Maybe I take things too personally. But then again, there is something very personal about being stolen from. It's an invasion of personal space, someone reaching into your life and stealing not only personal objects, but also your sense of security and self-assuredness. There's something distinctly intimate about it, and it's an uncomfortable feeling.
Last week my backpack was stolen. I was very fortunate in that the only thing of real value in it was my Nook -- my laptop, camera, IPod, and passport were all at home. All the same, my backpack still held a significant number of items. A lot of things needed, and still need, to be replaced -- things like my phone, my student ID, notebooks, pens, my keys, my metro card, and my maps. Some things I had an emotional attachment to -- my water bottle, which was decorated by my best friend; my Nook, my Mokeskine, my ring, some of my clothes.
What's frustrating is that I wasn't robbed on the metro, or in the streets. It wasn't taken forcibly from me. I didn't even realize it was gone until I got up to leave. My friends and I had been eating lunch at a table outside, and my backpack was on the ground next to my feet, since there was no room on the table. We began to play a card game after lunch. A group of gringos shouting and hitting the table -- I'm sure we drew a lot of attention, and someone must have noticed an opportunity.
I reported it to the school police, who write everything down but told me that there was not much they could do, which I had expected. Most likely the thief wasn't even a student -- I have since heard of a few other cases where backpacks were stolen on the same day, which suggests that maybe a group walked on campus and started picking up bags. While it's horrible that other people also lost their bags, I admit it does make me feel a little bit better that at least I didn't lose my bag just because I was an inattentive gringa (not that that gives me an excuse for not having paid closer attention).
My friend Katy gave me some change for the ride home. I had planned to knock on a few doors and see if I could stay with a neighbor until Rosita got home, since I had no way to call her. But when I got home, I realized that without my keys, I couldn't even get into the building. I was stuck outside in the front gate with nothing but my class notes, a Marvel pen, and 30 pesos change.
I had held up well enough until that point, but when I realized that I couldn't even enter my own building, the shock wore off and it finally hit me that at that point, I had nothing. I hadn't just lost my backpack. I had lost my ability to get home on my own, and my ability to call for help; I had no way of getting into my building, nevermind my apartment; and I was stuck with nowhere to go and nothing to do except wait in the street as the sun went down. I felt so vulnerable.
I wandered the nearby streets for a while, and when I had calmed down some I returned to the apartment. I tried ringing Rosita's buzzer again, but she still wasn't home. I tried her neighbor's bell. Someone answered, but she said she could only open the front gate, not the second door to let me into the building. This still doesn't make sense to me, but at the time I was just glad to be behind a gate, rather than wandering the streets around Irarrazavel.
As I shut the door behind me, I realized that I was stuck. I couldn't open either door without my keys. I was trapped in a 5x5 foot entryway. I started to laugh at the sheer absurdity of the situation, and then started to cry, and then laughed and cried at the same time. Luckily nobody wandered by at the time, or I probably would have been institutionalized.
I sat in my 5x5 and alternated between reading my notes, singing a song, watching the dogs run by, and trying to figure out what exactly was going on on the balcony across the street, where an older couple appeared to be arguing about something. Maybe it was just a loud discussion. It's sometimes hard to tell. After maybe half an hour of sitting, Rosita came home. She asked me what on earth I was doing sitting there. She looked so surprised, I actually smiled and managed to tell her what had happened before bursting into tears again. She let me into the apartment and I explained the whole story in between hiccups.
We called one of the CIEE staff, who told us that if we made a police report and brought back a slip of paper proving it, I might be able to get some kind of compensation for my losses. Rosita found a spare Bip! card, and we immediately rushed off to the station. She hadn't even eaten yet, which is saying something because she doesn't have time to eat lunch while at work.
While we were on the bus to the police station, I talked briefly with an older woman I was sitting next to. She told me, "There are many things you can learn while living in a developing country, and one of them is that people steal." I knew this, of course, but it's different knowing it in theory and knowing it from experience. It's a hard lesson to learn. Right now, that's one of the things I miss most about being home -- I miss the feeling of security. I miss being able to leave my laptop open at the SUB and feeling confident that all of my stuff will be there when I get back. I miss being able to put things in my pockets. I miss being able to blend into the crowd, and not be singled out as a target. I miss being able to feel safe when I walk around at night; being able to walk around without being whistled and shouted at; being able to walk around on my own without feeling the need to check behind me every block. As a naive girl from Utah, I definitely took advantage of that feeling of security while in the States, and particularly last week, I missed that more than ever.
Santiago overall is a very safe city, and I know I was just unlucky. I love being in Chile, and I'm so glad I came here! I've made some wonderful friends and already had so many amazing experiences. But some days are rougher than others, and last Wednesday was one of the toughest, in a lot of different ways.
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