The First Thing That I Noticed About Colombia

Winding my way through the humbling Andes of southern Colombia on a minibus, I was captivated by all of the people in the lively, one road towns that we passed through. Vibrant buildings, hammocks and pool tables beneath light canopies of banana leaves, dissipated into the arbour as quickly as it they had come into existence two hundred yards back. Some we passed through rapidly, and they registered as nothing more than blips in the window, each a fading mirage. Others we drove through slowly, noticing every smiling face as women carried baskets of watermelon on their heads to the minibus, men momentarily put down their pool cues, and children looked up from behind the cash register of their family's shop. The elders sat in plastic chairs, in front of every home and shop, guitars and drums resting upon their knees. Shopkeepers hung out windows and stood in doorways. All around people were working and talking and smiling.
Each town was the same, every thirty minutes coming upon another, their happiness and energy so contagious that even those of us on the bus, tired and hot, trying to wait patiently to arrive at our stops, couldn't help but be overcome by their animism. We would buy their juices and fruits, become energised and begin talking with them, and continuing amongst ourselves after we departed, until once again the heat drained our energy. The towns became our oasis, infusing us with life each time we passed. As the day wore on, and the sun faded behind the mountains, the lights of the town served as beacons in the dark while the cool night air revitalised us and the women in the towns sold chicken and soda. Throughout the entire southern region, these towns dotted the Andes like ornaments on a Christmas tree, giving off energy, love and camaraderie.
The Caribbean Coast offers more of the same, sandy white beaches replacing the lush green foliage of the mountains. From the villages to the cities and beach towns, the atmosphere does not change. Shopkeepers hang out their stores talking with the street vendors. Those who are not working visit their friends who are, seated upon plastic chairs in outdoor foyers. In every direction the narrow lanes are filled with people talking animatedly. When evening falls upon the town and shops close, folks gather in the plazas to talk about their days.
Enveloped in such an atmosphere, it is impossible not to be overcome by the joviality of Colombia. Though civil wars have cast a shadow upon this land for over a century, often throwing the country into mass depression, now there is a catharsis of good vibes permeating throughout.

Winning the Lottery

     I imagine that winning the lotto is an amazing feeling- I wouldn't know. I've only played the lotto once, and it was only because it was my turn to play Santa, and I filled the stockings with a dozen or so lotto tickets for my family and myself. Winnings were conditioned upon the fact that if anyone actually won, they had to use the money to go towards funding a family compound. I think the most any of us won was a free lotto ticket. No cash. Certainly not enough to fund a family home.

     I hear one is more likely to be stuck by lightening than to win the lottery.

     In fact, I've never really won anything. Well, I have won sports contests- but nothing like a new car, or money, or some random prize in a raffle. Wait- I won an ipod once. Funny story. I had been up all night (in Vegas) partying with my friends. When 7:00am rolled around- I was still rollin'... My friends and I were all in some sort of daze, hovering in and out of sleep, the various drugs in our systems vying for control of our mental activity. When I realised the time, I jumped off the couch, suddenly fully alert. The room full of people looked at me confusedly, still in my work uniform from my shift the previous evening.

     I've got to go! I exclaimed.

     You're not really going to that party are you? They all wanted to know. It's lame! It's not like you're going to win the ipod or anything. Somehow I had found myself in a room full of people that had all worked where I was working, had all been to the same company party, and had all been fired. I didn't even know that there was an ipod being raffled off- but apparently, they do it every year. Ironically, I did win it- the last prize awarded, and the only one I received.

     So, I do know what it's like to win something. It's a good feeling, and almost makes up for the feelings of disappointment of consistently not winning anything, an entire day full of prizes awarded, none to you. But perhaps an even better feeling would be the one you have when you tell someone that they've won something. You get to vicariously experience their joy, without the preceding trepidation of thinking that you'll never win.

     One of the greatest feelings I've ever experienced was telling someone that they won the lotto. It happened like this:

     I was sitting by a window in an internet café in Machala, Ecuador, reading a book and sipping on a cup of bad coffee while my friend surfed the internet. Machala is an unremarkable town- it feels like any suburb in The States, but closer to the Equator. Sitting in the corner, I noticed in my peripheral a man approaching. He looked flustered, holding a stack of papers in disarray, his glasses tilted, and slightly hunched over, his demeanour suggested that he was internally fighting between hopeful anticipation and disappointment, frantic and confused.

     He walked directly towards me, so I gave him my attention. In Spanish, he introduced himself, and said that my friend had indicated that I may be able to help him. The stack of papers he held were in English, which he could not read. My friend, neither a native English nor Spanish speaker, had expressed that I would be able to better help him.

     I smiled, introduced myself, and explained that I could tell him, generally, what the papers said, but would not be able to provide a direct or complete translation. He smiled eagerly, sat down, and handed me the papers.

     Before saying anything, I briefly looked over the pile. The first few pages were certificates, of sorts, and licences. Then letters and emails originating in England and Nigeria. Intrigued, I began to tell him what they were. A licence of operation. A certificate of funds awarded. A certificate of authenticity from the FBI. Then, multiple letters from a law enforcement agency in the UK, from the FBI, from some random woman in Nigeria. Also, a notice of funds transferred, and a notice of fees for funds transferred. As I read over the documents, A story began to emerge:

     The man with whom I was speaking had been told that he had won a UK lottery. When the money was to be transferred, it went from Nigeria, to the UK, the US and finally to Ecuador, sending off numerous red flags to the appropriate agencies. A Nigerian man in the UK was jailed and my new friend was informed of the apparent fraud. A week later, at the internet café, he had checked his email to find dozens of letters from the various agencies. They explained that no fraud had taken place, the Nigerian had been released from jail, the money was in the process of being transferred, for a fee of £11,000, and that he was, in fact, the recipient of £250,000.

