The oldest trick in the book

I had become so paranoid about carrying anything around in Salvador, that I have been extra diligent about where I put my things. If I carry a bag, it is tucked firmly underneath my arms. Most of the time, I have money in every one of my pockets. That way, if I get robbed, I not only have something to give, but not that much. My back-right pocket is designated as communal money for Mark and me… it pays for dinner, cabs, and bus rides so we don’t have to fight over who pays for what.

One day, I decide to strap on the backpack for the first time, laptop packed, to use the WiFi that seems to be at every restaurant and every café in town. The internet at the hostel sucks, and there are only two computers that are always being used.

We get about two blocks from the hostel, and all of a sudden, Mark and I are shit on by birds. It’s on my hat, my new leather coat that I just picked up, and all over Mark. We’re groaning. It seems as though this happens to Mark a lot, and I’m sort of laughing, but he is pretty pissed.

Out of nowhere, a couple come by, patting us down with napkins to help us. How nice, but now I’ve got the feeling of someone rubbing bird shit in my head. I tell them a couple of times that that’s not necessary, that we’re a couple of blocks from the hotel, and I walk away. It’s kind of hard to get away from them. I turn back, and Mark, overwhelmed, not able to speak Spanish, is now being aggressively cleaned by these people. It all happened so quickly that I was thinking to myself, but couldn’t manage to get the words out, “Mark, just walk away from them!”

It happened more quickly than it seemed, but it took him a moment to walk away from them.

Even though we were hungry, and on our way to go to dinner, both of us had to go back to the hotel and take a shower, clean off the backpack and clothes as best we could. The bird shit stained my new leather (a leather cleaner should be able to take care of that…) and got on the hat that Johanna made for me, which I desperately needed, because of the cold.

It wasn’t until a day later when we saw another guy at the hostel, his backpack covered in bird shit, hearing him tell the same story, that we realized that we were victims of the oldest trick in the book. Someone squirts something on you, they rush over to help you clean up, they steal your shit.

They didn’t get anything from us, as I had all my money neatly tucked away, and so did Mark. But the guy at the hostel had been robbed really badly just the day before, and the same couple went after him again. Luckily for him, he had nothing to steal the second time.

I feel strangely vindicated that I didn’t get robbed, and that I wasn’t actually covered in bird shit. We’re still trying to figure out what foul viscous liquid it was, and how they managed to get it on our heads.