclusive resorts on the far side of the island, and the vast majority of them are from the East Coast. Because we are something of an anomaly everyone in Las Terrenas seems to know who we are and when we walk to dinner that night people shout "California!!!!!" at us. It is unclear whether this is in an insulting or flattering way, but I bask in the attention and feel generally awesome about myself.
"Dude we are like celebrities here!" I tell Kimberly as we walk along the sandy path to the restaurants.
She smiles indulgently at me as I frantically wave at the next person who calls out 'Cali!' from their motor scooter.
We decide to eat dinner at a tiny romantic French restaurant. The second we sit down it starts pouring rain, and although we are sitting on a covered patio, the rain and the wind work their way through to us. The lantern over our table blows askew, the wind howls and the fierce drops splash all over our feet and our table. It creates the illusion of being on a ship in the middle of the wild ocean, and only adds to the enjoyment of the meal. Again the freshness and quality of the local onions, tomatoes, peppers, and seafood are unlike any I have ever tasted. We wash it all down with a crisp bottle of Italian white wine and finish with a delicate fresh fruit tart.
Feeling fantastic after our meal we head to the rum bar of the night before where the bartender immediately greets us with warm cries of California! and pours us two heaping glasses of local rum.
We walk out to the back patio where we run smack into Fabio and Sergio.
"What happened to you last night??" Kimberly and I both ask Sergio. He didn't accompany the rest of us to the club the night before, and we had been just a little worried about him.
He is already drunk and sweaty again, wearing the same crumpled clothes from last night, huge lit cigar in hand and an almost empty glass of rum splashing around in the air while he frantically gestures during his story.
"I was here! Playing the drums, dancing..." He does an amusing demonstration of both activities for us. "Then I look up. Every one is gone!" He makes a sad face.
"I say where are all my friends!" Sergio bellows as Kimberly and I start laughing.
"I am sad so I drink more and more rum." He takes a huge swig of his glass to show us. "Then! I wake up on a table there." He points to a long wooden table at a restaurant next door.
"I have no shoes, a little man is yelling at me to get off his table! I am so stiff I can't move. But I must! So I have to hobble all the way back to my hotel. With barefoot!" He exclaims in his thick Italian accent. He shows us how he walked and then throws his head back in wild laughter. His big beer belly shakes and his booming laugh is impossible not to join in on.
We laugh and drink with Sergio for the next couple hours as he tells us stories of his and Fabio's adventures on the island. Fabio sulks as we give Sergio all the attention. Fabio is again perfectly groomed, golden hair carefully gelled and curled, white shirt unbuttoned to accentuate his tanned chest. There is not a wrinkle or stain on him and you can tell he is dumbfounded as to how his stained, smelly chubby, wrinkled mess of a friend is charming us so much more then he. Kimberly and I think it is good for him. And especially good for sweet Sergio, who is a little in awe, and quite possibly a little in love with Fabio.
Soon Kimberly and I get the itch to dance again, but we want to experience something a little more local than the big club we were in the night before.
The bartender recommends a place on the beach all the way at the end of the strip. He says there is no sign in the front so we will have to go in the back way. He warns us it is a little rough, but it is where we will hear the best Reggaeton on the island.
Sergio and Fabio and some of their miscellaneous Italian friends tag along with us.
We walk down the dark beach until we start to hear some music. We come to a group of locals lined up in the sand outside a dark door. There is no sign or visible name to the place, the only thing on the door is a taped piece of ripped spiral notebook paper with a handgun drawn in pencil with a circle around it and a line going through it. No Guns. Effective security system...
Once we get in we see the place is night and day from everywhere else we've been. There are no beautiful plush couches, or charming lanterns, or multi storied dance floors. It is dark, dingy, and loud, jam packed full of locals. We are definitely the only tourists in the place, and it looks like Kimberly and I may be the only women who are not prostitutes.
The vibe is icy as people start to notice us. Our presence is obviously unusual and not entirely welcome. It is not openly hostile though and we decide to get a beer and feel it out.
At the bar are the two old Italian men with the matching speedos from the beach earlier. They each have a local girl who may or may not be a prostitute on their laps. They greet us warmly and somehow just by knowing them and having the girls give us nods makes us ok. The crowd parts around us, we get beers, and start to relax.
When the lights dim even more and the DJ starts playing I realize the bartender earlier was right. As amazing as all the music I have heard so far has been this blows it away. This sounds so much more authentic, so much more raw than anything we have heard yet. Kimberly and I head straight to the dance floor. Nothing could tear me away from this place now.
Hours of dancing later the place is so packed and hot and stuffy I can't breathe. I desperately don't want to stop dancing but I have to get a breath of fresh air. As I walk outside I realize two things; first, that they have turned on outside speakers so the music is now pumping out across the sand and ocean, and second, it is pouring sweet refreshing rain. I lift my sweaty head to the sky and let the cleansing rain wash the sweat and grime and heat from my body.
Kimberly is with me and we start dancing in the sand, in the rain. Soon other people get the same idea and there is a huge crowd dancing. Someone turns a spotlight on outside and turns the music up even louder.
