Orphanage Outreach

Monte Cristi, Dominican Republic Orphanage Outreach June 2008 Each day, it becomes clearer to us that "last year" has come to embody the experiences we shared during our weeks in Monte Cristi. With each passing day, it is evident that all of our intentions lead us back there next year, and undoubtedly, with next year, will come many opportunities to reminisce about this year (which of course will be next year's last year). There will indeed be much to remember. Luckily, there will be many people to share these memories with. Within each of us is a collection of images and quotations, conversations and gestures. This shoebox captures a wide range of emotion and a variety of people. Every single one of those people is absolutely, inarguably, beautiful. We remember so vividly the wild, fast paced message chain on the eve of our trip, the trepidation, hesitancy, and confusion. Uncertainties regarding food, dress, what terminal to arrive at, when to arrive, even which airport we would be departing from. We remember the unsettling tension, and then the excitement. We dragged our bags from Fast Park, or wherever, and across the floor, filled with ruts and scratches from the beginnings and endings of so many peoples' journeys. The feeling of spotting a familiar classmate, a friend, out of the crowd of people waiting to be checked in. The relief when the chaperones came, and upon stepping through the security line unscathed. The worry, as boarding time approached and all but one of us sat quietly. We were waiting, hoping we would not leave without her. The joy to see her rush onto the plane, as we took off down the tarmac, signals cleared. We remember the feeling of savoring that last piece of pizza, that last Vanilla Bean Frappuccino, in Miami, before departing for uncharted, unfamiliar territory. We remember the languish of waiting in the newly discovered heat and poverty, we handled baggage situations. The growing comradeship on the long bus ride, down poverty stricken, dust blown roads, was tangible. The excitement upon finally arriving at our home for the next two weeks, or possibly a home in an even more permanent sense. The feeling of being let loose on our kingdom, our palette, to paint and make our mark upon. A clean slate, an opportunity to reinvent oneself, but also to change someone's life, or perhaps the lives of many. The warm, familiar satisfaction of eating a home cooked meal, in the company of lifelong friends. The pages on the calendar fly by from this point onward, uncontrollably flapping, leaving a whirlwind of random and beautiful memories in their dust. Our first morning, the sky an unfathomable shade of blue, the light seeping through the thatched roof and across the wooden slats of the porch, as we sit; reading, thinking, pondering, missing, preparing, sharing, laughing. Our first walk into the seemingly strange town, so lively and happy, even shrouded in darkness. The jovial charisma of the manager at the Chic Hotel, where we exchanged money, and the excitement accompanying glances of people and places and things, animals, and plants, and foods, lifestyles so diverse, so unfamiliar, but at the same time unified, similar, rich in beauty and tradition. The first morning at Batey Maguaca, learning the ropes, building the beginnings of trust, friendship, and love, with children who live in huts, lean-to's, and shacks, among cows, and sheep, and goats. The same uncertainties reflecting back at us from their faces, their eyes, as we unload the bus. The gradual trust as we discover more meaningful relationships. The frustration of afternoon Science Camp, the children reserved and unwilling to participate. The joy and pride, multiplying day by day. The sadness of being ripped away from our home at the Bateys, the embodiment of our love, attesting to the bonds, inseverable and forever.

The Beach on Friday, each grain of sea salt, each wave of sand, each touch of blue in the water, etched indelibly into our minds. The gentle surf, the waves lapping away at El Morro, during our sunrise venture.

With each day, the waves take another trace of sediment and rock away, undetectable from one moment to the next, but powerful and forceful over a span of moments, years, endless time, that spreads across the expanse of golden shore. That first night in the park, playing soccer under the stars, 

The rush of warm blood, a quilt of emotions and personalities, stitched together with the world's most beautiful and universal game. The high tensions and the trivial nature of the game. The warm breeze, the slowly sinking sun, the beads of sweat as they drip down our foreheads are precursors of the exhaustion to come. The slowing pace of the game, night, witnessed for the first time in all of its magnitude and splendor. We remember the good natured apprehension upon the arrival of others. The conversations; frivolous, playful, others mature, full of substance. The simple gestures and shared love of soccer, people, smiles, lollipops, hugs, kisses on the cheek, and friendship, that above all "transcend every language barrier." The now familiar groove of the Kiddie Camp, the crunch of chocolate wafers, trickling of water, lemonade. Joselito wants lemonade. The crinkling of saltines, the smooth spread of the rich, creamy, peanut butter. The birthday cakes and goodbye parties. The late night conversations, card games, and learning experiences. Making picture dictionaries for security guards. The security guards make a home for us and share stories of their lives, their families, their culture, their experiences. The irritation of learning a new card game before mastering it. The concept of orienting oneself with something greatly unfamiliar, seemingly a hindrance at first, but in the afterglow, in hindsight, a necessity. Something basic yet powerful. The apprehension upon arriving at the Haitian border, and being out of our friend's line of sight. The relief upon emerging from the jungle of vibrancy, intact and whole, but nonetheless changed, bettered. The juicy mango and papaya, displayed in rainbows on silver platters.

The small, sweet, quenching satisfaction of a limoncello, hand picked, and glowing, ravished by late afternoon light. It lies in the palm of an eight year old's hand. He holds it out in offering, as a gift, a sign of friendship, of acceptance, of loyalty, of gratitude. 

His brother holds out a bracelet and slips it onto your wrist, begging you not to forget. Not to forget him, his brother, the children, the soccer, the park, the night, the warmth, the town, the country, but instead to remember everything that boy is, has, and stands for. Above all, these children; they stand for hope, we exist to give them hope, but instead, they fill us with hope. They exude happiness, they exude power, strength and ambition. Confidence. It is these gestures, these memories, that tell us we have succeeded in what we set out to do. That small bracelet, with its intricate beading and tight clasp, means the world. It shows that similarities overcome differences, love overcomes hate, loyalty overcomes infidelity.

The reluctance, hesitancy, sadness, full fledged refusal to leave the park, leave the children, our children, until we are dragged kicking and screaming to the bus. The anguish, melancholy, and heartache, of the unending bus ride, the beginning of our return to where we live. Where we "live." I think our real home is in that park, with those nights, and those hugs, that joy, that unity, that sense of pride, that irrevocable, unbreakable bond between us and them. Alexis was correct in the end, philosopher that he was, when asserting that "love has no age." Truly it doesn't. Not only are all of us of different ages and backgrounds, the statement applies as a double entendre, as the love we know with these people will never age, never grow old, never fade, falter or disappear. It is the star that never loses its glow, never falls, and never deteriorates or weakens. Our love is forever.