Thiefhunters in Paradise

The adorable, 16-pound baby.

Anyone remember this old relic?

We were so thrilled with it. We’d spent a year in Africa and needed a laptop. Apple didn’t make one yet, so we had to buy a DOS machine. Shortly after we got home, Apple came out with a luggable.

Bob and I were on a cruise ship with our Mac Portable. The machine was a year or so old—that’s how long ago this was. Bob sat at the desk in our stateroom, I on the bed, with my 16-pound Mac open in front of me.

“Pass me a paperclip,” I said to him.

Apple logo circa 1989.

He tossed, I missed. The paperclip fell right into a narrow gap behind the display, where the back end of that computer extended another four or so inches. Instantly, a thin wisp of smoke arose and, like a cartoon, curled its wavy way right up to the smoke detector. On a ship. At sea.

I gave the gap a good blow and was horrified to see a little red flame dancing within. We got the tiny fire out quickly, but the machine was dead.

The size of a small suitcase.

The story’s not over though. We had a fancy neoprene case for the Mac Portable, embossed with a pretty little Apple logo. On our way home, we bought extra insurance for the case and sent it as baggage—something we’d otherwise never do. We hoped it would be stolen. We were sure it would be.

Not a reflection. Handle, display, hinge, back end.

On arrival, we waited at the baggage carousel—and waited. Finally, we went to the lost luggage office to report the loss of our insured computer. “Oh, we have your bag,” they said. It got extra care since it was insured, and they wanted to hand it to us personally. (Yeah. Those were the days.)

I found the old Portable in the garage recently. It has some parts tucked into its case I don’t remember, like a huge battery brick. Though it doesn’t start up, I can’t throw it out. I don’t know why.

How safe is the safe in your hotel room? Not safe at all, it turns out, unless you factor in the odds. Odds are, your safe won’t be broken into. But the fact is, the crackin’s easy. Of course it is—hotels must be able to rescue valuables from faulty memories (forgotten codes, departed guests who forgot to empty their safes), lost keys, dead batteries, and power outages.

Hotel management and/or security can always access room safes. But how? Depends on the kind of safe. Does it open with a metal key? By swiping a magnetic card, or punching in a code? Does it use a plastic key card with a pattern of holes punched in it?

A hotel in Palma de Mallorca, Spain.

Bob and I have long endorsed the use of safes in hotel rooms, as long as they are electronic. We’ve shied away from metal- and plastic-key safes, concerned about how many copies float around. But there are other ways to enter safes, and an untold number of people who have access, authorized or otherwise.

A deluge of thefts from hotel room safes in Palma de Mallorca, Spain, led to an investigative report by Burkhard Kress for Extra, a news show on German RTL TV (unfortunately not online).

Hidden camera captures master override code.

Kress booked a room there and mounted a hidden camera, then called hotel management for help opening his safe. The hidden camera footage captured the code that management punched into the safe’s keypad, which ended with the room number. With the permission of the guest in the room next to his, Kress tried the same code appended with the other room number. The neighbor’s safe opened. Anyone with the master code could open every safe in the hotel.

And anyone with a hidden camera could capture the master code.

These three, who shared a room, called police when they found cash missing from their safe. As there were no signs of a forced entry, they believe they were robbed by hotel staff. Police never responded to their call, so they went to the police station.

Kress had his cameraman stake out a different room for a week, waiting for a safe break-in. Alas, he was never hit. Eventually, Kress found out why. The thefts occur in rooms booked by two or more friends staying together. When a theft is reported, front desk staff insist the theft was committed by one of the “friends.”

Guests are required to pay a fee for the use of the safe. This, along with the fact that the only rooms hit are booked by two or more friends, leads me to suspect that these safe thefts are inside jobs. Who but front desk staff know both those facts? Of course the thieves might also be former employees, or individuals in cahoots with an employee.

According to Eric Fischer, a tour leader interviewed by Kress, these thefts have been going on for years at this and other hotels in Palma. He’s kept a log of them. He himself had €14,500 stolen from the safe in his room. When the Spanish police investigated the theft without much interest, Fischer suggested that they take fingerprints. “The police responded no,” he said, “you must be watching too much German TV—we don’t do that.”

These old safes can still be found in budget hotels.

