Travel Safety--Or the Lack Thereof...

I have every sympathy for the family and friends of Miss Natalie Holloway, the Alabama girl missing in Aruba.

But…

Unfortunately, our popular culture has allowed college spring breaker’s and now high school aged kids to travel to destinations which twenty years ago were only frequented by seasoned adult travelers. The current situation, in my mind, is not entirely unforeseen—that is, by anyone that has even a modicum of travel savvy. Times are changing in the Caribbean, but danger lurks in the shadows and I hope that school authorities and parents alike take notice.

For instance, the Yucatan Peninsula of Mexico—today’s inexpensive spring break Mecca—was a completely undeveloped chunk of sleepy fishing villages in the 1970’s until the Mexican government and a bunch of international resort developers bought it (or stole the land from the poor farmers) and did a little “urban renewal.” In that day Acapulco, Mexico, on the Pacific Ocean, was the destination of choice and was typically economically out of the reach of all but the most well-heeled travelers.

I learned at an early age that you “aren’t in Kansas anymore” once your leave the borders of the US. I had the opportunity to travel to Subic Bay Philippines in the summer of 1978 while serving in the US Navy reserve. Ferdinand Marcos was still “dictator-in-chief”, Amelda Marcos was still buying her shoe collection, and the life of a young American sailor was worth exactly the amount of cash and jewelry you had on your person at the moment of the attack.

The first week I was in country, a middle aged Marine Sergeant from my ship (USS New Orleans-LPH 11) went out into town, got drunk, passed out, and woke up having had his ring finger cut off his hand to facilitate his assailants taking a cheep $50 plain man’s wedding band. I was mortified…

The local “bar girls” ran extortion scams where they would accuse a young sailor of some petty assault, you would be arrested by machine gun toting Filipino Police officers, and your ship would sail out of port with you sitting in a filthy jail cell with a bucket for a toilet—eating stale bread and rancid soup for your three squares a day—unless you paid the “fine” which was actually a form of blackmail shared by the lady and the corrupt police authorities. Needless to say that I was a good boy…

Everything, including life in general, and the lives of children, was cheep there. To enter the town from the Navy base, you crossed through a simple security checkpoint and then over a bridge on the Olongapo “Shit” River where you would witness little preteen girls standing on “bonka boats”—outrigger canoes—offering to “show you my tits” if you threw them a Peso. Each boat had a little boy on board who would dive off of the boat into the filthy water to retrieve the intentionally errantly thrown money. I was horrified.

Once in town, there were three forms of transportation: ankle express, “Jeepneys,” and “Trikes.” Our orientation told us to avoid the Trikes at all cost, but the Jeepneys--small, gaudily decorated open air busses—were ok. I met a jeepney driver named Virgillio (Virgil in Spanish) and he generally took care of my travel requirements when I was in town on leave.

You had to be back on base or in a motel room, otherwise off of the streets, by midnight. One night I was wandering back toward base real late, by myself because my cohorts had all gotten a motel and I had an early watch on the ship.

A trike driver, a Honda 50 motorcycle with a sidecar, came by and offered me a half-price ride back to the gate. The next thing I knew we were flying down deserted side streets, zigzagging into the slum areas of a town which was basically all slums.

When my driver finally stopped the trike and announced that he had to run an errand, I promptly leapt out of the sidecar and sprinted away as fast as my 6’2” tall, 160 pound well conditioned frame would carry me. Someone was chasing me, more than one person.

I probably ran past the same places twice as I tried to find my way back to main street, finally jumping into yet another trike headed toward the gate and successfully eluding my pursuers. (Realize that the average Filipino male is about 5’ tall-100 lbs, but is dangerous as hell when wielding a butterfly knife or a switchblade.) I could have jumped OVER anyone that accosted me at that point.

In the past 15 years I have spent a good deal of time traveling in the Bahamas and Jamaica. “No problem Mon,” are you feeling “Irie?” While both the Bahamas and the Caribbean are excellent family travel destinations, like America’s large cities, there are problem areas and neither are safe for little blond-haired, blue-eyed, debutants to go wandering around in helter-skelter at 3 AM in the morning.

I seriously doubt that I could successfully guarantee the safety of my own 6’3”, 235 pound middle aged white butt around Kingston, Jamaica at 3 AM wielding a machete and a machine gun. Prancing around with a pair of 36C’s, pierced bellybutton, and butterfly tattooed lily white, thong clad, 18 year old female buttocks would increase the probability of injury or death about 1000%.

I’m terribly sorry Mr. & Mrs. Holloway, but you just might have loved your daughter to death…