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2011-01-19 23:46:10 UTC
http://tinyurl.com/65kvdc9
January 18, 2011, 9:27 pm
In the Dominican Republic, Caribbean Solitude for a Song
By SETH KUGEL
DESCRIPTIONSeth Kugel for The New York Times El Morro beach in the
Dominican Republic.
About midway between Santiago and Monte Cristi in northwestern
Dominican Republic, lush tropical cover gives way to scrubby brush and
flat-topped trees, the livestock of choice switches from cows to
goats, and all-inclusive-resort tourists are supplanted by Dominicans.
The beaches change, too. They are just as beautiful, but they are far,
far emptier.
I drove to the area after my New Year’s jaunt to Cabarete so that I
could revisit a part of the country I first saw in 1993. I remember
it almost exclusively for an odd and wonderful beach hidden behind a
topographical anomaly, a hill called El Morro that rises in the shape
of a concrete traffic barrier right on the water’s edge. I figured
surely there would be other distinctive beaches to discover along that
coast. Also, I had since heard that the region held another
attraction: a goat dish called chivo picante — spicy goat– the spice
allegedly a result of the goats’ constant munching on wild oregano
that grows in the region. The area had the potential to offer a frugal
traveler’s dream: Caribbean cuisine and solitude without the price tag
that accompanies an exclusive resort.
As I pulled into Monte Cristi in a $33-a-day-with-taxes rental car
from Avis (you can also go by bus), memories came flooding back of a
sleepy town whose more prosperous past was evident in decrepit 19th-
century houses (mostly abandoned) and a clock tower in the central
square that was a gift from France and resembles the Eiffel Tower
(sort of).
It was Sunday evening when two friends and I checked in to the Chic
Hotel, where I had stayed in 1993 and one of a handful of places to
stay in Monte Cristi. Single rooms cost us 550 pesos ($15) and provide
what their typical Dominican business travelers expect: clean sheets,
non-noise-proof walls and cold-water showers.
After settling in, it was too late to explore beaches, so we made our
way a few blocks to Calle Ocho, an irregularly scheduled,
unapologetically raucous party held at the corner of Duarte and Colón
Streets that is impossible to avoid because the revelry spills out and
blocks the traffic on Duarte, the main street in town. Hundreds had
gathered to drink 22-ounce Presidente beers (a source of national
pride) and dance to the Dominican genres of merengue and bachata. The
volume was deafening — if Spinal Tap’s amplifiers are loud because
the dial goes to 11, in the Dominican Republic, the dial goes to
11,000.
The next morning, my friends Adam and Andrew and I had fresh juice and
coffee at the Chic Hotel’s outdoor restaurant and made the short drive
out to El Morro, part of Monte Cristi National Park. We parked and
climbed down a short but precariously unstable, rocky path to the
crescent beach, cut off entirely from land by the hill itself. It was
high tide, so there was only a sliver of golden sand to settle down
on, but if you’re the only people there, a sliver is all you need.
DESCRIPTIONSeth Kugel for The New York Times Adam tossing a football
with a local child.
We hit the turquoise water – warm, with silky sand underfoot – and did
what three American men do when they have a football and a camera with
rapid-fire shutter: try to capture images of themselves making heroic
diving catches into the water.
By the time we left, around noon, a few other visitors had shown up: a
group of teenagers with a football-curious little kid and two 20-
something women named Fabiola and Digna who were playing hooky from
their government jobs to collect rocks on the beach.
Fabiola struck up a conversation with us as we were leaving. (“Will
you carry this bag of rocks up the hill for us?” were her precise
words.) I told them my mission for the afternoon — to hunt out other
hidden beaches in the area — and they agreed to climb in the car to
show us the way to a place called Popa Beach, which they insisted met
our requirements.
“How far is it?” I asked.
“About two kilometers,” Fabiola said.
It was 16 kilometers, actually, down a very bumpy dirt road, and took
more than an hour to reach in our very low-hanging rental car. (To
find it, take the second of two very quick rights after you pass the
National Police headquarters heading west toward Monte Cristi and
drive, drive, drive.)
Fabiola and Digna proved to be fantastic tour guides, explaining
everything from local agriculture to government corruption, and even
stopping us along the way to ask a family who had a humble, two-room
home along the rural road to show us their land, pick us some wild
oregano and tell us about how their goats had been rustled a few years
earlier.
DESCRIPTIONSeth Kugel for The New York Times Popa Beach.
