Metrocable and Baskteball

On one of my last days in Medellin I went to see the newly constructed, and second, Metrocable in the city. The Metrocable is an extension of the city’s great Metro system, but takes the form of a gondola that in America I could only imagine seeing at a ski resort. The original idea was to provide access to the regular Metro, and thus all parts of the city, to one of the poorest barrios that is located on a steep hill outside of the city. Before the first Metrocable was up and running, people in barrio Santo Domingo had to walk down a treacherous slope for 30 minutes, up probably 45, to get access to public transportation (and great calves) and reach the few respective jobs available for the uneducated poor. It is an interesting and progressive concept that was initially funded by the government, but creates revenue from the herds of Paisa tourists that pay the 1000 pesos to experience the modern infrastructure, get a great view of the city, and have an anonymous look at their poverty stricken countrymen. I was skeptical about the exploitation of the people in this neighborhood, and thought that poverty tourism seemed like a disgraceful idea, comparable to hospice tours or vacations in a psycho ward. But upon learning that barrio residents ride free, revenue generated is reinvested into the community, and seeing the positive changes that enfranchising this marginalized population has engendered, I quickly embraced the unique infrastructural development. The second Metrocable, the one I experienced on this day, is of similar design, but seems to have different aims and goals. Instead of reaching only one of the most impoverished neighborhoods, this new, longer gondola spans across overcrowded slums, but the stations are located in lower-middle class neighborhoods. My observational and completely unverified take on the situation is that the this Metrocable is directed at moving people into the middle class, rather than eliminating the abject poverty that previously existed in Santo Domingo. There are vans and micro buses that take people from the slums that the gondola passes over to the stations, making it possible for a previously isolated bread winner to now work in the city and provide a the basic means of survival for their family. But given that the stations are located such that people who are already surviving, albeit struggling, have the easiest access to get better jobs and transform these lower class communities into middle class neighborhoods, I see the same progressive aim with a different target socioeconomic group. I got off at the last station and sat on a bench watching the sun set over the city, reflecting on the contrast between this area’s middle class feel of couples holding hands and buses taking people home, to that of the top station of Santo Domingo’s rural, third world vibe. The humanitarian in me was at first disappointed in the governmental choice to aid those that are not necessarily in the greatest need, but the economist in me quickly bitch-slapped the humanitarian with the logic that there is a far greater long term benefit in expanding a productive middle class, and not just finding a band aid solution for abject poverty. Providing resources to the poorest of the poor is of course important and I was impressed by the change in Santo Domingo after the first Metrocable, but see the greater importance of facilitating the transition into the middle class. Moving the poverty stricken and miserable to just poor and unhappy does little to really improve the quality of life of a population or boost economic output, but if you give the lower classes a higher ceiling, and a chance to truly be enfranchised it can make a long term difference in a country, in an economy, in overall social welfare.

After riding the gondola back down over slums, I got off the regular Metro at my favorite station, Estadio, with hopes of finding a pick up basketball game. The game I found, though it brought me very little enjoyment while playing, was one of the more unique basketball experiences I have ever had. I am a solid recreational baller back home in the States, but here am a 6’ 2’’ Gringo freak on the court. I foresaw no competition from the ratty crew I would be playing against, and had to will myself to even pretend like I was trying when they elected a 45-year-old woman to guard me. But she turned out to be the dirtiest rat-balling bitch I have ever played with. Physical, cheating and mean. I was completely taken aback to be casually dribbling outside the 3-point line and see her come flying at me with a barrage of arm waiving, a few grunts and a knee to my thigh. I tried to laugh it off, despite the throbbing Charlie Horse, but she was no smiles and straight up talked shit that would have made Gary Payton seem like a little choirboy. Before I knew it, instead of effortlessly dominating a game far beneath me, I was sweating, calling fouls, and arguing the score in order to not get run off the court. Her team was a an eclectic mix of two tiny gay guys that shot two-handed set shots like third grade girls, and a 6’4’’ Garnett-like, black guy that, like me, had no business playing in that game. He blocked my shots, out rebounded me, and dunked on me so violently that it took days to get the vision of his crotch flying towards my face out of my mind. But that I could handle. Though I didn’t enjoy the crotch to face trauma, his impressive skills legitimized my effort on the court. What hurt was that the gay duo not only drained every moon ball shot they threw up and crazy, slashing drive they attempted, but the shit they talked stung like a verbal midget kick to the nuts.. I am usually pretty quick with the tongue, especially in the heat of basketball competition, but when a 4’9’’ Latino with a gay lisp was wagging his finger in my face and ironically calling me a “marica” (fag), I was too shocked for words. It turned into a hard fought battle with shades of the NBA finals. Their big 3 of garbage ball Celtics, with Garnett, and the Latino, homosexual dwarf version of Paul Pierce and Ray Allen……..I was Kobe, forcing shots and hogging the ball, but willing our undermanned and outplayed team to stay in the series. Like real life, Garbage Celts in six.

I got a bloody nose at the end of the game from a flailing elbow by the dirty rat-baller, and saw an interesting cultural and economic metaphor in the events that transpired. I went from our covered, outdoor court into the gymnasium in hope of stopping the bleeding. There were no public bathrooms (hence the urine smell in the corner of the court) and no paper towels to plug up my dripping nose. I asked the woman in charge of the gym if there was a bathroom that had paper towels or anything to keep me from leaving a trail of blood back to my apartment, and she pulled out a wadded up napkin from her pocket. The metaphor being the lack of economic resources to provide the facilities Americans are used to, and also the lack of health education to think that a snotty napkin is what I should use to stick in my gushing nose, but also the desire to please and give whatever one has to help another in need. I see this daily in other aspects of Colombian life as well. Frequently someone without the resources to really offer anything of much of value will still offer whatever they have. Whether it be offering a place to sleep in an overcrowded, under-bedded house, or something to eat when food is obviously scarce, directions though they have no idea what they are talking about, or a disease infected napkin to stick in a an open wound, Colombians, though maybe lacking the means, want to give, want to please, want to help.