First Hours on Isla Grande del Maíz

From the window of the plane I could see the blue waves of the water come closer into view. Then streaks of turquoise, followed by a thin stretch of white beach, a thick stand of palms, then the corrugated roofs of the shacks. After that it was a blur of greenery and bright colors until the wheels of the aircraft touched the ground and jolted us in our seats.

The ATR 42-300 twin-propeller plane reached the end of the runway and circled around to a small rectangular building called the airport. We came down the air stairs to the tarmac and into the little building where we waited for workers to bring our luggage.

Outside the building a man in a white shirt and pot belly came asking if we needed a taxi. I couldn't tell if he was speaking Spanish or English, but could understand the gist of his question. “One dollar a person,” he added, but he had to repeat it twice.

We walked to his old beater, a car that looked like a Volkswagen Rabbit with a large crack across the windshield. Our two carry-on bags barely fit inside the trunk.

Jenelle and I sat in the back seat, but were surprised when he picked up two girls on the short drive to our lodging. They were in their early teens and of a beautiful Afro-Caribbean complexion. One sat in the front and the other in the back seat next to me. The three of us barely fit. He dropped them off at the beach. “I have to take any opportunity I can,” he said, shrugging his shoulders as if he had to justify.

I won't bore the reader with the details of our hotel, but sufficeth to say, our cabana was close to the beach and looked like a thatched hut.

By this time I was very surprised at what I had seen. Nearly everyone was of African descent and they were everywhere playing in the streets, walking the streets, and at their homes which were little more than patched-up boards.

We walked along a narrow paved road that ran along a slender beach. Palm trees grew along the side and groups of boys played together in the water. Up ahead we could see a congregation of boats at the port.

Everyone was friendly. A young man came up alongside us, smoking a cigarette. The left pant leg of his blue jeans was pulled up to his calf. “How are you?” he asked.

He went on to point at what looked like stacks of wooden pallets on one of the boats and explained they were cages to trap lobsters. That's where he worked, but now he was on his way to meet his wife.

As we continued we passed several living quarters. With the exception of two nice houses the rest were very modest or simply shacks. Some stood on stilts. Others had chickens running around. Most, I would say, had someone in the the front sitting on a chair enjoying the breeze. I expected to hear a strumming banjo.

We passed a small white building with an ATM machine on the inside. This was the island bank. I would need to use it later.

Nearby a small footpath led through a fence and across the airport runway. This was the shortcut to the other side of the island.

Across from the port we found a little nook that sold food. We sat down at a table and a lady asked if we wanted something to drink. She brought a Coke and water, then we waited. A hot charcoal grill on the other side of the open-faced room sent smoke rising into the air. The lady used tongs to place marinated chicken on the grill. We thought she would return with a menu, but never did.

Meanwhile, a stray mutt came and sat right beside my chair. A skinny homeless man with filthy dreadlocks and swarthy skin sat on the steps in front of us. He, like the dog, was hoping for a crumb of food.

I finally went to the lady and asked if there was a menu. “No,” she said. “It is a buffet and it is 280 córdobas a plate.” She pointed to trays of food enclosed inside a glass casing.

We were hungry and began to pile food onto our plates. I didn't know the name of anything except the white rice with red beans, known locally as gallo pinto. I piled on pasta, two drumsticks, fish and a chicken breast.

By now the flies had found us. The warm food layered with the hot and humid summer weather left our skin with beads of sweat. The homeless man twice made eye contact with Jenelle.

On our way back to the room we enjoyed the now cooling summer evening. Heavy storm clouds billowed in the west. All the grass and trees were green. A subtle breeze enhanced the ambiance of the evening.

At the room we changed into our swimming suits and walked a few minutes to the beach. A stray dog followed us.

The white sand beneath our feet felt fluffy. We waded into the warm water where we bobbed and talked for the next half hour. The sky gradually darkened as distant street lamps now bore illumination.

All was quiet except our talk and the incoming baby waves that pushed us around. Twice I saw bolts of lightning far to the west. This was an omen of adventure to come.

All was well in that moment on a far-flung island that no one's ever heard of. This was just the beginning. Jenelle and I had five more days in this paradise. ♠

Isla Mujeres

We boarded the ferry at Playa Caracol, and far across the turquoise water we could see the strip of land known as Island of the Women. Certainly, there were many women on the ferry on their way to this seductive island, most of them dressed in beach attire. Of course, men were on their way there, too.

Forty minutes later we pulled up to the port and locked up with the dock. With the exception of a few who brought their suitcases, most of the droves were, like ourselves, on a day trip from Cancún.

