I wasn’t going to write again for at least a week or two but I wanted to talk about an incident that happened to me a few nights ago. Two incidents, actually.
To start off, Ecuadorians don’t understand or appreciate a good healthy dose of paranoia, especially in small towns or in the country. No matter how many times you explain to them why don’t want to walk alone at night (I’m a gringa, I’m a stranger, I have a clearly visible bag, I’m blonde, for God’s sake) or why you want more security/locks in your house (I’m a gringa, a stranger, wealthier than all of the people in this community combined, living alone with few neighbors in the middle of a field), they will shake their heads at you. Silly gringa, why are you worried. Nothing happens here. It is muy tranquilla.
If one more person says that I don’t have to worry because an area is muy tranquilla, y no pasa nada, I am going to strangle them.
Also, you have to understand, I am the most paranoid person I know. Not crazy, just with a fierce desire for nothing to ever happen to me that I could have prevented. I like feeling in control, and not placing myself in dangerous situations keeps me feeling safe. In Spain I missed out on fun nights because I refused to get in a car with a bunch of strange guys, or go home with strangers; in Pittsburgh I walked at night with mace and didn’t get into a car with a stranger even to go through a drive through at night when ordering on foot wasn’t allowed. In Ecuador I don’t walk alone at night, I carry my leatherman in my pocket so that I feel more secure, and I instinctively size up anyone I’m speaking to. I’m decently trained in martial arts and have taken an intense self defense class. I sleep with a knife under my bed. I take my security safely.
In Ecuador, this has even heightened. It is a machista culture, where men are men and women are good little subservient housewives, especially in the campo. American women are seen as easy, especially as they speak more openly with men. Men don’t look at you; they leer. Comments are made. You are the butt of jokes you are glad you don’t understand. I love Ecuador, but I could never date anyone from here. No offense. The culture is just too steeped in gender differences for me to take.
The people in my community are pretty tranquillo, hard working, and appear to be even keeled. Except on the weekends, when they drink. Last weekend, in the middle of the afternoon, I saw several men so drunk they were either passed our or weaving dangerously as they walked. I’ve seen people smashed, but nothing like I see here. Also, everyone goes to bed at 8:00 pm, except for the weekend drunks, who stay up a bit later. Even so, 11:00 is usually the latest, because even on weekends there are still animals to care for in the mornings and work to be done.
On Sunday night, a little after midnight, I was sound asleep in my bed when the pounding started on my front door. I jerked away, my hand instinctively going to the knife under my mattress, and just stayed very still. I figured that whoever it was would give up after a minute or two and leave me in peace.
Not so. Over half an hour passed of insistent pounding, and then I saw someone circling the house and shining a flashlight through the drawn curtains in my bedroom window. They circled the house, then began to hit the door again.
Here I should probably insert that my inside door to my bedroom still doesn’t have a knob or a lock on it, so if anyone gets through the front door, I have no protection.
Finally I got up, understanding that the person wasn’t going to go away. I was tired and it was pitch black in the house, but I didn’t want to draw any more attention by turning on a light. So I put my sneakers on in the dark, just in case, grabbed my knife, just in case, locked my drawer with all of my valuables in it, and shoved my phone into my bra with some money. Just in case. I then went to the window and yelled through it.
“Go away, I was sleeping, leave me alone,” I said, in kinda shitty Spanish. It was a drunk man on my doorstep, one I had never seen before.
“Let me in, I just want to sleep!” he yelled. “This is my house, I always sleep here. Don Victor (my landlord) knows this. I usually have a key. Let me in!”
“No!” I snapped. “Please, just go away and don’t bother me. I’m not opening this door.”
He kept arguing with me for a few more minutes, insisting that he often slept in my house and that I was being a bitch for not letting him in. He kept asking me, why not? At one point he asked if I were afraid, but I didn’t answer. I just finally shouted that I was leaving the window and the conversation was over.
Even though there was no noise after that, I was still so freaked out that I was shaking. I thought, what if he was telling the truth and that my landlord would just let this random man have a key to my house? I had visions of drunk man rounding up his friends and returning to my door. I didn’t sleep well all night, my leatherman clutched in my hand in case of any disturbance.
When I spoke to my landlord about this, he had no idea who the man was. He said that no one ever sleeps in this house except for a daughter and sometimes a young son. He said it could have been just a drunk or an attempted robbery. Or worse.
So here’s the moral of the story, what the Peace Corps will already tell you during training: Never open the door for anyone at night. Anyone. No matter what they say, no matter what their reasons. Do. Not. Open. Your. Door.
What could I have done differently? Called someone. Now I know that I can call my landlord no matter what time of night it is and he will come and chase off anyone bothering me. I can also contact my counterpart, who, if the situation is scary, can come here with or without the police. I should also have opened my conversation with the man by saying that either the landlord/police were on their way. That would have chased him off good. As it is, I just had a scary experience that left a bad taste in my mouth the entire next day.
The second incident came the next day. I was in Patate and had stayed too long at the internet café, and it was dark out. Because I was bringing some supplies to the local high school the next day, I had my huge hiking backpack on, marking me clearly as some kind of tourist. To get to the house where I stay, I have to walk to where the road ends and turns into this massive set of stairs that goes up quite a way, and isn’t well lit. I noticed a car slow as I entered the stair street, and then go away.
I am indeed paranoid, especially with a hugely noticeable giant bag on my back at night, and had my knife out and hidden in my sleeve. When I got to the top and started walking to the house, I noticed a car coming up. Luckily the house is right at the top of the stairs, and I opened the gates and stepped inside. As I was doing this, I noticed the car slow to a stop and idle by the side of the road, but as I got inside it sped off. All I could think was that someone had seen me walking up the stairs and driven around to intercept me, but I reached the house before anything could be done. Paranoid? Yes. Possible? Definitely. I made myself and attractive target that night.
Moral? Be inside at night, no matter how tranquilla your town is, and if not, have someone walk with you. You never know what might happen.
These are my stories, and while they are not terribly thrilling, they made an impression on me, and I hope I can make an impression on whoever is reading this. You don’t have to be as paranoid as me, but for God’s sake, take care. Be alert. The last thing you want is for your Peace Corps adventure to end with bad memories, a robbery, or worse.
Really the moral is, don’t be stupid. And carry a knife.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment