Pet Paradise

Dog (owner) meeting place in the Vondel Park, Amsterdam

Last week I wrote about how children born in Honduras are (in some ways) less privileged than those from Holland, but that’s absolutely NOTHING compared to the way pets are treated like royal family in my home country. The contrast between how animals are cared for here and there couldn’t be bigger. If you ever consider reincarnating as an animal, making sure you don’t do it in Honduras!

Pets in Holland are considered part of the family, if not completely taking over the place of (non-existing) children. I thought my dog and three cats back home in Honduras are well off with plenty of food, daily walks along the river and a place on the couch (and yes, I admit, the bed too), but I’m glad my dog isn’t here to see everything she’s missing out on. First, my Luca doesn’t have a designer outfit for every occasion. Neither do my pets have a whole closet or crate full of toys. (Actually, a friend brought a toy mouse for my cats the other day. They were not interested. And why would they, there’re plenty of real ones outside!). I also like to think of my apartment as my apartment, so it isn’t littered with an array of different cat baskets, dog mattresses or pet beds. No toys either, except for the occasional dead lizard, bat or rat. And I thought I was feeding them exceptionally well with their daily doses of dry food and leftovers, compared to the tortillas their fellow Honduran pets usually survive on. But apparently dry food is really bad and you should give them canned food at least once a day (Sheba, for example, with a tuff of parsley on top), and of course special food for older cats or dogs, puppies and kittens, middle-aged pets, pets with liver problems, pets without liver problems, pets that are too skinny and pets that are overweight. Of course there are food supplements in the form of cat candy or artificial bones. A bowl with water is not enough; a real fountain with continuously running is the thing. For cats that lack exercise there’s a special, ball you can put dry food in that falls out if being played with, so the cat actually has to work for its food. Not to mention the enormous amount of money my friends spend at the vets and the entire warehouses that sell everything from tiny stairways to help your dog getting on the bed (I’m considering buying one to get my dog off the bed) to diamond studded leashes.

In Holland we have a political party for the animals and instead of Children’s Day we celebrate Animals’ Day. If a person gets assaulted in the park, well, bad luck. But if you hit your dog in public, you likely end up in jail.

Now, Honduras. A whole different story and definitely not a better one. There’s this habit in the town I live in to kick just any animal that walks past. Why? I have no idea. I guess just because you can. Pets are generally not well taken care of, being fed with occasional leftovers and they are hardly ever trained, let alone vaccinated or neutered. That last one is a sensitive issue in Honduras, a country where nobody cares if you let your dog starve, beat it to dead or let it roam the streets. But in Macholandia you cannot touch his balls! So what if your dog stalks a bitch in the heat and comes back home with all kinds of venereal diseases, if he hasn’t been run over in the mean time?

 Being a cat or dog in Honduras is not a lot of fun for most, I guess. But then again, I think that cats named after philosophers that have their own personalized diet, caretaker and classical music to listen to, is the other extreme.

I think my cats and dog could consider themselves lucky. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind more treats and more fluffy blankets, but they’re doing fine just without it. And I’m lucky too, because at least in Honduras I don’t have to walk after my dog with plastic poop bags to pick up whatever she drops.

The Privilege of Art

There are dozens of ways in which children born in Holland are privileged over the majority of those born in Honduras (although sometimes it’s the other way around!), but one that struck me specifically now that I’m back in Amsterdam, is their access to the arts.

Two days ago I was painting a small mural for the four-year old of one of my friends, when his nine-year old brother walked in the room and said: “You paint just like Van Gogh!”

This completely baffled me, because first of all it was a tremendous compliment, but also because in Honduras no child would ever refer to Van Gogh, or any other painter for that matter.  And it wasn’t just a random remark either (not much of a compliment either, I realized), the kid meant that the short brushstrokes I and thick layer of paint I was using at the moment to make a monkey look fluffy, actually resembled the technique of Van Gogh whom he had just studied at school. 

