Speaking of the Police
Saturday October 11, 2008
It’s funny, actually, thinking about the police. It reminds me of a completely different story. I have hesitated to tell it until now only because it’s a little embarrassing.
You hear stories about the police in Latin America. I think that basically they are true. If you have a handout they will leave you alone. It’s the best and easiest way out of a situation. The problem is that I don’t really know how to do that.
When you grow up in a place, you learn the rules. I have had run ins with the sheriff, the city police, the highway patrol, and even the F.B.I. It’s terrifying the first time you have to deal with law enforcement, especially when you are unfamiliar with the rules. As an adult, I am used to it. When a cop pulls me over I know the dance moves. I know what he expects from me and I have an idea of what I should expect from him. This is no longer true when you leave the safety of your mother country. The police here are scary. They carry big guns and they have the power to do pretty much anything they want.
I was coming home from the store on the day of Zachary’s birthday. I had some groceries, some ice, and a pocket full of cash. As I got closer to home, I discovered a Chavista rally right outside of my apartment. There was a big tent, lots of music and noise, tons of people in red, and more police than I could count. I pulled into my parking lot and didn’t think any more about it.
As I came around to the back of my car however, I discovered two fellows in uniform. I then noticed a big flat bed truck with a car on the back. The car was surrounded by more of these fellows in uniform. I took a deep breath and focused my attention on what was being said.
I have been quite disappointed with myself and my ability to understand Spanish. I can speak it reasonably well, but I can’t understand anything anyone says. Carrie is much better at deciphering things than I am. We make a good pair, actually, because she hears the words and I formulate the replies. When she is not there, I struggle. I was relating this fact to the father of one of my students. He was at the little man’s birthday party. He is Mexican, but he speaks English very well. Anyway, he told me that he too is challenged to understand the Venezuelans. He feels that they speak very fast and that they generally tend to drop the endings off most of their words; that made me feel a lot better.
I really did try to focus on this guy, but it’s extremely difficult when he is a man in uniform surrounded by men in uniform. I heard him say that they were collecting money for their cause. He had this slick brochure with lots of pictures of expensive stuff. It seemed like he was trying to convince me that it was some kind of raffle, but I couldn’t be sure. I stared at the brochure and then I stared at him and then I asked how much. He told me I could get in for fifty, no sorry, he really said one twenty, no, no, that’s one fifty for me. I reluctantly pulled out 150Bs and paid the man. He gave me the glossy brochure, smiled, and waved goodbye.
I stuffed the brochure into the back of a drawer. What’s the big deal? We all have to pay the gringo tax at one point or another. The deed was done so no point lamenting over it. I went off to the birthday party and forgot about it…then came that day last week.
I got an email from the school secretary; she told me that a man had come around looking for me. He arrived at the gate around 11. Security called her and she refused to allow him in. She passed along his name and number, along with the message that I still owed more money. She wanted affirmation that she had done the right thing. I assured her that indeed she had.
Now that this guy had shown up at work I was a little nervous. How the hell did this guy find me? Was he going to accost me on the way to work? Would he be waiting outside the building when I arrived home? I didn’t know, but I was working myself into a frazzle trying to figure it out. I finally ventured into the office and sat down with the woman who takes care of us gringos in all things Venezuelan.
I had to tell her the whole lurid story. I had to confess that I had been an idiot to begin with, but I was scared. Who wouldn’t be? There have been exposés about the police in Latin America. You know, I might even remember an entire "60 Minutes" dedicated to the issue. I didn’t want any trouble, but now it was knocking down my door.
She called the guy up and gave him the what for. It turns out that they weren’t police at all, only fireman from the next town over. They were, however, expecting me to cough up 150Bs a month for the next four months. I had, after all, bought in to the lottery. Fortunately, after some discussion, they forgave me my debt. Only when the F.B.I. told me they weren’t going to arrest me have I ever felt so relieved. I was happy to put the whole thing behind me.
Anyway, maybe that’s why I was a little braver with the real officer. It could be that and the fact that I really didn’t have any money and I really didn’t want to go to jail. I will tell you this for sure; I definitely did not want to go back into that school office and have a conversation with the same woman about this adventure.
In the end, I had no choice. I sheepishly related my story to the same woman who shook her head and assured me that there would be no repercussions from my misfortune. Wow, am I lucky…
MJR
It’s funny, actually, thinking about the police. It reminds me of a completely different story. I have hesitated to tell it until now only because it’s a little embarrassing.
