On our way into town in a mototaxi, a motorcycle with two men pulled up beside us. With both vehicles still moving right along, one of the guys reach over and grabbed our backpack out of Tim's lap.
There were a few moments of chaos in which we screamed "Stop!" at a taxi driver who didn't understand English and hadn't seen what happened. I think it took us a second to realize what was going on, that it wasn't a joke, and that this guy wasn't about to give it back. Tim hopped out in pursuit, but to no avail.
So that's how I got robbed of my dear camera, both of our Peruvian IDs, our only credit card, and all the anniversary presents we gave each other last week (practical but expensive things that end up in a backpack you carry around). All told it was about $1500 worth of stuff. That's more than we make in a month.
It's just stuff, right? So why do I feel so... all the words that come to mind are inappropriate.
One of our friends reminded us afterward that it was a nonviolent crime. I'm grateful for that and grateful too that it wasn't in our house, didn't rob me of my sense of security so much. Of course I don't worry about our house; we have Ellie. Maybe I'll start taking her to town with me.
Two years ago tonight we were in the Bogotá airport on the way to Lima, filled with nervous energy and high expectations. Tonight I'm shaken, frustrated, sad, confused. I'm mad that I live somewhere with this kind of delinquency (and not juvenile, mind you) and struck by the irony of my 2nd anniversary gift. It seems somehow that missionaries shouldn't be robbed, don't you think? Thanks a lot, Peru.