It was my first time back in the Dominican Republic for a program in nearly five years. I last visited for a weekend session in 2016 in La Romana with Orfanato Niños de Cristo, which is an organization that helps children who have been victims of abuse, abandonment, or homelessnes.

This trip I was visiting the nation’s capital of Santo Domingo to work with Mis Primeras Huellas, a beautiful city with streets just as vibrant as those walking them. The area was filled with tall buildings, monuments, traffic and old town sights, which was a stark contrast to la romana, which is very coastal and remote. 

The trip was not off on the right foot though. I had a couple of delayed flights and a complete program postponement of nearly a week. Needless to say I was nervous. Luckily, our prospective beneficiaries were incredibly understanding. 

“Don’t even worry, mi amor. Whenever you arrive we will make time for you,” one of the directors said. 

Slowly but surely, the trip began to take shape. I finally landed in Santo Domingo and I managed to pass through airport customs unscathed, despite having nearly 40 soccer balls in my bags. I called an Uber and headed towards my apartment. My Uber driver was incredibly friendly and passionate about his country. He toured me around the colonial zone before dropping my bags off at my flat. He even pledged his assistance for anything I needed or would need in the future.

We took a moment to speak about the recent Messi transfer saga from Barcelona to Paris Saint Germain, though the conversation turned far less jovial than that of our lighthearted city tour earlier. 

I dropped by a local spot the next day for lunch to enjoy some Dominican cuisine, like arroz habichuela, platanos, mofongo, and empanadas. Then, I went to the coastline to enjoy the water. I intentionally set aside this Tuesday to get acclimated to a new city and a new environment. Admittedly, the bustling city of Santo Domingo certainly warranted one day at a minimum to catch one’s bearings.

Excited for our first program the next day, I headed to sleep early like a kid the night before a birthday. My slumber was interrupted early in the morning by the pitter patter of raindrops on the roof, which continued to get louder and louder until what could only be described as torrential downpours. Streets were flooded and water managed to seep its way into every nook and cranny. 

Turns out, we were getting hit by a tropical storm. My Uber driver mentioned this, but apparently it had gotten lost among Messi transfer talk and even messier emotions. I immediately opened up my weather app, which said rain… straight rain for two days. My heart sank. 

I checked my phone again… three missed calls from the first director. I called her back expeditiously and we discussed a new plan. Originally, I was only booked to be in the country Monday to Friday, with programs on Wednesday and Thursday. Naturally, we were getting absolutely poured on that Wednesday and Thursday, so I quickly extended my booking to Sunday and called the director back again.

My weather app suggested that Friday would be partly cloudy most of the day. I proposed a morning session then. She and the kids’ parents agreed it would be best.

It felt like I was back at square one. I’d already become so discouraged even before this week, questioning if this program was even going to come together. Here I was, closer than before, but still so far away.

Finally, after Netflix binging and frequent naps, interrupted only by soggy walks to the corner restaurant, Friday came. I peeked my head out the door, more cautious than I ever had before.

“¡Sol! ¡Ay Dios mío, hace sol!” I exclaimed to myself.

That morning the cold shower at my apartment didn’t feel nearly as cold as usual because of the adrenaline rushing through my veins. We were set to work with an educational program called “Mis Primeras Huellas” in the Los Guandules neighborhood, located along Río Ozama on the eastern side of the city.

I had heard quite a bit about this neighborhood from a few of my sources in the country. It was one plagued by drugs, trafficking, and prostitution.

Maybe despite better judgement, I called an Uber and pinned the destination, Calle Ricardo Cartty – Los Guandules.

“There’s no going back now,” I said to myself, with a deep breath.

My Uber driver was very friendly. He even invited me to drive to the beach with him and his family the following week for free. Our conversation was light-hearted, free-flowing, but when we arrived in Los Guandules, the mood shifted. I could see stress in his eyes, navigating streets barely fit for people and bicycle traffic, let alone an entire car, albeit a compact one.

As motorcycles passed by, he stopped a few to ask “¿Dónde está Mis Primeras Huellas?” Nobody was familiar with the location. 

I panicked. At this point, I’d take my chances against the tropical storm over being in this situation. I opened up WhatsApp and called the director. “Oh you are close!” she said, easing a bit of worry.

We were only two turns away, and she darted into the street to usher us through. With sweat beads dripping from his forehead, my Uber driver asked her, “What’s the easiest route out of here?”

I took my bags out of the trunk and walked past a small house to the entrance of the school.I had been warned already by the director that, despite her being excited to welcome a program, she feared that their space was insufficient.

I assured her we could make any area work, as we had many times before; however, now being there and seeing it in-person, this would easily be the smallest playing space we had ever run a program in… ever. Think: smaller than a school hallway, but a bit larger than a house hallway. 