Corner of Avenida Juarez and Calle Abasolo.

Avenida Rueda Medina, the first street we encountered when off the ferry, was a thriving hub where everyone seemed to be. Hustlers thrust laminated brochures at our faces, trying to sell us tours. Every business along the far side of the street seemed to be renting golf carts. Surprisingly, two random Mexicans who just happened to work at the hotel where we were staying in Cancún recognized us! (We believed the first guy, but when the second one stopped us, we knew it was a ploy.)

We walked inland on a narrow street with shops opened up, all the owners trying to entice with their wonderful deals. Already annoyed, we kept our heads forward and pushed on.

The east coast of Isla Mujeres.

Isla Mujeres is not a big island. At this point it was only about 1,000 feet wide and soon we would come out on the other side before a beautiful blue panorama of Caribbean Sea and rocky coastline.

By now the hawkers had faded away and we were able to enjoy the serene vista. On this eastern coast we had a long view which stretched far to the south. 

First on our agenda, however, was to find a place to eat. For the moment we found ourselves in a quiet part of town. That played to our advantage.

I saw a sign on the outside of a wall advertising tacos for 35 pesos. We stepped inside to what looked like a family operation. Behind the counter a man and woman cooked the food. Four tables, all fairly close together, served as the dining area. A teenage boy, probably their son, came in with a bag of groceries.

We weren't terribly hungry. I ordered two tacos, a birria and barbacoa. A bottle of Coke on the side hit the spot. The birria taco was fall-apart tender and very flavorful.

A bottle of Coke and tacos.

A small taco shop on Isla Mujeres. 

Now it was time to rent those golf carts. I was worried about this because some of the hawkers we ran into earlier gave us quotes of 85 USD for two hours. From what I learned on the internet, it should have been much lower. There's nothing more irritable than getting swindled in Mexico!

We returned to Avenida Rueda Medina and the first two companies we encountered were currently out of carts. At that moment we lost hope and thought that perhaps we had waited too long. A lesson learned.

But then we came across a cranny of a building with a golf cart parked out by the sidewalk. I went inside and inquired and learned they still had one left. We rented it for two hours for 1,000 pesos, or roughly 50 USD. We were on our way!

A golf cart is the arguably the best option for the tourist to see the island. There are also taxis, scooters, and a rickety old bus. But the golf carts seem most practical.

I drove for the first half, getting used to our new means of conveyance. I had to watch out for the speed bumps. Dang speed bumps! Every time I it hit one too fast, Jenelle would let me know.

The golf carts didn't go as fast as the cars or scooters. I tried staying to the right so they could pass. Even while driving, the hawkers on the street tried soliciting us, usually offering beer. I'm sure they knew it  was strictly forbidden on our carts.

We took to the island in a counter-clockwise direction, making very few stops until we arrived at the southern point. Being good stewards, we shut off our carts and locked them up with a cable lock that wrapped around a bar and steering wheel.

Punta Sur.

Punta Sur was, in my opinion, was the most picturesque place on the island. Like a finger, it jutted into the ocean with steep jagged cliffs on both sides. The slender strip on top had a beautiful stretch of green growth, cactus and an array of statues.

What caught my attention were all the iguanas. They crawled everywhere, but mostly on the rocky ledges near the cliffs. They mostly stood still, but would sometimes move to the next rock and strut their head. Although I saw dozens of them, I took way too many pictures because they were such a novelty. I felt as if I had just discovered a lost species of dinosaur that was an ancestor to our modern lizards. Very fascinating.

One of many iguanas.

Now, to be sure, we weren't quite at the southern point. It cost 100 pesos per person to gain access to walk the additional half mile to the very end. I would have loved to, but we didn't have the time. We had to return the golf cart.

Isla Mujeres was given its name by the Spainards, who landed in 1517. They found figurines of females scattered throughout the island. At one time it had a temple dedicated to Ixchel, the Mayan goddess of the moon, love and fertility. Many women would make a pilgrimage to the island, which was symbolic of their transition into womanhood, hence the name.

Jenelle's turn to drive the golf cart.

Now it was Jenelle's turn to drive. She promised I wouldn't even feel the bumps! Now I was able to sit back and enjoy the scenery.

We made two stops. The first was at another overlook of the rocky eastern coast. This one had even more iguanas than Punta Sur. It was kind of creepy to see so many reptiles in one place. The place was infested with iguanas.

The second stop was for me. It was a cemetery. Although there was nothing of note or historical about this cemetery, its location was all it needed.⸺Next to the Caribbean Sea!

Iguanas everywhere!