My whole body moves in time to the music. I feel the beat in every fiber of my being. I think of all the times growing up at a wedding or something when everyone would dance to 'Sweet Home Alabama' or 'YMCA' and my body would have no idea what to do. I would be stuck awkwardly swaying while the music did nothing for me, nothing to me. I have finally found my music and it feels fantastic.
When my special song, Pepe, comes on I go berserk with everyone else. I notice a small crowd of admirers has gathered around me. They are cheering and clapping and hollering. I spin in a circle and show off my new found moves. The crowd goes absolutely wild.
I am on FIRE.
Just as I am really getting in to it, Kimberly grabs me and tries to pull me away.
"What are you doing?" I snap. "I'm dancing!"
"I can see that." She says. "But you need to come with me now."
I try to refuse but she won't stop tugging until she gets me to the darkness next to the side of the building. My fans boo and yell at her.
"Envy is an ugly color on you, Kimberly." I complain bitterly.
"Dayna." She starts carefully. "It's raining."
"I know it's raining!" I shout.
"There is a bright light shining on you."
I know this too and I feel desperate to get back to it.
She stares at me to see if I am comprehending any of this. I stare back at her impatiently.
"You are wearing a white dress." She says pointedly.
"I know what I am wearing! I did dress myself!"
"With clearly no bra."
"Yes Kimberly! I know! I'm wearing a halter dress and you...can't...wear...a bra..." I trail off as I finally realize what she has been trying to tell me. I look around and see a huge crowd of men gesturing for me to come back. I see a group of incredibly angry Dominican prostitutes glaring at me. And I see Kimberly's amused face staring at me.
"Oh Jesus." I murmur. "Get me the fuck out of here."
We slink off in the dark, me feeling utterly humiliated, Kimberly finding the whole thing pretty funny.
"Wait!!!" We hear shouting behind us and Fabio comes running up.
"Dayna!" He says. "I must tell you I love you! I would wish to marry you!"
"HAHAHA" Kimberly bursts out.
"Christ Fabio." I say. "Not now. I've got to go."
"But will I see you again?" He calls pleading as we run off, Kimberly still laughing, me feeling more and more mortified as I relive what I was doing.
"I really thought it was my dance moves." I tell Kimberly sadly once we are a safe distance away.
"I know you did honey." She chuckles.
As we walk up the thankfully dark dirt road towards our hotel a local guy starts following us. He tells us how beautiful we are and that it is too dangerous to walk alone. He asks our names and offers to escort us. Kimberly politely refuses and we keep walking.
"Please." He begs her. "Just tell me your name."
"Carmela." Kimberly says just to shut him up. He is small and doesn't seem horribly threatening. More a nuisance then anything.
"And yours?" He asks me over and over until I finally say "Carmela" as well because I can't think of anything else.
"Dos Carmelas!!!!DOS CARMELAS!!" He screams ecstatically and begins skipping around us. Then he falls to his knees to thank God for giving him two beautiful girls named Carmela.
He is a total nut job and is so busy giving thanks for his unbelievable luck that he doesn't even notice us walk away.
A little ways further up the road I get the feeling we are being followed and start to worry he is coming after us. We are getting close to our hotel and I would rather him not know where we are staying. He is small but also clearly insane.
I am also concerned it may be Fabio, back for another proposal offer. Or a pack of angry hookers who are going to slash my face up. The rustling keeps getting louder behind us but we can't see anyone.
Just as I am starting to get really nervous a medium sized black and white dog pops out of the bush.
"It's Bacon!!!" I shout excitedly. It is the dog who snubbed me earlier on the beach.
"Bacon!" Kimberly is just as excited as I am to see him as I am.
He follows us all the way back home and I can tell he is protecting us. I guess he did appreciate my gesture this morning.
We bring him on to the porch of our hotel room and give him water. We have no food for him so Kimberly, knowing nothing about dogs, gives him a bowl of almonds. He obviously turns his nose up at them.
We argue about whether he can sleep inside with us or not, and I finally conclude that yes, he does probably have fleas, and most likely ringworm as well.
As I am saying good night to him and promising him more bacon in the morning a man bursts out of the bushes in front of our room. He is dressed all in black and is waving a huge machete in the air and yelling.
My heart literally stops and no sound comes out of my mouth when I open it to scream.
Although Bacon had shown much bravery in walking us home earlier, at the sight of this lunatic he decides a few pieces of leftover bacon only goes so far and takes off running.
The man stares at me for several seconds and then takes off after the dog.
"NO! No Gracias! No Gracias!" I shout hysterically and start chasing after them. I have this horrible vision of him cutting Bacon up into pieces with that awful machete.
He stops and faces me. Now I have a horrible vision of him cutting me up with the machete and run back onto the porch.
"What the hell is happening?" Kimberly comes running out.
I point a shaky finger at the man. He lifts his machete high and I hide behind Kimberly.
She begins speaking Spanish to him, they chat for a minute then he walks off and she steers me inside.
"He tried to kill me and Bacon!" I gasp.
"He is our guard." She explains. "He thought we were bothered by the dog. Go to bed." She yawns.
"And why the hell were you screaming 'no gracias'?" Kimberly laughs at me some more and then falls instantly asleep.
I try to sleep, but all I can think about is what kind of crazy hotel hires men to hide in the bushes with machetes to make their guests feel safe. And about how I started the night as the brave, mysterious, cool chick from California with dance moves to die for, and ended it as a two bit stripper named Carmela who is afraid of her own body guard, and screams no thank you in moments of crisis. I drift into bitter slumber, vowing to regain my cool tomorrow.

