Some of you know that I went to Nicaragua a few weeks ago where I was assaulted at knife-point and mugged. Here is what happened.
A week before leaving for Nicaragua I had a passing discussion with a male friend about the disadvantages of being male. “It would bother me that women would be afraid of me” I said.
“You’re afraid of men?”
“Well, if I’m alone and I’m walking Fern and there is a man walking towards me on the sidewalk… A scenario like that. I don’t care if he’s black or Hispanic or white.”
“Would you be afraid of me?” he asked.
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First off, we encountered genuine kindness. Maybe we were stupid, but we met a couple at the gate in Miami. She (Valeria) was from Nicaragua, he was American Mike. They were very excited when we told them this was our first trip to Nicaragua. A stream of words flew past my head—all of the things we needed to see, we had to see. They asked how we planned on getting to San Juan Del Sur. When we said “the bus” they were flabbergasted. “That will take you six hours!” She looks to him and mouths something, then she offers us a ride to Jinotepe. There is a direct bus that leaves from this small town where they are going and it’s so much easier this way instead of finding the bus terminal in Managua—a dangerous city for locals, not to mention two white girls (neon signs, flashing, loudly “sex! money! foolishness!”)
We vetted these people out, of course. They had stories. We didn’t really care about his story. He was stupid. He talked too much, never listened. Constantly laughing at his own jokes. “I know more about her country than she does!” She seemed annoyed. It reminded me of my parents. We left their invitation open when we got on the plane, expecting to lose track of each other in the deplaning process, customs, baggage…
“I guess they didn’t wait for us” I said.
“Maybe they’re waiting outside of security” Melissa said.
“I seriously doubt it.”
And as we stepped into unregulated non-airport Nicaragua I felt someone touch my arm and say “come on!” It was Valeria. She was with an old woman who she introduced as “my mother Olympia”. At this point I was on board—there’s no way we’re going to be robbed, murdered and dumped in the Nicaraguan mountains with Olympia looking on in her house gown. She appeared to glow with happiness from the arrival of her daughter—they hadn’t seen each other in one year. A family friend drove the car away and the whole time I thought “my mother would kill me.” Valeria and her mother sat close together, holding each other’s arms. I took in the passing scenery from the 3rd row seat in the back of the SUV.
We stopped off at a convenience store because American Mike demanded beer. Perfect—we had been traveling since 4:30am and needed a snack. Everyone went in except for Olympia and me. She spoke no English, and why should she? Minutes earlier Melissa asked Valeria “What is your town known for?” Valeria replied “nothing”. It was a landlocked town trafficked by locals only. No need to learn English. I attempted:
“Tu hija esta… (seconds elapse) sympatica.”
“Ah! Habla espanol?”
“No, pero dos anos in la escuala”
She got excited and told me that Spanish and English are the two most important languages. In the world! The two most important! It was my turn to reply, the silence was incredibly awkward. I was digging through the dictionary, nervously searching for the right word. The first word I saw when I looked down was "pussy". so instead:
“Ummmm, si! Espanol… Esta bueno.”
Everyone came back with snacks. Mike gave me a canned beer, “Tona”, the people’s beer in Nicaragua. The last thing I wanted was a beer, but I cracked it open in a show of thanks and downed it anxiously.
I never felt unsafe. What I saw outside was an underdeveloped city. Trash blew everywhere, ownerless dogs roamed the streets, trucks carried standing men packed side-by-side. We made a second stop. Valeria explained she wanted to see her uncle who apparently worked at an auto-repair shop. Again, everyone bounced out of the car leaving Olympia, Melissa and myself behind. Looking back at the entrance I noticed a man standing guard, holstered gun for all to see. A private citizen—not a cop. This is Managua.
As we were leaving the city Valeria pointed out the U.S. Embassy. “That’s where Americans go” I thought. No further thoughts. Her mother began to sing along with the song on the radio. This was a happy group. Volcanoes stood in the distance as the SUV climbed up and down the mountains.
