ISLAND ON THE VERGE

The four Canadians sitting at a nearby table in La Bahia restaurant had a confession to make. “We’ve escaped,” they said. Not from prison, it turned out, but from their hotel. And it was no ordinary hotel they’d fled, but the Casa del Mar, one of the best-known resorts in the Dominican Republic.

“We’ve had enough,” they moaned. After two weeks, they were tired of the good food, tired of seeing the same suntanned faces, tired of lying on the same stretch of beach--no matter how pretty it was. Most of all, they were tired of not being able to get out. When I asked what had stopped them, they said their travel agent. She had told them not to go to La Romana, the nearest big town, and Bayahibe, the village where we now sat, a mere five-minute walk down the beach from their five-star digs.

“But why?” I asked.

“She said they’re unsafe.”

Bayahibe unsafe? There were plenty of descriptions I could think of for this fishing village at the end of the road in southeastern Dominican Republic--sleepy, rooster-filled, great for inexpensive grilled lobster--but unsafe wasn’t one of them. The quartet was crestfallen at the news that Bayahibe isn’t a hotbed of cutthroats and thieves. “We planned our Caribbean holiday for an entire year so it would be perfect,” said one. Like me, they had heard that the Dominican Republic was an island on the rise, cheap and still little-known. They had hoped to get the most out of it by leaving gray, wind-swept Saskatchewan when it was coldest. “But look what we missed. Our first night out is also our last night out.”

Plenty of travelers to the Dominican Republic don’t even get that far. As in Jamaica to the west, the tourist industry here has structured itself in such a way that it’s easy to visit the country without actually visiting the country. If this is the Third World, you’d never guess it by looking at the production-line slickness of the average package tour: fly in, catch an air-conditioned bus to the resort, suntan and eat seafood, catch a bus to the airport, fly out. With large planes able to land near the popular beach spots--La Romana, Punta Cana, Puerto Plata and Santo Domingo--the road from the airport is about as much sightseeing as you’re going to get.

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MY TOUR OF THE DOMINICAN REPUBLIC COULDN’T HAVE BEEN MORE DIFFERENT FROM THE SASKATOON foursome’s. I caught mopeds, taxis and buses (from the luxury kind with TVs to the gua-gua minibuses that blare merengue 24/7), ate at sidewalk rice-and-beaneries and plush restaurants where the clientele was as rich as the menus, and stayed in hotels that ranged in price from $20 to $150 a night. I landed in Santo Domingo, the underrated capital, headed directly to Bayahibe, returned to Santo Domingo for several days of exploring, and then ventured north, via the mountains, to the seaside town of Sosua. En route I discovered some of the best coffee I’ve ever had (always a good start in my book); motorcyclists adept at transporting absolutely anything on the smallest bike; some obscure history of the land’s unheralded role in World War II; mere tots able to straddle moped handlebars with ease; lots of wealth, but still too much poverty; an economy thriving because of money flooding in from Dominicans who have immigrated to the U.S., mostly to New York; a country, in short, that I’d all too hastily lumped together with impoverished Haiti, which takes up 30% of this 350-mile-long island, the second largest in the Caribbean.

In Bayahibe, my routine was simple. It began every morning with a mound of fresh fruit and recklessly strong coffee at the Cafeter’a Julissa, and ended every night across the street at La Bahia restaurant, where the effusive manager told anyone who cared to listen that Oscar de la Renta and Julio Iglesias are regulars. In between, I snorkeled and lazed on the beach, the most beautiful of which is right next to the Parque Nacional del Este. The park runs south of a line stretching from Bayahibe in the west to Boca de Yuma in the east and continues onto a virtually uninhabited island off its southern tip. A day trip to the Isla Saona is, in fact, one of the few outings guests at nearby resorts can take.

The mainland national park, meanwhile, receives little attention from travelers. Or from Santo Domingo. Evidence? 1) The guard at the entrance was so poorly paid that he forced visitors to cough up a fee even though entry was supposed to be free and 2) Most indigenous wildlife, from the hawksbill turtle to the rhinoceros iguana, is endangered.

It’s hard to believe that five centuries ago, the island was home to a people whose practices were so ecologically sensitive that it made them, in the words of one guidebook, “environmentalists long before the word entered anyone’s vocabulary.” But the Ta’no suffered under the Spanish, and their numbers plummeted from hundreds of thousands to just a few thousand. In one particularly horrific incident, the Spanish army massacred 7,000 Ta’no in several hours. Today that site can be found inside the Parque Nacional del Este.

