Date of Incident: December 2nd, 2025
Resort: Bahia Principe Grand Punta Cana (Do NOT recommend)

Getting drugged while traveling solo was not something I thought could happen to me, a seasoned traveller with over a dozen solo conquests. Yet I fell victim, and it’s hands down my scariest travel experience. Ever.

The incident occurred in Punta Cana in the country of the Dominican Republic, a location I’ve vacationed to previously. I’m no stranger to all-inclusive resorts. I enjoy them because I don’t have to budget for food and drink. It’s abundant and everywhere. And includes alcohol. This can create some chaotic situations, as you can imagine. Personally, I am far beyond the phase in my life where I equate intoxication with fun. Losing control of my facilities is not something I enjoy. It’s not safe. Especially flying solo outside the USA. But I consider myself mature enough to handle drinks in a bar and walking 700 steps back to my room.

I took my laptop to the bar straight after dinner and was there for approximately four hours. The first two and a half were spent slowly sipping two drinks (margarita on the rocks with salt on the rim) and working on my upcoming novel.

I welcomed interactions with strangers and had many interesting conversations. In fact, the entire Canadian ultimate frisbee team was there playing a championship tournament. They brought an amazing energy, and I now know a lot about Ultimate Frisbee. Who knows? Maybe my manuscript needs UF-playing robots? Hmm…

By 9:30 pm, things had picked up in the bar. I closed my laptop and stowed it safely away in my backpack. I’d met a fellow female solo traveler, and we were sitting together at the bar. I was having a blast. It’d been a while since I’d just enjoyed myself. I had two more drinks while hanging out with my friend. Then, sometime between 10:30 and 11:00 pm, she left to go to the restroom and never returned. That didn’t surprise me—she’d had a ton to drink and was easily sidetracked.

“And I thought, okay. I’ll drink it. I don’t have to drive, and my room is only 700 steps away.”

At this point, I’d consumed four drinks over three and a half hours. I sent my boyfriend a text saying I was starting to feel tipsy. That’s when I intended to stop drinking. It’s my natural stopping point. But the bartender who’d been entertaining us all night had refilled my drink without my asking. And I thought, okay. I’ll drink it. I don’t have to drive, and my room is only 700 steps away. Famous last words, eh?

“I remember suddenly feeling drunk and knowing I needed to get myself to my room.”

I sat at the bar, nursed my drink, and waited for my friend. She never showed. I enjoyed random conversations with a series of nondescript individuals—that is, until a handsy man started bugging me. To my best recollection, which is alarmingly fuzzy, he was a darker-skinned Latino with thick black curly hair a few inches long, wearing a white polo, and was shorter than me. He was quite pushy, which was my cue to leave. My drink was nearly empty, and I remember suddenly feeling drunk and knowing I needed to get myself to my room. The man was hanging on to me and trying to kiss me and making me entirely uncomfortable. He put his arms around me and said he needed to make sure I got to my room safely. I told him no and shoved him away.

My last memory was putting my backpack on and walking out of the bar alone in my lemon-dotted sundress. I remember being alarmed because I was veering sharply to the left when trying to walk straight. My body wasn’t responding the way it was supposed to. This was likely near 11:00 pm.

That’s the last thing I remember.

“It felt like I was in a scene from a car accident, when the victim wakes up on the ground without a clue what happened.”

The next thing I knew, it was 6:00 am. My eyes snapped open. The ceiling fan was swirling overhead, throwing shadows over me. Every single light in the room was on. It felt like I was in a scene from a car accident, when the victim wakes up on the ground without a clue what happened. But I was about 90% sure I was in my own room.

Then I looked at my body and found I was fully clothed in the dress I had worn the night before. The bed next to me was empty and undisturbed (thank God!). And all this time, I was so confused. I was in my room, right? How did I get there? Wasn’t I just in the bar? How much did I drink?!

“For some odd reason, the door to my room was open. And when I closed it, the stuff of nightmares surfaced.”

My head was throbbing. I needed water and the restroom. I sat up, and the world came crashing down on me. Drinking water was out of the question. The thought made me sick, but I still needed to pee, so I eventually managed to stand. As I stumbled around the corner, I couldn’t get my eyes to focus. Everything hurt. But, for some odd reason, the door to my room was open. And when I closed it, the stuff of nightmares surfaced.

Trigger warning, ya’ll. This ain’t for the weak of stomach.

On the wall beside the door, I saw what appeared to be blood-tinged vomit running into a pile on the floor. I was so confused. That hadn’t been there before, right? Had someone thrown up in my room? Just looking at the mess made me more queasy. It was so confusing, and I was feeling so poorly that I resolved to leave it and figure it out later.

But then I saw the bathroom, and I just stood, frozen in shock. I couldn’t fathom the scene before me. The sink was clogged with vomit. The toilet seat was up, there was vomit in the bowl, with more on the rim and spilling down the side to the floor.

