MamaJuana: The Dominican Drink Of Choice

MamaJuana: The Dominican Drink Of Choice

This Dominican staple is sure to be on your bucket list.

In the Caribbean, and most notably in the Dominican Republic, there is a well-known drink called Mamajuana. In simple terms, Mamajuana is a blend of exotic, wild grown herbs, tree stems, barks, leaves, roots and spices all native to the Dominican Republic and Haiti. Rum, red wine and honey are fermented in the herbs and spices to give a unique, sweet flavor. Aside from being an all-around delicious alcoholic beverage, legend has it that this drink is viewed as an aphrodisiac and has many medicinal purposes. The drink is said to increase vitality, provoke “feistiness” and cure anything ranging from the flu to ovarian cancer, and it's a staple of the 10,656,777 people inhabiting it –– not including the tourists looking for a sample.

Looking at a bottle of Mamajuana, one will see a jar of sticks, leaves and liquid. The sticks and leaves are the bark and herbs to purify the drink and add the medicinal qualities to help the liquid ferment and cure the main ingredients. Half of the bottle is usually a combination of the specific Canilillea leaves and guyacan plants in the Dominican. The liquid, at first, is a solving agent to help pull nutrients out of the exotic, native grown plants. After pouring out the solving agent liquid, which is usually a sort of gin, the user combines a portion of honey with red wine and rum and lets it sit for anywhere from a few days to a week. The gin combats any bacteria on the plant, as it’s usually 40 percent proof or 20 percent alcohol. Although the main ingredients are the same, different areas in the Dominican add different substances to it to target different health issues they want combatted. Exactly what is in the drink depends on what area you are in and who is crafting it. For example, areas in the southern Dominican Republic choose to incorporate “miembro de carey,” which quite literally means “turtle penis” because of its apparent healing powers.

Typically, it’s said the first real batch of Mamajuana comes out on the bitter side, since the time needed to cure the bottle varies. However, with each additional batch of Mamajuana, the drink is supposed to be smoother. After drinking all of the honey-rum-wine concoction, the bottle can be refilled to be fermented, since the medicinal herbs are said to have a seven to 10 year lifespan. The rare “powers” the Dominicans swear by are formed from the different, native ingredients they choose to include. Many times, the additions they make are from their sea creatures of the island: conch, octopus, snails, and the aforementioned sea turtle. In addition, the sweetness one can taste on the island’s batches of Mamajuana is from their limes, lemons, molasses, raisins or even cinnamon. The drink is usually taken as a shot and stored at room temperature. However, just as there’s no wrong way to make the drink, there’s no wrong way to drink it. That being said, there were no climate or regulatory interruptions in the drink and the substitutes to the actual drink are limited since the ingredients to it are so loosely defined. The drink has a monopoly on the Dominican aphrodisiac market. The substitutes to the ingredients themselves are abundant.

Mamajuana is believed to date back to over 800 years and was first present as a form of herbal tea. The Taino Indians, who lived in the Caribbean and the region called Hispanola, known currently as Santo Domingo, used the drink as vitality and an answer to their well-being. Today’s version of the drink was branded by Mr. Jesus Rodriguez in the 1950’s as an herbal medicine. Rodriguez co-wrote the song “Mama Juana” which was performed by Tatico Henriquez. As popularity for the medicinal drink grew, the Dominican government, under President Rafael Trujillo, sought to arrest anybody that sold it without a medical license. As a result, Rodriguez fled to the United States in the 1970’s. He located himself in Manhattan, New York and passed away from pneumonia on May 26, 2013. To this day, the drink is referred to as the “Baby Maker” and “El Para Palo,” which translates to “Lift the stick,” and it's related to the slogan the Dominicans say: “Whatever tortures you –– Mamajuana takes care of it." Mamajuana is also said to be in your system forever once someone takes a drink of it, and it will resurface at difficult times.

