I could tell because I knew the number I’d left my combination lock on, and every time I got back, it was different.
The following Sunday, Homero left town for the night. That day, there’d been a local election, which, like all Ecuadorian elections, required mandatory voting. I spent another weekend doing nothing but reading in a hammock by Homero’s house. On Monday night, I lay under my mosquito net listening to music.
At about ten o’clock, I got a text message from Juan. This was strange since he was upstairs, only about forty feet away.
“Grigsby, turn off your light and go to sleep,” read the text. “It’s very important that you stay quiet and don’t leave your room. We’ll talk in the morning.”
Getting texts from Juan creeped me out enough as it was; one telling me to turn off my lights and go to sleep made me want to punch him in the face. So I walked upstairs to figure out what he was talking about.
“There have been some intruders on our property,” he said. “And I believe they’re coming for you.”
“What the hell is going on?”
One of the nine people sleeping in the two rooms above me first heard footsteps behind the house while I’d been listening to music. They said they looked out the window and saw at least a couple of guys in black ski masks, carrying weapons and tiptoeing around and whispering. Once they were spotted, one ran off to the bushes, and another ran to the road, where he got into the same white pickup truck and sped away.
The family upstairs had called the Chone police. They were all huddled in the same room on the second floor. Since the teenage girls and mothers were crying hysterically, I decided it wasn’t the best time to mock their comments about how no one would ever mess with the Mendoza family on their property. They were concerned about the intruder who was still lurking around somewhere nearby.
Juan and I grabbed flashlights (leftover from the campout, compliments of USAID) onto the roof and shined them around the property down below to see if we could spot anyone. We heard rustling in the bushes every once in a while, but nothing more. After shining the flashlights for what seemed like an hour, we figured the intruders had been scared off.
But I still felt uneasy. My distrust of everyone—which had grown more in the preceding days—came pouring out as I turned to Juan. I told him, “You know I think I’m going to have to call Pilar in the morning and tell her about this.”
“Are you sure?” said Juan. “Can’t we just wait for the police to come and explain it to them?”
“Right, what I’m saying is that if the police get involved, I have to tell her.”
“Okay,” he said, looking skittish.
“Juan, is there anything else I should know?”
“Like what?”
“Well, do you have any idea who it might be?”
“I don’t know. But I’m almost sure they were coming for you.”
“If you have no idea who they were, how are you sure they were ‘coming for me’?” I was so furious I could barely get out any words in Spanish.
He sighed. “There’s been a lot of talk around town lately about who the gringo is and where he lives—things like that, and, well, some other things, too,” he said. “They think you have a lot of money and nice things they want, so they’re coming for you.”
“Okay, I will definitely have to tell Pilar about this.”
Before becoming Peace Corps Ecuador’s head of Safety and Security, Pilar spent two decades working in antinarcotics for the national police force, where she became the highest-ranking woman. During our training, she presented several sessions on safety, covering everything from avoiding pickpockets to bus hijackings. She was kind, but I got the impression she meant business. She wore tight clothes and was sexy in a James Bond–villain type of way. I asked her once if she kept a gun in her house. She looked at me like I was an idiot and said, “Of course.” Then I asked her if
The following Sunday, Homero left town for the night. That day, there’d been a local election, which, like all Ecuadorian elections, required mandatory voting. I spent another weekend doing nothing but reading in a hammock by Homero’s house. On Monday night, I lay under my mosquito net listening to music.
At about ten o’clock, I got a text message from Juan. This was strange since he was upstairs, only about forty feet away.
“Grigsby, turn off your light and go to sleep,” read the text. “It’s very important that you stay quiet and don’t leave your room. We’ll talk in the morning.”
Getting texts from Juan creeped me out enough as it was; one telling me to turn off my lights and go to sleep made me want to punch him in the face. So I walked upstairs to figure out what he was talking about.
“There have been some intruders on our property,” he said. “And I believe they’re coming for you.”
“What the hell is going on?”
One of the nine people sleeping in the two rooms above me first heard footsteps behind the house while I’d been listening to music. They said they looked out the window and saw at least a couple of guys in black ski masks, carrying weapons and tiptoeing around and whispering. Once they were spotted, one ran off to the bushes, and another ran to the road, where he got into the same white pickup truck and sped away.
The family upstairs had called the Chone police. They were all huddled in the same room on the second floor. Since the teenage girls and mothers were crying hysterically, I decided it wasn’t the best time to mock their comments about how no one would ever mess with the Mendoza family on their property. They were concerned about the intruder who was still lurking around somewhere nearby.
Juan and I grabbed flashlights (leftover from the campout, compliments of USAID) onto the roof and shined them around the property down below to see if we could spot anyone. We heard rustling in the bushes every once in a while, but nothing more. After shining the flashlights for what seemed like an hour, we figured the intruders had been scared off.
But I still felt uneasy. My distrust of everyone—which had grown more in the preceding days—came pouring out as I turned to Juan. I told him, “You know I think I’m going to have to call Pilar in the morning and tell her about this.”
“Are you sure?” said Juan. “Can’t we just wait for the police to come and explain it to them?”
“Right, what I’m saying is that if the police get involved, I have to tell her.”
“Okay,” he said, looking skittish.
“Juan, is there anything else I should know?”
“Like what?”
“Well, do you have any idea who it might be?”
“I don’t know. But I’m almost sure they were coming for you.”
“If you have no idea who they were, how are you sure they were ‘coming for me’?” I was so furious I could barely get out any words in Spanish.
He sighed. “There’s been a lot of talk around town lately about who the gringo is and where he lives—things like that, and, well, some other things, too,” he said. “They think you have a lot of money and nice things they want, so they’re coming for you.”
“Okay, I will definitely have to tell Pilar about this.”
Before becoming Peace Corps Ecuador’s head of Safety and Security, Pilar spent two decades working in antinarcotics for the national police force, where she became the highest-ranking woman. During our training, she presented several sessions on safety, covering everything from avoiding pickpockets to bus hijackings. She was kind, but I got the impression she meant business. She wore tight clothes and was sexy in a James Bond–villain type of way. I asked her once if she kept a gun in her house. She looked at me like I was an idiot and said, “Of course.” Then I asked her if
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