A is for… Always Carry a Stick
By Annabel Hofmann
Article originally published in Vol. 2, Issue 2: CHANGING OF THE GUARD.
This first lesson is one that I, unfortunately, had to learn the hard way. Let me save you the trouble.
I’d signed up for the Chicamocha Canyon Race, a marathon in the department of Santander, and was clocking a lot of miles on the running shoes. Sundays were usually my long run days, and this particular Sunday was no different. I got myself all ready to go and headed out the door, stoked for an 18-mile run through some veredas that I loved for their gorgeous scenery and, more importantly, their flat terrain, which can be hard to find in the Andes.
I was running along, admiring the scenery when I came upon three dogs in the path. This is not unusual, as pretty much wherever you go in Colombia there tend to be dogs roaming around. One of them was a bulldog that I had met on this route before. About two weeks ago, my friend and I were out biking, and he chased us for a little while until we left him in our dust. So I didn’t think much of it.
I continued on my run, approaching the dogs. As I passed them, the bulldog began to follow me. I turned around and made the "psht" noise and shook my hand at him, as the locals teach you to do. The dog backed off, and I thought I was good to continue on my run. However, just as I turned my back to keep going, the bulldog charged at me and bit me right in the nalga. I turned around just in time to watch its teeth sink into my skin - an image that is now burned into my brain forever.
Luckily, after biting me, the dog seemed to lose all interest; he released me from his jaws and went to hang out with his two buddies who were barking off to the side. I could have sworn they were laughing at me.
At that moment, so many thoughts were going through my head. Principal among them being: “Dammit I only made it four miles, can I finish the run and then figure this out?” Then I remembered a conversation I had with some fellow volunteers about how shitty it would be to die of rabies. So I walked myself the four miles home, called the Peace Corps medical team, and arranged my visit to Tunja for the rabies vaccines.
Because we, as Peace Corps volunteers, can only receive vaccines from agency-approved doctors, I couldn’t just go to the local hospital. I would have to meet the Peace Corps doctor at the office in Tunja: four hours and two long bus rides away from my site. The rabies vaccine is a two-shot series that must be administered three days apart (a fact I didn’t think I would ever need to know). Thankfully, the Peace Corps determined there was no point in me traveling to and from Tunja twice in one week. So, they set me up in a hotel, giving me a few days to myself to explore the city.
After the whole ordeal was over, I had a week-long vacation in Tunja to show for it, as well as several tooth shaped holes in my leg and some serious PTSD. I was never scared of dogs before, but now anytime one comes near me, tears threaten to spill out of my eyes. This happened in early April, almost two months ago, and I still haven’t gotten over it. The other thing I took away from this experience, though, was learning to always carry a stick.
Now, whenever I see a dog in the path ahead of me, I stoop down and pick up the first stick or rock that I can find. I also often slow down to a walk to pass — hoping to look less intimidating or at least less enticing. I hate that I feel this way about an animal — distrustful and willing to threaten it with violence — but “once bitten, twice shy” they do say.
So, I hope you always remember, “A is for Always Carry a Stick…or a rock, or a slingshot, or a taser,” and I hope you never have to experience the canines of a canine sinking into your skin.
Now hopefully it’s someone else’s turn to decide what B is for.
Disclaimer: The content of this publication is generated by individual volunteers. The opinions and thoughts expressed here do not reflect any position of the United States government or the Peace Corps.