Being robbed in Guatemala City...

After five months of theft-free travel in South America, the United States, Cuba and then Mexico before flying home for my pa´s funeral, it was the very day that I flew back from Melbourne into Guatemala City I fell victim to one of the classic tricks, and allowed myself to be robbed.

Of course, it didn´t help that I had travelled two days without sleep and it was 5am in the morning, and dark in Guatemala City, reportedly one of the ´crime capitals´of central America. If in doubt, check out this list of incidences that have occurred against American in Guatemala City.

http://guatemala.usembassy.gov/recent_incidents.html

Needless to say, I was VERY glad to get out of Guatemala City.

Anyway, I had arrived at the airport just after 4am in the morning. My luggage was the first to come out, and there were no taxis waiting in the queue. I had to walk 500m or so up the road and find the taxis waiting, and literally had to wake up the first driver in the queue! It seemed as if the whole city was sleeping.

I just wanted to get out of Guatemala City as soon as possible, and the taxi driver told me he knew where the earliest buses to Xela left from, so he took me there... It turned out that this place was a random street corner, and there was a lone bus sitting on the side of the road with a few local people sitting on it. Apparently the bus was supposed to leave for Xela at 6am. So I got on and waited as well, but by 6:30am the bus still hadn´t left.

The bus had an overhead luggage compartment, just like a plane, that could be sealed. Around 6:40am, an official looking man got on the bus, and told us all it was safer to put our luggage up in the sealed compartments up top. I normally wouldn´t dream of letting my backpack leave my side, after all, it has my laptop, camera, mobile, plus all of my insurance information, everything I need really. But I had heard stories of buses being held up at gunpoint in Guatemala, and I guess I figured that if our luggage was locked up there then it might be safer than if it was visible, and besides, the official looking man told us so, so I very reluctantly put my stuff up.

Next, a very large man then sat down next to me, effectively trapping me in my seat. Before I knew it, the man stood up, and in doing so he dropped his mobile phone, which lay in pieces at my feet. I bent down to help him pick up the phone, and gave it to him, and he got off the bus again.

´That´s weird,´ I thought to myself… Then I realised I´d been distracted when I was picking up the phone, and I straight away looked up at the luggage compartment, where my stuff was, which was slightly ajar, when only a few moments before I had closed it securely. Without even looking I knew that my bag would be gone, but I opened it properly just to check. Of course, I discovered that everything in there had been cleared out, and the guys that had been sitting behind me were gone as well.

At least I had kept my money belt on me, with my cash, my credit cards, my air ticket and my passport. Virtually everything taken was replaceable, and covered by my insurance policy, with the exception of a few photographs I´d taken in San Francisco that I hadn´t backed up yet.

When the bus driver finally got on the bus around 7am, an hour after the scheduled departure time, I reported the theft to him, but he seemed very disinterested and told me it happens all the time, that there was nothing he could do and I should go to the police. Then he proceded to drive the bus around the corner, around another corner and then stop. He announced that the bus had mechanical problems (even though it clearly didn´t) and we would all have to get on the next bus which was at 7:30am from the same place.

I suddenly felt very tired and did not want to stay on another bus waiting possibly for an hour for it to leave, feeling exposed and vulnerable and just wanted to get out of there. So I decided to get a taxi to one of the more official bus terminals, where the first bus left at 8am.

As I sat in the taxi, I thought about what had happened. I was numb, after the loss of my grandfather, the loss of a few personal items didn´t really affect me at that stage. But I pondered the way it had happened, and wondered, suspiciously, if the whole thing was an organised scam, from the fake ticket inspector who gave the instruction to put the luggage up, the ´distractor´and the thieves posing as passengers on the bus, but also possible the bus itself with the overhead compartments, the bus driver, who didn´t get on the bus until right at the last minute, only to drive it round the block and kick everyone off. I still don´t know if the bus and the bus driver were involved or not, but in hindsight the whole thing appears awfully suspicious. I guess I did all I could. I reported it to the police, who seemed incredibly disinterested in the whole event, but they helped me to get the report that will allow me to claim insurance so I guess I should be grateful for that.

