After Western Night, Heather and I decided we had to go back to every show for the duration of our stay. The next night was the haunted house thingy and when we got to the teatro we saw the handsome gent from the night before at the back of the house, getting ready to start the show. He gave us high-fives and seemed pleased to see us. The show that followed, this time, had no audience participation. What it did have were special effects, pyrotechnics, all those talented dancers, and oh – that choreographer? Turns out he’s not just “not half bad,” he’s really damn good. The whole thing was a festival of cheese but we ate it up and licked the plate. After the show I went to the ladies room and returned to find Heather chatting with handsome gent’s handsome friend, Jery. Handsome gent himself soon joined us and we learned his name was Rodolfo and that they’d all be heading over to the resort’s disco for some obligatory dancing with the tourists. We went and spent the night dancing merengue, a little salsa, and learning bachata. We also got to meet a number of the other cast members. Rodolfo and Jery spoke a little English and there was one lovely young lady, Pippa, who is actually from England (she and her mum went on vacation and stayed) but the rest of the gang didn’t really speak much inglés, if at all. It didn’t matter. Language barrier? Bah. They were performers – we had found our people!
The shows got better and better and we learned that not only could these kids dance, they could breathe fire as well! (Equity would have had a conniption.) For the next three nights we went back to every show and then met our new-found friends for dancing at the disco and swimming in the Caribbean under shadowy palm trees and starlit skies. It was like living in a movie.
Then, sadly, Heather had to come back to the States to move to a new apartment. Being a fan of solo traveling I had already planned to stay on two more nights after her departure… but after having had the company of my dear friend in that beautiful country, had it not been for the friends we made there, I would have found those nights exceptionally lonely.
On the first of my solo nights, I was invited to a party outside of the resort. What I found as I walked just outside the grounds was a giant collapsible bandstand set up in the middle of the main street. People were milling around and sitting on cars, closed fruit stands and parked motorcycles. I joined my friends at their fruit stand perch and just took in the scene as well as the drink they offered me without hesitation. And then a Dominican boy-band took the stage. Oh yes. Boy-band. The crowd went nuts! The band started playing – there was dancing, drinking, and excited chatter (not a word of it did I understand, mind you.) Then the music stopped and one of the band members addressed the audience. I had no idea what was being said but all of a sudden all my friends, and others nearby us, began shouting out and pointing wildly at me. Me? Rodolfo quickly explained that they were looking for a volunteer to go up on stage to dance, and I had been decidedly volunteered. This time I did hesitate. It was one thing to go up in front of a bunch of tourists and play the ham, quite another to dance a dance I’d learned only days before in front of an entire town who’d probably learned it at birth. But I eventually gathered my nerve (the alcohol helped) and strode with as much confidence as I could muster toward the bandstand. When they began to play again, the four singers formed a semi-circle around me and I launched into the most expressive and provocative bachata my body could produce. I probably looked like a complete fool. To be honest, I wasn’t even sure if the music they were playing was bachata but I knew it wasn’t merengue so that’s what I danced! Afterward, the resort’s choreographer, Henry, enthusiastically told me that I dance their “country’s dance very good.” But it’s quite possible that Henry is just a very, very kind man.
Later that night we went to another party – also a gathering in the streets – and the next night, which was my last, we went to an outdoor café/bar and sat at tables set up in-between parked cars. We drank Brugal and Presidente, talked and laughed an awful lot. When language broke down we turned to Pippa for translation help or simply moved the conversation along. Though obviously an outsider from these people who work and live together day in and out, I was made to feel unbelievably welcome. My presence was enveloped into the energy of the gathering, not the focus of it. I was included in conversations comprised of words entirely foreign to me, without apology or frustration on either side. Only Rodolfo seemed concerned that I wasn’t talking very much… but I was listening. I felt alive. I felt at home. I felt more connected than I often do here in the U.S. where people can speak the same language yet miss each other’s meaning entirely.
Too often we forget that communication doesn’t stem solely from words exchanged and commonly understood – but can happen just by actively existing in one another’s presence.
I am so grateful to these beautiful artists for having reminded me of that. I hope someday I have the opportunity to express my gratitude… even if I were to never learn to speak at all en Español.