Colombian Calamity

I was going through some of my old college papers recently and came across this gem of a memory. Although I struggled picking a community to share this with, I reckoned my fellow Wanderers would appreciate the anxiety and dry humor of my travels to and through Colombia.

The following is an article I originally wrote for the school newspaper while I was a student at the University of Michigan - It was Spring Break 2018 and my first time traveling internationally. Please enjoy laughing at my miseries and let me know your thoughts and reactions in the comments :)

As I type this, I am currently sitting in a café on the streets of Bogotá, Colombia, about two blocks from the U.S. Embassy, waiting for an emergency passport so I can return home. The following is a true recounting of events that transpired over my 2018 Spring Break.

Some friends and I had planned a 10-day trip to Cartagena, Colombia. We traveled in a fairly large group, 22 of us in total. I would like to think I was among the most excited for the adventures ahead because I had never been on an airplane before, let alone traveled outside the country. Had I known what would befall, I imagine I would have been feeling otherwise.

After arriving Friday, we spent the first evening buying groceries, exchanging currencies and settling into the apartment complex we rented. The next day we went down to the beach to see how sunburnt we could get. I have an affinity for salt water and as one would expect, as soon as we arrived I threw my bag onto the pile with everyone else’s and jumped in.

Now, being University of Michigan students who generally act in a rational manner and try to think ahead, we left two or three fellows “guarding” the bag pile at all times. Being a large group of Americans, we were swarmed by vendors the entire time we were at the beach. As the vendors distracted us, one lucky ruffian was able to sneak in and grab my bag off the top of the pile.

When we were all sufficiently burnt and the time came to pack up and hail a taxi back to the apartments, I noticed my bag was not with the others. My first thought was that someone was either playing a prank on me or had idly grabbed my bag, thinking it was their own. Once I returned to the rooms and interrogated everyone, I decided the next step was to call my bank and cancel my debit card as a precautionary measure. It was then that I discovered my card had actually been attempted at an ATM near the beach, and I realized I had indeed been robbed.

Being the victim of such piracy was only slightly less vexatious than the fact that my bag not only contained my (brand new, bought for this trip, three-day-old) phone, my wallet with all my money and all forms of picture identification, but also my passport — the only way to enter back into the U.S. They had stolen my ticket home.

As a foreigner in a country where I could not speak a lick of the language, it was quite problematic to figure out where to even begin the process of getting home. After several calls to the U.S. Embassy, I discovered that I needed to travel to Bogotá in order to get an emergency passport.

Easy, right?

Fat chance.

Bogotá is over 1,000 kilometers from Cartagena (or about 620 miles), through gang controlled countryside (yea, Pablo Escobar’s backyard) and hundreds of miles of unpopulated national parks. My best chance was to fly there, but how does one fly with no form of identification? Well, several more calls to the embassy later, I discovered that I must go to the police and file a report, get it signed and print a picture of my passport.

That same evening, I went to the “police station” with a friend who spoke minimal Spanish. We walked in and were greeted by a lone officer sitting in a dimly lit room, only slightly bigger than my closet. His desk was bare save for a typewriter that was at least 70 years old and certainly surprised me when it actually worked. The officer proceeded to type up a report and upon completion gave us the paper and told us we had to get to the other end of town to file it. A 20-minute taxi ride later, we discovered this next police station was only open during regular business hours and it was still Saturday evening.

After foregoing most of the weekend excursions to get my paperwork in order and prepare myself for a flight to Bogotá, Monday rolled around and I was off again with my Spanish-speaking friend. Four hours of waiting in line, a game of pass-and-play Risk and a 45 minute sad-attempt-at-a-conversation later, I finally had my signed police report.

Early the next day, I showed my papers and explained my story to airport security. I boarded a decrepit little plane and sat down as an immense weight was lifted from my shoulders. After posting to the Facebook community, I was even able to connect with an English-speaking driver in Bogotá, who was kind enough to provide a trustworthy ride between the airport and embassy.

As I sit in this restaurant, continuing to wait for my ticket home, I can’t help but think how lucky I am to be an American citizen, when so many people are being ripped from their homes and displaced by war, famine, fire or deportation. I know my friends, family and country are there for me and ready to help me get home, when I was terrified I would be stuck here for much longer than anticipated.

I have always been fond of the saying “you win or you learn, there is no losing” and I have indeed learned a great deal. I learned to always lock my valuables up and avoid traveling or going out with them whenever possible. But most importantly, I have gained a newfound appreciation for my community and understand that I should take nothing for granted, especially the people and places I call home.