A hasty departure from Puerto Rico, and a warm welcome in Venezuela

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 to another "North American," as we were called by the locals. He was funny, a bit of a show-off, but one I should have taken a little more seriously, in retrospect. He showed me his Department of Defense badge, flashed his American Express Platinum card, and told me stories about "The Company." Supposedly he had participated in Operation Phoenix, and knew some stuff about Stealth technology being modeled off the object that crashed in Roswell. It was so obviously a blend of truth and fiction, meant to keep me guessing, entertained, and most importantly, off-guard. His cover story was that he was in Puerto Rico to monitor the upcoming vote on statehood, but I'm sure it was more to do with preparations for the return of Jean-Bertrand Aristide to Haiti. As a Political Science major, I was intrigued enough--and naive enough--to keep spending time with him.

I knew he was somewhat of the real deal when he demonstrated some advanced martial arts maneuvers, and I saw his weapon, complete with silencer. He took me under his wing, telling me about his wife and daughter, taking me to dinners, all the while implying it was just "cool to hang out with another American," never indicating there was a sexual attraction, nor making any inappropriate advances. Until one evening when we went to his room so he could "change for dinner." I thought nothing of it, as I had been up there before to swap stories, and share a cocktail on the balcony. Suddenly, without warning, he slammed me on the bed, putting his hand over my mouth as I let out a startled scream. 

"Shut up," he hissed. 

My mind racing, I knew there was no way I could gain a physical advantage over this man. I stand 5'3" and at the time, weighed 98 pounds, what with "heroin chic" being all the rage. Regardless, he was highly trained and also had a gun. With a silencer. Then in a split second, I formulated my strategy. I relaxed and flirtatiously chided him for taking me by surprise. He then said something that chills me to this day. 

"Good, Tammy. Because I didn't want it to be this way with you." 

With me. Which means it had been "this way," namely, rape, with how many other women around the world? I asked him to allow me to go to the bathroom and "freshen up." Thankfully, he agreed, and I locked myself in there. After a few minutes, when I could talk without my voice shaking, I apologized, said I was nauseas from the jet ski ride earlier, and could he please have room service bring up some orange juice. He agreed, a bit irritated. I waited, leaning against the wall for what seemed like an eternity. Finally there was a knock on the door. Do or die time. 

"I'll get it," he shouted. But I had already darted out of the bathroom, flinging open the door to the hallway, and stood face-to-face with my Guardian Angel. He was an approximately 6'4", 300-lb. Afro-Caribbean gentleman, whose pleasant expression changed to shock as I jumped behind him, and begged him not to make me go back into the room. 

"Do you want me to call security, Miss?" And with that, a nightmare, or worse, was narrowly avoided. 

That had been two days ago. Two days of looking over my shoulder. My Thanksgiving getaway to Venezuela was almost six weeks away. Given my compromised safety, I felt an overwhelming urge to leave the island as soon as I could. I paid a visit to American Airlines.

"Can I get this ticket changed to leave tomorrow?" 

"No problem," the agent replied, clicking away on her keyboard. 

"Can I make it one-way instead?" 

I was handed my new ticket and ran back to my dorm to start packing. I glanced around at my meager surroundings, with a sense of melancholy. I would not be able to take even half of my clothes and shoes, let alone the typewriter my parents had just sent. I penned a quick letter to Sara, an older graduate student, and my confidante; one of the only people I had told about the unfortunate incident. I slipped it under her door the following morning, letting her know my general direction, but asking her to wait three days before telling anyone. That should give me time to get away, and put sufficient distance between me and...whomever might try to pursue me. 

City buses ran all the way to the airport, and forty cents was a lot more cost efficient than cab fare. Check-in for the flight to Caracas went smoothly, and I started to relax as I sat at the departure gate. However, it wasn't long before I became acquainted with a young couple, Sergio and Maria. They were in transit from Oklahoma to visit Sergio's father. 

Curious about a young woman traveling alone, they inquired where I planned to stay. Of course, I had neither hotel reservations, nor the first clue as to where in the sprawling capital I would spend the night. They exchanged glances and nodded. Sergio turned to me, saying I would be welcome to stay in his father's large home. 

Amazed at the spontaneity of the invitation, and genuine hospitality, I accepted. I suppose I should have been more wary of strangers, after my unfortunate incident, but if anything, I felt more invincible. After all, the CIA couldn't touch me. Or maybe I just didn't care what happened. 

Two hours later, we breezed through customs, and were greeted by an elderly gentleman, affectionately called "El Viejo," the "Old Man." If he was inconvenienced by the presence of an unexpected foreign guest, I never knew it.

We took a minibus to a tranquil suburb of Caracas called Cumbres de Curumo. This tranquil neighborhood in the mountainous terrain of the city's south side provided a picturesque introduction to the country. El Viejo brewed coffee and the four of us retreated to the veranda, overlooking a verdant slope, cloud-swathed mountains in the distance. Hummingbirds flitted around profuse crimson blooms covering the ledge. 

Later, Maria and I took a leisurely walk to the neighborhood bakery. I indulged in a dulce de fresa, an exquisite little strawberry tart. She purchased a baguette for dinner, and after some window shopping, we headed back uphill to the house.

The next day, I struck off on my own to tour Caracas. My hosts made sure I knew where the nearest bus stops were, and provided me with phone numbers in case I got lost. Several people stood waiting for the bus, and a woman asked me where I was from. She was giddy when I told her Ohio; she had lived in Lorain before returning to Venezuela permanently. 

My first stop in Caracas was Sabana Grande, the shopping district. From there, I walked to the Botanical Gardens, and on to Plaza Bolivar, located in the heart of Old Caracas. Many historical buildings lined the plaza's perimeter: the Presidential Palace, Cathedral of Caracas, and Parliament being the most notable. A statue of Simon Bolivar, known as "El Libertador" (The Liberator) on horseback stood in the center of the plaza. 

As I reclined on the grass covering a good portion of the plaza, I noticed something moving towards me, out of the corner of my eye. I turned to see a gray hairy creature, long arms creeping deliberately over the ground. Relieved, I realized it was a friendly three-toed sloth. I patted it on the head, but the exotic encounter was brief. I remembered I had to get to the Brazilian embassy to apply for a visitor's visa, as I had planned to keep moving in a southerly direction. Still running, albeit at a much more leisurely pace, than my frantic departure from Puerto Rico. 

I took the subway to Altamira, and arrived 20 minutes before the embassy closed. I left my pictures and passport, after officials assured me it would be ready the following day. Back in Cumbres de Curumo, I was greeted warmly, although all was not well. Sergio's brother was there; he needed a place to stay because of a domestic dispute. After dinner, I offered to leave. El Viejo was distraught. Sergio and Maria apologized while I tried to reassure everyone that I appreciated their kindness and wished their family well. 

I ended up in Nuevo Circulo, a rather seedy area. It was a far cry from the peaceful little neighborhood I had just left, but I was on a budget. As I exited the bus, two police officers intercepted me, asking if I needed help, and proceeded to walk me to the their station nearby. They said I should not be there alone. I finally persuaded them to let me out of "protective custody," as long as I allowed one of the officers to escort me to a motel. The place was decrepit, but had a friendly staff with small children playing in the hall. And for ten dollars a night, it was easy on the wallet. 

"Are you sure? Sure?" the officer asked haltingly. 

I smiled, adamant that everything would be okay. I slept with the assurance that crime couldn't be too bad here, if police could be spared to help runaway college dropouts find lodging.