Veintisiete Charcos

I hit a wall a week and a half ago. Not literally. I mean, I hit the way-too-much-group-dynamics wall. The way-too-many-people-here-get-the-hell-out wall. So when we went to veintisiete charcos (twenty-seven pools), I expected to have a great time, and I did, but I had to strive to stay out of the group so I wouldn´t lose my mind.
I´d been debating over the past few days whether to go to Puerto Plata the next weekend with some friends. I was already on the fence as I didn´t feel great about dropping over $100 for it--trying to save some money for some travel in August. But too, I knew it would get booked at an American-owned hotel. And although tourism and foreign investment are very important for this country, something just didn´t feel right about it. Seems to me at these kinds of places managerial posititons go to foreigners and Americans, the bulk of the money goes to execs in America, and the locals are stuck with low-paying dead-end jobs. Maybe I´m wrong, but it seems to me this is exactly the kind of establishemtn that contributes to the widening gap between rich and poor. Was I really ok with that?
When we got to 27 charcos and had more or less stripped down to bathing suits, taken group photos, and geared up with life jackets and helmets, we got a brief lecture on ecotourism. You see, 27 charcos grew out of the locals who would give informal tours of the waterfalls to foreigners. It´s a well-run establishment now, run by locals, and much of the proceeds go into schools and infrastructure for the local community. Now, I get excited--I mean really excited--about this kind of thing. If I had my way, everything I spent my money on here would be at this kind of place. But ecotourism is a tiny portion of the industry here, so that´s not really an option.
So you can see why it drove me nuts when the whole group got bored within two minutes. And that deep and burning frustration--the sort of righteous indignation that wells up so frequently in arrogant people--rose up in me. Everyone here professes to care about the poor. They want to join peace corps and doctors without borders and solve world hunger, etc., etc.: shouldn´t they care about this? Shouldn´t they be upset about the growing socioeconomic gap? Shouldn´t they be so excited to be here, where our fun actually benefits others? Shouldn´t they be agonizing, like I was, over the decision of whether to go to Puerto Plata?
This was ridiculously arrogant. And I knew it. So I threw myself into the river, I backed away from the other students before I lost it. I pushed myself to the front of the group where I could go as fast as I wanted, and let myself be swept up in the beauty of the river as bronze young men hoisted us over the rocks. I left myself wander among the dripping stone walls around us, shaped and colored by the soft powder-blue water. And as we stood in the seventh pool waiting for everyone to scale the last waterfall so we could take more group photos, I rested my hand just beneath the water´s surface, watching the light play on my ring. The little black crosses were dazzling as the clear water toyed with their image, letting the silver metal magnify and sparkle. I steadied myself, grasping onto my most important identity and searching for its meaning in this strange place.