By all appearances, the Dominican Republic is a vision of tropical abundance.  

Powder-white beaches stretch endlessly beneath leaning palms, kissed by the gentle churn of turquoise waters. In Punta Cana, sprawling resorts dominate the skyline like monuments of inequality, fortified by manicured lawns, marble lobbies, and all-inclusive opulence. Tourists sip mojitos in infinity pools and post sun-drenched selfies beneath thatched cabanas. For them this is paradise – curated, controlled and pleasantly insulated from reality.  

Yet beyond the gated splendour of these resort compounds lies a different Dominican Republic – one defined not by leisure, but by endurance. In neighbourhoods where roads crumble, electricity flickers unreliably and access to clean water can be a luxury, the daily lives of most Dominicans unfold in sharp contrast to the glossy fantasy of the adjacent hotels.  

There are no pavements here. Instead, people walk directly in the roads, weaving carefully between cars that stop abruptly to pick up friends and relatives. Small, weathered huts line the roadside. These are makeshift stalls where vendors sell everything from handmade crafts to food. The ground is littered with broken plastic and discarded wrappers – a supposed refuse of a community too busy surviving to keep clean. The roads themselves are narrow and uneven. People dart through the traffic, navigating this informal maze with practiced ease: building sights for new hotels, water parks are being erected, billboards plastered all over advertising real estate agents and encouraging tourists to buy property.  

Beach sellers roam tirelessly up and down the shore, carrying trays of colourful necklaces, bracelets, and handwoven baskets. They spend hours under the sun, hoping to catch the eye of passing tourists. Yet even when a visitor shows interest, they often haggle relentlessly, pushing prices lower and lower for pieces that embody generations of culture and craftmanship.  

In the rural interior and urban peripheries, poverty is not an anomaly, it’s the norm. This stark juxtaposition – five-star extravagance flanked by deep-rooted economic hardship – is not simply an unfortunate coincidence. It is symptomatic of the structures that underpin modern global tourism.  

Resorts in the Dominican Republic are often foreign-owned and run as self-contained economic zones. Guests arrive by plane, are whisked to beachfront resorts in private shuttles, and remain cocooned within the confines of an all-inclusive model. Every need is met within this compound: meals, entertainment, excursions, even shopping. Pay enough money and you can be met with your personal butler who opens your door and caters to whatever you need. As a result, money circulates within a closed loop – from tourists to resort management to overseas investors – leaving only a faint economic imprint on the surrounding communities.  

Despite tourism in the Dominican Republic generating a record $9.75 billion USD in 2023, the wealth remains concentrated among a small elite, both local and foreign. In fact, many hospitality workers claim to work up to 12 hours a day for as little as $1 an hour. Bartenders serve drinks they could never afford and housekeepers clean rooms more luxurious than any home they have known. Maintenance crews quietly ensure the illusion of paradise holds, while relying on tip culture to pad their salaries. 

The business model behind these resorts is one of exclusion – designed to maximise the comfort and safety of tourists, while minimising their contact with local poverty and politics. One of the most striking ways resorts maintain this illusion is through the language and behaviour of their employees. At Dreams Onyx, in Punta Cana, staff are carefully trained to refer to tourists as family and to respond to every request with scripted phrases such as ‘our pleasure’. It feels like the vocabulary is more than courteous phrasing. It seems a deliberate form of emotional labour and social control. Employees learn to embody an attitude of warmth and unconditional service, creating a veneer of intimacy that masks underlying inequalities. 

Calling tourists ‘family’ is a powerful rhetorical device. It suggests a closeness and mutual respect whilst subtly reinforcing the hierarchy between guest and worker. The phrases such as ‘our pleasure’ transforms simple tasks into performances requiring constant emotional regulation. Staff are expected to smile and express gratitude even when tired or frustrated, supressing genuine feelings to sustain the resort’s polished image. This scripted politeness smooths over tensions that might arise from stark inequalities. It creates an environment where guests feel pampered and appreciated, while workers negotiate complex feelings of servitude, pride and invisibility. The result is a carefully managed social dynamic – a performance of paradise maintained by the often invisible sacrifices of the local work force. The workers are essential to the industry yet remain marginalised.  

The Dominican Republic is undeniably beautiful. Its true wealth is not the palm-fringed beaches or glittering resorts. It is the resilience and spirit of its people. Until tourism models shift to prioritise fair wages, labour dignity and local empowerment, paradise will remain an unequal illusion framed by paved infinity pools on one side and poverty-stricken communities on the other.