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ON THE GUA-GUA BACK TO SANTO DOMINGO, EVERYONE SEEMED TO KNOW the lyrics to the latest merengue playing on the radio. They didn’t hesitate to sing along either, and one girl near me mouthed practically every word during the two-hour trip. The view out the window gave me a thumbnail sketch of the country’s priorities: Sugar (endless green fields of cane); baseball (large stadiums that were easily the most costly structures in the bigger towns); and, of course, resorts (massive gates and long driveways leading to places with quixotic names like Casa de Campo). If there’s one Dominican resort foreigners know about, it’s Casa de Campo. Built outside La Romana in the 1970s by former investor Gulf & Western--which owned Paramount Pictures at the time--and decorated by alleged Bahia patron Oscar de la Renta, there was something else besides its pedigree that interested me. G&W; also had constructed an architectural confection called Altos de Chavon on the vast grounds.

Resembling a colonial town in Spain, Altos boasts some magnificently pointless features, including fountains worthy of Disneyland and a 5,000-seat Greek amphitheater inaugurated by Frank Sinatra. Artifice has gradually given way to art, and Altos now has numerous resident painters and sculptors and some wonderful galleries. And you need look no further for the best anthropological museum in the Caribbean, packed with artifacts depicting how the Ta’no, and earlier native settlers thousands of years before them, sailed up the Antilles from South America.

Nearby La Romana and San Pedro de Marcor’s were once home to sugar barons who made their money off of exports, especially in the days when Pan Am Clippers would land on the rivers to take loads of cane back to the U.S. The towns today don’t reek of wealth, and fortunes are less likely to be made off commodities than off a baseball bat. Such famous players as Sammy Sosa and George Bell come from the Dominican Republic, and no matter how small the town you’re in, you’ll see kids practicing their swing--often with no more than a stick and stones--perhaps hoping to become the next Manny Mota. Many of the dozens of Dominicans in the U.S. majors, as well as hundreds more in the minors, grew up honing their beisbol skills on the streets of San Pedro. The town even promotes itself as the place that has “given the most major leaguers to the world,” some of whom come home in winter to play at the local stadium.

Outside the Estadio Tetelo Vargas--and across the countryside--billboards were plastered with the faces of another kind of major player: the men running for president in the upcoming election. Their mustaches were airbrushed and their smiles were so broad that you couldn’t help remember that the country has had a history of presidents not worth smiling about. The most infamous of these, Rafael Trujillo, held power from 1930 to 1947, and was never far from the spotlight until his assassination in 1961. What I’d read about Trujillo and Joaqu’n Balaguer, who ruled on and off for 22 years (the last time until 1994), made me slot them into the same “ruthless” category as Chile’s Augusto Pinochet and Nicaragua’s Anastasio Somoza. A friend of mine who had visited the country in the early ‘90s, when Balaguer was still around, described a landscape full of trigger-happy soldiers and bribable officials.

Four years under the democracy of Leonel Fernandez have clearly changed things. The day after I arrived in Santo Domingo was Independence Day, Feb. 27, and the miles-long malecon, or seaside promenade, was packed with tens of thousands of people. There were soldiers, yes, but I hardly noticed them for all the clowns in carnival devil masks, merengue bands, fast-food vendors and strolling families. Later, when my taxi got stuck in traffic--a Santo Domingo specialty--I heard Fernandez giving a speech on the radio. The driver was more than willing to talk about, and criticize, the president.

I couldn’t help compare this mood of relaxed openness with what I had recently experienced in Haiti, which was also having an election. There, sadly, the people not only didn’t want to talk about politics, they didn’t even care to vote. The two countries are on the same island, but in many ways they are worlds apart.

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DURING HIS IRON-FISTED RULE, TRUJILLO PAID A MEXICAN POLITICIAN $1 million for a bizarre collection of weapons and military uniforms--including everything from a samurai’s armor to British muskets. Even more remarkable than the antique arsenal, though, is the edifice where you can see it displayed today. For about 50 cents, a dramatic guide by the name of Edgar led me through the Casas Reales, or royal houses. One of the oldest buildings in the colonial district (Zona Colonial), the oldest sector of the oldest capital in the New World, the 16th century Casas were used by the island’s first governors (and later Trujillo himself). Built of coral blocks, the design incorporates huge, airy courtyards and grand staircases that sweep up to wide balconies. From upstairs in the old banquet hall, Edgar theatrically opened the shutters to display the spectacular view across the Rio Ozama, from the old city to the new, the fastest-growing metropolis in the Caribbean.

