Basketball in the communa: If there was a most wholesome award for the trip so far, this one would certainly take the honors. Jordan, Ben, and I got dropped off near Communa 13, a historic Colombian neighborhood with sprawling walls of graffiti, vibrant dancing, and majestic views. I wish I had more space in my bag to buy up as much of the colorful art as possible. Most of these people have so little, and when you buy something they’ve made, their gratitude lights up the block brighter than any street light ever could.
It doesn’t take much to make someone’s day. Whether it’s a smile, compliment, or small purchase, the tiniest acts of kindness can create a chain reaction of beauty which will burst through the broken walls of evil built by the battered souls of the world. The people of Colombia have been through so much, and it makes the battles I fight in my own mind seem silly. I’m striving to get out of my own box of problems so I can show more kindness to those who need it most.
There’s a song I listen to often, and the chorus sings: “You’re never mean but you’re never that kind.” Sometimes you hear something and it pierces you with such force that it splits your breath in half and makes you want to tumble to the floor as you gasp for air. I first heard this song a couple of years ago and I still remember the moment it crushed me, because I knew I was that guy: never mean but never that kind. Hopefully the little hills of kindness I strive to build will one day form a gorgeous range of mountains, but beauty always takes time.
Those moments on the basketball court gifted me the purest sense of joy. I wish you could catch a glimpse of these Colombian kids’ eyes when we said we’d play against them. Typically overzealous, they thought they could take us down. They were pretty good, but they picked the wrong group of guys to challenge. Ben is the best basketball player I know, and Jordan and I both played in high school and know how to get our fair share of buckets.
The rim was tilted about 30 degrees down, the backboard was shoddy and the court was worn as the locals gathered around to watch the Americans play ball with the Colombian kids in the communa. We laughed, we scored, we high-fived and fist bumped the kids when they put on a nice move. We ultimately took them down with ease and then I gave them some money to go buy sodas. I’ll carry their joy along with me for as long as the memory serves.
Everyone has a machete: We took a tour bus to Guatape, and I had to sit up front with the driver. Normally, I’d expect to step on the floor beneath my seat when climbing in. Maybe a dirty towel or some old clothes. Not here. Here I stepped over a machete. I looked at it and chuckled. That’s just how things are here. And so he started the car.
Toilet paper in the trash: Toilet paper doesn’t go in the toilet here, so it’s just paper. Ass paper. A bum scroll. The Weekly Cheek Journal. Poo rag. What ever you want to call it, it ain’t toilet paper no more. Put it in the trash.
They fell off a cliff, too. Last month I fell off a cliff. On this trip I’ve met two people who stumbled down the same silly fortune. I suppose if you were to meet people who might fall off a cliff it would be here. You don’t make it to the middle of the Colombian jungle without taking a little risk… and you sure as shit don’t fall off a cliff sitting at home in your recliner.
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