Eight Kilometres With Nothing On Them

The last stretch of coast is the emptiest. Down at the southwest tip of the country there is a bay called Bahía de las Águilas, and it runs for about eight kilometres with nothing built along it. No hotel, no bar, no road worth the name. You arrive by boat, or you rattle in on a track. The cliffs behind are low and white and full of holes, and the water is so clear that from above the boats look as though they are hanging in air.

It stays empty because it lies inside Jaragua National Park, created in nineteen eighty three and the largest protected area in the Caribbean, most of it sea rather than land. Later the park was joined to the mountains and the salt lake as a single biosphere reserve, so this whole corner of the country, from cloud forest down to reef, is looked after as one piece.

Between spring and midsummer, leatherback turtles come up this beach in the dark to lay. They are the largest turtles in the world, and most of the park's nests are made here and on the beach next door. By morning nothing is left of the night's work but two wide tracks going up the sand and two coming back down.

Polly turns for home in the late afternoon and climbs back over the mountains, over coffee farms and rows of plantains, into the cooler air of the Sierra de Bahoruco, where almost every bird that lives on this island and nowhere else can be found. Behind her the fishing boats are coming in to Barahona. Held in one foot is the pale blue pebble from the river mouth, which came from exactly one hill on Earth.