The little notch in the lower left corner of the island is where I sit tapping into this machine. The position underneath is pretty close to where the notch lives on the face of this world. The real old charts found digging around on the web call it Puerto Real but today it's called Boqueron.
This site started out as one thing and has been transforming itself gradually into another. I've just been sort of watching to see if maybe there's really some direction in the roundabout way it seems to try to find some insight into the question at the top of the page.
Strange how at times we choose to follow a path that presents itself by circumstance arising by chance. It happens alot that people find themselves somewhere they never would expect to be- and for many I would guess they are surprised when a place discovered by accident turns out to have a long-term parking lot and a shady space with their name on it.
I arrived here in an errant ketch bound for somewhere else. Intending to bypass this corner of the island, we were ragged from a too long Mona crossing and so decided to pass a night here to rest up. A festival in progress when we anchored- the buzz of activity punctuated by an undercurrent of intriquing rhythms had me soon forgetting the rest - instead tossing one of my horns in the skiff to have a listen and maybe join in and learn something. I'm still learning. Though that party is long over and done with- this funky backwater still doesn't seem to be done with me. O there have been plans for escapes, schemes, plots, capers, and hell-bent efforts to bolt- but so far they've pretty much washed out. It's not like I'm stuck here. Of course I could just pack up and go anytime.
When I was a kid I picked up a saxophone- contrary to advice offered by my elders, who warned me something like this could happen if I wasn't careful. Never having been very responsive to the sound judgement that is supposed to develop as a person matures, imaginary sounds continue to garner most of my attention to the exclusion of the kinds of things most folks focus some concentrated effort into- like deciding just what it is they want to do when they grow up.
But that's not at all what this collection of words and images is about. Instead I've been looking around to see if there might be something nearby that I've missed, perhaps because It might be too near to distinguish and eludes analysis or it may well live beyond ordinary perception altogether- like the place where music lives.
Boqueron is a funny place- I've tried for a while to find a better word, a single word that is closer but never have got past funny. My daughter Emi's choice is 'stinky'- that's not bad. The B*zone does not much like to be taken seriously mostly because it's a place where people gather to forget for a time about wherever it is they've just come from. But its reputation as a party town is not so much what makes this place funny, for most of the time Boqueron seems to be snoozing and languorous and expectant.
Going back to remember the good old days is a distinctive portent of the onset of 'oldtimerism', a syndrome that I dont wish to explore except maybe as it relates to the perception of change transforming not only this tiny corner but everywhere else. Those times are indeed over and a new series of 'back in the day' scenarios are constantly being generated by everyones experience. Some of the images I've gathered here are from before my camera went swimming some years ago, some are recent, many've been snitched from here and there.
The B*zone changes and I watch. Some attempts at imposing order on it have been too extreme and were abandoned, others remain in experimental stages taking hold in spurts and sputtering out. Being where it is- about as far away from the rest of the island as you can get to, seems to help keep it as it is, and that's OK with me- and I suspect for those other stalwarts I see around alot who I bet have their own imaginary bags packed gathering dust under the bed..
Trivial, bothersome little annoying things seem to instigate an almost feverish glee around here sometimes. A car headed up a one way street in the wrong direction generates a round of applause. Children are encouraged to make a racket. Stray dogs coupling in the plaza is celebrated. Cars backing over trash containers or into each other is hysterical. Lovers arguing in the street is cause to take sides and chime in. Yet the folks here are not coarse or brutish or casual about misfortune. There seems to be a filtering device that grows in your brain during exposure to the B*zones peculiar ambience over time that strains out the mundane and accentuates the folly.
It tends to draw your eye to the flowering trees and not the empty can you just kicked. A slender young girl busy eating a lard-ball street treat is a common and delightful sight. The B*zone filter softens the image of her trundling around with three kids attached in a couple years.
The island is full up with sights and sounds and a unique character and culture. The islanders know of the special nature this tiny corner embodies- they visit and party and share with friends and family some of the B*zone flavor and they keep coming back. But sometimes I suspect it could be something else that calls folks here besides the great beach and the festive weekends. I'm still looking for that word. It certainly isn't 'charming'- though charm has some interesting connotations.
It's all part of the question.
Anyway... The following page will take you to the beach & a fine beach it is.
Enjoy... |
