Robbed of my Spidey Sense

Surrounded by stories of robbery. I’m not sure whether I’m just more aware of it now that I’ve been robbed – and have been robbed of that arrogance that assures it will happen to everyone but you – but it seems like everyone has either had a bag snatched or knows someone who’s been mugged or been tricked by a cab driver or pick-pocketed by a petty thief or had their cell phone or small cash stolen by someone with quick fingers.

Emily had her bag grabbed from her shoulder by someone passing in a car. Sarah had her bag grabbed the same way, but because she was wearing it slung over her shoulder, she was dragged for several metres. Jaime was robbed outside a drinking spot by a group of guys getting out of a cab; they were carrying a machete and she lost a substantial amount of money. Orla was robbed and nearly strangled and raped by a cab driver after leaving a club in Kampala, Uganda.

My roommate, Nick, was nearly robbed two nights ago in our driveway when someone feigning that they needed directions, then had him lean in so they could hear him. They grabbed on to the strap of his laptop bag, but he dug in his heels and was dragged to the ditch. He had the presence of mind to fiddle with the clip on his bag, but didn’t yell “thief,” which would have brought a vigilante style mob. He told me a woman living in the compound was robbed on the street the other night by a passing car and when she yelled “thief,” Ghanaians started throwing rocks at the car, which responded with gunshots.

What is going on?

I remember writing to Nancy and saying within a week that I was “over” getting mugged, that I had dealt with it and was just really upset at how much work it was taking to get everything replaced. Well, that was a big fat lie.

I suppose I didn’t really realize how scared I was feeling because I was in a new environment and everything felt unfamiliar. Plus, I was virtually always with Rose whenever I went anywhere in Dakar, so being out at night was pleasant, not panic-inducing.

I thought it was only natural that I should be a bit nervous in Liberia, afterall the country is full of soldiers and rapists and kids who have been seriously screwed up from so many years of war. I was warned and warned that going near the market or into some of the rougher neighbourhoods was a guarantee of getting pick pocketed. I was sure to lose my money or my phone. I was advised never to go out at night and heard repeatedly about the recent rash of armed robberies in some of the wealthier suburbs.

Being alone in the house in Ganta was the first time I really noticed how paranoid I had become. It was also the first time I’d stayed anywhere alone since arriving. Every sound I heard was someone stalking through the house, looking to steal or rape. Every little scritch or scratch or cry from a rooster or buzz of a bug. Anything that was loud enough o wake me up had my eyelids popping open and my heart racing.

Getting into the shared cab in Ganta, I was simply filled with dread, tempered only by the fact that a woman and her children were getting in as well. I’m not sure why I’m so comforted by the presence of women and children here, but I consider them almost like lucky charms now, that nothing can go seriously wrong so long as there are women and children around.

When I arrived in Ghana it became really obvious that the worst thing about being robbed in Dakar was not losing my camera. This is a place I know and love, a place where I know the people and how things work, where virtually everyone is a devout Christian, who is open and honest and trustworthy. But I was so paranoid. It was difficult walking down the street alone, even during the day. If someone brushed past me, I nearly jumped out of my skin. If someone came walking at me too quickly, my heart started racing and I went to grab my bag.

When night comes, it comes quickly, the sun dropping suddenly like a stone and at 6.15 p.m. here it can seem like 11.30 at home. There's almost something menacing about the dark here. At night, I never carry more than a little cash with me, usually tucked into my bra strap, in the manner of the market women. I never, never, never carry a bag. I leave my cell phone at home. But I haven’t yet screwed up the courage to go walking alone at night, instead I pay the dollar to have a cab drop me right at the gate. That doesn’t really reduce my fear, it just reduces the likelihood that I’m going to get robbed or hassled on my way home. But every negotiation with a cab driver is just pure hell, every ride is like being on pins, waiting for something bad to happen.

I used to rely so much on my “spidey sense” to tell me when something was amiss, but now it’s in overdrive and I don’t know when to trust it and when to dismiss it as being irrational. Once, in the middle of the day, I got into a cab in a neighbourhood called Pig Farm and we stopped at a gas station for the guy to put something in the trunk. Then we drove through Nima, a rough neighbourhood not far from my neighbourhood. It was all too much. I became convinced that the guy was going to rob me, although all he had done was put some plantain in the trunk and drive a regularly traveled route home. At one point, he turned to me with his full body and said “What’s wrong?!” and I nearly burst into tears. I could really only choke out “Nothing. What’s wrong with you?” By the end of the ride, I was laughing with him, but I got out and was soaked in sweat.

I’ve tried a new technique for dealing with it. I don’t get into cabs that require too much negotiation. I’m willing to pay the extra 5,000 cedis if it keeps both of us happy. And I start talking to the driver as soon as I’m in the car, as though my being chatty and interested will convince them that I’m too nice and innocent to rob. So far I’ve really not had any problems, but of course, I likely would not have had any problems anyway. But it’s being alone that’s got me so worked up. I’m going to have to get used to it, or get over it, as that’s going to be my natural state for the next long while.