That my quiet life in Canada might have dulled my wits had concerned me. Now I realize that my apprehension was justified. Yesterday, I decided to have a beach day and took a water taxi with a few others to a secluded spot about forty minutes north of town. It was a beautiful length of snow white sand and perhaps only six other people were there. After lazing about for a couple of hours, I got restless and went exploring. A few hundred metres along the shore I found a surfing school and spent some time watching the students get up for two second rides on one metre waves before falling off. It was a cool little scene with a bar and funky music playing from loudspeakers. With an hour left until the water taxi returned to pick me up, I headed back to the main beach with a group of others.
My mistake was in stopping to take a picture. That minute made all the difference. The rest of the group had disappeared around a corner. I wish that there were some pictures for this post, but at that moment three masked men carrying military combat knives emerged from the trees lining the beach and charged me. I turned reflexively and tried to make for the water, but they had picked their spot. Ten metres of slick, sharp rocks separated me from the sea. Attempting to run over the first stretch of rock, I immediately fell and gashed my knee. It was a stupid move and they were closing fast. I had a knife, but it was buried deep in my bag. I had taken it out of my waistband before I had gone swimming. Even if it had been in my hand, I would not have drawn it. Three-to-one are lousy odds in a knife fight and there was nothing on me that I was willing to die defending.
Flinging my backpack to the right, I broke left towards the main beach. There was a wad of cash in my pocket and I did not like the prospect of being searched for it. Glancing back as I accelerated, I saw them hesitate. It was enough. In that single second I had a ten metre lead and was at a full sprint on the firm sand along the waterline. They didn't bother to follow. Thirty metres further on I rounded a corner and ran into ten surfers headed in the other direction. After stopping to warn them, I limped back to the main beach to await my boat. All I had lost was my camera, a really cool Oakley backpack and a fascinating book on political economy by John Ralston Saul. I can live with that. Even if the camera had not been smacked on the rocks and doused in sea water, it is useless without the cables and I doubt that they have enough English to read the book, so all the thieves get for their trouble is a backpack and enough coins to buy a Coke.
Landing back in San Juan del Sur, I found my driver, Victor, and went to the police station. One officer took the details down in longhand, then filled out a report on an old Remington typewriter while two others watched Die Hard on television. How quaint. There is no chance of recovering my possessions, but perhaps others could be warned. They told me a major police operation on those beaches is just about to get underway.
I cleaned the wound on my knee, applied disinfectant and bound it. It will be fine in a couple of days, but my plans to go dancing with the two English girls I met had to be scratched.
The harsh reality is that cheap holidays to places like Cuba, the Dominican Republic or Nicaragua are made possible by the poverty of their citizens. It is comforting to think that tourism is helping the economy and not just taking advantage of the people's misfortune, but honestly it does both. Inevitably, for some the wealth of visitors in the midst of their poverty will make crime too attractive an alternative to resist.
Our own security is inextricably tied to the well-being of people in countries like this one and not just safety from robbery while on vacation. Drug cartels and organized crime organizations that prey on our society are enriched, empowered and given safe haven in poor countries where they can take advantage of people's desperation. The violent Jamaican street gangs in Toronto are a product of the crushing misery in Kingston's slums. It is ironic that none of the U.S. politicians ranting against illegal immigration or the drug trade are proposing the only rational solution with any hope of success; massive, Marshall Plan scale investment in Mexico. My language school here was chosen mainly because the proceeds go to community projects. I am trying to contribute as I am able.
Some lessons need to be learned the hard way. I had heard of robberies on the southern beaches, but had been told that those to the north were safe. I should still have been on my guard. Making the right move only after making a truly bad one could have been my undoing. From today I will have my eyes wide open.
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