When Kunde handed me the bag of clean laundry and said, “Seis mil pesos,” I wished I spoke more than a few words of Spanish.  It wasn’t that I didn’t understand him—he was telling me the cost of the wash was 6,000 pesos, roughly the equivalent of three dollars—it was that I wanted to counter that he was charging too much.  Six thousand was the cost for two kilos of laundry, but the weight of mine was closer to 1.5 kilos.  If the weather weren’t already blazing hot and profuse amounts of sweat about to dribble through my clothes if I stood in the sun any longer (which would only increase the next laundry bill), I’d have found a way to convey my complaint.  But it wasn’t worth it.  I chalked it up as a minor loss and continued on my way.

Still, the overcharge left me with a negative impression of Kunde.  He did, after all, rip me off, even if it was just 50 cents.  I wasn’t going to stew about it, but neither was I going to think highly of him in the days ahead as I walked past his shop.  And that’s a shame, because I enjoy thinking highly of folks when it’s possible.

I should give the location of this rather mundane event:  Kunde lives in Taganga, a small Colombian fishing village turned backpacker hangout adjacent to the city of Santa Marta.  It’s not the prettiest place—for scenic beauty travelers boat over to the pristine sands of nearby Tayrona National Park—but it is a real place, with fish scales on the beach and laundromat owners who'll try to squeeze a few extra cents from a customer.  There’s something attractive about this kind of reality, too

Taganga, Colombia

Several hours after Kunde robbed me of two quarters, I passed by his shop again while walking to photograph late afternoon light on the beach.  A small party was now underway at the shop, with five adults, one teen, and three small children gathered around giant speakers, which were thrusting a tsunami of sound into their flesh.  The noise was horrific at this volume, so I walked over to see if everyone was actually alive (they had been sitting rather still).

When they saw my approach, Kunde and friends enthusiastically waved me over.  Today, I was told, was Kunde’s 46th birthday, and to celebrate they were all going deaf together (they didn’t actually say this second part).  I was invited to have a beer.

Dusk in Taganga, Colombia

In the name of late afternoon light, however, I excused myself with just a quick birthday congratulations.  I wanted to stay but couldn’t skip out on the beach pictures.

But on my return up the same road three hours later the party was still underway, which is to say that the music was still giving the revelers a pounding.  The revelers themselves were mostly still and silent, perhaps because they needed to fully concentrate on absorbing the abusive vibrations.  But when they saw me, they held up a beer and called me over.

The birthday boy was teetering and slow at this point, the victim of numerous bottles.  Most of the rest of the gang—except for the teenager, who was barely conscious—was doing alright though.  Confetti was in people’s hair, the three little kids were having a blast holding small puppies with admirable tenderness, and the friendships here seemed real (the kind where you can enjoy just sitting together without having to always talk).

Kunde, on his 46th birthday

Photo taken by a five-year-old.  Not bad.

The five-year-old girl brought me a beer (dispatched from the kitchen by her mom) and soon I was presented a slice of delicious cake as well.  I learned a couple new words of Spanish, we learned where we each were from, and there was laughter (except from the delirious teenager who really was hanging onto consciousness by a mere thread).  The people were being generous to me, and offered me another beer after I finished the first.  But I declined, thanking them for the hospitality, and with handshakes and best wishes I then said goodbye.

Party at a Colombian laundromat

I would go to bed that night thinking how the man who took my 50 cents in the morning also offered me several dollars worth of drink and food in the evening.  This is why the next morning I would see the laundry shop in a different light.  The shop was a microcosm of the world, that place where relationships are complicated, full of aggravations as well as gifts of grace.  And sometimes—or often, I suppose—the two come from the same source.

One more shot of the acrobatic guys at the beach in Taganga, Colombia

Joel Carillet, chief editor of Wandering Educators, is a freelance writer and photographer based in Tennessee. He is the author of 30 Reasons to Travel: Photographs and Reflections from Southeast Asia. To learn more about him, or to follow his weekly photoblog, visit www.joelcarillet.com.