Bedeviled in La Vega.

[ILLUSTRATION OMITTED]

He might well be a character from your own worst nightmare, and he's standing only a few feet away: a hulking extraterrestrial apparition in volumninous red satin robes and a matching plumed headdress with two menacing horns. His yellow triangular face scarcely contains a pair of swooping brows set above bulging bloodshot eyes, a grotesque simian nose, and fang-filled mouth permanently frozen in a wicked snarl. In one gloved hand he grasps a plastic bottle of designer water and an inflated cow bladder, or vejiga, and in the crux of his other arm he cradles a slumbering infant whose young parents are busy recording this surrealistic portrait on diminutive camera phones. Then the baby, now awake and smiling, is gently transferred to her mother's outstretched hands, and after a hurried "thank you," the family of three is off through a sea of people in search of more monster photo ops.

This is just one of the rituals that plays out over four consecutive Sunday afternoons each February in La Vega, a mostly quiet fanning community in the Dominican Republic's fertile Cibao Valley, a 90-minute drive northwest of Santo Domingo. Despite its off-the-beaten-track location and competition from neighboring towns that stage their own pre-Lenten celebrations, La Vega, with a population of about 60,000, has made a name for itself as the island's undisputed capital of carnival. It is the favorite venue for attending shenanigan-filled street parties, dancing to high-decibel merengue and bachata tunes, and rubbing elbows with los diablos cojuelos, the famous limping devils who are the event's colorful, rambunctious, and ever-evolving superstars.

Experts disagree as to the exact origins of carnival in this nation of more than nine million inhabitants in the Greater Antilles. Some, like the late folklore specialist Fradique Lizardo, believe they date back as far as the 1520s to La Vega's original location, today called La Vega Vieja--a colonial settlement founded by Christopher Columbus and leveled in 1562 by a cataclysmic earthquake. Whatever the birthplace, these annual festivities eventually came to be celebrated countrywide and by the mid-1800s had incorporated commemorations of Dominican Independence Day, February 27, into their folds. In the early twentieth century, the carnival's mostly Spanish roots had permanently fused with African, French, Canary Island, and Caribbean influences to form a unique Dominican hybrid. But by the 1970s, it was carnival La Vega style, with its competing groups of colorfully garbed paraders known as compatio.s, that began to attract increasing attention for the creativity and quality of costumes and masks. In 1977, the town's February celebrations were singled out for National Folkloric Heritage status.

[ILLUSTRATION OMITTED]

Then, as now, the event's main attractions are its fierce diablos cojuelos--so named, as the story goes, after a legendary demon whose reputation as an incorrigible prankster got him kicked out of Hell with an injured leg in the bargain. The outlandish outfit he wears, reminiscent of a medieval court jester's, combines wide pants and a flowing shirt of satin, taffeta, or lame plus a color-coordinated cape garnished with mirrors, whistles, ribbons, and bells. His demonic, artfully sculpted papier-mache mask, aglitter with layers of acrylic paint, rhinestones, and other accouterments, may just as easily take its inspiration from a prominent historical figure like King Tut as some horror movie ghoul.

These days, more than 120 different comparsas, sporting names like Los Sobrevivientes, Los Panzudos, and Las Amazonas, compete for a host of prizes at the vegano carnival. Their costumes and choreographed dances are the subject of intense scrutiny by legions of loyal fans eager to voice their opinions on the paraders' past and present performances, in letters to their local newspapers and in Internet chat rooms. "It's just the same old thing with Los Cavemarios," laments one online contributor. "They are completely lacking in inspiration this year." Another observer, clearly pleased with what he has seen, writes, "Los Dukes de La Vega turned out to be a big surprise with their lapis blue and gold costumes. Let's see if this means they are going to make a bid to reclaim their former glory."

Carnival's last Sunday, with its much-awaited awards ceremony, is the best attended of the four February parades, drawing tens of thousands of people to Padi'e Adolfo Street, a pretty, tree-lined avenue in one of the city's upper-middle-class neighborhoods. By early afternoon, festival goers--camera phones and balloonlike vejigas in hand--are already milling about, sampling fruit-flavored snow cones called frio-frios, dancing to blaring tropical rhythms, and trading vejigazos, the stinging cow bladder whacks that are administered indiscriminately to the backsides of friend and stranger alike. Lining the parade route, television cameras record the spectacle from strategic command posts while nearby, in dozens of elaborately decorated clubhouses known as cuevas, the limping devils primp and preen before commencing their triumphal march through the crowds and onto the raised viewing platform for one last choreographed prance past the judges and carnival court. The cuevas, with their shaded spectator stands, bars, and DJ entertainment, also host the troupes' special guests for parade watching and private partying.

