Tales from the Icy Gringo

Knives on a bridge

Our second encounter with knives was on a narrow footbridge that crossed a river. The river, which seemed more like a stream, was littered with boulders and cut through the length of a popular park in central Cali.

We saw them long before they noticed us. Rows of leafy trees hid us from view as we walked beside the water. They were sitting near a dirt track that connected the bridge with the distant edge of the park. The general appearance of the group was one of relaxation. Slouched in a rough circle in the shade, they seemed to be nothing more than half a dozen friends out enjoying the warm weather. Friends so bored with each others company that their heads twitched and turned in all directions.

I let my wife walk ahead. It was a little trick we'd learnt after several months living in Colombia. On a crowded street she'd draw attention while I trailed behind, scanning for anyone who seemed overly interested. Generally a pointed glare was enough to deter potential muggars. It was enough to reveal someone was watching. 

Two of the men saw us and started walking towards the bridge with their hands tucked high into their armpits. My wife would probably make it there before them. I thought about telling her to walk faster, but the Havianas she was wearing were better designed for a stroll than a sprint.

The footbridge split in two as it reached our side of the river. A short flight of stairs faced the dirt track while a long brick ramp was angled towards us. My wife arrived at the ramp as the two men climbed the stairs. The taller one waited at the entrance to the footbridge, leaning against the white concrete railing, while the shorter one approached. I fixed him with a dull look. He ignored my wife as she passed and for a moment I thought everything might be fine. As soon as he neared me however, he whipped out a knife and thrust it up into my face.

I reeled away, my hands in the air as I stumbled backwards up the ramp. My wife shouted something. A warning probably. I slid my back along the railing until it curved away. All I could focus on was the 4 inch blade slicing the air in front of me. I trod on my wife's leg. She'd fallen down. With nowhere to go, except away from the knife, I leaned backwards gripping the railing for support. The knife continued to hack at nothing as the man jabbered in thick Spanish.

My right leg was teetering in the air for balance so I planted it into the mans stomach and kicked hard. He flew back, wincing as the small of his back connected with the sharp corners of a concrete pillar. I didn't notice him again after that. It's possible that he remained there, crumpled against the railing. Maybe he staggered away.

I stood up and faced the second man. Like the first he had a long bladed knife. He held it in his fist with the tip pointing down towards the ground, making exaggerated stabbing motions. I squared off like a boxer. I wondered if I could take another knife in my arm. The first one, from several months ago, hadn't been so bad. If I could accept the likelihood of being stabbed again maybe I could wrestle him off the bridge. Even if I fell in at the same time I could wade or swim to the other side. It seemed like a reasonable plan. Except for the rocks we'd land on. I stared into the mans eyes while keeping my distance. My wife watched from the ground, frozen in an awkward sprawl.

After a while I decided it was a bluff. He wasn't going to attack. I glanced at my wife and told her to get up. Together we shuffled backwards, our eyes locked with his, then we held hands and sprinted to the other side of the bridge.

We ran through scattered crowds of people. A lunch-time festival had been set up less than a hundred metres from the river. As we hurried up a tall flight of stairs attached to the main bridge a group of weed smoking teenagers called out to us. My wife shrieked.

Later we found a local policeman eating a Cholado. We convinced him to investigate. We waited as he rode off on the back of his partners motorcycle. 15 minutes later he returned, peeking around the corner to see if we were still at his favourite Cholado eating spot. We were, so he left.

After another 15 minutes so did we.