What about those plastic key cards with a pattern of holes punched in them? They can be copied onto cardboard by anyone with a pencil and a hole punch. Safes that open with a keypad or your own magnetic card (credit card, grocery store card, or anything swipeable) often have a visible keyhole for a tool held by hotel management or security. Or, the safe may have an innocuous-looking panel that simply snaps off to reveal the keyhole. Whose got that key?

Bob and I have also come across safes screwed to loose shelves in closets.

In our book, we wrote:

Safe-cracks are extremely rare, although a man was recently arrested in Palma de Mallorca and charged with a spate of hotel safe robberies. Somehow, he had come into possession of a master tool which hotel security uses to open certain jammed electronic safes. (Other electronic safes can be opened by security using numerical bypass codes.) Presumably then, the man also had the tools to get into the hotel room itself. The burglar posted his female accessory at the elevator. They each had a cellphone and kept an open connection between them. When people came to the elevator, the woman would delay them for one minute. The burglar would hear the conversation, tidy up, and get out of the room.

Travel Advisory: How to Avoid Thefts, Cons, and Scams While Traveling
Chapter Four, Hotels: Have a Nice Stay

The “international conman” captured last September social-engineered his way into guest rooms and tricked hotel staff into opening safes. Hotel management, meanwhile, walks a fine line, compromising somewhere between providing real security and reluctance to inconvenience guests.

So how does Mr. International Conman get into your safe? Or—maybe not your safe because, obviously, he’s going to target a “whale,” or some other affluent hotel guest. First, he needs to get into your room—when you’re not there. Like any good con artist, he knows that front desk staff at most hotels will ask for ID, so he’s prepared. Here’s how. First, he follows you to learn your room number. Later, he goes to the front desk and, giving your room number, asks for a printout of “his” charges to date. Bingo. He’s now got your name and address. Next job is to whip out a fake ID, right in his car in the parking lot. Sounds like a lot of trouble, doesn’t it? But look at the payout.

Our usual set of old, beat-up Halliburtons.

What should you do, then, with your million-dollar bauble? Carry the stuff and get pickpocketed or mugged? Leave it in the hotel safe for the safe-cracker to burgle? Put it in the front office safe? Often, Bob and I choose to lock our stuff into our largest hardsided (aluminum) luggage.

This is a good moment for intuition, or at least for some conscious reasoning. Bob and I stay some 200 or more nights a year in hotels and, though we don’t always use the safe, we’ve never had a problem with one. YMMV. The practical danger in using the hotel safe is remembering to empty it before you check out. When I expect a hurried or groggy, pre-dawn check-out, I scrawl a bedside note to myself.

What kind of joints do you stay in? What do you carry?

Adult: “Nice dog. What’s his name?”

“Thermidore.”

“Hi Sermidore! Good dog!”

“THERmidore,” child enunciates.

“Oh, SIR Midore,” adult says. “An honorable dog.”

“No, Ther-mi-dore.”

“Shake, Sirmidore!”

“Are you thick?” The boy is disgusted.

“No, it’s just an allergy.”

Heads up, travelers. Beware the clever new scam happening in hotels now. In order to thwart it, proactive properties are placing notes like this one into guest rooms:

Dear Guest:

Lately, scam artists are attempting to secure credit card numbers from guests in hotels. They’re calling guest rooms at random and claiming to be hotel employees needing to verify credit card information. For your own protection, please do not give your credit card number over the telephone while staying in the hotel. …

My regular readers know that I stay in hotels more than 200 nights a year, and I research scams and cons. Yet, even I could very easily have fallen for this perfectly believable trick. It falls into the “pretexting” and “social engineering” categories. I got a chill reading this hotel management’s note, having just received a similar phone call in a different hotel a few days before. It took me a moment to recall that the request was for my frequent stay account number, not my credit card. Whew!

I’ve confirmed this ruse’s widespread existence with police and hotel security chiefs in several countries. Although aware of the ploy, not all properties believe in taking a proactive approach. As always, it’s up to us travelers to look after ourselves.

“Somehow they get the guest’s name, call the room, and explain that they are from either room service or the front desk and need the credit card number again,” the security director of a major hotel group told me.

“We never connect calls if the person calling can’t say the name of the guest he/she is looking for,” said the security manager of another hotel chain.

But a phone-pharming data-miner can sequentially call every room in a hotel once he knows the phone number convention. Most of us, as generally trusting (and/or oblivious) humans, will miss the fact that the data-miner on the phone fails to address us by name. If he’s any good, he’ll get “the name on the card” just as easily as he gets every other useful tidbit, and I’d bet he gathers quite a few “profiles.”

