Just Resting

[Sweder]

I left Cartagena having made a friend, if one can make friends with a place.
In a more tangible sense I made friends with several inhabitants, not least Husband and Wife, the canine couple living just around the corner from my hotel.

As the TOC revellers cavorted to the late-night Salsa beat, I crept away to source roast chicken from a local vendor. I sat on the filthy curb, shredding the juicy white meat and crispy skin. H&W ventured out from under their hand-cart, sauntering as nonchalant as a couple taking a stroll in the moonlight. I held out a piece and Husband, his muzzle scarred from countless street brawls, gently nudged Wife in front. She took the first piece with all the delicacy of one of Roedean's finest. Husband refused his until she'd had several pieces.

   

As Husband took his, as gently as his mate, a figure shuffled from the shadows. Wild, greasy hair, bleary eyes blinking out of a sun-baked face, rags hanging off his skinny frame, his hand outstretched. My stomach lurched, caught in the act of feeding dogs when people were hungry. I grinned sheepishly, proffering the polystyrene tray. He smiled back, the few surviving teeth white in the gloom as he perched next to me on the roadside. He ate slowly, enjoying the meat. I watched the dogs return quietly to their lair, seemingly happy to share.

I returned to my spotless, air-conditioned room and lay on the plump, clean bed, staring at the ceiling, wishing with all my heart I could do more. But, I reasoned, as sleep crept up on my weary bones, I'd done something, which was more than many ever do. For now, and until I can change my own circumstances, I'll have to be happy with that.