Hundreds of ‘Cocaine Hippos' Are Terrorizing Colombia. This Biologist Has Agreed to Help Track Them Down
Forrest Galante has bad luck with hippos. He was nearly killed twice by the animals while growing up as a kid in Zimbabwe. So it's fair to say Galante was treading cautiously this winter as he explored a dense jungle island in the middle of Colombia's Rio Magdalena, which is now home to a prolific and very problematic herd of hippopotamuses.
Known the world over as 'cocaine hippos,' these invasive giants are the descendants of Pablo Escobar's pet hippo herd, which has grown from four to around 200 and spread well beyond Escobar's estate in the time since the kingpin's death in 1993. With no natural predators around and a massive river — the Magdalena — at their disposal, the amphibious mammals continue to thrive and expand in Colombia. (To be clear, these hippos are not addicted to cocaine. They're called 'cocaine hippos' because they were introduced there by the most famous cocaine dealer of all time.)
As an explorer, wildlife biologist, TV host, and conservationist, Galante has worked with dangerous animals all around the world. Over the past few years, he's been coordinating with a Colombian government agency, Cornare, to try and solve the country's cocaine hippo problem. He just returned from a months-long trip to Colombia, where he helped refine the government's ongoing efforts to capture and sterilize the invasive critters. This is an urgent ecological problem, as the hippos are harming native species, wrecking waterways, and causing conflicts with people.
Although there are no published news reports available on the internet of hippos attacking humans in Colombia, it has certainly happened. Galante says he's spoken with two people there who were attacked by hippos. One of them, a farmer, was getting water from the river when a hippo charged and trampled him, breaking his back and leaving him paralyzed. Scenarios like this one have played out countless times across sub-Saharan Africa, where hippos are considered the most dangerous large animal on the continent, killing roughly 500 people a year.
Hippos also degrade habitat by polluting and destroying waterways, and their presence in rivers and lakes threatens a number of native critters, including the critically endangered Magdalena turtle. And just like Florida's Burmese pythons, there are more of them every year.
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'In the wild, hippo infant mortality rates are fifty to fifty nine percent … but according to one study, that goes down to fifteen percent in the second year, and four percent each year after,' Galante tells Outdoor Life. 'So, if you compare that with a hundred percent survival rate, which is what we're seeing in Colombia, this might sound melodramatic. But hippos will literally take over the country at some point. There is nothing to stop them.'
The most obvious solution, tracking and killing all the hippos, has proven controversial because locals have grown to love the big, 'cute' animals they associate with Disney movies, Galante explains. The government-approved hunt for Pepe, one of Escobar's original males, in 2009 was a PR nightmare. And although Galante says there are unconfirmed rumors that black-market hippo hunts are still taking place, the Colombian public will never support the regulated hunting or culling of the now world-famous hippos.
So, in 2023, the Colombian government announced it was starting a highly ambitious (and costly) program to capture and sterilize Escobar's hippos and their descendants. By late November, officials had caught and sterilized four of them — two adult females and two juvenile males — and set a goal for 40 sterilizations per month. As it turns out, though, castrating a full-grown hippopotamus is easier said than done.
'Like any large mammal, hippos learn pretty quickly and they'll move to a new area,' Galante says of the various challenges Colombian wildlife managers now face. 'These hippos are also spread out over [roughly] 500 square kilometers, and each water body has its own hippos, so you have to build new bomas [traps] in each location … and it gets expensive. This is a huge, multi-layered project.'
Another part of the government's plan is to eventually relocate some of the hippos to a wildlife sanctuary in India — something Galante is helping coordinate as well. (Galante has also been filming part of the project for an upcoming television series on Discovery.) When he asked local experts where the majority of the problem hippos were, they ushered him to a densely vegetated island in the middle of the Rio Magdalena.
'We took a boat and went out there, and this was maybe the most dangerous situation I've ever been in with wildlife,' Galante says. 'We were walking in this bush where you have less than 15 feet of visibility, it's this tropical Amazonian jungle. So we came up along this game trail and, of course, we startled a hippo and it charged us.'
