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Visitors find beauty, baseball and bounty in the Dominican Republic

February 3, 2007 12:50 am

"You're going to drive in the Dominican?" the man on the other end of my cell phone call asked. "Are you sure? You've got to be crazy."

Maybe so. But a day later, Free Lance-Star photographer Mike Morones and I were on our way to the Dominican Republic.

The assignment was a four-day pilgrimage to this Caribbean island, where we were to chronicle the country's treasure trove of baseball--its past and future as it relates to the Washington Nationals.

And yes, we were going to drive, at least the first leg of our journey, from Santiago, a large city in the Cibao Valley on the northern coast of the island, to the capital city of Santo Domingo on the southern coast.

It was about 100 kilometers, and when we arrived in Santo Domingo, we would hook up with a driver who would accompany us the rest of our trip.

"Be careful," said Manny Acta. He's the new manager of the Washington Nationals, a native of the Dominican Republic and the main reason I was getting my passport stamped for the first time in my life.

We came for baseball, and in that sense, the island is paradise. The sport we call America's National Pastime is a true obsession for Dominicans. It's played in the streets and alleys of Santo Domingo and San Pedro de Macoris, next to sugar cane fields in the countryside, in stadiums across the tiny island--and almost everywhere in between.

"Baseball is all we have," said Jose Rijo, a former major league pitcher, native of San Cristobal and a member of the Washington Nationals' front office.

The Dominican Republic shares the island of Hispaniola with Haiti, and baseball certainly helps give the country of 9 million people an identity, but it's certainly not all it has.

We flew out on a cold December day and arrived in warm and slightly humid Santiago. After breezing through customs and buying a $10 tourist card, we corralled a rental car and started the 100-kilometer trek to Santo Domingo.

Contrary to what I was led to believe, roads we traveled were paved. Only in Santo Domingo did I need to act like a NASCAR driver.

The path from north to south was Highway 1, a four-lane divided highway a lot like State Route 3, with a few more potholes and a lot more foot traffic.

The highway cuts through the heart of the country, through rugged mountains and lush forests very different from the coast. Children walked to school, dressed in uniforms, on the sides of the road.

In the cities we passed through, like La Vega and Bonao, locals set up roadside shops in small wooden huts. Some sold coconuts, fruit, or roasted pigs.

There is extreme poverty in the Dominican Republic. Many homes are ramshackle huts, or humble stone structures, but it's hard not to be struck by the beauty of the countryside.

Santo Domingo was another story. Located on the south side of the island, the capital is as cosmopolitan as it gets in that country. It's crowded, and driving can be difficult. Red lights are a suggestion, stop signs are a figment of the imagination. I thought of slow-speed NASCAR, and got the hang of it.

Santo Domingo is also modern, and our destination, the Hotel Jaragua (a Marriott property), bore little difference from a Marriott in Washington or San Francisco with the exception of a small first-floor casino.

The hotel faces the Caribbean sea, offering spectacular views, and the atmosphere in the city is unrivaled. If there's a second national pastime of the Dominican Republic, it's dancing, and on the Sunday we were there, the main boulevard along the sea shut down for a festival.

Native food is abundant in the city, especially in shops and cafes in the historic Colonial Zone, though restaurants near our hotel also offered American fare (including a sports bar).

Food and beverages aren't expensive, except in most tourist areas. A brunch of eggs, sausage, toast and a Pepsi cost 660 Dominican pesos, or $20, at the Quesquaya Restaurant in the lobby of our hotel.

When you're exploring, expect to pay for necessities; be wary of tap water and ice.

Of course, venturing away from tourist areas has its advantages, and we were lucky enough to see parts of the real Dominican Republic. With Manny Acta's friend Juan Tiribio driving, we visited several towns off the beaten path.

In Acta's tiny hometown of Consuelo, we walked on the overgrown baseball fields he played on as a boy, and witnessed what the demise of the sugar cane industry can do to a town. Located northwest of San Pedro de Macoris, Consuelo once thrived thanks to a sugar processing plant located a short throw from Acta's childhood home.

His parents still live there, but the failure of the plant brought poverty and crime. Still, at every turn we were greeted by friendly faces, by locals eager to help us and speak with us.

A pickup baseball game wrapped up near Acta's home on the gravel street leading to the sugar plant.

Elsewhere, young men and women danced in an open-air cantina on a corner near the town's central plaza, and we ate empanadas--fried pockets of dough with chicken or cheese inside--from a street vendor.

Away from Consuelo, we chomped on raw sugar cane in the tiny town of Pizarrette, the home of a 16-year-old shortstop signed by the Nationals during the summer, and cruised by white sand beaches at Boca Chica, a truly unique destination.

A large reef protects the cove, creating a "swimming pool in the sea"--clear water not more than a few feet deep for yards and yards.

Our busy schedule prevented me from dipping a toe into the tantalizing water or grabbing a bite from makeshift fish stands that dot the beach entrance.

Fresh fish, roasted and fried and baked and broiled, was offered, and Juan offered to stop and help us choose some, but I demurred.

I immediately regretted the decision. What better way to experience a country than to mingle with its locals, eat their food? But we were off to a baseball game, where I enjoyed a fabulous Cubano sandwich while watching las Estrellas Orientales lose to los Tigres del Licey in a Dominican Winter League game. The games run from November to January, and feature major league stars.

We finally found the real Dominican Republic on our final day.

After a tour of the Nationals' academy in San Cristobal, Rijo invited Morones and me to his seaside home for "fish, lobster and champagne"--Dominican fare.

The lobster never showed up, but in a beachside gazebo extending over crashing waves, we had snapper in a rich garlic broth, fried plantains, conch salad and El Presidente, the beer of choice for locals and tourists.

We feasted, stripping the fish to the bone and gobbling the plantains.

In a few hours, we were to head back to the United States. But we had savored the Dominican experience.