Colon, Panama's second largest city.

“The mere mention of Colón sends shivers down the spines of travelers and Panamanians…”

—Lonely Planet on Colon, Panama

After the brutal armed robbery of 18 tourists in Nassau three weeks ago, and our naive trek through the world’s most dangerous city, Port Moresby, Bob and I have had muggers on our minds. For years, we’ve studied non-violent pickpockets and con artists, and advised travelers how to avoid becoming their victims.

Muggers, though, are a different breed, defined—by us—as those who use violence or the threat of violence in the course of robbery. Often drug-addicted and desperate, their behavior is unpredictable and not easily avoidable.

Ask your hotel staff and local hosts where it’s safe to walk, we say. Carry “give-up” money. Be compliant, give them your stuff. It’s impossible to know what these desperadoes are capable of. Beyond that, we didn’t have much to say about muggers.

That changed a few days ago, when Bob created an opportunity. We were visiting Panama’s second largest city, feared by the capital’s police as well as savvy expats.

Having heard how dangerous Colon is, I left my camera in the hotel and walked the streets with empty pockets. Bob brought a video camera and a collapsing monopod. Immediately, we were approached by many aggressive men who wanted to show us the sites. We waved them away until we met Gustavo and Carlos, gentle, low-key men. Both scramble for whatever odd jobs they can find: construction, painting, roof repair, escorting visitors to the Gatun Locks.

Gustavo

Gustavo, 38, spoke decent English and was more than pleased to fulfill Bob’s challenge: take us to the most dangerous streets, and introduce us to some banditos. “Nobody wants to see my city,” Gustavo sighed later. Everybody just wants to go to the locks, or to the mall to buy t-shirts.”

I admit to starting this adventure a little uneasily. We don’t speak Spanish, for one thing. And I remembered the scary vulnerability we experienced when two knife-wielding thieves in Peru took us in a taxi to a “quiet place” of their choosing. And the way we were followed and scrutinized in Valparaiso, Chile, when we were pretty sure we saw the flash of a blade. And the gangsters we met in Panama City. Not to mention the emotional aftermath of Nassau’s 18 armed robbery victims.

Had I read what one Colon tourism site had to say, I probably wouldn’t have gone at all:

“Though exaggerated, Colon’s reputation throughout the rest of the country for violent crime is not undeserved, and if you come here you should exercise extreme caution—mugging, even on the main streets in broad daylight, is common. Don’t carry anything you can’t afford to lose, try and stay in sight of the police on the main streets, and consider renting a taxi to take you around, both as a guide and for protection.”

—Coloncity.com

That from a site promoting the city!

We trusted Gustavo instantly, although the city looked, uh, “dicey,” to say the least. He led and Carlos guarded from behind, both pushing bicycles. “Robbers will not be difficult to find,” Gustavo admitted, “They are everywhere. They live on my street.”

Colon’s gorgeous colonial architecture glowed under a hot sun, its faded Caribbean colors covered with graffiti. The place is crumbling. Potholed streets run with overflowing sewer water and heaps of trash. Cracked pavements and treacherous gutters vie for attention, with two-by-fours stretched across particularly rough stretches—inner-city balance beams.

“Hold this,” Bob said, passing me his monopod while he shot a little video. Not “Honey, you better stay home,” as many a husband might say. I gripped the photographic tool like a weapon, and later realized that it must have looked like one. Not a very nice visitor who tours a city wielding a police baton. Better leave her alone!

Gustavo pointed out the sights as we walked; sort of a walking tour of gangland central. Here’s a building used in a James Bond film shot last year. The men over there, they’re too dangerous. That street is very bad; we won’t walk there. This street is the home of three pandillas [gangs]. Colon has at least 50.

I looked at the blood newly splattered on my pants and shivered. Right… the butcher chopping chicken in the crowded market we passed through.

Colon kids

“Stay close,” Gustavo said. “No one will bother you when you’re with me. I know everyone.” Indeed, men, women, and children greeted him at every step, but he politely deflected them and focused on us.

“That guy’s a robber,” Gustavo pointed, and called him over. Explaining our mission, he spoke with such authority the thief had no choice but to comply. Bob tossed the camera to me as we stepped into a filthy alley. It reeked of pee. Above, a man watched us from a balcony. Water gushed from another balcony, higher up.

