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| How are those 72 virgins working out for you in hell ? |
I was musing the other day on another of my business trips that could have gone terribly wrong, but fortunately for me, and my creditors, I made it back alive and well. Here is a tiny slice of what I remember from a trip to South America.
Back in October of 2001, a colleague and I went to Bogotá, Columbia for a business trip. This trip was less than a month after the devastating terrorist attack on the World Trade Center towers in New York City by the followers of the terrorist leader Usama Bin Laden, No one in my family was enthusiastic about me making any kind of airline trip since four aircraft had been high jacked on September 11th. And to go to Bogotá, of all places, was really pushing luck since Bogotá was notorious for terrorist activity.
My colleague and I were undaunted. We arrived safely and were soon making business introductions to the locals with our agent’s assistance. But I got the strangest reaction to the Mexican speaking Columbians when I said my name. “Hi, I’m Bill L…..”. Without fail, the person I just introduced myself to would give me a ghastly look of confusion and say “Bin Laden?” “Why do you say you are Bin Laden?” I thought this was a charming joke that the locals were trying to play on me until this encounter was repeated over and over again by nearly everyone I met.
In Spanish, the double LL sounds to the listener like an “N”, so I finally figured out that they heard “Bin” for my first name and my last name syllables just ran together. And given the terrible notoriety that the real Bin Laden had suddenly achieved, his name was in everyone’s consciousness. So, here I was, a tall, slim, bearded foreigner, who was either a lunatic claiming to be Bin Laden or I really was Bin Laden, and happily admitting, “gee, you got me. Here I am”. With most of the world looking to collect a $25 million bounty for the dead or alive capture of Bin Laden, I was not too tickled with this situation.
A couple of days later, after I had gotten used to the idea that I could be the world’s most wanted Mistaken Identity, I was traveling with the manager of the company we were in Columbia to work with. For this story I will call him “Edwardo”, because his name was, well…, “Edwardo”. He told me of past kidnappings of executives by the local narco-terrorists, where their M.O. was to stop traffic, pull the unsuspecting victim from the vehicle and spirit him off in the jungle. A ransom then would be demanded and the victim may or may not be returned alive. What a cheery thought.
“Edwardo” had driven me out to their manufacturing facility on the outskirts of town. We were headed back to our hotel when the traffic suddenly slowed and halted. We were in the middle of three lanes of traffic and were, for all intentions, trapped in the street. I suddenly heard several quick, loud explosions off to my left. I strained to see what the commotion was about and glanced at my driver. He was tightly gripping the steering wheel, and staring blankly straight ahead. “What is going on?”, I implored. I was not sure I wanted to know. He mumbled something very un- reassuring to me under his breath and continued to stare forward. The explosions continued. Then to my right, a platoon of riot police in full protective gear, burst forth, running quickly towards the sounds of the explosions. Panic began sneaking into my brain as I watched the soldiers bearing riot shields and AK-47s rush past me. “Oh great, my wife was right. I am going to die and she will get to say I told you so”.
After the wave of soldiers had past us, the traffic slowly began to move forward. “Edwardo” finally looked over at me and asked “were you afraid”? “Should I have been”?, I asked, in stupefying ignorance. He calmly began to explain what we had just witnessed. We were driving past the University when this incident occurred. And on occasion the students at the school stage mini uprisings. They protest all kinds of things, from the poor wages being paid to Juan Valdez to pick coffee, to protesting the food in the school cafeteria. One of the ways they show their displeasure is to insert some kind of tiny explosive into potatoes. They throw the potatoes at the police and when the spuds hit the ground they blow up. These were apparently harmless explosions, but very loud and scary, none the less. It had become a silly ritual. The police would look tough and disperse the students while the students got to act like activists and can brag to their socialist friends what great causes they were fighting for. It was a relief to hear this story since my mind was thinking much more serious thoughts, like how my loafers would hold up in a jungle hike.
Well, I finally did make it home safely to the U.S after all of this. I amused my children with the exciting tale of how I could have been killed by the horrible exploding potato bombs wielded by vicious anarchists. I naturally was expecting loving admiration from my fawning daughters for my courage. But all I got as a response from my children was the sarcastic comment “gee, seems like a waste of perfectly good potatoes.” I bet Bin Laden wouldn’t get this kind of disrespect.
