Blasted by a gust of humidity and blinding sunlight, my eyes quickly adjusted to the atmosphere in which I found myself suddenly immersed: the Dominican Republic. Greeted at the airport by towering palm trees, bongo drum beats and straw-roofed buildings without walls, I took in the tropical paradise for the first time. This turned out, however, to be merely the beginning of my cultural experience.
Spring Break 2008 was not only my first trip out of the country, but it was also my first face-to-face episode with cosmopolitanism, global cultures and peoples. Everything was mesmerizing to me, charging my entire body with exhilaration and curiosity. Flamingos, peacocks, monkeys and parrots were all accents to the exotic atmosphere at our Iberostar hotel in Punta Cana. I stopped dead in my tracks to snap pictures of every detail snatching my eye, totaling nearly 300 pictures by the end of the trip. Even those daily 25-second rain showers could not dampen my surreal feeling. I was having the time of my life.
As the airport sharks swarmed toward the luggage upon our arrival, we were herded into a taxi and set on our way.
Without speed limit signs, traffic signals or lines to divide lanes, cars filled with fresh meat (or tourists) whizzed along at their own risk. Passing other vehicles and maneuvering through intersections involved blasting the car horn as boisterously as possible, signaling with all its Dane Cook glory, "Hello, I'm a car." Motorcycles littered the side of the roads as locals zoomed among the chaos, some pulling circus tricks like having three guys on one bike. Trash lined the roads, and deserted, run-down buildings were scattered among the numerous car washes and touristy shops. Some locals sat texting on their cell phones, while others circled around a pickup truck overflowing with shoes. Billboards advertising activities for tourists provided a skyline distraction from the piles of cinderblock and dozens of construction sites left unfinished.
Looking through the window of the comfortable, air-conditioned taxi, however, this commotion receded upon reaching the resort, an oasis in comparison. Here, the Dominican culture was on display in a jumbled blend of cultural codes presented as entertainment to be observed casually. Locals worked as performers in the nightly shows, bartenders and guides for snorkeling, parasailing, tubing and other water sports. Salsa and meringue dance lessons were offered by the pool, right before the aerobics class. Their Dominican culture was not the main event or attraction. The architecture and surroundings only added to this tropical paradise, and the trilingual or quadrilingual locals contributed my feeling of being in another world -- as well as put to shame my five years of classroom Spanish.
Countless saggy old men in Speedos and topless leathery women were the norm on the beaches and, of course, when in Rome ... But some resorts' cultural features were presented in the most bizarre manner, filled with replicas of Western culture, obviously trying to create a sense of familiarity for American and European guests.
The nightly show provided this recreation. The first night, dancers danced to and acted out Scooby Doo, Britney Spears, 70s disco, "Grease," 50 Cent, Beyoncé and Michael Jackson in a distorted blur of American pop icons. The audience ate it up, but I couldn't help but sit in a pool of discomfort as I pondered not only the humor in the outdated cultural figures but also the uncanny observation of locals acting out my culture. Another show, the IberoGala, was a musical display of both show tunes and songs made into show tunes, including the work of Evita, The Beatles, Marvin Gaye and other American music classics. I think Paul McCartney? would have been equally curious to hear "Eleanor Rigby" sung with a Spanish accent.
Speaking of The Beatles, the American restaurant and bar was the epitome of the abstract intermingling and domination of Western culture in the resort. Among pool tables sits an antique 1940s American car, recreating the "Grease" diner image. Behind the car on the wall hangs a enormous Bob Marley poster. On the opposite wall hang four abstract paintings of John, Paul, George and Ringo next to football paraphernalia. To top off the twilight zone of the obscure Applebee's blend of Western culture signifiers were the Buffalo wings, which neither looked nor tasted like any buffalo wing I had ever eaten before.
The DJ's airplane cockpit sound booth in the resort's disco club generated this same feeling of being out of place. The mix between local salsa music and Spanish lyrics with American 80s pop music and Michael Jackson's "Thriller" became anonymously intoxicating, bringing drunk French 14-year olds, middle-aged Germans and American spring breakers together. Similar to the dance performance, the tunes were obsolete, which in the long run didn't matter. Inevitably, Soulja Boy made his appearance the last night, and only one person on the dance floor knew the dance -- my roommate.
Sans cell phone service and with limited Internet access, the resort became my one and only focus. Yet I realized for the most part, staying in a resort complicates and distorts personal cultural encounters. Resorts are picturesque palaces and relaxing places for vacation, but they are bubbles, disconnected from any specific culture. They are filled with fake cultural simulacra, covering up the local country's culture with replicas of comfortable global cultural codes.
Don't get me wrong, I loved each second of my trip and wish incessantly to relive every moment of it. I befriended locals and guests alike, absorbing and contemplating the cultural divides of a global society. But I've already decided that next Spring Break, it's going to be Alternative Spring Break, a mission trip or anything to immerse myself completely into one culture's reality, no strings attached.
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