he gun he was pointing at me was big barreled. I had just entered my apartment complex in Maracaibo, Venezuela, through the back entrance. Through two iron gates requiring two different keys. Past the 10 foot high wall intentionally littered with broken bottles on top of it to stop those inclined to climb. It was night time. It was dark, except for reflections of lights from nearby buildings. Fences with razor wire were everywhere around us, meant to keep intruders out. Now, in this moment, I was the intruder and I was seeing the gun. The holder was angry.

I came around the corner and startled him. The armed guard for the building saw a dark figure appear suddenly from around the corner and he immediately went for his gun. I had visions of the tiny paragraph in a newspaper back in the states telling of the mistaken identity shooting of the American in Maracaibo. The thought also occurred to me that he could easily be using the gun for other reasons. Perhaps, as I had been warned could happen, he had decided it was more lucrative to discard his job as a guard and now he’d earn more through a kidnapping of a “wealthy” foreigner? My heart pounded. The adrenalin flowed. The gun grew darker and larger. It looked like something “Dirty Harry” had wielded. I stood frozen - in tropical Maracaibo.

Maracaibo on the top let hand corner. Map courtesy of Google.com.

Maracaibo was once a thriving oil capital for foreign corporations. It remains an oil center. Not so cosmopolitan. Modern buildings grace parts of the downtown. Steak houses are interspersed with the local flavor of small dance clubs in far less modern edifices. The city sits on a large, beautiful blue bay lined in places by the condos of those who are “better off” economically. I have not been in one of these. I was fortunate to be provided with a small, old apartment by my employer. At this time the city had become known as the most dangerous city in Venezuela. This may have been some sort of distinction akin to being the most gluttonous banker on Wall Street. Kidnappings of foreigners for ransom abounded. Unfortunately, recent word was out that ransom paid or not, the victims were often returned in a dead state.

Photo courtesy of Venezuela Tourism

On the other hand, the friendliness of many of the local folks abounded in many of the local small corner shops. Most were happy to speak to me about their cousins in the states in a combo of English and Spanish. They especially enjoyed talking baseball. Hugo Chavez was not a topic of conversation. It was clear that many saw him as caring for the poor and standing up for his country. The other half saw it differently. It was their country, their people and my chosen responsibility to remain quiet. The authorities never bothered me. They seemed to welcome me with a wry smile. Perhaps, in their mind, they were thinking …“stupid American – keep your eyes open.”

Photo courtesy of Google.com.

Upon arrival I’d heard the tales. Such as the story of the young American employee, dressed “down”, with frayed shorts and holy t-shirt, who approached the local corner shop one day, passed the old, sick homeless fellow on the pavement and then suddenly found a knife at his throat held by the same old fellow who whisked him into a thundering 1960'a American vehicle driven by some young fellows. He was a lucky one. He kicked out the window a few miles down the road and leapt to safety at 50 mph while skidding on the pavement. A cell phone call to the employer led to his rescue. A call to the police would have been an exercise in futility. Whether Wall Street or rutted street in a favela of Venezuela, it seemed the authorities were not interested in taking any action against out of control thieves. I could only chuckle at the parallels. A thief by any other name. And so I told myself to be vigilant as I walked any local sidewalk.

Maracaibo's floating church. Photo courtesy of Google.com.

Presently, in the night, outside the apartment, facing the gun, I fumbled, in my mind, for some appropriate words to say in Spanish. Adrenalin caused a speech block. Or it just put me in touch with how pathetic my grasp of the Spanish language was. I created the masterpiece of “hola, como estas?” It occurred to me that this may allow him, in this darkness, to recognize me as a resident he knows. Hopefully this was a good thing. Perhaps he’d recall my sharing fruit, coffee, sandwiches previously. Or he’d be resentful of my crumbs.

It worked. He looked intently at me for a moment. A moment which seemed to last a month. Then he shared a “hola” and a nod. He pointed “Dirty Harry” to the side and he turned around to stare into the darkness. For the moment, I was on my way to the door of my apartment. Still wondering what he was considering, I walked past him and he watched me intently.

In my mind I wondered about the terrible poverty he had known. I unlocked two more gates leading to my door. That night, I lay on the mattress with a busy mind, frequent sounds of the loud popping backfires of old vehicles, creating a rhythm in the night.

Or were they really the sound of autos backfiring…?