February 22, 2025

The scheduled departure in the late morning allows me to prepare at a relatively leisurely pace – although the lack of pressure is deceptive, as it turns out that I will end up forgetting quite a few things, which is fairly regrettable. Traveling in the Dominican Republic is perhaps too easy, at least it has been thus far. One last Uber ride in Santiago, to the Los Jardines Caribe Tours office where I arrived three days ago, buying a ticket, then waiting with the crowds of locals for the bus heading north to Puerto Plata. Fortunately, the trip won’t be spend standing.

 

Traffic in Santiago is congested as usual, and it is so much more demanding for a bus of this size to attempt to wend around the narrow alleys in the city. Finally, we proceed far enough to the north of Santiago, where the traffic is thinner and flows more freely, then climb from the rolling terrain of the valley Santiago is located in to the verdant hills that line the north coast of the island.

The low peaks slide by, the small settlements that clutter the roadside closer to Santiago eventually dissipate, the road weaving through the valleys and along the steep hillsides, the heavy rain clouds billowing above us and darkening the sky, then as we emerge from the hilly landscape and approach the coast, the Caribbean appears before us in the distance and the sky eventually clears.

Where the apartment in Santiago is passable but ultimately quite run-down, the space in Puerto Plata is simpler, less encumbered, with essentially two rooms, a combined kitchen, living and dining room, and a bedroom, both substantial in size, to the point of being cavernous – and almost impeccably well taken care of, the dishes and appliances in the kitchen almost all new, the furniture new, the space either new or fully refurbished, enough electrical plugs, perfectly functioning wifi, lighting, etc. It is a distance from the centre of town, but really just a 20 minute walk, not that the modest historic town is much reason for being here.

The neighborhood where the Airbnb is located is run-down and drab, with small shops and bodegas and a very incidental, ramshackle feeling, the tenor of locals on the street tenuous to the extent that under circumstances – such as in the dark of night – the neighborhood may not be so safe. Then again, given that Puerto Plata has long been a major beach destination for masses of visitors around the world, it could also be the case that locals are simply not as interested in warm engagement with visitors as they are in less touristed towns. Where I have found my privacy largely respected in other towns in the country, alone a short walk down the street reveals a different experience, motorcycle and car taxi drivers continually calling to me and promoting their services. Somewhat annoying, yes, but Egypt it certainly is not.

Walking into the historic town, markers of architectural pedigree appear, including carefully painted two-tone wood structures with delicately sculpted gable trim, the sculpted stone balustrades so typical in the country, narrow patios delineated by slender columns and latticework fanlights. The Parque de la Independencia is already close at hand, the Catedral de San Felipe Apóstol on one side a somewhat squat, uninspired-seeming structure, except when viewed from a frontal position, where it almost comes across as a turreted structure from the fringes of the Sahara.

The square is a lively affair, small eateries as well as snack and souvenir shops ringing the bucolic space, a smattering of locals relaxing on benches, mothers with children, and a few foreigners to boot, coloured streamers hanging from structures on the plaza enrichening the visual landscape, as do the oversized mannequins clad in what appear to be carnival costumes huddled against trees, the flowing brilliantly painted bougainvillea and the murals depicting local cultural and historical icons swathed across entire walls.

Character buildings restored in a whimsical manner make their appearance further toward the waterfront, although given how quiet it seems here, it isn’t clear who some of these businesses or services are catering to. Then the malecón itself, a broad sidewalk that abuts the wide boulevard, ironically much larger in girth than the tract of highway from Santiago to the coast, and on the far side, through the screen of mangroves and scrub, views of the sea, the visual treat complimented by a rich and aromatic breeze.

The waterfront promenade extends toward the town centre as well as the communities to the north, but here, facing the occasional resort-style local restaurant on the far side of the road, no visitors are visible, in fact, virtually no people are visible at all. The sand is littered with debris, although mostly of an organic sort, the shade under the palm trees lined with small fishing boats, the environment in enough of a state of disrepair to suggest that it would only be used by locals for fishing, rather than cater to the recreational whims of international visitors.

