The rock underfoot is calcified coral. The ferns are prehistoric, barely changed from when this island was new some 40 million years ago. The air smells of salt and earth, the tranquility enhanced by the whoosh of palm fronds, the skitter of lizards, and the beat of distant salsa.

The trail is lined with royal palms, native almonds, and castilla elastica, the hairy tree that bleeds latex. It wanders among 11 clear-water lagoons—called “eyes” by the Taino Indians who populated the island before the arrival of Columbus—their water flowing underground from the mountains on its way to the sea. Ten of the lagoons are protected, but a dock at the eleventh invites visitors to slide in among the fishes and turtles. As I lie in the lagoon, eyes closed, one foot in the water, the sun and the breeze warm and cool my skin.

The trail runs in the Indigenous Eyes Ecological Park, a large oasis of land in this eastern end of the Dominican Republic. This part of the island looks just as it did when New York labor lawyer Theodore W. Kheel flew over it 35 years ago in a plane piloted by Dominican entrepreneur Frank Rainieri. The roads were dirt and the nearest airport was a bumpy eight-hour ride away. But the beaches were pristine—miles of white sand protected by a five-mile-long barrier reef.

The few who lived at the eastern end of the island fished, raised sugar or cattle, or burned trees for charcoal. There was neither indoor plumbing nor electricity, and most of the locals were illiterate.

“It was a lawless place, like the wild, Wild West,” says Kelly Robinson, director of environmental and social affairs for Grupo Punta Cana (GPC), the Dominican/American partnership Kheel formed.

Kheel, whose passionate environmentalism informed his practice of labor law, saw the potential to protect the land and employ its people. After bringing in a few partners, he bought 15,000 acres of scrub, three miles of it on the shoreline. Kheel and his fledgling group built eight simple cabins and planted 2,000 coconut trees, and in so doing sowed the seeds for what is now the luxurious 420-room Punta Cana Resort and Club, arguably one of the most environmentally and socially conscious resorts not only in the Dominican Republic, but also in all of the Caribbean.

From the beginning, Kheel and his partners were intent on avoiding the high-rise construction, overcrowding, and pollution that mar so many of the resorts in the Caribbean. In Punta Cana, buildings are not permitted to rise higher than the tallest palm trees, and the resort—built with native coral, wood, and cana branches—is designed with huge berths of space. Even in peak season, there is no hint of congestion. The development of the resort evolved in increments, and it didn’t take off until 1984, when GPC and the nearby Club Med opened the Punta Cana airport, one of the first privately owned commercial airports in the world. The airport brings in about 1.3 million people annually. Both the airport and the resort have been rebuilt and refurbished after being battered by hurricanes, and each reincarnation has been another opportunity for improvement, another chance to balance environmental preservation with the inevitable effects of tourism.

The building of the airport has brought thousands of jobs to the area. Unfortunately, it has also opened the way for less environmentally concerned developers to slap up shoulder-to-shoulder hotels that do little to respect the land.

GPC itself is doing a great job as an environmental steward, says Robinson, who worked during the 1990s as director of the Caribbean Alliance for Sustainable Tourism, an initiative of the Caribbean Hotel Association.

“It’s the only Caribbean company I know that has an entire unit dedicated to environmental protection,” she says. “It is also the only resort I know that employs a full-time marine biologist.”

GPC’s staff constantly reevaluates what it’s doing and considers alternatives for improvement. An example is seen in the resort’s P.B. Dye–designed golf course. Four of its holes lie along the water, and 14 more offer water views. The course is planted in Seashore Paspalum hybrid grass, which can be watered with a combination of salt water and “gray water” (recycled from the resort). It requires about half as much fertilizer and pesticide as traditional Bermuda grass. GPC knew that the runoff from those chemicals seeps into the ground water, which flows into the ocean and causes algae to grow. That algae kills segments of the reef.

Many portions of the reef are well-preserved—and beautiful, as I discovered while drifting along with mask and snorkel. parrotfish, blue tangs, butterflyfish, and a slew of others dart freely, oblivious to any humans overhead.