A few weeks down the track, I find myself missing my stuff dreadfully. I miss my i-Pod, that I had only had for a month or so, but I sit on long bus rides wondering what I ever did before I had it. I miss my faithful notebook, that I kept all my Spanish notes in, from new word, grammar notes, phrases. It was like a diary that had so many memories in it. Every new word I learnt I wrote in it, and every word had a story, a memory, a time or a place where I learnt it. I miss my laptop most of all, as I used to use it often, not only for communicating with family and friends, but for writing the blog, recording my thoughts, and watching movies or tv shows to relax in the evenings. Anyone who reads my blog regularly will have noticed that I am far more behind now than I have ever been in the past. I miss being able to write my thoughts whenever and wherever I feel the urge, in bed late at night or in a coffee shop...

But the worst thing about being robbed, however, wasn´t the loss of my stuff, but it was been the change in my attitude here. I find myself watching people on the streets, and looking at everyone as if they are out to rob me. I don´t trust anyone. It´s almost like they are the enemy. I have practically stopped talking to local people that I meet on the street, in a park, and especially on buses... I find myself looking around at the local people and wonder which one of them is going to rob me next. I am instinctively suspicious of everyone.

So many other people, travellers and Guatemalans alike, have also shared with me their stories of being robbed, or assaulted. Most of them had experiences far more frightening than my encounter, often involving weapons, from knives, machetes, pistols, even machine guns, and I realise how lucky I was to be essentially ´tricked´ out of my stuff rather than ´held up´.

When I was in Xela my Spanish teacher told that she was walking near her house when two guys fell into step next to her. One of them put his arm around her shoulder as if he were her friend, while the other showed her the knife helf to her stomach. ´Give us your money,´ they demanded. ´Your cell phone and jewellery too.´ Of course, she didn´t argue with them, but gave everything she had and in return she wasn´t harmed. I have always been careful as I´m walking the streets, have always had my bag in front of me, held tightly, but now I stay more aware of the people around me as well, and don´t let anyone get too close.

I hate that the robbery has meant that I automatically mistrust practically everyone in the country, when most of them are like my teacher, undeserving victims of the same criminals that prey on tourists as well. Most Guatemalans are honest, hard working, very poor people that don´t deserve my suspision, only my compassion and empathy. But for a while I have had very little of that to give. I guess if nothing else, I know that this experience has made me a little more careful, which is probably a good thing, and through sharing it I have hopefully been able to warn other travellers of the same scam.

And now I face my next daunting task, which is replacing all those items that I lost. I have a new Spanish notebook that I am starting to fill again with new words and phrases. I bought a new camera, as well. Nothing special, but something that will record my memories in digital form, for later. Now I am looking at replacing my laptop, which is a slightly more signficant investment. The idea is a little scary, to be honest. I think I´m going to have to wait until I feel a little more secure that it is not going to be taken again before I make up my mind to make that purchase!

A maudlin post about grief and loneliness, with very little about travel...

Before embarking on this round-the-world trip my grandfather was diagnosed wtih mesothelioma, a type of cancer caused by asbestos, always fatal, with an average time from diagnosis to death of approximately 12 months. It was a huge shock for everyone, especially as my pa had always been so healthy, even at 80 years old he was gardening and lifting with the strength of men half his age.

I immediately postponed my departure in order to spend some quality time with him, which made him angry, and he said he didn't want me changing my plans for him, but at the same time I think he was glad that I was around for a bit longer... He was an incredibly selfless man and he told me that he wanted me to follow my dreams and do what I loved. He loved to get involved in my travels, and would advise me where I should and shouldn't go. My mum, while an incredibly intelligent woman, is less geographically aware than her father, and when she informed him (erroneously) that I was planning on going to Venezuela (it was actually Guatemala!) he came to me, concerned. 'I don't think you should go there, love... It's not very stable politically at the moment.' He loved to hear about places that I had been, and places that I was planning to go, and when I was trying to put together my itinerary he went into his study and gave me piles and piles of maps of South and Central America, lovingly collected over decades of subscribing to National Geographic.

