Confronted with my own mortality, in the form of a silver revolver held fifteen inches from my face, the world around me came to a quiet standstill.
Instinct took over.
There was no time to think.
There were no options to consider.
I did what I had to do, without delay.
Warning Signs
On March 5, 2011, Freddie, a twenty-something UK man, was riding in a friend's car in Medellín's Belén neighborhood.
At a stoplight, two men tried to rob him of a gold chain. According to reports, he resisted and was shot fatally in the chest.
When I read the news on Colombia Reports earlier in the year, it sent chills down my spine.
Belén is a large, working-class neighborhood on the city's western side. I lived there for five weeks in 2010 and visited monthly to extend my tourist visa in Colombia.
The story reiterated my conviction that if I were ever robbed in South America, whether the assailant was visibly armed or not, I would hand over whatever was in my possession.
Monthly Routine
June 15 started like any other day. I roused myself out of bed around 9 AM and opened the blinds to take in the western mountains of Medellín, as well as my view toward barrio Belén.
I'd been back in Colombia for four months and was due to extend my tourist visa for another 30 days. After three years in the country, the process was second nature.
June 15 also happens to be payday in Colombia, which means more people are visiting ATM's to withdraw cash, and more thieves are on the prowl to take advantage.
I showered, dressed, and walked out the door with 150,000 pesos ($40) cash. Half this sum would go toward the 72,350 peso deposit required to extend my visa. The other half would cover taxis to and from the Departamento Administrativo de Seguridad (DAS) office.
In addition, I was carrying my four-year-old passport, the one I'd taken around the world with me to more than 22 countries since 2007.
My BlackBerry was in my front left jean pocket. In my back left pocket was a pack of gum, and in my back right pocket, my Virginia driver's license and a few business cards. Aside from the passport, these were the things I normally carried.
Leaving my apartment complex, I walked ten minutes north, through discoteca-laden barrio Colombia, to the Premium Plaza mall.
I stepped inside the cool, air-conditioned Banco Davivienda and waited in line for a teller. I deposited the pesos and took my bank receipt to DAS.
Outside Premium Plaza, I walked to the first yellow taxi in a long line, got in the front seat, and told the driver where to go. Both of the front windows were down, as is often the case during the day given Medellin's amicable climate.
Armed Robbery
It was 11:15 AM as we pulled into traffic. I was fiddling with my BlackBerry-checking Twitter, no doubt.
In the past, I've had the occasional taxi driver warn me to keep my phone away from the open window, as to prevent theft. Usually, that's not an issue, as I use my phone more for messaging and internet access than talking to people.
We crossed Rio Medellín, the river that bisects the city from north to south, and were heading west on Calle 33, a thoroughfare known for its nightlife on the weekends.
The taxi stopped at a traffic light. We were near a large intersection, but cars were in front of us, to the right, and possibly to the left as well.
From my peripheral vision, I noticed a dark shape moving up the right side of the taxi toward my window.
Thinking it was a beggar, street performer, or vendor selling something, I instinctively moved my BlackBerry toward the center of the car.
There was no thought involved. I was operating on some primal intuition that a threat was approaching.
When I looked back to the right, the man had stopped in front of the window, blocking my entire view in that direction.
At eye level, I was looking straight at a dull, silver revolver being held flush against his stomach, pointing toward the front of the car.
He held it in his left hand, which I imagine was on purpose, to leave his dominant right hand free to collect my belongings.
The gun looked cheap and old. He was wearing a helmet, and I don't recall if he said anything, but when I saw the gun, words weren't necessary.
My number was up; I was being robbed in South America.
As quickly as I'd moved my Blackberry away from the window, I swung it back to him without hesitation. I reached into my front right pocket and pulled out the 75,000 or so pesos ($40) still on me.
I gave that to him too, and then he reached into the car and felt my pocket to see if I was holding out on him.
It was then that I was most scared because I was acutely aware that if he perceived any resistance on my part, he could decide to shoot me.
I pulled out my passport, while at the same time saying "solo pasaporte" to in some way indicate that there would be no value of that item to him, only frustration for me should I lose it.
Either I was wrong, or at that moment he didn't care what I was giving him, so as long as it was everything. As soon as he grabbed the passport, he was gone.
Aftermath
I sat buckled in my seat, stunned at what had just happened.
