Dom Rep Robbery

As the old taxi laboured its way up through the rundown streets of Santo Domingo, I gave the driver directions to the bus station. I'd only been in the Dominican Republic for half a day, yet seemed to know the way better than he did. He seemed confused, and I was confused at his confusion.

Sitting in the back were two young Spanish sisters. They had long dark hair and kind faces. I'd met them about ten minutes previously in the little guesthouse I'd been staying at. While checking-out, the sweet and pretty owner informed me the sisters were also leaving for Las Terrenas, and suggested I catch a cab with them to the bus station. I told her I instead wanted to walk there to see more of the city before heading off, but she was concerned for my safety, so I agreed.

The streets were now dry, unlike the mad taxi ride from the airport the night before. I'd flown in from Puerto Rico in a rum-sodden haze, and grimaced as the driver gunned into town through the heavy rain, constantly weaving across the dark highway to avoid pot holes, flood water, and other vehicles.

Afterwards, I'd wandered through the soggy, barely-lit streets of the old town searching for Saturday night action. I failed. There was nothing going on, hardly anybody out.

It was far livelier now on a Sunday lunchtime. People shopping. Kids playing. Old dudes chatting. As we got near the bus station, the streets clogged with traffic. I saw a red bus with Las Terrenas written on it about 50 metres down a one way street, but it would take going around the block to get there. We were only crawling along, so I told the driver to drop us off on the corner, and we'd walk the rest of the way.

It was a poor-looking neighbourhood with lots of people milling around, yet the Spanish girls stood behind the cab, taking time to sort out their money and bags. Once they had, we paid the driver and set off towards the bus. It was parked on the left-hand side of the road, next to a sort of empty lot with no sign of a bus station. The girls crossed over towards the bus, while I carried on walking alongside some low concrete buildings. I saw a guy ahead of me indicating for us to come to him. Behind him were large metal gates which I realised must've been the bus station.

But when I went to call the girls back over, I saw an orange-bibbed motorbike taxi driver approaching one of them from behind. What happened next happened in slow motion. He was no moto taxi. He grabbed the bum-bag strapped around her waist and started to ride off. Its white elasticated belt stretched and stretched until it finally snapped. She screamed and gave chase. He sped off. Her sister followed. I looked on dumb founded.

When I realised they were going to continue chasing despite the rider disappearing into the next street, I quickly clipped the strap onto my case, threw it over my shoulder, and ran after them. When I turned the corner, they were stopped in the middle of the road, the rider long gone.

Packs of locals started gathering around them asking what'd happened. There were kids galore. Some laughing. Some urchin-like and looking dodgy themselves, pushing forward, eyes darting up and down at the sisters, seeing what else their little fingers could grab. A couple of old ladies came forward looking concerned and gave their condolences. Most people just stood and stared, myself included.

'Was he Haitian?' I heard one woman ask another. 'No,' came the reply. She looked disappointed, obviously hoping to pin it on one of their much-maligned neighbours.

The Spanish sister had everything in that bum bag – passport, lots of euros, bank cards, camera, and phone. A harsh lesson in keeping your eggs in one basket.

We walked back around the corner and a SUV pulled up. A middle-class, middle-aged man got out. I thought he was a cop at first, but he said he'd witnessed what'd happened and had given chase, only to lose the biker as he'd weaved through the traffic. He had a respectable-looking woman with him, but also a very big, and very dangerous-looking young guy. Quite odd. He asked the woman for her phone as he angrily shooed away the once-again encroaching urchins. He called the Spanish girl's number, but the line was dead already.

I pride myself for usually being good in situations like this, but this time I was useless. No adrenaline, no emotion. Blank apart from a muted feeling of guilt. Maybe I should've let the taxi driver go directly to the bus station. Maybe I could've chased the biker as well – not because there was any hope in catching him, but just to pretend I was doing something.

The sisters, on the other hand, were handling the situation well. The one who'd lost her bag was upset, but high on adrenaline and too busy running through the logistics of what to do next to give in to emotion.

The middle-aged guy said he'd take the girls to the police station to report the incident. What? No way. Who the hell was he? The robbery could quickly escalate into a kidnapping! I tried to say something, but the sisters willingly clambered into his car. All I could do was gormlessly offer them some money, which they refused.

The SUV pulled off and I stood there as the crowd dispersed. I then walked to the bus station. It turned out to be very small. The bus for Las Terrenas wasn't even the red one parked outside, but a different one inside. A shifty guy was propped against the outside gate eagerly telling the workers there how the Spanish girl had had a thousand dollars stolen. I corrected him, but he didn't want to know. He had a story to tell.

I thought I'd never find out what’d happened to the sisters, but two days later in Las Terrenas I heard my name called out as I walked past a bar. It was them – safe, well, and unkidnapped.

They were friendly like before, but now looked at me a little oddly. They said the middle-aged guy who'd helped was a politician. (The woman his wife, the dangerous-looking bloke his bodyguard.) Down at the police station they were told the thief was obviously a professional. He'd worn a crash helmet, long sleeves and trousers – when very few bikers do – in order to avoid recognition. It may have been an opportunist robbery, or else a set-up.

If it'd been a set-up, then who was he in cahoots with? The taxi driver? Maybe. They're often dodgy, and his confusion had been strange. The guesthouse owner? Unlikely. She'd have too much to lose. So who else? I tried to think, and realised there could only be one other viable option …Me!

That's why they were looking at me differently. I was a suspect. I could speak Spanish. I'd hitched a ride in their cab. I'd told the taxi driver to stop beforehand. I'd pointed out the wrong bus, and hadn't helped give chase. It had to be me!

How could I prove my innocence? I stayed and chatted with them. I bought them drinks and walked them home. I think I calmed their suspicions, but not completely. I could still be one of those dodgy ex-pats who wash up on far-flung shores and scam to survive.

I'd forever be a suspect. The price to pay for being crap in the face of adversity.

#DominicanRepublic #SantoDomingo