He never dreamed of travelling the globe, like I did. His dream was his family, and he lived it fully. But his interest in other cultures, other languages, other places, meant that he was able to share my travels in a way that few other people in Australia could. And he followed my adventrued faithfully like the proud grandfather he was, reading my blogs, in the end listening to them as my mum would read them aloud to him.

He was so proud of his travelling granddaughter, and when I went to Poland to learn Polish he called me every week, and loved sharing stories from his childhood. In Poland I lived in an apartment that was only a couple of blocks from where he grew up. To be honest, I think he would have loved for me to be happily settled with a husband and kids closer to home, but more than anything he wanted me to be happy. He never once indicated disappointment in me, only support and love and total acceptance. As a person who depends greatly on the approval of others, I was incredibly grateful for that, as I would not have been able to do what I have without the support and acceptance of my family and friends.

According to the values of society my Pa was not a rich man. He never really had much in terms of material belongings. He worked hard and sacrificed for his family. It was common for him to go without breakfast and lunch on payday, until the money went into the bank, but he always made sure he children had enough to eat. He had his house, and his car, but little more. As an immigrant without a formal education, he worked in a factory all his life. He was working class, a battler.

But to me, he was the richest man in the world. His family was everything to him. It was like his kingdom and he was our king. My cousins and I don't see each other a lot, mostly we don't have a lot in common. But one thing we were always totally united in was our absolute adoration for our pa. He was our hero. Truly noble, good and selfless down to the bottom of his soul, he looked for the good in everyone. He would go out of his way to help others, at times literally giving the shirt off his back.

He had it tough growing up as a child in Poland. After the German's invaded the schools were all shut down, and he took on the responsibiliy of finding food for his family. Every day he would sneak out of the city through back streets and walk through forrests and plains for 8km, then go by train out to the countryside where he would buy food at a farm. He would then take it back to the city the same way. If the train was stopped by German soldiers he would have to walk the whole way back, nearly 40 kilometres.

In 1944 he fought in the Warsaw Uprising, although he was still a boy then himself. His mother was tortured by the Germans. They broke both her legs in order to force her to reveal his whereabouts, which she never did. He was captured by the Germans anyway, and interred in a Prisoner of War camp, where there was a shortage of food and they were forced to do hard labour. His dad was also executed about the same time.

But despite all of this, he didn't feel bitter or hatred. His heart was full of love and forgiveness. He was truly one of the best people the world has ever known and noone knew this more than his family.

My pa died on Tuesday February 26th at about 4:30pm. I was sitting in Los Angeles airport when I found out, having flown from Guatemala City. I was trying to get home in time to say goodbye, but it happened too quickly. I guess that's a good thing. I would hate for him to have had to suffer any more than he did.


But I haven't felt like writing anything since. I made it home for the funeral and spent two weeks in Melbourne, mostly spending time wiht my nanna and my mum, amongst family. A week ago, I flew back to Guatemala to continue my travel. I didn't really feel like coming back, to be honest. In a way I think I resent it. It was because I was selfishly doing what I wanted and travelling the world, that I couldn't be with my family when they needed me, when I needed them. Sometimes I think that not being able to see my grandfather in the end was like my penance for choosing to travel over being at home.

I wish so much that I could have been there for him in the last few weeks of his life, so that he could be sure just how much I loved him. I know that Pa loved following my travels and that he would have wanted me to come back, but now I'm back in Guatemala, everything feels a bit hollow. I miss home so much my heart literally feels like it is aching in my chest. I can't seem to muster any enthusiasm for the things that used to be so enchanting to me... Ruins, churches, temples, nature... I feel like I've seen them all before.

I spend most of my days pretending I'm alright, and trying to be alright, but mostly I look at my watch and think about how many hours I have to kill till I can go to bed. I'm sightseeing, not to see the sights, but because it fills up the day and keeps me occupied. I miss the presence of my loved ones desperately.

Although I lost my grandpa nearly three weeks ago now, it feels so much harder now that I am alone away from everyone that I love. But I guess that is what grief is all about. You wake up and just pretending you are okay until one day you wake up and realise that it is true. For me, I just hope that that day comes soon. Maybe writing this will help. I certainly hope so, or else the remaining six months of my trip looks like it is going to be very long indeed....