February 26, 2025

The momentous day arrives: leaving my comfortable and clean abode in Puerto Plata, ultimately an acceptable choice, although hardly a pinnacle of luxury. In light of the challenges I am experiencing in the country, at least it is in an authentic part of the local community, however unglamorous that may be. Now on to the Parada San Juan, whose name presumably corresponds to Rio San Juan, one of the primary communities on the northeastern coast of the country. I wait and wait, but the bus leaves at the appointed hour and no earlier – and surprisingly, with virtually no passengers. Small shops sell coffee and greasy empanadas, large and with a tasty filling – empanadas seem to always be a good choice for fast food in the country – and inexpensive.

Through the sprawl of development along the now familiar road to Sosúa, with occasional patches of undeveloped land and some sense of local identity, although the large resort developments continually raise their soulless heads, all the way to Cabarete. At least as viewed from the road, Cabarete gives quite a different impression from the one publicized in travel literature, namely that of an outdoor sports entrepot.

The sprawling town hugs the beach, the waterfront visible through the alleys that run from the highway to the beach. Perhaps the sea is ideal for marine sports such as kitesurfing, parasailing and whatnot, but the town is dominated by endless condo complexes being flogged to tourists, with a plethora of restaurants and services to draw in a demographic of visitors that is unlikely to be performing any marginally risky water sports. You may not want to be staying in a place that faces the main road, but you will always be very close to the beach here, and then the side roads seem to be too narrow and confined to support the obnoxious traffic that destroys the typical urban Dominican setting. Small shops, restaurants, bars and cafes abound, but with what seems like some degree of character. So Cabarete would be worth visiting at some point – but not today!

The landscape to the east of Cabarete changes dramatically, the lack of tourist development displaying the country as it was before tourism afflicted it. Open grassy plains, grazing cattle, the open dome of the sky, small, very proper and inviting towns, with stores, services, plentiful activity, but with an organic sense of order and identity that eludes the towns I have visited that have essentially sold their soul for tourism. There is something so attractive about these places that I fail to see in the likes of Puerto Plata and Sosúa, an authenticity of spirit – and paucity of people with no connection to the place, that simply see the locale as a commodity and nothing more.

Much of the terrain is flat, but we come into sections that are hilly, the road weaving through the dense forest, the girth of the trees showing that there are actually tracts of relatively untouched forest, which seems shocking in the country. Occasional signed portals set at the edge of some pastoral tract announce an actual or incipient resort, a road leading through the gate deep into the obscured terrain to the rear, promising a bucolic retreat to early buyers before the masses arrive and ransack the remaining available real estate – for much less advantageous prices. And therein lies the paradox of buying into paradise as a retreat from the masses – you are part of an inevitable snowball effect that results in ruining the land you have invested in, precisely due to the success of your venture.

The road hugs the coast, the seemingly interminable beach visible through a screen of uninterrupted screen of coconut palms, scenic and also monotone, few people visible around us, although in the infrequent smaller town, you can see the odd foreigner, obviously familiar enough with the environs to want to discover or engage in locales that are far more culturally authentic and attractive. On occasions, our vehicle slows down to pick up passengers that flag us down, but the trip is largely uninterrupted, the bus remaining relatively empty the entire trip – certainly optimal comfort for myself, the bucolic landscape filling the picture windows as we speed along the impeccably-paved road.

The landscape continues unfolding with its varied attractions, but as we approach Sanchez, the weather changes considerably, the warm, beaming sun that dominated most of the day now quickly transforming into a leaden blanket of thick grey clouds – and rain. While this bus is supposedly heading to Las Terrenas, I am concerned about a comment someone made to me a few days ago to the effect that the vehicle would only approach the town, but not actually enter. What stands out beyond the dark and rainy weather is the dense forest and soaring topography of the Samaná peninsula.