In the colonial zone, change takes place at a less frenetic pace. The Nicolas de Ovando, the first five-star hotel in the old sector, has been “about to open” for at least two years. I was told that it would “definitely” open next year. In the meantime, hotels like the Frances, the Nicolas Nader and the Palacio create a buzz of their own. They have transformed colonial mansions into the best accommodations in the old sector, their pastel walls crowded with wonderful local art that’s usually for sale. I spent one day at the Museo Bellapart, a sumptuous new museum built by the owner of Honda that contains the finest art collection in the Caribbean, and then wandered through the Mercado Modelo craft market. I was sitting at an alfresco restaurant named Bettye’s Cafe when it struck me that the Dominican Republic is on the verge of something--maybe of becoming the next “must-visit” destination in the Caribbean. Like the lined-up tiles in a game of dominoes you see men playing on the Calle General Luperon, all of the elements are in place: beaches, infrastructure, towns rich in history and culture, and things to do.

That same thought probably struck Tennessee-native Bettye Marshall on her first visit, back in the 1960s. Shortly after that she started a business here. Today the Plaza Toledo, on Isabella La Catolica, is one of the finest places in the city to buy art, and Bettye’s Cafe is fast gaining an equally strong reputation for its menu of fresh shrimp, curries and gazpacho. More recently, Marshall opened a five-room B&B; in a massive atelier-like apartment building a few blocks away. The spacious retreat has ceiling fans, lots of art she can’t fit into her gallery, huge louvered windows you can open to watch the night life passing below, and a rooftop deck with some of the most breathtaking views of the city.

While nursing a Presidente beer up there one balmy evening I met two Americans who had just spent five weeks crisscrossing the country. Their eyes wide, they couldn’t rave enough about where they’d been. When I asked them to pick their favorite places, they narrowed it down to three: Barahona (in the southwest, off the road to Haiti), Miches (on the Bah’a de Samana) and Jarabacoa (in the central highlands). Jarabacoa, it turned out, was almost on my route to Sosua, so I decided to make a quick detour there. At the crossroads of La Vega, a farming town, I switched from a spacious bus to a packed gua-gua, and soon, with passengers humming the radio tunes, we were climbing higher and higher into the mountains, where the air is cooler and the avenues are lined with trees. It didn’t make me think of Switzerland (which some guidebooks said it would), but it was obvious why they grow apples, strawberries and other fruits that seem out of place in the tropics.

Jarabacoa is also the heart of motoconcho country, so I left the gua-gua and straddled a 50cc moped driven by a kid who looked like an eighth-grader. With my bag hanging precariously off the back, we sputtered through town to the Hotel California, a small, gray concrete building to which a second floor was being added. “When it’s finished,” the Dutch owner beamed, “you will be able to see the mountains from your room.” Barely 20 miles away was Pico Duarte, at more than 10,000 feet, the highest peak in the Caribbean. The Dutchman told me that climbers started at La Cienega, which was at the end of the dirt road next to his hotel. Two girls overnighting at the hotel had just returned from another attraction that sounded more enticing--at least to a short-term visitor like me. It was a waterfall, one of three around Jarabacoa, and all of them were closer and much easier to get to than a mountaintop. Unfortunately, it poured the next day and I couldn’t visit any of the sights. I would have stayed an extra day but I needed to get to Sosua by the following night, a Friday. I had read somewhere that a Shabbat service was held at the local synagogue, and it was there that I hoped to come across the remaining members of a community that had long intrigued me: a group of Jews who escaped the Holocaust.

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IN 1938, WHEN WORLD LEADERS MET IN Evian, France, to decide who among them was willing to grant sanctuary to the European Jews being threatened by Hitler, their efforts proved largely unsuccessful. The Dominican Republic was one of the few countries that offered to open its doors, and to no less than 100,000 refugees. The man who made this all possible, oddly enough, was the dictator Trujillo. In the end, only 700 Jews made it, and after arriving in Santo Domingo they were transported to a piece of land on the north coast that had once been owned by the United Fruit Company. The men and women who had to turn this virtual jungle into farmland weren’t farmers but lawyers, teachers and doctors. After numerous false starts with various crops, they tried cattle. Later they opened one of the first meat-and-cheese factories in the country, Productos Sosua, which still operates today.

