Highwaymen (Bolivia)

I bought myself a bicycle after the bout of typhoid I had a month ago, and have since then been getting back into shape. At 4,000 metres and with fantastic mountains nearby, the La Paz area is not a bad place to do this.

This afternoon, I set off through the humble red brick houses that extend almost vertically up along the flanks of the La Paz gorge. The houses thinned and were left behind; my bike's jolting eased as cobblestones gave way to dirt track. The sun filtered gently through rustling, fragrant eucalypts. As I neared the rim of the altiplano (high plateau), the snowpeaks of the Cordillera del Este began to emerge from behind.

Just past a tiny, unwalled cemetery, a man wearing a dirty camouflage jacket stepped onto the road in front of me. I saw a knife flash in his left hand, and got ready to turn my bike around and flee. Then I saw the pistol in his right hand. It was so old-looking it could have been genuine, even though it might have blown his hand off if he tried to shoot me. As I was deciding not to put these considerations to the test, his cómplice (accomplice) stepped out from behind a small bush to my left.

Some of what followed is a blur, and I can't remember if 'Pistol' told me to get off my bike; anyway, I dismounted. I suddenly wanted to ask them could I take a piss; then I realised that this was the fear, and told myself to stop it, think straight.

"Sit down", they told me. I obeyed.
"Where's your passport?"
"Amigo, I don't have it with me. I'm going to take everything out of my pockets so you can see what I have."
"Why don't you have your passport?"
"I never bring it with me, in case..." I trailed off, not wanting to imply similarity with the ne'er do wells who generally steal passports.

All of Pistol's face bar eyes, nose and mouth was covered by a thick woollen balaclava. He caught me looking at him, and told me to pull my hat down and look at the ground. I did so; my fear grew as I strained to hear what the unseen figures were doing.

The cómplice took the pannier bags off my bike, and started going through them; meanwhile, Pistol began a vociferous justification of the theft.
"There are people dying of hunger in Bolivia", he fibbed; "I have four children".
"I have five", chimed in the cómplice.
"I need to put food on the table", continued Pistol. "Give me 100 dollars and I'll let you keep your bike". My ears pricked up - maybe if I got talking to these guys, got them to like me, they wouldn't take everything. Anyway, why was the cómplice going through my bags checking for valuables, instead of just taking the whole lot?

"Where are you from?" "How long are you going to stay in Bolivia?", the thieves asked me. I chatted to them as naturally as my tension would allow.
"You must have a lot of money. How are you paying for this trip?". My savings were down to just over 300 bucks, I explained.
"But you're from Europe, there are lots of jobs and money there", objected Pistol. Not all Europeans are rich, I told him.

"Why didn't you bring your passport?" Pistol demanded again. Assuming they weren't avid collectors of exotic immigration stamps, I wonder why they were so keen on passports.

"Can you do me a favour", I asked the cómplice, "and give me the roll of film that's in that camera?". He fiddled with the camera, found the button for winding the film, waited for the whirr to finish, and handed me the film.

"Take your bike, put the bags on it", said Pistol. I started the awkward task of putting the pannier bags on an unsupported bike.
"I'll hold the bike", said the cómplice - "don't worry, we're not going to hurt you. You've been good with us, so we'll be good with you".
"Can you do me another favour and give me the cassette that's in that walkman?"
"Sure", he said kindly. Pistol threw the cassette over; it bounced against my tense fingertips and fell onto the dirt. The cómplice stooped down and handed it to me.

'Well, I might as well continue this fucking cycle', I thought.
So, I asked, does this track go all the way up to the altiplano?
"No, it goes down to Villa Fatima after a while."

"Take the bike. There no badness." said Pistol. He spoke the childlike Spanish of someone who's never been to school in his life. In Bolivia, this is not uncommon. (He was about 30, and I've never seen anyone that young who only speaks the local language Aymara, and not Spanish).

I cycled off downhill, a little scared at first that Pistol might for some reason shoot me in the back. I jolted down the dirt track and then the cobblestone.

I even considered not reporting the two men, but decided to call into the first settlement on the way down. In the bus coop's store, the coffee-drinking bus drivers were quite helpful, dialling 110 and 120, the police emergency numbers. No reply from either.

"This is a real shame" said the most forthcoming driver (Bolivians - especially the indigenous - are some of the most reticent people I've ever come across. It's easy for a European to interpret their extreme reserve as rudeness).
"This kind of thing is very rare here. It will give Bolivia a bad name."
"Although", he added, "it might well have been Peruvians come over the border, passing themselves off as Bolivians." He wasn't the last person to suggest this to me today. Bolivians generally see Peruvians as blackguards who cause many of the country's problems.

The bus drivers eventually got through to the police, who said they'd come right away. I have some experience of South American police, so I didn't take this too seriously.

Sitting down and waiting didn't agree with me; inactive and mostly alone, I started replaying the fear I'd felt.

"I'm bored waiting for the cops", I told the chatty bus driver, and set off to cycle for a couple more hours.

Because some of my attention was devoted to the beautiful views and the effort of cycling, I was able to replay and analyze the theft gradually, without being overwhelmed. When the robbers first appeared, it seemed like pure danger - I was afraid I'd be nastily cut up or even killed. But these guys weren't junkie nutters. In the end, the experience was a strange mix of sweet, frightening, and human.