The Taino Indians originated from Central and South America and established settlement on the Dominican island peacefully. Their society was built on cooperation and peace, seen through their herbal tea development where Mamajuana first became popular. They used the drink as the strength of life and love and believed it to be the aphrodisiac of their world. Since current day medicine wasn’t available to them, they believed the drink cured symptoms ranging from the common cold, the influenza, ovarian cancer, kidney and blood disease, and other diseases and tragedies. Their society was stable until the Conquistadores and Christopher Columbus landed there and manipulated them for the land’s riches. Columbus enslaved or slaughtered their culture until they were nearly extinct. However, the entire culture did not die, as the few remaining survivors passed on the medicinal traditions. Today, there are few families in the Dominican that identify with the ancestors and claim to have the roots of the long-lived Mamajuana tradition.

The current use of the drink is passed on to visitors and tourists of the Dominican Republic as a welcome present and a form of “liquid Viagra,” and can be seen as an entertainment attribute, rather than a staple. All-inclusive resorts harvest and ferment their own takes on Mamajuana with different sugars and spices added to it to develop a unique combination, though their medicinal leaves and bark are all the same. Since psychology has morphed over time, the initial curing aspect of the drink has changed into more of a stimulating aspect, in the hopes of romance. In addition, the resorts sell pre-bottled portions of the drink to travelers as a main souvenir, since the Dominican Republic is the only place the herbs and special ingredients are grown.

Recently, I traveled to Punta Cana with my family for a vacation. We were greeted with sugary beverages almost immediately but were given Mamajuana within minutes of walking onto the hotel grounds. The drink tastes spicy and sweet at the same time, likely from the combination of cinnamon and honey the hotel created. It smells almost identical to a sangria. My family and I noted that every time we were served Mamajuana, it was with a wink from the bartender, as the drink is not only native but also known for stimulation. I was gifted a bottle of the medicinal herbs and spices from the staff and decided to try my own spin on Mamajuana at home. I combined equal parts rum and wine and topped the remaining off with honey and let the mixture ferment for a week. The drink was strong, and only slightly tasted like the one I remember. What is interesting is that the first time my family and I visited the Dominican Republic, back in 2008, Mamajuana wasn’t as popular as it is today. We were never offered the beverage though we stayed at a similar, neighboring hotel chain.

The drink can be purchased online, though there is no guarantee the real concoction will ship to the buyer – the safest way is through the Dominican Republic itself. Bottles typically run about $5 for 150 ml of the drink, but any additional mixes after the initial use is on the buyer’s expense. Originally, the pricing was nonexistent, as the drink was made from the riches of the island. Currently, the drink can be bartered and haggled for tourists in many of the flea-market-like stands lining the beaches.


Cover Image Credit: Daydreams & Shoestrings

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An Open Letter To The Meadville Medical Center And Its ER Staff

When did kindness become a deserved thing in the healthcare field; and only if you're not on drugs?

Yes, that cover picture is me, coming off a Magee Women's Hospital in Pittsburgh, a two-hour drive from my house, not at Meadville Medical Center.

This is very difficult to write. We live in a small town, and you are the only hospital for over twenty miles. In fact, I live so close to you, that I can see your rooftop from my back garden. I can walk to you in about ten minutes if it’s not overly humid out. The Life Flights pass over my house as they arrive at and leave your facility, and my young daughter and I pray for every one of them.

My daughter had to call an ambulance on May 30th, as I had a sharp and horrible pain overtake me so suddenly, that I thought my neighbor (who I threatened to report for dealing drugs) had shot me through the dining room window at first. There was no blood to be seen, but the pain was so severe, that combined with the cold sweats and dizziness, I was genuinely afraid I was about to die.

I can’t express in words how proud I was of my girl as she explained to the 911 operator what was the matter and where we lived. She was brave and helpful as they took a blood sample, handled what I later learned was a seizure, and kindly got me into the ambulance from my difficult entryway. She called her Auntie and calmly told her to meet me at the ER. And while memories of the horrible experience I had in your ER twenty years ago still haunted me, the care and attention the ambulance drivers showed me encouraged me that I would be okay.

If only.

There were so many people, and I was half delirious with pain and inexplicable symptoms. Thank God my sister in law, Sheri, was there to help me fight for my life. For the sake of our small town and six degrees of separation, I will call them Nurse A, B, C, and D, and Doctor H. Your staff literally, unapologetically bullied me within an inch of my life.

