Thank you Unsplash for the photo by Tim L. Productions
It was hot. Not a whisper of a breeze, not a drop of water in sight and the merciless sun continued to scorch down on the black pavement I was standing on. I do not normally perspire, but on this particular afternoon, I could feel the wetness playfully tiptoeing down my back and trickling down my face. My parched throat was begging for relief. I looked around for a water fountain or a tap but decided against searching further. I had arrived at the park two hours early to secure that prime location and was not about to abandon it in the fast-growing crowd.
I resigned myself to a little dehydration. It was a small price to pay for this perfect view of the stage. Never have I waited to see a famous person. Today was an exception.
I was close enough to see him sweat.
Up first on the stage was a pre-entertainment extravaganza unfolding before my eyes. A Caribbean Bohemian music group began to entertain a budding and enthusiastic audience. The lead singer bursting with a bubbly character belted out tunes with an island accent. Her co-singer worked hard to encourage participation from the spectators. He sang his heart out. His moves were groovy as if his feet were fueled by a fusion of energy and mastery. Their exuberance was infectious. Despite the merciless heat and humidity, heads began bopping, arms flailed, and bodies bounced. I looked around, and a childlike joy embraced me. Everyone seemed happy. The group’s lively performance was a testament to the remarkable power of music and its ability to uplift spirits.
Only thirty minutes ago, there were just a few of us here. Now I could not discern where the jiving sea of people ended.
Next, an Indigenous performance took the stage, accompanied by the booming beat of traditional drums. The rhythm echoed through the air, evoking a deep sense of connection to the roots and traditions of the land. This display of cultural richness left me in awe of music’s beauty and strength to unite us.
The master of ceremonies, our city’s local radio announcer, strode onto the stage with confidence and a warm smile to introduce an illustrious list of guests.
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to this grand celebration of talent and leadership. We have a dazzling lineup of featured entertainers, esteemed politicians, distinguished dignitaries, our beloved city’s mayor, and of course, the visionary founder of this festival.”
As each guest emerged from the wings, the master of ceremonies skillfully painted a picture of their achievements and contributions. With a dash of humour, the MC kept the atmosphere cheery and engaging. Regardless of their position or status, each speaker received equal respect and attention. As they were introduced, they took their seats in a row at the front of the stage, waiting for their turn to speak.
Finally, as the last introduction echoed through the venue, the MC’s voice rang out, “Ladies and gentlemen, it is now my pleasure and distinct privilege to extend a warm welcome to our final guest…”
WHAT!?
An elderly lady in front of me slumped over in her chair. Her body folded in half, and her arms hung aimlessly at her sides. Moments ago, I watched her yellow sun hat bounce as she was doing the Caribbean Cha Cha. Now her vibrant yellow sun hat rested on the ground like a lost saucer. “This can’t be good,” I muttered to myself.
Despite the obvious nature of the situation, I graced the lady’s husband with my dumb question, “Is she okay? Do you need help?” I shouted.
The man’s expression was a medley of panic, desperation, and relief that someone acknowledged this dreadful situation. “Yes, she needs help, PLEASE!” he cried.
I mentally prepared for my heroic sprint, however, weaving through the thousands of vivacious packed-in partiers was like dream-waddling through waist-deep pudding. Each step required flexible maneuvering around people. Despite my repeated ‘Excuse me please…. emergency!”, my words went unheard due to the cheering and the excitement for the speaker on stage. The sea did not part as I had expected, and the festivities continued.
My mind was frantic as I tried to recall where I had spotted the paramedics earlier. How would I get them to her? Would the paramedics make an announcement on the stage asking everyone to stop the show? I distantly heard the master of ceremonies introduce the next guest. The speakers continued with their messages, unaware that deep in the throng, a woman lay unconscious.
And then, there they were, the paramedics, huddled around a makeshift first aid station adorned with fake palm trees. I charged towards them.