The hippo turned away at the last second, Galante says, and they had no further run-ins that day. But the one charge was enough to convince Galante that trapping the island's hippos would require significantly more funding and manpower than they had at their disposal. The next best step, they figured, would be to focus on the lakes surrounding Hacienda Nápoles. (Escobar's estate, where his exotic zoo was located, is now a theme park.)
After locating a few pods of hippos in the lakes, Galante and the Cornare team brought in a retrofitted corral that they baited with sugary foods like carrots, watermelons, and beets. He says it took about a week to catch the first baby hippos, which they sterilized with injections of GonaCon. Three weeks later, after keeping the corral-trap baited, they caught the mother hippo.
'When we caught that adult mother in our boma trap, she was with those same two babies, plus two other babies — one that was about a year old and one that was about two,' he explains. 'So that's four generations all in one boma.'
After treating the younger hippos with GonaCon, a veterinarian surgically sterilized the adult female. Unlike the male castrations, which are quick and straightforward — 'You just chop their nuts off and let them go,' Galante says — sterilizing females is much more complicated.
'He operated on her all night, and he uses this incredible methodology that I've never seen before. Instead of opening all their guts up, he makes these tiny incisions and does it all by feel … It's incredible, and he needs to publish this methodology,' Galante explains. 'He pulled out her ovaries, cauterized them, sewed her up, and let her go. Now, because it's Colombia and it's a billion degrees out, he had to start doing this at 10 p.m. and finish before the sun came up so she didn't die of heat exhaustion.'
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Now that officials have seen some success, Galante says, the Colombian government will continue sterilizing as many hippos as they can safely catch. He says he doesn't know the exact number of hippos that have been sterilized so far. But he knows he won't be returning to that mid-river island anytime soon without reinforcements.
'There's no way you can deal with those hippos without bringing in a massive construction crew and clearcutting a large area. And then you'd need generators, and tractors, and flatbed boats, which could cost millions' Galante says. 'We have not solved this problem, to be clear. What we did over the last few months is create a blueprint to solve the problem.'

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Miami Herald
4 hours ago
- Miami Herald
A daughter with DACA, a mother without papers, and a goodbye they can't bear
Michelle Valdes' mom thinks she sees immigration agents everywhere: in the lobby of the building where she cares for elderly clients, at the local outlet mall, on downtown corners. The fear is constant. Driving to work, going to the store —just leaving the house feels too risky for her. At work, while she cooks and cleans in her clients' homes, she listens as stories of immigration detentions, deportations and constantly changing laws and policies play loudly in English from the TV. The 67-year-old undocumented Colombian national who has lived in the United States for more than a third of her life has stopped driving completely, opting for Uber, and ducking down in the backseat when she sees police officers. As a Jehovah's Witness, she has chosen not to do her door-to-door ministry and only attends church on Zoom. But what keeps her up at night these days is that she will soon go without seeing her daughter, likely for close to a decade. She is preparing to leave the United States after 23 years, leaving behind her 31-year-old daughter, a DACA recipient or 'Dreamer' who came to the United States when she was 8 and is still in the process of gaining her green card. Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals, or DACA, is a federal program that protects undocumented people who came to the U.S. as children from deportation. 'I don't want to feel like I'm going to be spending two months in some detention center in the middle of God knows where, where none of my family members see me,' she said in Spanish during an interview with the Herald. She asked not to use her name for this story because she fears she could be targeted. 'I'm done,' she said. Her daughter's immigration situation is also precarious, even though she is married to a U.S. citizen. His family, from Cuba, got lucky when they won the visa lottery. But her family did not have such luck. Valdes' family did what immigrants often do: They fled danger, asked for political asylum, hired lawyers and filed paperwork. And they lost. Last year, only 19.3% of Colombian asylum cases were approved, according to researchers at Syracuse University. Even in 2006, when violence was at a very high point in Colombia, only 32% of asylum cases were approved. Their family's story reveals the toll a constantly changing and exceedingly complicated immigration system has on families who tried to 'do the right thing' and legalize their status. Now, under President Trump's administration, which has ramped up enforcement and the optics around it, being undocumented has become even more hazardous. People who have been living and working in the shadows in the United States are now being forced to decide if the reward of