Hello all, here is the rest of the story.

Leaving the Burger King in Mandeville, on our way to the Kingston mini-bus, my story continues. Like I said earlier, this is the part where I get to be the hero. Unlike what I said earlier, it turns out that this part is much shorter than the first part. That, and being a water-finding bush-cutting hero is so much cooler than the kind of bureaucracy-navigating red-tape cutting hero that I am.

We three, Chris, Richard, and myself live in Jamaica. With the possible exception of Colombia, Jamaica is the violent crime capital of the New World. We are pretty comfortable with a wide variety of larcenies, petty and otherwise after living here for two years. On any other day not even Richard would have fallen for what was to come, but Friday night we were recovering from a hell-of-a-day and had just sedated ourselves with fast food.

Pickpockets work in a variety of ways. Most times, they work alone, brushing up along side you while you are waiting in line. Sometime, like in this case, they work in groups. Several accomplices weeded Richard out of our line by getting in his way, and then pretending to stumble. Richard, an old pro, saw it for what it was and immediately covered his wallet. He bulled his way through the blockade, and clambered onto the bus cussing. Chris and I were already on the bus and waiting for him. He was having a hard time pushing past a man who was sitting in the doorway, a man friendly with the conductor. The man had his head in Richard's way and a black scandal bag fluttering. I had seen that type of pick a million times in Kingston, so I noted jovially, "Hey Rich, that guy is trying to pick your pocket." He replied that everyone was trying to pick him tonight.

The word "tonight" started at 65 decibels and maybe a tenor. By the time he finished saying it, it was 95 decibels and a high alto, because it was at that moment that the guy in the chair wrenched the wallet out of his hand and took off. My lethargy broke at that same moment and I thought, wait a second, that guy is trying to take your wallet! I jumped up an out the van after him. Richard followed me cussing. Actually, cussing is just about all Richard did for the next hour or so. Ten steps into the crowd, and it was clear that not only were we not going to get any help from the onlookers, but we were actually the butt-end of a joke. Richard, who noted this, changed the tune of his cussing to suggest some pretty racy things, I'll not repeat them here.

We were now in a situation. I didn't have any money. Richard no longer had any money. Chris had money, but not a lot. The Peace Corps will pay you for money lost through crime, they would rather you pay than fight, but they require that you report it properly to the police. So off we went to the police. Richard was still cussing, and Chris was scowling in a mixture of anger and disgust. Richard continued his tirade right into the police station where we met with Constable Morgan. Constable Morgan looked like he was usually a pretty friendly guy, but tonight he looked like a deer caught in the headlights of a stunningly vulgar semi. I don't know if he was more distraught by Richard's tireless venom, or my careful notation of his name and badge number. Eventually I whispered a suggestion to him and he gladly showed us to his commanding officer.

The Sergeant was a shorter, friendly guy. He listened to Richard sympathetically, and Richard finally started to calm down. At this point I suggested again that officers go out to the scene and ask the conductor what the name of the pickpocket was. I don't think this idea was ever properly conveyed. They thought that we wanted them to go and catch the man that did it. We all thought that it was important to have the police immediately on the scene.

The Sergeant called a car back, and told Constable Smiley (no relation to friendly or happy) that he should go back to the scene and look around. Constable Smiley said something to the effect of "No. That's a stupid idea." The Sergeant agreed, but pulled rank and ordered him out. He and another officer grabbed extended-clip M-16's and got in the car. We were told to join them. I didn't like this idea so much anymore. Chris volunteered to sit in the middle of the backseat. We arrived at the park (an eight second drive away, actually) and the officers climbed out and started poking around in a very authoritative manner. They asked us to get out of the car and point to any guilty parties. We didn't see any guilty parties. I did see actual bolts of racial-tension lightning flashing back and forth between the three relatively meek and pale Peace Corps Volunteers and the stony, dark faces of the Mandeville Friday-night crew.

Constable (not) Smiley returned to the police station with us. I observed that we might need to consider alternate plans since the police had just shaken down our only means of public transportation. I called Peace Corps and asked for the duty-officer. After a few minutes of waiting, the head of Peace Corps Jamaica picked up the phone. A word about Suchet Loois: He is a Haitian, basically a good guy, he is a Titan when it comes to office procedure, paperwork, and the written word, when it come to verbal communication, I think he just goes through the motions. I tried to remember all that was said, but my memory doesn't do justice to the real conversation. Eventually (it took a fair bit of work) we convince him that we should not go back to the bus park tonight. The connection between guns pointed at drivers and the hostility that would likely follow was lost on him. Despite that particular bit of thickness, he did generate an excellent plan B, which was for the three of us to stay in a safe house (read: fancy hotel) till morning.

While this was being negotiated, Chris had started doing magic tricks for the female Constables, all of whom were gathered lovingly around him. Meanwhile, Richard had wandered off, but not too far, the officers were pouring rounds of rum, and Richard wanted to be on hand. Satisfied that my friends were in good hands, I wandered down the street to check into our hotel. The ladies at the desk were sympathetic listeners, and offered us a free drinks. I accepted a rain check and hurried back to gather up Richard and Chris. Chris was now surrounded by women, Constables, Sergeants, felons, and people who had no apparent connection to the police whatsoever. Richard, empty cup in hand, was now positively mellow. I checked with another Sergeant to make sure that everything was done before we left for the night. He asked around, and told me that nothing at all had been done yet.

Born to parents whose tolerance for inefficient bureaucracy is measured in picometers, I set in. Soon the station was humming with efficiency, statements were taken, forms were signed, and the unattended criminals were jailed. Not long after, we set off for the hotel. We locked our shirts outside and proceeded to enjoy hot water showers, two beers and a fruit punch on the house, South Park, and the last half of X-Men. Then we fell asleep at the end of a really long day.

One hundred and eighty hours till I fly out!

Webmaster's note: when I asked Andrew's permission to post this story, he replied as follows:
"Of course you can post it. I have two suggestions for revision though. You should probably omit the parts where I said I would redeem myself later, as I'm not sure if you even got the part about the pickpockets and even if you did, leading the fight against red tape - though vital - is far less interesting than dehydrating in the woods. Also, enough can't be said about the landmarklessness of much of the trail. It was exactly what we were looking for, one last adventure before we returned to the "real world". Thanks for putting us up for the night, it was an experience to remember. "