The wake-up call came 5:30am on Day Five, sparing me the joy of being awoken by the melody of the barking and crowing from the neighborhood animals. After a carb-orific breakfast of bread and cream of wheat (which I loved, but several others definitely did not), we were off to Santo Domingo for Sunday morning Mass. While one would expect a two and a half hour church service (with a pause of about 45 minutes to allow for the Baptism of about 70 parishioners) in a foreign language to be incredibly boring, the phenomenal music ministry made it seem like a concert, party, and celebration all at once. (And it certainly wasn't the longest Mass I've sat through, at World Youth Day in Germany in 2005 Mass was in German, and then had to be translated into English, French, Spanish, Portuguese, and Italian.)
One may also expect that in a country where poverty is rampant, that our group would be the best dressed of the bunch in the church. Not so. All of the parishioners were dressed to the nines, hair done, dresses, shirt and ties, sometimes full suits (which seemed a bit much on a hot Sunday morning). Meanwhile the tired looking 13 Canadians were sweating profusely, hair looking about as good as you'd expect after several days without proper care, and were sporting whatever wrinkled garb remained clean from our luggage. My bright green John Deere t-shirt, grey manpris, and hiking boots didn't quite cut it.
Afterwards, we gathered with the youth from the parish, ate some bananas (they're big on bananas down there), and ran through some random Ice Breakers and then showed us around their community. Seeing as this was our first opportunity to interact with some Dominicans that were our age, we were pretty much instant BFFs. As we made our way around the community, you would've seen us all laughing at each other and ourselves as we attempted to break down the language barriers. We hugged and waved bye as if we had known them for years instead of the better part of an hour, and jumped in the van, chewing on our new addiction; sugar cane.
On the way to the Casa de la Juventud (Youth Program for the Arch-Diocese), and in between us laughing our asses off while relating stories of home and doing impressions from Anchorman and MadTV, Cathy told us about the subway that they were building through the centre of Santo Domingo. As we drove, gaping holes were visible right through the centre of Av. Maximo Gomez, a major north-south thoroughfare of the city. Cathy related how many different contractors had been awarded tenders to build the metro, each allotted a couple hundred meters of the project. Without a whole lot of imagination, one could easily imagine the inconsistencies and costs that this could present to the project. Further to this, no compensation was afforded to the businesses along this main artery of the city to offset the consequences of the dwindling traffic as a result of the construction. Bankruptcies and closures were now commonplace along Maximo Gomez, adding to the mounting opposition to the costly project. In a country where we had seen crippling poverty and social services in dire need of attention, it seems the government may be in need of a priority shift. That, of course, will at least in part be up to the electorate in next year's Presidential election, for which there are already billboards erected everywhere across the country.
After a tour of the Casa de la Juventud, which is the centre for administration and planning of Youth programming, we moved on to Yo También, a home for street kids. This home was run by volunteers of the Arch-Diocese Youth Ministry, and provides shelter for boys of all ages, as well as an opportunity for education and training before they adulthood. Coming from a family that used to take care of Foster children, I could only imagine the backgrounds each child came from as we went around the circle and introduced ourselves. Several were scarcely 10, but the age many of them wore in their attitude and posture was much more advanced than that. After introductions and explanations about how the home operated, we ate together in the dining room. Having seen the basketball court outside, Kurtiss scarfed down his rice and beans and hurriedly pumped up the basketball that he had brought for the kids there. The deadened eyes that had been bored throughout the introductions suddenly came alive with excitement as we took to the court in the blistering sun for some 4-on-4. Now being 6'2", I am doomed for the rest of my life to be asked whether I play basketball, and when I answer no, "Well why not? You're so tall!" Well, I don't play basketball because I suck. Yeah, I ran around the court and tried to make a couple plays, but after a few laughing fits at my expense, I retired to the shade. Kurt, however, being the borderline pro that he is, played until he had schooled every opponent and his clothes were soaked with sweat.
We gathered once again as a group to hear more about how the home operated and what type of schedules the boys abided by. The most effective feature, in my mind, was the fact that the directors of the home themselves were in their twenties and thirties, and therefore young enough to relate to the youth and to be considered somewhat "cool" in their eyes. Despite the tough facade and the joking back and forth, one director told us that their primary modus operandi was love. A boy named Johnny pulled out a guitar and played a few of his own songs. He was unreal, and each time a song ended, the room erupted into raucous applause. That being the Dominican contribution to the gathering, Kelsey stepped it up with tap-dancing, of all things. While I rolled my eyes, half of the young boys stared intently at her tap shoes, wondering where the noise was coming from, while the other half stared at Kelsey's hair, wondering if it was going to jump off her head and attack someone (This is kind of an inside joke, but you'd probably understand if you have ever seen her hair. For those of you who have not, imagine a lion's mane. Then multiply it by 12 and tangle it all together in a disorganized heap. That would be Kelsey's hair. On a good day.)
After we all got up and made an attempt at step dance, we had the opportunity to talk with the kids and take some time to get to know them. Kurtiss took to the basketball court again, Kady and Amy played guitar and sang with Johnny, and a few boys dragged Kelsey over to teach her how to 'really' dance. Everyone from the group has their own story of that afternoon, but we all really enjoyed the chance to actually spend some time with them, rather than just sitting around in a circle and boring them to death.
When we left, some people exchanged gifts, a young boy named Samuel taught me a new handshake, and Kurt posed for a pic with the guys on the basketball court. And as the van pulled away amid cheers of "Gringo!" and "Marry me!" (I think that was directed at the girls), we were all smiling ridiculously wide, goofy smiles.
We spent the balance of the afternoon along the Malecon Libre (basically a boardwalk or promenade) in Santo Domingo. Being a Sunday, families were out and a mini relay of some sort was being run along the Autopista 30 de Mayo. The City has a habit of naming streets after important dates and after prominent foreigners. In fact, the 30 de Mayo used to be a part of George Washington Avenue (There are also streets named for John F. Kennedy, Winston Churchill, Jonas Salk, etc.), but was renamed after the brutal dictator Rafael Leónidas Trujillo was gunned down along that stretch of highway in 1961.
Now a haven for tourists and dotted with hotels, bars, and shops, we were given a couple hours to see the sights and to relax. Kurtiss, Debbie, and I found the nearest bar, a few Presidente beers, and spent the time chatting, laughing, and watching the world pass us by. The perfect ending to what had been, by far, our best day to date in the Dominican Republic.
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