When I arrived, it was apparently Nurse A who triumphantly announced to everyone involved in my care that I was on drugs, case closed. Despite Sheri and I repeatedly telling them that I hadn’t taken any narcotics, and I won’t take anything stronger than Motrin 800, they persisted in asking what I took. At one point I heard Sheri saying, “She does everything naturally, you're wasting time.” No one cared.

When Nurse A informed me that they needed a urine test, I told her to straight cath me, as I couldn’t stand up. It was Nurse A who told Doctor H that I faked two seizures on the way from my house (I am still amazed by her mystical powers that she could surmise this), and insisted again that I was faking everything. With utter disgust Doctor H said, “She can stand, get her up.” At Sheri’s protest, Nurse A reiterated, “If she can move her legs she can stand.” My legs, which were almost involuntarily moving to find relief from the pain in my abdomen, gave out on me when she insisted I put myself on the bedside commode. I passed out again and urinated on her.

When I woke up to Sheri frantically calling my name, I was greeted by an absolutely disgusted Nurse A, who complained that she needed to go change her clothes, and rolled her eyes at my faking another seizure. She informed everyone who came in next that I was faking these symptoms, and four attempts to straight cath me failed. In that moment, I was sure I was going to die.

Everything after that came in blurry and fragmented vignettes, like an awful out of body experience. There were Nurses B through D or more, all repeatedly asking me what drugs I took. Everyone scowled and frowned, passing on the information that I was faking everything. There were four of these nurses when I woke up on the way to a scan, and all but one asking me what drugs I took, and telling me to stop faking as I hysterically screamed that I could not breathe when I lay flat. I was terrified, confused, out of my mind, and unable to breathe when I lay flat, and they reported that “she hyperventilated herself” in the scan lab.

All the while, Sheri valiantly insisted they would find no drugs in the blood work, and that I probably hadn’t been to a family doctor in years. I lay in your ER cubicle and reconciled myself to God, convinced that I was going to die and be labeled a drug addict.

At some point, something shifted, and suddenly I received the blanket I had asked for hours before. Apparently, my temperature had dropped so low, their fancy thermometers couldn’t read anything. I remember a young man trying to find a vein and saying, “Oh my God, I’ve never seen anything like this. I’m not trying again.” My head was elevated, and the panic of not being able to breathe alleviated somewhat.

Suddenly Doctor H was almost kind, and I heard him telling Sheri something about “a mass” and “blood in her abdomen” and how some other hospital was better equipped to help me. She told me she okay-ed it, and I recall telling her, “I trust you. Just get me out of here.”

In fact, knowing someone else would care for me gave me such peace, that I literally lay completely still as an older man inserted an IV line into my neck with no anesthesia.

We assume the blood work came back and the scan verified what we desperately tried to tell everyone from the beginning; I wasn’t on or seeking drugs. But there was no apology from Nurse A, her fellow nurses, or Doctor H. I may be corrected, but I spent five or six hours in your ER defending myself to the same people who should have been fighting for my life.

As I lay there, talking to Yeshuale, three people in what looked like tactical suits came alongside my bed. The first was a woman who looked like she was speaking into a walkie talkie. Behind her two men. I thought to myself “Oh, state cops. I guess I’m just going to die in prison.” I was so out of it, confused and weary of being asked what drugs I took, I believed your ER staff had called the police and they had come to take me away. All I could think of was what would become of my young daughter.

Thank God, I was mistaken. The blonde woman wasn’t a police officer, but part of the helicopter team, on the phone with Magee in Pittsburgh so she could begin administering blood to me. Blood. Something your staff considered less important than accusing me of using and seeking some weird drugs. Behind her, a tall, blonde man smiled at me and explained that he was taking me in a helicopter and I would be fine. It was like hearing from an angel, and I remember saying, “Todah, Yeshuale!” repeatedly in my head and in a whisper. “Thank You, Jesus!”

Four blocks away, my daughter and the friend she was staying with waved as we flew over my house.

