Rifas Colombianas

By nine in the morning, the market is already hot. Vendors are open, cash is moving, and nobody has time for surprises.

The man with the raffle tickets doesn’t announce himself. He doesn’t need to. He walks the corridor like he belongs there—tickets in one hand, easy smile, no hurry.

He stops at a produce stall and sets the tickets on the counter.

“Rifa,” he says.

The vendor doesn’t ask what the prize is. He doesn’t ask when the draw is. He already knows this isn’t that kind of raffle.

“How many?” the man asks.

The question sounds optional. It isn’t.

The vendor pulls a bill from the cash box and hands it over. The exchange takes less than ten seconds. No argument. No scene. The man tears off a ticket, leaves it on the counter, and moves on.

This plays out dozens of times in the same market, the same way, every week.

In the criminal sense, what’s commonly referred to as “Colombian raffles”—rifas colombianas—functions as a low-profile extortion scheme. It uses the appearance of a raffle to extract recurring payments, primarily from small merchants, without the open threats associated with traditional cobro de piso.

The ticket price is kept deliberately low. Small enough to discourage refusal. Small enough to make confrontation feel unnecessary. The goal isn’t to drain a business in one hit—it’s to establish routine.

The first visit is usually described as polite. The second is familiar. By the third or fourth, the payment is expected. There is no verifiable draw, no transparent list of winners, and no meaningful evidence of prizes changing hands. What does change hands—consistently—is cash.

Merchants describe the same pattern: the “raffle” returns weekly or biweekly, often on predictable routes. Collectors learn who pays without hesitation and who pauses. That hesitation gets noticed.

In markets and commercial corridors, the pressure rarely needs to be explicit. Payment becomes communal behavior. When most stalls comply, refusing stands out. And standing out is a risk few small business owners are willing to take.

The scheme’s effectiveness lies in its ambiguity. On paper, it looks like a voluntary transaction. In practice, it carries the same consequences as protection money. The difference is presentation.

Because it looks like a raffle, reporting it is difficult. “Someone sold me a ticket” does not sound like a crime until you understand the context. That ambiguity keeps complaints rare and enforcement inconsistent.

In several areas where these raffles operate, they appear alongside other informal rackets, particularly gota a gota lending. Both target cash-based businesses and households. Both rely on frequent, small payments. Both use pressure rather than contracts to enforce compliance.

Why the scheme is labeled “Colombian” varies. In some cases, collectors have been described as Colombian nationals or linked to Colombian criminal networks. In others, the term functions as shorthand for a specific method rather than a nationality. Regardless, the structure remains the same.

A raffle that never ends.

A payment that becomes routine.

A system designed to operate quietly, without drawing the attention that more violent extortion methods invite.

By midday, the market is louder. Customers come and go. The raffle tickets sit folded under counters, kept more as proof of payment than hope of winning.

There is no announcement of winners. No ceremony. No closure.

The only consistent outcome is that the collectors return the following week, asking the same question in the same calm tone.

“How many?”

And most vendors already know the answer.