A small, pothole-laden city in the central valley of the Dominican Republic, anchored by a concrete-pillared, irregularly shaped cathedral whose decidedly ugly look takes some time to grow on you, La Vega isn't high on the to-do list of most travelers. There are no beaches, a few tolerable hotels, some unremarkable restaurants and, for 11 months of the year, no real reason to go there. But that changes in February, when Carnaval comes to town.
Then, the quiet streets of La Vega are crowded with visitors who seem to double the population of 200,000, the clubs fill with deafening music that keeps their customers dancing until almost dawn, and -- most notably -- grotesquely beautiful, intricately decorated, jingle-bell-draped demons race through the streets of the jam-packed town every Sunday, whipping anyone who dares to get in their way with reinforced cow bladders that carry a surprisingly nasty sting.
It is a month peppered with street concerts that attract the country's big music stars; of weeks spent with family members who have returned home to relive the traditions of their childhood; of days and nights filled with music -- the blaring brass of merengue, the tinny guitar of bachata, both played at absurdly high volumes on huge portable speakers -- that acts as a kind of nonstop soundtrack to the surreal events that unfold as Carnaval gathers steam.
Carnaval takes place on each weekend of February, with parades on Sundays, culminating with the largest one, on Feb. 27, Dominican Independence Day. Many Dominican cities and towns have their own Carnaval traditions, usually with some demonic or outrageous character as its symbol and centerpiece. But none rivals that of La Vega, and, in fact, many other cities send representatives there on the 27th to march alongside that town's famed diablos cojuelos -- horned, fanged, winged creatures whose outfits are created in ramshackle workshops by people who have been honing this skill for years.
The legendary Dominican singer Fernandito Villalona summed up the experience in a Spanish-language merengue that you'll hear repeatedly if you go to La Vega: "When February comes, everything is happiness, Dance in the street by night, dance in the street by day."
The word carnival is said to come from the Latin "carne vale," a farewell to meat, which explains why it was traditionally celebrated in the three days before Lent, ending with Fat Tuesday, or Mardi Gras, festivities preceding Ash Wednesday. But in the Dominican Republic it has become more closely associated with Independence Day. In La Vega, Carnaval is a decidedly multigenerational event.
While local partygoers in their teens and 20s rule the streets and the clubs -- witness the beer-swilling, high-decibel gathering Friday night at the Parque de los Estudiantes, a pocket park at a busy intersection -- their parents and grandparents are equally enthusiastic participants in the celebrations. During my visit last February, on the final weekend of the celebrations, one of the best dancers around was Lisa Fernanda Tapia, shaking her hips as she stood on the outskirts of a huge street party late into a Saturday night. The next day, she turned four.
At over US$1,000 a costume for the Carnival, several months' salary for most, the designs of the elite teams are highly guarded, and in recent years have grown increasingly complex and creative and, alas, often sponsored by corporations. Living in a largely Dominican neighborhood in New York, I had heard a lot about the workmanship that went into these costumes and seen many examples of them at various festivals and at community centers. But to see their humble origins was a shock.
RSS