seeking a better life is still worth the risk. And those who are following the rules are afraid the rules will keep changing. The mother has already started packing boxes. Denied asylum Valdes' mom had never heard of the American Dream. She said she had never even heard the phrase 'el sueño americano' before coming to the United States. The family fled Colombia in 2002, leaving behind comfort and status. Valdes' mother had been an architect in Cartagena, a city on the South American nation's Caribbean coast. The family had a driver, a cook and a nanny. But violence by the Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia, the rebel group known as FARC, was encroaching on their lives: armed robbery at their home, threatening calls and the kidnapping of her cousin, a wealthy businessperson. The family was forced to pay a ransom for his release. The early 2000s in Colombia, under President Andrés Pastrana, were years of intense violence by guerrilla gangs such as the FARC, who targeted wealthier Colombians. 'They would just pick up anybody who they believed they could get money from,' said Valdes. Her aunt would often call Valdes' mom from Florida, telling her their family would be safer here. The family arrived on a tourist visa in 2002, found a lawyer and applied for asylum. It was denied in 2004. Under U.S. immigration policy, people who have suffered persecution due to factors such as race, religion, nationality, membership to a social group, or political opinion can apply for asylum. It must be filed within a year of arrival in the United States. Valdes' family's interview did not go well and they were placed in removal proceedings. They appealed and in 2006 took the case to the U.S. Board of Immigration Appeals. The family's asylum application claimed that Valdes' mom would be killed by the FARC guerilla gang if she returned to Colombia, in connection with her cousin's kidnapping. But the court ultimately found holes in her case, and said her fear is not well founded and that she failed to prove that she would be in danger if she returned to Colombia. Their final motion was denied in part because it was filed 45 days late, according to the court filing. Valdes was just 11 years old when the courts denied her family's final plea to stay in the United States. The family was issued removal orders. 'I feel like I made a mistake asking for asylum,' said Valdes' mother. 'I wasn't guided well because I was scared and didn't know what to do.' She says predatory lawyers charged her close to $40,000 but never told her the truth about her odds of winning the case. 'It's pure show,' she said in Spanish. 'I believed they would help, but they did nothing.' By then, Valdes and her brothers were attending public schools in West Palm Beach, a right undocumented children have because of a supreme court ruling which passed narrowly in the early '80s. 'I just kind of poured my whole life into school, just to kind of distract myself from other things going on in life, specifically with immigration,' she said. In fifth grade, she won the science fair. At Roosevelt Middle School she was in the pre-med program and the national junior honor society. She always had A's and B's in school. But when her middle school national honor society was invited to Australia, she had to stay behind, unable to travel because she was undocumented. At Suncoast Community High School, she was invited to sing in a choir concert in Europe, but again, she could not go. In 2007, ICE detained Valdes' parents and her eldest brother. Her other brother and Valdes were picked up from school and reunited with their parents at the ICE office. Valdes' mom said the officer told her that since the family had a removal order, they needed to deport at least one person to prove they completed their quota for the day. But to this day, Valdes and her mother can't fully explain why the father was deported but they were released. Was it luck? Did the ICE officers sympathize with their family? Then 13, Valdes remembers standing in the Miami immigration office as agents took her father away. 'He was wearing jeans, a tan coat and a gray-blue fisherman's hat,' she said. 'What I remember the most is that there was, like, some sort of feeling that I got, that I knew that I was never gonna see him again.' He was deported in January of 2007, when Valdes was in seventh grade. It was the only semester she ever failed in school, she said. Her father died at 69 in Colombia in 2022. A petition for him to get legal status and return to the U.S., filed on his behalf of his son from a previous marriage, was approved a year after his death, said Valdes. '17 years too late,' she said, in tears. DACA as a lifeline In 2012, Valdes and her mother were preparing to leave the United States for good. Flights were booked. Boxes mailed. Then, just 14 days before departure, President Obama announced the Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals program. The program was meant to protect children like Valdes, who came to the U.S. at a young age. Valdes was 18. Her phone lit up with messages from people in her community who knew she was undocumented. She applied that October. As a 'Dreamer,' or DACA recipient, she's protected from deportation and able to work legally — but can't travel outside the country. Her two older brothers, Ricardo and Jean Paul, had already left the country by then. After attending public schools and graduating from high