Basically, we had room for two relay race lines, and if I’m being honest, we really barely had room for just one.

The director gathered the children, sitting patiently in their small kiddie chairs while a few others filed through the doors after leaving a parent or guardian’s arms. This was as shy and timid they would be for the rest of the day, I could already tell. The age group was 6-8 years old, so I knew they would soon be bursting with energy.

She said a few words of welcome, followed by chants in unison from those in attendance. I spoke a few words of my own before explaining the first drill. When our groups of two, each complete with a ball and a cone, were set up, I grabbed a red captain’s band and searched for a leader.

A young boy was up to the task. I helped him pull the band around his arm, but it left a bit of room to be desired.

After, we broke into those tight relay race lines. Throughout the session, the director’s daughter, Perla, was there by my side helping set up and take down drills. She was a true gem, it’s only fitting that her name literally translates to Pearl.

We started with some basic variations, just to introduce the young kids to the concept of competition and the blueprint for how the races would play out. Zig zags, and a few jumping drills, before a bigger skill like stepovers.

“Okay, now we have a trick called la bicicleta,” I said. “¿Justin, dónde estás?” I asked. He came up to me, front and center. “Do you know that trick?” I asked him.

“Yes!” he said, darting to the front of the line.

Once there, he stopped and paused. “Profe, what’s la bicicleta?” I died laughing, then demoed it for everyone else to follow suit.

We broke into a few other fun ones as the hot Santo Domingo sun burned into the back of our necks. As our time dwindled, I broke things into mano o cabeza to compile a list of five winners.

We needed a couple more practice rounds than usual, but the kids finally figured it out. They even added in their own little chant whenever someone messed up and was forced to leave the circle.

Our first round saw two winners, while our second saw three. I passed the ball to the director on our second iteration, so she could experience the drill from my shoes for a couple vueltas.

Finally, our winners were chosen. They all stepped up excitedly to receive brand new bracelets and a little prize card featuring a heart alongside the Around the Worlds logo.

Then, following a big round of applause, they all stepped up to choose a new soccer ball to take home. We had 19 participants and 19 soccer balls. “¡Que perfecto!,” I said, relieved.

After the initial five and the next 14 had a new ball under their arms, I broke for some closing words. The director again added some of her own, before the kids all chanted “¡Gracias, Profe!”

We waited for the last kid to be scooped up by a parent and then made our way back to the car. “I can drive you home,” the director had kindly offered.

“Okay, but please let me buy you and Perla lunch, as a way to say thank you,” I responded. We were all starving after a long morning session, so the offer was quickly accepted.

“I know a great place,” she said.

As we drove through Los Guandules, dropping off a few of the kids along the way, parents waved and smiled, as kids ran back to them with their new soccer balls. The director motioned for me to watch my bag as I sat in the front seat, to keep it by my feet instead of in my lap and to keep my phone out of view, rather than laying near my seatbelt. Out of an abundance of caution, everytime a motorcycle drove by, she’d roll my window up – just in case.

This happened in many other neighborhoods before, but we seemed to be on a higher level of alert than usual. After a while, it’s kind of come to be expected, but that doesn’t mean the whole situation itself has lost its shock value.

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Finally, we were nearing the colonial zone where I was staying y mi estomago lo sabía. We sat down for a hearty lunch filled with chicken and rice and beans and macaroni salad. We spoke about our journeys, and you could immediately see passion in her eyes as she spoke about Mis Primeras Huellas. Across the table, Perla sat in admiration, eyes full of pride for her mom’s vocation. She was going on 13 years running the organization. 

She grew more solemn as she began speaking about the pandemic and how it had affected the foundation and the kids. Sponsors dropped and their doors were closed. Even now, it was still just barely getting back to normal.

She mentioned how much the kids were hurting, some coming from one parent households, dealing with food insecurity and other very serious issues. On top of that, there’s only one school in the entire neighborhood, so it’s really difficult to break the cycle.

“It’s been so difficult,” she said. “We’ve already lost four mothers to COVID. The children are hurting, but the resources just aren’t there. We can’t afford therapists, counselors, psychologists. We can only do our best.”

I nodded my head, but knew deep in my heart that distractions have never been a lasting solution.

Changing to a less heavy topic, we exchanged some words about the day’s program. “The kids loved it. They had so much fun,” she said.

She thanked me for the company and for the opportunity to work together, as I dropped off a few extra tee-shirts and drawstring bags for a couple kids who couldn’t attend. I tied a bracelet around Perla’s wrist and gave her a hug before turning to her mother, saying- “Truly, thank you for what you do. The world needs more people like you.”