I grew up in a country of contrasts which, despite being known for the kindness of its people, was very unsafe. Crimes ranged from pickpocketing to kidnappings with devastating outcomes.
I spent my teenage years between my hometown and Caracas, which at the time was one of Latin America’s most violent capitals. This vibrant city was home to the training centre where all the national sports teams gathered, including the swimming team, which I belonged to, and the boxing team.
The boxing gym was just a few metres from the swimming pool. The pool was outdoors, separated from the gym by a simple metal fence that let anyone walking through the grounds watch our training sessions up close.
As luck would have it, the boxers usually finished training just as we were getting out of the water. We walked less than two metres apart, us in our swimsuits and them in their training clothes, and their eyes would wander, out of curiosity, let’s say.
One afternoon, one of the lads spoke up and addressed me directly. In very crude language, he told me I was very pretty and that, if it were up to him, he would take me home with him right then and there.
Panicking inside, I kept walking as though I had not understood what he had said, and replied:
“Good afternoon.”
This happened several times, and I always replied with a “Good morning” or “Good afternoon”, as appropriate.
He would usually laugh with his friends, and I would keep walking towards the changing rooms, praying he would not cross the flimsy fence between us.
This happened at least a couple of times a week, and I always reacted in the same way.
One afternoon, he changed his routine a little and said:
“Blondie, when you least expect it, I’m going to kidnap you.”
That time, terror took hold of me and I could not answer, but I did shoot him a fierce look. He immediately apologised and said he had done it so he could look me in the eyes, because he had never been able to see them before.
Fortunately for me, that was my last scheduled training session at that facility.
A month later, I had to return to the capital to train with the team. The boxing gym had moved, and my fear of being kidnapped by a boxer vanished completely. Or so I thought.
A few months later, there was an international competition involving athletes from every discipline. All of us Venezuelan athletes were staying in a building set aside for that purpose.
We were on the fourth floor and, as I later found out, the boxers were on the seventh.
On the first day of the competition, we all left our apartments ready to go to the pool. Once we were on the bus, I realised I had left my swimming cap in the apartment.
I asked the driver to wait five minutes while I went to fetch it and came back as quickly as possible.
I was lucky: the lift was on the ground floor. I went up as fast as the lift would take me, went into the apartment and looked for my cap as quickly as I could, hoping the lift would still be waiting when I came out with my cap in hand.
When I left the apartment, the lift was on the seventh floor. I pressed the button and waited a couple of seconds. If it did not move, I would take the stairs.
The lift started moving, and I felt relieved.
That relief vanished when the door opened.
When I looked inside, there was just one person: the boxer who, you could say, had been harassing me a few months earlier.
I had only a second to decide whether to get in or flee down the stairs in a panic.
I made the best decision I could: I got into the lift and greeted him politely.
“Good morning.”
He replied with a “Good morning” of his own, but sounded surprised.
The lift door closed slowly, or so it seemed to me, and once we were alone, his voice broke the silence:
“I didn’t think you’d get in.”
With all the confidence in the world, though I was a bundle of nerves inside, I answered with a question of my own:
“Why wouldn’t I?”
He smiled, and the door opened straight away. We were already on the ground floor.
Without looking back, I said goodbye:
“See you.”
A couple of years later, I was at university and living in Caracas. I was still training at the same facility, but now I had to take the bus to university.
I was at the bus stop, and my bus was already quite close, when I saw a man walking briskly towards me, his eyes fixed on my bag and his manner decidedly aggressive.
I had barely a second to decide whether to wait for the bus or run to the entrance to the sports complex. The gate was kept locked, and I would have to ring the intercom for someone to let me in, giving the thug enough time to take my belongings.
As I stood there torn between the two options, I felt someone approach from behind, gently place his hand on my waist and say:
“Darling, have you been waiting long?”
At the sight of this athletic man, almost a metre ninety tall, the would-be robber immediately fled.
Still in shock, unable to think clearly or understand what had happened, I turned to look at the person who had saved me from a cruel fate.
It was the boxer.
In a gentle, reassuring voice, he apologised for touching me without my permission, but explained that it was the only way he had been able to think of to stop the mugger from attacking me.
His exact words were:
“I couldn’t let anything bad happen to someone who had always been kind to me.”
My knees went weak as the adrenaline wore off.
He stayed by my side until he was sure I was calmer and had caught my bus to university.
I never saw him again.
Being courteous and respectful towards others could save your future self’s life.
With nothing more to add, be kind.
“No act of kindness, no matter how small, is ever wasted.”
Aesop