Trippin' With Tammy

 The ad I had seen in the local newspaper kept manifesting itself in my mind, despite all rational effort to ignore it. "Make $$$ in Alaska this summer." Working in a fish processing plant sounded disgusting. But then again, so did a summer job at the local gas station in suburban Ohio. So, against my better judgement, I paid fifty dollars for a catalog containing a comprehensive listing of Alaska companies hiring seasonal workers.  I sent out no less than twenty resumes, and started receiving rejection notices almost immediately. All of them began with the same line: "Due to the unusually high volume of applications this year, blah blah blah..." Disappointed, I began to mentally prepare for a two and a half-month stint emptying trash, stocking shelves, and giving free counseling to the hapless drunken souls, who would inevitably frequent my convenience store during third shift.  Finals week came, bags were packed, bus ticket from Portales, New Mexico to Dayton, Ohi...

 The early morning sunlight glared up from the pavement in front of me. Still five miles to the Brazilian border, and my energy was flagging. It turned out Santa Elena wasn't exactly on the border; just the last town with a bus station before the border. I laid my bag down for a respite, when a pick-up truck appeared over the horizon, slowing to a stop as it approached me. My apprehension turned to relief, as I saw the Venezuelan National Parks logo on the cab door. After a quick exchange with the driver, he offered to take me to the border, insisting we stop at a small cafe to have breakfast first. Afterward, we continued until a large section of concrete, running parallel with the road came into view. On one side was painted "Venezuela," and on the far side, "Brazil." He wished me luck as I got out and walked to a small customs building. The official barely glanced at my passport, stamped it, and sent me on my way. I walked another mile before coming to a bus...

 I checked out of the ramshackle motel in the Nuevo Circulo district of Caracas, Venezuela. The first order of business was to retrieve my passport from the Brazilian embassy. When I arrived, my documents were waiting for me, and under the visa stamp was scrawled "Gratis." I looked questioningly at the officials, and reached into my pocket, anyway. Certainly there was some fee involved. They shook their heads and smiled. "Obrigado," I thanked them in Portuguese, and left, a little puzzled, but grateful. My last day in Caracas was spent wandering the expansive Parque del Este, and window shopping at the elegant Parque Crystal mall. As the sun set, I made my way back to the bus station. Choking on the black exhaust of scores of buses and minivans, I tried to find a place to stand where the barrage of fumes wouldn't be so bad. Seats inside the station were full, and I didn't want to risk missing my bus to Ciudad Bolivar, a city approximately 370 miles southeast...

Content warning: contains details of an attempted sexual assault.  I gazed out the window at the blue sky and palm trees; the political lecture in rapid Spanish continuing without my attention. As we were dismissed, I contemplated skipping class again tomorrow in favor of Ocean Park, or a stroll in downtown San Juan. I couldn't concentrate. It was not surprising that the distractions of life on a Caribbean island posed a challenge to my educational well-being, from the beginning of the semester. Could a nineteen year-old Ohio native really be expected to focus while beaches, umbrella drinks, merengue music, and a never-ending summer beckoned? The exchange program had obviously been ill-conceived, and lately things had taken a much more sinister turn. His name was Peter Munoz. I have no qualms about keeping that name in the narrative, as I know it was an alias. We had struck up a conversation in one of the bars in Old San Juan. At 46, he was much older, but it was pleasant to talk t...