GRACIAS DOMINICAN REPUBLIC...DAY 3

DAY 3

Part I 

Even the Dogs Love it Here

Kimberly and I both wake up after only about an hour of sleep since our room has no air conditioner and becomes unbearably hot pretty much as soon as the sun rises. The day is blazingly hot and bright even this early in the morning. I suggest we swim to breakfast instead of walking down the dry dusty road. 

I put my bathing suit on and turn around to see Kimberly with a swim cap and goggles on. 

"What the hell are you doing?" I ask her. 

"What do you mean?" She says innocently. 

"This isn't the fucking Olympics." I snap. "We are in the Caribbean. On vacation. We are going to basically float half a mile to eat breakfast. Why are you wearing cap and goggles??? Are those fins?" I exclaim as she pulls an enormous pair of flippers out of her back pack. 

"I can't swim without them!" She says. This is a ridiculous lie since I clearly saw her in the water yesterday without any of those things on. 

"I refuse to be seen with you if you wear those, Kimberly. You look insane." 

Like me, Kimberly has an oversized head, with an overabundance of hair. Her hair is even bigger than usual because of the humidity and the cap just barely fits her. It looks like it is going to burst at the seams at any second. The goggles are having a similar problem.
We finally compromise with her just wearing the goggles, and not speaking to me while they are on.
"Why did you bring those things anyways?" I ask as we walk down to the water. "For snorkeling?"
"No way! I hate putting my head under the water!" Kimberly looks at me as though I am crazy for even suggesting the idea. I don't even bother responding, and my hungover head is too muddled to even try to figure it out.
When we get to breakfast Kimberly just orders fruit.
"That's all you are getting?" I ask, appalled.
"Yeah. Don't you love just eating fruit and nuts for breakfast when you are on a hot, tropical island?"
Uh, yeah. As a side to my pancakes, eggs, and bacon.
When we finish I am so full I can barely move while Kimberly looks light and energetic.
"Aren't you going to finish the rest of your bacon?" She asks me with a little smirk.
As much as I love bacon, there is no way I can take another bite without puking. I refuse to give her the   satisfaction of knowing this though.
"I'm saving it for that poor stray dog." I say smugly, pointing at a black and white dog I spot panting under the shade of a palm tree. Nothing she can say to that!
I walk over to give it to the dog, a little nervous he might maul me when he smells the delicious bacon. He just stares at me as I walk close to him, stretching my arm out to offer him the bacon.
"Here puppy..." I call. He doesn't move, so I walk all the way up to the tree and set it down near his paws. He sighs, takes a couple obligatory licks, and then goes back to staring at the ocean.
When I get back to Kimberly she is laughing.
"That stray dog just snubbed you!"
"I know!" I exclaim. "What kind of homeless dog doesn't want bacon??"
As we walk back to our favorite beach I notice that all of the stray dogs look unusually content. None of them are too skinny, they frolic and play with each other in the ocean, and all their tails wag. Packs of them roam around, all living within perfect harmony of each other. This truly is the happiest place on earth I think.
We spend most of the day dozing and reading in the sun, taking refreshing dips in the water whenever it gots too hot. Every time Kimberly puts her goggles on I shake my head, but I don't even have the energy to make fun of her.
As the day goes on I get more and more lethargic, to the point where I can't even lift up my giant book, let alone my head, or open my eyes. I am starting to worry about having heat stroke when I hear a familiar sound. Creepy music, evil laughter, the crowd screaming. I struggle to sit up.
The amount of people on the beach has multiplied since I last looked, there is a DJ, and my favorite song in the world, Pepe, is playing. I see Kimberly's giant head pop up next to me. A grin spreads across her face as she realizes what is happening.
"Pepe!" She says happily.
Everyone begins dancing at once. Every one in the water, on the sand, people laying on lounge chairs, even the dogs. I feel saved and shimmy my way to the water where I jump and dance with two old Italian men in matching powder blue speedos. By the time the next song comes on, a song about the Playa (which I have proudly learned means beach) I feel a million times better.
In fact, I think it is just about time for a cold Presidente and the lunch I skipped while sleeping. Mmmmm, lunch.

