The police told me to tell you...
It was 11pm and the police wouldn't let me go.
Slumped in a broken office chair, head pressed up again the hard plastic of the backrest, I waited for the officer to return to the room. I was being held until I told them what happened.
I wasn't sure what was going on. Two young men sat in the front of the office. They had obviously been there for hours. Three officers paced, tapped computer keys, printed out documents, signed forms in triplicate. The officer taking my statement wanted me to tell him the story first, then I would repeat it as he typed it in on his ancient laptop. He entered my name and address with two fingers, stopping often to delete misspellings.
This was going to take all night.
I asked if I could just write my story out and they could copy it. In a thick Jamaican accent Detective Wilson explained that all procedures must be followed exactly in order for me to get my wallet back and retire to the boat.
"OK," I said, rubbing my eyes, "I'm just trying to expedite the process so I can go home. Can the guys just go home?"
He glanced out at the tired men and said, "We need your statement, we need to question them."
"Alright. Here's what happened."
I was at the weekly street party aptly named Roadblock on Thursday night. Music blared, a DJ screamed encouragement to those sipping rum and beer along the edge of the street. Motorcycles raced through the quickly parting crowd, cars occasionally braved the gauntlet. I was with a few friends. We had been hanging out, playing pool, talking about life over Dragon Stout.
"What did they look like?" The officer asked.
"My friends?"
"Yes, your friends."
"Um, well, M. is 26, blondish hair, blue eyes..." I wanted to add "hot" but I wasn't sure if the officer would find that funny so I just smirked and kept it to myself.
"And the others?"
I wasn't sure why he wanted to know the complexion and build of my friends, but I told him about my new acquaintances A. and T. and how we all hung out on the street together watching the spectacle unfold. I went to go buy us all beers from the small bar across the street. The guys wanted to let me have my space (they said later) so I was on my own. No problem. Except that I took my wallet out at the bar. I wouldn't say 'flashed' exactly but just acted like I was home in the States paying for a few brewskies. When I left a small tip the bartender asked, "What this for?" "For you!" I said and put the wallet back in my purse, and returned with four beers and a big smile on my face. Nice? Sure. Amateur traveler move? For sure.
The music was really pumping now, the motorbikes were getting crazy, people swayed back and forth under the influence of liquor, ganja, beats.
That's when he came at me. A little old rasta guy- long dreads, knit cap, raggedy clothes, and torn up shoes. He streamed towards me, fist raised. I'd learned the secret handshake (or the many variations) so a fist bump signifying Peace, Love, Unity, Respect didn't startle me. It was his determination and apparent inebriation that did. My friends stepped in front of me, trying to get him to back off. He did for a moment but then made one final effort. His hand reached for my chest where locks of my hair hung loose over the strap of my purse. My hand instinctively shot up from resting on my bag and grabbed his arm. Was he going for my hair, my boobs? My friends grabbed him and forcibly moved him away. I was startled but chalked it up to the perils of a late night street party- you're going to run into crazies, and being one of the only white girls in the crowd, well, I'm a moving target right? If only I had checked my purse then I would have known how much of a target I really was.
"Did you see anyone take it?" The officer asked, his fingers still picking out keys. He was not recording my story verbatim. He was taking bits and putting them in his own words, even though I was the one to sign the bottom stating what was written was what I said. The whole truth.
"No, I didn't see anyone take it, but I assume someone was behind me and when I grabbed the guys arm when he reached for my chest, they reached into my bag..."
"But you don't know for sure?"
"No. I guess I could have lost it but it is highly unlikely."
"OK. Go on."
My friends and I moved through the crowd to get closer to the live freestyling happening on stage. It was loud, boisterous, fun. A real sense of community. This happens every Thursday night? I asked my friends. They grinned and nodded. I was having a blast. My hips swayed, feet tapped, I was feeling the peace, love, unity, and joy of this town.
The cops came through at midnight, signaling the end of Roadblock. The crowd dissipated as some headed towards cars to go home and others headed to Crystal's Night Club down the street.
The guards patted down my bag as we walked in the door. But I didn't reach my hand into my bag until I was walking through the VIP area with my local friends.
Fuck. My wallet. My wallet is gone. Shit. Fuck.
(that last part was not reported to the police)
There went the night. We searched A.'s car, the streets, went back to the bar where the bartender said I definitely did not leave it there, she saw me put it back in my purse. Damn!
As awful as I felt, my friends felt even worse. "We should have protected you. They shouldn't steal from a lady! Criminals!"
I assured them it wasn't so big a deal. It's just stuff right? I never felt unsafe, I wasn't hurt in the process. There was nothing sentimental in my wallet (other than a fortune cookie fortune that read "Don't expect romantic relationships to be strictly logical or rational!" that I'd carried around for a few years. Both that and my driver's license with the awful photo I knew I could do without. It would be good to start over.) and I could cancel cards.
