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The night I got mugged was probably one of the best nights I’ve spent here. Met some really cool people…
How did this all start? Mmm… I was doing an architecture project at a friend’s house, up in Jardin del Mar. It’s the really nice suburb of Viña del Mar: his dad is a retired Marine, and even though “El Caballero” (Pinochet) got booted a few years ago, the system didn’t. They live pretty well, shall we say.
I spent all afternoon at their house working with Pierre, getting served a bunch of really nice spick n’ span Aunt Jemima-type dishes (Tía Ximena?) by his mama. Unfortunately at 5 I had to take off for my yoga lesson in Villa Hermosa, and so left the comfortable little gated house and got on a micro (bus) up to my campamento. I was in such a siesta-after-the-big-latin-meal mood that I totally forgot my yoga mat, which is somewhat of a nuisance when you have to do yoga on a dirty pine-wood floor. Oh, well. More direct communication with Arghyathissucks, the Hindu pain god.
It was a typical lesson. I got there, thinking of other things and wishing that perhaps I shouldn’t have gotten so time-committed into volunteering and Man it’s cold and muddy … but of course, once I swept out the shack, moved the chairs outside, un-dressed, gave all the señoras kisses and they’d gotten ready, and we’d moved through a few series of postures and we were all in the breathing and the zone, I remembered why I was doing it - because it was such a gift, to me and to them and to ourselves…it's what I always go through before starting yoga or going for a run and I don't feel like it. But never in my life have I wished I hadn't run or yoga-ed.
Afterwards we straightened up and talked and since a few of the ladies were part of the plumbing work-shop that was having a final-class barbeque next-door, I was invited to take part. I hesitated a little: there was nothing I would like better, and the simple fact is that in the campamentos you just don’t refuse an invitation like that, but - Pierre was waiting for me back at his house to start work, and it was already 8:30 … but by then there was a cup of hot soup in my hands and a stool under my butt and Fuckit, of course I’m going to stay. I felt bad for Pierre but the insult would have much greater to my pals at Villa Hermosa if I had left.
So we sat round while Ana barbied a pile of meat and the men prepared the coals on the ground and carried them over to the fire on newspaper, while I drank a giant glass of jote (wine and coke) and tried not to blush as all the women rapid-fire interrogated me about my love life. The whole ambience was exactly what you’d picture it to be like: the only light was from the fire and the moon, and the conditions basic, but the people so open and friendly and roaring with laughter at every joke and story - or joke and story about the gringo yoga teacher - and everybody really tranquil and happy to be right there, un-rushed.
I couldn’t stay longer but of course I did, and so we all went into the shack - well, it’s more than that. In spanish, a sede, a place for things to happen. I don’t know what that would be in english, so we’ll go with sede from here out.
Anyways, we all sat down to the table in the sede and drank more jote and were served piles of meat and chicken and vegetables and oh Man, PEBRE! (in the states I think Pico de Gallo?). I am actually a vegetarian but that’s not exactly something you want to admit here, sort of like being gay, so I kept mum and enjoyed some animal - and it was really good… so I told Ana how amazing I thought her thighs were, except it came out like that instead of the way I meant it to, and Man the whole table erupted. Jaime the 60-yr old plumbing teacher spewed out his jote all over his dinner plate. When it quieted down a little I tried to explain that I was actually referring to the chicken but of course it was too late.
Unfortunately, I had to go, eventually. It was Chile but I was pushing the time-frame (it was 11, I was supposed to be at the house by 9). So I thanked profusely every-one around, especially Ana, who, beaming, presented me with three more tutos (thighs) to take home with me… I blushed again and went out the door, full of jote and protein and good vibes.
