"he spins around with a long knife and starts yelling at
me to give all of my money over right now" |
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I went home on June 2 for the annual Panasonic
dosimetry meeting. I
took the bus from PLC, having bought a ticket the day before from one of MANY
companies. I got there about 9 pm for the 10 pm bus to Caracas. No
problems, good ride. They stopped for chicken at about midnight, which was
a bit odd. Taxi to the airport and "Bob's your uncle", back in the USA.
Coming back was not so straight forward. I was running late after some
very successful shopping in Boulder (having driven down from Keystone that
morning), and had to scramble at the airport. Heavy tip to the curbside
check in guy, who got me to the front of the international check-in counter.
No time to return the car, so I tossed them the keys. Got to the concourse
with about 30 min to spare. Time for a beer, right? After all, the bar was
at my gate. Or so I thought. In fact the numbering was not as I
assumed, and my gate was at the other end of the 15-32 wing (32 at the center,
15 at the end of the wing.) Oops.
So I had to trot along to my gate and found the jet way closed, 9 minutes before
the flight. The attendant was totally unsympathetic and inflexible, once
he checked my boarding pass and confirmed I was no VIP. I explained that
my daughter's 16th birthday was the next day and I had to make my connection in
Miami. "Well, you should have been here 30 min early to ensure making an
international connection." "Where does it say that?" "All over"
No joy, the plane left. So, singing the blues I reserved a seat on the flight
the next day. No birthday celebration.
While waiting for me in Miami, my bags were rifled and B's present and some
DVDs and software were stolen.
I watched "Oh Brother Where Art Thou" in Denver and made my flight the next
day with no trouble.
I landed in Caracas at 10 pm or so. Dead tired and not just a little
low. With three big bags, I accepted a taxi driver's offer to help. I
didn't see the signs warning to take only "official" taxis from the queue.
He stormed off with two of the bigger bags, one on each shoulder. I yelled
for him to stop. "Momentito, senior." He stopped and told me he knew
what I wanted, a cheap hotel close to the airport. Yes, and secure.
Sure, he knew. So off we went. I explained that the reason that the
bags were so heavy was all of the school books I was bringing home. We
passed a cash machine, something told me not to stop just now for cash.
Past the normal ground transportation exit ("hmm, that seems a little funny")
and then up the stairs and a long walk to the exit for the parking area. I
followed him a ways outside away from the exit and then he called to his mate,
the driver. Out hops the mate, not looking so smooth, and opens the boot
of one of the nastiest looking 1972 Chevy's that I have ever seen. The
windows looked shattered, but it might have just been the old window darkening
plastic. I was a bit nervous about the driver, so I asked my man if he was
coming as well. "Claro" of course, he said. Phew, I thought. So off
we went, I explained again that I wanted something close and SECURE. Sure,
five minutes. After about 7 I asked what was up, where are we going.
Just up ahead. But the airport is way back there. Yes, but the
hotels are up here. Stupid paranoid tourist. "So how is Caracas," I
ask. "Muy peligroso," they respond. Very dangerous. Nice
answer. I talked about the books that I was carrying for my children and
how I looked forward to seeing them tomorrow. We took a few turns off the
main road and I started to hope that we were not very close to my hotel.
The driver slowed a bit more and the "nice guy" said that it was really
dangerous here, lots of death. Shit. Here it comes. The car
pulled over, the driver put it into park. I squeezed the bridge of my
nose. Nice guy turns and says "Now your money." I said "Shit, man."
This wasn't what the driver was wanting to hear, he spins around with a long
knife and starts yelling at me to give all of my money over right now. I
raised my hands promptly and said "OK! OK! OK!" This delay in satisfaction
really pissed him off. He started waving the knife in my face and
screaming louder, now joined by my friend. I quickly realized that they
wanted my money NOW, so I gave over all of the Bolivars that I had, about 40,000
($60). Mr. Nice Guy liked that, and started telling me everything was fine
now. I was thinking, please don't drop me here, don't take my luggage with
my two computers. Mean Guy asked NG to count the money. NG reported
back and MG slapped the steering wheel, something he would repeat with great
effect on me. MG yelled some more, and NG said I must have more. No
says I. Nothing more (just $350 in my money belt, hope you don't strip
search me) MORE yells MG. NG translates, how about some US dollars.
Oh, yeah I say, forgot. So out comes cash I had from the trip, another
$40. Then I started up with how now I have nothing, how could they leave
me with nothing. I am just trying to get to my children, you got my money now
what am I supposed to do. So NG starts pacifying me. Good thing to
'cause I was in a great position to really, . . . well nothing
actually. I was hoping that with enough talk I could get through to NG's
goodness deep down. So NG says it is all fine now, they aren't bad guys,
just a little down on their luck. I wouldn't get hurt and they would even
take me to a hotel now. Cool. Just an expensive taxi. I paid
$50 in 1979 for a taxi in London when I could have covered the same ground
faster for a $2 subway ride, so this wasn't too bad. After a bit of
driving and chatting ("So how is business?" "Not good, the police put us
in jail if we get caught. It is very hard work.") they pull up in front of
a rather run down looking place in not such a better part of town. I felt
that I was probably going to lose my money belt at this one, so I asked if they
knew of something a bit more secure, closer to the airport. This is
starting to feel a little weird now. NG talks to MG, who slaps the wheel
and off we go. After a bit, MG asks NG to count the money again. Uh
oh. NG reports back with an upbeat kind of voice, and MG slaps the wheel.
I'm thinking that maybe that last place was OK after all. We get to a
better part of town and pull up just past a hotel entrance. The two
guys running the place come to the gate (a 10' fence across the driveway and
property) and look at us very suspiciously. My service oriented taxi guy
gets my bags out of the trunk and bids me a good trip. Bye bye. The
hotel guys slowly open the gate for me. Once inside they ask "How much did
you give them." "Don't ask. Got a beer?"
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