1. Cabarete
Leap down waterfalls into turquoise pools, then unwind with barbecue food and rum cocktails
Deep in the untamed. Damajagua jungle, Augusto Bonilla is preparing for the day’s big moment, patchy sunlight illuminating the pool below him. Watching his guests with an experienced eye, he tightens the helmet’s chin-strap, his sandals squelching on the precipitous rock ledge. ‘Have no fear,’ Augusto tells them, as he shuffles an inch closer to the waterfall’s foaming lip, his eyes fixed on the horizon. ‘Just close your eyes and jump.’ Without another moment’s pause, he launches himself, like a human cannonball, out into a hazy abyss of mist.
Seconds later, Augusto resurfaces in the river’s natural punchbowl. With a broad grin, he scans the backcountry surroundings. Above him, buffpalmchats (the national bird of the Dominican Republic) chirrup unseen in the cocoa and mango trees, while sage-green creepers and vines dangle over the eroded clay banks.
He lifts his head skyward, coaxing the band of nervous canyoners eight metres up to follow. ‘Viva hoy y orar por la manana,’ he shouts: live for today, only pray for tomorrow. Soon after, they too take the leap of faith, flapping their arms as if in flight.
From Puerto Plata to Cabarete, the north coast of the Dominican Republic is awash with tanned kiteboarders and surfers, but a trip inland offers an alternative exhilarating way to embrace the water and explore the jungle landscape. Of all the guides who take adventurers into the hinterlands of the Saltos de la Damajagua, Augusto is one of the most experienced. Having spent the past 24 years in Damajagua’s natural swimming holes, he knows the chute network better than most. There are dozens of others to jump off, he says, some that form curtains of milky-white ribbon and swishing bridal veils, others that fan into gigantic clouds of spray. There are so many tributaries, he jokes, locals keep discovering new bathtubs.
Back in Cabarete, kiteboarders, surfers and canyoners converge again on dry land to unwind after the day’s adventures. Everyone heads to their favourite shack to swap stories, the bars fill up and the beaches are slowly abandoned, the skies mellowing from vivid blue to smoky pink. Farther east at the mo utli of the Yasica River, a short pontoon ride across the delta, a more rustic option is on offer. This is the way to Wilson’s Bar, a breezy beachfront shack, haphazardly built out of items (palm fronds, fallen trees, a broken surfboard) left behind in the aftermath of a tropical storm.
At its bamboo counter, owner Wilson Zapete is cutting up coconuts. To a lilting soundtrack of reggaeton and salsa, he scoops out their flesh and fills the shell with crushed ice and rum. The kitchen is firing up a barbecue and muscular blue swimmer crabs are hauled straight from buckets in the lagoon into a blackened pot, reappearing moments later on a platter as a jumble of ruddy-red claws, with prawns and fresh grilled fish. This, says Wilson, pointing to the lagoon, is the only market he needs.
It is after nightfall when the diners have finished, the tinkling seashells suspended from the palm-leaf roof announcing the arrival of a brewing storm – and perhaps an impromptu refit for Wilson’s shack. ‘I first came here 10 years ago,’ he says. ‘I’ve seen so many changes, but only great ones.’ And with that he raises a toast to good times before disappearing back into the kitchen.
Experience the natural abundance of the island’s green interior, from coffee straight from the source to walks among fruit fields and butterflies
Only after the first coffee of the day has been drunk does the factory floor of Monte Alto Organic Coffee spark to life. Workers empty hemp sacks of cherry-red beans; operators fill machines with the beans; youths sweep aside roasted nibs from the evening before.
Keeping watch on the scene is José Ramón Rodríguez, one of many brothers, sons and grandsons behind the family business. The key to quality coffee, he says, turning the beans over in his palm, is perseverance. Once picked, the beans are dried, before being shelled, then roasted – a magic trick that sees them change from candy red to dark chocolate. ‘Coffee is the only drink for us Dominicans,’ says José, pouring out his fifth shot of the morning. ‘Just not on a Saturday. Then our mistress is rum.’
Coffee is just one of many fruits that have made Jarabacoa synonymous with organic farming. On the winding road to Monte Alto’s finca (estate) on the outskirts of town, the hills are scattered with fruit trees and fertile gardens are stocked with bananas, passion fruit, papayas and avocados as big as rugby balls. The valley lies in the rain shadow of Pico Duarte, the highest peak in the Caribbean, and the cooler 500m altitude helps things along. At night, bats feast in the canopies, pollinating crops of mango, cocoa and guava; during the day the forests fill with butterflies continuing the good work.
One woman who can recognise most of these species is Karen Jiménez, a guide at Rancho Baiguate’s butterfly garden. ‘This is a Hispaniolan emperor,’ she says, letting one land on her pinky finger, its wings a mosaic of damson and powder-orange. ‘We have breeds that exist here that you can’t find anywhere else. Some as tiny as a button, others that fly higher than 1,800m.’
As she wanders through the floral garden, she introduces some of the Caribbean’s rarest butterflies. The forests are home to more than 270 species including the mariposa zebra, a long-winged, graceful flier with pinstripes; a chequered yellow invader known as the lime swallowtail; and a flame-orange sprite that darts around as though being constantly chased. This is the fabulously named Julia heliconian. ‘It’s always in a rush,’ adds Karen, tracking one as it flits through the sun-dappled dell.