The light changed green within seconds, and traffic began to move.
The whole interaction didn't last more than 30-60 seconds, but it felt like an eternity.
I didn't think to look back to try to get the motorbike's license plate (an accomplice was driving it), nor did I see which direction they sped off (but I believe it was to the right of us...not in front).
The taxi driver, a middle-aged man, said nothing and did nothing during the interaction. If ever there was a picture of calm and collected, it was this man to my left.
And while some may consider him complicit, as far as I'm concerned, when a gun is involved, it's in everyone's best interest to stay out of it.
My initial response was anger. Anger that I was holding my BlackBerry out in plain view, even if it was in my lap.
"Estupido," I proclaimed, (wrongly) blaming myself for inviting the theft.
I asked, rhetorically, why he would want my passport?
Maybe he could sell it to counterfeiters, but it was just as likely to end up in a trash bin when he realized it had no immediate value.
Meanwhile, I would have to take time away from work and incur travel expenses to Bogotá, plus the administrative costs of obtaining an emergency, and later regular, passport.
I felt bitter that a city I was trying to help would repay me with such a terrifying experience. I felt sad that this experience only served to justify other people's preconceived notions about the safety of Medellin and Colombia.
The taxi driver said little, and he never offered to call the police. But I wasn't going to let my only witness go without giving an official account.
Arriving at DAS
When we reached DAS, he parked his car and came to the entrance with me, where he relayed the robbery in Spanish to the female guard. She took his name and license plate and asked that he wait for us to return.
Inside the DAS office, which was all but empty, the guard relayed the story to a man with a shiny silver badge hanging from his neck.
He immediately called the local police. We walked back outside to the sidewalk, and within a few minutes, a motorbike arrived with two young police officers.
One of the officers immediately reassured me. Then we both walked over to the taxi driver, who gave his best account of what happened, including a limited description of the perpetrator.
As he was wearing a helmet and possibly sunglasses, I knew the chances of catching him were slim to none. But I also knew I needed these details for an official police report.
As the taxi driver was giving his account, a police car arrived. When he was finished, he reached into his taxi and gave me a business card. His parting words: "Not all Colombians are bad."
I climbed in the back seat of the air-conditioned cop car. Two men got in the front and drove us to the nearby Belén police station.
The one in the passenger seat made small talk, asking me where I was from and what I thought of the city. I imagine that's something they teach in the emergency services.
A kind of redirection of thought for those who've just experienced a traumatic event. Or it's simply human nature.
Despite being surrounded by police, I was on edge. Hyper-sensitive to everything going on around me.
Belén Police Station
As we entered the police station, a Volkswagen minivan filled with police was heading out. I wondered if VW had won a recent contract with the city's police force to supply new vehicles.
Inside the station, I was introduced to an officer who spoke a little English. Two months' worth, to be exact, but I was happy to have his assistance.
I was brought to another room where I had to wait for a woman to finish her business with a large man who appeared to be a senior-level officer. The others called him Jefe.
The small talk continued, and the translator asked what I thought of the police station.
I had already noted that it was a handsome building, with exposed concrete walls that gave it both strength and austerity. I asked if it was new, and he said yes. I responded that it was nice.
When the woman had completed her report with el jefe, I switched seats and recounted the story, including the items stolen from me.
The chief was annoyed by the slowness of his computer, but after ten minutes, he printed an official one-page report.
I was given a copy, which I would need to explain my loss at the US Embassy in Bogotá, as well as at the DAS office when I returned to get my visa extended.
If I had travel insurance, I would've filed a claim as well. Unfortunately, many insurance policies do not cover Colombia because it is on the US State Department travel warning list (along with other popular destinations such as Mexico, Israel, and Kenya).
Two new police officers were assigned to drive me home in another of the new VW minivans. More small talk ensued. What did I think of the city? Did I have a girlfriend? Aren't the women in Medellín beautiful?
Home, Sweet Home
When we reached my apartment, I climbed out of the van. The officer in the passenger seat did as well, taking a moment to write his name and phone number on a piece of paper, should I need anything.
Later that night, I mentioned the theft to my new Colombian roommate. He asked if I would be leaving the country. No, I responded, I would stay until early August as planned.
Travel is my life now, and I've worked too hard to give that up out of fear alone.
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