Back in October of 2001, a colleague and I went to Bogotá, Columbia for a business trip. This trip was less than a month after the devastating terrorist attack on the World Trade Center towers in New York City by the followers of the terrorist leader Usama Bin Laden, No one in my family was enthusiastic about me making any kind of airline trip since four aircraft had been high jacked on September 11th. And to go to Bogotá, of all places, was really pushing luck since Bogotá was notorious for terrorist activity.
My colleague and I were undaunted. We arrived safely and were soon making business introductions to the locals with our agent’s assistance. But I got the strangest reaction to the Mexican speaking Columbians when I said my name. “Hi, I’m Bill L…..”. Without fail, the person I just introduced myself to would give me a ghastly look of confusion and say “Bin Laden?” “Why do you say you are Bin Laden?” I thought this was a charming joke that the locals were trying to play on me until this encounter was repeated over and over again by nearly everyone I met.
In Spanish, the double LL sounds to the listener like an “N”, so I finally figured out that they heard “Bin” for my first name and my last name syllables just ran together. And given the terrible notoriety that the real Bin Laden had suddenly achieved, his name was in everyone’s consciousness. So, here I was, a tall, slim, bearded foreigner, who was either a lunatic claiming to be Bin Laden or I really was Bin Laden, and happily admitting, “gee, you got me. Here I am”. With most of the world looking to collect a $25 million bounty for the dead or alive capture of Bin Laden, I was not too tickled with this situation.
A couple of days later, after I had gotten used to the idea that I could be the world’s most wanted Mistaken Identity, I was traveling with the manager of the company we were in Columbia to work with. For this story I will call him “Edwardo”, because his name was, well…, “Edwardo”. He told me of past kidnappings of executives by the local narco-terrorists, where their M.O. was to stop traffic, pull the unsuspecting victim from the vehicle and spirit him off in the jungle. A ransom then would be demanded and the victim may or may not be returned alive. What a cheery thought.
“Edwardo” had driven me out to their manufacturing facility on the outskirts of town. We were headed back to our hotel when the traffic suddenly slowed and halted. We were in the middle of three lanes of traffic and were, for all intentions, trapped in the street. I suddenly heard several quick, loud explosions off to my left. I strained to see what the commotion was about and glanced at my driver. He was tightly gripping the steering wheel, and staring blankly straight ahead. “What is going on?”, I implored. I was not sure I wanted to know. He mumbled something very un- reassuring to me under his breath and continued to stare forward. The explosions continued. Then to my right, a platoon of riot police in full protective gear, burst forth, running quickly towards the sounds of the explosions. Panic began sneaking into my brain as I watched the soldiers bearing riot shields and AK-47s rush past me. “Oh great, my wife was right. I am going to die and she will get to say I told you so”.
After the wave of soldiers had past us, the traffic slowly began to move forward. “Edwardo” finally looked over at me and asked “were you afraid”? “Should I have been”?, I asked, in stupefying ignorance. He calmly began to explain what we had just witnessed. We were driving past the University when this incident occurred. And on occasion the students at the school stage mini uprisings. They protest all kinds of things, from the poor wages being paid to Juan Valdez to pick coffee, to protesting the food in the school cafeteria. One of the ways they show their displeasure is to insert some kind of tiny explosive into potatoes. They throw the potatoes at the police and when the spuds hit the ground they blow up. These were apparently harmless explosions, but very loud and scary, none the less. It had become a silly ritual. The police would look tough and disperse the students while the students got to act like activists and can brag to their socialist friends what great causes they were fighting for. It was a relief to hear this story since my mind was thinking much more serious thoughts, like how my loafers would hold up in a jungle hike.
Well, I finally did make it home safely to the U.S after all of this. I amused my children with the exciting tale of how I could have been killed by the horrible exploding potato bombs wielded by vicious anarchists. I naturally was expecting loving admiration from my fawning daughters for my courage. But all I got as a response from my children was the sarcastic comment “gee, seems like a waste of perfectly good potatoes.” I bet Bin Laden wouldn’t get this kind of disrespect.
I think I remember telling you, "didn't we tell you NOT to go to Bogota?" but the waste of good potatoes also sounds like us.
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