I am watching an old guy strutting around the stage wearing a leopard-print loincloth while twirling some torches over the painted body of a nubile babe in as menacing a fashion as he can muster. In the shadows, more sweating natives begin to dance rhythmically, but without the benefit of choreography or even raw talent. As the drums on the cheesy soundtrack reach a crescendo, two of them begin a fire-breathing fight using bottles of rum as fuel.
Damajaqua Cascades-the last stunt for “Poppy”
“Go for it, Poppy! Just put your hand in the hole and climb up!” It’s bad enough that my Dominican Republic guides, who say they have adopted me as family, have chosen to call me “Poppy”, the old guy. But to make it worse, not only am I in fact the old guy, I have failed to summit the slippery slope above, which, as the guide insists, does feature a laughably small pocket that would be a suitable grip if I were a lemur, but I can’t see that so well since I am climbing, face up, through a waterfall, and my knee, which contains more metal than a Smart car, is telling me that I’m too old for this, or even for walking on most days.
“How much did those cost”? The woman, about twenty-five, is pointing at a set of trophy breasts that Suzie, another young, yet somehow supple and immodest girl, is sporting at the swim-up pool bar.
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