Escaping Punta Cana: Discovering the Dominican Republic’s Islands, Cenotes and Organic Farms

The heat and humidity instantly cut through me as soon as I exited the Punta Cana International Airport. There had to be at least a hundred Dominicans lined up on either side of the sidewalk, shouting “Taxi? You need a ride? Taxi!”. They all held signs for shuttles and taxis to whisk you away from the airport. I was alone, which meant I needed to choose my ride wisely. Prior to my arrival in Punta Cana, Dominican Republic, I had arranged a driver to take me to the resort I was staying at. I made it a plan to not get into a vehicle with someone unless they verbalized and confirmed my name. After ten minutes of sifting through shouting locals, I found my guy. The decal of the resort I was staying at was printed on either side of the van. I hopped in, sweating. I made small talk with the driver who spoke broken English. This was perfect because I would describe my Spanish as equally broken. Hablo un poco de Español. 

The forty-minute drive took twenty. In DR I would guess the average driving speed is 70 MPH (back roads included). We passed countless cows, horses and locals selling fruits scattered on either side of the road. There were small trucks with a dozen men riding in the bed of the truck, also driving at 70 MPH. Everything and everyone moved quickly, they passed each other whenever they could. Outside of the “resort realm” of Punta Cana, the towns were how do you say, rough around the edges. I certainly didn’t explore the surrounding area on foot as a solo gal. After my driver and I’s audition for the Fast and Furious, we arrived at the resort.

I was in Punta Cana for a wedding, which led me to stay at the resort where the wedding was held. In most circumstances, I avoid staying at resorts as it negates all purpose of my travels; to truly immerse myself in the raw culture of where I am. Yes, resorts are a wonderful option for relaxation, convienence and they provide a break from the everyday hustle.  Authentic food, local people, their stories and traditions cannot be found within resorts, in any country. 

This is why I aimed to leave the resort behind after the wedding celebrations were finished. The northern part of Dominican Republic borders the Atlantic Ocean. I, being from the northeastern United States, had swam in the Atlantic my whole life. I craved the turquoise waters and white sands which the Atlantic Ocean doesn’t provide. The Atlantic Ocean is dull and familiar in my opinion, sporting the grey-blue tones I have stared at for twenty years. The folks who worked at the resort recommended Isla Saona. This was an island at the southern peninsula of DR, kissed by the Caribbean Sea. I was sold.

The very next morning before sunrise, I waited for a bus to unleash me from the resort. I did the “name thing” and the gentleman displayed my first and last name on his clipboard, highlighted amongst a list of people. This van took me to a bus, which took me and about thirty others on an hour ride to the southern fishing town of Bayahibe. From here, I took a three-hour boat ride to Isla Saona. This was no average boat ride. It was a catamaran with a DJ and open bar. There was latin rap music and reggaeton blasted for the entire three-hour trip. This is a convenient time to mention the incessant hangover I had been fighting the whole morning. The sun, the deep blue waves and the sea breeze were almost enough ammunition to completely combat the hangover. Almost. 

Bayahibe fishing village.

I had cut my toe days earlier climbing on some rocks at the beach. I sat on the boat, hungover and alone, surrounded by couples and families. I noticed a pink, linear streak coming from my injured toe. This streak had quietly climbed up my leg and stopped an inch below my knee. Infection. I ordered a shot of tequila, poured it on my cut and dozed off for the remaining hour. Before my “nap” it did occur to me that I might be insane to do this alone. It might truly be crazy get on a van, that took me to a bus, that took me to a boat, that brought me to an island. I was the only person on the boat traveling alone. I was hundreds of miles away from my sleeping quarters and anyone I knew. Seriously, why do I do this?

It must have been the abrupt cessation of the music that woke me up for the arrival to Isla Saona. The waters were exactly how I had always pictured them. As we drifted to the shore the deep blue ocean became shallow and gentle. The bright and bold turquoise gently transitioned to glittering aqua blue. The waves stroked the white sands of the shore which quickly met the feet of the residents of the island. Palm trees lined the beach, almost as if they were reaching their necks out over the shore. Here the locals served us chicken, plantains (served in a similar fashion to potatos au gratin), rice and a savory papaya side dish. The whole meal melted in my mouth. This was the best meal I had eaten the entire trip, no offense to the resort food…

This next part is good. My moment of peace and introspection was quickly interrupted by flapping sounds. Something had pinched my scalp. Before I could even sit up, it happened again. I looked up. There sat a bird, glaring down at me. Man, if looks could kill. Next to it was a small nest, lodged within the palms. This little guy and I had chosen the same tree. This was a battle I immediately surrendered to and I ran towards the water. “I was pecked on the head by a bird for the first time ever, this island is awesome.” I had a swim and saw schools of small blue fish darting around my legs. I laid in the sun but shortly got bored and wandered more. The beach itself, Playa Saona, was small and surrounded by a thick wall of tropical trees. This thick wall had me curious. Where do the locals live? Where do they go after our tourist a*sses get back on the boat and leave? I saw women and children disappearing down a path within the thick brush. I wondered what their houses looked like. What does their community or village look like?  Our guide stated that only a few hundred people lived on the island, in the village of Mano Juan. Then, bam! – it was time to go, my boat was parked at the shore and it was getting loaded up. While Island Saoana grew smaller with distance, I could see brightly painted shacks which I assumed were the local’s houses. After a boat and a bus ride I made it back to the resort. Yet I still craved culture, nature and more scenery…

As my week in DR was almost over, the next day I found myself on a four wheeler headed to another beach, Playa Macao. I had caught wind of a guided trip to some cenotes, an organic farm and a beach and of course, I was sold. Playa Macao was Playa Saona’s ugly stepsister. It was another beautiful beach and the water was salty and warm. There were cliffs of limestone in the distance. There were more people this time and lots of children. Locals were walking around selling sunglasses and beer. We hopped back onto the four wheelers that took us to my very first cenote experience. A cenote is a cavernous pool of water that occurs when limestone is broken down.. They’re often beautiful hues of blues and greens because of the mineral composition in the pools. The temperature dropped as we walked down the steps chiseled out of rock into the dark, dank cave. It smelled musty and earthy. The Los Hoyos del Salado cenote was forty feet deep and we were the first ones down there for the day. “Jump!” pleads the guide, and that’s exactly what I did. The water was refreshing and felt as cold and blue as it looked. We climbed out of the water with an old rope which was entertaining for the guide I’m sure. 

One muddy but adrenaline-charged ride later and we arrived at a local organic farm. We squeezed under an open tent and were able to sample their products. I had the best hot cocoa of my life, a strong green tea and some freshly roasted coffee. The hot cocoa was thick and sweet with a hint of the fresh, bitter cacao. I obviously bought some. A dark skinned man with a bandana-pattered bucket hat walked us around the property. Vanilla, tobacco, green tea and cacao beans were all grown and processed at the farm. The bucket hat man introduced us to “mamajuana”. Mamajuana is a staple alcoholic drink of the Dominicans. It’s often composed of rum, red wine, honey and leaves/ herbs. It was sold in all the stores, with different strengths and concentrations. The locals joked that “mamajuana makes mama wanna!”. I obviously bought some.

P.s. Special thanks to Mr. Jose Quervo as I still have all my toes. The cut on my toe healed without issues.