The Mellow Dominican Republic
There's no better place to just hang loose than the perpetually mellow town of Cabarete, on the Dominican Republic's northeast coast.
We continue on to a cave located inside a nearby hill, descending into the cool darkness. Using my cell phone to light the way, I see huge stalactites and passages that plunge off in all directions, mostly straight down. One of the Dominican boys scampers right past me, disappearing into a pitch-black, nearly vertical shaft. "There are deep pools inside the cave, and the kids grow up playing in them," says Marcus. "This is their version of a playground." I point out that the boy was barefoot and that the rocks are really jagged and sharp. Marcus explains that sandals are a luxury the boy probably can't afford.
As we drive down the mountain, we come upon a group of boys playing baseball. "Who's the next Sammy Sosa?" Marcus calls out. The boys erupt in yells. One comes running after the truck and smacks me a high five as we pass by. On his face is one of the purest expressions of happiness that I've ever seen.
I'm staying just a few miles outside of town, at Natura Cabañas. It feels a little like Gilligan's Island with yoga and Wi-Fi. Each of the 11 thatch-roofed bungalows is unique: Mine, Cabaña Piedra, has a large bedroom and a kitchenette, screen walls, a porch, and a giant, open, stone-floored shower in the bathroom.
Because the compound is so spread out, the only thing guests hear is the sound of crashing waves and the steady drumbeat of the almond trees dropping fruit on the ground. An open-air yoga studio overlooks the beach, near a complex of spa-treatment rooms and an area for beachside massages. The beach in front of the hotel is small, but you can stroll two minutes in either direction and have vast stretches entirely to yourself. (During one long walk, I encountered a total of three people and two stray dogs.) As another guest said, "This isn't Fiji?"
That night, I enjoy a surprisingly sophisticated meal--octopus-and-mint salad, sesame-crusted dorado, a glass of white wine--at Natura's open-air restaurant, before venturing into town. The center of Cabarete is cluttered with bars and restaurants, from Dominican merengue clubs to slick Euro lounges to get-drunk-quick beer halls (one of which is called José O'Shay's). I find a spot at the bar at Lax, a European-style lounge with a hip, good-looking crowd. Around me, people are speaking German, French, Spanish, English, and Portuguese. As the evening progresses, the music gets louder and the dancing picks up. I finish my beer and wander down the beach until the sounds of the clubs are replaced by the crash of the ocean's waves.
the next morning, i head into town for breakfast at Panaderia Reposteria Dick, a favorite among the locals. For $4 or so, I have eggs with a mild Dominican sausage, a basket of fresh-baked bread with jam, and a cup of strong black coffee. I spend the rest of the morning browsing the cigars, surf gear, and art at Cabarete's shops and beach vendors (I bought a merengue CD). For a dollar, a guy on the street plucks a coconut from a pile strapped to his bike, lops off the top with a machete, and pours the juice into a paper cup.
The best adventure outfitter in town, Iguana Mama, is in a low-slung yellow building on the main strip. Run by Steve Leone, a 27-year-old former commodities trader from Chicago, the company offers a full range of land and sea adventures. On Steve's recommendation, I make my next stop the Velero Beach Resort, the swankiest hotel in town. The 50-room hotel has an infinity pool, a mellow outdoor bar, and giant four-poster beds set around the pool deck. I can see the full expanse of Playa Cabarete: a mile and a quarter of fine sand fronting glittering water. The wind is picking up, and a few kiteboarders are heading to the beach. It's time to check out the main event.
Kiteboarding is to Cabarete what surfing is to the North Shore of Oahu. Riders are tethered to kites that propel them across the water on short surfboards. On some days, the sky over the beach is aflutter with kites. This afternoon, more than 100 kiters are out on the water, with at least 50 windsurfers. To the west is Bozo Beach, so called for the beginners who drift there and are unable to turn back. I watch them flail for a while before hoofing it down the road to Kite Beach, where the pros go. There are no sunbathers and no windsurfers, just kiters and the people photographing them. The scene is unreal. A guy with short bleached dreadlocks zigs in toward the beach, then zags a hard 180 against a wave and catches at least 15 feet of air, twisting more 360s than I can count.
At the end of the day, I meander over to La Casa del Pescador, an old-school fish house. The furniture is mismatched, the grilled mahimahi is fresh, the Presidente is cold, and the Dominican guys at the next table listening to merengue on a boom box are all the entertainment I need. It's as good as a beach trip gets--that is, if you've never been to La Boca.
EVER BEEN CHILL?
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