This is the 2nd full post in the 2 truths and a lie series. To refresh, I asked which two of these statements are true-
The cult one is - whoops!
Gulp. Yep, the strip search is true, too. And now I'm gonna share it on a public forum. Awkward, much?
So, in 2001 I had finished college (in 3 1/2 years, remember?) and so had some free time that Spring semester (in between working as a church secretary and Applebees waitress). I'd saved up money to fly to Venezuela and see Carrie who was a dear, dear college friend a year older than me (the girl who discipled/mentored me in college). She was serving with the IMB in Caracas and so I went down to visit her for a week. Even though I was already signed up to head to China that summer, this was one of my first real missions experiences. Although, Carrie's job was teaching at a Christian school, she also did some work in the barrios (slums) and so we were going to spend some time there as well.
Carrie picked me up at the airport and we drove through the city which looked gorgeous. At night, the barrios are filled with hundreds of tiny little twinkle lights. They make their world beautiful at night. On the way Carrie explained that she'd gotten us tickets to head out for a weekend on the island of Margarita (sounds fun, huh?). We'd have a chance to go to the beach and stuff like that, but, she wondered, would I be up for helping with a prison ministry that had just gotten started? We'd be going into the prison to lead a Bible study. The one caveat was that we might have to get strip searched on our way. Sure, I readily agreed (having no concept for what being strip searched actually entails).
The ministry that had developed on this small island was to internationals arrested on drug smuggling charges. It began when one of the missionaries there had heard of a girl from South Africa being held in the county jail who was going hungry. I don't know much about US jails, but in Venezuela, the family is responsible for bringing food, sanitary items, clothes, basically anything that you need. As this girl was an international, there was no one providing for her basic needs. The missionary family stepped into the gap and began providing for her needs. Once she was sentenced and transferred to the actual prison, she and the missionary connected with other internationals from around the world there on similar charges. Some of these accused claimed that it was a mistake and they'd just been carrying a box in their luggage as a favor and had no idea drugs were in here. Others knowingly chose to smuggle drugs through the smaller airports/ports of Margarita rather than Caracas. Regardless, there were in prison, with no contact from home, for like 5-10 years.
The missionary we were working with had arranged for the men and women he was working with, a group of about 8-10 normally housed in separate quarters, to be able to meet together in a little grassy area on the women's side. He, Carrie, and I set out for the prison and arrived to get in a long line. What holds true with restrooms around the world is also true for strip search lines, the women's line is about 5 times as long as the men's line.
Remember these women are the ones coming to bring food, clothing, shampoo, bedding, etc. to family, so there were many, many of them in line. Carrie and I found our place in line and waited as it slowly inched forward. The women were taken three at a time in dark, dark cell about 8 by 15 ft maybe. Carrie and I went in with a teenage girl who was behind us in line. The female guard (thank God!) sat on a low stool at the other end of the cell. She directed us to begin taking off our clothes. The three of us had to take off every. single. item. Me, one of my best friends, and another total stranger were stripping for a complete stranger who was watching our every move to make sure we weren't hiding anything anywhere (we'll get to what "anywhere" includes momentarily).
Once we were naked and kind of huddled against one wall, she directed us to throw our clothes over to her. Of course, we didn't understand this (for some reason Carrie's tutor hadn't covered strip search protocol) and we looked to the teenager for instruction. She showed us what the guard had requested. While we continued to stand around naked, the guard ran her hands through every seam, pocket, and lining of our clothes to make sure nothing had been sewn in. Then, she asked something else of us. Carrie and I looked at each other in bewilderment. The teenager once again showed us what to do by beginning the squatting motion. We were required to do three full squats so that the guard could ensure that we didn't have contraband A.N.Y.W.H.E.R.E. Anywhere. Nope. No contraband anywhere at all on (ahem, in) my person.
We quickly scurried back into our clothes and headed out the door where we proceeded to get two things. Giant dark black stamps on the smooth, white skin of forearm (symbolic, much?) and compassionate looks (it was obviously our first time at the show). I just remember looking down that long line of women and being floored that this was what their Saturday morning was spent doing. These women who come here every week. Who'd already unbuttoned pants and untucked shirts while they inched forward in line. Teenagers that already had this protocol down cold. This was just one of many wake-up calls on this trip.
Before I became a Christian, most of my relationship with God was focused on this question: "why me?" Why me, God? Why do these bad, uncomfortable, sad, disheartening, seemingly world ending things happen to me? On this trip that question got spun on its head. Why me, God? Why did you bless me inordinately more than I know by giving me a family, and a really nice neighborhood, and stable jobs for my parents, and a safe neighborhood, and more education than I know what to do with? Thank you so much, but why me and not them?
Stay tuned for part 2 of this story. It gets even better.
