Tales from Abroad: How I Got Robbed in South America

I love Chile. I consider the country to be my second home. When I was seventeen, I lived there for six months as an exchange student. Though not my first time abroad (what's up, Canada?!), it was the first time I was without my family and friends. When I arrived in Chile, I didn't know what to expect...but after six months of living in an entirely different culture (and not without lots of ups and downs), I felt I gained a second family, an entire group of friends, and another home.

Because I had such an awesome high school experience, I decided to come back for university. I was three years older, more confident and had "big plans". Though still living with a host family, it was in an apartment in a swanky neighborhood and several other young people in my program lived nearby. It was so on.

I was young and carefree. I really didn't pay attention to my surrounding and just "went with the flow" many times. When I look back on my attitude at the time, I sometimes wonder how I managed to get robbed only once...

"Look at the meter!"

I'm sitting in the backseat of the taxi, squished between someone's leg and someone's back. I think there's a girl on my lap, but I'm not sure. We've definitely overcrowded this small cab, but the taxista doesn't seem to mind. The more stops we go to, the more money he gets.

But now we're looking at the meter. Didn't it just say 4,000 pesos? Why is it now 6,000 pesos? We haven't been parked here for that long. How's the meter going up like that?

But we're happy, and we've been drinking, and no one really cares about the meter because we've just had so much fun at insert-name bar and we feel really lucky to be in our big group of friends.

J and C hop out of the taxi and slip me some cash for their portion of the fare.

I can move now, I'm unsquished. The taxista is friendly, driving around. He's practicing his English. Some rock-ish band is playing on the radio, and I fake like I know the words. Am I even singing in Spanish?

We make another stop, and soon it's just me and T., who lives a couple blocks from me. We pull up to his apartment, and he jumps out quickly.

"It's March," He says, "why's it getting so cold?"

I laugh, partly because I'm tipsy, but mostly because I love how gringos always forget the seasons are the other way 'round down here. I'm prepared. Six months living in Temuco trained me.

We both look over at the meter, and somehow it's at 9,000 pesos. The meter just read 6,000 pesos a few minutes ago -- it should only be 8,000 pesos at most!

"That's weird," I say. But we shrug and he waves goodbye, and now I'm alone.

Since I live on the Andes side of town, past the metro, past the bus stop, I'm always the last one to get dropped off.

The taxista is laughing loudly, and another rock band is playing on the radio. I'm so sleepy, a mix of the alcohol and the late night carrette.

Just a few more blocks and I'll be in my bed.

We arrive at my apartment. And then I look at the meter. 11,000 pesos. What in the-? Either his meter is broken or something is up.

But I don't say anything because, again, I'm tired, tipsy and just wanting to crawl into bed.

"Can you pull in the light?"

He's parked off under some trees. It's so dark I can barely see. He moves the car, but only a little. There's this bizarre half-cast shadow across everything. But at least I can see my purse.

I pull out a clean, crisp 10,000 peso banknote and a 1,000 peso banknote.

"Gracias."

The taxista takes the money. There's some shuffling as I reach for the door, then -

"Señorita! Wait-!"

He's smiling, and he starts laughing. He's handing my money back to me, still smiling broadly, friendly. He's holding two 1,000 bills. He winks at me, as if to say "oopsie, look what ya did!"

Realizing my mistake, I laugh and like a complete fool, I reach back into my purse for a second 10,000 bill. I hand it to him.

My hand is on the door, but then...

"Señorita!"

The taxista is smiling again, and he's trying to give me that same wink, but something is wrong. He's holding up two 1,000 bills. Again.

My heart sinks down and settles really low into my stomach as I realize what's happening. I may have just come from partying, but I know, I know I handed him the correct bills. Like an idiot, I start trying to reason with him to give me my money back. I'm pulling out all my ace cards, my "I'm not a rich gringa!" rationalizations.

And this pendejo has the nerve, the nerve to get pissed at me. He really just wants all my money. It's disgusting.

I make a mistake. I pull out my phone and start dialing the number for the police. I tell him I'm calling the cops.

And he freaks out. And he starts driving away. And I'm still inside the taxi.

I just go into stealth mode. I don't even remember if I say anything, but I open the door and roll out, Laura Croft style. I must look like a madwoman, tumbling out a moving vehicle...maybe even some passersby thinkI'm hammered. But there was no way I am going to stay in some irate man's taxi.

In an instant, I'm on the phone and T. says he's on his way. He keeps asking if I'm okay -- and I am. I have my purse and I'm close to my house. But I've just been robbed, taken on a tiny joy-ride, and I feel like crap. I'm not tipsy anymore.

Weeks later, the story of me literally rolling in the deep is the talk of our group. We chalk it up to just "another night in the life of a gringa", but I can't help thinking on it. I know it wasn't about me in particular but, really? What the fuck did that taxista really know about me?

He probably pulled up to my Las Condes apartment and said, "Wow, this chick is just begging to get robbed". What he probably didn't realize (or even give a shit about) was the fact that I maxed out my credit card to come to Chile, that I paid a host family to house me in their apartment, and that I painstakingly counted every dime to make sure I could afford to eat day-to-day, because my Chilean family was only required to feed me dinner (and if you've ever lived in South America, you realize that lunch, not dinner, is the biggest and most expensive meal of the day).

It's the first and last time I've ever been robbed in this way, but the experience doesn't shake my love for Chile.

Yet, nearly 7 years later, I still find myself thinking back on that taxista, and I wonder how he spent that money. Sometimes I find myself asking him, "was it really worth it?"

Maybe it was, but I doubt it.