La Plata

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- Part I: The love story
- Part II: The robbery

The idea was in theory excellent.

Return from my travels in northern Argentina, Bolivia and Paraguay, continue to Buenos Aires to pick up my remaining luggage and spend some time with the Argentinean I grew to love very fondly. Figure out if I can convert him to follow me once again on my journey, and if not mentally prep for another emotional sacrifice. Visit the friends in La Plata I traced down in the mountains of Salta. Zoofffff, hitchhike straight to Brazil, my personal promised land.

As always, reality always has a way of playing around with your perfectly crafted planning. So yes, I returned. In the lorry of a warm-hearted almost retired truck driver bearing the weight of a sluggish and agonizing divorce on his slowly shattering shoulders, delighted with our carefree conversations that for once didn’t involve screaming and threats.

It felt good to finally have the arms around me of a person I sincerely care about, opposed to the pleasant but volatile contacts traveling usually entails. However, the hug included the undeniable feeling of decay… the end of something. Like you walk into a party when most people are already about to go home, and only some vague acquaintances are lying scattered around on the floor and couch too drunk to even be entertaining. I painfully realized the moment I always knew would come had just made its entrance. My lifestyle founded on instability had always put love on a sidetrack, my stubborn mind driven by exploration only allowing the concept of a ‘relationship’ to happen if he would be willing to follow me wherever my restless mind would take me. I realized that the charm of one man will never win it from what the world can offer me, even though love is an incident where also my soul isn’t resistant to.

I found him, that guy, willing to travel not because he likes traveling, but because he loves me. Quitting his job, his education, his life plans and his comfortness just to throw himself into the deep with me without a dime in his pocket. For a year he followed my trail, hiding in one stable place while I solely followed the tentacles of all corners of each country. An introvert in the tranquil shadow of an extravert, searching quiet places within the privacy of four walls to finally breathe within the madness, while I, the explorer, went out every day to not waste a single second of the life granted to me.

We did many things together, but as many things separately, as we were different, you and I. I was guiding you but you didn’t always want to be guided. You were anxious as you thought you couldn’t offer me what I was looking for. But I never loved anyone so intensely. You were home in my nomad existence.

In the hurricane that is my life he was my anchor. But an anchor drops down at one place and remains set, holding down the ship that wants to go places.

I tried it, I went back to Argentina for him to give him the space to work, study and spend time with his beloved family. Granting stability. But I couldn’t do it, being in one place makes me sincerely unhappy. I shriveled like a barren rose. Being motionless makes me feel like my wings are pinned down to the ground, routine thickening the air I’m breathing. Every few weeks I escaped for months to follow. Every moment I left the city I felt like I could see again, feeling the tingling of life being sucked up by the pores of my body like an eager sponge. I would always come back to him, yes, I simply love him too much. But I knew there would be one day that I wouldn’t, and he knew that too. People say that when you find that one love you will do anything to make it work, but I beg to disagree. Love means that you want the other to be happy, even if that is without you. Letting all sense of ego go (“I want you to be happy, but only with ME”). He knew I could never be happy if he made me stay, I knew he would never be happy if I forced him to go. Again, the second time in my life.

I packed my bag and left when he was sleeping. A goodbye note my only trace, like I ripped out my heart and left it on the table for him, and continued my journey heartless. Drama. Tears. Tears of processing, tears of sadness but many tears of gratefulness. We had each other in our lives, not everyone is granted such a fortune.

I needed my friends now more than ever. My long-term friends I all left behind along the travel trail, so I grab any short-term contacts I can lay my hands on. It’s no guarantee of anything profound, but we had lots of fun on the road, so I was sure their laughter could also fill up my self-inflicted emptiness this time. Students, in their early 20ies… I left my own student times behind a while ago, graduating from my bachelor and master degrees when I was only 22 years old, but if there’s one thing I clearly remember it's the intensity of the parties that clangors in my consciousness until the day of today. I could use a bit of that right now, to be honest. So I traveled to La Plata and was served at my beck and call.

I guess it’s my way. Compensating with an overdose. Celebration, drinks, parties… the other side of the equilibrium, balancing it out somehow. It worked, kind of. After a few days my smiles were honest again. For sure better than lying in some mountain in a tent all alone, overthinking the inevitable. A few more days of this and I would be ready to go to Brazil, alone.

However, life had a little twist for me.

While working on one of my blogs I wanted to listen to some music. Well, my two iPods (one ‘shuffle’ for running and one normal one) were carefully stored in my safe bag, a thorough steel and securely locked portable locker… but hey, where was my safe bag? I’m sure I left it there hidden under my clothes. No panic Steph, you’re probably being your absent-minded self again. Probably you thoughtlessly moved it in some corner of the bathroom when brushing your teeth, or accidentally threw it behind the fridge in some cooking frenzy… you move stuff without thinking, that’s what you do. Just breathe in, breathe out, this is a small apartment, it can’t be gone.