Dajanel and Bob Arno

It’s hard to believe that Dajanel [Die-a-NEL) is a mugger. His sweet face, slight build, and compliant behavior belied his vocation. He robs with a gun. He doesn't fire the gun, he told us—small comfort to his victims. Or huge comfort to his victims, I guess.

Dajanel likes to work as part of a structured threesome. One man grabs and holds the victim, one watches for police, one lifts the wallet. He scopes his marks as they come out of hotels, or as they buy drugs or girls. He looks for thick wallets.

Before a theft, Dajanel fortifies his nerves with drugs. We couldn't ferret out his drug of choice but, whatever it is, it grows his strength and power. When he seizes a wallet, he goes straight for the cash and dumps the rest. ASAP. He doesn't use credit cards, doesn't sell them on. Holding them is evidence against him, and commands a higher sentence if he's convicted of a crime.

Dajanel's only 26, but he's already spent three years in jail. As proof of his toughness, he pulled down the neck of his t-shirt to show off a thick scar on his shoulder—a deep knife wound that took three years to heal. He reminded me of Petter in Lima, who showed off his many scars, and Angel, in Panama City, whose little bullet wound was a badge of honor. Dajanel raised his knee to display the entry point of a police bullet, and another in his foot.

Gustavo translated like a pro throughout the interview, while Carlos watched my back, his bike arranged like a police barrier at the alley entrance. I was hyper-aware of the million-dollar camera in my flimsy fingers—it might as well have been worth that much. A steady stream of passers-by stopped to watch—to see what was in it for them? Carlos moved them on.

Three of Gustavo's children watch their older sister help Bob with a magic trick.

We walked on 6th Street after we let Dajanel go, where Gustavo lives. He brought us into his tiny, dark apartment, to meet his wife and four small girls. He has three older children elsewhere, he told us, though he’s only 38. Music was blasting in his apartment, as if he were force-feeding rhythm to his kids. Bob delighted them with a few magic tricks.

Exiting the long, dark hall to Gustavo’s interior home, we met Jaer, a 34-year-old robber.

Unlike Dajanel, Jaer prefers to work alone. That way, he doesn’t have to share money or worry about a partner who, if caught, might squeal. Unlike Dajanel he doesn’t use a gun; he steals anywhere, at any hour, but prefers early morning, because there are fewer cops around. He does not profile his marks. His weapon is speed, as in quickness, and brute force, as in a chokehold from behind. He oozes confidence and control. He doesn’t use drugs.

“Show me,” Bob said, no caution left to throw to the wind. “But not here. In private.” Yeah, where no one will see the mugger with his two rubes. Bob followed him down an alley only four feet wide to an interior courtyard the size of a tollbooth. “Now, show me,” he said.

Jaer backed up to the extent he could. So did I, attempting to get the whole scene on video, but even wide angle wasn’t wide enough in this close space. Jaer lent Bob his wallet, and stepped back over puddles of mud and water for a two-step running start.

Pow! The wallet was gone, and Jaer’d have been a block away had there been any place to run. He smiled with pride as a miniature gang of children passed through the shady space.

“Wow,” Bob said, “that’s the fastest steal I’ve ever seen! Again.” This time, Jaer surprised Bob with a chokehold, lifting the wallet in a one-handed plunge. The demo proved him experienced and capable.

“Now you,” Jaer requested, replacing his wallet in his pocket. After a suitable pause, Bob stealthily swiped it.

“I didn’t feel it,” Jaer said. “I’m impressed. Your way is much better. But speed is vital. I don’t think you could run away fast enough.”

He left Bob with a final word: “I’ll be talking about you tonight…”

*  *  *

What the U.S. State Department says about Colon:

“The city of Colon is a high crime area. … Crimes there are typical of those that plague metropolitan areas and range from rapes to armed robberies, muggings, purse-snatchings, “express kidnappings” from ATM banking facilities, in which the victim is briefly kidnapped and robbed after withdrawing cash from an ATM, and petty theft.”

—Panama Country Specific Information, 3/18/09, U.S. State Department

Credit: Rickard Ignell/Swedish University of Agricultural Sciences

Traumatic insemination is worth mentioning as a follow up to my post on bed bugs in hotels. Male bed bugs, ScienceNews reports, “ignore the opening to the female reproductive tract and inject sperm with a needlelike appendage directly through the outer covering of a mate’s body.” Yikes!