We went back to the boat and sat on deck calling credit card companies til the wee hours. I knew I had to but was a little hesitant as I had the strong feeling I would see my wallet again, bad photo ID, outdated fortune, and all.
"Then what?"
I reported the lost wallet to the police on Saturday as I left early Friday morning to drive to Kingston for supplies. I received an email from someone on Sunday saying that he was contacting me on behalf of the person who found my wallet!
(See, intuition prevails! But it was still smart to cancel the cards.)
I had the harbormaster call the number provided but we didn't get a hold of the guy so he said it was best to let the police handle it just in case it was shady. Ahh. I guess that is a possibility isn't it?
After several days and a few trips to the police station, here I was sitting with my wallet in hand. But I was disconcerted: when I walked in a man approached me and said, "You got it all wrong. I found your wallet on the street. There was no money and I was just trying to return it to you!" I thanked him profusely then walked inside to see his friend whom he had had email me sitting in custody too.
Jesus.
This was not my intention! My good samaritans in custody. Great. Now they are never going to want to do the right thing again if this is the payback!
And here we all are.
The officer read his story back to me, gave me a copy of the report. It was nearing midnight, I had been working on the boat from 7am-10pm and could barely keep my eyes open. They led me into another room where the chief detective told me that we were done and that I should tell all my friends this story as Jamaica gets a bad rap for crime. I gushed about how much I love Jamaica (I really truly do) and that I would spread the word that the police are very helpful in such situations. But it would be hard to leave out that whole I-got-pickpocketed thing. Nonetheless, he seemed satisfied that I would disseminate the tale of justice served.
Except that my good samaritans were still in custody.
"You're going to let them go home soon right?"
"Yes, their story seems to be true. They will go soon. You can say thank you on the way out."
If only I could do more. What can I do? I don't have any money. I can't get any money right now. Maybe I'll make them something? Offer them a beer if they get to California? What an awkward situation.
I walk to the corner where they are sitting. I thank them, apologize for the misunderstanding, thank them again.
"You going to Roadblock?" one if the men says.
"Ha! I wish! I have to go and sleep. I'm on duty all the time!"
How Un-Jamaican my response is! As I have been told many time since coming here, Jamaicans are always in search of the next party, after work or apparently after wrongful interrogation. He smiles and says for the tenth time, "You are welcome. No problem." to my constant awkward thank yous.
Bowing in gratitude, I leave the station, wallet in purse (to be left hidden on the boat from here on out), and with the feeling that all is right with the world if you let it be, lessons learned, intentions misunderstood, gratitude given, and all.
Slumped in a broken office chair, head pressed up again the hard plastic of the backrest, I waited for the officer to return to the room. I was being held until I told them what happened.
I wasn't sure what was going on. Two young men sat in the front of the office. They had obviously been there for hours. Three officers paced, tapped computer keys, printed out documents, signed forms in triplicate. The officer taking my statement wanted me to tell him the story first, then I would repeat it as he typed it in on his ancient laptop. He entered my name and address with two fingers, stopping often to delete misspellings.
This was going to take all night.
I asked if I could just write my story out and they could copy it. In a thick Jamaican accent Detective Wilson explained that all procedures must be followed exactly in order for me to get my wallet back and retire to the boat.
"OK," I said, rubbing my eyes, "I'm just trying to expedite the process so I can go home. Can the guys just go home?"
He glanced out at the tired men and said, "We need your statement, we need to question them."
"Alright. Here's what happened."
I was at the weekly street party aptly named Roadblock on Thursday night. Music blared, a DJ screamed encouragement to those sipping rum and beer along the edge of the street. Motorcycles raced through the quickly parting crowd, cars occasionally braved the gauntlet. I was with a few friends. We had been hanging out, playing pool, talking about life over Dragon Stout.
"What did they look like?" The officer asked.
"My friends?"
"Yes, your friends."
"Um, well, M. is 26, blondish hair, blue eyes..." I wanted to add "hot" but I wasn't sure if the officer would find that funny so I just smirked and kept it to myself.
"And the others?"
I wasn't sure why he wanted to know the complexion and build of my friends, but I told him about my new acquaintances A. and T. and how we all hung out on the street together watching the spectacle unfold. I went to go buy us all beers from the small bar across the street. The guys wanted to let me have my space (they said later) so I was on my own. No problem. Except that I took my wallet out at the bar. I wouldn't say 'flashed' exactly but just acted like I was home in the States paying for a few brewskies. When I left a small tip the bartender asked, "What this for?" "For you!" I said and put the wallet back in my purse, and returned with four beers and a big smile on my face. Nice? Sure. Amateur traveler move? For sure.
The music was really pumping now, the motorbikes were getting crazy, people swayed back and forth under the influence of liquor, ganja, beats.