GRACIAS DOMINICAN REPUBLIC...DAY 2

Part II 
Pepe Rocks My World...Fabio, Not So Much 

The van ride down the mountain is an experience in itself. We are traveling on incredibly bumpy dirt roads in a vehicle that has no shocks, and most likely no brakes. Luckily we never achieve a speed faster than five mph so it still feels relatively safe. Because the sides of the van are missing entirely I am able to enjoy the views unobstructed. We are in deep jungle terrain, small tin shacks line the sides of the roads and happy brown children chase after us screaming and laughing, and then dart back into the thick green foliage. I scan ahead for any sign of the ocean but as far as my eye can see there is just dirt road and shiny green leaves.
After driving for what seems an eternity I am ready to give up all hope of ever finding the fabled city of Las Terrenas. The old man driving us appears to be deaf as well as blind, since he makes no response to Kimberly's repeated efforts to communicate with him. My suspicions about him grow as the minutes pass. He hasn't said a word to us, we seem to be going deeper into the jungle instead of towards the water, plus the fact that neither of his eyes look real is just plain creeping me out.
I am about to tell Kimberly my master plan of jumping out of the side of the van. I figure since he can't see or hear it will escape unnoticed, when we come over a little hill and there it is. The Caribbean spread out before us in all its aquamarine glory.
"Las Terrenas." The driver says and points to a small cluster of buildings way below us along the water front.
Kimberly and I both burst out into cheers, and she pats our driver on the shoulder. I see a glimmer of a smile on his face and feel horrible for ever doubting him.
It is another hour before we get to Las Terrenas, and even longer before we find a hotel that has vacancy. How anyone else even managed to find this place is beyond me.
We finally score a decent little room right across from the water for about $50 a night. I am dying to get straight into the ocean. I cannot believe I have been on the island this long already and haven't felt it yet.
We throw our bathing suits on and run across the street and dive right in. It feels even more incredible than I imagined. Enticingly warm and welcoming. So salty that I feel buoyant in it. We effortlessly swim towards some music we hear in the distance.
As we get closer we can see a DJ set up on the beach. All around him people of all ages and sizes and colors are dancing on the beach and in the water. As soon as I hear the music better I can understand why.
This is the first time I have ever heard real Reggaeton. I had heard the Pitbull Americanized version of it of course, but that pales in comparison to what the real thing is like. It is an irresistible mix of reggae, hip hop, and house. It is the music my body has waited its whole life to hear. The hypnotic beats fill me and force me to move in time in the warm water. I look over and Kimberly is float dancing as well. I look towards shore and watch the dozens of bodies moving along.
"Holy Shit." I say to Kimberly. "I feel like I literally am in Heaven."
"I know." She says breathlessly. "This is fucking incredible."
We float and swim and dance until the sun sets in a glorious array of pinks and blues, and my hunger finally forces me out of the water.
We eat dinner at a little Spanish restaurant right on the sand. Kimberly and I share a huge dish of paella, fragrant steamy seasoned rice piled high with fresh seafood, washed down by the refreshing local beer Presidente.
As we are finishing I catch a strong whiff of cologne and look up to see a man standing at our table. He is wearing skin tight white jeans and a button up light blue silk blouse, strategically unbuttoned enough to show several inches of oiled tan chest and a thick gold chain. Sandy blond hair carefully oiled back, and a plastic smile greet us.
"Hello." He says in a thick Italian accent. "I would like to invite you ladies to accompany my friend and I for a drink." He points to his friend who is standing about 20 feet away. The friend is pudgy, awkward, adorably shy looking. He has his wrinkled white linen shirt uncomfortably tucked into khaki pants, accenting his round belly. He has tried to smooth down his hair but the humidity has already started to mess it up.  I instantly like him.