I examined my dress, face, hair, and feet. I found no splatter, but logic still dictated it had to be me.

Had I thrown up everywhere? Surely not. I’d remember… wouldn’t I?
I examined my dress, face, hair, and feet. I found no splatter, but logic still dictated it had to be me.

But right then, I needed to get back to bed, pronto. My head was in a vice grip, and the world was spinning. I somehow cleaned enough for me to use the restroom and wash my hands. And then I threw up. When the vomit matched the rest of the scene, I knew the culprit had to’ve been me.

Here’s a secret: I have a true phobia of vomiting. It’s called emetophobia. I don’t vomit easily or often. I average a single episode once every 3-4 years. And it’s a big ordeal when it does happen. I get flashbacks for a long time afterwards. That scene was a nightmare. How could I have zero memory of it? It didn’t seem possible.

Later, thanks to my Apple Watch, I learned I’d taken 14 steps during this time before crawling back to bed and falling into fitful sleep. Each time I woke, I was sick, nauseated, and in pain. The second time I woke, I managed to take some nausea meds. The third time, some pain meds. At noon, I took my overdue prescription meds and prayed I’d keep them down. Then, finally, around 1 pm, I managed to sit up in my bed. I check my phone, but my eyes can hardly focus. I see several missed messages from my boyfriend.

It was like being in a car accident that’d happened to someone else, and I was just left wandering around looking for clues and reconstructing the scene.

He calls, and we start trying to piece together what happened. During this time, I’m feeling embarrassed, humiliated, and so very confused. It was like being in a car accident that’d happened to someone else, and I was just left wandering around looking for clues and reconstructing the scene. It took three hours of talking with him for me to realize what I’d been through was far more than drinking, and that I had to’ve been drugged. It’s difficult because many of the other symptoms mimic the average hangover. All except for the biggie: blackout. I’ve never, no matter how much I’ve drunk, and even if I’ve gotten sick, blacked out. The other symptom is confusion, and that was abundant.

If I hadn’t vomited, I’d probably be dead

Those hours on the phone included combing my Apple Watch data for clues. It gave some reassurances that I left the bar when I thought I did, and that I didn’t move from the time I lay down on that bed till my eyes snapped open six hours later. It’s also how I learned my heart rate dropped dangerously low—45 bpm—during the time I was unconscious. Then I learned that roofies/date rape drugs are made with some of the same components used for clinical sedation. Dangers of the drugs include extremely low heart rates and aspirating vomit, which is why you’re fully monitored by an anesthesiologist, and why you’re not supposed to eat the night before a procedure. Later, my therapist would point out that the body loses consciousness between 42-45 bpm, and that was after I’d vomited everywhere. So if I hadn’t, I’d probably be dead.

It’s about three pm at this point. I’d been locked in my room all day, and all I had available to me were a couple of bottles of water, two sodas, and an apple. I made them last as long as I could, but I had to do something once my hydration ran out. It was past six pm when I finally left my room. I needed fluids badly. I was unsure if I could handle food, but was going to try. Thankfully, I found my body was grateful for plain rice and french fries and (carefully) ate my fill.

“I asked my translation app to help me explain in Spanish that someone had drugged my drink.”

I went straight to the bar after dinner and chose a table with a clear view. I leerily watched the patrons while working on my manuscript. I was on the hunt for one guest in particular—the one who’d drugged me. The bartenders remembered me and tried to serve me a drink. I turned them down, which had them confused. After all, I’d been having a great time the night before. Using my phone, I asked my translation app to help me explain in Spanish that someone had drugged my drink. The shock was evident on their faces. At first, they panicked a bit until I assured the crew I wasn’t accusing them. I gave them a hazy description of the suspect and returned to my table.

I’ve not had many hangovers in my life. Not ones that I couldn’t knock out with some Powerade and aspirin, anyway. I’d never thrown up the next day, either. Not before that day. That’s why I’d never tried taking a ‘drink from the dog that bit me’. In other words, chasing a hangover with its catalyst poison. But after sitting for an hour, I began to wonder if a drink could help knock out my headache. Eventually, I had the bartenders prepare a margarita and was surprised when the first few sips didn’t make me feel ill or any worse. It took a bit of time and several more swallows for me to feel relief. In the end, it helped clear some of the lingering head pain.

My whole nervous system was on alert, watching for the assaliant and refusing to let my drink out of sight. But when he didn’t show, I began to relax a bit and enjoy the atmosphere. My manuscript grew in length. People I’d met the night before started to show up. I told several of them my story.

“This male guest informed me someone had tried to sell him roofies at that very resort.”

I was, however, unprepared for one person’s response. This male guest informed me someone had tried to sell him roofies at that very resort. I was flabbergasted and 100% validated at the same time. There was no remaining doubt that a substance had landed in my drink. It was literally being sold on the grounds of my hotel.

