March 5, 2025

It should have been a perfect day for exploring some local beaches, but due to domestic challenges, things did not quite work out so well. The challenges didn’t quite get resolved, but they did delay my departure from the apartment until 1 pm, which is tragic, considering the amount of time it takes to get anywhere in Punta Cana.

Traveling to Capcana and Juanillo beaches is out of the question, as these beaches further to the south have effectively been privatized, and although there are ways of visiting them subject to registration and paying admission fees, the overall complication just doesn’t seem worth it. After all, they are beaches, and there are lots of free beaches to visit around Los Corales to the northeast. I certainly don’t want to repeat yesterday’s drama …

The sun is shining and there is no trace of cloud in the sky as I make my way to the Olé supermarket, showing my daypack to the security guard, then looking for inexpensive disposable shavers and shaving cream, not wanting to risk running out of those essential masculine necessities. Once on the gua gua running north on Avenida Barceló, traffic grinds to a halt – simply because this is the defining experience of the Dominican Republic, and worse, the transport that was allegedly traveling all the way to Cortecito now turns out to only go to the Cocotal Golf & Country Club. Which means that I have to get off on the junction of Avenida Alemania and Calle Chicago – impressive names that do little to give a true impression how awful these roads are.

As tedious as the bus ride to the beach area is, with its constant stopping and starting, never mind the polluted air, having to trek along the long, characterless alleys to the beachfront, past the seemingly interminable walls of the resort compounds, clinging to the side of the road while huge tour buses and cement mixers rumble by. I pass the bundled up Haitian workers hunched over their tedious physical tasks, more characterless monstrosities of identical apartments stacked on top of each other, one copy of the same building erected next to the other, with little room to establish any sense of character. The narrow, dusty road winds its way to the last compound before the beach, throngs of young Caucasians trooping in my direction as I gingerly step on the sands of Playa Bibijagua.

The beach doesn’t look much different than on any other day, other than that there don’t seem to be that many people present. Perhaps it’s just a question of the resort you frequent, some resorts busier than others, perhaps with activities that require people to be somewhere else at the time. Groups of sailing boats are berthed in the shallows close to shore, with strings of small buoys that delimit the safe zone for each resort. Broad plains of pale sand spread out before me, beaten down by innumerable feet, the small heaps of sargassum clutching the edges of the shore. When do the resorts clear the beaches of the unsightly growth that has been flooding Caribbean beaches – in the middle of the night? Early in the morning, before the first revelers awake? And above, rows of ivory cumulus puffs float along the cerulean backdrop with their latent steel contours …

Closer to the beach, the translucent waters are a glassy pale green that gradually darkens moving away from the shore, although substantial patches of seaweed darken the turquoise idyll closer to shore as well, an ever-present threat to the image of tropical paradise sold to the masses who spend copious amounts of money for their ephemeral glimpse of paradise. Further out, motorboats cruise purposefully in broad arcs with parasails in tow, their slowly rotating grandeur buffeted by wind and drag. The curtain of Royal palms arcs before me, separating the beach from the cloud-stained sky.

My usual tactic is to stroll casually up the beach, then occasionally throw my towel down and when that becomes too boring, wander into the water. Having again failed to bring my snorkeling things, I am happy to simply splash around the water, watch the world pass by me, then quickly make my way back from the shallows to my towel and enjoy the respite in the waning sun. It always surprises me how quickly the afternoon passes when enjoying the time at the beach.

With the best of intentions, I will not be making it beyond Playa Bávaro; for one, the late afternoon is casting long shadows over the sand and the sargassum-filled water is now becoming unpleasant to swim in. And fortunately, this beach also offers the shortest walk to the main road; just as the trip here is regrettable, the return offers its own challenges.

Dusk approaches, then night falls; looking out over the darkened sea, it occurs to me that in the rush to wrap up affairs, shop for food, and not return to my home of the moment at too late of an hour, I have not spent time on any beach at night, soaking in the special ambience when the temperature cools, the tropical air achieving a delicious freshness, the distractions of the day melting away, and the stars and moon shining in the darkness above.

What that also means is that after slowly brushing off the annoyingly persistent fine sand from my feet, putting on my shoes, and trudging back through the array of tawdry souvenir shacks toward Avenida Barceló, I have to wait patiently as a procession of vehicles lumbers by, belching noxious smoke, then after some regrettable period of time realizing that no gua gua will be making an appearance at this point.

I commandeer an Uber to the Jumbo in downtown Punta Cana, the motive for my visit buying a selection of quality Dominican coffee, in anticipation of finishing my trip in a few days. The slow and pensive journey through the massive supermarket is definitely rewarding, the place clean, brightly lit, with a seemingly limitless selection, and all that great food I can purchase allowing me to make a great dinner not much later in the evening at my quiet, spacious, and clean apartment in the Pueblo Bávaro.