Shakira and Wanna-Be Robbers

So I went to see Shakira last night. As I recently mentioned, I’m not a huge Shakira fan. I simply went because I had to do my medical testing and I could get reimbursed while hanging out in Asuncion with a bunch of my PC friends. There are about 200 PCVs in Paraguay and I’d guess at least 50 were there. While we were waiting in line to get into the “campo” section (the cheapest area), a camera guy approached my group. He wanted to interview some of us. I stepped forward (of course), and answered some questions, briefly described Peace Corps, and then was asked what Shakira song I most wanted to hear. I stalled. As mentioned, I’m not some sort of die hard Shakira fan. I’m not even a quasi-Shakira fan. She sings. Her stuff is EVERYWHERE in Paraguay, frequently being bumped from passing cars and neighborhood stereos. I said the only song that I can easily name—Waka Waka. I’m not sure of this song’s popularity in the States, but here is was a constant reminder that the World Cup was happening. Apparently this was an acceptable answer, and he moved on. No other PCV moved to be interviewed, so I was the only one to represent the US’s presence at Shakira.

We roamed around the “campo” area, or the field, where there was no seating. We danced and hung out all over. My best PCV friend, Barbara, and I wandered amongst PCVs asking if they were hungry…for a sandwich. This is a silly idea, of course. It is a ridiculous move that my sister and I used to employ in high school. You approach a guy and ask if he’s hungry, possibly suggesting that he looks famished. He is usually quite confused, until the person behind him and in front of him begin dancing and you ask if he wants a sandwich. At this point he usually realizes that you’re not trying to give him a BLT or something of the like. It amuses me. Yes, I’m 26. It’s the little things that mean so little.

Just after we satisfied the hunger of a PC friend of ours and took a picture of the three of us, I realized my bag had been unzipped. I saw that a guy and girl were standing right next to us and had been there for a bit. Though there was quite a crowd, it was easy to walk through so anyone passing through had no reason to find a road block. I grabbed the guy’s wrist with my left hand while my right hand fished around in my purse to see if anything was missing. My wallet was still there, but my phone had mysteriously disappeared. I asked the guy, in not the most delicate language, where in the world my phone was. My grip on his wrist was tight. He told me that a girl had stolen my phone and run through the crowd. Still holding tight, I told him to find her, and we rushed through the crowd. His female friend had disappeared at this point. He led me through the crowd quickly, but then led me back out into another group of PCVs. He told me he had lost the girl who had supposedly stolen my phone. I saw my friend Andy aka Sparkles and told him this *#*#(!!! guy had stolen my phone and to hold him. Miraculously, at that very moment the guy told me my phone had been handed to him. I took it in one hand while still holding hard on his wrist. I turned it on to be sure it was actually mine while giving him a lecture about how I only earn as much as Paraguayans and work to improve my community and how he should be ashamed of himself. (Yes, I was on a bit of a pedestal.) It was obvious that it was my phone once it turned on, and I told him to “leave us in peace” (which is much much stronger in Paraguayan Spanish), and then slapped him across the face. I’m sad to say that it was done with my left hand, and therefore possibly not as hard as I’d like. Maybe the slap wasn’t the most peaceful option, but getting my cell back was certainly the highlight of my night—even after hearing Waka Waka.