by R. A. Lang
When the police finally turned up, they weren’t at all interested in the drunken Venezuelan. Instead, they took interest in me as a foreigner. They took me back to their police station and then to my apartment because they wanted to see my passport. When I returned, they took my passport off me and demanded a hundred dollars for its return. In the meantime, they let the drunk go. Once they had the money from me, they let me go and did absolutely nothing about the accident.
The rental car was collected the next day, and I later discovered that they’d debited my credit card for the full repair even though I’d paid for insurance, which they probably claimed as well.
My truck was ready to collect a couple of days later, and I was issued a four-thousand-dollar bill because they not only changed my gearbox, they also ‘fixed’ a lot of other things that didn’t need fixing nor were they asked to touch. I registered a complaint with Chevrolet in America, but nothing became of it.
The next trip to Ciudad Bolívar was to collect Carolina again. This time, the alternator bearing collapsed, rendering it useless. We made a temporary repair just to get back to Puerto Ordaz, but I had to replace that, too.
A week later, the air conditioning pump failed, next the evaporator. It didn’t seem normal for a sixteen-month-old truck to have so many problems.
The same problems began happening inside my rented apartment. I’d have one air conditioner fixed, and then the next would fail. Later, the refrigerator, the washing machine, and again the air conditioners would fail. There was no end to the problems I was having.
While these events were going on, my wife’s daughter, who slept in a spare room at the other end of the apartment, used to complain to her mother that something was bothering her when she was trying to sleep. At first my wife ignored her complaints as she was only seven years old, but one day my wife noticed scratches on the little girls back. Scratches, which she couldn’t possibly have done herself. The scratches appeared to have been done under her skin.
As I mentioned, I didn’t stay there much longer because of voodoo. So many things kept going wrong, it just didn’t make any sense to hang around any longer.
I met a friend who recommended I visit his mother in Ciudad Bolívar so she could check me out for voodoo.
I drove to Ciudad Bolívar the following Saturday and met my colleague’s mother. She took me into a back bedroom where there were two single beds.
She sat on the edge of one bed whilst I sat opposite her on the other bed. She put an old, battered, aluminium saucepan on the floor between us and unwrapped the first of three fat, hand-rolled, Venezuelan cigars.
She proceeded to smoke the first cigar by continuously puffing on it. Her aim was to produce ash and examine the formation of it.
She repeatedly spat the tar building up on her lips into the saucepan until half of the first cigar was smoked. She looked at the ash and saw that it had divided perfectly into two halves.
She said, “A girl wants to split you up from your wife.” She continued until the cigar was too short to continue, and then she gave me the girl’s name. It was the secretary from the other project, the girl from Trinidad!
She lit the second cigar and started burning it down in the very same manner and then she asked me if I had been having problems with my truck.
I explained that my Chevrolet Grand Blazer had experienced a lot of problems: the gearbox had seized, the air conditioner pump had died, and the alternator had broken.
As fast as I was replacing parts, other parts were failing. I explained that all these things started to go wrong the day I found a dark grey ash sprinkled over its bonnet. She told me to sell the truck because it would never be the same again. And that’s what I did.
The third cigar burnt in a different pattern, and she said that I should leave Venezuela as soon as possible or face death. When we arrived at our rented apartment later that afternoon back in Puerto Ordaz, the very same dark grey ash had been sprinkled outside our front door.
It was impossible to enter our apartment without taking some of the ash in with us on the soles of our shoes. That was an unforgettable night! The first thing I did was open the fridge to have a glass of cold water.
When I tried to drink from the glass, I instantly vomited without any warning. Later, at the dining table, my drink started moving around the table. We watched it happen in front of our very own eyes.
Later, cigarette butts rose up out of the ashtray, floated through the air, down the hall and landed on the middle of the quilt on our bed. And then the next cigarette butt would do the same … and then the next one. Everything was done in threes.
My colleague’s mother had advised me to smoke a hand-rolled cigar in each room of my apartment, which was supposed to reverse the voodoo. I did this, but when I blew smoke at a place which should have normally had a small cupboard and not a wall, a force threw me back. I did it again, and again I felt a force, but stronger. My wife freaked out and asked whether we could leave the apartment and find a hotel to stay in.
I didn’t want to leave the apartment as I was made to pay four months’ deposit instead of the normal one month as I was from Europe, and I went into our en suite to wash. In the bathroom, I felt a strong presence behind me and turned around. Behind me, I saw the exact same dark grey ash growing out of the white ceramic floor tiles in three piles. It was as though I was hallucinating, but I was perfectly sober.
I called my wife, and she had also felt something pass by her on the way to the bathroom. Again, she asked whether we could leave. We tried to sleep, but we were constantly interrupted.
I could see the indentations of fingers gripping my wife’s right arm. I lay there knowing that I had stopped breathing but couldn’t seem to be able to do anything about it. When my wife realised what was happening to me she slapped my face to bring me to my senses.
When we turned the lights back on the problems stopped, but each time we switched them off to try to get some sleep, the problems would start again.
