ASS-WHACKED BY THE DEVIL!
The New World's first Carnival was held in 1520. Since then, it's only gotten weirder.
When the Nina, Pinta, and Santa Maria first embarked, Spain barely existed as a unified realm. It was only in 1492 that Ferdinand and Isabella - “The Catholic Monarchs” - succeeded in conquering Granada, last stronghold of the Moors who had dominated vast swaths of Iberia for some 700 years. The Christian “reconquest” of Spain was accompanied by ethnic cleansing, as Muslims and Jews who refused to convert were expelled or put to death.
The victory had been costly, and the need to replenish the royal coffers was one factor that motivated the Spaniards to underwrite Columbus’ speculative journey. During Columbus’ first voyage he landed on the island of Hispaniola, which today is divided between Haiti and the Dominican Republic. We’ll discuss Haitian Kanaval in another issue; for now, it will suffice to say that people in the DR can match their Kreyol-speaking neighbors when it’s time to party.
Archaeological evidence suggests that the town of La Vega hosted the New World’s first Carnival. The tradition was established as early as 1520, when masquerading settlers staged a mock battle between “Moors” and “Christians”. While such pageants remain a fixture in many Spanish-speaking countries, it is remarkable that the celebration already featured an element of social satire. Since that time, the range of Dominican costumes has only gotten stranger.
Take the case of Santiago de Los Caballeros. Located in the fertile Cibao valley, the country’s second largest city lies some 150 kilometers north of Santo Domingo. Historically, a key pre-Lenten spectacle was a fight with whips before the gates of the central cemetery. One group of combatants hailed from La Joya, a neighborhood by the banks of the Rio del Yaque. Their main rivals, Los Pepines, came from the upper part of town. So far, this is all thoroughly rational, at least by Carnival standards.
Though the flogging has been toned down, the factions still exist. Collectively they are known as lechones, which can be translated as “suckling pigs”. Their colorful disguises, however, seem to have been designed by people who have never seen an actual pig, nor heard one described. The masks feature a protuberance resembling the bill of a duck or goose rather than a snout. Those worn by the Pepines are topped by a set of long, decidedly un-porcine horns. The piglets from La Joya also sport a pair of horns, but each of these bristle with numerous smaller horns. Or thorns. Or something.
Nicolas Den Den is somewhat more naturalistic: a pudgy white bear who skips and shambles through the streets. Those curmudgeons who question the presence of a polar mammal on a tropical island are offered a perfectly logical – or least, vaguely plausible – explanation. The original Nicolas is said to have been part of a circus which visited Santiago in days gone by. When the circus pulled out, he was left behind, joining the local celebrations before expiring in the shade of a guacima tree.
In addition to bears and swine, the Dominican Carnival is populated with a range of more or less human characters. There are Tiznaos, who smear themselves with used motor oil. Wandering through the crowds, they offer hugs to all and sundry. Those who shy away from such a messy embrace may find the Tiznaos are also amenable to monetary tokens of affection. Roba La Gallina (“Steal-the-hen”) is the name given to men dressed as voluptuous, parasol toting matrons. The conceit is that an ample bosom and prodigious rump are ideal for concealing purloined poultry.
With the battle of Moros and Cristianos, the early colonists in La Vega commemorated the military struggles of their homeland. Subsequent celebrations have revealed a link to less destructive aspects of Spanish culture. Admired by Cervantes and patronized by King Phillip II, the writer Luis Velez de Guevara is most famous for El Diablo Cojuelo, a novel published in 1641. Contemporary Dominicans may or may not be familiar with the work, but all agree that Carnival would not be complete without the presence of “Crippled Devils”. Eschewing clichéd pitchforks, Los Diablos are armed with vejigas – inflated bladders of hogs or bulls that dangle from a strap. Revelers who get too close risk a sharp blow across the buttocks. Authorities try to regulate the degree of inflation, and vejigas may not be fitted with objects likely to cause lasting injury. Such strictures notwithstanding, the custom introduces an element of demonic pain to the earthly delights of the fiesta.
The precise duration of Carnival varies around the world, but wherever it has developed organically the beginning of Lent marks the end of the party. Across the Caribbean, we can find secularized festivities that – for reasons of commerce or ideology – happen at other times of year. For instance, the US Virgin Islands host a celebration in April, while the Cuban Carnaval is observed in July. The Dominican tradition can be seen as a synthesis of these two tendencies.
Throughout the republic, local celebrations always begin in early February. The most talented and colorfully costumed troupes then descend on Santo Domingo for the national Day of Independence, on the 27th. The most raucous displays occur along the capital’s waterfront malecon. So it is that, depending on the church calendar, Carnival in the DR may or may not coincide with the bacchanal in Rio, New Orleans, and Trinidad. It is unlikely that many people worry much about the timing, so long as the merengue rhythms are loud, the Presidente pilsner is kept cold, and they manage to avoid getting whacked in the ass by the devil.
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“Tiznao” Photo by Idobi, via Wikimedia Commons. Other photos courtesy The City College Library (City University of New York)
Always such a pleasure to read your dispatches!
Thanks for an enlightening read. And you know how to compose a title!