Truth or Consequences

“There seem to be a lot of police cars around here,” I remark. “This is a very bad neighborhood!” my taxi driver replies.

That is not comforting since the bad neighborhood extends to within two short blocks of my hotel. I am in a third world country and staying in one of the best hotels, but, just outside the door the streets teem with beggars and desperately poor people. Several months before coming here I told my boss about the safety warnings posted on the US State Depts. website. He laughed and said, “Maybe you will get a chance to try your skills.” A few months earlier a British couple wandered into the wrong neighborhood and were hacked to death with machetes. These sorts of crimes are not uncommon and seldom is there an arrest.

I am not especially excited about the possibility of testing my skills in a third world country. What was worrying me was the consequences of such an encounter. Reality sucks. If I should get into such a fight and lose I would simply be killed. If I won, I might spend the rest of my life in a very nasty prison. God knows my employer would not bail me out. What’s to like about these choices?

So I packed a cheap (expendable) folder in my checked bag and at the last moment threw in a tired Nealy Pesh Kabz. Neither one of these would raise any eyebrows in the USA. I figured worst case scenario they might get stolen. So as we’re approaching this seamy paradise the flight crew passes out the usual immigration/customs forms. One line asks if you are in possession of any firearms, explosive, or other weapons. Can you feel my sudden discomfort? I am normally a very straight-up honest person. What do I do, declare the knives and hope they don’t : 1) confiscate them, or 2) arrest me or refuse me entry because I have declared weapons? The other options are head to the bathroom and dispose of them. (Can you picture me throwing away a knife? Are there maybe cameras in the bathroom?) Do I just “forget” to declare them and hope for the best? As I stood in line, slowly, excruciatingly, crawling its way toward the customs agent I could see everyone being funneled, with their baggage, to an x-ray machine. After intense scrutiny of my paperwork and several probing questions concerning what sort of business I was there on, the Agent finally said “OK” and waved me on through. Somehow I had avoided the dreaded x-ray machine. I am not going to tell you which choice I made but I am safely back out of the country now. In a week I have to go through it all over again. What to do, what to do………