What I found in Sosua was not what I expected. The surrounding countryside was certainly the lushest I’d seen, but a resort hemmed in the little synagogue. There were bars and souvenir stores up the street, motoconchos buzzed everywhere, and at dusk several Haitian prostitutes bickered in French on the sidewalk. Worst of all, there was no Shabbat service--in fact, the synagogue looked permanently closed. A guard at the resort next door told me that the Jews had all left town. But just as I was losing hope of finding any trace of them, I came across a young German woman, Tanja of Tanja’s Pastry, who led me to Luis Hess. Now a spry 81, Hess still lives in his original bungalow, although it too is surrounded by clubs and restaurants with names like Pluto, Tropix and El Toro.

A teacher of Spanish at the first school in Sosua, he had married a Dominican woman and fathered two children, both of whom, like most of the Jewish community, later immigrated to America or back to Germany. Hess pointed out that the new Germans who swarm the beaches, sunning themselves on deck chairs, have nothing to do with his generation, nor do they know anything about it, which is sad. But somehow his words summed up the country for me: It was being visited by more people than ever before, but seen by only a few.

Guidebook: In Search of the Real Dominican Republic

Telephone numbers and prices: The area code for the Dominican Republic is 809. No international code is needed. (Note: Some long-distance carriers block calls to the island; dial the operator for assistance.) Prices are approximate and computed at the rate of 16 pesos to the dollar. Room rates are for a double for one night. Restaurant prices are for dinner for two, food only, unless otherwise noted.

Getting there: There are no nonstop flights from Los Angeles to the Dominican Republic, but American Airlines has connecting service via Miami, New York or San Juan, Puerto Rico, among other cities; TWA and COPA (a Panamanian airline) also have connecting flights.

Caribe Tours, telephone 221-4422, has luxury buses that travel throughout the Dominican Republic. Sample rate: Round trip from Santo Domingo to Puerto Plata on the northern coast is $12.

Where to stay: In Santo Domingo, Bettye’s , tel. 688-7649, fax 221-4167, feels like you’re being treated to someone’s private Parisian-like apartment. Rate: $40 with breakfast. Hotel Palacio, tel. 682-4730, fax 687-5535, https://www.dominican-rep.com/Hotel-Palacio.html, has pastel rooms that overlook a courtyard where breakfast is served. Rate: $60 and up. Hotel Sofitel Frances, tel. 685-9331, fax 685-1289, is even more luxurious. Rate: $126. Just outside Bayahibe, try the bungalows in the Italian-owned Boca Yate, tel. 223-0072, which lies right behind the Club Dominicus resort and is close to the best beach. Rate: $40. In Jarabacoa, the Hotel California is forgettable, but Rancho Baiguate, tel. 574-6890, fax 574-4940, https://www.ranchobaiguate.com, is worth the motoconcho ride. Rate: $65. In Sosua, I stayed at the Piergiorgio Palace Hotel, tel. 571-2626, fax 571-2786, https://www.piergiorgio.com, which has the best rooms in town and a magnificent location above the bay. Rate: $90. Outside Barahona is the Casablanca, tel. and fax 471-1230, a small hotel on the beach and recently renovated by a Swiss woman named Susanna Knapp. Rate: $25.

Where to eat: In Santa Domingo, Bettye’s Cafe, 163 Isabella La Catolica, Zona Colonial, tel. 688-7649, fax 221-4167, serves wonderful salads and pastas; $20 to $35. La Briciola, Arzobispo Merino No. 152-A, Zona Colonial, tel. 688-5055, fax 688-6038, https://www.dominicana.com/briciola, is an Italian restaurant and bar in a blissful courtyard setting; $100. La Cafetera, at No. 253 on the pedestrian mall El Conde, tel. 682-7114, is good for great coffee ($1) and people-watching. At La Bahia in Bayahibe, No. 1 Calle Principal, 833-0007, the grilled lobster is a must; $32. And the Italian food at La Puntilla de Piergiorgio in Sosua, Calle La Puntilla No. 1, tel. 571-2215, fax 571-2786, https://www.piergiorgio.com, matches its thrilling setting--on a cliff’s edge; $24 to $32.

For more information: Dominican Republic Tourism Office, 561 W. Diversey Parkway, Suite 214, Chicago, Ill., 60614; tel. (888) 303-1336, fax (773) 529-1338, https://www.dominica.com.do.