Cemetery just off the coast.

A typical road on our circuit of the island. 

Our time with the golf cart now drew to an end.  After returning our cart we walked northwest on Avenida Rueda Medina, along an array of shops. Soon the main road petered out and then we came to a sandy one-car lane. We emerged onto a pristine beach with hundreds of people.

This beach, I believe, was public, but all the shaded lawn chairs belonged to the hotels. The white sand was smooth and perfect. No rocks. The water was the color of larimar. Friends, families and strangers all cooled off in the same shallow water.

I couldn't wait to change into my swimming suit and have my own adventure. With shirt off and bright red chest and thighs now exposed, I waded into the water, the fine white sand beneath my feet like a fluffy pillow. Once my swimming trunks were submerged I dove like a fish into the refreshing fluid. I swam underwater for several strokes before coming up for air. Everything was perfect.

For the next half hour I enjoyed the water. The waves were never too big and not once did I feel even a pebble beneath my feet. With goggles on I floated across the top, watching the murky green water and sand. The world beneath the surface was a dreamy one.

Playa El Cocal. 

On our way back to the ferry I walked barefoot and shirtless until I was dry. We stopped to buy Jenelle a sweatshirt, then at a 7-Eleven to get a drink. We both needed fluids.

Our last stop was at another cemetery. This one was only a couple blocks from the northern beaches. Jenelle even came in with me. Like a typical Mexican cemetery, the monuments were built above-ground. We saw an assortment of statues and crosses.

Cemetery #2 on Isla Mujeres.

Without much time to spare we hurried to the ferry terminal. We hoped to catch the 5:30 boat, the second-to-last one for the day. It was a madhouse, everyone trying to get back to their hotel.

When they scanned our tickets, the ticket lady admitted our entrance, but blocked the people behind us. We were the last ones allowed on the boat! The others must have been forced to take the 7 pm boat. What a sigh of relief for us!

Jenelle and I sat with hundreds of others on the ferry, listening to a stocky Mexican man serenade us with Cielito Lindo. We relished the moment. We couldn't have asked for a better day. We saw a heavenly landscape, ate at a hole-in-the-wall restaurant, had an adventure on a golf cart, and swam in the greenish-blue beauty of the Caribbean Sea! ♠

Caribbean Blue

The catamaran comes to an easy stop a couple hundred yards from the palm-studded shore. The aqua-blue water is the most beautiful I've ever seen. It is transparent and I can see the white sandy bottom of the shallow sea.

We strip down to our bathing suits and step down the ladder into the warm translucent water. I feel the fine sandy grain beneath my feet and in the cracks of my toes.

I pull goggles over my eyes and slip into the sea. Like an amphibious creature I stroke my arms and legs and feel the salty liquid flow across my shoulders. I stare down at the floor of the sea and watch it roll beneath me, unblemished. Occasionally there is a strand of seaweed or a tiny crab burrowing a hole.

I come up for air, slide the goggles over my head, and wipe my eyes with my arm. Jenelle is there and she has something to show me. She leads me over near the catamaran to our new German friends. They are holding a large orange and red starfish they found on the sand. It is beautiful!

Our time is up and we now climb back onto the catamaran and once again raise the sail. We cruise along the deep-blue waters with coastline in sight. I enjoy the breeze across my face and occasional splash of water. Boaters lean over the railing and take pleasure in the moment.

The catamaran comes to an easy stop at the white sandy shore of Saona Island. It is the most beautiful beach I've ever seen. Palm trees by the hundreds grow on and around the beach, including one on the shore that grows diagonally over the water. The sand is fine. Swimmers lounge in the luke-warm water. Plastic beach chairs sit reclined beneath a blaring golden sun. Thatched pavilions offer shade for those in need.

I lie down on my chair, close my eyes, and imagine what this island would be like with no people. In my mind I envision it is sunset. A small fire near the shore crackles and beyond that the waves lap across the sand. There are no other noises because no one else is here. The sea unfolds forever on the horizon, putting an eternity between me and the closest person.

In my daydream I envision what this island must have been like in another time. I am Robinson Crusoe. This island is my home. I sleep on the sand and bathe in the ocean. I drink the milk of coconuts and the water of a gurgling spring. Sunsets come and go and storms stir up the angry sky. It is peaceful. I am alone. I relish the moment in my mind.

But I am not alone on Saona Island. It is filled with people. Yet it is still beautiful.

Jenelle and I walk along the shore, sometimes with our feet in the frothy white of the waves. We see small boats docked along the edge, floating atop the greenish-blue water.

