arittherease

Discarded humble pie in Peru

We finished dinner at Plaza de Armas and decided to walk back to our hotel rather than negotiate with a cab driver. The night brought on a chilly breeze, just cold enough to tighten up our scarves, but not so cold as to warrant a tangible shiver. We arbitrarily picked a small side street and started walking. We reached a street whose black entrance was halfway blocked with aging cinder blocks thoughtlessly discarded from a building nearby. It was very dark, but fierce noises were audible. Darkness is supposed to be silent. When it's loud, it's terrifying.

Behind the pile of cement, there were at least a dozen of them sniffing, scratching, foraging and prowling in search of food in the dim moonlight. A cornucopia of pungent discarded trash from restaurants and shops littered the street. Bags were torn open, food containers ripped apart, and chops were licked. We had walked too far into the midst of the feeding frenzy to turn around. Fear is funny, sometimes you can't identify it until it's already wound its way through your veins and is dripping out your fingertips, suddenly becoming both palpable and unmanageable. I was scared of drawing the attention of the mangy, clearly rabid dogs. I only felt a hand in mine, firm, and we continued along, passing by packs as they fought over food.

It hit me then, the hard truth: they didn't even notice us. We weren't important to them, not even worth a glance of consideration. My fragile limbs weren't appealing as a midnight snack and I had made myself out to be much more relevant than I actually was. I don't know if it's a feeling that every person has at some point, or if it was just sheer entitlement, but I was certain that my presence would enter into the consciousness of these dogs. I was certain that because I was uncomfortable, they would be too--that they might take action. I was wrong. To the dogs, I was as useless as an empty food box. My fear dissipated, and humility took its place.