After 45 minutes this zen state of mind was replaced by something more maniacal. I had turned the entire apartment upside down, checked all logical and illogical places at least five times and my friend initiated an even more thorough search. Not only were my two iPods in that safe bag, also all my chargers, my cash money, my vaccine proofs, my dive license, my drivers license, my four back-up USB’s with all my documents and last but not least: my PASSPORT and ALL MY CREDIT AND DEBIT CARDS were in that damn bag. Indeed, the bloody traveler’s nightmare, there you go. Yeah, I know I should have separated it blablabla, great advice after it happened.

My friend kept on repeating it couldn’t be gone, he lived here for three years and nothing ever happened here, even with the backdoor open. “Wait what, rewind… say that again, you left the backdoor open?” His big brown eyes stared into mine with a shocked expression. Yes, but nothing ever happened, this is a quiet place. And if they would have broken in, it wouldn’t be this organized… closets and drawers would have been open, chaos would rule the apartment, now everything was at its exact place. Also, more stuff would have been missing, like my laptop, his computer, jewelry… Well, guess what. More stuff was missing, we just didn’t know it yet. After another hour of desperate searching we figured out also his $1500 camera was gone, plus some unused cell phones scattered around in his bedroom (plus his roommates’ laptop and amplifier, as it turned out later). Well, fuck me.

What happens then in the human brain is rather ugly. All scenarios pass by. What could have happened, when, how and especially who? Could it be, but only maybe, you know I don’t know them that well, but ehm… him? Noooooo, but maybe yes, maybe this missing camera is just a distraction-trick, no it can’t be, yes it can, but I trust him, well what is trust in your situation?! I saw him sitting on the floor in (an act of?) despair, behind his eyes flashing the same ethical rollercoaster. Of course, he was suspecting me too, even though he doesn’t want to.

I know whatever friendship we had was gone now, the foundations were too weak, everything was covered into a haze of awkwardness.

We talked a lot, processing the reality by a words overflow. Admitted, one scenario seemed the most obvious: The unknown man that had rang the doorbell the day before to ‘fix some cables’ probably had used the opportunity to check out the interior of the house, combined with some spying from the outside… to return when we went out for a group dinner with friends, optimizing the power outage covering the entire neighborhood in darkness. But to be honest: It didn’t matter. I lost everything that is essential for traveling and I had to fix that now. No matter who stole it, it wasn’t in my possession anymore, and I had to deal with the situation as it is right now.

With a renewed calmness we headed to the police office. I wasn’t expecting anything from Argentina’s corrupted law enforcement, but as a Dutch citizen I’m obliged by law to declare a stolen passport. The officers looked up annoyingly, telling us whatever the hell happened to us wasn’t their responsibility. We weren’t in their official area anyway, we should try at the other office a 55-minute walk away. Okay, just force a smile and a friendly head nod and do what these assholes say. After we traversed La Plata’s ‘bad area’ after sunset (all my cash was stolen so I couldn’t take a cab) we arrived at the other office. Well, guess what, it wasn’t their responsibility either! We should get straight back where we came from. Stephanie, count to 10, they have to live with their own lousy existence, don’t get mad okay. Right. I pushed out another smile, thanked them for their helpful advice, and walked an hour back to where we came from.

The cops now realized they actually had to work and they weren’t happy with that realization. My facial expression wasn’t giving them another option however. So one of them sat down and I explained what happened. Thank god I speak Spanish, because don’t expect these well-paid government officials to be educated in any other language than their own.

He interrupted me halfway, I wanted to declare a robbery? Na-ah, not going to happen.

Ehm, why not? Because I would have to stay in La Plata for the next few months and would be reported to Interpol as an official victim and will have to stay in Argentina to defend myself, if not the police in my country would go look for me and I would be arrested at the border. Yes, read that again. Are you fucking kidding me? I’m robbed, I’m the victim here, not the offender. You smell that? It’s the smell of bullshit.

I explained I didn’t need anything from them, they could continue leaning back in their chair eating donuts, they don’t have to go after anyone. I just wanted on paper a confirmation of what happened, that’s all. Well, the only thing they could possibly do for me is write it down as if I FORGOT my bag in a shop, without remembering where, so it would basically all be MY fault. Wow. Just wow. No matter how much I love this country, it leaves me speechless in a lot of different ways.

With my false police reports in my hand I left the office, the cop shouting behind me that I should repeat the lie they wrote down there to all official institutions, just in case. I will fucking not, thank you very much. This whole police-inefficiency cost me about four hours of my life, so it was too late to return to Buenos Aires where my embassy is located. So I waited in a bed in La Plata with my eyes open until the night was gone and my fatherland would open its offices.

