4. Laguna de Oviedo
Take a boat trip across the swampy waters of a saltwater lagoon and, with a bit of luck, you’ll spot flamingos and rare rhinoceros iguanas
‘Welcome to the world’, says park ranger Moreno Perez de la Paz, as he silences the rhythmic putter of the outboard motor. He loosely ties the boat to a driftwood pontoon on the shoreline, glancing back across Laguna de Oviedo before stepping onto the island. ‘We’re in dragon territory now, so keep a look out.’
Barely covering 10 square miles in the Dominican Republic’s undeveloped southwest, Laguna de Oviedo may be a sliver of saltwater on the map, but its reedy shallows, mangroves and remote islands are a haven for all kinds of wildlife. Part of the Jaragua National Park, it’s the largest protected nature refuge in the Caribbean.
On a sticky, overcast afternoon, Moreno creeps through the damp thickets with considered footsteps, using a rusted machete to shape a path. Cocking an ear to one side, he listens for forest-floor rustles and sounds in the trees. The signs to look for, he says, are wobbling branches and falling pungent fruit. Around him, every plant has a spike, every leaf a set of fang-like teeth.
Moments later, a flurry of staccato squawks disturb the jungle hush. It’s a white ibis protecting its offspring, one of a number of residents that nest on the lagoon’s islands. Moreno points through the knotted trees and foliage to a giant candelabra-shaped cactus that has sprouted into a makeshift crib. Inside is an eyrie of hungry chicks. ‘False alarm,’ he adds. ‘We’ll have better luck next time.’
Laguna de Oveido is wildly different to anything else in the Dominican Republic. As tidal water from the Caribbean Sea funnels its way into the lagoon, percolating through an underground karst limestone depression, the water experiences extremes of salinity’, turning a murky’ olive-green. Candy’-pink flamingos and roseate spoonbills, more spectacularly feathered than any carnival booty-shaker, swoop low over the soupy water, while hawksbill and leatherback turtles graze on briny algae, laying eggs after nightfall. In the treetops, gregarious birds such as glossy egrets and great blue herons spread their broad wings.
The lack of larger predators also explains why the lagoon’s remote islands have become one of the last refuges for the rhinoceros iguana, making the Dominican Republic one of only two countries (along with neighbouring Haiti) where it’s still possible to see the one-and-a-half-metre long iguanas, also known as Goliath dragons, in the wild. At the last count, there were nearly 400 on the lagoon’s largest islands.
As Moreno clambers across a succession of razor-sharp limestone rocks, carefully negotiating a trail bound by sabre-tooth agave and multi-limbed barrel cactus, he describes his lifelong respect for the national park’s elusive lizard. His father was once bitten by one while out tracking, he says, a clean wound straight to the bone, and it’s a lesson he’s always kept in mind.
As he finishes his story Moreno flinches. Pointing straight ahead, a soft smile appearing on his lips. At the centre of the bower, part hidden in shade, is a steel-grey, brooding male with piercing eyes and a saggy wattle of thick mottled skin beneath its jaw. It has a crest of horned scales from its nape to its tail, its own menacing plate of armour. Unperturbed, the giant lizard continues to munch on fallen black mango seeds, much like a cowboy chewing tobacco. Moments later, a second, bolder male appears along a bowing branch only metres away. ‘Look at that tough guy,’ Moreno whispers. ‘He’s surveying his kingdom now, but he’ll later slip away and it’ll be as if he was never here at all.’