My mind flashed to approximately 2:00 pm the day before. I’d noticed a man walking a young woman to her room, only she seemed barely conscious. He was dragging her more than she was moving on her own. At the time, I thought it looked suspicious, but thought surely it was just one friend helping another. If I’d known that drug was on the grounds, I like to think I’d have stopped to question that man. Ask him if he could tell me the woman’s name or anything else about her. Walk with them. Alert security. Anything but wonder if something nefarious is going on, then doing nothing.

“I pressed the only cash I had, one five-dollar bill, into her hand and said ”lo siento””

The night passed without my spotting the man from the previous evening. The next day, I was eating lunch when the housekeeper from the day before walked past my table. I looked the other way and prayed she didn’t notice me. Twice the day before, she’d knocked on the door to my room before I’d finally let her in to clean it. I was so embarrassed. I’d done all I could to contain the mess, but I had no cleaning supplies, no gloves. My only sink had been vomited in. A few of the hotel towels wound up in the trash. But I desperately needed the room cleaned. I’d had the balcony door open and the fan on for hours, trying to clear it out.

When she knocked the third time, I pressed the only cash I had, one five-dollar bill, into her hand and said ”lo siento” (‘I’m sorry’ in Spanish). I then shut myself outside on the room’s balcony until she was done. I was too sick to actually use my laptop, so I spent my time moving my chair to evade direct sunlight.

I felt so much better when I re-entered my room an hour later. Everything was sparkling. The entire room had been mopped. Except for missing the bloody vomit on the wall (probably because it was behind the open door), you’d never know anything had happened.

I’d accidentally made a decision that’d been weighing on me: whether or not to alert the hotel staff.

By the third time the employee walked guests past my table, it was clear she was working the restaurant, and her path kept bringing her back. I couldn’t stand it anymore. I had to fess up. I prepared a message on my phone’s translator app apologizing for the state of my room and telling her someone had drugged my drink. My only intent in giving her that message was to apologize for the dastardly room. So when her eyes went wide, and she told me to please wait here for a minute, I knew I’d accidentally made a decision that’d been weighing on me: whether or not to alert the hotel staff.

It made logical sense that I’d been drugged, but I fought strong self-doubt

In retrospect, that decision should’ve been easy. I should’ve called the hotel line for help as soon as I knew what’d happened. It’d have been marvelous to receive actual medical care, but I was too sick to think straight. I could only focus on one moment to the next. The other truth was, I hadn’t fully accepted what’d happened to me. It made logical sense that I’d been drugged, but I fought strong self-doubt until that guest told me his story.

I was ushered into the hotel lobby, where a manager took my statement. It wasn’t long before seven people surrounded me, including the head of security. I was impressed by the attention they were giving. It made me realize just how serious the situation was. They were very accommodating and offered to change my room, take me to medical, and to the police. I declined all requests. I was leaving the next day and just needed to relax.

“There was a significant language barrier.”

I did not, however, have confidence that my complaint went anywhere. It didn’t help that the details I could provide about the suspect were scant. There was a significant language barrier. One detrimental example was me telling them about the person selling drugs on the resort. They didn’t comprehend what I was trying to say, and I have zero confidence it was followed up on.

They told me they’d check the cameras and let me know if they found anything, but they also said they needed a minimum of 48 hours to investigate. I was leaving in 24. I left the lobby with a vague promise that someone would call me if something was found and set out to enjoy the last day of my vacation. Or try to, anyway.

I soaked in the sun and the waves, but did not get the restoration I’d travelled all that distance to seek. And, for the first time ever, I left a trip with more baggage than I’d brought along. There were new scars. My place of solace had become the enemy.

Will I Ever Travel Solo Again?

I pride myself on being a safe traveler, triply so when going solo. This one shook me to the very core. I had to break it down, figure it out. How did I let this happen to me? The answer was a mixture of things, the biggest being that I wasn’t on a date, nor was I flirting or encouraging any such interactions. The next was that no one was buying me drinks. No one was buying anyone drinks. We were at an all-inclusive resort.

Those two things kept me from being as guarded as I should’ve been, because I know I wasn’t properly watching my glass. I was sitting at the bar, the drink was on the counter, and it had an exceptionally wide rim—akin to a martini glass. It was cumbersome to carry without spilling, so I left it on the counter unless I was taking a sip. The bar was bustling, and I was having a grand time chatting away with guests in line. Guests who sometimes hit on me. But I can’t walk into a gas station without getting hit on. It’s life. I’m skilled at brushing it off. Thankfully, it seems I’m practiced enough at pushing it away to get myself out of a life-threatening situation, even after being drugged.

So will I travel solo again? Yes. Very soon. But my next trip to a resort might not be alone. And I’ll be taking something like these drink covers or even these drug-detecting test strips with me wherever I go. In the meantime, I’ll do as I always do: move forward one step at a time.

Thank you for reading my story.

~Brandie

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