A Stolen Passport, a Crack House, and a Bunch of Good People

***WARNING: This is a long read...but does have some funny points, best of all, its true!***

Dark and dingy, with the dust flying the police roughly drag eight of the nine men to standing position, throwing them against the wall in a line with arms above their heads. The ninth sits back in a chair, a large sore on his leg prevents him from standing. Most of them are chachexic, wasting away. About half seemed drugged up and drunk. The police empty a trash can across the floor, they are about a dozen of them, tearing things apart to search for any evidence. There's garbage everywhere, broken glass, dirty clothes strewn around. A few planks divide the small wooden shack on stilts into rooms. Its humid, adrenaline is pumping through every vessel of my body, and sweat drips off my chin as the dust settles around me. I no longer even notice the stench rising from the human waste and trash that pervades the muddy waters beneath the house.

"Who is it that did it? Point him out? Do you recognize him?"

There's a young guy that looks familiar and I weakly suggest it might have been him, but I can't be sure.

They grab him violently and start beating him with a baton, yelling insults,"fumones inutiles." Useless druggie. He curls up in pain. I put my hands on my head, in shock at what I am witnessing. Then my sister, who some erroneously think of as quiet and shy, reaches and firmly grabs the arm of the offending policeman. "Oye! SIN ABUSO!" Hey, no abuse! In no uncertain terms. She says it calmly and forcefully. The policeman stops and leads her to the back room where he explains that if we don't beat them they will never learn.

Rho in turn explains the a cycle of violence will solve nothing. My calm brave sister, who refuses to stand back and be a witness. And the beatings stop.

They are now searching the men from head to toe, most only wear tattered shorts. Two of the police turn to us, delicately holding up a pair of womens' underwear. "Is this yours?"

I can't help but laugh as I recognize my last remaining clean pair of knickers. They were in the guy's pocket. The look on my face must have revealed everything, as one of the on looking officers looked at me and made a scrubbing clothes motion with his hands. Saying with his expression, "yeah, you probably want to give that a really good wash!" Hilarious. It was in general a bit of a clown show, anyone would think it was a group of boys playing cops and robbers.

Now why you ask, were we in the middle of a crack house raid? A weird dream perhaps?



Well, it all started when after returning from a couple of days about 100km north of Iquitos in the jungle, we came back into town to find our hotel room not quite ready. No worries, we though we'd just pop out for lunch and come back later. Leaving a small backpack of clothes behind the desk, I took Bertha (The Camera) with the clothes that remained in a backpack with me. Our passport also happened to be in said backpack.

WHAT?!?

I know, I know. We broke rule number one of international engagement. The rule that says your passport should be strapped to your body, or safe in your hotel. We're not idiots either, we've both lived and worked on several continents. What can I say, nobody's perfect.

So we saunter off in the mid-day heat to find some lunch. Rho tells me to pick the place. So I pick. We go in, sit down. Stand up, leave. It was too gringo for Rho. We stroll down to the Malecon, a boardwalk of sorts that looks out over the Amazon River. Its about 20 meters above the now receded waters, at certain points it has stairs that descend into Belen, a shanty town of floating houses, others stand on stilts. Its where the very poor live, who have no land to own, no money to rent. When the river is high, you must paddle around to get to different houses, but now during dry season, the houses rest on swampy mud-flats. Latrines draining straight below the houses make for an odourous, messy backyard that results in increasing sicknesses during this time of year.

Its a beautiful day, we buy chicha morada popsicles and sit looking out at the river. My bag is in front of me, one arm through the shoulder strap, the other trying to ensure my rapidly melting ice-cream reaches my mouth.

Then, in a second. Two boys pause in front of us, grab, and run. And there goes Bertha. Shocked for a split second I pause, realizing what just happened I leap up and run after them. Valiantly hurling my popsicle which lands squarely on his ankle. Waste of a good popsicle.

The two descend down the stairs heading into Belen and I fly after them. Skipping several uneven steps at a time, all I can think about it violently tackling them. And together we disappear into the slum. Its the scene from Slumdog Millionaire. Mud is flying, someone sitting on their porch sees me chasing them and tries to cut them off, to no avail. We weave back and forth, around corners, under houses, across planks. Mud flying. Heart pounding. I get a hold of one of their shirts as I turn a corner, but he wrenches away and now they've disappeared for good. Enveloped by the slum.

I bend forward, hands on my knees, sweating and exhausted. Alone, in the middle of the slum. My right foot ankle deep in refuse. And the reality kicks in.

The passports are gone.

I don't mind so much donating my camera to the working poor (there’s insurance for that), but passports...now that's annoying. Rhoda and I eventually find each other and dejectedly try to find our way out. We stop to chat with people on the way out, who say the boys weren't from here, they are druggie types. The families we pass are appalled by the theft and offer condolences. They suggest we head to the police station. (Ironically two blocks from where we were sitting eating our ice lollies).

