To See the Real D.R., It Takes a Villa

Miles into the mountains, we ducked our heads to avoid the stray branches of mahogany trees as dirt roads carried us through poor farming villages and shantytowns, where barefoot children ran after our truck excitedly and adults fanned themselves on their front stoops.

Dominicans consider their coffee to be second only to Colombia's, and we stopped in one small village to learn the traditional way to grind coffee beans. Rafael insisted this includes a ritual of singing and dancing wildly around the grindstone, but when we complied, his mischievous smile fostered some doubt.

In the village of Barrabas, stoic artists carved traditional decorative Dominican dolls from the country's sandstone and neighboring Haiti's volcanic ash. Rafael explained that the faceless dolls represent the blending of the almost extinct indigenous Taino Indians, the Spanish who conquered them and the black slaves who came with the Spaniards. Though the dolls are sold to shops around the country, legend has it that the artists of Barrabas are the only ones who can create them, and the craft is passed down through generations. I snagged one for $12.

The last stop of the day was at the winding Damajagua River, where a long, uphill hike through thick foliage and shallow water brought ample reward. At the top, natural waterfalls cascaded into deep blue pools, and we dived blissfully in.

While Rafael waited behind, a new guide led us up slick rocks to the top of the first waterfall, and we swam vigorously upstream through narrow passageways to the next one. Gasping for breath, we caught sight of our second challenge: a small, powerful waterfall dropping sharply off an extended rock.

One guide hoisted us up while another lay at the top of the waterfall and grasped for our hands. Foolproof this was not. As water pounded down on us, he yanked us up over the top. After four more increasingly difficult challenges, we discovered the only way back to dry land was to ride each narrow waterfall like a slide, ignoring the jutting rocks on either side.

I silently cursed the Cofresi Files for its blase "climb to the top of the waterfall," held my breath and surrendered to the Damajagua.

It was early evening when we finally arrived home. We were comforted by the smell of Paulina's seasoned rice and chicken dish in the oven and the sight of Juan, the trusty night watchman, snoozing on a neighboring porch.

* * *

Our final morning in the villa, we once again awoke to the smell of fresh coffee and a plate of fruit on the deck, but there was no sign of Paulina. We headed off to the white-sand beach of Sosua, a half-hour cab ride ($25) away, hoping to see her later.

We arrived to find that Sosua draws a fair number of tourists, and for good reason. It's laden with spectacular shallow coral reefs, fishermen hawking baskets of steamed shrimp, thatched-roof huts selling tropical drinks in hollowed-out pineapples, and a host of kitschy shops and outdoor restaurants.

When we returned to Villa del Sol to pack our bags for the flight home, Paulina was still missing. Wishing to say goodbye, I consulted the Cofresi Files to find her phone number. Instead, I found a paragraph explaining that she didn't work on Sundays.

The breakfast we'd found on the deck that morning was her goodbye. She had snuck in on her day off to ensure we didn't leave on empty stomachs.

Now isn't that just typically Dominican.

Taryn Luntz is a freelance writer who works for National Geographic Television. For additional images of the Dominican Republic, check out the photo gallery athttp://www.washingtonpost.com/travel.