Reaching the paramedics, I searched for the most important things to tell them first. I know timing is everything. In a breathless torrent of words, I blurted, “Elderly lady, Cha Cha, sun hat, collapse, over there, help needed, PLEASE!”
I wasn’t as calm and articulate as I thought I might be in an emergency, but nevertheless, message delivered.
With a sense of urgency, the paramedics immediately strategized their path to the lady. They asked me what she was wearing. Except for the prominent yellow hat, I did not know. I said, “She will be the one slumped over in her chair.” and then assured them that I could lead them to where she was.
Just as the rescue team and I were ready to enter the boisterous crowd, the lady and her husband emerged from the mass like a fly who had just escaped the deadly trap of a spider web. They were both weak, wobbly, and clearly shaken from the ordeal. She was okay! The man told us his wife had fainted likely due to the sweltering heat. I breathed a sigh of relief.
I was delighted that she was alive and well. Having fulfilled my self-appointed duty as a bumbling hero….
BUT LADY!!! I LOST MY SPOT!
Scrambling around the back edge of the audience, I looked for a clear opening to a view of the stage. Many of our city’s representatives and guests had already spoken. Our mayor was now saying a few words. Time was ticking, and I had to find a vantage point before the mayor wrapped up his speech.
“I will need a tree and binoculars to see him now,” I sulked to myself.
Despite my best efforts, the stage was entirely obscured. The mayor finished speaking. Resigned to my new status as a non-spectator, I stopped and focused on listening intently. And there it was, the moment I had sacrificially sweated for – the long-awaited introduction. The member of parliament’s voice belted out, through the microphone, over the thunderous cheering, “It is my great pleasure to introduce to you, my prime minister, your prime minister, the Honourable….
Shivers radiated through my body, and my eyes welled up with pride from behind the myraid of heads, hats and sun umbrellas.
I strained to hear every word as the prime minister delivered a powerful speech on unity, diversity, and celebration. With eloquence and charm, he spoke about what it truly meant to be Canadian, embracing the freedom of our differences and cherishing our human rights.
The air filled with cheers, applause and a roar of excitement. Beside me, a man unleashed his enthusiasm, driving his fist into the air, and bellowed from the depths of his throat, “OH YEAH!” His exuberance rivalled that of everyone around us.
His spirited display made me smile at him. Noticing this, he stepped closer to me. “The prime minister is a passionate man with integrity and great leadership,” he remarked, clearly impressed.
“Absolutely,” I nodded in agreement.
Dressed impeccably, this handsome man exuded sophistication. His white shirt was crisply pressed, complemented by dark trousers and high-quality shoes. Given the outdoor venue on a sizzling afternoon, he seemed out of place. A lanyard around his neck bore the name of a prestigious national travel firm, but his name tag portion was tucked in his shirt, hidden from sight. I nicknamed him Teggy for the purpose of this story.
Glancing at his lanyard, I commented, “Great organization. You must love your job. I’m sure you meet many interesting people.”
Teggy replied with a smile, “Yes, I enjoy my work. I am a customer service agent from out of town. I decided to explore the city during my dinner break and ended up here.”
His interest in conversation was evident, and he asked if I wanted to join him for a smoke.
“I don’t smoke,” I responded, “and I doubt smoking is allowed in this park. But I am happy to show you to the park exit where smoking is permitted.”
Teggy appeared happy with my response.
As we walked towards the exit, he unexpectedly interrupted my questions about his job. With a voice loud enough for others around us to hear, he asked, “Do you like younger men?” I found the question rather peculiar, and my intuition antenna started to twitch.
“Yes, I like all men… ah, I mean, I like all PEOPLE,” I quickly corrected myself, trying to diffuse any awkwardness. Teggy shifted back to the topic of his job. His question was disturbing, compelling me to think of a way to insert into our conversation that I have a lost husband in the park.
