Running away from my Workaway host in the middle of the night

On the realities of traveling as a woman

I often travel alone, much to the dismay of workplace acquaintances or distant family members who just couldn’t possibly understand why a woman would want to travel solo. Often I’m met with a barrage of questions and concerns for my safety, mostly from people who’ve never visited these places insisting it’s much too dangerous for me. I know they mean well, but behind each anxious interrogation or worrisome remark they all seem to say:

Don’t you know this world isn’t made for you?

Of course, I take their concerns with a grain of salt. I know travel carries its inherent dangers, but if I listened to every person who told me that travel was too dangerous for a woman, I’d never leave my house.

I’ve been solo traveling off and on since I was 19, and one of the ways I’ve made it viable for myself is through work exchanges. I’ve used sites like Workaway and Worldpackers to find volunteer placements abroad and have had generally positive experiences over the years. (I do have a lot of thoughts and feelings about the ethics of these platforms, but honestly you should check out fialka 🌸’s article where she does an amazing job at nailing these points).

For those not familiar with the concept of these work exchange sites, hosts from all over the world can use these platforms to connect with and host volunteers who work for a certain number of hours in exchange for food and accommodation. These exchanges often attract young backpacker types or those traveling with super tight budgets, (of which I’ve previously been both), and are also meant to offer participants some sort of cultural exchange or skill share.

All of my previous experiences with work exchanges until this point had been positive, so when I decided I wanted to learn how to sail I found a Workaway host at a sailing school in Panama.

I’m not oblivious to the dangers that traveling alone can entail for women or anyone for that matter; I’d done my best to research and prepare as much as I could beforehand. I found a host with a five-star rating and an exchange where I would be living in my own separate apartment and working in a sailing school setting around other sailors and students. As far as work placements went, this one sounded ideal.

On the day I arrived, I touched down in Panama after a beautiful and only slightly-harrowing ride in a single engine plane over a gorgeous tropical archipelago. The islands seemed straight out of a Caribbean postcard: colorful houses propped up by wooden pillars jutted out over a crystalline blue sea. As I exited the plane on the humid island runway, I was greeted by a waft of salty air and the friendly, laid-back demeanor of my Workaway host who had showed up in classic island fashion: no shoes, just a bicycle. He was in his early fourties and is one of the junior partners of the sailing school.

I should have known the vibes seemed off when the the first question he asked me was how old I was. “I just turned 27 last week,” I replied. “Ha. I’m 15 years older than you, isn’t that funny?”

I did an awkward laugh and brushed it off, just hoping he meant nothing by it.

(Side note: of course he did.)

We started walking and chatting a bit more and then he hailed us a taxi. This really confused me as according to Google maps, the sailing school should only be a 2 minute walk from the airport. I asked him if we could stop by a supermarket first as I still need to get a SIM card for my phone. He just waved me off and says we’ll do that later.

In the taxi, I began asking questions like where are we going, and shouldn’t we be heading to the sailing school and he just made vague excuses as to why the sailing school isn't suitable. He told me not to worry, the place he’s taking me to is a “much better place” for me to stay.

We pulled up to a beautiful two-story house right on the ocean, tucked away in a remote part of the coastline. It’s the only place around for miles, save a tiny beach bar next door. He brought me upstairs and showed me around the place which was beautifully furnished and cozy.

“You’ll stay in here, and I’ll be in this room.”

My stomach dropped. He never mentioned that he would be living in the same house as me. Let alone just the two of us in this remote house far away from anything else.

Of course I was uncomfortable but my brain tried to rationalize the situation. Mentally, I talked myself down out of spiraling. Maybe he wasn’t being creepy, and this this was all some sort of misunderstanding. Perhaps I was reading this all wrong and got things confused because of the language barrier.

He then brought me to my bedroom so I could put my things down. I peaked my head into the closet only to find it’s full of little girl clothes. Dolls, dresses, and toys line the shelves.

“Whose house is this?” I asked.

“I’m housesitting,” he responded.

“For who? For a family? What family??”

“My boss, my boss. Don’t worry.” I was immediately more confused because I was supposed to be meeting “his boss” (the other captain) at the sailing school. Why was I here alone with this man in someone else’s house? Was the other captain even in Panama?

Again, my alarm bells were firing. I had no idea what to do. If I said something at this point, I risk offending him. What if he thinks that I think he’s a predator? What would he do then?

He then told me he was going to take his bike into town for the afternoon and wouldn’t be back until the evening. I asked him how I could get to town as I need to get to a supermarket and get a SIM card for my phone. He told me it’s about 2 hours walking and no, there is no other bike. Great.

