Travelling…

Naked in Venezuela

I had learned my lesson. We all learn from our mistakes – at least I hope we do. I got really comfortable in my seat on the bus, had my hoodie handy, and was already wearing a long-sleeve sweatshirt underneath my jacket. I had charged up the battery on my phone, but kept it well hidden and switched off. This night bus ride was going to be long, 14 hours, but I was prepared, with water, some snacks, a book (Dante’s Divine Comedy), and all intention of sleeping through most of the night. The huge stack of cash in my day pack served as an elbow-rest/pillow depending on how I stretched and angled my body in the seat. I counted the hours for a moment: departure at 6pm, plus 14 hours, arrival at 8am. Fine, only an hour outside the schedule. Acceptable.

There was not much to see out the window; the occasional light flashed by as we made our way down the highway; here and there I noticed a few buildings, the odd town, opposing traffic, but nothing of interest, and it was too dark to see anything in the distance. I slowly slipped into sleep, the gentle rocking of the bus on its suspension almost cradle-like.

Somewhere along the way in Venezuela

Breathe deeply and stay calm…

It was midnight, and we had stopped. It was not like any of the previous stops we had made, something different was going on, and people were waking up and peering out the windows to see what the hold-up was. It wasn’t clear to my until a uniformed man appeared at the top of the steps, and people slowly started to get up and shuffle out of the bus. As I stepped from the last step onto solid ground, a hand reached out and demanded identification, passport. A quick glance from the passport picture to my face, and I was waved on. There was a commotion at the rear of the bus, all luggage was being removed from the hold, and people were identifying their bags. This was it, this was the moment all those other blogs had written about, or rather, some of the more vocal blogs – horror stories one and all – and I took a deep breath and promised myself that this was just part of the experience, to smile, not get ruffled, and just go along with whatever. As we identified our bags, we were pointed in the direction of a small building next to the parking lot. The lights were on, and through the large windows I could see several large tables behind which stood a few Guardia Nacional officers. The first passengers arrived at the building, were ordered to place their bags on the tables, and open them up. A physical search… not so bad, thought I, quick, efficient, no fuss, no muss.

A tap on my arm and an order, “this way”. I looked around, but I was the only chosen one. I was the only outsider on the bus, and even if I had had a good tan, my height would have been impossible to hide. I was escorted by two guardsmen to a separate room. One door, a single bare light bulb, no windows, a single large table. I entered the room and the door closed behind me. Left alone I placed my bag on the table and stood waiting. The door opened, and a guardsman entered, slapping what appeared to be a broken off car radio antenna against his leg. The absurdity of the action nearly caused me to smile.

The interrogation

The Interrogation…

“Habla espanol?”

“Huh? What? I don’t understand.” There was no way I was going to let on that I might speak a few words of Spanish, if they wanted to interrogate me, it would have to be in English. Oh be careful what you wish for. He turned around and opened the door, and while I was unzipping my bag, there was a short conversation. He returned a moment later and started going through my belongings. Every. Single. Item. Was. Unpacked. Unrolled. Checked. A knock at the door and a new voice, female this time, asked the same question, “Habla espanol?” I shrugged my shoulders and stared back dumbly. She shrugged her shoulders turned around, then turned back to the guardsman in the room. He walked to her, and was handed a mobile phone. The door closed, and he walked toward me. He was pressing different buttons, but seemed to be unsuccessful in whatever it was he was trying to achieve. I looked over his shoulder and noticed he was trying to get Google Translate to work. I stood by silently for a few moments – I so had him where technology is concerned – the program had been my greatest friend since I had arrived in South America, and I could operate and manipulate that program in my sleep.

Impatience got the better of me, and I gently reached over and pressed the desired buttons. He started typing, and I read along as he typed in Spanish. I knew what was coming even before he was done hitting the ‘translate’ command and had a few precious seconds to make up my mind how to react to his questions. They seemed general enough: “Where are you from? Where are you going? Why are you in Venezuela? Do you know anybody in Venezuela? Where did you come from? Where are you going after Venezuela?” As I answered each of the queries calmly and unhesitatingly, he seemed to become puzzled by my nonchalance. “I have to check your belongings for drugs. Are you carrying any drugs?” Heck, you can check all you want, no drugs in my bags, and even if there were, I certainly am not going to tell you. He continued his search. My day pack was next. He slowly unzipped it and took out the precious paper inside. There it stood, my stack of Bolivars, naked, under a bright bulb, nearly gleaming and begging to be taken.

Strip!

With a last look at all the contents of both bags now spilled across the table, he turned back to the mobile. This time I could not see what it was he was typing. I thought that I caught a momentary satisfactory grin, but I was probably mistaken. After a momentary pause he gave the telephone to me. I read the translated text. I looked up at him with a “are you serious?” expression on my face. He stared at me for a moment, then nodded his head. “Fine,” I thought, “you’re trying to push buttons but somehow I am not reacting the way you had envisioned.”

I followed the instructions of the text: “Take off all your clothes.”

I removed my shirt, then my shoes and socks, then undid my belt and dropped my pants, left standing only in my underwear. I looked at him, calmly. After a moment’s hesitation he motioned for me to ‘strip totally’ so I lowered my underwear. I looked at him again. Whether it was a tick of dissatisfaction or embarrassment I cannot say, but there seemed to be a slight red glow to his face as he made the final gesture for me to squat down.

He didn’t even bother to look, he simply grunted and motioned for me to get dressed. I did accordingly and watched as he started carefully repacking all my belongings into the bags. I observed this for a moment when a sudden blaring of the bus horn and revving of engine made him sprint out the door, bang on the bus, and yell for the bus to stop and wait. I guess the driver was getting impatient and was trying what little he could to put an end to the search of my belongings. The guardsman rushed back inside, motioned me to hurry up with my packing and get going. I stuffed the last remaining articles back in the bags, zippered them up, then hoisted them on my back. As I moved toward the open door, a hand was suddenly extended, and in accent-less English I heard:

“Thank you, good night.”