The incident made me think. Did I know Van Gogh when I was nine? Actually, I did! Intimately too! But then again, I guess I’ve been exceptionally lucky in growing up where I did.

My home was at less than five minutes walking distance from the three main museums in Amsterdam, the National Art Gallery, the Museum of Modern Art and the Van Gogh Museum. My elementary school was in a side street just  across the latter two, and since we didn’t have a school yard, we always played in the garden of the Museum of Modern Art (grade 1-3) and later (grade 4-6), outside the garden, at the famous Museumplein square.

In the garden of the Museum of Modern Art was a sandbox, but that was just for kindergarten kids, the “little ones”, as we disdainfully called them.  There was no playground for older kids, but we didn’t need one. We climbed on and jumped off the “diving board” that was actually a famous steel sculpture by Henry Moore.
Another one I know by heart (and touch) was a sculpture consisting of all kinds of open and half open cubes. It was a terrific place to play house and “cook” the leaves, berries and sticks we found in those cubicles. At the far end of the garden was an immense sculpture by Richard Serra, consisting of three enormous steel plates leaning against each other. From the inside you could look up at the sky, a small triangle of passing clouds that appeared there where the plates balanced one against each other.   I remember the rough texture of the surface, I can still smell the oxidized steel and vividly recall the bright orange colour of it all because I saw it from up close many a time, whenever the mean boys would catch us and “lock us up” in the structure. 

Years later, during an art history class at Art College, a professor showed us a slide of that exact same sculpture by Serrra, Sight Point. I was completely flabbergasted. At that time, Richard Serra was already a favourite artist of mine, but I had never made the link to the artist and that one work of his I knew so well.

As a kid I often visited the museums too. The Museum of Modern Art was my favourite since I was three, with the crazy machines of Tinguely and The Beanery, a complete bar full of people, but with clocks instead of faces. The museums became so familiar, such a home to me, that I kept on going there long after those many visits with my parents. Even in my adolescence I often skipped school to meet my boyfriend at the cafeteria of the museum. The entrance was free with our museum passes and going there was as normal as going to a lunchroom or bar. 

Being so unconsciously surrounded my so much art might have played a role in me becoming an artist. Or maybe not, because definitely not all my classmates have become artists. But I can’t deny it has surely influenced my live.

Today I visited the Museum of Modern Art again. The museum has been closed for nearly ten years, due to remodeling. The new wing and Mike Kelly exhibition were impressive as hell, but what truly took my breath away was walking up the same marble stairs I used to climb so many times, my hand over that same brass railing. And seeing all my all friends again, that one painting of De Kooning in yellow and pink. The Rauschenberg  you never get tired of, so much to see in that painting! And not to forget the immense collage of Matisse, Mermaid & Parakeet! 

It truly felt like coming home… And I wish I could share this with my Honduran friends…

Homesick

Vondel Park 12-3-13

It’s been a few days now that I have been all wrapped up in scarves, long underwear and thick woolen sweaters, keeping as close to the heater as possible . It’s unusually cold in Amsterdam for the time of the year and going out hasn’t been much of an option. The little time I spent outside didn’t do anything to change my mind. The nearby Vondel Park looks miserably deserted with just a handful of dog owners, the trees obscenely naked without their leaves, at least to someone used to the lush green of the tropics. The cold gnaws at every square centimeter of exposed skin, bites around the eyes, numbs cheeks and lips. My nose feels like it is no longer a part of my body. Despite gloves and triple sock wear, the chill seeps into my extremities and settles into the bones of toes and fingers, an uncomfortable nuisance for which there is no remedy but a hot steaming bath. 

I wander streets and canals, regularly stopping at stores that don’t sell anything I’m necessarily interested in, but the blasting heaters at the entrance haul me in. Once inside, the sudden heat is overpowering and it takes a while before scarves are loosened, gloves stored away in pockets, zippers undone, hat taken off, hair teased back in something near-decent. I pass isle by isle, pretending to be interested in Nespresso coffeemakers until fingers and toes are unfrozen again, just to repeat the whole process in reverse. 