You hear stories about the police in Latin America. I think that basically they are true. If you have a handout they will leave you alone. It’s the best and easiest way out of a situation. The problem is that I don’t really know how to do that.
When you grow up in a place, you learn the rules. I have had run ins with the sheriff, the city police, the highway patrol, and even the F.B.I. It’s terrifying the first time you have to deal with law enforcement, especially when you are unfamiliar with the rules. As an adult, I am used to it. When a cop pulls me over I know the dance moves. I know what he expects from me and I have an idea of what I should expect from him. This is no longer true when you leave the safety of your mother country. The police here are scary. They carry big guns and they have the power to do pretty much anything they want.
I was coming home from the store on the day of Zachary’s birthday. I had some groceries, some ice, and a pocket full of cash. As I got closer to home, I discovered a Chavista rally right outside of my apartment. There was a big tent, lots of music and noise, tons of people in red, and more police than I could count. I pulled into my parking lot and didn’t think any more about it.
As I came around to the back of my car however, I discovered two fellows in uniform. I then noticed a big flat bed truck with a car on the back. The car was surrounded by more of these fellows in uniform. I took a deep breath and focused my attention on what was being said.
I have been quite disappointed with myself and my ability to understand Spanish. I can speak it reasonably well, but I can’t understand anything anyone says. Carrie is much better at deciphering things than I am. We make a good pair, actually, because she hears the words and I formulate the replies. When she is not there, I struggle. I was relating this fact to the father of one of my students. He was at the little man’s birthday party. He is Mexican, but he speaks English very well. Anyway, he told me that he too is challenged to understand the Venezuelans. He feels that they speak very fast and that they generally tend to drop the endings off most of their words; that made me feel a lot better.
I really did try to focus on this guy, but it’s extremely difficult when he is a man in uniform surrounded by men in uniform. I heard him say that they were collecting money for their cause. He had this slick brochure with lots of pictures of expensive stuff. It seemed like he was trying to convince me that it was some kind of raffle, but I couldn’t be sure. I stared at the brochure and then I stared at him and then I asked how much. He told me I could get in for fifty, no sorry, he really said one twenty, no, no, that’s one fifty for me. I reluctantly pulled out 150Bs and paid the man. He gave me the glossy brochure, smiled, and waved goodbye.
I stuffed the brochure into the back of a drawer. What’s the big deal? We all have to pay the gringo tax at one point or another. The deed was done so no point lamenting over it. I went off to the birthday party and forgot about it…then came that day last week.
I got an email from the school secretary; she told me that a man had come around looking for me. He arrived at the gate around 11. Security called her and she refused to allow him in. She passed along his name and number, along with the message that I still owed more money. She wanted affirmation that she had done the right thing. I assured her that indeed she had.
Now that this guy had shown up at work I was a little nervous. How the hell did this guy find me? Was he going to accost me on the way to work? Would he be waiting outside the building when I arrived home? I didn’t know, but I was working myself into a frazzle trying to figure it out. I finally ventured into the office and sat down with the woman who takes care of us gringos in all things Venezuelan.
I had to tell her the whole lurid story. I had to confess that I had been an idiot to begin with, but I was scared. Who wouldn’t be? There have been exposés about the police in Latin America. You know, I might even remember an entire "60 Minutes" dedicated to the issue. I didn’t want any trouble, but now it was knocking down my door.
She called the guy up and gave him the what for. It turns out that they weren’t police at all, only fireman from the next town over. They were, however, expecting me to cough up 150Bs a month for the next four months. I had, after all, bought in to the lottery. Fortunately, after some discussion, they forgave me my debt. Only when the F.B.I. told me they weren’t going to arrest me have I ever felt so relieved. I was happy to put the whole thing behind me.
Anyway, maybe that’s why I was a little braver with the real officer. It could be that and the fact that I really didn’t have any money and I really didn’t want to go to jail. I will tell you this for sure; I definitely did not want to go back into that school office and have a conversation with the same woman about this adventure.
In the end, I had no choice. I sheepishly related my story to the same woman who shook her head and assured me that there would be no repercussions from my misfortune. Wow, am I lucky…
MJR
posted by Bronx to Timbuktu at 2:25 AM
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