The Bob Report, Part II

(Bob here, back in the U.S.A., with one last entry. Again, muchas gracias to Sam and Ally for everything. I had a great time in Bogota, thanks mainly to their generosity, their grasp of Spanish, their love of Rummy 500, their appreciation for all that is strange and wonderful, and their understanding that everything in the universe is somehow connected to "Curb Your Enthusiasm.")

Funny things go through your head when your camera gets stolen. First, as in any loss, there's a bit of denial: Fourteen hours after it went missing, I looked for my camera in bags I'd already searched quite thoroughly earlier in the day. The next morning, I still harbored at least some sense that it might turn up. But this would have been impossible: My camera was stolen from the unzipped pocket of my jacket, somewhere between La Candelaria and El Centro, sometime just before or after noon on Tuesday.

I know what you're thinking, because I'm thinking the same thing: What idiot walks around Bogota with his jacket pocket unzipped? We ask a good question. Making matters worse is that as a faithful reader of this blog, I know better. At least Ally and Sam were three months into their journey when they lost their stuff; it took me only three days to get ripped off.

Of course, afterward, I was quite vigilant, in the same way that people observe the speed limit religiously for at least a few hours after being ticketed for speeding. I became an owl, swiveling my head nearly 360 degrees with every step, my eyes peeled for any hint of suspicious activity. To foil would-be robbers, I began to think like a robber. I noticed people whose fat wallets bulged in their back pockets. I thought, hey, I could be a thief if I wanted to. It might even be karmically justifiable. I mean, come on, Bogota got my camera – now it's my turn.

This lasted for a few minutes, followed by a philosophical shift: No, Bogota owed me nothing. It had already given me a lot. And now, it had taken my camera. Fine. We're even, Bogota.

* * *

On Tuesday night, six travelers sat sipping tea in the kitchen of the Anandamayi Hostel. Warmed by the fragrant wood-fired stove, we shared stories of our experiences on the road. Everybody else was younger than me, and everybody else was in the middle of a much longer journey than mine, ranging from five to 12 months in contrast to my six days. One thing we all had in common: We had all been robbed at some point during our travels, often in ways that seemed to defy the laws of physics. (I felt stupid for not having noticed a hand in my jacket pocket, until someone told of valuable items disappearing from the deepest recesses of a backpack while she was wearing it.)

These things happen. They're not fun. But – and this is the important thing – they're not deal-breakers. Not one of the tea drinkers at the hostel had any inclination to cut their journeys short. As a group, they had dealt with deadly spiders, vicious monkeys, poisonous snakes and crocodile-infested waters. They had battled every type of gastric distress known to man or woman. They had hosted human botfly larvae. They had shivered in cold hostels and sweated in hot tents. And still, they pressed on. Still they sat on sweltering buses for 30 hours. Still they scaled scaled one language barrier after another. Still they argued with crooked cabbies. Still they traveled to places their home countries warned them not to go.

With a limited number of international travel miles under my belt, I do not kid myself that I am one of them. But for the first time in my life, I would consider following in their footsteps.

* * *

So, what happens when your camera is stolen on the streets of Bogota? You become more careful. You mourn for the pictures you lost. Then you go get some coffee and you continue to marvel at the strange, beautiful, ugly, safe, dangerous, boring, exciting, unbelievably rich world we live in.

Love and yerba mate,

Bob