An Exercise In Journalism

WELCOME TO BACHATA HELL
by Kristen Fink; Photos by MoniK

It was one of those improvised moves. I said no mo' rain, good to go out and play and usually no one ever listens, but somehow today they did. So we put on our shoes and packed our bags and took the frisbees and cameras and landed ourselves in a huge traffic jam on the way to Piñones Beach. Oh, and it started to rain right away.

We were kinda lucky as parking matters go and we decided to rent bikes. Only thing was we had no idea where the bike rental place was, so we walked. And walked. With dawn half an hour away and already tired, we just said fuck the bikes and kept on walking until we eventually passed by the bike rental place where I discovered a blue bike that I liked way more than the one I have. I asked how much, he said two hundred, I said no way, he said Ok. Ok, Antonia. My name's not Antonia, you've misread the goddamned tattoo. He finally understands what it means and yes, i do want everyting i see.

There was a scene set up inside his shop, as if the world stopped 20 years ago and everything was old and dusty, with a tv set and a parakeet cage, and pretty much everything untouched. And then I kinda realized I was seeing everyhting throught fake wasted eyes and it was just the place where the guy sells oysters and the hot sauce there is from 1985. We went over to the boardwalk and i noticed we were somewhere near Gangsta Land and luckily i started getting hungry. We got to the yellow frappe place and I ordered pineapple and strawberries and it was great. It also gave me sugar goobers.

The beachfront was really cold and i regretted not having my jacket; at the same time i thought that it was ok, since i needed to be able to withstand the cold because eventually i'd be going to Russia and Mongolia someday. Everything in that place was really dirty and smelly and dirty again. There were gray-black water puddles that i hoped i'd never have to step in, and i thought that a passerby car might just be evil enough as to go over them nasty pools and drench me in mortal waters. I saw chicken feathers and chicken bones inside a bag decompsing near a swarm of flies that i thought would get inside my nose.

Eventually we reached a place to eat and i asked for a chicken thing by mistake. I was really thinking beef and i have no idea why the hell i said chicken. So i asked for a kebob and stuck the chicken thing on a paper bag and put it inside my backpack next to the frisbee and polaroid and ipod speakers that we never used. The kebob was awful and so was the chicken thing. So we proceeded to go drink something. I was feeling tropical so i took a Hurricane-like mix. I was instantly buzzed and I blame the bad kebob. I have heartburn right at this moment.

It was really getting cold and dark and tiny skeets had taken to devour our exposed flesh, so we just left. We suggest a bike lane next to every road on the island, a recycling center right next to the restaurant, and proof-readers for every menu.

Right now I have failed this journalism exercise because i totally forgot the objective side of things.

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For more photos on these Sunday adventures go here: http://flickr.com/photos/claritin/page2/