Further afield the beach is less sandy, but filled with smooth rocks and driftwood. Jenelle finds a conch shell larger than her hand.

We walk near the crooked palm. There is a line of people waiting to get their picture as they climb atop the tree. We pause to watch and note the notoriety of the palm.

The sun becomes more intense as the day moves on. I feel the heat on my chest and sense the beginning of a burn. Without further delay I wade into the water and dive head first into the silky sea. Instantly it drowns the heat and ripples through my hair as I propel myself forward. I stand up and let the droplets drizzle down my skin.

Others relax in the water also. A man with swarthy skin paddles a canoe. A crew of Dominican workers bring a boat to shore and tie it down. Women clad in bikinis lie face-down on the sand and let the Caribbean sun bake their backs and shoulders.

After a couple hours of dallying on the island it is time to load the boat and head back. This time we don't board a catamaran, but instead a speedboat. We put on life jackets and squeeze tightly onto benches.

Then, with a lurch, the boat takes off at an amazing pace. No longer do we casually move across the blue water, but now we accelerate at a voracious speed. Wind races across our faces and with every small undulation the boat springs out of the water with air beneath the hull. Everyone wears a smile because this ride is as good as anything at Disneyland! ♠

Quest for the Dominican Dish

Fish and tostones.

Half the experience of foreign travel comes in eating the local food. 

Before our recent trip to the Dominican Republic, I was excited to contact Lucy, a dear friend whose roots run deep in that country. I asked her if she had any suggestions on food that we must try. Her response was enthusiastic and extensive. 

She messaged me a list Dominican dishes, complete with pictures, the Spanish translation, where they could be found, and how they tasted. And she didn't stop there. I was sent pictures of fruits, desserts and drinks. By the time she was done, my mouth was salivating and I was anxious to begin my quest.

But my search proved to be a bit more difficult than I had anticipated. Our trip would be split between beach and city. Our first stop, Playa Dominicus, had one of the prettiest beaches I had ever seen! But authentic Dominican food was another story. This coastal town on the Caribbean Sea, popular with Europeans, proved to have almost exclusively Italian food! 

Plantains are common throughout the Dominican Republic.

After enjoying an evening of fine white sand, calm blue waters and a beautiful sunset against a silhouette of palm trees, we wandered back into town for our first sit-down meal. We decided on an outdoor restaurant serving pizza, spaghetti and linguine. There was one sole Dominican dish on the menu, and of course, that's what I ordered: arroz con habichuelas. 

Rice and beans are a staple in many Central American countries, including the Caribbean. This meal was simple. I received a scoop of herbed rice alongside a small bowl of black beans, stewed in a broth of spices. It came with a tasty leg of chicken. I think this meal could also be called la bandera, which is considered the national dish. Translated as 'flag', this dish consists of rice, beans, meat and salad. No matter what you call it, the meal was simple and satisfying. 

Arroz con habichuelas.

The next four days proved just as challenging. We didn't eat constant Dominican food like I had hoped, but rather a taste here, a bite there. The one constant was the free breakfast at our hotel. Every morning we were brought a plate of fresh fruit: always a sliced banana, pineapple and papaya. The papaya and pineapple were probably the juiciest and sweetest I had ever eaten. 

On another day we had a pleasant surprise on the beach when a lady came around selling small samples of sweets. When she announced what she had, I immediately recognized it as one of Lucy's recommendations. I bought a small cup of dulce de coco for 50 pesos. It was easily the most wonderful dessert I had the entire trip.  A coconut dessert par excellence! Each day after that I kept an eye out for that lady, hoping to buy more, but never saw her again. 

Sweet Dominican fruit.

Little cups of heaven being sold on the beach. My favorite was dulce de coco.

Twice we took a boat tour to an exotic island where we spent the day either snorkeling or lounging on the beach. Each day they fed us a buffet-style lunch. This gave us a chance to sample several kinds of food, but we didn't know the name of any, nor if it was authentic. We dished up rice and beans, fresh fruit, rolls, sausage and grilled chicken. They tried to charge us an arm and a leg to boil up a fresh lobster, but we passed. Maybe we should have done it. 

Buffet on the beach.

One of the fascinating aspects of Dominican food is that much of it is a fusion between many different cultures. Just like the people who inhabit the island, any food could likely have roots in Africa, Spain, other Caribbean countries, or even West Asia and China. 

One such dish is mofongo, a recipe influenced from Africa, with Spanish and Taíno influence. It consists primarily of fried plantains which are then mashed and cooked with a variety of spices. We found ours at a restaurant in Playa Dominicus where it came served with a salsa and topped with several (hard) chicharrónes (or pork cracklings). It had a wonderful, but simple flavor, especially when topped with sauce. 