To my surprise, I woke up two days later, attached to a ventilator, one of my sister friends sitting beside my bed. I learned that I’d had two masses in my uterus, which tore itself open and bled into my abdomen. I’d lost four liters of blood and had a transfusion in the Life Flight. When they took the vent out, (my friend took the picture above) I made a joke about being a tough Jersey girl as I signed to the ICU nurse, but inside I was an emotional wreck. Still, as the days went on, I determined to treat everyone with kindness, and was treated the same way at every turn.

Kindness. The one thing I never received from your staff.

What was so special about me that your staff felt interrogating me about my apparent drug use was more important than helping me? My address? Because for some reason all the drug dealers in town seem to want to take over my block? So, we’re all on drugs, then? Do you realize that half my neighbors brag about going to your ER to get pain pills, and how easy it is? I never asked for anything but a Tylenol, and that was on the Life Flight. So, again I ask, what made me so unique?

And, I must say, it’s not even that your staff didn’t believe me. They were mean, hateful even. Rolling their eyes, talking about me like I wasn’t there, saying everything I did was a ruse to get drugs. When did it become okay to treat anyone like that? How was it alright for your nurse to walk in and determine that I was on drugs? How was it alright for her to set the tone of disbelief, unkindness, and abuse? How was it alright for the doctor to allow this and roll with it?

Yes, I said abuse. When someone is screaming that they can’t breathe and you tell them to stop faking, that is abuse. When you berate someone, and accuse them of something to the point where they believe they’re being taken to jail to die, that’s abuse. When you refuse to give someone a blanket, hold them down to the point where they’re bruised, that’s abuse. When you waste time to the point where an ambulance won’t get to the next hospital fast enough… that’s abuse. Your staff verbally, emotionally, and physically abused me.

Not only were they abusive, but they were comfortable with it. Your staff was comfortable with it, and didn’t care what it would cost me or my family. All but one nurse, who Sheri now tells me insisted that there was something wrong with me and took me for the scan. That nurse saved my life. People are comfortable with abuse because they get away with it. Abusers get smug, arrogant and even careless, because those they abuse say nothing. Your staff was smug, rude and uncaring to the point that they displayed a sick sort of disgust for me that was completely obvious. My sister in law later confirmed to me that it wasn’t all in my head.

At what point did this behavior become acceptable? Is it because you’re the only hospital for a 30-minute drive?

And, so what if I had been seeking drugs or high on some unknown concoction? Would that have made it okay for your staff to treat me thusly? Would Nurse A have been justified in declaring my altered state and treating me like garbage? Would Doctor H have been justified in how he treated me? When did nursing and healing give anyone that sort of power? When did people cease to be worthy of kindness, quality health care and gentleness based upon their drug use, or the address they live at?

When did you decide who deserves to be treated with dignity and respect and who does not? When did your medical staff earn that right to decide also?

If we’re completely honest, most of the people I know who abuse pills go to your ER at least once bimonthly to get refills. Your ER physicians pass out opioid scripts like candy and then mistreat the people they’re supplying? Thanks to you, I must hide the pain medication I loathe to take now, because someone will surely break in to my home and steal them if they know I have them. You, and other hospitals like you, are feeding addicts and creating innocent bystander victims like me, but that’s another conversation.

This is difficult to write, because you have your hooks in all over this town. This is difficult to write, because the trauma of that night is still fresh in my mind, and I often cry when I think about it. This is difficult to write, because the reality that I have had to now teach my child to ask any ambulance we ever need to call again to take us to Erie shouldn’t be necessary. This is difficult to write, but it needs to be said, especially since I’ve been finding out that I’m not the only person this has happened to.

You need to address these issues. You need to stop handing out scripts like promotional coupons, and perhaps you won’t have nurses and doctors assuming everyone’s on drugs or seeking them. You need to discourage the abusive and toxic behavior of your staff, and hold them accountable when patients complain. Let me put this into perspective for you: I’m pretty sure Nurse A is the same age as my oldest daughter, and my child would eat mud before she treated anyone like that. Why? Because my kids were never allowed to behave that way in the first place, but to stay on topic, she grew up with consequences, and as an adult still recognizes their severity.