Walking leisurely to the north, the town centre extending beside me, the park land developed around the Fortaleza de San Felipe occupies a small gated promontory that contains select housing developments, the waterfront walkway zig-zagging along the low cliff facing the shallow waters below.

The sandy beach that lines the shore further north transforms into jagged volcanic rock, the visitor intended to do no more than look out from the paved concourse above onto the waters in the distance, but that doesn’t seem to prevent local youth climbing onto the rocks and diving into the shallow pool below. Happily, the crescent of water immediately around the spot they have chosen is sandy and shallow, but not far beyond, the floor of the sea is strewn with rock.

Further along, the views of the sea unfold as the broad walkway spans the distance to the tip of the spit of land, near which sits the small fortress that has evidently been restored. I am unmotivated to visit the structure itself, but also recognize that it will be nothing more than a set of raw stone walls inside, bereft of embellishments or displays that could capture the viewer’s interest.

A handful of locals and foreign tourists wander along the pathways and manicured lawn that cover much of the promontory, but despite its bucolic feeling, it doesn’t seem to integrate very well with the core of Puerto Plata itself, given the dilapidated state of the park entrance and the fact that it degenerates along the main road into a sprawl of commercial facilities. This seems to belie the manner in which a tourist resort such as Puerto Plata should be developed, but perhaps it makes little difference at this point, given how evidently abandoned the place is.

While the vicinity of the town itself doesn’t seem to cater to beach tourists – judging by the absence of tourists of any sort and the lack of adequately groomed sandy beaches – the town does have its character and history. Its buildings are brightly painted, with whimsical murals on the modest walls, and colonnaded facades, fanlights, and wooden shutters, typical markers of the historical Dominican town, but here with a lot more colour. There are souvenir shops, locals calling obvious foreigners to inspect their shops’ merchandise, some restaurants, cafes, chocolate shops, small bursts of bougainvillea – but there are few people on the ground, and virtually no foreigners. Puerto Plata on a late Saturday afternoon …

Back to the Parque de la Independencia, the families now gathering on the benches or standing around, the children keeping themselves wildly entertained without the slightest need for intervention on the part of the parents; three young boys find their Styrofoam plane with a broken wing endlessly entertaining, while a chubby young boy can’t stop racing his bicycle back and forth across the square. The few vendors of toys on the square can’t seem to sell anything, and the two tonier restaurants across the cathedral are almost entirely empty.

I find it strange, almost disturbing, how quiet the town is as the afternoon wanes and the early evening approaches. It is Saturday, and yet the centre of town is unusually quiet, never mind being virtually bereft of any foreigners. Isn’t this one of the prime destinations for beach tourism in the country? Sure, many people come here on cruise ships, the coastline should be lined with resorts, and visitors would want to find interesting and fun things to do, which would include visiting the town of Puerto Plata itself, presumably the primary historic enclave on the north coast. But it seems not. It should be in season, it is currently the dry season, and the weather couldn’t get any colder back home. And yet …

Back into the side streets close to the parque, and a different world unfolds, rough, run down houses, abandoned, untended, the few people I see loitering around speaking of a demographic that would usually be inappropriate for the resort-style tourists to encounter. Further to the west, well beyond where I am staying, and closer to the malecón, the residential housing speaks to a wealthier demographic, culminating in the enormous Sirena hypermarket, which I am certainly grateful for; if I am going to spend money stocking my kitchen, I want the best selection – and prices – I can get.

Unpacking in the evening, I realize that I left a lot more than I had initially thought in the apartment in Santiago. It hurts considering that being organized is key to being able to travel – losing things is a really bad idea, given that every thing you carry with you has a purpose. Not having checked the fridge prior to leaving, I ended up leaving behind a tomato, a small bag of onions, a bag of garlic, four power bars, and an almost entire bottle of Mamajuana, a traditional Dominican alcoholic beverage that includes spiced rum made from steeping rum, wine, honey, and herbs together. Well, on second thought, losing the vegies is hardly a crisis – and it’s not as if the hooch was that good to begin with …

Later in the evening, I hear an increasingly amplified patter on the roof, which suggests rain – and it is. The sound becomes more intense, then subsides, and much later in the evening, returns, a dense curtain of rain drops drumming on the roof of the house, then receding again …