March 1, 2025

I had wanted to extend my Claro mobile program for the remaining period of time I am in the country, and that should in theory have been straightforward, except in the small mother-daughter outlet I visit in the centre of town, an older French couple is experiencing challenges with their SIM, which after some wrangling, turns out was never activated – they were effectively cheated out of their money. Albeit for an amount of seven to ten euro, not much, but nonetheless. Due to their lack of familiarity with the culture and language and their age-related challenges – she of somewhat clouded judgement and he displaying Parkinson’s symptoms – one asks oneself what they are doing here.

I take the opportunity to chat philosophically about life with the older Dominican woman that owns the shop, but finally am fed up with being held up by the French couple, get my minutes and data extended, and am off. To one of the innumerable French cafes in the area, that may in theory have good food, wine, and so on, but brazenly ambivalent to the exigencies of Dominican coffee, serving generic machine espresso.

The plan for the day is to explore the beaches to the west of town, of which there are apparently many. However, of these beaches, most are not accessible from the main road. You could possibly reach them by means of side roads that don’t appear on the map or perhaps enclosed by private resorts, but I don’t have enough info to plan anything concrete.

Once outside of Las Terrenas and its traffic mayhem, the mix of locals and tourists running a frenzied, seemingly endless race with their motocross bikes and ATVs around town, the traffic thins out considerably, the land becomes much greener, and the air much more breathable.

The perfectly paved road climbs gradually up the ridges of the hills that line the peninsula; as I climb higher, the sheet of blue opens up to the north, the sandy beach visible through the filter of palm trees arced at odd angles, then higher up, the shoreline recedes below, and the broad disc of the sea comes into view, the sharp edges of the hillsides painted against the horizon in rich olive and earth tones.

Higher and higher still, curving back and forth, the dramatic views come to a head at the mirador “Mi Paraíso”, groups of Latin American and western tourists gathered to take the predictable selfies of the picture-perfect views of the coastline below, the land overrun by verdant vegetation, the sea a pale turquoise, and along the artisanal cobblestone surfacing of the lookout, fine shards of broken glass, something that crops up in select locations and is an ample reminder of the amount of alcohol consumed here.

Further west, the road eventually weaves downhill again, back and forth, the encompassing views of the curved bay and the tiny palms lining the sand coming into closer view as my elevation gradually descends. Closer to sea level, a soldier monitors the entrance to a gravel road that drops off to a dirt track weaving along palm trees to a sandy patch and Playa Paloki, the last major beach prior to El Catey airport.

No evidence of the airport is visible from the beach – except for the airplanes taking off in sequence, interrupting the bucolic peace of the environment. Several other things stand out on the beach – the line of broken palm trunks that extend precariously close to the water’s edge, and the lack of visitors. There are some, riding along the dirt track that closely hugs the back of the beach, more memorably, young local men whizzing along the beach on their motorcycles, probably because they can, and also because the loose sand on the trail next to the beach is too challenging from a standpoint of traction.

The beach itself is another stunner, the image of peace and calm, the modest surf crashing at intervals at some distance from shore, the water visibly shallow. When I finally manage to get up from my wet towel – the same towel I will have to use to used to dry myself at the apartment – find the water to be just perfect, not too cold, with little surge and backflow to fight against, not that I feel like going on a long swim.

The beach is clean of debris and seaweed extending some distance in either direction, littered with nothing more than the stumps of the coconut palms, a few tattered cumulus clouds propped up against the sky above, and the curtain of remaining palms nestled along the backside of the sandy stretch.

What could have caused this amount of damage to the palms – and why are the remnants so close to the water’s edge? What comes to mind is that some storm may have destroyed the trees closest to the water’s edge and eroded the shoreline to the extent that the destroyed trees appear to be growing in the salty littoral. I am surprised to see that the palms on the trees that have been knocked over have such a shallow root system.

Where are all these people motoring along the beach traveling to? From the map, it would appear that the road ends at the Playa Las Majaguas, not far to the east – but why would so many people be heading in that direction, when virtually no one is visible on Playa Paloki? There is only one way of finding out – plying the road leading east: weaving slowly through the loose sandy surface, admiring the stunning mountainous landscape and occasional floral treasures, I soon arrive at what appears to appear the furthest east I can travel on this trail that branches occasionally into several paths meant to avoid the worst excesses of loose sand.