As I had blocked all my bankpasses yesterday I called my two different banks to request new ones (luckily I had my phone with me and still had some Skype-credit to make international calls), to be delivered at my mother’s address. Including internet-banking machines, as they stole those too. I refused their offer to send it to Argentina, as once this bank had ‘accidentally’ blocked my credit cards when I was in Colombia and they couldn’t make their own mistake undone, after which it took five months for the new ones to arrive due to a failing Latin American post system (I of course already left Colombia by then, which meant I had to wait another ten months without a credit card until a family member on holidays could bring a new one to me). Instead, I posted a cry for help on the ‘Dutch-people-in-Buenos-Aires’ Facebook-page and subsequently tracked down a helpful Dutch KLM-stewardess who was willing to transport my new bankpasses from Amsterdam’s Schiphol Airport to her homebase Buenos Aires.

€35 for the replacement of my bankpasses, fair enough. At least no money was taken from my account, as they probably had to burn open the entire safe bag first to access it.

Ok, the bank process is set in motion, now continue with another priority: my passport.

With all my stuff on my back I walked 50 minutes to La Plata’s bus terminal to take a bus with the last pesos that were still on my public transport pass, thank the devil for that. Bewildered I entered the embassy building, where, believe it or not, they were expecting me. How? Well, the embassy exists of quite loyal Facebook-members who all read my message, so they figured some kind of Stephanie would pass by any moment now. I could get an interim-passport the same day to go back to my country. But I don’t want to go back to my country! Ok, in that case I should apply for a new passport, which would be €130 for a 3-week process of €180 for a 5-day-emergency-request. Well, that last one I guess.

Fine, pay first please. Pay?! How? They stole all my cash and debit- and credit cards, I have no access to my money. Western Union? Nope, as you need a passport to pick that up, and guess what I’m here for… The only thing I could think of was that my mother would bank-transfer the money now. Hm, they needed to ask permission for that to the Ministery of Foreign Affairs, who appeared to be specifically unresponsive that day. But in the meantime I could walk those 8 blocks to have some recent government-approved passport photos taken. I scraped the last coins I could find from the bottom of my backpack and convinced the photo-shop to accept that as payment. As I didn’t sleep all night and didn’t waste time on using make-up or a hairbrush you can imagine what a charming photo will be staring at me from my passport the next ten years to come.

In total I would spend about six hours in that embassy, them staying open another additional four hours after closing time just to help me out. I was thirsty, so they provided me with water and coffee. I was hungry, so they bought me lunch. This is the boost of awesomeness you need in a situation like this. After the request was approved and the process rolling, they made some phone calls to kick the asses of the local police force and rectify my report, which was indeed now officially confirmed as gibberish.

In the meantime I called and mailed all over my country to start the process for a driver’s license replacement, which costs €30… a new divers carnet, which is another €30… and a new vaccine passport. The last one wasn’t as easy said as done, as also in my country I had the habit of moving around uncontrollably, changing scenery at an accelerated rate. Ergo: I got vaccinated in about four different municipalities. Who, very efficiently, operate as separate entities without internal communication. As such I had to request a big amount of different vaccination passports, all €17,50 each. The other option, to get all my vaccines again (which is FREE in Argentina), didn’t seem so attractive either. I don’t think an overdose of antibodies is healthy for anyone. Well, screw me, I need these proofs to cross borders. I decided to just pay for this rubbish and once I got my passport get another free yellow fever shot, as it was almost expired anyway and it’s the most important one of all in Latin America.

I spent another €60 on new USB-sticks, as that how expensive electronics are in Argentina, and ordered a €80-second-hand iPod in the Netherlands, as traveling without any music is rather boring. Yes, to rob a bit of cash (about €80 worth) from me, I had to make all these efforts and expenses to replace what is essential to me and absolutely worthless to the robber. Because what the hell are they going to do with someone else’s passport, a Dutch driver’s license, blocked bank passes and some random chargers? Nothing.

But I wasn’t mad. I felt sorry for the person who had to survive like this. I wasn’t worried either.

Sometimes life laughs at you, sometimes clouds filled with acid pour down all over you. It’s to test how strong you are.

On top of that, I was in a country I knew very well, where I speak the language, and filled with amazing people going out of their way to help me (literally, my email server almost went out of order for a bit due to a message overload), every bad apple being compensated for hundreds of buckets of good ones. Look at the bright side: I would finally have some time to sort out those millions of photos, update my website, study some Portuguese. I had an endless supply of houses where I could have stayed, and I lost count of the people who offered me money to borrow until I got my stuff sorted out.

But I knew it was life’s way of sending me a playful message, an ironic gift. Apparently the universe didn’t agree with my abrupt goodbye. There was one heart-broken person in whose life I was always welcome. His smile faded away all that had happened. Time. A bit more, a new goodbye on a longer road of acceptance.

… all of that to be robbed again the very next week in Brazil (BUT: all was separated this time, I apparently do learn, and my passport was thrown back to me by the robber: thumbs up).

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Photo credits: 1 -2 -3 - 4 - 5 - 6 -7- 8

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