Twenty-four hours is all you have.
After a robbery, you have to get to the police station and obtain a report within this time or it will be refused.
I got off the bus at Quito and marched to the terminal police station.
My Spanish is worse than poor. Their English was no better. After half an hour of meaningless hand gestures, we hit on the idea of using Google Translator. It worked.
A bit.
I managed to convey to them that I had lost my bag but Google didn´t know what to make of 'dirty, thieving toe-rag'. It suggested 'wash your hankerchief' and the officers scratched their heads.
So did I.
Eventually, it became obvious that the language gap was too much. Fair play to them, they spent the best part of an hour trying to understand my attempts at charades. The problem was that there just wasn´t a book, play or film that could properly convey the tragedy and drama of the last few hours.
They sent me on my way with the suggestion that the city police would fare much better trying to interpret by goose-stepping, arm-waving expression of the wronged citizen.
We caught the bus into town but I was acutely aware that time was slipping away. By the time we were booked into the hostel, it was 4pm. Nearly half my time was up.
I looked at Lonley Planet and headed for the main police station carefully marked on the map by the number 18.
It was a museum.
I stopped a Policia Transito in a bright yellow vest but he denied all knowledge of a police station. I asked him were he worked and he was a little shifty.
I tried a Policia Touristico with more hope.
His dog bit me.
Eventually, a private security guard pointed me to the Mother Ship. He tried to hail me a cab to the far side of town to a place only referred to as Y Roca. I couldn´t find it on the map and the taxis wouldn´t stop for him anyway.
They fear gangs that hijack the taxis for robbery purposes, ironically.
A private car driven by Popeye stopped eventually and for half the usual fare he raced me off into the rush hour traffic. It was nose to tail as we got out of the old town and when we reached the barbeque smoke floating off Parque Arborito, things had come to a complete stop.
It was 5.30pm. They were bound to be closing soon.
We communicated by non-verbal means and had a surprisingly illuminating conversation about the Ecuadorian Nuclear Industry.
Or, it might have been football but there were lots of explosive hand gestures.
Eventually we arrived at a large blue and white building that he swore was what I needed. I went inside, past lots of promisingly dressed men in shiny riding boots and smart epaulets. After three floors of blank faces I ended up in a room with a sign that said 'Organised Crime'. I assumed it wasn't actually the hub of Quito's Cosa Nostra but they were helpful and told me this was the wrong place.
The right place was down the street.
I went to the Police Archives, the Evidence building, the Justice Forum and the Crimes against Donkeys unit on the basis of various recommendations before stumbling on the Tourist Police office behind some bins.
Inside the officer was the image of helpfulness and ten minutes later I emerged with a crisp police report on white paper, counter signed by someone very important with an improbably complex signature.
The taxi home was nice.
The driver wore great aftershave and gave me a 30 minute Spanish lesson.
It cost three times as much but it was worth it.
After a robbery, you have to get to the police station and obtain a report within this time or it will be refused.
I got off the bus at Quito and marched to the terminal police station.
My Spanish is worse than poor. Their English was no better. After half an hour of meaningless hand gestures, we hit on the idea of using Google Translator. It worked.
A bit.
I managed to convey to them that I had lost my bag but Google didn´t know what to make of 'dirty, thieving toe-rag'. It suggested 'wash your hankerchief' and the officers scratched their heads.
So did I.
Eventually, it became obvious that the language gap was too much. Fair play to them, they spent the best part of an hour trying to understand my attempts at charades. The problem was that there just wasn´t a book, play or film that could properly convey the tragedy and drama of the last few hours.
They sent me on my way with the suggestion that the city police would fare much better trying to interpret by goose-stepping, arm-waving expression of the wronged citizen.
We caught the bus into town but I was acutely aware that time was slipping away. By the time we were booked into the hostel, it was 4pm. Nearly half my time was up.
I looked at Lonley Planet and headed for the main police station carefully marked on the map by the number 18.
It was a museum.
I stopped a Policia Transito in a bright yellow vest but he denied all knowledge of a police station. I asked him were he worked and he was a little shifty.
I tried a Policia Touristico with more hope.
His dog bit me.
Eventually, a private security guard pointed me to the Mother Ship. He tried to hail me a cab to the far side of town to a place only referred to as Y Roca. I couldn´t find it on the map and the taxis wouldn´t stop for him anyway.
They fear gangs that hijack the taxis for robbery purposes, ironically.
A private car driven by Popeye stopped eventually and for half the usual fare he raced me off into the rush hour traffic. It was nose to tail as we got out of the old town and when we reached the barbeque smoke floating off Parque Arborito, things had come to a complete stop.
It was 5.30pm. They were bound to be closing soon.
We communicated by non-verbal means and had a surprisingly illuminating conversation about the Ecuadorian Nuclear Industry.
Or, it might have been football but there were lots of explosive hand gestures.
Eventually we arrived at a large blue and white building that he swore was what I needed. I went inside, past lots of promisingly dressed men in shiny riding boots and smart epaulets. After three floors of blank faces I ended up in a room with a sign that said 'Organised Crime'. I assumed it wasn't actually the hub of Quito's Cosa Nostra but they were helpful and told me this was the wrong place.
The right place was down the street.
I went to the Police Archives, the Evidence building, the Justice Forum and the Crimes against Donkeys unit on the basis of various recommendations before stumbling on the Tourist Police office behind some bins.
Inside the officer was the image of helpfulness and ten minutes later I emerged with a crisp police report on white paper, counter signed by someone very important with an improbably complex signature.
The taxi home was nice.
The driver wore great aftershave and gave me a 30 minute Spanish lesson.
It cost three times as much but it was worth it.
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