The report also explains that the male insects will happily mate with well-fed individuals of either sex until an accosted male sends out a special pheromone causing the aggressor to back off.

The pheromone can actually be detected by humans. It smells

a bit like almond, but not particularly pleasant. “Older people say that you used to be able to tell whose house had bed bugs because it had a peculiar smell.”

Graffiti in Stockholm: Lucky Thief proved to be an artist collective.

Beware, pickpockets are working here. That’s the first thing an international visitor sees when entering Sweden at Stockholm Arlanda Airport. Face level signs are pasted on the glass doors you pass through at immigration. Show me your passport. Welcome! Oh, and watch out for pickpockets—you’re in Stockholm!

For a big city, Stockholm has very little street crime. For a city with so little street crime, there sure are a lot of warnings about it. Maybe that’s why there’s so little!

Stealing in Stockholm

Digital platform signs in the city’s super-efficient subway system run frequent text warnings, in Swedish and English: watch your personal belongings, pickpockets are around.

Restaurants post reminders about watching your bags. I heard bus drivers on routes to Djurgården, where amusement parks are located, warn about pickpockets.

The Stockholm police have volunteers hand out little warning cards in the streets, and they thought it important enough to gather for a Bob Arno lecture last summer.

Is it a case of hysterics?

Graph from www.bra.se

Let’s not compare Stockholm with other cities. Let’s compare it with itself over time. According to the Swedish National Council for Crime Prevention, crime in general peeked in 1990, stayed rather constant for 16 years, and is now on a new rise. Specifically, bicycle theft is down and fraud is up. No surprise there. Burglary is holding steady, while assault is on the rise.

Reported robberies have remained fairly steady at about 9,000 incidents per year for the past ten. The Council includes shop and bank robberies in the figure, but says about 86% of the figure is robbery from the person. Remember, these are reported incidents. My research with Bob indicates that, as people lately tend to work hard and play hard, they also don’t sweat the small stuff. Who has time to file a police report?

Police handouts, multilingual.

I’ve already written about ATM crime, skimmers, and pseudo-cops in Sweden. The latest concern is criminal gang activity. Neighborhoods “have been hit by a wave of violent thefts recently.” Children 14-17 are conducting violent robberies in what seem to be initiation rites as they join the Black Scorpions. The Black Scorpions are starter gangsters who’ll graduate to become Black Cobras. Like Cub Scouts become Boy Scouts. The gang crept in from Copenhagen, and seems to be immigration-related.

Immigrants to Sweden, 1975-2008

The twin upward slopes of crime and immigration might lead one to believe that foreigners are perping on the Swedes. Ah, a politically sensitive theory. I can’t touch it.

Bottom line is that, for a capital city, Stockholm has very little street crime. The Swedes are rather trusting and naive and therefore make excellent victims, especially when they travel to places with significant street crime.

But speaking of Swedish victims of foreigners, here’s a vaguely related, rather humorous report. A woman in Thailand recently conned five Swedish men into sending her money “for a plane ticket to Sweden.” The five met at the airport arrivals hall when they found themselves alone together still waiting for the woman, who never showed up.

“Hand Picked Golden Dragon” RAM wrapped in gold silk brocade! Cleaning the garage, I found these gorgeous packages perfectly preserved in an airtight box. What the hell are they? One package still holds a 512 MB memory chip nestled in a bed of rich, red, synthetic suede, with a pretty pink ribbon for conveniently extracting the delicate thing. The other package is empty.

We can’t think of what they were for. An old Epson wide-format ink jet? A Panasonic video recorder? A camera? The packages are too nice to throw out. I guess that’s why the garage needs excavation.

First we witness a tourist robbery, then meet another tourist just robbed at gunpoint.

We’re standing on Bay Street, the main drag, while I’m checking email on my iPod.

“Hold onto your stuff, these guys are targeting us,” Bob said. I had the iPod in one hand, a good camera in the other. We’d planned to stroll down the beach to where we spent our first three years together. A seven-mile stroll, but one we’d done daily in the eighties, often on bikes.

I glanced up and saw the two suspects crossing toward us. Suddenly they caught sight of a better-looking target. A pair of men, one shirtless, who were cutting through the parking lot of the Hilton British Colonial, heading back to their room. As the scruffy suspects approached the tourists, Bob narrated: “They’re offering drugs,” he said. A tourist is offered drugs in Nassau as often as tourists are offered “copy watches” in Italy or Singapore.