Once back home, it’s a relief get out of the prison of jackets, legwarmers, mittens and boots. Next to the heater, fingers tingle slowly back into useful body parts while my cheeks start to burn as if on fire. I have lived more than half of my life in Holland and can’t remember to be too bothered by the cold in the past. But now, after sixteen years in the tropics, it most definitively does. Funny though how you forget about what cold actually feels like. Once you learn to live without it, the cold becomes an abstract concept that is hard to imagine. Time after time, on my way to Holland or Canada in wintertime, I convinced myself that an extra long-sleeved shirt and sweater would be more than sufficient. And time after time, a few hours at the air-conditioned airport of San Pedro Sula quickly cured me of that misconception, long before taking off. 

But more than the cold and miserable drizzle, what I can really do without, is the greyness of it all. Whether the sky reflects the faces of the people or the other way around, in the end everything is just a big grey soup: people’s clothes, houses, puddles on the streets, miserable looking dogs, the hunched over elderly. Nothing as exciting as fifty shades of grey, just boring grey, grim and grizzly. In Honduras we have those days too, and after only a day or three I get antsy and depressed. But then, always, the clouds make place for a blazing sun and everything is good again. A day later we’ll all complain about the heat, but well, complaints about the weather are universal. Could I ever go back to live in Holland, with six months a year of grey misery? No way! 

But just as I’m writing this, the sun comes out. Heavy grey overcast is being replaced by a pale but gorgeous springtime blue. The sun brings out the colours of the brick houses in the street. Through the window it even warms my chilled fingers on the keyboard. It’s probably my imagination, but the buds on the branches before my window all of a sudden look eager to pop. Amsterdam is incredibly beautiful when the sun shines. I think I’m going to pull my old rollerblades out of the closet and go for a spin...

Brief Encounters of the Human Kind III: Dangers on the Road

I often get asked whether I’m not afraid to walk by myself on the roads and trails surrounding Copán. The answer is: no. Not that I’m not aware of the risks or that I’m naive, it’s just that I know where I go and I know most of the people I meet. Or better said, they know me. At least half of them are ex-students of mine, the rest are relatives of ex-students of mine or people I dealt with at some point of my life. I think it helps that I walk with my dog (not that Luca would do much to protect me, but ssssshht, let’s keep that between us!) and that people know I’m not a rich gringa. A crazy gringa, maybe, but not much that would justify an assault. Let’s hope it stays that way…

Nonetheless, I’m always careful and keep a worst case scenario in mind. There are places I rather not walk and times you should avoid hiking alltogether, such as Sunday afternoons when you’re prone to meet a bunch of drunks. Not necessarily dangerous, but not much fun either.

Last Saturday I had no intention to walk anywhere, but I didn’t have much choice. I had finished painting a mural at a school at about 45 minutes walking from Copán, and was waiting for my ride. But my ride, usually very reliable, never showed. Nor did any moto-taxi, which didn’t surprise me, because they’re never there when you need them, that’s a law. I kept on calling my guy, but after thirty minutes or so I gave up and decided to walk home. I wasn’t happy about it. It was late afternoon, but still soaring hot and I was exhausted after a full day of painting. I also carried a heavy bag with me (at least my paint and ladder were locked up at the school) and I wore the wrong shoes. Not that there’s anything amiss with my ancient, paint-splattered favourite Converse All Stars, it’s just that the soles are so thin, I could feel every pebble on the road. So thin, actually, I could even feel the chewing gums stains and tell the flavour. But anyway, I didn’t have a choice. Luca wasn’t happy either. Normally she wouldn’t turn a walk down, but she’d played around all day long with kids and dogs, without a chance to cool off in the river. But off we went.

Thankfully, the road was quite flat, except for one hill I had to climb. And I was just about to reach the top of it when four guys appeared. I didn’t recognize them, but registered that they were not carrying machetes, which was good. However, I didn’t like the fact that the guy up front stopped the others for a moment and then headed straight towards me, placing his hand under his shirt, into his waistband. Was he carrying? Was there a way out? What did the others do?