[ILLUSTRATIONS OMITTED]

An essential component in the event's success revolves around the ever-changing appearance of its diablos, who year after year are called on to surpass their previous efforts with dramatic new costumes and masks that will fire up the public's imagination. "The competition between the comparsas is fierce, and they all try to come up with fresh ideas and innovative designs," explains Director of Provincial Tourism and native vegano Ranulfo Cruz. Over the past decades, the groups' ongoing bids for supremacy have translated into bigger, heavier, and more unwieldy creations. In the 1970s, for example, masks were made to the proportions of a human face, but a decade later they entered a growth cycle and have scarcely looked back since. Even the devil's classic three-piece suit has become bulkier with the addition of spongy padding that gives it a larger-than-life, three-dimensional quality, according to Cruz.

Not surprisingly, a first-class mask and coordinating costume can now cost as much as US$1,300. Multiply that number by 15, 20, or 30--the number of people from any one troupe of 40 or 50 members who may elect to perform during a given year--and expenses quickly soar to astronomical levels. That's where private companies such as Carnation, Maggi, Cerveza Presidente, American Airlines, and cell phone giant Claro have entered the scene, providing sponsorship for one, two, or even three groups per season. In return for the right to promote their logos on costumes and around the cuevas, corporate sponsors foot most of the comparsas' sartorial expenses and even clubhouse construction and entertainment costs.

If some see the arrangement as nothing less than the crass commerdalization of a traditional folkloric event, others are quick to lend their support. "Carnival provides a lot of full-and part-time jobs in a town with high rates of unemployment," notes Cruz. "It brings in visitors by the droves from in and outside the country, and that makes for an important source of revenue for veganos." Mask and costume makers and their crews, who operate from modest home workshops, are obvious beneficiaries, but the event also gives a boost to small food, beverage, and souvenir vendors as well as the transportation and tourism industries. In fact, many local residents find inventive ways of cashing in during the busy carnival season, including many well-heeled homeowners along the parade route who rent out spaces in their front yards to operators of portable kiosks.

Just days before carnival's kickoff, 28-year-old Melvin Martes, fresh from fielding a slew of cell phone calls at his Barrio La Carmelita home workshop, is adding the finish-hag touches to a zany but sinister blue and white creation, one of 42 masks destined for a popular group known as Los Broncos. The veteran mask-maker, who began his career at age twelve under the tutelage of another maestro known as El Chino, has parlayed his designer's know-how and entrepreneurial savvy into a thriving, year-round enterprise that turns out masks not only for the locals, but also for comparsas in nearby towns like San Francisco, Bonao, and Jarabacoa. "When I was young, I was so lucky to have had someone who taught me to work hard and be a good person. I wouldn't be where I am today otherwise, and I'm trying to teach these kids the same things," he explains, referring to the seventeen young workers on his payroll. "If I can keep them busy collaborating with the community on something worthwhile like this, maybe there will be a little less drag addiction, a little less theft, a little less crime."

While at first glance the popular diablos cojuelos seem to dominate carnival proceedings by virtue of their overwhelmingly large numbers, imposing appearance and wild antics, on closer inspection a host of other individuals and groups also manage to garner audience attention and take home prizes. "The parade is open to anyone who wants to use his or her imagination to create a costume and enter the competition, and it doesn't have to cost a lot of money either," observes Carlos Rafael Romero, a tour guide and avid carnival watcher.

[ILLUSTRATION OMITTED]

Among the event's most enduringly popular entries are two transvestites known as La Vieja Chula (Cute Old Hussy), armed with a hula hoop, and La Roba la Gallina (Chicken Thief), who carries a tattered parasol and an uproarious amount of padding both fore and aft. Seen at carnivals throughout the Dominican Republic, these characters provide many of the celebration's best laughs, mincing their way along to the hoots and hollers of approving onlookers. Prominent historical figures such as Sherlock Holmes, the Pope, and Fidel Castro also put in appearances every year, along with Los Chicos de Barro (the Mudmen), a group of youngsters wearing pantyhose masks and dried mud from head to toe, and the Tiznaos or Africans, another group of boys whose torsos, arms, and legs shine with a glossy coating of burned engine oil and charcoal.

