0-800-SABOTAGE

“You're not a moron. You're only a case of arrested development.”
― Ernest Hemingway, The Sun Also Rises (Harvey Stone to Robert Cohn)

12h 05m 32s divides the sun from the moon in Venezuela and that is also the same amount of time I had imagined had passed when the National Guardsmen were analyzing our documents and telling Morris the violations he “committed”.

 

A rather uneventful week and led us to an uneventful Friday.  School had wrapped up for the week, practices concluded, and weights moved.  The plan now was to head to Dave and Christi’s for some food and (Texas) Hold’em. 

Everyone had already made their way across town in the humid Valencia night and Morris and I were tailing with instructions to pick up some ice.  We hopped in his van and made our way out our parking garage with the electric gate closing behind us, securing the building from the unforeseen evil in the night.

Local music danced across the dash as we talked about the workout and the possibility of heading to the beach on Saturday. The conversation swayed to some issues we had both experienced that week.  Our frustration littered the van like a stiff dew.  He could understand where I was coming from, six or so weeks in and still adjusting to the innumerable cultural differences that lie between the US and our current residence.  I could understand where he was coming from, the universe giving you a full plate of things that just don’t work out right.  We drove on.

We slithered our way up, down, and around the dark, speed bump laden Venezuelan roads like a game of “Rattler Race” (come on you remember).  Finally, the fuzzy neon glow of the DVD shops and roadside eateries opened up the night.  We passed through the intersection, proceeded down Calle del Hambre and noticed six National Guardsman conducting a checkpoint.  As accustomed, we rolled our windows down and the guardsman controlling the flow of traffic peered in. 

I knew what head guard was thinking.

Gringo. Grateful dead shirt. Half-gringo driving a minivan.  Nike shirt. Both speaking English.

“Jackpot.”

He spoke with a guile demeanor and waved us over to the right.

I looked at Morris and told him with a calm frankness, that did not reflect my current increase in heart rate, how I felt about this current situation.

“We’re f$*!-ed.”

Morris pulled the car in at about a thirty-degree angle.  The guardsman quickly approached the driver side and told Morris to pull up directly behind the parked car in front of us.

Let the games being. 

Let the games...pay up sucka!

Johnny Guardsman looked at me and spoke at roughly 13.7 words per second (in Spanish).  Morris spoke to him with a guarded tone and told him that I speak no Spanish. 

“Passport.”  I recognized that word, and promptly removed my photocopied passport paper.  The smoothness of my fake leather wallet made it extremely hard for me to remove the paper for some reason.  When I finally managed to remove the Excalibur of identification, the yellow hue of the street lights illuminated the paper. 

My copy was worn, and frayed.  The once clean edges were curled and the folds had settled into distinct lines crisscrossing the face of my February self.  The man in the picture looked much different to me now.  The long, sandy locks had turned into a darker crop of messy hair.  My eyes much more naïve and my cheeks carrying some of the fifteen or more pounds I’ve lost since the photo had been taken when the unforgiving frost had staked claim to the Iowa fields.

 

“Passport,” the voice was edging closer to firm at this point. 

It’s odd where your mind will take you when situations of stress or trouble arise.  My passport photo had taken me far away.  His voice crashed me back to earth.

“What else is he saying?” I asked Morris with a slightly concerned emphasis on the word “is”. 

“Hey man, get out of the car.  They want to talk to us out of the car.”

The guardsmen split us up.  I talked to a slender, wavy haired guardsman who was leaning up against a post propping up a ceiling.  He spoke to me matter-of-factly and I explained to him in Midwestern Spanglish that I don’t speak much Spanish. He laughed and took my paper.

Meanwhile, Johnny Guardsman opened each door of the van and promptly searched the car for who knows what. 

Wavy Gravy guardsman cast a few glances up and down before settling in on the picture.  His spitfire Spanish was targeted at me and he gestured to my hair.  I forged a smile worthy of being a walk-through extra on the worst public TV series. 

“Si, I cut it.” I followed up the line with a pair of index and middle finger scissors just above my year (this has become a common occurrence when I show my passport).

What I really wanted to do was drop the index finger and turn the middle one up.  But they had the guns and the numbers, so my Jim Morrison stance would have to wait until later.

Meanwhile, the burlier Johnny Guardsman was giving Morris the business.  He tried to explain to Morris he was speeding.  False.  You can’t speed in Venezuela, traffic moves too slowly or it has to stop to let the “budge-my-way-in-front-of-you-because-I’m-important-and-I’m-the-only-person-on-Earth” drivers cross. 