Sanchez comes upon us soon enough, and I hope that we will take the route that emanates north from the town to Las Terrenas. The road climbs steeply – very steeply – the pitch not abating, higher and higher, at an utterly improbable incline, the road around us revealing verdant landscapes of mixed agriculture, modest houses, papaya trees, coconut palms, banana trees, and African tulip trees.

Following some curve, stunning views of the coastline far below open up, the vista veiled in grey mist momentarily disappearing again. Since our conductor has disembarked in Sanchez, no one is left on the bus to admonish me for leaving the window open, but then this high up, in this rainy weather, the heat is long gone, and the air conditioning in the vehicle is no longer necessary.

We continue climbing, the minibus maintaining its speed as the steep incline continues unabated; at Lost Puentes, the land finally levels out somewhat, and then we descend, the road zig-zagging downhill toward Las Terrenas, the profile of the hillsides darkening against the remaining light of the horizon painted with heavy rain clouds. My window is open and camera poised, but there is little chance of being able to capture meaningful images, given the speed at which the bus is moving and the relatively complicated compositions the rapidly passing images represent.

Las Terrenas, finally: but anti-climatically, given that the town is evidently the same congested, polluted mess that universally the case for towns in the country impacted by tourism, but not necessarily otherwise, given the largely bucolic setting along the north coast to the east of Cabarete reveals itself to be.

Now how to get to my Airbnb from the bus station that is quite far from the centre? An Uber motorcycle driver comes to my rescue, although he tells me that apparently Uber is banned here, and one is supposed to use to the local motorcycle taxi drivers. The Airbnb is a far cry from the spacious homes I have stayed in thus far in the country; for the same price, the space may be very proper and clean, but effectively a studio apartment with limited privacy.

The place features a small kitchen/dining area in one room and bedroom in another, adjoined by a small bathroom. The facilities are very proper and clean, in an excellent state of repair, and very functional. The AC functions impeccably – but the fridge doesn’t, and I suspect it’s because the door doesn’t stay closed. Another gripe, the bed’s mattress is thin foam, kind of unacceptable for the price point. On the upside, the place is tucked away in a back alley, far enough from the main road to avoid the deafening noise and toxic air that the usual procession of cars, motorcycles and ATVs spew out.

The Dominican Republic has in some ways a very high calibre of tourism, good retail and hospitality services, good infrastructure, good beaches, and great vibes – but given that vehicles are largely unregulated, the streets have degenerated into an utterly polluted mess. Whatever positive expectations I had of Las Terrenas are largely tossed out the window when attempting to walk along the narrow sidewalk in the cloud of toxic fumes and alongside the never-ending procession of vehicles, the overweight older Caucasians or their young blond counterparts on ATVs the nadir of what I imagine a reasonable beach experience to be.

The town flows northward toward the beach in somewhat of a gulley, the traffic concentrating on two main roads that run in close proximity to the water, the beach itself somewhat lacklustre, but complimented by a coterie of beachfront bars and restaurants hosting a lively cohort of locals and Caucasians, mostly Canadians and Americans, the booze-fueled revelry underlined by the blaring Dominican rhythms.

The strip along the waterfront radiates fun – but the kind of fun I haven’t taken any interest in for a very long time. I believe the town may be a suitable base for services, accommodation, and onward travel – the next leg and essentially final leg of travel being challenging as well, given that I will have to return all the way to Santo Domingo before heading east to Punta Cana.

Happily, it seems that following nightfall, the traffic has died down somewhat, revealing the authentic ambience of the many restaurants radiating away from the shore; unlike their popular brethren by the water, most don’t experience visible numbers of guests, despite having a reasonable character, quality menus and not unreasonable prices. But I didn’t rent an Airbnb with a kitchen for nothing – that feature incurs a substantial markup, and I am quite happy to continue to La Sirena, conveniently close to the apartment, stock up on an ample supply of bread, yoghurt, cereal, juices, meat cuts, cheese, and so on to provide for the next four days’ breakfasts – for the price of two dinners. For me, having an ample stock of fresh fruit is important, and here that means banana, melon, zapote and papaya. Except that my fridge doesn’t work …