Rateros ((The Robbers of Lima, Peru)(1-2010))

Rateros
((The Robbers of Lima, Peru) (1-2010))


“How are you doing, yourself, Evens?” He asked me.
“Done this, seen that, other than that, I’m just tired, Father Marcelo,” I tell him.
“You’ve seen a lot, just here in Peru.”
“Well,” I say, “we all need a lot of luck, if not prayers in this here neighborhood of ours.”
“We got robbed two years ago,” Rosa said.
“I’m kind of glad they got away, I pert near shot them—like a bird on a leaf—given another ten-seconds, had they not jumped into their car and made their getaway in time.”
“I wouldn’t mind learning how to shoot a pistol,” the priest says.
“It’s easy to learn,” I said.
“Sure,” Rosa says, “it doesn’t take long to learn. You come with us next time we go shooting, Father Marcelo. You don’t have to shoot anyone, just show them you got a gun, and that’s that.”
“All right,” Father Marcelo says. “Sure. I got time to learn.”
“Here, look at the gun” (I empty the cartridges out of the 38 Special and hand it to the priest, its heavy).
The four of us, Rosa, I, the priest, and Carmen, who works at the church are sitting at the table at our home, just finished lunch. Carmen feels the weight of the gun. Looks at its gleaming blue sleekness, we are all drinking coffee.
“You stay in your house too much!” the priest says to Carmen.
“Yes, I know, that’s it,” says Carmen.
“Carmen,” Rosa takes the gun from her, hands it back to me. “There are so many robbers around here, and we Peruvians don’t help one another.”
“They’re always talking about this and that person, who got robbed, and the police don’t care one-way or the other, they’re in on it, no workable infrastructure here in Peru.”
“What does he mean, Rosa?” says the priest.
“Robbers,” Rosa goes on, “we saw some the other day, several in the street going to beat up the bicycle man, who helped a woman they robbed, broke their motor vehicle window with a rock, they wanted revenge, and my husband shot two bullets a foot over their heads and they ran off.”
“The robbers don’t like to be robbed, or have to spend their loot on fixing a window…” I mentioned to everyone there.
“These robbers and their gangs, they are all around,” says Carmen.
“Your husband can’t fight them alone, they’ll come down to your place if he tries,” says the priest, “he’s courageous.”
That was the Father Marcelo; he could say what he felt most of the times; it was nice to here that, that he didn’t like it much. He was like me and tried to get along with everyone, but after a while, the robbers commenced to get on his nerves. They had all agreed it would be an awful thing should they start invading the neighborhood, it would sour quickly, not many had stamina enough to stand up to them in the long run. And although the conversation started out somewhat in a kidding mode, it was serious. It wasn’t very funny, and the priest told of the time he was robbed of eight-hundred soles ($300, apex.), by terrorists, and again the police doing little to nothing about it. It wasn’t funny either and it wasn’t very good, and it began to get to us all at the dinner table, although it was the sort of stuff that needed to come out, weights on the chest.
“The robbers don’t want to work, so it pays in Peru to rob, because the police get paid to look the other way; they ask which way do you want us to look, to the robber,” I tell the group chidingly.
That’s about it, they all agree.
“Well,” says the priest “I better get going, back to the church. I enjoyed the beef ribs.”
“Were they better than the pork roast we had last time?” I ask the priest.
“Yes?” says Father Marcelo, “the pork has a lot more fat on it.”
The grandfather clock had just struck three o’clock, “Well, a fine dinner Rosa,” the priest said, standing up ready to leave.
“So long, Rosa,” he says, and Carmen, says “Thank you very much for the lunch. See you later.”
“See you soon,” says Rosa.
It always takes twenty-minutes to say goodbyes in Peru, I tell myself, smiling at everyone: it was a good afternoon, a fine dinner with good friends, coffee and a worthy conversation. It’s what life is all about.


Nine-thirty p.m., I look out my bedroom window, put Rosa in bed, tell her good night, and about to go down stairs and do some reading, I see a few people over across the park, bringing out some household items, putting them into the car. I know they have parties over there a lot. Angel sees it also, and comes down from his one-room apartment to investigate; he’s a security person, hired for day security in the neighborhood. I tell myself, ‘I don’t think so,’ that they are robbers. And there is Angel checking it out (and these folks, they don’t pay security anyhow, like so many in the neighborhood, they want to piggyback it, get it free because they are in-between those who do pay).
The following afternoon, standing outside of the house, looking for the ice-cream man, Angel approaches: “What’s on your mind?” I ask Angel.
“Just that they robbed the house over there last night,” and he points to where I saw the three young bandits.
“Really,” I said. I was really tired of hearing about such things and no one doing a damn thing about it; it really was stale news, but curiosity got to me of course. It was hard to sleep also at night, worried in the morning, if you’d have what you had before you went to sleep. “The owner had two dogs, he’s been away two days now; the robbers locked the dogs in a room, gave them steak.”
“They come here, I’ll shoot them.” I said, but I knew they’d come when I and Rosa were not at home, so how can I shoot them, it was anger talking. “Well,” I continued to say, “everybody’s going to get it sooner or later around here a few time over until we wake up and become vigilantes,” knowing we already got it once and someone tried it a second time, and I’m waiting for the third. But I knew our robbery at our house wasn’t as bad as many, I pert near showed up in the onset, where some of the robbers clean out the whole house. I didn’t ask about if they notified the police, it was very well known—you’re on your own.


No: 569 (1-17-2010)