That Time We Got Beat Up by Kids

"I get a kick out of you."
--Frank Sinatra

There are some stories that you know you have to tell, despite the embarrassing consequences. The story of Ryan and I being beat up by teenagers in Iquique is one such tale.
"Maybe we should just forget that ever happened." I mumbled to Ryan while spitting blood onto the concrete.
"No man, you've got to post about this."

We had returned to the beach side town of Iquique, mentioned some posts back as the port city once belonging to Peru that is now a resort destination for wealthy Chileans and international surf enthusiasts. We liked the place, and thus in an effort to escape the drag of Calama, we had come once more for a weekend visit. We arrived late at night and quickly met some fellow Estadounidenses who were going down to the beach to hang out, play guitar, and speak in English (the last part being the key to my potential enjoyment of the weekend.) The weather, as always, was enjoyable and the weekend was starting off swimmingly.
During our previous visit, we had found a late night food stand that served what we remembered as being delicious papas fritas and, having not eaten dinner, Ryan and were determined to find the fries and elevate our night from pleasant to fantastic (and greasy). Thus we left our new conocidos on the beach began our search.
Here is where things become interesting. At a particular intersection close to the hostel, Ryan and I argued about the direction to head. I was certain of the location of the food stand, but he was adamant. He ended up yielding to my expertise, but not wholeheartedly. Thus, as we continued on the course I had plotted, Ryan decided to appeal to some locals for help. In a plaza (pictured below) he spotted a group of eight or ten teenagers loitering.


In Spanish, he asked them where we could find the papas and then indicated the direction where he thought the store was located. The kids replied that there was a place, but it was closed. I was convinced that they were speaking about the wrong store, so I bid the kids adieu, thanked them for their trouble, and then encouraged Ryan to follow me a bit further.
Then I turned my back--I would like to point out that, as we discovered the next day, I was right. We were heading in the correct direction. However, if we had instead just gone the way Ryan had insisted upon, none of the following would have taken place. Moral of the story? Being right hurts. Back to the scene--In a matter of seconds I felt the rush air that precedes a body moving toward you at speed. Just as quickly, a hand reached into my back pocket. I responded by instantly wrapping my right arm behind my back and hooking the arm of the potential pickpocket. The kid was smaller then me and easy to restrain, but as I forcefully extricated my wallet from his hands, his punk friends lept on top of me and I fell backwards. They then proceeded to kick me in the head and torso as the pickpocket wormed his way out from where I'd landed on him. One kick must have connected pretty good and "rung my bell" as we used to say in football, because the next thing I knew I was lying alone on the ground and my assailants were nowhere to be seen.
The entire episode occurred in under thirty seconds, in a well lit area right next to a major road. I stood up and turned to see Ryan also picking himself up from the ground. As he tells it, as soon as he saw the kids jump me he ran over to intervene. However, as he was drawing back to strike one of my assailants, his arm was caught and he was likewise driven to the ground and kicked in the head a few times.
"Do you have your wallet?" I asked, rubbing a hand on my head, still a bit dazed.
"Yeah, you?" I checked to make sure.
"Yeah. I don't want those fries anymore."
"Me neither."

We headed back to the hostel and Ryan spent the rest of the night repeatedly telling the story, with the ages of the kids changing each time (at one point they went from fifteen years old to eight.) The next morning he had a pretty decent sized mark on his face, and the inside of my left cheek was cut up from being kicked into my teeth. We made some beautiful egg, cheese, palta, and tomato sandwiches but both our jaws hurt so much it was hard to enjoy them.

As we walked around Iquique the next two days, we made a joke of pointing out each group of kids and saying, "that's them", and then fantasizing about delayed comeuppance. The rest of the trip went well, and we ended up having a grand time in the hostel watching the England v. United States match that ended a bit anticlimactically. Unfortunately as well, there was only one Brit present and she didn't even stick around to watch the whole game. Thus it was mostly a few of us Americans chanting halfheartedly "U. S. A!" while one of the Australian guests pretended to pull for the Limeys (his team in turned got destroyed the next day by Germany.)

The highlight of the weekend was discovering a small fish market selling the freshest of fish and shellfish for incredibly low prices. For about two dollars Ryan and I bought some shark fillets and a cup of locos (abalones). We cooked the shark at the hostel and it was perfect, though we had to cook and eat in the span of fifteen minutes because of a scheduling snafu that meant we were forced to leave on an earlier bus then we had planned. I also made a point of getting those papas. They weren't as good as I had remembered.