Jinotepe to San Juan Del Sur to Playa Madera transpired as planned. Dinner for three was served at a restaurant overlooking the beach (diners included Melissa, myself and a pregnant cat who wandered to my side and appealed for Melissa’s leftover seafood). Afterwards we called the Dutch proprietor of our lodging who arranged for a 4x4 taxi to take us to Madera. As we got in the cab I realized we needed to buy sun block. There is nothing in Playa Madera except la playa and nature. What ensued was perhaps the best round of charades I’ve ever performed. What I needed to convey: “Could we stop at the store so I could buy sunscreen?” I’m not certain I ever learned any of this in Spanish class 14 years ago. There was pointing to the sky, rubbing of my forearms, and perhaps the best part—simulation of a burning sensation. “Repellent?” he said. “I am the best”, I thought.
I never like getting into a stranger’s car. I hate taking cabs. Even if the drivers are benign, I can guarantee they don’t drive better than I do. When I jumped back into the SUV after paying an exorbitant amount of money for SPF 50 sunblock (no locals buy SPF 50—only gringa tourists) a little girl jumped up from the rear cargo area of the SUV.
“Where’d she come from?” I asked Melissa.
“She was here. I guess she was laying down the whole time.”
Melissa speaks better Spanish than I do. She discussed child pleasantries with the little girl and pointed out the moon. Perhaps the driver was her padre. She had a little palette to rest on in the back which came in handy when she grew tired of the conversation.
The climb up to our lodging was dark, bumpy and long. The truck drove through dried out riverbeds and scaled up steep inclines. I fully expected the SUV to lose control and ram a tree but alas, we arrived. The tanned Dutch innkeepers welcomed us and showed us to our ocean-view tree bungalow equipped with no windows, a hammock and a king sized bed with a mosquito net to protect us from the locals. We fell asleep listening to the wind and waves.
The next two days were perfect-—delicious breakfasts served on a deck overlooking the ocean, time spent on the beach, beans and rice and monkeys in the trees and hammocks and glorious warmth. We played in the intense waves. Sometimes we let them knock us off our feet and propel us towards the shore, other times we’d dive into them and feel the water pushing over our backs. I tried to surf with little success, but never have I enjoyed such undignified moments. I only stood up once. I was flung off the board by the waves, wrestled into the shore by the board, hit on the head by the board… It did not matter. This is why I was here.
The second half of our trip would be spent in San Juan Del Sur. Saturday afternoon--Valentines Day for anyone who cares... Melissa incurred a sinus infection at some point so we decided to take a day off from the beach. I stopped into a tourism office run by English-speakers to inquire about hiking. “There is a good hike. You know the cross on the hill? It’s at the end of the beach. You can go up to the cross—it takes about 20 minutes. Very easy hike. The trail starts at the end of the beach. Great views.”
We set out after breakfast on this hike, hopping across rocks towards the end of the beach like frogs across lily pads. We passed others ostensibly returning from this same hike. As we got closer to the end of the beach I realized how steep the climb up the hill would be. We agreed to walk to where the trail starts so we could at least get a full view of the crescent shaped beach.
We were approximately 20 feet away from where the climb starts when I noticed two men, locals, walking towards us. Moving quickly. Their speed worried me. To escape would mean either crossing paths or having them follow us up the hill. I did what I always do when I don’t know what to do—I stayed put. I hoped they would pass us by, but that scenario became less likely as I watched them approach us. They wanted something.
All I saw next were hands.
Indiscernible Spanish.
His hand grabs at my bag.
Melissa’s hands push back. No.
The audio cut out, my hearing went underwater.
“They’re going to rape us”
Nothing else appeared in the periphery.
Melissa’s hands were somewhere else.
His hands pulled out a knife and held it towards my chest.
“This is it”
(The camera moves up 10 feet, the camera moves to the right and angles downward.)
OK. OK. OK. OK.
My hands went into action, doing what they were never told to do but knew how to do anyway:
Handoff.
And away it went with its new owners, up the hill and out of our sight. A long journey from Houston seven years ago. Across the country, around the globe, to hospitals, to my jobs, and into a Nicaraguan hillside with new owners.
(a wide angle lens would have revealed that man #2 put my girlfriend in a bear-hug hold. A microphone would have revealed her shouts of “no” and their shouts of “bitches, whores”.)
We were fucked. Because our hotel didn't have a safe we had been carying our passports and wallets. Money. ID. My glasses. My nostalgic glasses that I never wanted to replace. Purchased nine years ago with my mother, by my mother. I saw so much through the lenses. I watched her die through the lenses. I’m certain they ended up tossed in a bush. And I ended up wearing prescription aviators from then on--day and night, indoors and outdoors.
