Shaftings

I am now in Argentina and so far it’s been bloody brilliant. Let me clear a small backlog of Bolivia-related things and then I’ll try and get something together about that.

I mostly wrote this post – on how lucky I was to not have gotten shafted – a few days before leaving my coats on a bar stool in a club in La Paz called Ttecos (pronounced tuh-techos) and going dancing.

As Crystalfox knows, for it is an area in which we have disagreed in the past, I am a fan of cloakrooms and if one is available I will generally use it. Unfortunately on this occasion I failed to notice the existence of a cloakroom and therefore thought it must be the kind of place people left their coats lying around (despite the fact that there probably weren’t any unattended coats left lying around).

A coat and a jacket left on a bar stool, just fifteen minutes of dancing and then no coats to be seen.

Shafted.

The items in question were my nice Lowe Alpine coat and another, much lighter but also grey and blue one that I had a strong sentimental attachment to since it got shafted off me in Morocco years ago only to find that the nice thieves left it and my passport behind. Thanks to its compactness and ease of tying around the waist, that jacket accompanied me for the vast majority of my getting off my box ever since. I could show you a picture of it and I’m sure it would remind you of me being off my box. Bastards.

The relevant figure here is “ratio of new purchase price of items stolen to cost of putting items in cloakroom”. That would be a surely unbeatable 16000:1.

The shaftings in South America have been less forthcoming than the internet or guide books would lead you to believe. Let me tell you about a few that spring to mind. Fortunately they are all either successful but mild or hilariously incompetent and doomed to failure. The travel agency in Lima doesn’t count because I was well aware at the time that it was a shafting but I went along with it anyway.

I think if I’m going to get shafted it’s going to be a straightforward mugging. You hear about plenty of those (mostly in Lima and Bogotá, mind) and there’s not an awful lot you can do about it.

Cusco: The bottle of vodka that wasn’t

One night in Cusco, Maris’s annoying brother (just so you know which of Maris’ one brother I’m referring to) and I went out to purchase take-away pizza and a selection of alcoholic beverages. In touristy places like Cusco, pizza is freely available almost to the exclusion of any other type of food. We foreigners just looooove pizza. So there was no problem there.

While we were waiting for the pizza, I made a solo trip to the nearest off-licence, about three blocks away in the main square, to see about the selection of alcoholic beverages. I picked out a few bottles of beer, a half bottle of some kind of Jamaican rum and a naggin of vodka, the only one on the shelf. The brand name was “Paramongo” and it had a diagonal stripe of the middle of the label missing and some, but crucially not all [1], of the seal of the metal cap in a state of detachedness. I was suspicious enough to ask if there was another one (there wasn’t) but not so suspicious as to decline to purchase that one.

When I brought it home John opened it and it made a hissing sound, with bubbles rising to the surface. It smelled like lemonade.

When I was passing by this same shop on a later date, I saw through the window one of the employees with a four by four grid of empty rum bottles on the ground, into which he was pouring coca-cola with a funnel. In plain view from the street. The cheeky cunt.

I didn’t have the bottle on me to attempt to return it and as it cost S./ 3.50 I decided in this instance it would be better to take my shafting.

Lima: The pay now, get later cocaine

This was possibly the single biggest insult to my intelligence of the trip so far.

While I was killing time waiting for my dentist’s appointment in Lima, some well dodgy-looking Peruvian in his early twenties came up to me for a chat. I can’t remember his name but one thing I do remember is that the massive indented scar on his right cheek was apparently caused by being bitten by a spider while he was sleeping. It’s a coincidence that someone so dodgy should have a wound on their face caused not by, say, a knife but by a poisonous spider but who knows.

He didn’t speak any English so the chat was as limited as ever but the conversation turned to weed, a topic on which I have learned a few relevant contributions. I expressed a very mild, hypothetical interest in purchasing some weed. Had he had some weed to sell on him at the time, good weed, I may have purchased it but he did not. [2]

After about fifteen minutes it was time to say my goodbyes (I thought) and head off to the dentist. He insisted on accompanying me, actually causing me to be late in the process by bringing me a different way to how I’d come. He said he’d wait outside for me. I told him explicitly not to, since

I had no idea how long I was going to be – it could have been anything up to two hours

He was a bit weird and I’d had enough of him

I suggested I give him my phone number instead but he had no phone, supposedly because he’d recently been mugged and had it taken off him. I went inside the dentist’s and got down to business. As it happens the dentist asked me who my dodgy-looking accomplice was and warned me he looked like someone to be avoided. I agreed.

45 minutes later I was finished and went back outside to find the fucker still standing there.

I told him I didn’t want to buy any weed, and that I was probably just going to head home since we had places to go. However, I decided to up the ante a bit and sound out his feelings towards cocaine. I thought it might be handy to have some in case the fillings got sore later.