It’s a traveler’s fantasy to head down an unmarked dirt road and
emerge at a pristine beach, no one there but a few fishermen, and dive
in the water. This is true in fewer and fewer places in the world,
but it was true at Popa, a beach named for the family that owns the
adjacent land. The beach was covered in dried seaweed, with only a few
patches of whitish sand, but again, if you’re the only ones there …
We thanked Fabiola and Digna for a great afternoon on the beach by
taking them out for a late afternoon goat feast, about 30 miles east
of Monte Cristi at one of the dozen or so roadside goat restaurants we
had spotted along Highway 1 in and around the town of Villa Lobos.
DESCRIPTIONSeth Kugel for The New York Times Parada Kiara restaurant.
Fabiola suggested her favorite, Parada Kiara. It was the best goat I’d
ever had – and the meat itself did indeed take on a sharp spiciness
that I suppose I’m ready to attribute to oregano. We tried all three
varieties: ripiado (kind of a pulled goat, favorite of Adam and Andrew
– 280 pesos or $8), horneado (big chunks of semi-blackened meat that
is tender but firm on the inside, for 250 pesos or $7) and picante
(the traditional stew, 170 pesos or about $5).
We dropped off our new friends and moved into the Monte Chico hotel, a
larger and grander-looking spot out of town on the road to (and with
views of) the Morro. It was slightly more expensive, 750 pesos a night
($21) for an “economic” room – still no hot water – but we hoped it
would be quieter.
It was, at least at first. “The silence is amazing,” Adam commented,
as we went to our rooms. But at around 11:30 p.m., reggaetón music
starting blasting so earthshatteringly loud we suspected it was
emanating from a car speaker in the parking lot. When I went out to
investigate, it turned out the party was actually being held on the
street a few hundred yards down the road from the hotel.
I considered walking over to the party and seeing if they would turn
down the volume a bit, say, to 10,500. But I doubt it would have been
effective, and I decided that the rewards of empty beaches, generous
local tour guides and feasts of goat were worth rolling with a few
cultural punches. The party ended at 2 a.m., and I quickly fell
asleep.
Notes: The quickest way to get to Monte Cristi is to fly to Santiago
and reserve a rental a car in advance as we did. If you’re willing to
spend a bit more on accommodations in Monte Cristi, stay at the cute
Hotel Los Jardins, a four-room inn close to El Morro. Hot water
(virtually) guaranteed.
January 18, 2011, 9:27 pm
In the Dominican Republic, Caribbean Solitude for a Song
By SETH KUGEL
DESCRIPTIONSeth Kugel for The New York Times El Morro beach in the
Dominican Republic.
About midway between Santiago and Monte Cristi in northwestern
Dominican Republic, lush tropical cover gives way to scrubby brush and
flat-topped trees, the livestock of choice switches from cows to
goats, and all-inclusive-resort tourists are supplanted by Dominicans.
The beaches change, too. They are just as beautiful, but they are far,
far emptier.
I drove to the area after my New Year’s jaunt to Cabarete so that I
could revisit a part of the country I first saw in 1993. I remember
it almost exclusively for an odd and wonderful beach hidden behind a
topographical anomaly, a hill called El Morro that rises in the shape
of a concrete traffic barrier right on the water’s edge. I figured
surely there would be other distinctive beaches to discover along that
coast. Also, I had since heard that the region held another
attraction: a goat dish called chivo picante — spicy goat– the spice
allegedly a result of the goats’ constant munching on wild oregano
that grows in the region. The area had the potential to offer a frugal
traveler’s dream: Caribbean cuisine and solitude without the price tag
that accompanies an exclusive resort.
As I pulled into Monte Cristi in a $33-a-day-with-taxes rental car
from Avis (you can also go by bus), memories came flooding back of a
sleepy town whose more prosperous past was evident in decrepit 19th-
century houses (mostly abandoned) and a clock tower in the central
square that was a gift from France and resembles the Eiffel Tower
(sort of).
It was Sunday evening when two friends and I checked in to the Chic
Hotel, where I had stayed in 1993 and one of a handful of places to
stay in Monte Cristi. Single rooms cost us 550 pesos ($15) and provide
what their typical Dominican business travelers expect: clean sheets,
non-noise-proof walls and cold-water showers.
After settling in, it was too late to explore beaches, so we made our
way a few blocks to Calle Ocho, an irregularly scheduled,
unapologetically raucous party held at the corner of Duarte and Colón
Streets that is impossible to avoid because the revelry spills out and
blocks the traffic on Duarte, the main street in town. Hundreds had
gathered to drink 22-ounce Presidente beers (a source of national
pride) and dance to the Dominican genres of merengue and bachata. The
volume was deafening — if Spinal Tap’s amplifiers are loud because
the dial goes to 11, in the Dominican Republic, the dial goes to
11,000.