3. Santo Domingo
Join in the Dominican Republic’s favourite pastimes – baseball, dominoes and merengue – on the colonial streets of the historic capital
It’s first light and Santo Domingo is not yet awake, but down at the Centro Olímpico Félix Sánchez the morning’s practice is already in full swing. On the sunbaked field, a group of youths dressed in peaked caps and faded shorts is hustling for the next pitch as cries of ‘Rápido, rápido, rápido!’ ring out from the sidelines.
‘I’ve worked on this field seven days a week for 20 years,’ says veteran Fausto Sosa, as he marshals the boundary, barking throaty instructions at the players. Dressed in a 70s tracksuit and scuffed trainers, a cracked stopwatch swinging from his weathered neck, Fausto reels off a list of Major League legends he’s mentored over the years, including Jorge Sosa, a former New York Mets pitcher. Turning his attention back to the game, he jabs a finger to single out the next batter, before giving him a fatherly slap on the belly. ‘This little hitter is only 15,’ he adds, ‘but I swear he has the mano de dios: the hand of God.’
It’s drama like this that makes Santo Domingo such an absorbing city to explore. In the Zona Colonial, a historic quarter of alleyways, arches and cathedrals, endless intriguing scenes unfold, tempting onlookers to linger. Sun-wrinkled taxi drivers smoke thick cigars and play dominoes in the leafy shade of Parque Colón. They sit beneath the bronze limbs of Christopher Columbus, for whom the square was named in the late 19th-century. Around the corner, past the fallen ruins of the San Francisco Monastery on Plaza de España, a skiffle band serenades a crowd with an accordion, a double-headed tambora conga drum and a washboard. When they earn enough pesos for a few cold drinks they slink off to enjoy them in the shade.
Further along the street, the pace is starting to pick up at El Conuco, a dancehall restaurant with the faded charm of a Caribbean rum bar. It’s time for an energetic night of foot-stamping and merengue, a high-tempo folkloric dance. Supposedly born from the foot-dragging of chained African slaves working in the fields, it is today an enduring symbol of Dominican culture and good times.
On the dancefloor, dressed in a full red skirt, dancer Illuminada Corniel is swaying her hips, her hair tied back in plaits. ‘One-two, one-two,’ she whispers to her partner, as they twirl in a fleet-footed motion that outpaces the whirring ceiling fans. Around them, flushed couples pirouette and jive, but Illuminada and her straw-hatted beau let the rhythm grip them as though they were the only ones on the dancefloor. It’s a mesmerising spectacle, but one almost meriting an 18 certificate. As the saying in the Dominican Republic goes, ‘merengue is the closest you can get to sex with your clothes on,’ and this evening Santo Domingo seems determined to prove it.
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.’
5. Bahía de las Águilas
Head to the Dominican Republic’s little-visited southwest coast and set a course for a deserted white-sand beach
When Columbus first arrived in what is now the Dominican Republic in 1492, he declared it to be ‘the fairest land under heaven’. The seafaring explorer never reached the country’s extreme southwest corner, but he really should have made the effort. The few who do so today find it remains blessedly isolated, its crescent bays virtually untouched by tourism.
The area’s trump card is the Bahía de las Águilas – or Eagles Bay – which appears on a map as nothing more than a coastal highway dead-end, near the border with Haiti. But as locals imaginatively tell it, the nature reserve resembles the outline of a seabird. The contours of the two promontories are its broad wings; the midway point between them, its pronounced beak. And along its feathered, white belly is one of country’s most remote, yet arguably most attractive beaches.
The fun way to reach this dumbfounding stretch of sand is to take a 15-minute motorboat from Cabo Rojo, a cluster of cabanas at the tip of one of the bird’s wings. From here, cruising southeast from the jetty, the coast begins to disintegrate as though slowly tumbling into the sea. The cliffs are pockmarked and broken, a series of bluffs covered in weathered shells and cactuses.
At the motorboat’s stern is Wellington Gómez, a stringy, twinkly-eyed captain who grew up living just beyond the beach curve. Surprisingly, Wellington is a modern-day caveman, having lived in a series of eroded fissures and rock grottoes since he was a child, only moving into a thatched beach hut five years ago. Before then, his family – and the 80-strong cave-dwelling community he was part of-would eke out a simple living from the seas as spear fishermen, returning to the caves each night to light candles in the gloom.
The bay still draws these local fishermen, who cast off in the shallows for lobster, conch and barracuda. Today the occasional visitor joins them, lured by talk of the preposterously blue seas. When clouds peek over the horizon, still the sea retains its turquoise sheen. ‘Even in the Caribbean this beach is special,’ says Wellington, slowing the boat in preparation for the first glimpse of the five-mile-long bay. ‘No stones, just sand, sand, sand.’
When Bahía de las Águilas’ comes into view it is bone-white. The boat slithers to a halt, disturbing a crab. Few footprints are another sign that day-trippers are as good as alone here. This is a beach that has largely been left to nature. The sounds are the tide and the papery flap of pelicans; the smells are salty and palm-scented.
At one end of the beach, a family picnics in the shade, having strung up a hammock. A pot-bellied man snoozes in the sunshine, while his children hunt for seashell souvenirs. With not a single shop or a shack to distract from it, the sea’s potency is enhanced. No-one can resist diving into the water, not even skipper Wellington. Stripping to his waist and leaping off the stern of his boat with a whooping splash, it’s a fitting homecoming for this most willing of castaways.
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