San Miguel Block Party
Back blogging here…
Final day in Santo Domingo (09/30) and after going out to the Bateyes to visit The Batey Relief Alliance’s Medical center, I got back to the Zona Colonial and wandered up to San Miguel fiesta where a block party was indeed well under way. Slice of life action here and exactly the untourist scene I was looking for. I started tentatively taking shots from the sidelines, but quickly lost inhibition as some folks were prompting me to take their pictures. A Dominican man who has lived in Boston approaches me and says, be careful with the camera, but don’t worry too much, there are lots of people around. Noted, as always. But this is a street photography goldmine I’ve just stumbled upon. And lots of people, old and young, so the danger radar is not registering much. I get a jugo de cana, sugar cane ground up in the press and poured over ice. There is a cotton candy man with some old school tub spinning the pink wonder-fluff. The world is moved by sugar I realize, ironically, in so many brutal historical ways, but this is where the rubber meets the road, cotton candy in the mouths of children. A clamoring procession of noisy horns and drums is beginning to make its way towards the square. I wait in the sidelines but can’t see much so I venture into the crowd in the hopes of getting good close ups. This is when trouble begins. I notice slowly, as I jockey for position, that a group of kids, teens and smaller bastards, are evolving some loose formation around me. I change direction at first thinking that I’ve just coincidentally wound up in their “area,” but the formation follows me, and then come the hands. Darting hands, with no subtlety whatsoever, towards my pockets and bag. Nothing ridiculously physical yet, but I’m definitely being caged in, and not interested in seeing where it goes. So I see an opening and take off, knowing they weren’t going to follow me into open space, which they didn’t. Kids are the worst kind of trouble. They know not what they do, nor do they give a crap.
I make for the center of the plaza where most of the old people are reclining on benches under trees to reassess the situation. Nothing missing. There’s no real danger here, but keeping out of the crowd is key, as this camera bag has too many easy ways in. A lady comes up to me as I am thinking about this and points to my camera and tells me in Spanish to “secure it.” I know I say, and show her how I have the strap wound around my wrist, but she shakes her head no, and says something I don’t understand but suspect meant “that’s not secure enough.” Light is waning anyway, so I take this as an omen and head back to the hotel. Some lessons learned. I need a smaller bag, perhaps tote less gear, and I should have hired the dude I had as a guide to watch my back. This is entirely possible and the more I think about it, the best way for a person with big cameras yet no big machine gun to do photography work in crowded areas of questionable safety.
Hit Plaza Espana again for the final solo dinner, because I’m too lazy to seek something else out, and it’s nice and breezy and open, palm trees lit up with spotlights, and of course, the Diego Columbus crib. Eating alone doesn’t bother me but it is amusing to see how the whole experience is set up for couples/groups with the guitar romancers and rose pushers and the polaroid shooters. These are all horrible jobs if you ask me. I have the fleeting idea of buying up all the flowers for my table, hiring all of the guitarist crooners to play only for me, and getting the polaroid guys to document it all. I would smoke cohibas and drink the best wine and bask in self-romance. Everyone else would look over and want what I have. I would ignore them of course, having such a immersed time, knowing that really the secret of success is simply perpetuating mystery.