Crime and...?

Nicaragua prides itself on being “the safest country in Central America”, and statistics seem to back up the claim. But it is a claim much along the lines of being the most honest politician or the least fattening brand of ice cream. The truth is, Nicaragua has no shortage of crime, although the further removed one is from Managua, the less violent it tends to be. In the nearly two and a half years (minus trips north) we’ve been here, crime of any kind has given us a wide berth. If things have gone missing from time to time, we haven’t missed them, nor have we ever been directly approached or threatened in any way. That is, until the wee hours of Monday morning, when a loud noise woke us here at the school. Pat immediately sat up and said, “I think someone just kicked our door in. Stay here.” Buck naked, he jumped from the bed (not an easy feat considering the double layer of mosquito netting), grabbed his trusty machete, and rounded the corner into the main room. Sure enough, the door was wide open, and a splintered bit of wood containing the unmolested female side of the bolt lay on the floor. He ran outside, but there was no one to be seen. He came back in, pulled on his shorts, and said, “He’ll be back. Stay in the bedroom.” We kept the lights off, and he set up a chair near the door. I went back to bed, and had just about dozed off when another loud noise roused me. I got to the door of the main room just in time to see Pat take off out the door, barefoot in pursuit of the intruder. Then I noticed the machete still on the table, and felt my first (and only) wave of fear. What if it was a set up, and around the corner awaited a gang (Buenos Aires has one sort of lethargic mini-gang, comprised mainly of 15-20 year old unemployed glue sniffers. You know what I mean.) I paced back and forth in front of the machete, and he eventually returned. The guy had gotten away, disappearing down an alley and probably finding refuge under his mother’s bed.

By now several of the neighbors were up; it was nearly light, and the roosters were “giving it loudy”. Of the awake and curious neighbors, there was one notable absence: the police. We live right next door to the Buenos Aires Police Station. The room in which the on duty officer sleeps can’t be more than 100 feet from our place. Of course, “sleeps” would be the critical word in that sentence. According to pretty much everyone we talked to that day, sleeping is what the local cops do best. In any case, I asked some neighbors if I should bother alerting them. They said, “Yes, not because they’ll actually be able to do anything, but because maybe it’ll make them feel bad that it happened right next door, and to our town’s only foreigners.” Pat was off biking around the neighborhood, but called to tell me he’d seen the lieutenant (“Teniente Jorge”) out back polishing his shoes. So I walked over and called out “Buenos”, the standard attention-getter. He couldn’t see me, just called back that I should wait a minute. He eventually emerged, still in his t-shirt, carrying the shimmering shoes. When he saw it was me, he immediately began apologizing for keeping me waiting and ushered me over to the desk. I explained what happened and he chastised me for not notifying him directly. When I said, “Well, the door was closed; I didn’t think anyone was here.” He looked abashed and explained how the on duty cop stays awake until 1am, and rises at 5, and how it was unfortunate the transgression occurred within those few short hours of well-deserved rest. We then spent the next half hour filling out forms, and I had to relate the events in detail several times. He told me it was most likely one of the mini-gang members, and told me they usually were content to steal bananas and chickens, the odd small appliance, but clearly the lure of rich Gringos was irresistible. Then he asked if I was certain nothing had been taken. I said I was sure. “Not the television?” “We don’t have a television.” “The stereo?” “We don’t have a stereo.” “What about a radio? “Nope, no radio.” “Cash?” “No, we keep our money in the bank.” “It seems you have less of value in your home than most of your neighbors,” he noted, looking perplexed. “Well,” I said, “we came down here to have a simple life. And in any case, we’re running a non-profit, remember?” He nodded and made a few more notes in his battered black book, and finally let me go. An hour later he showed up at the front door and made me reenact exactly what happened…

Word travels fast around here, and by noon it seemed everyone had heard about it. I stopped in at one of the little neighborhood shops, maybe six or seven blocks from here, and the owner wanted all the details. When Pat went by later, she pantomimed that he should have a gun so he could have blown the miscreant away. She is a sweet, gray-haired lady, but she’s been broken into twice, with no help from the cops. Our friend’s nine year old, when I was telling her mom about my visit to the police, interrupted to say, “Why would you tell them? Everyone knows they never do anything!” And one of the aunties from whom we rent this place came by to tell me we ought to run a string from our place into the roof of the cop shop with a bell at the end, so that next time something happens, we can just pull the string and be sure to wake them up.

We had been talking about getting Edwin to weld us up a steel gate for the door at some point; most houses have them, including the immediate neighbors, but hadn’t gotten around to it. Well, we have one now. We painted it bright blue and it looks just lovely. Pat still feels that while the gate is a necessity, had he actually gotten a hold of the would-be thief, he would’ve sent an equally powerful message out to the community of potential unwanted visitors that this is not a house to fuck with. Oh yes—I nearly forgot the best part! When we were talking to Teniente Jorge, Pat asked what his rights as a homeowner were in these situations. At first Jorge merely said it was best to try to contain the criminal and send immediately for the police. “OK,” Pat said, “and what if he’s armed and attacks me?” “Ah, well, in that case of course you can defend yourself. But, umm, it would be best if you just roughed him up a bit. If you actually kill him, it does make for an awful lot of paperwork….”