micah's version

I don't have time to tell my version of the story, so here's Captain Caskey's in the meantime (which is much different than mine, but the interrogation part and me not getting my bag back parts are accurate)....



*So I've been here in Costa Rica for a little over a month at this point. This last weekend was--by far--my most comprehensive experience with the Costa Rican criminal justice system (and hopefully my last).

A few of us had planned to go to the Monteverde Cloud Forest Biological Reserve for the weekend. Our bus left San Jose at 6:30 am. As fate should have it, only Caitlin and I made it to the bus station. We boarded the bus and were set to go when the bus driver came by and told me to put my backpack underneath the bus. I wasn't really too keen on this idea, but what the hell. . . Caitlin asked me if she should move hers; I told her that I was only moving mine because it was so big. [mistake #1].

The bus gets going on time and the bus is fairly empty. She and I sit in separate rows so that we'd have more space on this 6 hour ride. [mistake #2]. As we approached the outskirts of San Jose after about 35-45 minutes, more and more people had gotten on the bus. An older gentleman (whom I'll call "Senor Pedro") sat down beside me as I was trying to fall asleep. I was listening to music, doing the best I could to sleep. Caitlin was still sitting alone. After about 10 more minutes, a pair of sketchy dudes got on the bus--one of whom sat beside Caitlin.

At about the 1 hour mark, a ruckus woke me from my all-too-blissful sleep. A lot of yelling in Spanish was going on amongst the people around me. All I could gather at the moment was that someone had just gotten off the bus. My Spanish is limited to asking for food/drinks, directions, and talking about soccer--I certainly couldn't keep up with passionate Latinos yelling... After a few minutes we came to realize that the sketchy dudes had jumped off the bus with Caitlin's bag and the wallet of an Australian guy (whom I'll call "Crocodile Hunter"). I got off the bus looking for someone to punch in the face, but, as you might have imagined, no one was around. Nor was the bag thrown any where discernible. Damnit. Luckily the bag only had school books, makeup, and clothes.

The bus got going again, sans bag. About 10 minutes later the bus pulled over again, and a nice lady acting as an interpreter told us that the cops had caught 2 guys and that they would come pick us up so that we could give statements against us (I'll call her "Fiery Latina"). Fiery Latina told us that we should go to help end this rampant crime against tourists. Apparently this sort of thing happens frequently on the tourist-heavy buses. So, me, Caitlin, Senor Pedro, the Crocodile Hunter, his Finnish girlfriend, Fiery Latina all pile into this police truck (Sr. Pedro and I riding in the back of the truck) and head to the police station in their little town.

When we get into this little station (and by little, I mean that they used old newspaper in lieu of regular toilet paper), we head into an office to give statements. I, having slept through everything, had exactly nothing to offer. So, like a good American, I just started taking pictures. I walked out of the office and started wandering while taking pictures. A couple cops just walked up and shaked my hand without saying anything. Weird, I thought. A few others asked me why I hadn't beaten these two smaller punks. Cops asking me why I didn't beat the hell out of their suspects. Weird, I thought. These police officers were openly in favor of me beating these fools.

After some more information gathering by Inspector Gadget & Company, Caitlin asked me why I didn't get her bag bag. Great, I thought. Now she's going to hold me responsible. What was I to do? I might as well try to interrogate Ace & Gary. What the hell, I thought, if they wanted me to beat these two, they'd certainly let me ask some questions, right?

So I asked. And they said yes. Seriously.

I went into this small room about 25 square feet. There was a waist-high wall that separated me and the suspects. Now--let me digress for a moment--my Spanish is mediocre at best. My German is even worse. My Arabic is even worse than that. Why do I say that? Because the first thing that came into my head once they told me I could interrogate these guys is the obvious: I don't speak Spanish very well. Being the ever-cosmopolitan traveler, I felt compelled to represent myself as being able to speak more than one language, irrespective of the truth.

I started off by asking they guys if they spoke German, in German. I then asked them if they spoke Arabic, in Arabic. (Well, I think that's what I said... it was more of mumbled Arabic-like sounds). Then I asked the same for English. Finally, I got to Spanish. They said, yes, they understood. Damnit.

The next several minutes were a series of grammatically incorrect iterations by me, doing my best to scare these punks into giving up some information. At one point I told them that I had lived in Iraq for 2 years (not accurate), that I had killed lots of people (not accurate), that I would wait for them in the street after they are released (not accurate), that if I killed them it would be nothing to me (not accurate), and that I was an evil man (maybe accurate). I swear to you this is all accurately what I said (errors in translation excepted).

They tried to play dumb, and I told them to shut up ("callate"). Finally, I pulled out my camera and took pictures because, as I told them, I wanted to make sure I got them later.

Needless to say, this was the best thing the Costa Rican cops have ever seen. They were patting me on the back and shaking my hand. The station captain came out pumping his fist in excitement, according to Caitlin, Crocodile Hunter and Fat Finn.

I still am not sure exactly how far this could have gone if I had pressed. I loaded a bunch of pictures, check 'em out.

By the way, and for the record, I couldn't help but think of the irony that I am here studying human rights law and yet I was almost presented with an opportunity to violate those very standards. I'm glad it didn't go too far, but damn, what a memory. ..*