school, the brothers could not attend college or find work. So in 2011, they returned to Colombia, and their mother sent them money to attend university. They both still live there and haven't seen their mom in 14 years. Valdes' situation was slightly better, but without legal permanent residency, she didn't qualify for most scholarships. The one scholarship she did get was a $4,000 scholarship from the Global Education Center at Palm Beach State, but $1,500 was deducted in taxes because she was considered a foreign student. Starting in 2014, Florida universities provided in-state tuition waivers for undocumented students under certain conditions. But because Valdes didn't enroll in college within a year of graduating from high school, she lost access to the waiver. That waiver was recently canceled in Florida for undocumented students, and starting July 1, at least 6,500 DACA recipients in Florida enrolled in public universities will have to pay the out-of-state tuition rate. 'When people asked me what I wanted for my birthday, I would ask for money to pay my tuition,' she said. Throughout those years, people would come to Valdes asking for help filling out their work permit applications, DACA applications and other legal forms, and they would say, 'Wow, you are so good at it.' Although she never wanted to do anything law or immigration related, she kept getting pulled in that direction, and decided to get her paralegal certificate, Valdes said. She now works at an immigration law office. Her plan is to go to law school after getting hands on training. 'I always thought: When I turn 18, I'm an adult — 'why am I still tied to my mom's case?' ' she said. 'But nobody explained it.' At her job in the law office, she finally learned the full truth of her case. Her name is still listed on her mother's asylum application — the case that was denied in 2006. So she still had a final removal order connected to her name. That case, and its order of removal, still haunts her. Although she's married to a U.S. citizen, it will take her years to adjust her status to get a green card and permanent residency status. The process will involve her husband filing petitions and waivers explaining that it would be an extreme hardship for him if she were deported. Valdes will have to leave the country and re-enter. In all, the process could take around eight years. Former president Joe Biden had a program to help people like Valdes, whose family is of 'mixed-status' but the program was shut down by Republicans. Immigration attorneys say there are fewer and fewer pathways for people married to U.S. citizens to legalize their status. The roadblocks and complications frustrate Valdes to tears. Valdes said that it is not fair that 'under our immigration system, a child, at such a young age, has to suffer the consequences of the parents' mistakes.' 'No es justo, no es justo,' she said, crying. It's not fair. But immigration laws, enforcement and policies are changing every day. 'People say 'get in line, get in line, get in line,' and then you get in line, and it's like, 'Oh, too bad, you don't apply with that anymore, or we're just going to change the laws. Or, you know, you aged out, or you didn't submit by this day,' said Valdes. In the past weeks, ICE agents across the nation have even begun detaining people as they exit immigration courthouses. Some are individuals with final orders of deportation like Valdes and her mom. Just this week, the Supreme Court ruled that President Trump can revoke humanitarian parole for over 500,000 migrants from Cuba, Haiti, Nicaragua and Venezuela. President Trump has spoken favorably of DACA recipients, but nonetheless, 'Dreamers' still have to reapply every two years, and there is no guarantee their right to legally be in the U.S. will not be revoked. Immigration attorneys say DACA could be the next program to be shut down by the Supreme Court. 'How shaky is DACA? How solid is it?' Valdes asked. Same fear, different country Valdes' mom says she now feels the same fear in the United States as she did in Colombia — maybe worse. 'I'm scared. Terrified,' she said. 'I'm constantly looking over my shoulder, always on alert.' For years, she tried to hold on. But after 23 years, she's tired of living in limbo. Valdes and her mom try not to think much about the fact that they are leaving each other, focusing more on the present and getting through each day. Valdes' mom says her ultimate goal was always for her daughter to get an education in the United States, and now that her daughter has a job, a husband, and is planting roots, she feels like she can go and let her daughter live her life. She left Colombia because she was 'tired of being followed. I was tired of being paranoid. I was tired of never being able to have my freedom, to just live, because I was always so scared. And fast forward, 23 years later, I'm just in the same boat in a different country,' she said. The hardest part for Valdes is imagining being pregnant and then giving birth without her mom by her side. But, she says, 'Now I tell her, I totally understand. It's your turn to finish living your life, Mom. I want her to be at peace, and I want her to rest.' As her mother prepares to leave, Michelle is left with the frustration of knowing that there's nothing she can do. 'I am still helpless. I still can't help her. I still can't help myself. It's a looming darkness you carry every day,' said Valdes.
