When a backpacker in Bogotá, Colombia, chances upon a stabbing victim, he’s forced to intervene to save a life, but can he navigate the chaotic streets and get to hospital in time?
The sun’s just dipped below the horizon in northern Bogotá, leaving the city cloaked in a chilly darkness. I’m strolling solo through the crisp nighttime air (tip: don’t do this).
A shout pierces through the darkness, “¡AYÚDAME! ¡DAME EL CELULAR!”
A thin silhouette staggers towards me, barely illuminated by the street lights. His shouts echo through the street. He looks wild — horrified, limping, desperate.
‘What is this? Is this guy robbing me or what?‘ my mind races.
Despite being in the bustling capital at rush hour, it feels eerily still and quiet. Streets normally crowded with rushed people leaving work are strangely empty; it’s just me and the disturbed approaching figure. He closes in, still talking about my phone.
He needs a phone, and he’s adamant about it. He wants to call the police, so he says. I look down. Blood is flowing down his leg. He’s in shock. And yet, he still needs to see my phone. Countless stories of robberies, scams, and setups rifle through my head. Vivid memories of Colombians’ warnings about Bogotá echo through my mind.
‘Is it my time? Has my luck finally run out in Latin America?‘
I look at him. He’s a teenager with wide and panicked eyes, yelling, and sobbing. He’s hurt. His face tells me that he’s in serious trouble. Do I help him or return to my stroll? I’ve got to act quickly either way. I choose to trust him — it’s go-time, baby; adrenaline engaged. I convince him that he needs medical attention, not police. Let’s address the massive gash near his knee that’s dumping abundant sangre onto the street.
When in shock, it makes sense to want the police. But the police in this town won’t do much we need a hospital. A surrealness, this odd stillness, and clarity of focus like nothing else fall upon me. It’s a state only found in situations like these — when the mind directs all resources to the problem at hand. Some might crumble, but I can’t let that happen…
Step one — tie a jacket around his leg above the wound to cut the artery off and temporarily stop the bleeding. He likes this idea, “fuerte, fuerte” he exclaims while tightening the jacket sleeves. We mustn’t make it so tight that it creates irreversible nerve damage. Step two — look around, and holy shit… there’s a glowing red URGENCIAS (hospital) sign across the street; our lucky day.
There’s just one problem. This isn’t any old street; it’s a carrera at rush hour in Bogotá — a city known for its death-trap streets. Oh, and my new friend can’t walk. Crosswalk? Nowhere in sight. Stop light? Forget about it. We’re going at it without safeguards. Buses, cars, and motorcycles tear past us doing an impressive number of kilometers per hour. The motorcycle engines scream and the exhaust fumes are heavy as the cold breeze hits our faces.
At 9,000 feet of elevation, the Colombian capital gets a little chilly at night. Adrenaline replaces my now-tourniquet jacket as my source of warmth. I drag him out into the street and hope for the best.
Bright headlights dart by us at breakneck speed. If you’ve crossed a street in Colombia, you know that when cars see pedestrians, they don’t slow down, they speed the hell up. Good luck, hombre. They maneuver the car to miss hitting you by mere millimeters. After we’re nearly hit a few times, a motorcyclist notices what’s up and stops traffic. Gracias, caballero.
We push forward, making it to the oversized median. His legs buckle. The median hosts a train track and some grassy hills on either side for us to traverse. The back injury I’d been nursing for months screamed in protest. Picking this guy up could destroy the delicate tendons that had been fighting to heal.
My mind screamed in defiance, ‘Fuck the back, ARE WE REALLY GOING ALL BATMAN OR WHAT?’
We cross the tumultuous median, him in my arms. Miraculously, I only fall and rock my ankle once in the landmines of invisible holes. The opposite side of the road proves easier to cross, and we reach the hospital entrance at last. Man, what a sight that must’ve been. A gringo carrying a bleeding Colombian teenager on the verge of passing out. Looks on faces radiate comical confusion.
Inside, the hospital staff barely blink. They hand us a wheelchair and take his information — slowly, too slowly. Blood was everywhere, soaking both of us. “Está sangrando muchííísimo,” I tell the nice ladies, trying out my best Paisa accent for some strange reason. We finally make it to the operating room and la policía arrive. It’s like an SNL sketch: the officer shrugs, twirls his pen, and takes notes as if he’d ever catch the perpetrators. He proceeds to shoot the shit with me like we’re at a Sunday barbeque.
The victim’s aunt calls me to say she’s on her way. I can’t imagine how troubling and confusing it is to talk to a gringo about her nephew getting stabbed. The doctors kick me out of the operating room, forcing me to leave without a trace. I never say bye to the kid nor get his name.
Lying down that night, the experience replays in my mind. Rather than feeling perplexed and overwhelmed, my attitude is detached. I can’t help but surrender to the fact that Bogotá is a crazy place.
I’m not delusional enough to believe I saved a life. Perhaps I helped make a frightened and assaulted teenager feel a little safer. I pray he finds healing — physically, but more importantly psychologically. It pains me to know that he’ll likely struggle with this for years. Imagine: you’re taken advantage of by three men with more size, age, and weapons than you. How would you cope?
‘Twas a normal evening in Bogotá. And that jacket — I never did get it back. I tried (such a broke backpacker move by me – just leave the biohazardous jacket behind, dude), but was harshly rejected by the staff. “Evidence”, they called it. Every time I start to feel comfortable here, Bogotá throws a curveball; a reminder that the place I wander still has a dark side that’s alive and well. But most of all, it’s a reminder of the countless strangers who helped me when I was in need, in situations where I thought ‘Welp, I’m seriously fucked this time.‘ This was simply my turn to help.
