The robbery…>>

The titles painted in some buildings and neighbourhoods read Ica Sur. On the map I had in front of me first came the airport and then the centre. But the map was wrong. That was not the sequence. The airport was north of the city. Oddly we saw the sign and already the city centre seemed to have been left behind. The last sheds of light, which still allowed us to observe the car washers in action at the entrance of the city, soon disappeared, and now not being  the dead of night,  nonetheless did light come from that bleu black sky.

We followed slowly through a nervous traffic, filled with smoke, filled with artistic lane changing manoeuvres, sudden stops to pick yet another passenger sighted at the last moment, alas, all adding up to the most careful of drivings. Tiredness was obvious and the idea that a slow pace made us equally vulnerable was far from thought. When a few kms later we saw the sign indicating Subtanjalla, it was clear that we were wrong. That we had to go back, it was an easy guess, but to avoid another detour, we decided to ask for better directions.

Along came the fateful Los Andes gas station. A “grifo”, as they call it here. I was really close to not stopping there. God, how close I was to not stopping there, I accurately remember my indecision… The entrance had some gravel and I thought it would be better to go a bit further and quit the stop. Then right at the last minute it didn’t seem so much gravel, I saw a piece of nice floor and I went in. It wasn’t a good place to stop. It was ill lighted. It was deserted. Today I would never stop in such a place, but we were coming from a different world.  Ten days spent in deep Peruvian country side. That tranquillity and safety of scarcely populated areas, was it also apparent? Had we also been in danger there? I don’t think so. But the fact is that we weren’t aware enough of the precaution needed this side of the mountains. Here at the aggressive pace of the coast we kept our quiet stroll of the previous days.

I drove slowly through the abandoned gas station until further ahead, where two men were sitting, one of them a station worker. I stopped, and didn’t even mean to shut down the engine, it would be a quick question, but I ended up doing so, to hear better but also because I was tired and that moment felt good. Instants, they were mere instants. They said it was all the way back, until where the road had two lanes, then up on the roundabout. Yes, I exactly remembered having passed that spot, some 7 km away. And it was on that exact moment that I remembered the roundabout and decided to take off that everything happened, very fast.

Was it 60 seconds? Even less? And how precise is a measure under a blurred state of pure adrenaline? It’s still hard to revive those moments. It’s hard to remember. It’s hard to bring back the details of that episode that has had some space to cool inside, cloaked by the days of tranquillity in Lima, Miraflores and San Isidro, embassies, state offices and long phone calls to Portugal . But talking about cameras, lost documents, insurance and DHL couriers isn’t the same as remembering in detail those moments of sheer suffocation, of a terror much bigger than any other lived until then, of realizing the real possibility that everything would end right there, in a split second, all my existence evaporated in a nervous trigger, handled with contempt and greed, amidst a cold gaze, but also a fearful and despaired one.

All of the sudden there was a stopped car, the two men from the station were unsettled, another two were already there, one of them wearing a cap, the other was fat, screaming all around, and a gun pointed at my belly. My brain worked in less than a click. The situation seemed as familiar as out of place. Inside my head, for a moment miles away and at the same time happening just as it was to be expected, a robbery, like you see in the movies, with guns and hands pulling everything on sight, and screaming threats. It all made sense, after all, the connection with South America and the violent films in Brazilian favelas, and the image of São Paulo, Rio de Janeiro , armed people, everything coming together in a logical mix. And we were right there. Instantly drowned in a big jungle of violence concentrated in half a dozen square metres. I felt I would do whatever it took to get out of there untouched.

The fat man was behind, I couldn’t see him, and João was yelling something, and they were yelling “Plata! Plata! La bolsa!”, and more screaming, and he shook the gun, and I screamed calm down, that the bag was stuck, that I would loosen it, please be calm, and I just wanted that gun far from me.  João was angry, left the motorcycle, sreamed that those were our things, and I was telling her to calm down, and could only see that gun pointing at me. The bag was thrown inside the car, and I thought it would be over. But they didn’t leave just yet.

How long had it been? How many seconds? Those long moments... They managed to take my backpack filled with clothes, attached to the bike only by two elastic bands. “Plata! Plata!” he repeated, and I swore that it was all in teh bag, look inside, the camera, everything. And that was the truth. It was all there inside that precious bag, my crown jewel, inseparable, that I kept constantly in sight all the moments of this trip, and that now seemed little richness to placate the greed of one who nervously shook a calibre 22 in hand. He tried to pull off the GPS, but it didn’t come out, it wouldn’t come out, I screamed, you needed a tool for that, but it wasn’t true and I was already preparing to open it with the key, if that would calm him down.

He quit. From the car the third man was yelling let’s go, quickly, quickly! The fat one went in grabbing the back pack, and the one with the gun still tried João’s pockets, no, she said, she wouldn’t give him those, those were the communicators, for us to speak to each other, no and no and she didn’t. And he quit and entered the car and they left. And we stood there watching them leave and then hesitate, as if they had forgotten something. I started the bike’s engine, in a sudden fear that they would return, João climbed and we advanced some metres, now safe with room to accelerate. They sped up and I felt that I could easily reach them, and my tank bag and my backpack that were mine and were in there. If I wanted I could reach them, yes. And what for? Fear paralyzed me. The engine was running. We stayed there, in one silent moment. I know that we both felt the same cold emptiness inside out stomachs and our hands were shaking.

João had been somewhat lucky after all. They didn’t see the small bag. Camera, cell phone, MP3 player, passport, plane ticket, everything inside that bag. I couldn’t say the same. Photo gear: main camera, with the main lens on, compact camera, memory cards and what was in them, also valuable, batteries and carriers. Adventure gab, with binoculars, compass, pocket knife, flashlight. Passport and motorcycle documents. The tank bag itself. The waterproof suit. Maps, so may! My calendar, god, the calendar with infinite precious information, and even cards and contacts for lodging on the way. The wallet, without Money, because fortunately we hadn’t withdrawn some. 50 dollars if that much. A visa card, cancelled. In the backpack a lot of clothes, a sleeping bag, and things bought to bring back to Portugal , nice gifts, what a shame about the little statues... What a shame about the towels. What a shame about the photos and videos. But, above all, what a shame about his feeling of impotence, of wrath and at the same time of fear.

Then came hours and hours in the police station. What a despair. And what to think in those hours when everything just happened and it’s still so close that you just want to think of something else? What to do with those terror images that repeat themselves and stubbornly go over again and again, like a scratched record, smashing whatever is left of rational tranquillity inside a dirty walled police station and a typewriter?

Then I talked the chief of police into taking us to a hotel. And captain Torres went in a Tico, and we followed real close. We arrived to Plaza de Armas, to the best hotel in the city, and it was a confusing Saturday night at the entrance of the discos and everything seemed dangerous to us. To put the bike away it took going through a hidden backdoor, João stayed at the front door with the hotel staff and the policeman climbed on the back of the bike and we entered the garage, the gate closing behind us. I felt safe as if I had reached the fort in the middle of a war.

A huge lit swimming pool filled the garden from where 4 stories rose, flowery, wooden frames, well decorated, luxurious. After discussing the price, we went to our bedroom. We didn’t speak much and that hotel, that luxury, that swimming pool, that huge bedroom with a nice bed, perfectly safe, calmed us down only at the surface, leaving inside everything still confused and filled with images. It was real, it really happened to us, and it was impossible to weaken the strength of that fact that seemed yet to be searching a space, to slowly carve its permanent mark, how long till it reaches its full depth? How much time to digest the episode and free our senses from that numbness? I fell asleep trying to empty my thoughts.

Translated from the otriginal by Ana Pinto