Saving Colombia- One Child at a Time.
It was March- The windy season. Our new friend from the beach who brought beers to the table told us so. Who would know better than the guy slanging to tourists on the beach? He continued to teach us the climatepatterns: the rainy season just passed and the warm winds always blow in from the East. He measures the humidity by the feel of the cash to hisfingers. H U S T L E R.
A small boy came to the table to sell us colorful string knotted together. He succeeded. I’m happy to support youngin’s grind- fearless approaching strangers asking to do business. I’m sure he’s saving up for something important, like a meal or shoes. All the while, I’m trying to leave with some recollection of what happens down here. It’s a win-win because now me, el nino and Chow are bracelet buddies.
The next morning we woke up at 7 am, Kane blasted some Christina Aguliera- I didn’t feel like listening. We dragged our haggard selves out to breakfast buffet after splashing water on our faces to at least loosen up the stank caked upon us from the sin’s of the night before…. 2 hours ago. I shuffled towards the dizzy mess of Colombian food: cheese fried in some white flour (araypas?), and other non-sense I was too disconnected from the world to remember. I smashed on some fruit, gushing juice explosions in my mouth putting energy back into my system. Chomping into pineapples, cantaloupe, grapes, orange- fruit has always been my “next morning” friend. When we got back to the room Christina was still pumping. “Didn’t I tell you to keep that shit in the safe?!” I was a bit paranoid that our valuables would disappear if we left them unattended.
We loaded onto the bus to listen to lecture on our way to…. Not sure where we were headed, nor did I care. We were on our way to saving Colombia, one child at time, That notion was enough for me. I rested my eyes into a slumber and a woke when we were at the garbage dump. Totally joking, it was a neighborhood of shacks where real people lived. There were little kids running around with no shoes, unhealthy looking adults standing and staring and uncomfortably young-to-imagine parents. Well, I suppose anything less could have been found in The South. So, let’s do it, how do we save these souls from the depths of hell’s eternal torture and pain? Hardly, we walked around smiling and waving, like a celebrity on tour- ‘DON’T GET TOO CLOSE NOW, tell them how proud you are of their accomplishments!’ said the charity-tour leader. I suppose they used to live in houses of hay, rather than sticks- otherwise, I could not figure out what we are commending them for- all I know is the pungent reek from this motionless death-infested water is creeping into me and feeding my stomach a painful nausea.
When we left, they were all still poor and sick- but for whatever reason, they felt better.