The beach here is much narrower, the mangroves growing down to the waterline, requiring me to take my shoes off and wade through the water much of the remaining distance to Playa Jackson, which, according to the map, is inaccessible by means of any road. Here there are scattered Dominican families splashing in the water, the environment certainly attractive enough by other standards, although deplorable by Dominican standards.

Why do people come to this beach, I ask a French woman next to her ATV on the flank of mangroves obstructing continuation on the beach, and she confirms what I think – people come here to find something that people have always sought on remote beaches, peace, tranquility, a profound sense of connection with nature, unlike the places where you can drive your car right up to the water’s edge, play music at deafening volumes, get drunk, and generally behave in a way that completely contradicts the essence of the nature that many people seek here.

She and her husband has been coming here for 20 years, but it is has changed tremendously, especially with the incursion of mass tourism from Canada, a town such as Las Terrenas that used to be a quiet fishing village now overwhelmed with traffic as well as air and noise pollution, most available land nearby committed to the development of resorts intended to flog some commodification of paradise that amounts to nothing but a simulacrum of the precisely the thing they found in earlier times without any effort.

Time to say goodbye to this private and serene tract of lovely sand, simply because the day was to be dedicated to exploring more than one beach. But the time has passed, what with the late start from Las Terrenas, and now, returning along the mountain road leading to town, the gathering mass of dark clouds does what it threatens to do, unleashing torrential rain. The rain cape I bring provides momentary relief, but stopping altogether and looking for shelter seems like a better idea – but where on this exposed mountain road?

It seems a number of other travelers have had the same idea at a cave that offers some shelter from the rain, quarreling Dominican lovers and an aloof film crew of sorts from some Baltic country, offering an incongruous vantage point from which to observe humanity until the rain recedes somewhat. Further to the east, the rain clouds dissipate, and the late afternoon air has been left fresh and clean.

The next beach for which there is a direct access road is Playa Cosón, much closer to town. It could be an adventure to park somewhere along the highway and trek through the bush to some beach, but at this time of the afternoon it may not be such a good idea, especially with the risk of another downpour. Fortunately, while rains here occur, they are scattered and ephemeral, not much of an incursion into the day’s activities.

A narrow alley leads to the beach, another spectacular strip of pale sand leading into the distance, lined with palm trees arcing toward the water, the waves lapping gently toward the shore, indicating a gently-pitched seabed. A sign posted on one of the palms points to a risk of dangerous currents, but the sight of people at various points standing knee-deep far into the sea makes the concern seem somewhat lacking in credibility.

Unlike the beaches further to the airport around which the terrain seems to be wild and unattended, at Playa Cosón the resorts have firmly applied their grip, although unlike the somewhat gaudy weatherworn enclaves in the Puerto Plata area, these enterprises are far more elegant and spacious, with expansive landscaped lots complimenting relatively tasteful but not oversized buildings, their design lending themselves much more aptly to the notion of an escape to a bucolic tropical island paradise.

But I want none of this, and am happy to wander cheerfully along the beautiful beach with no more than a daypack with my possessions, happy to throw a blanket onto the hopefully dry sand and take in the remaining sunlight of the afternoon, the shimmering yellow disc now hovering immediately over the palm trees far to the west, the pale emerald translucence of the sea transforming into an oblique mat of deepening blue, the few individuals that were wandering on the beach earlier on having left.

Dusk sets in as I return to the quagmire of Las Terrenas. I buy vegetables and fruit for one last evening at a roadside produce vendor, rather than just spending money in the same big box store (La Sirena). Next I want to confirm tomorrow’s bus departure to Santo Domingo at the Astropusa bus station – except that the bus station is informal, and there is no trace of life at this point in the day.

I would like to return the scooter to the rental place, but the workers have already left for the day. So there is nothing left to do but return through the grinding traffic to the small apartment set in the hood, prepare an ample meal of pasta with a stewed beef topping, sandwiches filled with the remains of cheese and cut meats, ample rehydration, and one last evening lying gratefully in the stream of cold air thanks to that one thing that allows me to survive here – air conditioning!