That happened two more times, so we decided to leave the apartment and look for a hotel at three o’clock in the morning. We drove around for what felt like hours until we finally found a hotel, which had a room to spare, and stayed there for at least the next few days. It was only about a week before things started happening again, this time in our hotel room. After we changed hotels, all was fine for about another week … and then it all started happening again. It was as if we were being followed with nowhere to hide.
My only option was to leave Venezuela and get professional help back in Swansea.
Chapter 8
Help from Swansea
Throughout my hardship in Venezuela, I kept my mother up to date with all the unbelievable events that were taking place. Thankfully, she believed me and made some inquiries with friends she knew. A doctor she worked with had heard of such goings-on and mentioned the name of a spiritualist working in Swansea.
An appointment was made before I arrived in Swansea, as I needed the help of an expert and fast. Therefore, the day after I arrived, I went to see what could be done. I kept telling myself that everything that was going on was purely coincidence but at the same time, there was something also telling me that with so many things happening, something was certainly not right.
I went to Swansea’s Spiritual Centre. There, a remarkable man called Jonathon welcomed me in. As I walked inside the centre with him, I couldn’t stop explaining all that I’d experienced in Venezuela. Jonathon asked me to relax in a very calm voice, and he told me that he already knew everything that had happened to me the moment he laid eyes on me. He had a vivid perception of everything that had occurred back in Venezuela.
He said he could help and told me I needed to sit on a chair in the middle of the large room while he put on some relaxing music of the ocean waves washing up onto a beach. He explained he needed to place his hands over my shoulders, but not in contact with them. He added that it would take around ten minutes. While listening to the music he
began his cleansing. Seconds before he began, he explained that I might feel electricity between his hands and my shoulders, and hot or cold sensations.
Wow! The moment he started, I felt a lot of static electricity between his hands and my shoulders. And then I felt a cold feeling that quickly became quite hot. He continued for forty-five minutes before stopping. He explained that someone had done a very professional job on me, and that I’d need to return the next day, which I did. There were no fees involved.
The next day, he performed again and explained that he’d managed, together with some good spirits, to remove some of the voodoo, but I needed to return a third time.
The next day, he repeated the exercise and explained that he’d removed most of the voodoo. Once again, he informed me that I needed to return, but for a final session the next day.
The problem was, I couldn’t return the next day because I had a new contract back in Venezuela!
Before I left the Wales, he added my name to a list of people who were sent healing during their Thursday night spiritual meditations. He told me that I would feel something as they helped me, or perhaps a few hours later.
Strangely enough, I did feel something was happening from time to time. I felt a new and very peaceful feeling washing over me and calming me down, even though I was far away.
I should have listened to him when he advised me not to return because my stay in Venezuela ended up being a waste of time. Everything went wrong again, but due to the Venezuelan company and not voodoo. I was working for a Venezuelan engineering contractor and everything agreed and endorsed in the contract was not honoured, which was hardly surprising. I needed to stay in a small Venezuelan village called Puerto Píritu.
Puerto Píritu was actually a beautiful place to be based, which was directly on the Caribbean. My new company had found me a temporary place to stay, which I still needed to rent; it was a small outbuilding of a German-owned villa on the top of a hill. I was to stay there until I could find something better suited for myself. After a month I was able to find an apartment across from the beach, shops and local restaurant.
The Venezuelan house sitters, who the German owners paid to take care of their property, stayed in the main house and were very accommodating. Especially by taking me to the local supermarket so they too could get stocked up for free at my expense. They owned a scooter, which they let me use to get around, which was a great help.
They enjoyed the opportunity of being able to go away for weekends, as I was there to take care of their two boxer dogs. The dogs bonded to me the minute they sniffed me and sensed I was an animal lover. I was alone with the two dogs the night Hugo Chávez was declared the new president of Venezuela.
The minute that it was publically announced, people from nearby houses went outside and started to fire gunshots into the air. It was the second time in my life where bullets were shot into the air! The poor boxers were petrified of the noise and huddled tightly against me while I sat outside listening to the noise, but under a roof.
I bought the two dogs collars and leads and would take them for a run along the beach, as their owners never took them anywhere. We would walk down the hill together and the dogs seemed to sense they were being cared for and never once pulled on their leads, even out of excitement.
In fact, they chose to walk either side of me, so tightly that it was sometimes difficult to walk. The open air restaurant on the beach allowed dogs inside so long as their master was ordering, so I’d take the dogs with me and order three 16oz rare rib-eye steaks, one on the table and two on the floor. I hadn’t taught the dogs to sit at the table, but I was sure they were ready to learn.
Even after I had moved into my own apartment, I would still return to the villa to collect the dogs and take them out for the day as if they were family. The dogs’ ribs gradually became less noticeable as I fed them as much I as could. Soon it was noticed by their Venezuelan owners that their dogs ate better than they did.
It always amused me in my loneliness that when I, together with the dogs, left the restaurant to return them back to the villa, we never carried a human bag back with us for their owners.
