The Impact of Kindness
My time in Costa Rica was winding down when I met a man named Aaron. Aaron was in his mid-40s. Born and raised in Utah, and a network engineer back home. He was in Uvita to set up the Wi-Fi networks for Envision Festival, a massive music event he prided himself on attending since nearly its inception.
Aaron takes the last hit of his weed pipe on our patio couch as he told me a bit more about his background. He’d wanted to get out of Utah for college. University of Washington and University of Colorado were his first choices. Unfortunately, out of state tuition prevented him from making his exit.
Ultimately, he wound up settling on a state University in Utah, where he’d walk on to the cheerleading squad. “I probably wouldn’t still be in Utah today if I’d escaped for college” he says, as we load up in the back seat of a borrowed Toyota Hilux pickup truck on our way to dinner.
The details of how Aaron and Sara — my housemate — came into contact with one another escape me, but it’s not like it matters, or any of these chance happenings are normal. Sara and I matched on Tinder when I lived in Austin back in 2015. Our timing was right as I was going through my own shit show of trying to get sober from alcohol. I decided it was best for she and I to be friends. We’d stayed in touch. Which is how I wound up in Uvita, Costa Rica sharing a five-bedroom house with her nearly a decade later.
Now, it was time to begin making use of those extra bedrooms. While I was happy to be involved in the interview process, I couldn’t have been more nonplussed to be leaving the house before several sweaty strangers began arriving back at the house late at night after a music festival — drunk, smoking weed outside, dirtying up my bathroom, and then walking above me into one of the three unoccupied bedrooms upstairs. Thus, we were in the process of vetting Aaron right as I was making my exit.
I liked him immediately. I’ve usually got a great gage of whether a person is a decent human or not, and we clicked from the get-go. Arriving at dinner, the rest of my crew now stoned to the bone, I wasn’t sure what to expect in terms of conversation. Returning from the restroom, our table was occupied by 3 adult human persons simultaneously on their phones.
Fortunately, it was short-lived. The ladies ordered their margaritas and Aaron got a Mexican Coca Cola with a shot of whiskey on the side to pour into the drink. That first shot didn’t last five minutes, & was followed by another. He’d only arrived yesterday and had worked his regular job remotely all day while setting up the festival networks. I figured he needed to unwind, while also sensing the same addiction patterns that held me hostage for fifteen years.
Once everyone was done being in-person anti-social on their social media, Sara inquired, “so what brought you down to Costa Rica.” Treating it as familiar as a query in a job interview, Aaron consulted his mental script, “My ex-wife and I came down here about fifteen years ago. We were mostly north of here, but everything was untamed and raw back then. I fell in love with it so much.”
“And how many Envision Fests have you attended?” Anita askes. Aaron responded, “This is my ninth straight. I came down the first time and realized what a need they had for networking. The next year I was working the festival doing all of their Wi-Fi.”
He went on to tell us he had two children — a sixteen-year-old girl and an eleven-year-old boy. He’d run his own company for many years, but was forced to sell it when he and his wife divorced. I’m not sure if it was the weed, the alcohol, or both, but in a moment of vulnerability he said, “I’ll be honest with you guys. After my wife and I divorced I lost everything. I thought about starting another company, and the thought of working for someone else didn’t excite me. I actually came down to Costa Rica to kill myself. I was staying near Miguel Antonio National Park. Figured I’d be around there until I ran out of money, then walk into the jungle and hang myself from a tree.”
He took a brief pause for us to digest, then continued, “I got to talking to some people one day and they told me I should head down here to Uvita. I just happened to be here when Envision Festival was happening. It was tiny at that time, held in some small park here in the city proper. There were so many similarities to Burning Man, except for consciousness and togetherness. So, I came back the next year, when it was held up in Dominical to work it. Then I just kept following the festival as it moved around.”
Allowing a moment for him to ensure he was finished speaking, I said, “Man, that is really powerful. Thank you for sharing. What a wonderful story. I know we only just met, but I’m glad you’re still here with us.” Aaron nodded. The ladies agreed.
I continued, “I was just talking to Sara the other day about how I believe many more people have contemplated suicide than would likely admit it. At least to more than a handful of their closest loved ones. Mental health in the states is such a low priority, and men are exponentially likelier to commit suicide. Probably due to their lack of wanting to be seen as weak, or just not knowing how to talk about it.”
Dinner ended, I stepped away to take a call from my brother, and I was dropped off at the grocery store to get in my final shopping with only a few days to go before my departure. I told Aaron how nice it was to meet him and that I hoped to see him around. Who knows if I ever will? I certainly won’t forget the two hours I spent with him having a greater impact than some of the friendships I’ve had for years.
I had some time to contemplate Aaron’s story walking home from the store. When I got back, I confided in Sara, “You think about his story of coming down here to commit suicide and what it boils down to is some stranger a decade ago simply being nice. Literally just talking to him instead of being a shitty person saved his life. If whoever that was had been having a bad day and decided to project that, Aaron probably would’ve hung himself from a tree. We would’ve never known him or of him. But really, one person’s kindness altered the entire course of his existence. That’s beautiful.”