The slick guy in front of us keeps talking. "That is Sergio." He says, waving carelessly towards his friend.
"I. Am. Fabio." He announces proudly.
Kimberly and I both burst into laughter.
"Hahahaha! Seriously?" I gasp.
"Of course you are." Kimberly chuckles.
You can tell this hurts Fabio's feelings.
"It is a common name in Italy!" He says loudly. "Only you Americans have that reaction! It is a very respectable name."
"I'm sure it is." I soothe him. "Thank you for the invitation, but we have already made plans for the night."
He seems put out and walks back to Sergio in a huff. Poor Fabio.
Kimberly and I head to a gorgeous lounge next door to the restaurant. Spread throughout the sand are huge sparkling clean puffy white couches with fluffy deep purple pillows piled on them. I can't imagine how they keep them so white and clean. The palm trees are strewn with tinkling little lights, and you can watch the ocean gently lapping the sand right in front of you. Everything about the place is perfectly, tastefully done. The problem is there are no people in it. Kimberly and I are literally the only customers. It has the same eerily empty feeling the restaurants in Santo Domingo had the night before. We drink a few mojitos and then decide to explore and see if we can find any people anywhere. Granted, we are here in the off season, but some of the hotels were entirely full so there has to be some people around here somewhere!
The main stretch of town is only about two blocks long and consists of a multitude of bars and restaurants along the waterfront. Almost all of them are empty and about to close. When we get to the very end we find a cool little sailor bar that has a decent crowd. When we order Caipirinhas the bartender insists we try the rum straight. He says Dominican Republic has some of the best rum in the world and we must sip it and appreciate it as it is.
It is something of an acquired taste but by the third glass I am starting to really see what he is talking about. We carry our fourth big glass of straight rum out onto the back patio so we can enjoy the warm night air and listen to the ocean waves.
The first thing we see when we step outside is Sergio. His shirt has come completely untucked and partially unbuttoned, he has spilled rum all down the front of it and he is completely covered in sweat. His hair is sticking up every which way, and he is in the middle of playing his heart out on a set of bongo drums while smoking on a giant cigar. When he sees us he yells 'Girls!!!' wildly, runs at us and embraces us as if we were life long friends. I don't know if it is the rum or just his enthusiasm but Kimberly and I can't help but respond the same.
"Sergio!" I shout excitedly as I return his bear hug.
He introduces us round to his large group of male and female Italian friends, including Fabio who still seems a little sulky with us.
There is a local band playing merengue and the Italians all trade off accompanying them on the bongo drum and dancing madly through out the bar. They are loud, drunk, and unbelievably fun. After countless more glasses of the now incomparably delicious local rum some of us wander over to a 4 story night club across the street. We watch a local man renact the entire dance of Thriller to perfection and then start dancing to more Reggaeton, the absolute greatest music I have ever listened to. 
Suddenly the music goes completely silent and the lights go out. I think it must be another black out, but then I start to hear a weird creepy little tune, like something that would be played in an old horror movie. The crowd goes absolutely ballistic, screaming insanely and jumping up and down ecstatically. Kimberly and I look at each other in confusion. What the hell is going on?
Evil laughter pours out over the loudspeakers while everyone in the crowd pumps their fist in the air wildly. Then the best beat I have heard yet starts pumping, the lights start flashing, and the words 'Pepe! Pepe! Pepepepepepepe! Pepe!' start.
I know it is the greatest song ever written, never mind that I cannot understand the Spanish words, and that 90% of it is simply Pepe said over and over. It is the way it is said, the way the entire crowd of sweaty bodies move together in unison to the perfect beat. I throw my head back and shout at the top of my lungs with everyone else.
"PEPE PEPE PEPE!"
I've never felt better.