     The only thing that didn't add up: a letter from a mysterious Nigerian woman, dated more recently than any of the other documents, saying that she hoped that she and the Ecuadorian man could keep things quiet and between them, until the matter was all sorted out. However, the dates on the other documents indicated that it had already been resolved. My only explanation: it still takes longer to get information to Nigeria than to Ecuador.

     It was a crazy story, for me reading the documents, and for the poor man whose hopes and dreams were continually raised and dashed. To be the one to tell him, definitively, that he had, in fact, won $400,000 is perhaps one of the coolest things I have ever done.

     Now, if only I got a translation fee...

Feral Dogs and the Societies That Raise Them

In the US, there are no feral dogs. Feral cats abound, an epidemic that animal lovers bemoan, in cities and towns, hills and countryside. Organisations do their best to pick them up, have them neutered and spayed, to little avail. Dogs however, do not suffer the same indecencies. A loose dog may roam about for an hour, maybe two, before it is picked up by either a good citizen or the 'doggie police.' Those dogs will be euthanised if not claimed by their former owner, or if they were in fact feral, by some family wanting to adopt them. What does that say about the citizenry of the US? I don't rightly know, as I had never given the matter much thought before coming to South America.

Since then, however, I have learned to discern a great deal about a culture through the behaviour of its wild dogs. In cities and beach towns, second- and third-world countries, I have realised that much may be deduced about a citizenry by both the way that a community treats their animals, and the behaviour of the animals themselves, which often mimics the attitudes and characteristics of the citizenry.

Before arriving in Argentina, I was told by an expatriate friend living in Buenos Aires to be prepared for the abundance of feral dogs- something that at the time, surprised me to hear. It had recently become illegal to kill feral dogs, and now they had taken over. I was admonished to look down when walking in the streets, so that I could avoid stepping in dog feces. Weird, I thought, but didn't really give the matter any more consideration. Then I arrived in Iguazu, Argentina. What surprised me most were the feral dogs inside establishments. No one kicked them out. In the hot muggy air of Iguazu Falls, dogs took their respite inside banks, shops and restaurants. I had been prepared to see them, but not inside the ATM booth. The fact that Argentines had decided that it was immoral to kill wild animals is a tribute to their compassion, especially the extent to which they live side by side with these animals, not even shooing them away from their businesses and homes. Unfortunately, the character of these dogs says something further about the attitudes of Argentines.

In Iguazu, Buenos Aires, and every other town I visited in Argentina, the feral dogs were the same: dirty, mean, usually injured, and going about living their lives doing whatever they'd like. The few that seemed like they would not bite you should you offer your hand, had open sores, their ribs poking through their matted fur coats, and mouths ajar with their dry tongues hanging out. One had to remind themselves that it would in fact be a stupid decision to offer ones hand to a feral dog. They often fought in the streets, gave chase to each other (and sometimes people) and fought over women and territory. The feral dogs, really the first that I had been exposed to, were everything that I thought they ought to be: wild, mean, and dangerous. The dog's behaviour was reminiscent of how the Argentines themselves behaved. Noses in the air, one foot carefully placed before the next, and an aura of self importance and entitlement visibly emanating from them like a heat wave in the desert. They were proud and possessive, just like their dogs.


As it turns out, though, not all ferals exhibited those same behaviours.

In Montevideo, the capitol of Uruguay, feral dogs were practically non-existent. That made sense: there were plenty of nicer places for a happy little homeless dog to go. The sparsely populated country contains plenty of rural beaches and towns for them to roam in peace; in the beach towns feral dogs abound. However, the dogs seemed more like community pets than wild beasts that only survived because it was illegal to kill them. They were friendly, followed around tourists and natives alike, and possessed nice coats and full bodies. Well fed and friendly, these dogs had a place in their community. Though Uruguayans are generally poor, they are warm-hearted, giving, and take care of each other and their communities, including the animals within them. These dogs, too, shared many characteristics with the citizenry of their communities: relaxed, friendly, and beautiful.

And so it was that I began to realise that dogs, like many things in life, are a product of their communities.

In Bolivia and Peru, feral dogs were less abundant, though still present. They were chased out of city centres and tourist areas fairly well, yet still existed in the small villages and open country. Though in these circumstances, they did not fare well. As in Argentina, they are malnourished and disease ridden. They scavenge for food in countries where there is little, and do not survive long. For outside of the few prosperous areas in these countries, whence the dogs are exiled, there is not enough to go around. Food scraps are not tossed aside, but used to feed families and livestock, and there is nothing left for an animal without a care-taker. For Bolivians and Peruvians take care of only themselves- left destitute after centuries of conquest, all that is left to them is survival. And in the larger and more prosperous cities, they shove aside tourists and dogs alike, wanting their cities to be theirs alone, after finally have gained them back from the Spanish.

After seven months of travelling South America, the first thing I noticed about Ecuador was its feral dogs. Which abound. Like Uruguay, Bolivia, and Peru, they were kept out of the prosperous cities, which were sparkling clean, developed and westernised, and left to roam the villages along the coast and in the mountainous regions. And in these places the dogs enjoyed a visible presence and place in society. Though not always well fed, the dogs in Ecuador receive plenty of attention, are friendly and playful, and eager and energetic- just like the Ecuadorians themselves. Vibrant and full of energy.

These dogs provide a good argument for nurture over nature. Regardless of the breed, these animals possessed similar qualities to those that bred them. Their treatment by society, as well as the general attitudes and characteristics of said society, would seem to heavily influence the nature of their feral dogs. Thus, the nature of a society may be aptly deduced by a quick study of the behaviours of their animals.