The Rooster
Everywhere in Central America!

(10 am) The sun has faded behind the mountains and the horizon turns from an orange, red glow, to a soft dark blue, and finally blackness with a silver speckled universe. It is quiet, peaceful, a perfect time for sleep. We cuddle into our tropical sleeping bags and gradually disconnect our consciousness to a world far beyond… sleep…

(3 am)

KOCKADOODLEDOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

KOCKADOODLEDOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

"SHUT UP!"

In the dreary hours of 3 am the rooster begins its foghorn "sound-off!" The most annoying sound I have ever heard. Its continuous call portrays a dying cry of a tortured animal with its head stuffed in a vice grip. A low pitch moaning progressing to a high peak and back down. The rooster drives you mad. Insane. Its ruthless whine leaves a permanent scar upon your sleepless memory.

I wake just before 7 am to set out into nature on my regular morning recon mission to the lake to watch the sunrise.

"Mitch, where's your switchblade?"

"I'm going to find that rooster and slay his throat, for he knows not what he does!"

A rooster is supposed to wake you up at 6 am. That is the way it is supposed to be. It seems though that the roosters down in Central America have turned schizophrenic from the heat and humidity and no longer have control over themselves. At least in San Pedro we get a bit of a break. In Monterrico there was a whole gang of these hoodlums, sounding off one after the other loud as the siren of a fire truck.