Mofongo.

My favorite eating experience came after swimming at an isolated beach in Bayahibe. Lucy had told us that the beach was the best place to eat fish and tostones, and she was right. After crawling out of the water and drying off, we walked across the dirt road and found a so-called restaurant in someone's back yard. (For the longer version, click here.) 

We walked inside an area enclosed by a bamboo fence and sat down to a wobbly table. There were no menus. A lady with an Aunt Jemima scarf around her head took our order and a few minutes later we watched her taking a slimy fish back to her little shack. 

After another thirty minutes she returned with a beautifully grilled fish, which included head and fins, as well as a plate of rice and tostones, or fried plantains. The fish was arguably the best I ever had; moist in the middle and well-flavored. The tostones had a hint of salty sweetness. 

We saw no other customers while we were there and I enjoyed every minute. We even got to watch a gecko crawl on the wall behind us! 

A gecko watching us eat.

Moving on we traveled to Santo Domingo. Here I hoped to find a new culinary experience, something less touristy and perhaps more authentic. 

We arrived in the chaotic capital. After checking into our hotel we immediately hit the street hoping to find a place to eat. We were away from the tourist section and finding an eating establishment didn't come as easy as I thought it would. Yes, we saw a few places here and there selling sandwiches, but nothing offering authentic fare. 

Lady selling samples of food for 75 pesos.

We must have appeared lost because a local guy came up and asked what we were looking for. I told him we wanted Dominican food. He then took us into the backstreets, places I would never have found on my own. I wouldn't even call them streets, but walking paths. If he weren't with us, I would have felt we were trespassing. 

He came to one restaurant, but it was closed. Another was open, but all the food was gone except for a serving of rice and beans. A third was selling food, but it wasn't Dominican. None of the restaurants had signs and none were on Google Maps. They were all hidden to the common foreigner. We thanked him for being so kind and parted ways. We settled on a sandwich shop. 

The bottom item is a quipe.

I will comment briefly on a few of the foods we ate during our time in Santo Domingo: 

Quipes. A lady on the street was selling a sampling of food for 75 pesos. It included quipes, which is a fried bulgur roll with flavored meat in the middle. It was brought to the D.R. by immigrants from the Middle East. 

Mangú. Served frequently for breakfast, mangú consists of mashed fried plantains. When it is served with salami, eggs, and cheese, it is considered mangú con los tres golpes (or with the three punches). At the time, we didn't know this was the typical Dominican breakfast, nor did we know that the caramelized onions were supposed to top the mangú. 

Typical Dominican breakfast. Mangú is the mushy stuff on the right.

Cane sugar. Driving anywhere long distance in the Dominican Republic will most likely take you past sugar cane fields. It is no surprise then that cane sugar is the sweetener of preference. I still don't understand the difference, but the sugar we ate in the D.R. had a better taste than that from back home, and the crystals were bigger. 

Batidas. These are smoothies, made with local fruit that is always sweet and fresh. Very yummy.

Yaniqueque. Pretty simple. Fried dough with salt, and sometimes accompanied with ketchup. We only ate this once, which was at family carnival on the Malecón. 

Cane sugar.

Street food cart selling yaniqueques and quipes.

For our final day in Santo Domingo we searched out a restaurant for one last hoorah. We decided on El Conuco, a cozy little place in the Gazcue District. We chose it because it specialized in Dominican food. 

Although outside the restaurant appeared like every other street in Santo Domingo, inside it looked like a giant tiki hut. The floor was laid in stone with wooden tables atop it. Walls were painted a variety of bright colors and ceiling fans circulated outdoor air. 

I ordered a bowl of sancocho, a typical Domincan stew with meat, potato, yucca, plantain, yam and a drumstick on top. It was accompanied with a bowl of rice. The stew had a very good, but not overwhelming flavor and the texture was thick and smooth. 

My family thinks I'm crazy, but I love stews. They are hearty. They are nutritious. They are savory. Stews from a foreign country usually represent what the typical person would eat. Perhaps everyday. Dishes that are stews usually don't become world-famous, but often they are more authentic than those that do.

I relished every bite. I alternated between the stew and rice, sometimes dipping the rice into the thick broth. Then I would pull the drumstick out with my fingers and take a nibble. 

Less than twenty four hours later we were gone, out of the country and heading home. Among my memories of the Dominican Republic were the beaches, the people, the chaos of Santo Domingo, and most certainly the food. ♠

 

Sancocho.