Yahoo
14 hours ago
- Yahoo
Man on Puerto Rico's most-wanted list arrested in Lancaster
BUFFALO, N.Y. (WIVB) — A man listed as one of the most-wanted people in Puerto Rico was arrested by U.S. Border Patrol agents in Lancaster on Thursday, a representative with U.S. Customs and Border Protection told WIVB News 4. Raymundo Rondon-Canales, 54, a U.S. citizen from Puerto Rico, was listed on the most-wanted list for sexual assault of a minor, failure to register as a sex offender, and for violating a court order from Guayama Court, Customs and Border Protection said. A $2,500 award was offered for information about him in February of last year. 'This arrest underscores our unwavering commitment to border security and apprehending dangerous fugitives,' said Patrol Agent Martin Coombs. Rondon-Canales allegedly presented a counterfeit lawful permanent resident card during a traffic stop impersonating a Colombian National. He also gave a false name to police, officials said. An investigation revealed his true identity, as well as his status as a wanted man. Officials said he had absconded from Puerto Rico and posed 'a significant threat to public safety.' He is currently being held at the Erie County Sheriff's Office pending extradition to Puerto Rico. Kayleigh Hunter-Gasperini joined the News 4 team in 2024 as a Digital Video Producer. She is a graduate of Chatham University. Copyright 2025 Nexstar Media, Inc. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten, or redistributed.
Yahoo
15 hours ago
- Yahoo
‘I had 30 Lamborghinis': Pablo Escobar's top cocaine pilot gives first interview
A man who eventually became Pablo Escobar's go-to cocaine pilot has revealed that he first turned down an employment offer from the notorious Colombian drug lord because he was content with the $4m a month he was earning while flying for a competitor. But, in a new podcast containing what is believed to be his first interview since authorities arrested him at his Florida mansion in 1988, Tirso 'TJ' Dominguez recounted how he changed his mind about working for Escobar when the so-called Patrón – or boss – offered him a salary that was five times higher: $20m monthly. 'I had 30 Lamborghinis, and I dressed well,' Dominguez says of his ensuing lifestyle during the eight-part documentary podcast titled Cocaine Air, a copy of which was provided to the Guardian. 'They brought me the car that matched the shirt that I decided to wear that day.' The interview that Dominguez granted the Cocaine Air host Johnathan Walton after spending more than a dozen years in prison for drug trafficking and money laundering provides a stark, first-hand account of what would motivate someone to work for one of the world's most infamous criminals. Escobar had a hand in murders, kidnappings and bombings before Colombia's special forces shot him to death in 1993. As he told it to Walton, Dominguez only became involved in drug smuggling in the late 1970s after his father, a south Florida real estate developer, unexpectedly died from cancer in the middle of building a sugar mill in Haiti. Dominguez says he was 20 at the time, and he was subsequently scammed out of $100,000 by two ruthless Miami bankers who refused to give him the $14m loan his father had secured before dying. Desperate to raise capital for the sugar mill, Dominguez – whose mother was a homemaker – learned to fly airplanes so he could earn some money from drug dealers by illicitly smuggling marijuana into the US from the Bahamas and Colombia. He says he graduated to illegally flying cocaine over American skies after he dropped $800,000 worth of marijuana into the wrong smuggling boat, prompting his suppliers to kidnap him and threaten to kill him along with his family if he did not quickly make them whole. The quickest path to regaining the lost investment was to fly a planeload of coke to be dealt on behalf of another supplier, so Dominguez did it, according to his account. 'I never wanted to get into cocaine because cocaine [smugglers] were the bad guys … doing all the killing,' Dominguez says on Walton's podcast, which is unrelated to an upcoming Netflix documentary of the same name but on a different subject. 