Shopping for weapons in Argentina

 

Everybody warned me that Buenos Aires would be dangerous.

Watch out for pickpockets! Liars! Thieves! Sketchy men in trench coats!

So I was on guard as soon as my bus hit BA city limits — even though I’d already spent three months backpacking around South America without any problems.

Even the owner of my hostel was the purveyor of doom. “Be careful out there,” he said, his mouth firmly set into a grim line. “Not safe for a girl alone.”

With that in mind, the illuminated streets transformed as I walked them. Elegant architecture leaned menacingly over the sidewalks. Each alley looked more shadowy than the last. Even the jolly cook at a nearby pasta restaurant looked downright criminal as he hoisted a fat knife to slice through sheets of ravioli.

When I happened upon a gun store downtown, I had no choice but to walk inside. I figured it was fate.

The walls were lined with glass cases that ran nearly floor to ceiling. They contained enough firearms to fuel several James Bond movies. Maybe a Jason Bourne one too. Several items under the front counter looked suspiciously like landmines.

It was a small, cramped shop, so I didn’t get far before a few employees descended and asked if I needed help.

At least, I think that’s what they were saying. I only know essential Spanish, like how to order coffee, ask for the toilet or say “Those drugs aren’t mine.”

“Hola,” I said to the shopkeeper, furiously flipping through my purse-sized English-to-Spanish dictionary. Unfortunately, the words I was searching for were’t listed.

“No hablo mucho Espanol,” I apologized. “Donde puedo comprar … pepper spray? Por favor?”

I got a blank look.

“Er, spray de pimiento?”

Nothing.

It was time for me to pull out all the stops. It was time for charades.

I gave an Oscar-worthy performance, playing the role of an innocent woman walking down the street as well as the brutal attacker who punches her in the head. Just as the thief is about to make off with her valuables, our heroine pulls pepper spray from her purse and shoots him in the eye, sending him kicking and screaming to the floor.

I looked up from where I was crumpled on the dirty, stained tile. I was slightly out of breath.

“Spray de pimiento?” I tried again.

“Ah,” said the crowd, which had gathered in a full circle around me.

One of the gun shop employees disappeared behind a curtain. When she returned, she handed over a plastic package of pepper spray.

“Mace,” she said.

Ah. Mace.

For the record, I was never attacked or pickpocketed anywhere in the world, though some thieves ransacked the luggage compartment of my bus in Thailand. And the only thing I had stolen? My pepper spray.