What you won't see at La Vega's carnival, however, are bevies of scantily clad men and women gyrating to the relentless merengue rhythms. "Tiffs is a family event with a strong cultural and religious aspect," declares tourism chief Cruz. "You aren't going to see any women dressed in bikinis on the street, and although it's about demons, there are no trances, no possessions by devils, none of that." Indeed, the Catholic Church lends its support to the goings on, kicking off the annual festivities with a special mass. There have even been eases of priests dressing up and joining in on the fun, according to architect and designer Orlando Lora Pacheco, president of La Vega's powerful carnival association, UCAVE (Union Carnavalesca Vegana), which was organized in the late 1980s to promote and regulate every aspect of the event. Under its guidance, he says, La Vega's carnival has grown over the years in international stature.

[ILLUSTRATION OMITTED]

The celebrations are certainly among the best organized, cleanest, and safest of all carnivals, with loads of trash containers and port-a-potties, and battalions of special officers and national police patrolling in and around the parade route. As an added precautionary measure, each devil comparsa is flanked by its own readily identifiable bodyguards, according to guide Carlos Rafael Romero. "Let's say," he explains, "that one of the diablos gives an onlooker a vejigazo and that person gets angry, then the group's own security people can immediately step in and avoid any confrontations."

The event's extended format over multiple weekends, coupled with its relatively short hours, from approximately four to ten in the evening, have also helped to sidestep problems. "The trouble with other carnivals," notes Lora Pacheco, "is that they may last for three or four days or even a week at a time. That's a lot of days that are available for continuous drinking, and that can mean trouble. We really put an emphasis on our carnival being for families and people of all ages and backgrounds, which helps set. the tone." Indeed, many of the comparsas are themselves family affairs consisting of grandparents, parents, grandchildren, cousins, and in-laws. Others are made up of old school chums or neighborhood and business friends--or, in the case of the members of Los Yanquis, expat veganos living in New York.

In early March, La Vega's winning entries head to Santo Domingo for the national meet-up, where they compete against the best, comparsas from across the country and parade with delegations from places like Aruba, Haiti, Guadeloupe, Cuba, and Martinique. Then, back home once again, the groups pack away or sell their current crop of costumes and masks, the mask-makers destroy their molds, and, dreaming of future victories, they begin the whole creative process anew.

[ILLUSTRATIONS OMITTED]

Whack Attack

It's not really the monstrous appearance of the mischievous diablos cojuelos that intimidates festival goers, but more the threat of the omnipresent vejigas, the inflated cow bladders they wield before, during, and after the parades. "Believe me, those vejigas command a lot of respect from people because they not only sting, but they can leave you with a bruise if you're hit hard enough, laughs La Vega visitor Gina Valenzuela.

Carnival vejigas, said to have originated in Extremadura, Spain, arrived in the New World with early island settlers. In the Dominican Republic, they are still cured with lemon juice, ashes, and salt, according to traditional methods. Then the dried bladders are filled with air, tied off, covered in material and attached to a wand or string. No self-respecting diablo would be caught without one, but during the celebrations they are also on sale to revelers of all ages.

But to keep carnival safe and fun, UCAVE, the event's organizer, strictly regulates these balloon-like weapons. Restrictions state that they may not be over-inflated, made of rubber, or have any sharp attachments. In addition, all blows should be aimed at the lower body, particularly the buttocks. A hit from a vejiga is called a vejigazo, and if you see one coming your way, it's best not to block it with your arm, say seasoned carnival goers. Instead, turn away from the blow, letting it land on your backside where there is more padding. Staying within vejigazo-free areas, namely on the sidewalk and out of the free-for-alls on the street, is probably the best advice. Still, if you do get whacked, relax: a vejigazo is said to bring the recipient good luck.

[ILLUSTRATION OMITTED]

A travel writer and photographer, Suzanne Murphy-Larronde is a frequent contributor to Americas.

Text and photographs by Suzanne Murphy-Larronde