The next morning, my friends Adam and Andrew and I had fresh juice and
coffee at the Chic Hotel’s outdoor restaurant and made the short drive
out to El Morro, part of Monte Cristi National Park. We parked and
climbed down a short but precariously unstable, rocky path to the
crescent beach, cut off entirely from land by the hill itself. It was
high tide, so there was only a sliver of golden sand to settle down
on, but if you’re the only people there, a sliver is all you need.
DESCRIPTIONSeth Kugel for The New York Times Adam tossing a football
with a local child.
We hit the turquoise water – warm, with silky sand underfoot – and did
what three American men do when they have a football and a camera with
rapid-fire shutter: try to capture images of themselves making heroic
diving catches into the water.
By the time we left, around noon, a few other visitors had shown up: a
group of teenagers with a football-curious little kid and two 20-
something women named Fabiola and Digna who were playing hooky from
their government jobs to collect rocks on the beach.
Fabiola struck up a conversation with us as we were leaving. (“Will
you carry this bag of rocks up the hill for us?” were her precise
words.) I told them my mission for the afternoon — to hunt out other
hidden beaches in the area — and they agreed to climb in the car to
show us the way to a place called Popa Beach, which they insisted met
our requirements.
“How far is it?” I asked.
“About two kilometers,” Fabiola said.
It was 16 kilometers, actually, down a very bumpy dirt road, and took
more than an hour to reach in our very low-hanging rental car. (To
find it, take the second of two very quick rights after you pass the
National Police headquarters heading west toward Monte Cristi and
drive, drive, drive.)
Fabiola and Digna proved to be fantastic tour guides, explaining
everything from local agriculture to government corruption, and even
stopping us along the way to ask a family who had a humble, two-room
home along the rural road to show us their land, pick us some wild
oregano and tell us about how their goats had been rustled a few years
earlier.
DESCRIPTIONSeth Kugel for The New York Times Popa Beach.
It’s a traveler’s fantasy to head down an unmarked dirt road and
emerge at a pristine beach, no one there but a few fishermen, and dive
in the water. This is true in fewer and fewer places in the world,
but it was true at Popa, a beach named for the family that owns the
adjacent land. The beach was covered in dried seaweed, with only a few
patches of whitish sand, but again, if you’re the only ones there …
We thanked Fabiola and Digna for a great afternoon on the beach by
taking them out for a late afternoon goat feast, about 30 miles east
of Monte Cristi at one of the dozen or so roadside goat restaurants we
had spotted along Highway 1 in and around the town of Villa Lobos.
DESCRIPTIONSeth Kugel for The New York Times Parada Kiara restaurant.
Fabiola suggested her favorite, Parada Kiara. It was the best goat I’d
ever had – and the meat itself did indeed take on a sharp spiciness
that I suppose I’m ready to attribute to oregano. We tried all three
varieties: ripiado (kind of a pulled goat, favorite of Adam and Andrew
– 280 pesos or $8), horneado (big chunks of semi-blackened meat that
is tender but firm on the inside, for 250 pesos or $7) and picante
(the traditional stew, 170 pesos or about $5).
We dropped off our new friends and moved into the Monte Chico hotel, a
larger and grander-looking spot out of town on the road to (and with
views of) the Morro. It was slightly more expensive, 750 pesos a night
($21) for an “economic” room – still no hot water – but we hoped it
would be quieter.
It was, at least at first. “The silence is amazing,” Adam commented,
as we went to our rooms. But at around 11:30 p.m., reggaetón music
starting blasting so earthshatteringly loud we suspected it was
emanating from a car speaker in the parking lot. When I went out to
investigate, it turned out the party was actually being held on the
street a few hundred yards down the road from the hotel.
I considered walking over to the party and seeing if they would turn
down the volume a bit, say, to 10,500. But I doubt it would have been
effective, and I decided that the rewards of empty beaches, generous
local tour guides and feasts of goat were worth rolling with a few
cultural punches. The party ended at 2 a.m., and I quickly fell
asleep.
Notes: The quickest way to get to Monte Cristi is to fly to Santiago
and reserve a rental a car in advance as we did. If you’re willing to
spend a bit more on accommodations in Monte Cristi, stay at the cute
Hotel Los Jardins, a four-room inn close to El Morro. Hot water
(virtually) guaranteed.