As the events of that night become clearer to me, and I continue my peaceful, miraculous recovery at home, I am determined not to hold on to bitterness about what happened to me at your ER. I am determined to make the most of the second chance at life I’ve been given, and leave your abusive staff in the past. I’ll probably pass some of them in the super market, or sit behind them in church, our town is so small. And while you and your toxic staff will cease to haunt my future, I will surely haunt yours. Nurse A, Doctor H, and Nurses B through whatever… will never forget the night the woman with the blue hair nearly died because they were too busy wrongly judging to actually care.

I am determined to walk out the rest of my life in kindness, the very discussion I had in a blackout with God while your nurse accused me of faking a seizure. I will pray, hoping with all hope that kindness will once again be requisite for employment in your ER and every area of your corporation. Believe me, it’s possible and good for profits. The entire time I spent in Pittsburgh at Magee I never encountered a single unkind staff member from the surgeons to the housekeepers.

I know you can do it.

Cover Image Credit: Heidi Owens

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Dear Nancy Pelosi, 16-Year-Olds Should Not Be Able To Vote

Because I'm sure every sixteen year old wants to be rushing to the voting booth on their birthday instead of the BMV, anyways.


Recent politicians such as Nancy Pelosi have put the voting age on the political agenda in the past few weeks. In doing so, some are advocating for the voting age in the United States to be lowered from eighteen to sixteen- Here's why it is ludicrous.

According to a study done by "Circle" regarding voter turnout in the 2018 midterms, 31% of eligible people between the ages of 18 and 29 voted. Thus, nowhere near half of the eligible voters between 18 and 29 actually voted. To anyone who thinks the voting age should be lowered to sixteen, in relevance to the data, it is pointless. If the combination of people who can vote from the legal voting age of eighteen to eleven years later is solely 31%, it is doubtful that many sixteen-year-olds would exercise their right to vote. To go through such a tedious process of amending the Constitution to change the voting age by two years when the evidence doesn't support that many sixteen-year-olds would make use of the new change (assuming it would pass) to vote is idiotic.

The argument can be made that if someone can operate heavy machinery (I.e. drive a car) at sixteen, they should be able to vote. Just because a sixteen-year-old can (in most places) now drive a car and work at a job, does not mean that they should be able to vote. At the age of sixteen, many students have not had fundamental classes such as government or economics to fully understand the political world. Sadly, going into these classes there are students that had mere knowledge of simple political knowledge such as the number of branches of government. Well, there are people above the age of eighteen who are uneducated but they can still vote, so what does it matter if sixteen-year-olds don't know everything about politics and still vote? At least they're voting. Although this is true, it's highly doubtful that someone who is past the age of eighteen, is uninformed about politics, and has to work on election day will care that much to make it to the booths. In contrast, sixteen-year-olds may be excited since it's the first time they can vote, and likely don't have too much of a tight schedule on election day, so they still may vote. The United States does not need people to vote if their votes are going to be uneducated.

But there are some sixteen-year-olds who are educated on issues and want to vote, so that's unfair to them. Well, there are other ways to participate in government besides voting. If a sixteen-year-old feels passionate about something on the political agenda but can't vote, there are other ways of getting involved. They can canvas for politicians whom they agree with, or become active in the notorious "Get Out The Vote" campaign to increase registered voter participation or help register those who already aren't. Best yet, they can politically socialize their peers with political information so that when the time comes for all of them to be eighteen and vote, more eighteen-year-olds will be educated and likely to vote.

If you're a sixteen-year-old and feel hopeless, you're not. As the 2016 election cycle approached, I was seventeen and felt useless because I had no vote. Although voting is arguably one of the easiest ways to participate in politics, it's not the only one. Since the majority of the current young adult population don't exercise their right to vote, helping inform them of how to stay informed and why voting is important, in my eyes is as essential as voting.

Sorry, Speaker Pelosi and all the others who think the voting age should be lowered. I'd rather not have to pay a plethora of taxes in my later years because in 2020 sixteen-year-olds act like sheep and blindly vote for people like Bernie Sanders who support the free college.

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