As I began my drive across the roof of the Antilles. I had been in the Dominican Republic for ten days, banging around in a jeep from the capital, Santo Domingo, to the beaches of the east coast and then finally to the north-central interior. Ten days, all in the D. R. - but I had the clear notion that I was now entering the third country of my trip. The first country had been Santo Domingo itself, big and noisy, with its armed guards sitting in aluminum chairs next to Mercedes in the driveways, street vendors hawking bags of peeled oranges, and eager guides best hired as a means of fending off other guides. Sprawling Santo Domingo, simultaneously preoccupied with getting the next meal and getting rich. The second country was the Republic of Tourism, the D. R. of enormous coastal resorts that Americans have somehow not yet found but that haul in German and English vacationers by the planeload, braceleting them so that the dining room staff will know they are on the meal plan. "I found it on the Internet," said a Swedish lawyer I'd met at one of these places.And now I was entering my third Dominican Republic, the one I liked best, the one you can't find on the Internet in Sweden. Up in these mountains I wouldn't have to pay any guides for the privilege of walking too fast beside them down hot streets while they pointed out historic sites. Nor would I be on the meal plan.