Scene-of-the-crime

“Crack or weed,” was the actual offer.

“Weed,” the shirtless one said.

A deal was struck. $60 for an eighth, the victim later told us, twice what he pays in Canada, “but what the hell.” He pulled out the cash. The “dealer” grabbed it and ran. He dashed between cars in the parking lot, cut through a lush tropical border planting, jumped a five-foot wall, and ran down a side street. His partner had disappeared during the deal-making.

The victim, a Canadian, was both mad and bemused. A Bahamian man who’d also witnessed the robbery dragged the victim off to the police station. Interesting to see the story as slanted in the Nassau Tribune.

We gave up on visiting our old home and beach cove in Cable Beach. We wandered the streets and fended off a few more offers of pot. Do we really look like the target market?

Then we met the Ad Koens, a visitor from Holland. He’d gone on a Segway tour. At 11:00 in the morning his entire group, eight tourists and one Bahamian tour leader, were held up at gunpoint and made to spread-eagle on the ground. Another group of nine was already down.

The bandits wielded shotguns. They tied one man’s wrists to a long wooden plank placed across his back. Ad was kicked in his ribs, others were kicked in the head. “It was very, very professional,” Ad said. They demanded everything of value: cameras, video cameras, iPods, wallets, purses, GPS devices—everything the tourists had on them. One man lost a Rolex and a laptop. Eighteen men and women robbed, and the two scruffy thieves got away.

After the ordeal, all eighteen victims were taken to the police department to file reports. They were shown 500 mug shots, 25 to a page, each the size of a postage stamp. When Bob asked the victim how he’d rate the police-reporting experience on a scale of one to ten, the answer was “Zero to one. It was a joke.”

The two robberies were front-page news in Nassau on Saturday, November 21.

I’m mortified to remember the time I refused to shake hands with an Egyptian.

It’s a sad commentary on the state of the world when one must look at every stranger with distrustful eyes, and in some ways it defeats the whole purpose of leisure travel. Spectacular landscapes, ruins, markets, shops, and food are only the skin of a culture. Its people are its core. Around the world people are attracted to people; locals are warm and welcoming to travelers, and swell with national pride. In many countries, to refuse a gift is to insult your host. In some countries, insulting your host is provocative indeed.

After a long hot morning interviewing the Cairo police, we returned to our hotel to wash up. We then intended to visit the American Express office at the Nile Hilton, and from there, we’d hunt down an excellent Egyptian lunch at the Khan el Khalili Bazaar. Refreshed, we made our way through thick air, deafening noise, and teeming crowds to the 6th of October Bridge, which spans the Nile.

Policemen at attention stood the length of the bridge, perfectly spaced every thirty feet, rigid and regular as toy soldiers. They were armed, however, like real soldiers. I asked an important-looking officer who appeared to be supervising the formation. “Is it always like this? Are there this many officers every day?” No, President Mubarak is coming, he said. At the end of the bridge we paused and looked up to locate the Nile Hilton.

“You can’t cross the street here,” a friendly local volunteered. “If you try, the police will only stop you. Our president is coming, you see.” He was curly-headed, short, chubby, and a bit rough.

“How do we get across to the Hilton?” Bob asked.

“You must use the underpass. Come, I’ll show you.” As we turned, the entry to the underpass became obvious. We thanked the man, but he wasn’t finished with us.

“Hello,” he kept saying. “How are you? Where are you from? You like Cairo?” He offered his hand, and Bob shook it politely as the three of us walked toward the underpass.

“Lady, what’s your name?”

“Bambi,” I said, walking ahead. I smiled at him over my shoulder, hoping he’d find me friendly but in a hurry. I had no wish to offend him, but I am not fond of shaking hands with any stranger on the street.

“Hello!” he persisted. I increased my pace slightly. That turned out to be an unwise move; thoughtless and undiplomatic.

“You don’t want to shake hands with an Egyptian? I am your host! Do you think I’m dirty?”

“My wife has a cold,” Bob lied, “she doesn’t want you to get it.”

“Perhaps she doesn’t like Egyptians! What kind of visitors are you!”

I felt terrible by then, and regretted my rude and tactless behavior when I should have been on my best. But now I was concerned about the man’s escalating verbal assault. He was still walking with us and, as the underground passage loomed ahead, the chicken in me pecked holes in my nerves. I should have turned and apologized. Instead, I sped up.