As it happens, he liked cocaine. So did I. Did he know where one could buy some? Yes he did. I suggested we walk and talk, which we did all the way back out to my hostel, a good twenty five minute walk away.

It became clear that the deal on offer was that I give him money upfront, 60 Soles, and he would go away – alone – to procure the cocaine (more than a gram, he said) and then bring it back to me. He wasn’t clear about where he would be going to do this and it struck me as unlikely that we just happened to be walking in the right direction.

I explained (repeatedly) that I couldn’t possibly part with any money until he had the goods to show me. When he realised I was serious about this, the negotiations took a hilarious new direction. If I didn’t like the sound of a gram for 60, how about two grams for 60? No? How about 3? No? 3 for 50. 3 for 40. A common tactic of people selling shit drugs and, it would seem, people selling no drugs at all.

He eventually offered me his extremely natty-looking jumper as security as well as taking out the pink plastic crucifix he wore around his neck and kissing it. Imagine bringing poor Jesus into this. I told him one last time that it was nothing personal but there could be no deal.

As I went to go inside my hostel, he pleaded for 5 Soles for a taxi back into town. I told him to fuck off.

Cuzco: The value-added bus ticket

At the time I was leaving Peru there was a bit of trouble between the government and some of the indigenous people who are unhappy about foreign oil companies making money off their land, or something to that effect. As a result of this, there had been some strikes and roadblocks in certain areas. I met plenty of people who got stranded in extremely shit places for days at a time as a result. Like what happened to me in Iquitos, but worse and for longer.

When I heard that I apparently had a two-day window in which to leave Cuzco, I thought I’d better jump on it. I went to the bus station to enquire about the possibility of a bus to Arequipa. The first guy I spoke to said there was a blockade and that it wasn’t possible. Oh noes!

I decided after going to the bus station, I might as well get a second opinion from one of the other bus companies that advertised Arequipa as a destination. Surprisingly, he said it would be no problem whatsoever and talked me through the three different price options for the journey. I wanted to try out the fancy downstairs bit of the bus so I said I’d take the super duper ultra-cama option please, for S./70. I gave him a S/.100 note and he came out from behind the counter and headed off down the station to a different counter. A few minutes later he reappeared with my ticket and my change. The ticket was printed with all the details including the price. S./55, in both words and figures, had been crossed out and replaced in pencil with S./70.

That’s not to say I’d have got it for S./55 if I’d approached the counter he approached myself, but it’s a shafting in my book. In Arequipa I met a Brazilian girl who’d paid S./70 for the medium quality so that was ok.

Cochabamba: The emergency phone call

I had the misfortune to arrive in Cochabamba on one of its very busiest weekends, without any kind of reservation since it doesn’t really have hostels as such. Prior to phoning Tonio and asking if I might perhaps stay at his house, I had been walking around town with all of my belongings in tow for over three hours. The majority of the places to stay are in the dodgiest part of town, as luck would have it

I’ve been warned by enough different people about enough different parts of Cochabamba now that I believe it is a more dangerous place than it looks as, with the exception of this part of town, it really doesn’t look dangerous at all.

While waiting on a street corner for Tonio to show up, I felt a sense of imminent danger that I hadn’t felt since my experimental late night walk around Bogotá. There were lots of small groups of dodgy looking youngsters milling around, some of them giving me a good looking at.

A guy with blood on his face came running from around the corner and asked if I had a mobile. Presumably I was supposed to think he wanted the mobile to call someone about the incident that involved him having blood on his face.

Figuring it was very plausible for a foreigner not to have a mobile, I told him that I was very sorry but I didn’t have a mobile. He continued on across the road where he proceeded to make a phone call on the phone that he suddenly discovered he possessed himself, making no attempt to hide this from me.

I doubt I would have seen the phone again had I felt compelled to hand it over.

La Paz – The novice pickpocket

On a few occasions, people I spoke to in the market in La Paz warned me to take care of my belongings in that area. At one market stall, the stallholder warned me that there were “muchos ladrones” (many thieves) in the market. “Muchos Peruanos”, added the wife. That seems to be the main thing Peruvians are known for in Bolivia, nicking stuff.

I usually had my camera bag with me, carried on my back in all but the densest of crowds. Everyone in Bolivia wanted to tell me about the risk of carrying around a bag of valuable photographic equipment but nobody seemed to appreciate the reward.

A few weeks later I found myself back in the market near Calle Buenos Aires, the end where things take a dodgy turn especially in the evening. I was walking along the street, a not especially crowded street, when I felt something brush against me. I can’t remember for certain but I think I may have heard a zipping noise too.

I turned around and saw a little street urchin scumbag walking far closer to me than was necessary. I pulled my bag around to the front to have a look and saw the front pocket had been zipped all the way open. This front pocket contains a map, a notebook, a few pens and a polarising filter: nothing valuable, for this reason. I’d found it open before, but had never actually witnessed it being opened.

