I'm sitting on a little wooden bench, watching the water pour off the tin roof that covers my head. Three chickens are hiding under my bench, sharing my dry spot. The rain hasn't stopped the sun from shining, nor the birds from chattering away in the trees, but it has washed away (for a little while) the smell of the goat pastures that surround the clinic.
In a few minutes, Cheima will call me inside for a lunch of rice and beans and, if I'm lucky, sweet fried plantains. My sunburn from last weekend's surfing lesson has faded and my bajillion mosquito bites have decided to stop itching for a few minutes. In this moment, all is beautiful. But after lunch, things will go downhill – literally. Kristin and I will be going down the mountain to a village called La Tinajita. It is the poorest village on this mountain, and home to the majority of the malnourished children seen in the clinic. Several days ago, I went with the doctor on a house call to check on the progress of several girls in that village, and the story I heard broke my heart. One of the little girls in the house was once known as Monkey. When the clinic workers first found her she was three, had never learned to walk, and talked very little. Ignored and rarely fed, she sat in the corner, often covered in her own bodily fluids. Several of the clinic volunteers made a deal with her parents that they would come pick her up every morning, feed her, bathe her, care for her, and return her in the evenings. Within 2 weeks, Monkey had learned to walk. When those volunteers had to leave, another family was found to care for her, and another, when that family grew to burdened by her presence.
Eventually, however, rumors started to spread that her father wasn't able to care for his children, and he demanded that she stay at home. Now, the beautiful little girl has lost her nickname, and has learned to walk and talk, but she has very little hope for any kind of future. Our visit to her house was evidence that she is still very rarely fed or bathed. She has gained no weight in over 2 months. Although she should start school next year, chances are, she will be kept home, to keep the house and to care for her younger siblings, the youngest of which is 1 year old and still can not sit upright. Her 3 older sisters and 1 older brother have already started down the path of no education, because school uniforms are expensive, and even when they are free from the clinic, getting 4 children to school every morning takes time, effort, and money. She, like her siblings, will grow up into the same life her parents lead – poverty, substance abuse, abusive relationships, and very little hope.
And that is often the story of growing up in the mountains of Dominican Republic. There are success stories. Two of the girls in the village are currently enrolled in the college in Santiago, and two more will likely get scholarships for next year. There are those who own businesses, or teach in the schools, or drive taxis. There are families with good parents, who are willing to do whatever it takes to help their children succeed. But for the rest, there is no safety net. There is no CPS, no social workers following their cases. On this mountain, the clinic may be the only institution to even know these children exist.
