I've managed to go my entire life without being robbed while traveling -- except for the time my wallet was stolen by a group of 6-year-old girls.
That actually happened. I was about twenty at the time, on an excursion to Tijuana with a group of friends. We took the bus across the border and about two minutes after being dumped on Revolution street I was mobbed by the kids. They swarmed me under the guise of selling roses and by the time I managed to shake all of them off I realized that they had my wallet.
A couple years later I managed to talk a large and burly corrupt Tijuana cop out of rolling me, so I have some street sense... I'm just no match for toddlers.
After the shame wore off I promised myself I wouldn't get taken again, and in nearly six years of travel I have kept that promise. Granted, I don't have much luck in the United States, where my personal belongings get stolen from me like I was a human "going out of business" sale. But in Mexico, Belize, Guatemala, Cuba, Costa Rica, Panama, Columbia, Ecuador, Peru and Argentina I am just fine -- which is why alarm bells went off in my head when I found myself in a dark basement in the seedier section of downtown Buenos Aires, the door in front of me blocked by two hookers and the biggest goddamn Porteno I've ever seen.
I was walking home from the bars one night and decided to check out a small hole-in-the-wall club around the corner from where I live. I had frequently passed by the place on my way home from picking up food or coming from a night out, and decided that a dank underground bar called "Eden" was just the type of place I needed at that moment. A smiling and friendly middle-aged women (probably a hooker) out front led me down a flight of stairs to the bar area -- which was completely dark. In fact, all of it was dark. And other than the hostess, a large Argentine doorman and young waitress (probably doubled as a hooker) it was completely empty. As I was processing the scene the waitress approached me.
"Something to drink?'
"Beer," I said taking in the empty bar, neglected pool table and dancerless dance floor. Not that it would have mattered if dancers did show up because there was no music. It was just dark, empty and silent. I made the decision that this was not the joint where I needed to "make my scene" so I turned around and headed for the only light there was but the doorman placed himself between me and the stairwell.
"You gotta pay for your drink," he growled while eyeballing me like a psychopath.
"I don't want it anymore," I reasoned, but he wasn't having it. Neither were the women. They joined their doorman friend, forming a trio of people who were obviously going to rob me.
"How much is it?" I asked.
"30 pesos," he said while continuing to stare me down.
A ten dollar beer in a country where beers routinely run you one american dollar was pretty stiff and I wasn't excited about paying it. But what could I do, really? Time seemed to slow down as I relaxed my vision and considered my options. I could just give up 30 pesos and hurry out of there, but if I took my wallet out the guy was likely to steal the entire thing. I could fight him, but me winning a fight with that giant, scrappy meathead was about as realistic as me becoming a Hugo Boss model. As I glanced back at the doorman, the tension in the air reaching a fever pitch, I considered a third option:
I could open the floodgates.
I had used this tactic one other time in my life to great effect. I'm sure it was great because I survived unharmed. About four years ago my friend Hunter and I decided to walk from a loft party in Downtown Los Angeles back to our Apartment complex in Los Feliz -- a distance of only about five miles. In the middle of the night. Through the ghetto. While drunk. Needles to say, it was a poorly thought out decision. And once we neared the railroad tracks and section 8 housing we truly recognized that we were in over our heads. But I had an idea to get us out safely:
I would act batshit crazy.
I logically surmised that no matter how violent someone may want to get with you, they will probably steer clear if they think you are a lunatic. The reasons for this are twofold: crazy people are unpredictable, and crazy people are confusing. So whenever we would pass a populated stretch of road I would flip the loony switch. I screamed at Hunter as loud as I could and was expecting him to respond in kind, thus making us a sort of tandem, runaway train of belligerent lunatics. It didn't happen. Hunter, a fairly even-tempered person by nature, felt it was above him to put on such airs, therefore forcing me to do all the heavy lifting. To the outsiders who watched us as we passed by, it must have seemed like a quiet and normal person was taking a paranoid schizophrenic out of the hospital for a walk. I would yell and scream at him as we walked, my face about two inches away from his ear. He would silently take the abuse I laid on him, which for some strange reason always devolved into homophobic verbal attacks.
"You like running around like a fucking faggot all the time, don't you, faggot?!!!!!" I would scream as he continued to walk with his head down.
"You're a buttfucker!!! A BUTTFUCKER!!! You fuck butts with your dick!!! YOUR DICK!!! BUTTS!!! AGAHGAHGAHAGHAGAHGAH!!!!!" I continued. He still didn't say anything.
"AGAGAGAGAGAGAGAGAGGAGA!!!!!!!!"
That was pretty much our routine until about an hour later when a cab picked us up. And as I said, I still consider it a success because we weren't murdered.
I decided to employ the same tactic in the bar. After the doorman demanded that I give them money for a third -- and what sounded like final -- time, I raised my eyes and started to pace around in a circle. Slowly at first, but gaining momentum. I then started talking to myself, quietly at first, then louder. For them it was confusing. They couldn't put their finger on what exactly was happening, but they did know something was happening.
I started talking in gibberish and berating myself.
I started spinning around faster.
The three of them actually took a step backward, unsure of how to proceed.
I was now screaming at the ceiling.
I was now jumping up and down in a circle.
They were shocked silent as I continued to bounce around and yell. I considered ripping my shirt off and scratching my chest in faux self-flagellation but decided against it (I only have about three nice shirts that I can wear out). Then, almost instinctively, and without looking at one another, they stepped apart, opening up a path to the stairwell and signaling that it was more than okay if I wanted to leave. I took them up on their tacit offer and hopped to the stairs. Halfway up I turned around to see them still silent and confused. I felt the urge to gloat, but the adrenaline I used to psych myself up was still going strong so my taunting, which I wanted to come out like "Ha ha ha, fuckers!" came out more like "AGAGAGAGAGGAGAGA!!" complete gibberish. But I screamed at them so long the doorman got fed up and made like he was going to come after me. I immediately switched off the rampage and booked it out of there, up the stairs, out the door and onto the street, running back to my apartment... laughing all the way.
Once safely back in the old loft, I took stock of what had just transpired... and decided it was awesome. After hearing all the stories of expats getting robbed, beaten, poisoned and hustled by everyone from the police to the mafia to college students, I had maintained my near perfect record of never being taken advantage of in Latin America. I had smartly calculated the best course of action to get me out of a harmful situation with absolutely no one getting hurt. Taken into account everywhere I've been, and how I have fared, I can rest comfortably with the knowledge that I possess survival skills that should help see me through the traps and pitfalls common to travelers...
Even though I still think about crossing the street whenever I see a 6-year-old girl walking towards me.
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