I stopped to let the street urchin pass by and then, due to not being able to remember any of the good insults involving the riding of people’s mothers, called him a son of a bitch. He said something back to me, I don’t know what, but probably something involving my mother.

After closing the bag again, I continued on. On the next street corner there was a big plastic water pipe sticking out of the ground with a valve on the end. As I approached, scumbag pointed this towards me and either pretended he was going to open it, or actually opened it but found it wasn’t connected to anything. Fortunate as there wouldn’t have been anywhere for me to get out of the way.

Having taught me my lesson, he then fucked off. As did I, in the opposite direction.

Potosí – The early check-in

Tonio and I stopped off in Potosí on the way to Uyuni. We arrived at about 5:30am having taken a night bus from Cochabamba. Across the road from the bus station are a selection of alojamientos (cheap accommodation often with shared bathroom and nearly always with a smell of homeless person, fags, and/or wet dog) and I sent Tonio in to make enquiries in one of them figuring he might get a better deal than me and certainly wouldn’t get a worse one.

He reported it was 50Bs for a double room for the night. I thought that sounded alright so we went for it. We paid in advance and were directed downstairs to our windowless room that smelled, in this case, like wet dog. We slept till around midday and then went to town to see the sights. Returning from town around 11pm, we were informed by the night receptionist that we owed them some money. We said we did not. She happily said she’d leave it for the day receptionist to sort out.

The next morning I attempted to brief Tonio on what the team line was going to be should we be asked to pay more money, namely some strong arguments against paying, but to compromise on 50% of the daily rate if they came up with something even more compelling that I’d overlooked.

When we went to check out at just before midday, we were accosted by a young lady “in indigenous dress” [3] who informed us we owed another 50Bs. I think the basis for this is that they have a new page of the check-in book for each day, and our entry was two pages back, therefore we owe 50Bs. QED.

I pointed out that on the wall there is a sign regarding the consequences of checking out late (having to pay an extra 50% of the daily rate between midday and 6pm, and the fully daily rate thereafter) and that if there were similar consequences to checking in before midday, that it might be an idea to have a sign about those too. Or in the absence of a sign, just to actually mention it.

I could understand slow-talking receptionist man, who knew from the beginning they were in the wrong and therefore kept his head down, studiously examining the check-in book for most of the discusión (that’s Spanish for “argument” – LOL). I could not however understand much said by indigenous lady, who was still moaning “Meh meh meh, cincuenta pesos, pues” like a child whose mommy won’t buy her ice cream. I don’t know why but this, rather than engaging in factual debate, is how Bolivians seem to argue. Sulking and repetition.

Suddenly it transpired that we didn’t owe 50Bs, but 25Bs, 50% of the daily rate. All this did for me was prove they were full of shit and if we could go from 50Bs to 25Bs for no fucking reason, we could surely get from 25Bs to 0Bs. [4]

I pointed out that we made it clear when we checked in that we were staying one night, not five hours, and that if the price to be paid was 100Bs rather than 50BS, then why weren’t we asked to pay that up front, given that bills are settled a day in advance in this place? [5]

We had a bus to catch and rather than stick around and have any more of our time wasted by IL and the slow talker, I told them to call the police if they didn’t like it, and made for the door. At this point IL leapt in front of me and locked the door. This I didn’t appreciate.

Fortunately seconds later someone arrived at the door, wanting to be admitted, forcing IL to open it again. I took my rucksack and stepped out the door and gestured for Tonio to join me. It was unfortunately at this point that I discovered that Tonio is not just averse to arguing with people, but a huge pussy when it comes to getting unshafted.

I eventually had to step back inside when it became obvious that Tonio was going to sit there pues-ing for the rest of the day. The manager was called down and the situation was explained. She said, pretty much straight away, that it was grand and we didn’t owe anything. A profuse apology from all concerned and we were on our way. Sorry, did I say “profuse apology”? I meant “stony silence and dirty looks”.

[1] I still don’t know how this could be since unlike a plastic bottle, it’s definitely not possible to remove both cap and seal. Maybe they actually superglued it or something. The man behind the counter saw me examining it and assured me I should be “tranquillo” about it. The cheeky cunt.

[2] As an aside: this is a good example of the kind of sentiment I would need to be able to express in Spanish in a totally grammatically correct way before claiming to speak Spanish. As opposed to being able to say “La cuenta, porrrr favorrrrr” in a Speedy Gonzales accent.

[3] The more indigenous the dress, the more appalling the ignorance and indifference you are likely to encounter- as a white person at least. There’s something you won’t read in Lonely Planet.

[4] A theory that also proved correct the time O2 offered to refund €5 of the €10 credit they stole off me. 50Bs would be about €5 as it happens.

[5] Again, if you’re thinking “these sound like very complicated concepts for Esquilax to be able to explain coherently, involving as they do the subjunctive perfect past tense”, you’d be correct. I don’t know that tense at all. But they knew what I was getting at alright.

~ by esquilax on 26 October 2009.