The bridge itself has a single lane of traffic in each direction, and a narrow sidewalk on either side. It isn’t long, around a thousand feet, maybe four city blocks. I was told by local friends that, as a foreigner, I could safely walk to the middle of the bridge, but no farther; unfortunately, there is no visible indication of where exactly the middle is. To make this apparently simple stroll sound even more harrowing, a friend warned me that sometimes Venezuelan National Guard agents would drag unsuspecting foreigners who had crossed this unmarked dividing line to their quarters for a shakedown or worse, especially if they were journalists. I’m not a particularly brave man, and so, with this horror story echoing in my head, I went to the bridge on my first day in Cúcuta in a state of near-panic, glancing warily behind me to spot any would-be abductors. (How would I even recognize them?) I took one anxious step, then another. Is this the middle? What about now? The whole enterprise felt utterly ridiculous.