A Study in Juxtaposition: Punta Cana, Dominican Republic

 

A look up the beach

Approaching Hispaniola, the second largest island of the Greater Antilles shared by the nations of Haiti and the Dominican Republic, by air, we get our first glance at the lush green mountains that give way to lush flatlands.  Farmland backs into cities.  We lose sight of the ocean as the plane descends.

The Punta Cana International Airport promises us a magical tropical stay.  As we walk under its palm frond roof to stand in line at customs, air conditioning is relatively non-existent.  The baggage carousel is mostly open-air as the walls don’t reach the roof.  I, however, am more concerned with my bag not taking the ride yet.  Once it finally showed, we rolled our bags to the shuttle that would take us to our resort.

From the airport to the resort, our shuttle drove past beautiful new construction and crumbling shacks.  Tropical trees turned into shopping centers.  Gates to private communities and sprawling resorts sat next to abject poverty on garbage lined streets.

As the shuttle drove through the gates of our resort, everything outside of it melted away.  The resort offered us a week of tropical fantasy.  Their industry is manufactured beauty.  And they excel at it.  Marble fountains, metal chandeliers, and wood beamed roof trusses greeted us.

While we waited for our room to be ready, we changed into shorts and explored the resort.  The grand staircase brought us to more fountains and stone amongst tropical flora.  Some of those palm trees looked like there were there before the resort was built.  Stone paths meandered to the beach.

Crystal blue-green water rhythmically pounded the pink speckled sand.  A few minutes of lounging on one of the beige beach chairs erased all my stress.  Once we got our room and changed into our bathing suits, we found ourselves back on the beach, overlooking the Atlantic Ocean.  By dinner, I had reached full relaxation.  This entire year of pain and doctors and tests and work-related stress evaporated.

For the rest of the week, we spent the majority of the day by the ocean.  The waves deposited driftwood on to the shore, only to reclaim it later that same day.  A line of seaweed would come and go with the tides.  Swimmers navigated the breaking waves.  Some would jump them while others allowed the water to collide into them.  Others turned their backs while some dove into the curling ocean.  Eventually, all made it past the breaking point where they floated with the ebb and flow of the sea.

The soft sand and intense sun entice many.  Over the sound of the waves, different languages carry.  My ears detected Spanish—the native language—French, different Germanic tongues, and a few Asian and Indian languages.  Although seemingly in the minority, I also heard different accents speaking English, such as Canadian, multiple UK accents, Irish, Australian, and a small tour of the US.

I got to practice some of my school days Spanish—at least what I could remember.  Fortunately, “no” is universally understood.  Especially when the locals came to hawk their wares.  Multiple times a day, people walked up and down the beach selling something.  We were offered jewelry, cigars, massages, wooden trinkets, beachwear, excursions, and pictures with parrots and iguanas.  Not everything being sold is a scam, however buyer beware.  They usually passed us if they thought we were sleeping.

Sometimes, we did fall asleep on the beach.  Like a sunflower, my boyfriend liked to sit facing the sun.  I spent at least half the time under the shade of the palm frond-covered structure.  The other half seemed to be spent in the ocean.  The salt water washed away my pain.  Swimming with the waves eased any pain, keeping it at bay for the rest of the day.  However, when a rainstorm blew through, the pain returned.

As the week passed, we encountered different people, ate different food, watched different entertainment.  The only constant is the crashing of the water on the sand.  Its rhythm calls.  The water whispers, “Listen to me; sit within reach of me; come to me.”  If you ask nicely, it will release you, knowing you will return.

The Ocean Awaits