Santo Domingo is somewhere else. Much further away than the few hours it takes to reach it. Here, the jungle borders the asphalt and the young meet at the villages’ crossroads on their imported mopeds. During the day, we idle by the pool, swimming and feeding on fried plantain and ceviche. We walk on the deserted strand – ocean, sand, a virgin glade, more ocean. Sometimes we leave behind the pastel-coloured oasis of Playa Grande and reach wild rue shrubs that climb over hills and skirt coffee and cacao plantations. Humble villages, flashy house fronts, schoolchildren walking in Indian file, wide smiles. We wake up and fall asleep in our silent cabin while waves resound, more or less gentle.

The northern coast of the Dominican Republic is a silent walk in the damp forest, an unforgettable mojito sipped at the shell-studded counter of a bar, and a brief rain we have learned to expect.

Words Meraviglia Paper, pictures Paolo Barbi.