This guy was giving Morris the run around.  After he left the speeding allegation, he quickly went to the real reason he pulled us over.  He accused Morris of not having a seat belt on.  Morris asked me if he had his belt on.  I said I for sure had mine on and I’m sure he did.  Morris explained he removed his belt to get his papers.  Johnny Guardsman argued.

The discussion continued.  I figured that if this guy was going to accuse Morris of 189 violations than I'd snap his picture.  

Johnny Guardsman. He wears his sunglasses at night.

Accusation three was that I didn’t have my passport.  Morris told him repeatedly, “Yes, he does.  He’s holding it.” 

Johnny didn’t buy it and reiterated the charge.

“No he has it.  It’s in his hand, he just showed your friend.”

 

Again, Johnny disputed the claim.

“Look,” Morris explained.  “It’s. In. His. Hand.” 

“Oh,” Johnny relented with a smile and using condescending Spanish.  “Well you don’t have your papers.  That’s going to cost you.”

“I do have my papers, let me show you.”  Morris walked around the car and presented Johnny with the proper documents.  “See, I have them all.  I showed you them earlier.”

At this point things started to more quickly approach where it this whole thing was headed a half hour ago. 

Morris opened his wallet to show the guardsman his ID again and the guard caught a sight of Morris’ cash.

Without even waiting for the prompt, Morris explained why he had that much money (3000Bs, aka $68 by black market conversion).

“I’m going to the beach tomorrow with friends so I need the extra money. I don’t usually carry this much. 

Johnny’s eyes widened and he explained, “It’s going to cost you 3000Bs to pay for your infractions.”

Morris’ reply didn’t wait for Johnny’s final syllable to venture into his ear.

“I’m not going to give you 3000Bs.  I’ll give you 1200, but I need the rest for the beach.” 

Bingo. Please turn off you electronic devices and stow your tray table.  We are coming in for landing.

Johnny morphed into a nice guy.  Practicing his Spanish with Morris. 

“Blanco, negro, professor.  White, black, teacher.” Johnny looked to Morris for approval.

 

Morris had given up.  We knew we lost and now this clown was going to rub it in our face.  The banter continued and we both smiled and laughed.  His boys got a great kick out of this, while they joked and motioned back and forth.  Each comment, gesture, and passing car was a twisting of the knife in our back.  The glances from passers-by was salt in the wound.  This continued for several minutes, until Johnny walked Morris back around to the driver side and into the rode. 

Johnny extended his hand, Morris with his.  A 1200Bs (roughly $30 on the black market) handshake, the kind you think only happens in college football.  Johnny slapped Morris on the back and kept talking to us as we got back into the van.  Johnny continued talking as we donned our questioned seat belts and Morris started the car.  We wore the fake smiles for at least a block and then the profanities rained from the heavens like rains on Noah. 

Burgers fix everything.  No it's not served on a coffee filter.

We decided to stop a few blocks up and get a burger and fries to help numb the sting of the entire operation.  We laid out the facts.  The guy was a moron, he knew exactly what he was doing when he pulled us over.  We were profiled, he sifted a list of things he could “get” us for, and ended up smothering us until Morris had to pay. 

This guy was a National Guardsman.  He had Kevlar and a gun.  He wore credentials. And he took Morris’ money. 

Did he know any better? Was his moral development halted at some point? Is he a result of his environment or a stimulating factor of it?  Is he an outlier of the system? Without using a religious or political lens to analyze this through (I remain, as previously stated, neutral in my blogging of this experience), he seems to have been able to make a bad decision and take advantage of a presented situation.

 

A friend at the poker table implied, “Maybe he needed to feed his family or had a dire issue arise?” Maybe.  And maybe he was just looking for a quick buck.  I haven’t been here long enough to make a claim.  But I’m old enough to know when I’ve been had.

I heard a story that you haven’t truly a foreign hire teacher or experienced Venezuela until you’ve paid a bribe.  Well I didn’t directly pay, but I feel more “cultured” now.  Several friends told me that last year they got stopped three times and had to pay to get off.  They also said I should carry about 1000Bs to pay a bribe.   

Iowa this is not.

The Guy/Girl Who Sends You Websites or Forwards Links of the Week:

Here are a few headlines we've seen so far this week down here in the VE.  

1)  Want to leave Venezuela?  Good luck.  Boat or bike, I'll make it back.

2) These are I.O.U's they are just as good as money: 

Toilet paper, sugar, beef and the Bolivar

3) "Officer it's not my bag."  The Carmelo Anthony excuse won't get these guys off the hook. The Venezuelan National Guard and Smuggling $200 million of Cocaine to France.

Well that's enough for now.  This story would take away from another if I added something else.  I hope this gives you a little more insight to the experience.

Happy Hump Day tomorrow!  

Until next time,

KRS