That's when he came at me. A little old rasta guy- long dreads, knit cap, raggedy clothes, and torn up shoes. He streamed towards me, fist raised. I'd learned the secret handshake (or the many variations) so a fist bump signifying Peace, Love, Unity, Respect didn't startle me. It was his determination and apparent inebriation that did. My friends stepped in front of me, trying to get him to back off. He did for a moment but then made one final effort. His hand reached for my chest where locks of my hair hung loose over the strap of my purse. My hand instinctively shot up from resting on my bag and grabbed his arm. Was he going for my hair, my boobs? My friends grabbed him and forcibly moved him away. I was startled but chalked it up to the perils of a late night street party- you're going to run into crazies, and being one of the only white girls in the crowd, well, I'm a moving target right? If only I had checked my purse then I would have known how much of a target I really was.
"Did you see anyone take it?" The officer asked, his fingers still picking out keys. He was not recording my story verbatim. He was taking bits and putting them in his own words, even though I was the one to sign the bottom stating what was written was what I said. The whole truth.
"No, I didn't see anyone take it, but I assume someone was behind me and when I grabbed the guys arm when he reached for my chest, they reached into my bag..."
"But you don't know for sure?"
"No. I guess I could have lost it but it is highly unlikely."
"OK. Go on."
My friends and I moved through the crowd to get closer to the live freestyling happening on stage. It was loud, boisterous, fun. A real sense of community. This happens every Thursday night? I asked my friends. They grinned and nodded. I was having a blast. My hips swayed, feet tapped, I was feeling the peace, love, unity, and joy of this town.
The cops came through at midnight, signaling the end of Roadblock. The crowd dissipated as some headed towards cars to go home and others headed to Crystal's Night Club down the street.
The guards patted down my bag as we walked in the door. But I didn't reach my hand into my bag until I was walking through the VIP area with my local friends.
Fuck. My wallet. My wallet is gone. Shit. Fuck.
(that last part was not reported to the police)
There went the night. We searched A.'s car, the streets, went back to the bar where the bartender said I definitely did not leave it there, she saw me put it back in my purse. Damn!
As awful as I felt, my friends felt even worse. "We should have protected you. They shouldn't steal from a lady! Criminals!"
I assured them it wasn't so big a deal. It's just stuff right? I never felt unsafe, I wasn't hurt in the process. There was nothing sentimental in my wallet (other than a fortune cookie fortune that read "Don't expect romantic relationships to be strictly logical or rational!" that I'd carried around for a few years. Both that and my driver's license with the awful photo I knew I could do without. It would be good to start over.) and I could cancel cards.
We went back to the boat and sat on deck calling credit card companies til the wee hours. I knew I had to but was a little hesitant as I had the strong feeling I would see my wallet again, bad photo ID, outdated fortune, and all.
"Then what?"
I reported the lost wallet to the police on Saturday as I left early Friday morning to drive to Kingston for supplies. I received an email from someone on Sunday saying that he was contacting me on behalf of the person who found my wallet!
(See, intuition prevails! But it was still smart to cancel the cards.)
I had the harbormaster call the number provided but we didn't get a hold of the guy so he said it was best to let the police handle it just in case it was shady. Ahh. I guess that is a possibility isn't it?
After several days and a few trips to the police station, here I was sitting with my wallet in hand. But I was disconcerted: when I walked in a man approached me and said, "You got it all wrong. I found your wallet on the street. There was no money and I was just trying to return it to you!" I thanked him profusely then walked inside to see his friend whom he had had email me sitting in custody too.
Jesus.
This was not my intention! My good samaritans in custody. Great. Now they are never going to want to do the right thing again if this is the payback!
And here we all are.
The officer read his story back to me, gave me a copy of the report. It was nearing midnight, I had been working on the boat from 7am-10pm and could barely keep my eyes open. They led me into another room where the chief detective told me that we were done and that I should tell all my friends this story as Jamaica gets a bad rap for crime. I gushed about how much I love Jamaica (I really truly do) and that I would spread the word that the police are very helpful in such situations. But it would be hard to leave out that whole I-got-pickpocketed thing. Nonetheless, he seemed satisfied that I would disseminate the tale of justice served.
Except that my good samaritans were still in custody.
"You're going to let them go home soon right?"
"Yes, their story seems to be true. They will go soon. You can say thank you on the way out."
If only I could do more. What can I do? I don't have any money. I can't get any money right now. Maybe I'll make them something? Offer them a beer if they get to California? What an awkward situation.
I walk to the corner where they are sitting. I thank them, apologize for the misunderstanding, thank them again.
"You going to Roadblock?" one if the men says.
"Ha! I wish! I have to go and sleep. I'm on duty all the time!"
How Un-Jamaican my response is! As I have been told many time since coming here, Jamaicans are always in search of the next party, after work or apparently after wrongful interrogation. He smiles and says for the tenth time, "You are welcome. No problem." to my constant awkward thank yous.
Bowing in gratitude, I leave the station, wallet in purse (to be left hidden on the boat from here on out), and with the feeling that all is right with the world if you let it be, lessons learned, intentions misunderstood, gratitude given, and all.
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