As we ascend back to the malecon to head to the police station, a shirtless kid, maybe eight years old, ran to catch-up with us, sporting baggy red basketball shorts. “Senorita, senorita!” He said he new the two guys, not by name, but he knew their house. His name was Michael, it turns out he was our Archangel. Instantly energized, we took off down the stairs again, following him. A bloke at the bottom of the stairs gently stops us, “wait a sec now, what are two girls going to do in there? Go get some police officers and take them with you.” He seemed genuinely concerned for our safety. So we trooped off with The Angel to light some fire under the police.

Rho mumbled about how the police are useless and when they are called in Luringancho, where she lives in Lima, they come after several hours and do absolutely nothing. Amazingly on this sunny, humid Sunday afternoon, the station was swarming with cops and Rhoda had absolutely no problem at all mobilizing them quickly with her perfect Lima accented Spanish. We started out with two officers, somehow a few motorcycles were added and it was with about a dozen uniformed, fully armed officers that we now descended into Belen. Surreal. Children, women, and men ran to see what the excitement was about. Hundreds of them, following the action. One of the kids, his feet bare and dirty, clothes encrusted with dirt, had a mobile phone he was snapping pictures of us with. Oh how the tables turn.

They surrounded a house, the herd of police suddenly dispersed into the tall grass and garbage behind the houses, then they all stand around, slightly dejected. No trace of anything to be found. Then as if on some silent clue they flock to another shack, propped up on stilts above the boggy ground, surrounding it, three of them climb up and cling to the wall at the back. A heated discussion occurred between the officers and a slurred voice from inside the hut. He refused to open the trapdoor at the top of the ladder which lead inside. For some reason the police wanted us to be very close…like at the bottom of the ladder, as they were deciding to break-in and raid things…not my favourite, not gonna lie.

And that was how I was somewhat dramatically re-united with the last clean pair of underwear, my beloved Bertha, and yes, those highly valued Canadian passports.

Its different how things work in Peru, we descend from the house to cheers from the gathered crowds. No one wants a crack house in their neighborhood. Then ALL of us (i.e. all dozen cops, the nine ‘delinquentes’, Rho and I and a few straggling kids), troop back to the police station.

The police take our statements with most of the accused lounging in the hall, hearing every detail, my name, age, where we’re staying, my profession… it was weird. The young guy a thought I recognized is called Juan, he’s 22. He sat in the corner of the stagnantly humid room where Rhoda had to article every single thing in the bag that we now had in (almost) its entirety. It had been spread around in every nook, cranny and pocket of the drug house.

As I gave my statement, I clearly heard Rhoda’s voice in fluent Spanish wafting from the other room as she explained to the police thugs how the hegemonic conceptions of masculinity contribute to domestic violence. She later educated me on the incredibly high prevalence of domestic abuse in the homes of police officers. Her views on drug addiction and its impact on society were also made known to the [unsuspecting] officers who gazed at her in wonder. This tall, attractive gringa who had no fear and was definitely only a gringa on the outside. The officers decided that my Spanish was from Cuzco, whereas Rhoda’s was most definitely a Lima accent. One of the officers wanted Rhoda to have his phone number…you know, in case anything else happened and we needed assistance…or if she wanted to go on a date later that would also be fine.

Hilarious.

We stumbled away, hungry, tired, sweaty and completely entertained from the police station a full four hours after the incident. Relaxing in the hotel that evening we were disturbed by loud knocking on our door. My nerves were slightly on edge and I leapt up off the bed at the sound. (Part of my jumpiness possibly due to the fact that I was quite scantily clad, a result of all one’s clothes being rubbed around a crack house and preferring not to wear said clothing). The two of the Peruvian ‘FBI’ wanted to talk to us, they returned again later with concerns about dollars they had found on Juan (when he went to relieve himself…I’d rather not know where they had been). It was a long time before I was able to sleep that night, fan wirring, bugs chirping, motocarros zipping by.

Our crowning glory happened the next morning as I sipped a dreamy espresso (the first of my trip might I add!) and we breakfasted on papaya and yogurt. As we flipped through the local newspaper, who should appear on page 14? Yours truly. Next to a story about the heroism of a successful police raid after a Canadian-Peruvian tourist who had been taking pictures was attacked by eight men! Our laughter spilled out all over the breakfast table.

Although I must say, as we strolled around Iquitos that day we were deeply grateful that all white people look the same. Also…we may have [innocently] lied to the FBI about when exactly our flight was leaving.

After all was said and done we felt prfoundly grateful. Interestingly, more than anything else I came away with renewed faith that in general, people are good. The whole experience gave us a glimpse of a side of life in Belen that no other tour could have given us. And as for those eight ‘violent delinquents’? I don’t feel violated in any way. I feel that they have had a hard life, yes there are choices we can all make about what activities we choose to be involved in, and I make no excuses for them, but the truth is, they were born into deep poverty whereas I was born with a large silver spoon in my mouth. Life isn’t fair, but its funny.