Stabbed in Bogotá

Bogotá, D.C., Colombia

The sun’s just dipped below the horizon in northern Bogotá, leaving the city cloaked in a chilly darkness.

I’m strollin’ solo through the crisp nighttime air (tip: don’t do this).

“¡AYÚDAME! ¡DAME EL CELULAR!”

A thin silhouette staggers towards me, slightly illuminated by the street lights, his shouts echoing through the street.

He looks wild—horrified, limping, desperate.

What the fuck? Is this guy robbing me or what?

He is very adamant about me giving him my phone. He wants to call the police.

I look down to see a concerning amount of blood flowing down his leg. He looks to be in shock. And still, he NEEDS to see my phone.

Countless stories of robberies, scams, and setups rifle through my head. Vivid memories of the entirety of Medellin’s population warning me that “Bogotá is PURE criminals” echo through my mind.

[Spanish translations sound so funny in English, and the big city rivalry is so reminiscent to that of Houston and Dallas, and presumably any two major cities located in proximity of each other.]

Is it my time? Has my luck finally run out in Latin America?

I look at him.

His eyes are wide and he’s panicked, yelling, and sobbing. He looks hurt, badly. His face tells me that he’s in serious trouble.

It’s Go Time

Regardless of whether I help him or fuck off to continue my leisurely stroll, I’ve got to do something quickly.

I decide to trust him—it’s go-time baby. Adrenaline, engaged.

[Side note—how great of a robbery set up would that be? Act like you can barely walk and have just been robbed, borrow someone’s phone to call for help, and then track star sprint away with perfect form to a getaway car. If anyone’s down to drive the car…]

I convince him that what he needs is medical attention, not police, to address the massive gash on the side of his knee that’s dumping abundant amounts of sangre into the street.

You’re in shock, you think “call the police”. Makes sense. But the police in this town ain’t going to do much, my boy, and what you need is a hospital.

Life Saving Skills

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” tightening the jacket sleeves more, but it’s important we don’t make it so tight that it creates irreversible nerve damage.

Step Two—look around, and holy shit—glowing red URGENCIAS sign across the street.

It’s a hospital. Our lucky day.

Crossing Six Lanes at Rush Hour

Problem is, this ain’t just any street. It’s a carrera, and it’s rush hour in Bogotá—a city known for it’s death-trap streets.

Oh, and my new friend can’t walk.

Cross-walk? Nowhere in sight. Stop light? Forget about it. We’re hitting this thang without protection (I’ll let you guess what phrase I initially wanted to use here).

Buses, cars, and motorcycles tore past us at impressive amounts of km’s 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 lil chilly at night, but the adrenaline is keeping me warm in place of my now-tourniquet jacket.

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 fuck up and good luck, hombre.

They maneuver the car to miss hitting you by millimeters (It’s all km’s and mm’s out here. Real metric mayhem.)

After nearly being hit a few times, a motorcyclist notices what’s up and stops traffic. Gracias, caballero.

We push forward. At this point I am dragging someone across a several-laned road in a foreign country. Interesting situation to find oneself.

We make it to the oversized median and his legs buckle.

Lucky for us, the median hosts a fucking train track and some grassy hills on either side. We’ll have to step over all of it.

This was the moment. My back injury screamed in protest. For months, I’d been nursing it back to health.

Picking this guy up would surely destroy the delicate low-back muscles fighting to heal for so long.

Fuck the back, IS WE REALLY GOING ALL BATMAN IN THIS MF OR WHAT? IS WE GONNA BITCH OUT NOW?!

We cross the unnecessarily tumultuous median, him in my arms. I only fell and fucked up my ankle in the landmines of invisible holes a miraculous one time before crossing the other side of the road.

At last, we reach the front steps on the hospital.

Man, what a sight that must’ve been. A Gringo carrying a terrified, bleeding Colombian teenager (I later learned he was 17) on the verge of passing out. The looks on peoples faces were comically confused.

El Hospital y La Policia

Inside, the hospital staff barely blinked. They handed us a wheelchair and started taking 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 show up. Seeing one officer shrug, twirl his pen, and “take notes” as if he’d ever catch the perpetrators looked like a SNL skit.

He proceeds to shoot the shit with me like we’re at a Sunday barbeque.

“Ahh eres de Texas? Cowboy?” — Colombia Police, 2024

The victim’s Aunt, who called me back on my phone, is now on her way.

On top of news of her nephew being stabbed, hearing a Gringo describe all of this on a random phone number must’ve been pretty confusing.

I’m kicked out of the operating room by the doctors. No onlookers, buddy.

I leave without a trace. I never say bye to the kid and never get his name, nor him mine.

Bogotá, Bogotá

I’m not delusional enough to believe I saved a life.

I may have helped out in a small way, and hopefully made a frightened teenager who’d just been assaulted 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, having been taken advantage of by three men with more size, age, and weapons than him.

‘Twas a normal evening in Bogotá.

And that jacket—I never did get it back. Upon trying to retrieve it from the operating room (such a broke backpacker move by me, just leave the biohazardous fucking jacket behind, dude) I was harshly rejected by the staff. “Evidence", they called it.

Every time I start to feel comfortable out here, Bogotá throws me a curveball. Perhaps 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’d helped me when I was in situations where I thought “Welp, I’m seriously fucked this time.” Just my turn to help.

Stay safe my friends. Happens todo’ los dias.

To your growth and travels,

Bogotá, Colombia | October 2024