We rushed back across the beach. With every step we remembered one more thing we lost. The English-Spanish dictionary, our cameras, my journal, a water canteen. I was dying of thirst. I tried to comfort Melissa. “We will file a report with the police and we will have my sister wire us money. I will go to Western Union. We’ll be fine.”
But nothing went according to our plans.
The police station was probably a mile from the scene of the crime. And of course, no one could definitively tell us where to find the station. Upon arriving we were greeted with stares of confusion. No one knew what to do. No one understood anything we were saying. We couldn’t consult the dictionary. I don’t know how to say “robbed. Mugged. Assaulted. Knife.” We both shouted “Does anybody speak English?” A man stepped forward. He was not part of the police department, but he said he spoke “a little”. Others couldn't bear tearing themselves away from the television showing a soccer match. An incompetent female police officer took his translation and struggled to fill out the police report in her own language. This was taking too long. We chose to split up. I would go to Western Union. Melissa, the better Spanish speaker, would stay and finish the report. I would cancel credit cards. I would get us money. I would get us out of here.
But the doors of Western Union were locked and no one would return for two days. My panic set in. I felt the urge to vomit. I ran into the nearest Internet café, panting and frantic. I repeated myself to the shop worker “I have nothing. I was just robbed. I need to contact my family. She had a Skype phone which she handed to me for free use. I left pathetic teary voicemails to my sister and best friend in Boston. “Please answer the phone next time I call, I really need your help.” I canceled credit cards and sent emails. My brother-in-law John was online. We started hunting for ways to wire money. Nearby towns. Banks. Moneygram. Anything. I was so hot and thirsty and crying. A street DJ outside of the Internet café blared dance music in Spanish. Thumping bass. The DJ attempted to rouse the locals. I couldn’t understand his Spanish, but I assume he was urging them to “feel the beat”. And I thought, “this is the worst possible soundtrack to this moment.”
“I’ve been in your situation before, actually. I am so sorry this happened to you,” said the British man sitting next to me. “If you can’t find a way to get money from your family I could loan you some. You could just take my bank details and pay me back once you get home.”
I couldn’t believe this kindness. After spending an hour online trying to find an open Western Union or bank in Rivas or Managua I gave up. We accepted his kindness. But we needed to get to the embassy in Managua. And where would we sleep? We couldn’t afford to stay in San Juan Del Sur and pay with what little cash we had. And none of the hotels could accept credit cards over the phone. We needed a corporation. A place that welcomed plastic over the phone. We needed the Hilton.
Melissa finished with the police. We gathered our backpacks from the hotel and left for Managua. During my internet research I learned that the embassy wouldn’t open again until Tuesday morning. It was Saturday afternoon. Essentially, we were stranded in this country for the next few days. Our kind hotel owners negotiated for a friend to drive us the two and a half hours to Managua. The price was right but I’m fairly certain the car’s exhaust pipe was discharging somewhere in the back seat. And the car lacked seatbelts which made for a fairly tense trip. I had a long time to think about the knife, the beach, the moment when I glanced at the embassy after Valeria pointed it out. I never thought I’d end up waiting for its doors to open for me. Two and a half hours of thinking about those men and their approach.
Nicaragua is dark at night. No infrastructure means no streetlamps. It’s even darker when you’re wearing sunglasses.
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The lights of the Hilton were incredibly welcoming. The tacky lobby was gorgeous. We smelled awful. All I wanted to do was wash the beach, the day, the police station, the cab fumes, and the residual sweat off of me. Our friends and family had rallied and sent us copies of our passports before we left San Juan Del Sur. I had already rescheduled our flight with the airline before leaving the Internet cafe. While on the phone I asked if there was any way we could fly with a copies of our passports and the police report. “Probably not, but you can try.” The first of two daily flights to the US left at 8am. We would at least try to get on the flight. And of course, we did not get on the flight. And one of us standing at the airline counter began to cry.
What ensued were three delirious days spent locked down in the hotel with the exception of brief outings to obtain wired money, passport photos (awful) and beer. It was suggested to us "make the best of your time and see the city!" but let me tell you about Managua. Private citizens walk the streets with unconcealed guns. I saw a man with an assault rifle on his shoulder during our fruitless trip to the airport on Sunday morning. White females are preyed upon for everything from sex to "express kidnappings" where an unsuspecting individual is driven around town to multiple ATMs and banks to withdraw cash (at gunpoint, of course). We were honked at and approached by strangers several times during our walk across the street to the grocery store. I felt incredibly tense. And we were especially keyed up after having our lives threatened in broad daylight. “Seeing the city” was not an option. We would “see this city” as a last resort.
