Punta Cana

Punta Cana is the eastern tip of Hispaniola turned into the Caribbean's largest beach machine: thirty-odd kilometres of white sand from Macao down to Cap Cana, planted with coconut rows and lined, one after another, with the all-inclusive resorts that receive more visitors than any other corner of the region, through a private airport built for exactly that. It was mangrove and coconut plantation until the seventies; today it is where half a continent learns to float. The reef sits close inshore, the water is bath-warm, and the sunrise — this is the Atlantic side — comes up out of the sea.

The traveller floats, then leaves the resort at least three times: for Macao, the public beach to the north where the wave and the surf school are; for the catamaran to Isla Saona through the Cotubanamá park, with the starfish shallows on the way; for the cenote of Hoyo Azul at Cap Cana or the forest lagoons of the Ojos Indígenas reserve, where the water is cold and blue under the trees; and, with a day, for Higüey's basilica or Altos de Chavón, the stone village above the Chavón river an hour west — before returning to the sand, which is, after all, the point.

The Guide's honesty: the resorts are excellent bubbles and bubbles nonetheless — the Dominican Republic begins at their gates, and the guaguas, the roadside comedores and the colmado music are worth stepping out for —; prices are quoted in dollars and taxis are dear, so agree the fare first; sargassum arrives some summers and the hotels rake it at dawn; the airport's arrival hall is a gauntlet of transfers and timeshares, and a firm 'no, gracias' works; and the sea's rip on the open beaches deserves respect — the flags mean what they say.