Oct. 22-Robbed at knifepoint in San Jose

As an alternative to class this morning there was a tour of San Jose, and I wanted to become more familiar with this city. A Japanese student, Tomoka, and a woman from the Bahamas, Tootsie, opted for the tour and off we went with Jose from the school. As it happened, a television reporter and cameraman from Canal 6 joined us and a report aired the next morning. I missed it, but Yolanda, the proprietress of my homestay casa, saw me and called out but it was over before I got downstairs. I’m not sure about the story angle but some city officials took the tour and I was told their purpose was to take a look and make sure things were tidy in the city. Seeing the tv crew, I couldn’t help but thinking of the many times I had appeared before the camera to answer questions about banking. I considered the possibilities that cameras might be attracted to me. Oddly, doing the tv interviews was one of the few things that I enjoyed about my past career. I’d always considered it an ego thing, but it was also part of the measure of success for someone who is typically identified as an industry spokesman. I half way expected the journalista to turn to me with her microphone and ask me a question, in Spanish of course, about how I thought the financial crisis would affect the economy of Costa Rica. I even thought how I would get a copy of the segment and send it back to the US, perhaps to my old boss Joe. Well, needless to say, not all thoughts become things. Perhaps because I didn’t want it hard

enough.

Later I got a call from Andres and he was planning to be at a bar called Observatorio for some live music that night, and wanted me to join him, although our plans to meet for some music the previous evening had disconnected. Andres is also the name of one of Yolanda’s sons, and I reviewed the location of the bar with him and waited until a little after 9 before heading out. My homestay house is in the third block off of the main street that goes through San Pedro, and is in a decent middle class area with enough traffic to be annoying during the rush hours. The night was cool following late afternoon thundershowers and it was no more than a couple of hundred yards to the main road where I could either take the bus or catch one of the plentiful and cheap taxis, which is what Andres suggested. I was a little wary of taxis, only because the previous morning, one of my fellow students, an older American woman, had arrived visibly shaken as a result of a taxi driver who had taken her on a circuitous route in spite of her feeble protests in bad Spanish. I already knew the bus route and my destination was pretty much a straight shot.

As I was half way to the main road, walking alongside a playing field in an area that could hardly be considered deserted, I was jostled by one of two young men walking toward me on the sidewalk. I initially considered it an act of overt rudeness, but quickly a knife was shown and I backed away, putting up my hands, indicating nonverbally that I would cooperate and give them what they wanted. The taller one, with the knife, was clearly loco and I recognized the word gringo as he seemed to have some soft of vendetta against people like me. The other one kept repeating tranquillo, and I wasn’t sure if he was trying to get his buddy to calm down or if he was trying to tell me to calm down. We did a little dance, it seemed, but I just wanted to throw them my wallet. I had emptied it of everything but about $50 worth of Colones and one piece of plastic, my debit card for my Banco National account.

I wouldn’t call it a premonition, but as a matter of simple precaution in a city with a lot of crime I had removed the plastic from my wallet, including my Washington DC driver’s license, leaving only a photocopy of my passport. But rather than waiting for me to hand over the wallet, one of the ladrones felt the need to hold the knife to my throat, while the other one personally removed my wallet. The shorter one then also slapped my front pocket, where I felt sure he would relieve me of my cell phone and the digital camera I had just purchased the day before.

Having secured my billetera, they left me unscathed and continued to walk, not run, down the street. My cell phone began to ring, and I reached into my pocket with relief that it was there. It was Andres, wondering where I was. Robo, I said, using the Spanish word for emphasis. I would not be seeing him tonight, and he said he was very sorry. I was happy to discover that my camera was still in my pocket, and I looked down the street in the direction of mi casa. I had spoken to Andres for less than a minute, but before I had moved, a police car showed up. I yelled ladrones and pointed excitedly down the road. I watched as the car headed in the direction of the thieves, and it appeared that there was something else happening in the block past my homestay.

I walked back in that direction, stopping at my house and ringing the buzzer next to the locked gate that abutted the sidewalk, rather than using my key to gain entrance. Yolanda’s daughter Andreas appeared at the door and I said, Robo, necessito Andre. When Andre appeared, I told him I was robbed and I think they captured the ladrones down the street.

He joined me for a walk less than half a block further down, where four policemen in two vehicles had two young men sitting down on the sidewalk. I looked at them in the spotlight of one of the police cars, and aside from being amazed at the speed at which everything had unfolded, had some concern about my ability to positively identify the scumbags who robbed me. Not only had the light been limited, but the presence of a knife at your throat and the resultant adrenaline can blur your memory. Not to mention that even in my younger days I was never that great with faces. Now the two were sitting quietly on the sidewalk, in a different context as well.

One of the policemen was going through the contents of a bag that had been taken from the perps, showing me some items that included a Michigan drivers license that clearly belonged to another hapless female victim. Meanwhile, another policeman looked along the street for anything that might have been discarded or tossed away, possibly as the police approached.

At around this point, the policia had ordered the taller perp to stand up against the wall that ran parallel to the sidewalk, in this hilly neighborhood. I’m not sure why, but if they were just getting around to frisking him, it seems like it was a bit slow in the process. I approached from the side and put my face as close to his as prudence allowed. As he looked toward me the crazed expression started to return, and I stabbed my finger in the direction of his face. This provoked him further, like a wild animal, which confirmed without any further doubt in my mind that this was the loco ladrone who had earlier wielded the knife. I may not be great with a face, but there was no mistaking that crazed look.

Within minutes my wallet was found, with the cash but not the debit card or the assortment of business cards and miscellaneous papers. They also found the knife, and then my watch, which had been torn from my wrist. Until I saw the watch, I hadn’t remembered them taking it. Such is the adrenaline. Actually, I was feeling pretty calm. I never panicked or really lost my composure at any point.

Thank God that Andre was there with me to translate. We went with the police in one car, a tiny econo-model, while they took the suspects in the other vehicle, a double-cab pickup, to the station and temporary detention center. The police took my preliminary statement, a rather slow process, and Andre was on the phone with Banco National to have my debit card cancelled. I gave him the name of the company my account was registered with, F.J. Nosarico, and we repeated the spelling a few times while they tried to pull up the account. I gave them my name, which they also had somewhere in their records, as well as the mailing address that they had on file to send me monthly statements. This went on for ten minutes at least, and finally Andre hung up with the assurance that they would continue to attempt to locate my account. As soon as he hung up, he got a call, or perhaps returned a call, to his house, where someone there had found my card on the street. Another resident of the house, Hector, had returned to the house sometime after the robbery and noticed papers and my card laying in the street or sidewalk near the house. So fortunately, my card had not been cancelled and Andre called the bank back to say, ‘Never mind.’ I was glad to be able to avoid the timely process of obtaining a new debit card, since the concepts of ‘convenience’ and ‘banking’ with one of the state-owned banks in Costa Rica are not closely related.

For many years I have carried in my wallet a small piece of paper that I received during my initiation to the first level of Reiki, a form of spiritual healing. It is titled ‘Protection Method,’ with the subheading ‘OM’. It reads:

I am the universe, I am

I am the sphere, I am

I am the light, I am

I am the flame, I am

I am the sword, I am

I am the reflection, I am

I am the Universe, I am

This piece of paper was among the items from my wallet awaiting our return home. But first, the police took us to a judicial center, where after some time waiting I gave my detailed statement to some officials, again receiving priceless assistance in translation from Andre. We got back before midnight, and I took one of the sleeping tablets I had purchased the day before because my extended afternoon siestas had been causing some problems falling asleep at night.