Once we reached the park’s exit, he lit his cigarette, allowing me to interject that I needed to go find my husband. I attempted to walk away, but he continued to talk. It seemed impolite to leave amid his narrative; besides, I love stories, and his tale was turning into a fascinating one.
He continued sharing his experiences from his life in Madagascar. There he served as a government ombudsman for the elementary education system. He proudly emphasized that he was considered a person of integrity in his home country.
Pausing his story, he asked, “I am staying at a hotel a few blocks away. Care to join me for a drink?”
Politely, I declined and repeated, “I really need to go find my husband. We got separated, and he’s somewhere here in the park.”
Teggy seemingly ignored my response and continued talking. The more I listened, the more my worries about his earlier strange question faded. I became completely captivated by his enthralling story.
Puffing on the cigarette firmly clenched in his teeth, Teggy recounted an incident back home where Madagascar’s finance minister faced allegations of fraudulent activities. “The people of Madagascar were angry and demanded accountability and the minister’s removal from office. The president and the finance minister were friends causing the president to be hesitant to believe that the finance minister had done anything inappropriate. Contacting me for assistance, the president said he would react to the fate of the finance minister based on my findings.” Teggy continued, “As someone with an office of integrity and honesty, I was the only one in a position to conduct a fair investigation on the finance minister.”
Teggy asked, “Do you want to come back to my hotel for a drink?”
Was he not hearing me? “No,” I reiterated, attempting to clarify that I had no interest in such an offer. “My husband is probably waiting for me, and I need to …. “
He cut me off mid-excuse and continued. “The president asked me to report back to him with the results of the inquiry in two weeks. Because of his friendship, I was encouraged to find the finance minister innocent to maintain public trust. The president said if I told the country that the finance minister is clear of any wrongdoing, they will believe me, and the charges will blow over. It was the only way out for the finance minister to regain public trust in office if someone like me, a person of integrity, in an office of trust, declared him innocent.”
“Do you want to go to my hotel for a drink?”
This guy is persistent! “NO!” I said louder and stronger. “I need to go find my husband. But I do have one question. “Was the finance minister innocent?”
“No,” Teggy replied. “I discovered he was involved in many illegal dealings.” The president was not pleased with me or my discoveries. While Madagascar awaited my report, the president sent me to Spain for a week. He wanted some time to think about presenting my account to his country. The president needed to prepare for and manage the public reaction to the news.
He paused his story briefly to extinguish his cigarette, “come for a quick drink?”
He added, “I’ll be back next week. How about that drink then?” I couldn’t help but find the situation comical. In my mind, I was laughing. “Look, Mr. Integrity,” I thought, “You know I am married! I am not interested in going for a drink with you!”
“No,” I retorted out loud, getting annoyed with the repetition. But then I asked, “Were you not afraid that there would be some repercussions to you by solely reporting against your nation’s government?” I really needed to stop asking him questions.
His reply was immediate and resolute, “Absolutely not! If I must choose between my life and my integrity, I will always choose integrity!
So, how about that drink?”
Amusement mixed with a sense of curiosity, I wondered, how would Teggy define integrity? My patience waned; great story, but I was getting bored. I glanced at my phone for theatrics; firmly but politely said, “It was nice talking to you, but I must go find my husband now.”
To my surprise, his demeanour dramatically changed. In a tone that iced my core, he snarled, “Call him… tell him you will be home l-a-t-e-r.”
While my intuition radar had faded somewhat during his story, it was now poking me for attention. I kept my composure and replied calmly, “Again, it was nice talking to you. Have a great visit to the city.”
I walked away. Fast.
As I did, I considered my own integrity. I had just lied several times to Teggy. I did have a husband, but he was not at this festival, nor was he lost. However, I concluded that my mistruths were justified in the spirit of self-protection.
Throughout Teggie’s story, one that I enjoyed, I also learned that he had immigrated from Madagascar alone, having lost both his parents, with no siblings accompanying him. His five years in Toronto had been solitary, and he was unmarried, with no children, liked Chinese food, and clearly liked to drink.
I did not know his name.
The only thing he knew about me was that I had a lost husband.
As I walked away from whatever his name was, I laughed at the irony of his integrity story versus his relentless invitations. It was an interesting half an hour of my life.
Later that night, I recounted the strange encounter to my husband, who found the irony amusing. My friend laughed the next day when I shared the story with her. The following afternoon, I repeated the incident to my adult son. He did not laugh. With a stern expression, he warned me about talking to strangers.
Amused by the role reversal, I laughed it off and said defensively “Michael, he was from out of town, I was just being friendly.”
Michael is a young police officer and has worked for the city police for the past few years. In his short time with the force, he has already seen things a mother hopes her children never have to see.
“Mom,” my son said severely, “I have heard this story before.”
My smile faded, and chills slithered through me.
Michael continued with an unsettling seriousness that turned me ice cold. “He lures you to his hotel, buys you dinner, puts something in your drink, and you become the newest member—no, the latest object—in the human trafficking world.”
Stunned, my heart quivered as I tried to process his words. The fear I should have felt at the park slapped me with a wave of good sense.
“Of course!” I scolded myself for being so gullible. “I should have known better!”
My mind flashed back to the presentations on human trafficking that I had attended at the police station just months ago. Before that, I had naively thought human trafficking was a third-world problem. I was genuinely shocked to learn that not only does human trafficking happen here, but our small city is a major hub.
A flood of questions overwhelmed my thoughts. Could I have unknowingly engaged with a monster who tries to deliberately dazzle unsuspecting women into slavery?
I thought about the incongruities in his story.
How long was his dinner break that he had enough time to woo women at a busy downtown summer-fest? Why would a government have only one person investigate a high-profile government official? Isn’t that usually the work of a committee?
The pieces fell into place. Teggy’s stories about being a school administrator, a government consultant, and a man of integrity made perfect sense now. After all, who wouldn’t trust someone who protects children? Who wouldn’t be intrigued by tales of foreign governments and exotic lands? His statement, “integrity or die.” echoed in my mind. Were these stories meant to manipulate me into trusting him, to make me believe he was an honest and kind person?
My once younger self was cautious. I have since let my guard down and am no longer afraid of kidnappers or sexual predators under the safety of my years. I had no intention or interest in going to his hotel. But I did believe his stories!
How many young people with an adventurous nature would believe a predator’s stories of trust, affection, or wealth? Had his stories worked on someone else?
Still, in disbelief, I asked Michael sarcastically, “What would traffickers want with an old girl like me? To do their dishes?”
Mom,” he replied. “Traffickers typically target young girls and sometimes young boys. Victims can come from good homes and schools, difficult circumstances or be picked up in a park. No one is immune. ANYONE can become a victim. Mom, don’t talk to strangers!”
Thinking back to that afternoon, I thought it ironic that as Teggy was captivating me with great stories, I watched the motorcade of big black SUVs pass by transporting our prime minister out of the city after his speech. What would the prime minister say if he knew? A leader who is a committed advocate for human rights and who just publicly praised our prosperous city and our celebration of human rights, diversity, and freedom. At that crowded festival full of laughter and celebration, the ugliness of human trafficking was in progress, just as easily as a walk in the park.
As I continued to reflect on the events of that day, I am indescribably thankful to be sitting at my desk now writing this story about an escape from the clutches of a perilous trap to a web of an unconceivable hell.
Or….
Could Teggy have been genuinely lonely, only seeking someone to talk to on his dinner break, with no sinister intentions?
He did only ask for a drink.
If you believe someone is a victim of human trafficking, call the Canadian Human Trafficking Hotline: 1-833-900-1010. In case of an emergency, call 911.
If you are or know an owner of a business, please ask if they would consider posting the below hotline information in public washrooms.
Please read the link below to learn more about human trafficking and how it happens. https://knowhumantrafficking.londonpolice.ca