Even with my host gone from the house, my body still felt tense and uneasy. I couldn’t relax, and was constantly thinking about him coming home. I tried to push down my feelings and told myself to give it one night. Maybe I give him a chance and meet the other captains tomorrow who can explain everything and clear up all of the confusion. I just needed to Stop. Being. Dramatic.

Come nightfall, I still felt so incredibly on edge. I began to get ready for bed and started preparing my room for the evening. I went to try the door to make sure the lock was latched when the whole doorknob just came off in my hand.

Shit.

I now had no way to latch the door closed. Even worse, I knew that he knew about the broken doorknob because he had been staying in this house for a while. My mind was racing at the thought of this man in the room next door with no way to lock the door. At this point, I’m was trying to jam the door closed with a spare curtain rod I found just to make sure he couldn’t open in from the other side.

It was nearly midnight. My mind was running at about a million miles an hour. I was all alone with this strange man in this house in the middle of nowhere, now with a broken bedroom door. My thoughts spiraled. I wondered if I screamed, would anyone even hear me?

I’ve got to get out of here.

I quickly packed up my bags and ran over to the tiny beach bar next door undetected. I had no idea where this guy was, and kept looking over my shoulder hoping he wouldn’t see me leave. Fortunately a young woman was working at the bar serving a couple of stray bargoers. She seemed taken back by me standing there in my pajamas with all of my bags, but she immediately recognized the look of panic in my eyes when I told her, “I need to get out of here.”

She phoned a hostel in town to make sure they had space for me and graciously called me a taxi. I stood there waiting anxiously as the beach bar, hoping the taxi would arrive soon.

Suddenly, the man appears behind me.

He had this look of blind, white rage behind his eyes. The piercing kind that freezes you in your tracks. I knew that look, my body knew that look. This guy was bad news.

He started yelling at me, “You’re SCARED? Why are you SCARED??? “ I tried to stammer out some response but I was flustered and nothing seemed to come out. He continued yelling as I just stood there frozen, unable to move.

Fortunately, this was all in front of the few people at the beach bar. He was still there when the taxi finally arrived to pick me up. The bartender watched over me as I hurried in the cab. She stayed to make sure I left safely and even spoke with the driver on my behalf—I am so immensely grateful for her and her kindness that evening.

I arrived at my hostel sometime after midnight completely disheveled, still in my pajamas, but feeling relieved. Once my body finally had the chance to rest and release the tension I didn’t even realize I was holding, I completely broke down.

…

In some ways I was most angry at myself for even attempting to give my host the benefit of the doubt and acting exactly how our patriarchal society had raised me to be—complicit, docile, polite. I was so worried about not offending the guy that I kept quieting the alarm bells that were blaring in my head. I told myself my fear and discomfort was my problem, not his.

To be a woman is to be taught how to doubt. It is to be conditioned to silence our intuition and put the comfort of others above our own safety. We’re taught to not take up space. We’re told to not make a scene. Smile to men. Say yes, please, thank you for sparing me this time.

That voice is not our own. It’s been in our ears since birth. It’s the product of layers and layers of social conditioning that uphold a world where men are not held accountable for their actions. By dismissing our own needs and gut instincts to protect the feelings of men, we enable this predatory pattern to continue.

…

Weeks later, I ended up posting in a sailing Facebook group and loosely referenced my experience without any of the details. A woman reached out to me to say she had a bad experience with this same guy. It was much worse than mine. Another woman before her had a similar story. My gut instinct was right all along: he was a predator.

The women were too afraid of the repercussions of reporting him or leaving a negative review so they didn’t do or say anything.

For context, Workaway hides negative reviews of hosts. Hosts can also respond to reviews and retaliate against volunteers by leaving them equally bad reviews that could hinder their ability for getting other work placements in the future.

We ended up reporting him to Workaway, however I found out later that he had been previously reported in the past. When he had his account taken down, he simply just made a new Workaway host profile. Workaway doesn’t require IDs or background checks on hosts, so in theory anyone could keep making new profiles in perpetuity.

…

While platforms like Workaway enable and protect abusers, this same system is perpetuated when people claim that travel is inherently dangerous for women. With each passing comment that the world is simply “too unsafe” for women to comfortably exist in, we uphold a system that allows the poor behavior of men to go unchecked. It gives perpetrators free reign to act poorly because we claim it’s a woman’s fault for putting herself in a position where she could potentially be harmed.

If we even gave half of the energy we spend telling women that travel is unsafe towards calling out men for their predatory behavior, we would be living in a whole other world entirely. We will only come to know a safer world when we finally hold men accountable for their actions.

As for me, I’m done supporting Workaway because of how poorly they handled the situation. I will, however, keep solo traveling and trusting my gut instincts as I keep exploring and learning about the world.

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Cover image credit: Vitaly Mazur on Unsplash