It was the strangest thing. We were having a runaway, rampant day out, doing our darnedest to span the landscape of the Puerto Rican interestosphere, regardless of the locals’ patent refusals to engage us in our media-istic capacities. It was a trouble we’d faced everywhere, but a resistance I hadn’t expected to face was that upon meeting a poorly-wigged tribal re-enactor, who obviously looked like a ninja, that he’d say he wasn’t a ninja.
It was on towards the end of the day and the seasonal rains had already rolled in when we went to the “free” tribal grounds preserved for tourists conveniently tucked just outside the middle of just about nowhere.
Luckily, though universally renowned as one of the painfully few free attractions across the island by every tourist guidebook, the department of tourism, and their own website as well, they permitted us admission without paying the $4 per person otherwise required.
So yeah, okay, they sometimes charge an admission fee for the thing that’s otherwise generally offered for free, and there’s no way of knowing which day is which. It was raining, mostly over for the day, and otherwise terrible, so we were admitted freely and if you’re in a boat like mine, you should demand likewise… or just don’t go there at all, but still.
Left – Here you can see me with my newfound Ninja friend, not looking so afraid of him.
I’m not concerned about how mediocre the attraction was, nor their failed attempts to garner a nickel or three from us to attend, but more by what I experienced personally. On this particular day there was a mega-massive Indian reenactment in place, complete with what I can only assume was a rain dance because as I’ve said it was raining like crazy and the native-engarbified ladies were still drumming and dancing in ways only the most covetable of chubby Puerto Ricans ever could.
No, what concerned the heck out of the heck of my heck was that the guys I identified as “ninjas” somehow still felt inclined to deny their identity.
I mean, seriously, if this guy, what with all his makeup, is somehow not a ninja, I’ll eat my fruitroll-hat… assuming it’s grape or cherry flavored.
Brendan was pretty apprehensive but I was excited to have my picture taken with the Taino Indian, or “Ninja”, as I called him, or “Taininja”, as I’ve just today decided I must surely have always called his kind.
Nice guy, for real. Not the most skilled in babbling my nonsensical, pseudo-English language, but a really accommodating fellow all the same. It wasn’t until later, as we were loading back into the family wagon, that I saw him de-wig, to realize he might just be a normal fellow after all.
No matter though. You wear makeup like that, sneak up all stealthy like that, you are obviously a ninja. Period. That’s it.
Above – Brendan had a chance to get his snappy photo captured with the Taininja, but refused to smile or even enjoy it, as crazy as that might sound.