Shit. There was no way out and they were all headed towards me. But then I realised that guy #1 wasn’t reaching for his gun, but putting his shirt inside his pants.

“Where are you coming from?” he asked.

“Oh, I just painted a mural over there at the school,” I answered.

“¡Oh! Are you from Spain???”

“No, actually I’m from Holland.”

“Aaaahh! ¡Una Holandesa de Holanda! So you’re not Spanish?”

“No, I’m quite Dutch”, was my reply.

By then he had grabbed my arm with both hands.

“You know, I LOVE YOU!” he said.

The second guy also grabbed my arm and said:

“I love her too!”

The first guy turned around and said, “No! I love her! I said it first!!!”

Guys number 3 and 4 joined the gang and also declared their love. My turn to politely decline and say thank-you-very-much-but-I have-to-go. They reluctantly let go of my arm. When I reached the top of the hill, I turned around. The four guys were still standing there, all waving good-bye.

The rest of the walk was hot, tedious and long, but otherwise uneventful. When I finally walked into town, I passed the house of my driver. He was sitting on the porch, enjoying a beer and the cool breeze the approaching night brought in.

“Hey!” he said, “I thought you’d call me to pick you up!”

I gave him a look that could kill and said I did, about a hundred times.

“Oh…” His face fell. “Right… I left my cell phone in my car… But at least you got some exercise!”

Another dagger look from my part before I continued home, to a decent bathroom, a couch and an ice-cold beer. On Sunday I stayed in. Enough exercise for the week. Even Luca agreed.

Ronny Be Good

Ronny was standing out even when he was little. I remember him all too well as a first grader when I visited his school in the small community of la Laguna, about fourteen years ago.

I was reading a story as an ice breaker because the kids were, as usually in Maya Chortí villages, very shy. But not Ronny. He wasn’t even interested in the story, and asked if he could go to the bathroom.

On his way back to the classroom, he was singing on top of his lungs, completely oblivious to the fact that we could all hear him through the open screens. He was so loud that I interrupted the story to wait for Ronny to come back. It wasn’t until he walked into the classroom that he realized he was the centre of attention. He flashed a dazzling smile, shrugged his shoulders and sat down.

A year later I continued conducting art workshops in La Laguna and was disappointed to find out that Ronny hadn’t passed on to second grade. Well, his teacher said, he’s a bright kid. He just doesn’t do any schoolwork. Ever!

One year after that, Ronny was still in grade 1. And that was pretty much the end of his academic career.

Throughout the years I’d see Ronny in town every once in a while, or galloping by on his horse, always with this huge grin on his face. He reminded me of Pippi Longstocking, Peter Pan and other unconventional childhood heroes.

We met again when Ronny was around fifteen years old, at the re-opening ceremony of the Cabañas Fort in Copán. As usual, I was on time, and so was Ronny, plus a few other people from the surrounding villages. While we were waiting for the ceremony to start, one of the girls assisting at the event was handing out tickets for lunch to every single person she encountered. I very much doubted that she was meant to do that, since lunch was going to be an exclusive affair at a fancy hotel. So I asked her, but she said she was to invite everybody. Okay then… (Then her boss showed up and all hell broke loose.)

Anyway, while waiting for things to get started and things to get over with, it occurred to me that Ronny might be a good candidate for the assistant position we had open at the time. We needed a kid who could run errands and do some odd jobs here and there. No diplomas required, just an eagerness to learn, a good vibe and a sense of humour. Ronny would be perfect!

So I called him over, made the proposal and a spark in his eyes and big grin were the answer. I asked to talk to his mom, who was present too, and she was also happy for Ronny to have a real job.

“So I’ll see you tomorrow at our office at 8.00am!” I said.

“I’ll be there at 7.00!” Ronny excitedly replied.

“No,” I said, “8.00! We start at 8.00!”

But Ronny had already run off.

