Roosters have added surprising memories to my life. Not by design. I never sought them out. But in three very different countries—El Salvador, Kenya, and Thailand—I found myself living within earshot of a rooster who seemed to take a particular interest in me.
Some travelers collect stamps. I collect stories about birds that scream at the sky.
El Salvador – The Rooster That Ran the Town
It started in a city, not a barnyard, in El Salvador, where mornings arrived early and unapologetically. The rooster—el gallo viejo, as my neighbors called him—was a local personality. He lived on the rooftop across from my tiny house in Colonia Montserrat where he crowed like his life depended on it.
His crow wasn’t charming. It was raspy, aggressive, and astonishingly punctual—usually around 4:37 a.m. He didn’t so much wake you up as challenge you to face the day.
I served in El Salvador for 3 years with the Peace Corps and I don’t think the rooster ever missed a single day. I didn’t always appreciate him in the moment, but I came to admire his presence.
He reminded me that in a place where life could be tough and resources thin, people still laughed, worked, celebrated—and woke up to the same determined crow.
Kenya – The Rooster Who Knew Things
In Kenya, the rooster felt less like a neighbor and more like an oracle. I was in Kenya to work with malaria researchers and stayed in a small village near Nakuru, where the red earth warmed your feet and the sky stretched wide enough to hold all your thoughts.
The locals called him Jogoo wa Jua—Rooster of the Sun—and that’s exactly what he was. He didn’t just announce the day; he summoned it. His crow had depth, like it came from somewhere ancient.
And he walked the village like a priest, slow and observant, pausing near gardens and wells, often standing still long enough to make you wonder if he was meditating.
By the end of my stay, I found myself waiting for his morning crow—not just as a signal to wake, but as a kind of assurance that the world still spun and the rituals still mattered.
Thailand – The Rooster with a God Complex
I met another feathered friend in northern Thailand, on the edge of Chiang Mai, where the rice paddies shimmered green and a monk sat outside a temple smoking cigarettes.
This rooster didn’t just crow. He performed. He was white with streaks of gold, his tail fanned like a parade float, and his strut was pure theater.
He crowed constantly—at dawn, at dusk, at laundry, at the moon. He had his rituals. He’d stop at the spirit house every morning and he never missed a festival, a family meal, or a photo op.
Reflections from the Roost
Each rooster embodied something unique: the scrappy resilience of El Salvador, the soulful wisdom of Kenya, the playful dignity of Thailand.
They weren’t just background noise. They were part of the story—woven into markets and mornings, rituals and routines. Through them, I saw how closely tied humans are to rhythm: of seasons, of stories, of waking and working and beginning again.
I came to see these roosters not just as characters in my travels, but as teachers. Unlikely, loud, opinionated teachers who never let me forget where I was—and why I was there.
And now, even back home, whenever I hear a distant crow, usually on TV, I smile. Somewhere, a day is beginning. And someone—probably against their will—is being reminded to get up and live it.
Essays, Art and Plays by Dan 
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