I arranged for the local veterinarian to visit to inoculate the dogs again heartworm, which was prevalent in the area, like most hot countries. It was repeated every month. The poor dogs had only lived off scraps thrown on the ground. With all the flies laying their eggs and other bugs, the poor dogs were ingesting it all out of starvation.
Whenever I took a swim off the beach, the two dogs would sit together guarding my things whilst watching my every stroke. Dodgy locals wouldn’t dare to go near my things as the two dogs would turn, stare and growl at them. One day, the dogs sensed something and started barking at me while I enjoyed the warm Caribbean water. Suddenly, I felt a sudden pain as something took a bite, then another and another. The water wasn’t too clear so I couldn’t see what had taken a liking to me so much so I started power swimming back to the beach.
I felt a couple more nibbles before I realised I was no longer moving as my chest was on the sand in just a few inches of water. The two dogs were already in the water fussing around me, licking me profusely, checking to see if I was okay. As I stood up I found five puncture wounds from whatever had taken a fancy to me. They were only little tiny nibbles, but it was clear that something had sharp teeth.
When I returned to the villa, the house sitters told me that nobody swam in that part of the ocean as it was infested with baby sharks, which would go for anything that moved. Typical of Venezuelans, I thought; they only warn you after the event had taken place!
Every Saturday morning, I would meet the night fishermen as they returned to the quaint little harbour at six in the morning to have first choice of their catch. I’d take a new bottle of the finest Venezuelan rum (ron) with me to aid their daytime sleep, which was always a bottle of Pampero Aniversario. It was probably the finest quality rum I’ve ever had the pleasure of tasting. I’d carry a cooler box full of ice and cans of Coke and some disposable plastic cups.
I normally took the little scooter, but on nights when I couldn’t sleep and gave up in the early hours, I’d take the dogs by foot, which took a forty-five minute walk to the harbour. The dogs always got excited seeing the still-alive fish flapping about.
The deal was I’d swap the full contents of my cooler box in return for the pick of their catch as long as it was under two kilos. The Pampero Aniversario was worth a lot more than two kilos of fresh fish, but as I was an avid sea fisherman myself, I enjoyed sitting there chatting to the fisherman, while listening to them telling me all about the big fish that had got away! I know all about fisherman’s tales, but due to some of my own experiences, some of them I’d believe as I had my own unbelievable stories to tell which I have deliberately omitted from this book to maintain my professional integrity and reputation!
I had been known to get lucky on some fishing trips, like the day I caught a sixty pound wahoo along with six smaller ones, two barracuda and a small skipjack tuna.
True to style, my Venezuelan company hadn’t been totally honest in my contract. They promised me a Toyota Hilux to use as my own, but they hadn’t told me it was only for site use and that it had to remain on site when I went home each night. It used to take me at least an hour and a half to get to the site every morning for a seven o’clock start along the coast in Barcelona.
Taxis were not allowed on site so once I had arrived at the site entrance, I still had a thirty minute walk through the dust in the intense heat and humidity to reach my office. The local workers used to look at me wondering why I had to walk as they did. By the time I had reached my office I was in a hell of a state. My clothes were already totally saturated in sweat. I thought this watrs great for a quality manager responsible for all the quality on a one billion dollar project! Pure Venezuelan style, I thought.
Back at my newly rented apartment, redecorating was finished and I had bought all the usual essentials to make it more liveable. One d
ay I saw a girl cleaning the road along the beach, so I offered her the job of cleaning my apartment once a week for extra income. She jumped at the opportunity and would also help me when I went shopping and help carry all the bags back with me.
Back in the office I continued to complain about my lack of transportation but nothing changed. I quit, gave all my recent purchases to the cleaner and retuned back to the United Kingdom.
Chapter 9
Pakistan
In March of 1999, I went to Karachi, Pakistan for the last half of a project which had been going for over a year. Karachi was a hot and very humid place. We all stayed in the same hotel in the centre of the city. Sanitation was non-existent in Karachi and all the wastewater went directly into the canals throughout the city. We all went to the job site in a large coach under armed escort. Our office had employed its own local chef who was very good and the kitchen was just inside the entrance of the office.
I would sometimes visit the chef to ask what he was cooking that day. He, together with his helpers would often be found sitting on the concrete floor picking weevils out of the rice, which had been poured onto newspaper. The sacks had become infested with the little six legged brown creatures from the warehouse. Adult weevils can live for two years. The female lays up to six eggs a day into separate grains of rice, which she makes holes in and later closes with a secretion. Those are the ones that ended up eaten. At least the odd ones they’d miss added some protein to the dishes. Everyone suffered stomach problems during their stay and one of the British men working with me caught hepatitis and had to leave the project.
One afternoon, our usual route back to Karachi was blocked, so we had to take a detour through a village. I had never seen so many children in my entire life. They were all so young and completely filled the pavements either side of the narrow street, which our large coach was struggling to drive down. There must have been tens of thousands of them and all well under the age of ten. It was a perfect place to be ambushed, but fortunately nothing happened.