'I don't condone drugs. I've never done any drugs. I was the victim of a con which actually pushed me in the direction that I ended up in.' Nonetheless, that first flight brought Dominguez a cool $1m to pay back his irate weed suppliers, he says. He says that was lucrative enough for him to decide to begin flying smuggled cocaine full-time, proving himself to be someone who was punctual as well as professional – and he never lost a shipment. Dominguez said his reliability ultimately captured the attention of Escobar, who tried to recruit him to his cartel. Yet Dominguez, also nicknamed Tito, initially was unmoved, saying he was fine with four flights a month at $1m a pop. Related: Pepe review – inside the beautiful mind of Pablo Escobar's hippo 'I'll be honest with you – Pablo Escobar didn't mean anything to me,' Dominguez says on Cocaine Air. 'I [was] full of myself. I walk on water, you know? I'm making $4m a month. What the hell's wrong with that?' Escobar then offered to pay Dominguez for four flights a month at $5m a trip. Dominguez thought $20m monthly – the equivalent of $60m today when factoring in inflation – was too much to pass up. And he says that was when he opted to begin flying for Escobar exclusively. That fee evidently became too much even for Escobar, who later started paying Dominguez in cocaine. Dominguez at that point went from a cocaine smuggler to a dealer, meaning he could fly the product, sell it, collect the proceeds, launder the money and invest the funds – all on his own, without needing to count on middlemen. 'I did what no other smuggler had ever done in the history of smuggling,' Dominguez bragged to Walton, whose prior projects include the hit Queen of the Con: The Irish Heiress podcast series. In a particularly noteworthy moment on Cocaine Air's series opener, Dominguez reads from a memoir co-authored by Escobar's brother – his accountant Roberto Escobar – that asserts TJ had a fleet of 30 airplanes and was one of the 'main transporters' for Pablo's drug empire. Dominguez recalled accumulating a mansion, a company that sold cellphones at a time when the devices cost $5,000 a piece, a housing development, a charter airplane and boat business, and an exotic car dealership at the peak of his powers. He even raised a pet mountain lion whom he dubbed Top Cat. But it all came crashing down one early morning in April 1988 when federal investigators – equipped with rifles and helicopters – descended on his house and arrested him. Prosecutors had charged him and 12 associates with illegally bringing more than five tons each of marijuana and cocaine into south Florida from at least July 1984 to December 1985, as the Miami Herald and Sun Sentinel newspapers reported. Officials contended that Dominguez's exotic-car dealership in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, and his other businesses in the area were fronts for a multimillion-dollar drug-smuggling ring. They seized two dozen luxury cars – Lamborghinis, Ferraris, Excaliburs and Panteras – and five airplanes collectively worth nearly $3m to auction them off, among other consequences for Dominguez. In 1991, about two years before Escobar's slaying, Dominguez pleaded guilty to distributing cocaine and marijuana as well as illicitly laundering money. He spent 13 years imprisoned, including two in solitary confinement after one of his fellow inmates reported Dominguez after he managed to buy a helicopter from within his cell and plotted to be flown out to freedom. Dominguez explains on Cocaine Air that, before being caught, he had instructed the helicopter pilot to land on the grounds of the prison and then 'just jump me over the fence'. 'There was a canal, not too far away – I had a car waiting for me,' Dominguez says on Cocaine Air, which premiered on Wednesday with plans to release new episodes weekly through 23 July on podcast platforms such as Apple and Spotify. Now aged 73, Dominguez told the podcast that he considers his debt to society repaid and aspires to become a legitimate entrepreneur. 'Failing is when you quit,' Dominguez says of his desire to write a new chapter in his life. 'You're going to fall? You fall forward. That means you gained two steps already. 'The glass is always half full for me.'