That even some of the reef remains pristine is in some ways a surprise. Scuba divers have broken off pieces of the reef, and motorboats pulling skiers have knocked out chunks. For decades, native fishermen used nets and dynamite, both of which shattered segments of the reef.

GPC recognizes that protecting the living reef is vital to tourism, but not just because it’s beautiful. The reef is what both protects and re-creates the beach each day, and it is home to the fish that feed the guests. GPC urged lawmakers to create no-fishing zones, and is working with local fishermen to help them understand that protecting the reef is in their best interests. GPC is also bringing in experts to explore the possibility of creating coral gardens that could be used to replenish the reef, much like the resort’s nurseries are used to nurture and then re-use native plants and trees harvested from construction sites. Its organic vegetable, fruit, and spice gardens—all irrigated with water recycled from the resort—are used to supply its buffets.

The Punta Cana Resort does many things well, but its best offering just might be the tranquility offered to its guests. I can attest to that as I wend my way out of the park to the beach, where a smiling waiter brings me a drink made with the wonderful local rum, Barcelo Anejo. The smell of grilled sea bass—pescado al brochette—drifts past. I’m not quite ready for dinner, so I wander into the still blue waters, crabs scuttling away underfoot. At this resort, I don’t have to think about anything. I can let my mind drift wherever it will. There is no whine of jet skis, no sign of motorboats, nothing but peace. I drag a Sunfish into the water and tack off across the lagoon—a skill I learned that morning—the better to watch the sunset.

Thirty miles up the beach is a cluster of about 30 hotels. The beaches are rife with motorboats, parasailers, and bartering vendors. I can go there tomorrow if that’s what I desire. But here I have serenity. At Punta Cana, I can rent a beachfront house designed by Oscar De La Renta (a member of GPC), but I am restricted from walking on a particular strand of beach that is protected as a spawning ground for sea turtles.

Such a constraint is typical of GPC, which in 1994 established the Punta Cana Ecological Foundation with an endowment of 1,000 acres for a nature reserve. In 1999, GPC opened the Cornell Biodiversity Laboratory, where researchers from Cornell, Columbia, Harvard, and other American and Dominican universities assay and inventory native plants, insects and birds.

I pass a group of Virginia Tech students, who are on the island studying sustainable development and working in the palm garden (home to 20 of the 40 or so native palm species). A few miles away, their peers are working through details for Virginia Tech’s plans to build and staff a health-care clinic in a nearby town.

I pause in the shade of a palm tree next to a stone-and-thatch barn, where a Dominican cowboy is saddling horses. From there he and I ride down a dirt road, ancient palms brushing our legs. We ride along the beach, past willowy, fashion-clad models posing for a photo shoot. My horse is responsive to body movements, but not to English. My riding companion, who says his English is very bad, smiles as
I confess to knowing only “un poquito Español.” His job, he tells me, is wonderful. He gets to care for the horses, to meet people from all over the world, to gallop across the sand. If not for the tourists, he would not have this opportunity. And he would not be spending his Saturdays at school, learning English.

The class that he attends is in a 14-room private school filled with books, computers, and science labs. It was built by GPC, which also pays its teachers. Last year, GPC built a high school, and it has committed to building a new public school for the neighboring community of Veron.

Our horses break into a gallop across the beach separating the golf course from the sea. As we ride, I decide that tomorrow I’ll windsurf, make another visit to the sweetwater lagoon, and spend a few quiet hours reading on the beach.

But tonight I will watch the sun set from the balcony of Anani (one of the resort’s eight excellent restaurants), where the black-bean soup will be served with flatbread and a glass of red wine, followed by mahi mahi on a bed of avocado and potato slices, then a selection of mousses and macaroons and triple-chocolate cake. Afterwards, I’ll wander over to the beachfront theater, sit back with a Barcelo Anejo, and watch the native dancers, feet and skirts flying, as the evening breeze drifts in from the sea. I will hear the music even as I fall off to sleep. It is the essence of sugar cane and cattle, of tobacco and charcoal, of tides and slow beauty. It is the music of a people with a rich past and, with care, a richer future.

JANINE LATUS writes from Greenville, North Carolina