I heard Bob behind me, trying to explain the transference of germs from hand to hand to mouth and the Cairene not getting it. As I entered the tunnel, Bob not far behind, the agitated man gave up and dropped us. I was relieved and ashamed at the same time.

Later, we unwound in a barely-lit alcove of the cave-like back of the elegant Khan El Khalili Restaurant. The front of the restaurant, called the Naguib Mahfouz Coffee Shop for the Nobel Prize-winning novelist, was all about unwinding. Customers slouched among pillows sucking on hookahs, dark coffee and sweet smoke scented the room, narrow shafts of harsh sunlight illuminated the thick swirling air, and waterpipes burbled like aquariums.

In the back it was quiet, private, and dramatically lit. Over little plates of olives, babaganoush, hummus, and flat bread, we reflected on the encounter. It could have gotten out of hand; we were lucky. But why had I behaved so badly? What had repelled me from the one-man welcome committee? Was I just too street-smart, smelling a scam? Had years of thief-patrol put me off all humanity?

No, I lacked any credible excuse. I had just washed, was on my way to eating lunch with my hands, and just plain didn’t want to shake hands. Shame on me. I felt miserable, but allowed myself to be soothed by the atmosphere and luscious meal.

Encounters with locals can offer the deepest, longest-lasting memories of a trip. But when cultures collide, sensitivity and caution must be in balance. Judgment is critical, but how can we determine what our own behavior should be, with little understanding of foreign sentiment? A majority of Americans, cocooned as we are in our huge world of a nation, have a myopian global perspective, as limited as that of an Amazonian tribesman or a Mongolian herder. Our collective ignorance of political issues stuns smaller nations, which can’t afford to know only their own business.

Our naiveté may occasionally lead to confrontations such as mine with the Egyptian. It can also foster dangerous hostility, and it allows us to walk into scams, swindles, and set-ups.

Excerpt from Travel Advisory: How to Avoid Thefts, Cons, and Street Scams
Chapter Three: Getting There—With all your Marbles

If your room number is printed on your key, complain.

The Hilton Tokyo-Bay, aka Japan’s Disneyland Hilton, was shockingly behind the times when we visited. Our paper electronic room keys had our room number printed right on them, instead of on an envelope. That’s a serious security risk. This was two years ago. Anyone know what their keys look like today?

Lovely La Rambla, Barcelona

Barcelona visitors experienced 6,000 thefts per day during 2009′s tourist season.

115,055 pickpocketings and bagsnatches in Barcelona were reported in the 12 months ending August 2009, police said. Newspapers did the math and trumpeted “315 thefts every day!” But take away the off-season, when thefts are way down, and add in unreported thefts to get the real number “per day.” More like a million in a year.

Barcelona authorities have finally, officially, admitted that the level of theft in the city is “extremely high.” This came only days after Barcelona made headlines around the world as “worst city for pickpockets,” thanks to TripAdvisor’s proclamation. It’s long been an open secret that otherwise lovable “bcn” has rampant thievery, but potential visitors and, more importantly, the conference business, have begun to wonder if there aren’t safer destinations. Hotels, tired of wiping the tears of robbed guests, must have been screaming for relief.

Police estimate there are 200-250 full-time thieves at large. That makes me laugh. The police, at one time, showed me their profiles of more than 300 pigeon poop pickpockets alone! “La Mancha,” the stain, is what they call them, because they dirty their victims. In my 15-year history of observing thieves in my favorite city, I find that the pigeon poop perps are but a small subsection of the thief pool. If there are 300+ PPPs, how many other bagsnatchers and pickpockets lurk about?

Spot the thief. Answer: bɐq ǝɥʇ buıp1oɥ s,ǝɥ

Although I think 250-300 is a low estimate, it’s still a huge number of criminals who each make any number of efforts throughout the day to gather other people’s valuables. For each thief, there might be 10, 20, or 30 attempts to steal, each day. With each attempt, lots can go wrong to blow it. The victim may suspect something, and turn. He may move, though he suspected nothing. The thief may think someone is watching. Someone may be watching and shout out. The pocket or purse might be difficult to get into. the getaway may become blocked, a cop might be spotted… It’s a delicate balance; attempted thefts are derailed far more often than they’re completed. You may never have had your wallet stolen, but you may have been a target.

