Open up the front gate and nearly interrupt a game of marbles being played in the dirt. John and Makendy live across the street, and are always playing in front of the clinic – marbles, tag, sliming any passers-by with “worms” (really just stretched out rubber bands, but you wouldn’t know it), sword fights, you name it. They are two of eleven children in the family, and mom just announced she’s pregnant again. It’s not hard to figure out why they run around barefoot and shirtless most of the time – not hard to figure out, but hard to comprehend.

Walk over in front of the clinic patio and saludar a Edwina. She broke her leg several months ago and just got the cast off – all her treatment was paid through donations. Finding the balance between showing empathy and helping, and not allowing myself to be taken advantage of, has been particularly challenging with her. It’s sad to think that I have to be skeptical of certain people’s ulterior motives, especially when that ulterior motive is to get just a few hundred pesos out of me. There are plenty of people here who do not allow their principles to break down, even in the face of dire need. But who am I to judge her? No one. So I continue to show whatever kindness I can, and hope that treating her with dignity and respect is at least worth something. But since the context in which she is living is still not justified, my inner arguments continue going in circles.

Keep heading up the hill and run into Frankie. He taught himself how to “breakdance” by practicing flips in the deep section of the river, and he likes to sing Bob Marley songs at the top of his lungs – preferably at 7am. He asks me when he can come running with me again, and I say any time he wants to. Got to respect a 12-year-old who can run three miles in rubber crocs.

Dodge a rooster and a donkey.

Hear my name shouted – “Lauuuu-ra!” – and turn to see Chela waving at me from her front door. She is one of the sweetest women I’ve gotten to know here. She always seems to have one of her three adorable children in her arms, and is notably attentive, patient, and loving with all of them. She also never fails to ask me how I’m doing, especially if she hasn’t seen me for a few days. She has no job, and not for lack of trying. She secured a micro-loan from Esperanza a few years ago, and began a small business selling pastries in the village. But, one of her daughters developed a heart problem, and Chela ended up defaulting on the loan in order to pay for her medical care. Numerous trips to Puerto Plata and Sosúa to look for a job have been fruitless, and now there is no money even for transport. It never ceases to amaze and sadden me to see how she continues to go about each day with a smile.

Say goodbye to Chela and finally get to Antonio’s house. He is an elderly man, and has been very ill since before I even got here. People say he’s dying, but he seems to keep holding on – he is always conscious, often in pain, cannot walk or sit up or eat by himself, and spends his days lying on a mattress on the floor of his one-room house. Neighbors come in to help him eat and bathe, and one of them told me today that Antonio was feeling dizzy and was worried he needed to go to the hospital. I ask him how he’s doing, has he been eating and drinking enough water? Crossroads provides him and some other chronically ill people in the village with food weekly – the extent of hospice service for the poor. I take his pulse and his blood pressure. Both are normal. I talk with his neighbor, and we decide that trying to move him onto a moto to get to the hospital would be much more difficult and uncomfortable for him that it would be worth at this point. We explain this to Antonio, and he nods. Está bien. Gracias.

Walk out and am flagged down by Omerci. Are there any groups coming soon? You remember to send them here to buy my jewelry? Not sure, yes of course. Wave to Ana Silvia in her long dress, heading off to church across the river.

Head back down the hill and say hello to Jeury, who’s sitting in front of her house. I ask her how school is going, and she tells me she got 100% on her math test. I quiz her on addition and subtraction – the kids always seem to love to prove what they’re learning in school, and I just hope they continue to be so committed to their education. And yet, when high schools require that students have proper documentation to enroll, many of these children will categorically be denied access. The injustice is structural and condoned. So I will give this seven-year-old girl a hug and tell her she is a much better mathematician than I am. Not that I’m surprised – my mental math skills have been already been humbled by every single vendedor in the street markets.

Snapshot: one hour in the village.