Back in Jardin del Mar, I rang the bell and found out that Pierre had gone to someone else’s house to work on another project… Damn. Oh, well, so I caught a micro for the 90-min ride back to my house. Since it was mid-night it was hard to find one and I didn’t get off till late. Two days before I’d moved to Valparaiso - to a beautiful house on a hill with five beautiful girls and really cool land-lords - and although it was a beautiful place it was a dangerous neighbourhood at night. I knew this and Lizette my land-lady told me to take a taxi when the elevator was closed (the ascensor that goes up hills that are too steep to walk…). But I didn’t want to pay the $1 and so I started up towards my house. Three guys passed the other way and I nodded and they just looked back and I thought that was weird until 100m up the road, when I was about to turn up a stair-case I was shoved from behind and my back-pack ripped off my back. I’d thought over the past few months about what to do if I got robbed (because I work in the supposed dangerous parts of Valparaiso -equivalents of a brasilian favela- but I have never ever even felt a bad vibe up there...) and so I immediately put my hands up and my head down and tried to get a bearing on where they were. They were already gone, however, sprinting up the stair-case on the other side. I called out and asked them what I intended to be non-chalant and bold but instead was squeaky and stuttery if they wouldn’t mind leaving my bag at the next corner because there was a book I needed… but they didn’t seem to be listening. I stood there, feeling drowned in an absolute roar of reptilian fight/flight emotions, trying to swallow my heart back down to where it should be.
The thing is, I didn’t have anything in the bag, really… just an old pair of high-school basketball shorts and a favourite T, all stinky (yes!), a school-book, a planner, and my reading glasses. I may be gringo enough to walk blindly into a dangerous neighbourhood of Valpo in the middle of the night but not enough to have valuables or money on me… so I figured they’d see that and hopefully toss my bag. I waited for a while and then went up the stair-case they’d gone.
At the top I peeked round the corner, feeling like a turkey on the third wednesday of novembre, but - no gangsters. Damn/Whew. However, a little ways up the road there was a party at a house and a few people standing out-side so I went up to them and asked if they’d happened to notice a few dudes sprinting by with a back-pack.
Mm, no why?
Oh, you know, they uh, robbed me. Nothing big. Just a little old neighbourhood mugging is all.
I felt really bad for bringing this bad news to their party but I kind of wanted my glasses. They all made appropriate sympathetic moaning noises but not too bad cause Duh, I was walking alone at 2am, and gringo to boot...
But they said Man, that sucks, I bet some jote would make you feel better!
I had already consumed enough jote for a roman orgy but Hey, what’s one or two or eight more glasses? and so I went in to the house and joined the party. They were all sailors, and one of the girls was going away for a few months and so this was her good-bye. It’s easy to forget that as a part of the scenery, the massive boats in the harbour actually do go off for trips round the world … everybody there was dark and swarthy and had gold earrings and anchor tattoos. Well, one guy. I asked for some spinach but nobody really got it so I made a few throat-clearing noises and offered another toast.
We ended up partying till the light-time. I could tell people felt a little awkward and ashamed that I’d been robbed and they really wanted to make sure I didn’t feel that this was typical of all Chileans, so every-time I turned round I was being plied with another glass. I think I even ended up shaking my hips to reggaeton with the lady of the house.
I eventually left and was walked to my stair-case by my escort Ami, the 40-yr old whose daughter was leaving en voyage. I promised to call later in the week and then climbed the few hundred stairs to my house, waved from my window to the party on the other hill-side. It was really late/early and every part of me wanted to hit that bed but I stayed a while at the window, watching the party and the sun rise over Valparaiso and listening to the port and the city waking up. My muggers hadn’t hurt me at all, and I was really lucky for that. Nothing was lost that was irreplaceable. I had been lucky enough to share some really good moments with some really quality people that night, and felt content to stand there at my window and acknowledge it and breathe deeply.
Ah, Chile.
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Katie La Gringa
non-member comment
:o
Yeah, it's not a trip to Chile unless you get your bag snatched or witness a bag snatching... The girl who got her bag ripped off in front of me had a $300 camera, her ATM card and 100 lukas in cash in her purse. Uhg. I still cannot fathom why she needed all that for a night out. At least she had travelers insurance, something I did not have when all my luggage was stolen out of my hotel room in Bariloche...