And after the thief’s success? Even then, the deal’s not done. The victim may whirl around and accuse the pickpocket, who’ll then drop the goodies on the ground and pretend he had nothing to do with them. That’s a theft—but not counted in any statistics.

The police finger North Africans and Romanians. I’ll agree that these groups are prominent among the perps, along with certain South Americans, other East Europeans, and an unmentionable group. Not that it matters to the victim. Not that visitors would know the difference.

Let’s not forget the transient thieves, either. For the past month Bob has been communicating with a pickpocket in Paris who enjoys lucrative field trips where the moolah is mucho and the heat’s not so hot. At this very moment, he’s shopping for wallets in Brussels. Next stop, BCN. “Barcelona police are easy, but there’s not much money there,” he explained. Yet, he’s making the trip. And he’s not alone.

The police claim that pickpockets try to steal less than €400 per person, because the perps know that stealing less than that will land them a fine if caught, rather than jail time. Uh-uh. No. Pickpockets steal wallets. Bagsnatchers steal purses. They don’t stop to ask how much cash the vic has. They don’t stop to look. And if they get a windfall, they don’t cry about it. “Son-of-a-bitch good,” is the feeling pickpocket Kharem described when he nabbed a briefcase filled with thousands of dollars. People who spend their days stealing expect to get caught and pay the consequences. They know it will happen. For them, the reward is worth the risk. If they get a lot of money in one hit, they can stay home and thereby cut their risk for a day or two.

A pickpocket's fines

And they need all that cash to pay their fines. For each theft of under €400 for which he’s arrested, the thief “pays a fine of €200 and then returns to the street,” said an official of the City police who asked for anonymity. “But they work so much that it’s worthwhile to them to keep doing it and pay the occasional €200 fine.” Some of these thieves have hundreds of arrests in their records and are released over and over again; presumably to collect cash to pay their fines. Looking at the fistful of fines Kharem showed us, this is a pretty lucrative system for the city. A stupid-tourist tax perhaps, or a licensing fee for thieves.

“315 thefts each day,” another headline reads. In August 2009, the year-to-date total was 115,055 reported thefts. But why average them over a full year? Most of the tourist activity is from May to November. Pickpocketing is easier when people are in summer clothes rather than bundled up with coats that cover pockets. I’d say most of the 115,055 reported thefts occurred in the six good-weather months. That means about 600 each day that you’re likely to be there, sharply dropping off as the weather cools and the tourists dry up.

But that’s reported thefts. In Barcelona, I’d multiply the reported thefts by a factor of 10 to get actual thefts. That brings the number up to 6,000 each day of the tourist season.

Why by a factor of 10? Lots of cruise ship passengers get a single day in BCN. I’ve personally interviewed at least 1,500 of them. When they’re robbed, they don’t have time to file a report because they have to be on their ship. They tend to be of a certain type, too: mouth-breathing obliviates with protruding wallets and gaping purses who advertise their naiveté with every particle of their beings.

And lots of carefree youth visit; when they’re robbed, and their loss is small, they just chalk it up to their carelessness and don’t bother filing. Lots of drinking in the bars and pubs, where victims just assume they lost their wallet, phone, or camera.

And lastly, for those who do attempt to file a police report, the process can be long and arduous. Bob and I have assisted or accompanied many victims through the ordeal. It can take hours. It can be daunting: waiting for one of the few police officers who can take a report in English or French or whatever, going from one police station to another. It can suck up half a day or more. It’s very tempting to give up when the police tell you to come back in two hours to complete the process. Or even at the start when the lineup to file reports is out the door. And if a tourist has lost his passport, getting a new one is the priority. He may not file a police report at all. After canceling credit cards and figuring out how to get some quick cash, the victim is exhausted.

I know something about the rate of reporting losses from speaking to thousands of travelers over the years (around the world). I’ve conducted an informal survey on how often police reports are filed. Of the hundreds of victims who tell us their sad stories each year, a minute fraction say they bothered to file a police report. They don’t want to ruin even more of their trip. They, like the police, throw up their hands and blow air.

This new, official recognition of the problem is laudable. Now it will be interesting to watch the coming season, hear the numbers, and do the math.

Yes, I’m postulating that only about 10% of personal thefts in Barcelona get reported to the police. But the days are long in BCN, so that’s only, say 300 an hour. In the high season.