We kept sane by the pool, trekking to the ice machine multiple times a day and watching one of a handful of English channels on the TV. Our phone encounters with Papa John's were ridiculously entertaining. At one point I'm fairly certain I told them I didn't want "balls on the pizza". I would steal food from the complimentary breakfast for our lunch. We’d exercise in the afternoons. But most of all, we organized. We made lists. Tons of lists. What do we need? Do we have all the forms? What will we do today? We kept a folder of all our important documents. After taking passport photos, we attached our pictures on our respective folder pockets. I referred to this folder as “the football”. We hid it in our room. I couldn’t stand the thought of someone stealing the football. I would kill anyone who tried to take the football from us.
It was Monday and a Western Union should be theoretically be open. We walked to the closest location but they didn’t have more than $150 onsite so the Hilton got us a cab to the Western Union mothership across town. Armed guards stood at the doors. We walked through metal detectors to get in. Western Union’s incredibly stupid clerks told us they could not give us money because we did not have a passport, even though we had the confirmation number from the sender (my brother-in-law) photocopies of our passports and a police report written in their own language. They wanted us to have actual passports, and of course we can’t get passports without the money we needed to pick up. We were told to sit down and wait. I paced. A managerial-like woman went out of sight with our documents. I didn’t realize this until coming back to the U.S. but she was calling my brother-in-law to verify my identity. He answered the phone and began listing my physical attributes: “tall, dark hair, skinny, glasses—no wait, sunglasses?” My nine and a half month pregnant sister overheard and almost had a stroke. She thought it was the police. And she thought John was ID’ing my body. Western Union issued their edict; “we’ll do this, but only this once! Not next time!” to which I thought “Fuck you. Next time?”
The embassy eventually opened its doors to us and $200 later we were issued new passports. The women at the embassy were kind and sympathetic. “You must have been terrified!” they said. They arranged for us to skip the lines. They acted quickly. They were apologetic. They called us a reputable cab service. Home felt closer.
The final battle to leave this fucking country was forged at the Nicaraguan Immigration office—across town and nowhere near the Embassy or the Airport. The building is more of an outdoor structure with no windows and sparsely manned teller booths. Lines, hundreds deep, wrapped around throughout the building. Babies howled. Food vendors roamed the crowd selling snacks to the unfortunate people who will undoubtedly spend hours in this unfortunate lair. The line for non-citizens like us paled in comparison to what the Nicaraguans had to go through but there was one huge difference—when the Nicaraguans finally received service they could communicate with the disgruntled employee behind the window. We, on the other hand, never learned any of the terminology relating to exit visas in Spanish class. We were bounced between multiple lines after being lead to believe we had filed all of the necessary paperwork. Our US Embassy-sanctioned cab driver, AKA “the man who will not take us on an express kidnapping”, waited in the parking lot. I felt bad. As I left the car to initially enter the immigration office I told the driver “Yo soy rapido!” arms lightly pumping. The Nicaraguan Immigration office reduced me to a liar.
There was a moment where I was certain we’d never get out of the country. I inferred from the immigration employee that we somehow did not meet the requirements for the exit stamp but had no idea why. He spoke so quickly. He never slowed down his speech. He hated us. And then he ignored us. Melissa began banging on the teller window like Dustin Hoffman in the church at the end of The Graduate. I’m not entirely sure how we got the form we needed but we found yet another helpful British man who was able to translate. We slid them under the glass. I watched anxiously as the immigration employee reviewed our information. The planting of the stamp felt like coins pouring out of a slot machine. We ran into the parking lot.
I clutched my passport as our blessed cab driver drove us to the airport. I looked at the stamp several times while eating a piece of bread I had stashed in my pocket from the hotel breakfast and watching a live Ricky Martin video that the driver was showing us on his in-cab DVD player. People in the crowd were dancing and waving their arms at Ricky as he ran around the stage. Fans were waving the Puerto Rican flag. Ricky made everyone so happy. Ricky made me happy too.
And this is it.
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