‘This was the gateway to the New World’
With the Dominican Republic about to be removed from the UK’s red list, broadcaster and marine biologist Monty Halls reveals why a visit to this complex Caribbean country is a chance ‘to delve a little deeper’
“Nah, it’ll pass, same as the others.” Rich Davies and I were chatting about the news of a strange new virus that was sweeping west from China. It was February 2020, and we were in the process of exploring the Dominican Republic – he as a filmmaker, me as a writer – to investigate the possibilities of future productions and projects.
“I reckon we’ll be back on the road before you know it,” he said, putting his coffee cup back on the saucer with a distinctive clink, providing a neat full stop to the conversation.
It is an exchange I have had plenty of time to reflect on in the intervening 18 months as the shutters came down and the world shrank to the size of my back garden. And this week, at last, the Dominican Republic will be off the red list (one of the last seven countries to be granted this status) and our journey can continue.
Travel is – for me anyway – not encapsulated so much in experiences as in sensations. That conversation stayed with me long after the trip was over not just because of the subject but the context: a barrage of sights, sounds, textures and aromas that was a distillation of so many of the reasons why we take to the road. We had been sitting in the square at the heart of La Zona Colonial in Santo Domingo, not just idly speculating about Covid, but also creating a lingering memory. It is one that provides a neat illustration of what makes the Dominican Republic so special.
Next door to the café where we sat was a cigar shop, where a rather small man was in the process of lighting up a rather large cigar, cheeks puffing in and out, eyes closed in an ecstasy of anticipation. The end of the cigar glowed like a ruby and dense, aromatic smoke billowed skywards, whisked away on a chimera of a warm tropical breeze. Under the long shadow of the statue in the middle of the square, two old men played dominos, the clatter of the pieces amplified by the stone cobbles that stretched away beneath elegant arches. The coffee itself was a deep, rich, potent local brew, the result of three centuries of growth in the dark soil and sweet rain of the island’s volcanic interior.
It’s unusual to be properly surprised nowadays when we travel. I mean, to be really knocked-back-on-your-heels, well-I-never, who-would-have-thoughtit? surprised. We are so used to destinations slotting neatly into preconceived notions and indeed for me this trip to “the Caribbean” had come with a certain amount of pre-departure baggage.
I had not been to the Dominican Republic before, but extensive travel elsewhere in the region had primed me for a certain type of experience in a certain type of place: a spattering of white sand beaches, a hint of calypso, sundowners on a terrace and perhaps a lazy snorkel or two.
One reason why this was going to be an altogether different type of trip should have been obvious to me just by glancing at a map. Sharing the island of Hispaniola with Haiti and sitting at the eastern edge of the Caribbean, the Dominican Republic was the gateway to the New World, and like so many sites of “first landfall” has a restless history based around a great deal of unseemly scrapping and colonial punch-ups over several centuries. The result is an eclecthemselves. tic past that has morphed into a kaleidoscopic present.
That is why on my languid stroll through Santo Domingo to that café – where I sat sipping a brew introduced by Spanish farmers three centuries ago while watching a diverse population going about their business – I had passed the oldest cathedral in the Americas, as well as the oldest hospital, university and barracks. Such was the historic value of this old town at the mouth of the Ozama River, that after it was founded in 1495, it had an exhilarating four centuries of being destroyed, rebuilt, seized, besieged, plundered and annexed by the English, French, Americans, Haitians and Spanish. Finally the local people – by now a dazzling mix of nationalities – had enough and declared independence from everyone in 1844. They had to do it again in 1865, as the Spanish had one final pop at ownership, but the end result is the republic of today.
My aim had been to explore as many elements of the country as I could in my short sojourn, and I had begun by going beyond the beaches and into the green hinterland. This took some self discipline, as the tourists’ favourite, Playa Rincon, has been voted one of the top 20 most beautiful beaches on Earth by National Geographic. But I was resolute: waiting for me was the highest mountain in the Caribbean, 29 different national parks, and the world’s smallest gecko that lives – rather nervously, I imagine – alongside something called a rhinoceros iguana.
Although the lure of the interior was strong, I still felt a pang of regret as I packed my bags in the Hotel Conde de Peñalba (condepenalba.com) at the heart of Santo Domingo’s old town. The hotel is described as “cosy and intimate” on its website, but as my room was the size of a squash court it was more a representation of the numerous grand merchant villas and residences that have now been converted to accommodate visitors. And all for the price of a poky B&B off the M4 corridor.
My foray onto the slopes of Pico Duarte – at 10,417ft, definitely a mountain not a hill, as my cab driver vigorously informed me – took me to the Dominican Tree House Village (dominicantreehousevillage.com). This is a child’s fantasy of a jungle residence, a series of structures perched atop steepling tropical trees, with a view over the crackling canopy towards the twisting river valley beneath.
Arrival at the village was via a zip wire, a shrieking airborne journey that sees you approach reception upside down at 40mph. (You can also arrive by track, but to do so shows a lamentable lack of style, in my opinion.)
The tree houses are situated around a beautiful central gathering place, a haven of dark wood, gentle shadows, and mahogany scents. It was here that I was introduced to the national drink, a heady mix of rum, red wine and honey known as “mamajuana”. It is supposed to be a powerful aphrodisiac (“mamajuana makes ya wanna” being the traditional tagline), but all it made me “wanna” do was stumble off to bed and read a book, so I did.
I was woken the next morning by less of a dawn chorus and more of a full-throated crescendo. There are 300 bird species here, around 30 of them found nowhere else on Earth, and they certainly have a great deal to say for But they were absolutely right to greet this day of all days with such unbridled enthusiasm, for today I had an appointment with a giant.
A drive of a couple of hours saw me once again arrive at the coast, this time the gentle parabola of Samaná Bay. It is not only global tourists that see this as an essential part of their annual itinerary. The bay is one of the few places in the world where you are (at the right time of the year) guaranteed to see humpback whales.
Each year about 2,000 whales gather here to feed, mate and nurse their young. This is a considerable investment of energy and resources, with the whale calves drinking up to 130 gallons of milk a day, 60 per cent of which is pure fat, meaning they put on 4lbs of bodyweight an hour.
But such an abundance of whales, in such a confined area, means that encounters are assured, and indeed the young whales will seek out the whalewatching vessels through curiosity alone. To be the observed rather than the observer is a wondrous sensation, the type of travel experience that engraves itself into your memory for the rest of time.
The Dominican Republic is complex, dazzling, occasionally contrary and has astounding depths of heritage. Perhaps most importantly for any traveller, it offers an array of experiences that consistently defy expectations. At last, with red-list status finally dropping away, the chance to delve deeper has returned once again.
Overseas travel is currently subject
to restrictions. See page 3