Part II

I'm wandering toward the back of our group of 4 in utter disgust of where we were, wondering why the writers who reviewed Belen thought it would be funny to send tourists there. Good joke, guys. You got us! There we were, with our cameras and backpacks in true tourist fashion standing completely off guard and out of place. I look down to see a small, naked child squatted at my feet peeing in the soggy garbage and muck. It wasn't even worth concerning myself about getting urine on my shoes. They had already been through much worse. I did not find relief in this.

Completely absorbed in my thoughts about how awful this place smelled, I was unaware of what was happening around me. In one single instant I feel a strong squeeze and pull on my wrist. I panicked, releasing my grasp of my little red pouch that had my digital camera and cash in it. The bag has a loop that was wrapped around my wrist, but didn't add much more security. The man yanked the pouch right from the loop - straight out of my hand - and ran.

It all happened in seconds, but somewhere in there I screamed which grabbed the attention of all the locals in the market. Three more guys ran after the thief, and in my ignorant innocence I thought they were running after him to tackle him and get my camera back. But in reality, they were not trying to rescue a damsel in distress but were in fact running because they too had just robbed someone.

I frantically yelled to my friends walking ahead what had happened. There was only one boy in our group, and he just so happens to be the team captain and record holding track star at his university. He tosses us his bag and takes off after the man who had stolen my camera. We follow behind by directions from locals who are out watching the whole debacle from their wobbly decks. "He went that way, Senorita!" "Down the stairs! To the left!" The whole town was involved, even friends of the perpetrator who posed as concerned witnesses and attempted to steer us in the wrong direction.

Finally after sliding down slimy stone staircases and crossing swamps of trash on wooden planks we find our friend. He is surrounded by street kids who are all excited from the chaos and talking at once. It was clear that they knew who we were looking for and where he was but out of loyalty, or possibly fear, were not going to rat him out. One kid explained to us that the thief is a very bad, dangerous man with a knife and we should go to the cops rather than searching for him ourselves throughout the floating neighborhood.

So that's exactly what we did.

In the police station there was a man sitting on the floor against the wall holding a bloody cloth to his eye yelling something at the officer that I couldn't understand and I would be surprised if the officer could either. My fluent Spanish-speaking friend explained what had happened to the man behind the desk, and he took us upstairs to flip through photo albums jammed packed with pictures of grim, morose men who had been arrested for whatever reason in the past to see if we could identify him. Unfortunately none of us had gotten a very good look at him, and we were too unsure to choose a criminal from a photo. The cops went down to the street and grabbed a kid who claimed he knew what the man looked like. He said that none of the men in the photos were the one.

We sat in the incredibly hot police station for what seemed like hours on end telling our testimonies and stating a report. I described the camera, the clothes he was wearing, and any other helpful information which was not much. I had to repeat myself a few times because at this point one of the two officers had turned on his favorite iTunes playlist on full blast and it was difficult for us to hear each other. I knew I was never going to get my things back, yet I felt it was for some reason necessary to go through the motions of it all.

After the papers were signed and one of the officers had thoroughly hit on my friend, we started to leave. We asked if it was true that Belen was a hotspot for tourists, and the cops replied that yes, yes it is, but only with police escorts at all times. Something the guidebooks failed to mention. It was getting dark by now, so the officer walked us to the edge of the market to get a cab. The locals watched as we left with our tails between our legs and one camera and 150 soles less than we came with.



I think getting stolen from is one of the worst, most helpless feelings. Even though I was incredibly freaked out by the whole experience and deeply hurt that a stranger wanted to take advantage of me like that, I was and am still am immensely grateful that my track star friend never caught up with the thief. Also that my little red pouch had been with me through the years and was worn weak enough to break easily from my wrist. Who knows what could have happened. I just lost a camera and some cash which can be easily replaced, but things could have gotten a lot worse very quickly. So I guess in a twisted, roundabout way, I was very lucky that afternoon in Belen.



Too bad that luck didn't last me during my time in the Amazon jungle. But that story is an entry in itself.

Despite the odds, I'm still alive.

Ok, let me preface this by saying that I am in no way complaining or looking for pity points. If anything we should all laugh because the story I am about to share is pretty ridiculous. I promised no excessively long posts, so I'm going to break this up a little.

I say goodbye to my host family, and lug my thousand pound suitcase to the bus that is waiting outside. The whole gang is headed on our longest excursion yet: Lima for 8 days, Iquitos and the Amazon jungle for 7. I had my water purification tablets and Lunabars (just in case I got lost in the jungle for a few days), a huge first aid kit, poison in the disguise of insect repellent, Malaria pills, and a wardrobe of sun protective clothing that would never be fashionably acceptable in any other part of the world except the Amazon. I was prepared.

So we get to Lima and I'm not impressed. Its just like any other big American city. It was nice at first to finally see all those American brands that we had missed so much. There was an organic grocery store, movie theaters, casinos, trash cans, all things that none of us had seen in quite some time. But in general, I just wasn't feeling the vibe of the city. However, as anyone from a landlocked state like Oklahoma will tell you, when there is a beach - no matter how ugly, rocky, and simply unattractive it is - you go. And you like it.

In our true American manner though, we didn't have to settle for the dirty Lima beach. No, we hopped on our bright red Mercedes tour bus and drove down the coast a few hours to a huge, beautiful private beach house that sat only a few steps down a stone staircase from the water. Jackpot. We claimed beds, threw on our suits, and ran barefoot down to the sand. There was no one on the beach but us. We splashed around and dove under waves until the sun went down. There was one point right before sunset when I stopped to look around me and appreciate where I was. I was with good friends in a beautiful place. I felt truly happy.

Unfortunately, I took too much of a good thing and made it into a horrible, unbearably painful sunburn. The whole next day we spent lounging on beach towels, running back and forth to the ocean to refresh ourselves. I, as an avid shade lover, am ashamed to say that I failed to factor in the fact that the sun's rays are quite a bit stronger here into my sunscreen regimen. I didn't realize I was baking myself until it was too late. I was extra crispy.

Back in the hostel in Lima, every motion that I made had to have purpose or it wasn't even worth it. My gals and I lied on our beds moaning and groaning and constantly comparing much pain we were in. Aloe was useless, and melted instantly against our lobster red skin. We slept on top of our blankets because the pressure of even the lightest sheet was too much. We couldn't sit down, we couldn't stand up, we could barely wear clothes at all. We were in bad shape, and the upcoming plane ride to Iquitos sounded like torture. Little did I know what was in store.

Iquitos is a hot, sticky town that sits right on the river and can only be accessed by boat or plane. Everyone drives motorcycles, and the bustle of the streets is loud and constant. I limped my way from the small Iquitos airport to our next hostel where we found air conditioning. We cranked up the cold air on high blast in hopes of relief from our burning skin, and I decided that is what Heaven must feel like. We were off to a good start in Iquitos. It felt good to be out of Lima.

In all of the guidebooks (so Ive been told. I have yet to open mine.) a community named Belen in Iquitos is a must-see. It is described as beautiful waterfront property, and houses that rest on stilts in the river. We were told of the market of Belen, a place where you could find local vendors selling fresh fruits from the jungle and every trinket you may need for your trip. We had a free day and decided to go check it out.

Lies.

Belen is the slums. By beautiful waterfront property, they meant shacks made from floatwood that were falling into the heavily polluted, murky river. In the market, we were literally ankle deep in soggy, rotting garbage. And the smell. I can't even describe the smell. I didn't like it there at all. They didn't like us there either, and within 5 minutes the incident happened.


...to be continued.