For the third time in my thirty plus years in Costa Rica, I was a victim of property theft. It happened two days before the new year. Two items were stolen– a four burner Atlas gas plantilla and the half empty tank of gas attached. These were kept outside, on a table in a covered open-air patio. The thief or thieves were stealthy, because I slept inside the house, about twenty feet away, but heard nothing.
The property is surrounded by hedges and barbed wire on three sides, with neighboring houses on each side and behind. The entrance to the property has a large electrical gate, with a smaller door built in. That door was typically left unlocked as we had never had any issues with crime, and in fact, often touted the safety of the barrio. I had been awakened in the early morning hours by the incessant barking of a nearby dog, but this was nothing new.
Until a week earlier, I had my own dog that slept outside, but as she was a bit wild and would dig a hole to go under the fence and escape to the street, we decided to rehome her on the farm of my wife’s family, where she would have ample space to roam, and four other dogs as company. The moment I walked out the back door that morning, and did a double take when I saw an empty table where the four burner grill had sat, I realized that sending my dog away had been a mistake.
I had committed the ultimate sin in Costa Rica of being overconfident with petty crime. If you leave it outside, and it can be easily picked up and carried away, better chain it up or nail it down. The previous two thefts were both bicycles that I did not stow away in a safe place. The only consolation is that both bikes were in need of a major overhaul with worn tires, gears, brakes and grips; essentially the thieves got a bike frame each time.
We heard from a neighborhood watch group that someone was spotted on a street surveillance camera at about 1 am, carrying a plantilla that matched the description of mine. They were seen walking in the direction of a smaller barrio about a kilometer away, at the foot of a long hill. This barrio was once a squatters area, though it is now mainly made up of small, neat concrete houses. There remain a few shacks, and one in particular is suspect. Occupied by a revolving cast of raggedy young guys and rumored to be a place to score drugs and/or stolen goods.
I walked by the same morning but no one was home. I briefly fantasized about roaring in with guns blazing, kicking down the flimsy door and recovering my items, but I don’t own a gun and am too old to go around kicking down doors, and would likely be outnumbered by guys who possibly do own guns anyway.
Lessons learned– I like to compare life here to the wild west in that it is up to you to defend your own turf, and to take precautions to make theft as difficult as possible. The gate-door is now locked at night. As for our dog– her first days on the farm she killed a chicken and threatened a turkey and ended up in the literal dog house, tied up and miserable. She has now been re-rehomed, back where she should have always been, and hopefully ready to scare off any future intruders.
