"One evening, while working with a Brazilian elder near one of Brazil's infamous favelas, we found ourselves waiting at a gas station for a member of the church to take us to teach one of his friends. At this point, I had been in Brazil for roughly one month and my Portuguese was still pretty weak. As my companion chatted with the gas station attendant, I found I could not follow the conversation and began to daydream and listen to the American pop music playing over the gas station speakers.
With my back to
the road, I suddenly noticed that my companion and the attendant had
stopped talking and were looking over my shoulders with great concern
while slowly raising their hands and walking backwards. I turned to look
and found a man with a black pistol pointed at me, shouting orders in
Portuguese. Not being able to understand exactly what he wanted, my
companion grabbed my arm and pulled me along as we, along with the other
gas station attendants, were led into the small booth where the cash
register was kept.
The man, clearly imbalanced and not someone with whom we could have reasoned, continued to shout at me as we were herded into the booth. He gestured at my bag with his pistol, repeatedly bringing it up to where I could clearly see down the barrel. As I did not understand what he wanted, my companion reached over, opened the bag, and said, "See, only a Bible. Nothing more." My companion also pulled up my shirt sleeves to show that I was not wearing a watch and said, "We are missionaries of Christ. We have nothing, my friend."
Meanwhile, another man that I had failed to notice (likely because a presumably loaded gun was pointed at my head) was cleaning out the cash register through the window of the booth. Once he had finished, the man with the gun requested a lock, shut the door of the booth, and locked the 4-5 of us inside. I was the closest to the door followed by my companion then the attendants in a line behind us.
After about 3-4 seconds, he suddenly gave a loud shout and brought the butt of his pistol against the glass of the booth door, sending small shards of glass into my hair, neck, and shirt collar. When I looked again, the two men were running around the corner, back into the favela.
We immediately climbed out of the booth window and my companion began to help me clean the glass off of my clothes and skin. Small streams of blood were running down my left arm but almost all the shards brushed away easily. I had just wiped the last of the blood from my arm when the church member we were waiting for pulled up to the curb, welcomed us into his car, and we sped away to our next appointment."
-Jake Dinsdale
The man, clearly imbalanced and not someone with whom we could have reasoned, continued to shout at me as we were herded into the booth. He gestured at my bag with his pistol, repeatedly bringing it up to where I could clearly see down the barrel. As I did not understand what he wanted, my companion reached over, opened the bag, and said, "See, only a Bible. Nothing more." My companion also pulled up my shirt sleeves to show that I was not wearing a watch and said, "We are missionaries of Christ. We have nothing, my friend."
Meanwhile, another man that I had failed to notice (likely because a presumably loaded gun was pointed at my head) was cleaning out the cash register through the window of the booth. Once he had finished, the man with the gun requested a lock, shut the door of the booth, and locked the 4-5 of us inside. I was the closest to the door followed by my companion then the attendants in a line behind us.
After about 3-4 seconds, he suddenly gave a loud shout and brought the butt of his pistol against the glass of the booth door, sending small shards of glass into my hair, neck, and shirt collar. When I looked again, the two men were running around the corner, back into the favela.
We immediately climbed out of the booth window and my companion began to help me clean the glass off of my clothes and skin. Small streams of blood were running down my left arm but almost all the shards brushed away easily. I had just wiped the last of the blood from my arm when the church member we were waiting for pulled up to the curb, welcomed us into his car, and we sped away to our next appointment."
-Jake Dinsdale
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