DOMINICAN REPUBLIC

CONTINENTAL DRIFTER
Life is a beach in the Dominican Republic
by Elliott Hester
click on photos for enlargements

Here on the Caribbean Island of Hispaniola—in a town settled by Jews, populated by Dominicans, and teeming with European and North American tourists—the beach offers more than just a sun tan.

Sosúa Beach is a half-mile stretch of sand on the northern coast of the island. One of the most popular beaches in the Dominican Republic (which shares the island with Haiti), Sosúa is blessed with gentle turquoise swells that roll in from Sosúa Bay. Palm trees jut out horizontally above the golden sand. Warm sun and cold cervezas welcome the crowds.

At the back of the beach—poised shoulder-to-shoulder beneath a seemingly endless canopy of trees—are more than 200 ramshackle huts. Inside you’ll find Haitian and Dominican paintings for sale. Tacky T-shirts and beach bags. Snorkeling and scuba diving excursions. Salsa, merengue, and bachata CDs. A plethora of laid-back restaurants offer everything from pollo frito (fried chicken) and jugo de limón (lemon juice) to schnapps and Wiener schnitzel.

Across from the extended row of huts are countless vendors sitting in plastic chairs. On the plastic tables beside them sit handmade signs offering manicures, pedicures, or banana boat rides.

Between the gauntlet of huts and vendors runs a sandy, shaded path where tourists are pleasantly accosted. “Hello my friend,” says a proprietor as I stumble along the path. “You want painting?” I shake my head, but the young Dominican in undeterred. He steps in front of me, blocking my progress. One outstretched hand caresses my shoulder, the other points toward paintings of Bob Marley and Che Guevara.

The beach is a major attraction in Sosúa, a small coastal village of about 45,000. In the early 1940s, about 600 Jewish immigrants settled here. They established a dairy, which is still in use today. Sosúa remained predominantly Jewish until about 1980, when nearby Puerto Plata International Airport opened its gates and the world came rushing through. These days Sosúa is a haven of modest homes, small hotels, and resort condominiums.

Back on the beach, I sit at a plastic table across from Leo’s Banana Bar & Restaurant. Leo Martinez, the owner, is like many at Sosúa. Twelve years ago he opened his business to meet the growing number of tourists. “In winter, we have mostly Europeans and North Americans,” he says. “But in summer the Dominicans come from all around the island.”

Leo’s Banana is a flimsy hut with a rusted, corrugated metal roof. It seems as if the slightest gust of wind might blow away the structure. But sitting at a plastic table in front of Leo’s, I feel solid and secure. The staff treats me like family, even though my Spanish language skills are laughable.

José, my waiter, delivers an ice-cold Presidente beer and suggests the fried red snapper. “It is caught this morning,” he says. A waitress whose name I can’t recall, hovers over me, correcting my Spanish between giggles.

From my plastic chair at Leo’s, I watch a procession of locals move past the endless row of huts. Two schoolgirls skip along the path, their blue shirts and khakis skirts flapping in the breeze. Next comes a trio of teenage boys. They wear mismatched baseball uniforms and carry only one baseball glove among them. An elderly Haitian woman balances a plastic basket of flip flops on her head. A boy on a bicycle wobbles across the sand. A fisherman carries a 12-pound lobster and offers it to anyone willing to part with their pesos. This is what makes Sosúa Beach so special. Here you are treated to a Dominican parade.

And then comes the music. Three musicians walk along the path and stop in front of Leo’s Banana Bar. One guitar. One set of bongos. A pair of castanets. Suddenly, the men launch into a wicked salsa rhythm. The beat lures Leo out of the hut and onto the sandy path. He begins to dance. One outstretched hand leads an imaginary partner, the other is pressed flat against his own wriggling waist. My red snapper is delivered but I don’t notice at first, because my eyes move from Leo to the musicians and then to a nexus of locals who break into dance—if only for the briefest of moments. They continue walking along the path, past the paintings, the woodcarvings, the sea.

The cerveza is cold, the locals warm, the music oh so inviting. Someone once said that “life is a beach.” But in Sosúa, the beach is alive.

Next Stop: Acapulco, Mexico

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