The ceremony dragged on. It was way passed lunchtime, according to my stomach, and the event was far from over. When finally the last words were spoken, we were out of the Fort and into a moto-taxi in no-time, on our way to the hotel for that fancy –although belated-lunch.

It had been a mistake to think that getting there early would mean that we would be able to eat soon, since it was not a buffet in the restaurant, but a gorgeous set-up at the lawn of the hotel where we would be catered to as soon as all guests had arrived. So we sat down at one of the tables, enviously eying the centrepiece decorated with grapes and apples.

Guests were arriving one by one and the place started to fill up slowly. All of a sudden I saw Ronny among them, lunch ticket in his hand, curiously looking around him. As self-confident as he was, he did look completely out of place among the other guests in his rubber boots and dirty jeans. I yelled out to him and he eagerly ran towards us.

Ronny sat down at our table and when I asked him how he had gotten to the hotel, a few miles out of town, he said he had taken one of the shuttle buses hired for the event, just like everybody else. We chitchatted on, trying to ignore the rumble in our stomachs that had become quite loud by now.

“My mom!” yelled Ronny suddenly, and indeed, the tiny Maya Chortí woman timidly crossed the lawn, followed by two more women and some kids. Ronny dragged them all to our table and with a borrowed chair and some moving around, we all fit.

“My cousins!” Ronny cried out, when he saw two young men, also dressed in work clothes and rubber boots, stepping on to the lawn. Alas, they didn’t fit at our table, so they sat at the table next to us that was already partially occupied by a couple that owns a couple of the biggest hotels in town.

Finally all guests had arrived and food was being served. Unfortunately we sat on the wrong side of the lawn and had to wait for our turn for what seemed to last forever. So I tried to entertain our company by taking apart the decorative centre piece and giving the apples and grapes to Ronny & Co. That was quite something, since none of them had ever tried those fruits before. 

Then we were finally being served. Lunch was eaten in silence. Ronny, his mom, his aunt and sister, would take little bites, chew carefully and then look at each other, communicating with their eyes in a way that made me feel left out but curious. The kids were also fed a fork of everything, but whatever was left over after that was carefully wrapped in a napkin and put away in their plastic baskets.

This went on course after course. When finally dessert was served (fried squash floating in honey) I saw Ronny’s mother thinking: how the hell wrapping that up?!?

“I’d just eat it here, if I were you,” I said, realizing too late I reacted to an unspoken question

“Yeah, you’re right,” she said, blushing slightly.
And then, as slowly as the whole event had started, as suddenly it was over, as usually in Honduras once dessert is served.

Ronny showed up the next morning at 7.00am, and kept showing up at 7.00am, despite the fact that we usually, if not always, opened our office at 8.00am. But how can you scold someone for punctuality in a country were tardiness is more common than sunshine?

Unfortunately, Ronny didn’t work long with us. Not that he wasn’t a good worker. He was fast. Incredibly fast! Sometimes I’d give him an assignment and he would literally be back in two minutes, already done. Usually it meant he had to do it over again, because following instructions wasn’t his strength, but his energy and willingness to learn made up for it. Regrettably, Ronny did not quite get the concept that having a job means that you have to show up every day, unless you ask permission. So the third day Ronny didn’t show up, because he had to bring back his horse that had wandered off to a neighbouring village. The fifth day, his mom had asked him to drop off a sack of rice at his grandma’s. On workday number 8, his horse had wandered off again, this time in the opposite direction.

Day number 10, 11 and 12 passed without any sighting of Ronny. On day number 13 I realised we should forget about him. A pity, but well, these things happen.

Two years ago I saw Ronny again. He had just started working at a car workshop I often pass when I go walking. When I first greeted him, he hid from me, I guess because he thought I’d me angry and resentful, but I’m not, so I asked him about his new job. He proudly told me how he was going to be a mechanic. I told him I was really happy for him, that he would make a great mechanic, just to stick to the job this time and show up every day.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah…” he mumbled, “That’s not a problem anymore, because I sold my horse. “

So far two years have passed, and Ronny is still working as a mechanic-assistant. I see him almost daily waiting in front of the workshop, at 7.00am when I walk my dog.

