Beyond Curacao

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Setting down my three suitcases in my new apartment on Cas Coraweg, the gravity of the situation leveled me....either that or the humidity. And from what I've been told, "September is the worst month." Despite my usual proclivity to 'go with the flow,' I found myself uncertain, almost disheveled by my decision that had led to this moment. It had been a grueling 18 hours of flying and lay-overs from Portland, OR. I had met grandmothers, businessmen and gambling addicts - surprising, seeing as I pride myself on my good fortune (which sometimes borders on the appearance of ability) at achieving absolute solitude when flying. After this, the last thing I wanted was to feel as though I had made the mistake of a life-time.

I quickly regrouped and have since driven by flamingos, played Dutch trivia, been stung by 'picas', spoken four different languages, and learned that getting the stink-eye is a practice which transcends geographic and cultural borders. I have gone free-diving to sunken ships, laid on black sand beaches, haggled over lost dry-cleaning and drown myself in 'pinda' sauce. Although magnificent in their respective manners, all of these experiences left my expectations confouded by the the lack of forced immersion into the Curacaoan culture - where was the local man, sitting under the coconut tree, playing his ukelele, ready to impart generations of wisdom about every topic from the socio-economic segregation to the price of Polar (the bud light of Curacao). To satisfy this hunt for an authentic Curacao, I decided to attend 'quiz night' at the local watering hole around the corner; an open-air dive bar that could reside anywhere from Santa Barbara to Barbados, to Kinshasa. The dome-shaped palapas and ceiling fans provided some reprieve from the sweltering heat, but not much. As I saddle up to the bar, I immediately focused on the bottles of Bacardi that lined the greasy, unsavory mirror behind a balding Venezuelan man who smiled at me - either because he was friendly, or because he knew he could charge me whatever the hell he wanted and I'd never be the wiser - seeing as I have not yet mastered the mental conversion process of Antillean Guidlers to US Dollars. The geckos, roaches and rats were not far away, but here there seems to be a mutual understanding and respect between humans and these normally pestering, sometimes horrific creatures: "stay outta my way and you won't get beat to death with a broom handle."

As I sat there, concentric circles of sweat lining my shirt from elbow to waistband, one tasteless lager turned into five. I negated all of the pounds of sweat I lost that day by consuming a sugar-laiden cocktail of rum and coke (both products seeming much sweeter in this verdant corner of Mahaaiweg). I listened as a Dutch MC bantered with the crowd between trivia questions, most of which were either related to Dutch pop artists or Back to the Future Movies - neither of which I have any knowledge of. Towards the end of the night he began yelling in Dutch that it was some woman's birthday and a tray of snacks were passed around to the entire bar. When the blonde waitress - who could be wearing clogs and standing by a windmill she seems so stereotypically Dutch - brought them by, I saw that it was meat, cheese and a strawberry marshmallow on a toothpick. Not exactly what we call 'bar-food' in the states, but actually pretty damn tasty. Finally, I felt as though I was part of a new culture, experiencing new things, things that you could never make-up, never purport as truth unless you lived them. Things that to the local may seem as insignificant as sitting at a red light. But to a traveler they mean everything. They are the fruits of the journey that are not realized in the end, but collected as emoluments throughout - a sort of running catalog of memories that function as trophies which, in the right case, can be appreciated during their time and not posthumously.
As the night came to an end and I navigated my way through the battlefield of stray dogs and mosquitos so big they could easily satisfy a stork in mating season, I take a deep breath and allow my surrounding to saturate. I had made it, and soon I would share this paradise with my girl - what could be better? My last memorable thought before returning to the sauna that was my bedroom was the possibility of cliff-jumping at Playa Forti with my new friend Dan from Chicago.

From the day I arrived on Curacao I noticed a conspicuous lack of speed limit posts. Now for some, such as my friend with the recently deceased blue cherokee, this asphalt playground of heat and oil would be the perfect canvas to paint their automocidal masterpiece. However, for myself, who has always been the cautious 'don't go more than 5 miles an hour over the limit' driver, it has ensconced me in trepidation. While most driving laws are similar to the U.S., there are several that do not apply here. For example, while it is perfectly acceptable (and socially respectable) to careen through red lights, stop and yield signs - any suggestive man-made signal, really - it is a transgression of the highest order to turn right at a red. Another notable absence on the island is that of police enforcement. It appears that radar is still a device exclusive to the US Air Force base here, and that having an open rum container while driving results in the same amount of wrist-slapping as having an open Mcdonald's bag. All of this may sound enticing to the multitude of rogue corner-benders that I grew up with in south west Portland. But to a new-comer, a virtual tourist still on the island, it is the pinnacle of absolute consternation. The sometimes counter-intutive, always unspoken rules of the road here are just a piece of a puzzle that bewilders and causes great pride in one's own society's sense of logic when it comes to terms of infrastructure abidance.

The other enigma of this island is the relationship between native "islanders" and the Dutch. Let me just say that I think there is some gene in Americans people and Dutch people's brains that makes them believe that if someone cannot understand what they're saying, then they simply must heighten the volume of their voice. Obviously, this is does not work, and after much observation I have noticed that the speaker ends up coming off like a condescending jack-ass, and the communication break-down persists. Because of this practice - and more historic, nefarious ones (namely slavery) - there is a tangible disdain toward the Dutch from the native people. There are, however, those that hover in the center; Dutch people who have lived on the island for 20+ years in a sort purgatory of identity. The woman who cut my hair last week was from such a background - on the one hand undeniably Dutch, yet her skin bronzed with uncertainty. She could not wholly identify with her ancestors or her island brethren. "The Dutch think they're just better, superior to us. And they talk like it too, 'get me this, get me that,' no tienen respeto para nada que...." her words becoming unintelligable as her emotions caused her linguistic wires to become crossed (you'll find that many times on an island where the majority of people are quad-lingual, a persons sentences can easily change between Papiamentu, English, Dutch or Spanish depending on audience and passion). "But on the other hand," she continued, "it is a matter of those who have and those who have not." As Dead Prez lyrics began to meander around my skull, I listened as she detailed a portrait that I believe is on display in every corner of the world. "There are the people here, in the ghettos, they have nothing. They see a Dutch man drive by in a car and they say, 'he has what I want. I don't like him.' But this Dutch man has done nothing except for work hard, and now he has nice things to enjoy because he work hard. This man on the porch, what does he do all day? He sit on his porch, angry at Dutch people for having things. Sure there are circumstances, you may be from this bad place, or you grow up here or there. 'So what,' I say! Get off your ass and work for something." Although my "Art and the State" Political Science professor from UofO (Sean something or other) would probably drop his bong in shock if he knew, I had to agree with this woman. However, regardless of my sentiments on "power of place" in the world, the fact remains - no matter where you go, race is no longer the issue in the world. The centuries of ingrained capitalism which brings westerners to small blips on the map, like Curacao, to institute marketing research firms for William-Morris, or design a more efficient pipe-line to Venezuela, has created a culture clash that has, apparently, usurped the racial struggle (although retaining it a tangible bella causa) while the real battle is waged between "those who have, and those who have not."

The other parts of the puzzle that is Curacao may edify my small view of this social structure, yet that remains to be seen. For now, Curacao is a place where the North meets the South - where history meets technology, and where progress meets tradition. An island where every corner opens up a new porthole into an understanding of a greater manifold that exists world-wide. It is comforting in some sense - as though the battles people choose to wage, both personally and socially, in every neighborhood, city and country, may vary in specifics and depth, yet they all produce the same sentiments and create similar heroes and villains.