March 3, 2025

A solid breakfast of yoghurt, French bread with fake gouda, copious fruit nectar (juice with added sugar and water) – i.e. not the Koolaid-like Rica brand – and scrambled eggs with onion, tomato, garlic and fresh white cheese. A good start of the day for someone who eats too much but looks perennially anorexic.

The plan for the day is to visit what appear to be the most common beaches in Punta Cana, the ones that radiate on either side of Playa del Cortecito. Apparently, the buses and gua-guas that trundle along the main road pass by that area, entering a village area quite close to the beach. An issue with beach access is that the “public” roads are kept at some distance from the coast, allowing the megaresorts to encroach entirely on beach areas, thus hampering access, even though the coastal area is technically public. You certainly don’t want to waste your time traveling some distance and expense to get to a beach, then find that all access is blocked to the public.

As luck has it, a luxury coach pulls up to the food court area on Avenida Barceló where others are waiting, and for DOP 70 pesos, I am set for the trip to the beach. The fare seems quite high for public transport, but I suppose the mindset is that if you can afford to be here in any capacity – almost all the people who transit on this route are locals and probably work in tourism – you should be able to pay your share.

The usual problem arises – the two-lane road we are on continuously comes to a standstill due to stopping buses and parked service vehicles; motorcycles and scooters can pass, but four wheel vehicles have no chance. So we advance slowly, although much quicker than walking, and finally, the bus pulls into the developments adjoining Cortecito beach. Telling is the amount of construction going on the area, which may point to dated developments being leveled for far larger, more modern – and more lucrative – enterprises.

En route to the area, you can see sprawling resorts on either side of the main road, a sea of cookie-cutter multi-unit chalets in landscaped gardens, all very seductive when you are in the confines of your accommodation, but perhaps far less so when you leave and realize you are a considerable trek from anywhere, never mind the beach. And judging by the public spaces in the Cortecito area that adjoin the beach, it means wading past innumerable vendors of souvenirs, the gaudy paintings that seem to have taken the market by storm here – that no one in their right mind would buy, even the heavily drinking Canadians you see in the Samaná peninsula.

Vendors shout at passing tourists, garbage is strewn along the sandy paths, the bins just outside the entrance to the beach overflowing with their reeking contents. A handful of squalid eateries are strewn throughout the mess of souvenir shops, probably the only places you can get decently priced local food without having to pay the exorbitant prices of beachside resorts – or worse, starve, since many if not most of the resorts are accessible to members only, and there may be public restaurants otherwise.

Now, the beach, a different world altogether, Caucasians and to a lesser extent Latinos parading self-contentedly along the packed sand, sprawling resorts hugging the sandy shores with their arrays of cushioned deck chairs, waiters bringing drinks and food items to reclining guests, the tall Royal palms gently arced in the overhead breeze, covered excursion boats anchored in the shallow water, a few motor boats, but next to no waterborne furor of motorized boats, Sea-Doos, jet skis, and other noise-creating marine vessels. And certainly no fishing boats, the entire coast unequivocally devoted to pleasing the hordes of package tourists from far-flung destinations seeking their image of paradise here.

The field of vision is dominated by the water: irrespective of the degree to which the beachfront has been relegated to gargantuan resorts, the horizon is dominated by the shallow pale sand beach flowing into the translucent pale emerald water, gradually darkening further out, the deeper green transforming into a light shade of blue far outside the perimeter of the buoys strung in the water in parallel with the shoreline. As mesmerizing as the radiant beauty of the water is and as busy as the resort properties and shoreline, there are few people in the water, neither here on Playa Bavaro, further north on Playa Del Corralito, nor off the empty zone reaching to Playa de Arena Blanca.

The water is so inviting; walking into the outermost waves splashing against my legs, feeling the contours of the sandy ridges with my feet, the water reaching my knees, then further out, my waist as swell upon swell surges forward, the glassy pale green mass moving fluidly toward me, swallowing my body, then releasing me as it slides toward the shore.

The heavily trodden sand is washed clean by the residual waves lapping the shore, the clarity of the water near the shallows astonishing, the sky bereft of any cloud that could obstruct the penetrating rays of sun emanating from above.

A few boats offer parasailing, the clients harnessed into seats attached to a large parachute-like sail, gradually lifting off from the sea and hovering into the air, the boat towing the guests slowly back and forth, maintaining a gradual speed so as to prevent the people attached to the sail from climbing too high, and not venturing too far out to sea.

What stands out in the exercise is that while the resorts may promote themselves for the availability of water sports, the bulk of guests are too old or culturally maladroit to engage in activities that require some athleticism, even to the extent that they are coddled so as to minimize any risk. I could have taken a more adventurous approach to my first day on the beach here, but didn’t bother carrying my snorkeling equipment with me. That said, my daypack is heavy enough as it is, and having to carrying so much for so far is daunting.

Limited numbers of vendors are active on the beaches, judging from the dark complexion, probably Haitians, young men wandering around with parrots or iguanas on their shoulders, the docile animals intended for paying photos, men carrying tables on their heads with cheap jewelry, small groups of women offering massages, but overall, the incursion of these largely ambulatory vendors is quite low-key, as the beach could conceivably quickly become quite chaotic.

While small, discreet sections of beach are dedicated to souvenir shops and basic eateries, the bulk of the beach is limited to resorts – or no development of any sort, which also means that if you go for a long walk without eating beforehand – as I am doing – you will eventually have a problem. Lying on the sand and suntanning hardly consumes a lot of energy, but the intense sun is very draining, and once you begin moving again, the exhaustion is palpable.

Further up, the beach becomes less busy, Playa Cortecito visible at the far end of the arc, as well as the entrance to the beach at Playa Bavaro; the swath of sand opens up, the back of the beach lined with fencing, suggesting land that thankfully has not yet been developed, the water emanating into the bay before me as lustrous and shallow as any, with limited numbers of bathers venturing into the water due to the relative distance from their resorts.

The water is simply fantastic everywhere, the pale green contrasting subtly with the blue of the sky, stained with tinges of fringed cotton batting, the crowns of the Royal palms swaying flamboyantly along the coastline, and around me, a peace and tranquility far removed from the mayhem of the town. I had thought about walking beyond Playa Arena Blanca, further north toward Playa Arena Gorda, but this is too captivating; it’s too easy to simply lie on the sand and let time drift by as the hot sunshine beats down on my body.