The workshop opens at 8.00am.

Some things never change.

Copán: a Love Story

 I first visited Copán Ruinas in 1994, during a short trip while I was based in Antigua Guatemala, studying Spanish. I spent only a few days in town, but really liked the place and thought how lovely it would be to go back there, somewhere in the future when I’d have more time on my hands.

That opportunity came a few years later when Dutch friends of mine asked me to take care of their restaurant in Copán for two months, while they went back to Holland. At that time I studied Latin American literature, without a scholarship, so I could no longer afford the regular trips I used to make during previous years when I had a short but lucrative career in fashion design. But now I had a chance to go back with room and board accounted for, so I bought a ticket and made my way back to that small town in the western mountains of Honduras.

It didn’t take long before I was totally, head over heels in love. With Copán.

Why? That is as hard to explain as why you fall in love with a person at first sight. But the symptoms were all the same: butterflies in my stomach, an eagerness to get out of bed every morning in order to face yet another day in paradise and a reluctance to go to bed at night because I didn’t want to miss a second of my stay.

I was overwhelmed with this magical place and its cosmopolitan ambience while at the same time so authentically rural. The people were so friendly, the climate so becoming. The few bars and restaurants in town were not as hip as the ones in sizzling Amsterdam, but great places nonetheless where I met an endless stream of interesting and entertaining people. The food supply was less variable than I was used too, but exotic in my eyes, and thus delicious. I found the Maya Chortí people so beautiful, so authentic, so quiet and reserved. They gave a sense of mystery to the place. The people were taking life at a slower space and it all seemed so right, so down to earth, so perfect. It was all so incredibly far removed from the life I was used to, the typical running around and busy, busy, busy, always. To have nature so close around me made me feel humble and rich at the same time. I didn’t need to own acres of land as long as I could roam around for free over the mountain trails, which I did (and do) every day. I learned to take my time, to wonder and appreciate. I felt like I had come home, finally, after a long, long way on the road of life.

Two months turned into a year. One year turned into many more.

In the beginning every small cultural difference delighted me. I quickly picked up gestures and bad language. In no time I was pointing with my lips instead of using my hand, I mastered the little twitch in the corner of my mouth that says ”hello, how are you, I’m fine, thank you” and I even counted on my fingers, starting with my pinky. I was intrigued to learn how to do my laundry at a pila, a big cement sink which serves as a water reservoir since the water supplies are unreliable. I learned how prepare and eat frijoles and tortillas and can’t imagine I’ll be ever be able to live without baleadas. I even got used to the power outages and to throwing toilet paper in a basket instead of the toilet. The people I met instantly became best friends. They were so gracious, so welcoming. I spent night after night partying, just hanging around and drinking far too much beer. My first two years in paradise were one long vacation.

I don’t know exactly when and even less how it changed, but it did. Was it me, this place, or my relationship with it? Maybe it was like any love affair: at first everything is new and exciting. Once that first stage is over, it all depends on how much mutual respect is left. And even if there’s not a grain of respect or love left, people often stick together for years, for the rest of their lives, just because they’re so used to each other.

I guess it is the beginning of the end when that what you first found charming, starts to annoy the hell out of you. People’s relaxedness becomes tardiness. Elaborate answers to please you become lies. A helping hand turns into someone who wants to take advantage of you. Where before you laughed when a Honduran started building a house by putting up the roof first instead of laying the foundation, now you roll your eyes and shake your head in disgust. You hear yourself say how hard it is to get a trustworthy cleaning lady and it somewhere stirs a memory of a heated discussion years ago about how wrong and how “colonial” it is to talk about how difficult it is to get good personnel. The food supply has improved over the years that what’s not available become more important than that what’s at hand. Before, you took a trip to the big city in the one and only chicken bus and you considered it an adventure. Now a trip out of town becomes an escape…

