|
|
|
The Other
Side of Curaçao
By Holly Reich
There is a carving in a watapana tree (means tree of life) in the center
of Willemstad, Curaçao, that is one of the most erotic sculptures
I have ever seen.
A woman’s naked body is carved into the muscular blood-colored roots
of the tree. Like this island’s many layers of dense history and
culture, the art is lush, intimate and organic.
According to local wisdom, the craftsman who creates these tree sculptures
does them late at night and they appear in town once in awhile. The legend
claims the sculptor was on the verge of suicide when he made his first
carving - and the way I understand it, his creation gave him back his
will to live.
This is what I call the other side of Curaçao.
And there’s more.
Beyond the gingerbread townhouses and silvery sand beaches, in a former
military barrack near the airport, lies Campo Alegre, the largest legal
brothel in the Caribbean. It is not out of context if you remember that
Curaçao is a Dutch colony.
 Campo Alegre,
Spanish for Camp Happiness, is also a ‘hangout” where women
are welcome guests one night a week and the entertainment is pole dancing.
The open-air thatch-roofed bar is casual, with couches and cushioned chairs
facing an unadorned stage.
The “brothel” part of the property looks like a small well-manicured
town of one-room casitas. The only difference is that there are no kids
playing on sidewalks. Instead, sultry looking full-figured women are walking
around in anything from go-go outfits to sparkly lingerie, while TV screens
play a loop of soft-core porn.
I have to admit it was my first experience in a strip bar or a brothel.
When I mentioned this to a fellow journalist, he ordered me up a lap dance.
It was my first experience with that as well. I’m not sure that many
women--especially in the Caribbean/Hispanic culture -- get lap dances
but I found the whole experience exhilarating, fun, even liberating!
At least that’s what how I was feeling when our group returned to
Breezes resort a little past one AM. A wall of kids confronted us in the
main lobby. “You’re late!’ my 11-year-old scolded me. “I’m
calling Dad!”
“We didn’t know what time it was,” I sputtered.
“You should have called!” she yelled.
It was one of those stellar moments when you don’t know who’s
the adult and who’s the kid. I cut a look to the friend who bought
me the lap dance and we just laughed.
Also see:
Photo courtesy Curaçao
Tourist Board
 Holly
Reich is a travel and automotive writer based in Manhattan.
All text copyright Holly Reich. No part of this article may be reproduced
without written permission from the author.
|
|