1. I almost joined a cult while studying abroad in London.
2. A rat fell on my head in my kitchen in China.
3. I was strip searched in a Venezuelan prison.
The cult one is - whoops!
Gulp. Yep, the strip search is true, too. And now I'm gonna share it on a public forum. Awkward, much?
So, in 2001 I had finished college (in 3 1/2 years, remember?) and so had some free time that Spring semester (in between working as a church secretary and Applebees waitress). I'd saved up money to fly to Venezuela and see Carrie who was a dear, dear college friend a year older than me (the girl who discipled/mentored me in college). She was serving with the IMB in Caracas and so I went down to visit her for a week. Even though I was already signed up to head to China that summer, this was one of my first real missions experiences. Although, Carrie's job was teaching at a Christian school, she also did some work in the barrios (slums) and so we were going to spend some time there as well.
Carrie picked me up at the airport and we drove through the city which looked gorgeous. At night, the barrios are filled with hundreds of tiny little twinkle lights. They make their world beautiful at night. On the way Carrie explained that she'd gotten us tickets to head out for a weekend on the island of Margarita (sounds fun, huh?). We'd have a chance to go to the beach and stuff like that, but, she wondered, would I be up for helping with a prison ministry that had just gotten started? We'd be going into the prison to lead a Bible study. The one caveat was that we might have to get strip searched on our way. Sure, I readily agreed (having no concept for what being strip searched actually entails).
The ministry that had developed on this small island was to internationals arrested on drug smuggling charges. It began when one of the missionaries there had heard of a girl from South Africa being held in the county jail who was going hungry. I don't know much about US jails, but in Venezuela, the family is responsible for bringing food, sanitary items, clothes, basically anything that you need. As this girl was an international, there was no one providing for her basic needs. The missionary family stepped into the gap and began providing for her needs. Once she was sentenced and transferred to the actual prison, she and the missionary connected with other internationals from around the world there on similar charges. Some of these accused claimed that it was a mistake and they'd just been carrying a box in their luggage as a favor and had no idea drugs were in here. Others knowingly chose to smuggle drugs through the smaller airports/ports of Margarita rather than Caracas. Regardless, there were in prison, with no contact from home, for like 5-10 years.
The missionary we were working with had arranged for the men and women he was working with, a group of about 8-10 normally housed in separate quarters, to be able to meet together in a little grassy area on the women's side. He, Carrie, and I set out for the prison and arrived to get in a long line. What holds true with restrooms around the world is also true for strip search lines, the women's line is about 5 times as long as the men's line.
Remember these women are the ones coming to bring food, clothing, shampoo, bedding, etc. to family, so there were many, many of them in line. Carrie and I found our place in line and waited as it slowly inched forward. The women were taken three at a time in dark, dark cell about 8 by 15 ft maybe. Carrie and I went in with a teenage girl who was behind us in line. The female guard (thank God!) sat on a low stool at the other end of the cell. She directed us to begin taking off our clothes. The three of us had to take off every. single. item. Me, one of my best friends, and another total stranger were stripping for a complete stranger who was watching our every move to make sure we weren't hiding anything anywhere (we'll get to what "anywhere" includes momentarily).
Once we were naked and kind of huddled against one wall, she directed us to throw our clothes over to her. Of course, we didn't understand this (for some reason Carrie's tutor hadn't covered strip search protocol) and we looked to the teenager for instruction. She showed us what the guard had requested. While we continued to stand around naked, the guard ran her hands through every seam, pocket, and lining of our clothes to make sure nothing had been sewn in. Then, she asked something else of us. Carrie and I looked at each other in bewilderment. The teenager once again showed us what to do by beginning the squatting motion. We were required to do three full squats so that the guard could ensure that we didn't have contraband A.N.Y.W.H.E.R.E. Anywhere. Nope. No contraband anywhere at all on (ahem, in) my person.
We quickly scurried back into our clothes and headed out the door where we proceeded to get two things. Giant dark black stamps on the smooth, white skin of forearm (symbolic, much?) and compassionate looks (it was obviously our first time at the show). I just remember looking down that long line of women and being floored that this was what their Saturday morning was spent doing. These women who come here every week. Who'd already unbuttoned pants and untucked shirts while they inched forward in line. Teenagers that already had this protocol down cold. This was just one of many wake-up calls on this trip.
Before I became a Christian, most of my relationship with God was focused on this question: "why me?" Why me, God? Why do these bad, uncomfortable, sad, disheartening, seemingly world ending things happen to me? On this trip that question got spun on its head. Why me, God? Why did you bless me inordinately more than I know by giving me a family, and a really nice neighborhood, and stable jobs for my parents, and a safe neighborhood, and more education than I know what to do with? Thank you so much, but why me and not them?
Stay tuned for part 2 of this story. It gets even better.