And the people: you realize they never really were your best friends: they were as long as you paid for the beers. But when you had a problem, either with them or one of their numerous family members, their friendship turned into chillness. They will never confront you, but every warmth and hospitality is gone. So what you do is you shut yourself up in your own place and pretend to live in your own world far away from Honduras. You can’t go back home; you won’t be able to adapt anymore. You’re too used to the freedom money can buy, since even the poorest westerner here is richer than a campesino. You don’t want to live in a world without hired help to do the laundry or the garden. You don’t want to be bothered with all kinds of taxes or being obliged by law to scoop up your dogs disposals. You hate the cold, the grey of your home country’s long winters. So there is no choice. You stay where you are and you create your own private state in the amidst of Honduras. You finally caught that gringo disease. It’s called bitterness.

I’ve had many “I hate Honduras” days. But I still stuck around. And things slowly moved around again.

I’ve fallen head over heels in love before only to fall out of love again and wonder what the heck you ever saw in that person. Tremendous love can easily turn into deep disgust and even hate. If there’s no love left, you better get the hell out of there. But that is not what happened with me and Copán.

I’ve lived in Copán for sixteen years now, and in more than one way, it is the love of my life. We have shared so much and Copán has been as good for me as it has been bad. I feel a tremendous love and respect for this place, its people and its history. It is a place as no other and it will always be in my heart.

However, I have decided to leave Copán. Not any time soon, nor am I leaving Copán for another love in my life. I just feel it’s time to move on. I feel good here, but it has become too comfortable, although hardly ever easy. But the world is bigger than Copán and I feel I’m not done exploring yet.

So I have no idea where I’ll end up, much less when. But wherever I’ll be, whatever I’ll do, there is no doubt in my mind that I’ll always think of Copán with much fondness and pride. I just love Copán. Para siempre!

Brief Encounters of the Human Kind II: Sex Talk

It must have been a Sunday, because the church along the riverside was about to start its service.

Even before I registered it, my dog Luca had already noticed that the gate to the church’s compound was open and she ran off to look for her friend Erly, a beautifully orange coloured sort of bloodhound. As scary looking as he might be, he’s in fact very friendly. He loves my Luca and getting his ears scratched. But the guard who stood before the gate, a big revolver stuffed in the back of his jeans, didn’t know that and took a step back in order to avoid being in the middle of a possible dog fight.

“Don’t worry!” I yelled, because I’d never seen the man before and didn’t know how he would react. “They’re friends!”

“Oh,” he answered, still somewhat unsure, and lowered his sombrero over his forehead. Then he added: “Ah, I see. She’s a female. No problem then.”

“Nope.” I answered.

The man, whose age was indefinable, but far from young, stood observing the dogs that were sniffing each others butts and excitingly wagging their tails. Then he asked:

“But aren’t you worried she might get pregnant?”

“No. She’s fixed.”

“Fixed?”

“Operated. She can’t have puppies.”

“Ah! I see! The same way they fix women too!”

“Well, yes, pretty much so.”

“So just like women, she doesn’t get in the heat anymore?”

I started to feel slightly uncomfortable, but answered nonetheless.

“Actually, she does. She didn’t get a hysterectomy. She just got her tubes tied, if you know what I mean.”

“Yes, yes… of course…” The man looked thoughtful.

“That’s good then,” he continued. “Because I’ve heard that if you cut a man’s balls off, he can’t, you know… anymore…”

By now I really wanted to walk on, but felt obliged set this straight. So I explained that only male dogs get neutered (Their balls cut off, was the expression I actually used), while with humans they do the tube tying thingy. And they still can have sex. Both men and women.

“Oh. Okay.” The man looked relieved. He absently played with the butt of his revolver. “That is good to know!”

Then a car with late worshippers needed us to clear the gate. This was my cue.

“Well, goodbye, have a good day!” I said, while dragging Luca away from the love of her life.

“Yes, you too! Nice talking to you!”

Sex talk with a stranger on a Sunday morning in front of a church. Hallelujah!