Thiefhunters in Paradise

From town, several glaciers are visible in the Kenai Mountains.

A travel snafu brought us to Homer, Alaska, where the best joint in town is the Bidarka Inn. Population 5,454; minus children, that would just about make up one audience for us. We generally enjoy these unexpected opportunities to explore places off the beaten track. As long as the unplanned stops don’t impact a commitment.

After a nippy walk back from lunch in town (the Cosmic Kitchen, good), a hot shower was in order. The shower was a hideous, putty-colored, fiberglass unit complete with one of those ingenious curved curtain rods. Amazing what an improvement the curtain material made, though. The top quarter of the fabric, from my shoulder level up, was sheer mesh, allowing me to see out the bathroom door and out the window, to watch the activities at the skateboard park in the foreground, Kachemak Bay behind it, the snowcapped Kenai Mountains, and the Grewingk, Portlock, and Dixon Glaciers just beyond the bay. The distant view is spectacular in person. Much wider and closer than my photo appears.

Such small details, like a clever shower curtain, improve life on the road. My shower, even in the hideous, putty-colored, fiberglass unit, was pleasant. I probably used too much water.

No hassle flight: no security

We flew from Anchorage to Homer on Alaska Airlines flight 4878, operated by ERA Aviation. No TSA. No screening; none at all. Liquids? Okay! Weapons? Whatever you want! Just check your large roll-ons and climb aboard, big boots ‘n all.. 20 seats. Open seating, open cockpit.

Rejected passport photos

Four days away from an international trip and Bob and I have no passports. Scary. They were perfectly good and valid still for five years, until they were punctured and made invalid by Federal agents in Los Angeles. The only thing wrong with them was that they had too little space for new immigration stamps. We’d both received additional page inserts multiple times, and now we were required to get new passports.

Fine. All we needed was enough time to send them in, or better yet, bring them in and get them while we wait. That’s the tricky part, given that there is no passport office in Las Vegas. And our itinerary is packed with international trips, so there’s no time to send them in for replacement.

Time for a trip to Los Angeles, then. We gave two presentations at the California Tourism Safety and Security Conference in Anaheim May 7. Perfect timing for a visit to the passport office.

In Las Vegas, we prepared by getting official passport photos. Official, to be certain they’d be the right size, with the right background, etc. No time for mistakes. We used the “official passport photo service” at the local UPS store. When the lackadaisical employee handed over the two pairs of photos, Bob and I gawked. Our heads were small, surrounded by lots of white space, the images were contrasty, and almost black & white.

“These look terrible,” we said.

“They’re fine,” the employee assured us. “We do this all the time. Our photos are never rejected.”

We reluctantly paid $10 each and left.

Los Angeles: palms, smog, and traffic.

The U.S. Passport Office rejected the photos. It didn’t take much time to get new ones at the handy passport photo service just outside the Federal Building. The new ones were bright, clear, and large. We had our new passports several hours later.

Back at the UPS store, I complained and asked for a refund. The same slovenly employee shuffled off to the back room, unsure how to react. His mono-tasking mind forced him to set aside the job he was about to do: namely, sort customers’ mail into their rented mailboxes. So he set the thick stack of envelopes on the counter beside me and left me alone with it. I stood staring at the gas bill on top of the stack, wondering what could be gleaned from that heap were I an ID thief. I had plenty of time to consider the lack of security with which that mail was handled.

The manager (or franchise owner) appeared and, when I pointed out the stack of mail, said “puh-lease!” As if she had no idea that Las Vegas is at the forefront of fraud and identity theft. Or that her mailbox-rental customers had some expectation of the private and secure handling of their mail.

The moment Michael Griffith turned his back, his wife let out a bloodcurdling scream. He whipped around to see Nancy jumping up and down, crying, her face contorted with panic and disgust. They were at the immigration desk at Lagos airport with barely an hour left to suffer Nigeria.

Michael now knew for sure he shouldn’t have brought Nancy along on this short business trip. She’d been so warned, so exhorted, so horror-storied, that she was utterly paranoid and never even left the perceived safety of the hotel.

A few days earlier, as Nancy browsed the hotel gift shops, she’d had a brief conversation with another hotel guest.

“I hope you’re not leaving this god-forsaken country on Friday,” he’d told her.

“I don’t know for sure,” Nancy said with alarm. “Why?”

“They steal passports on Fridays,” the man explained. “Goddamned immigration officials at the airport.”

“Why on Fridays?”

“Because they know you’ll pay anything to get your passport back so you can get the hell out of Nigeria without waiting all weekend until Monday.”

When Michael returned to the hotel that evening, Nancy asked him what day they were leaving. Friday, Michael said. So Nancy related her newest tale of terror and, together, she and Michael came up with a plan. Nancy would carry their remaining cash in a flat leather pouch attached to her belt and slid inside her jeans. 100 nairas, the exact amount of departure tax for two, would be put into Michael’s shirt pocket. Nancy would tuck an American $20 bill into each of her two front jeans pockets in case bribes were necessary, and Michael would carry a 20 naira note in each of his two front pants pockets. Never let go of your passport at immigration, they’d been warned. Michael would hold onto their passports during examination and stamping.

Attorney Michael Griffith

As a lawyer who represents Americans arrested abroad, Michael was no novice at foreign travel. He’d been to almost eighty countries, through hundreds of airports. It was his business to know the laws and procedures of other countries, their customs, and dangers. He’d been through the notorious Lagos airport many times before, but never with his tall, blond wife. Nancy, too, had traveled extensively. She had just retired from her career as a supermodel.

Nancy’s jitters came from the endless nightmare experiences she’d heard and read about travel through Nigeria. Even the U.S. State Department considers it one of the most dangerous, corrupt, and unpredictable territories on Earth.

So it was not a pair of travel virgins who meticulously prepared themselves for
the perilous journey through Nigerian formalities. These were travel warriors. From New York. Michael, at least, thought he’d pretty much seen it all.

They approached the immigration desk as planned, Michael in the lead, Nancy dragging their wheely bag. It was not crowded, and they stepped right up to the official’s high desk.

“Airport tax fifty nairas each,” the government official demanded.

Michael reached into his shirt pocket and extracted the prepared cash, five
20-naira notes. As the officer’s fingers closed around the money, Nancy shrieked. She yelled with a shrillness and urgency Michael had never heard before, unlike her wail of frustration on the tennis court, her cry of anger occasionally directed toward him, or her extremely rare explosions of rage. In an instant, a heartbeat, a fraction of a moment, Michael heard intense terror and overpowering repulsion, desperation, and primeval fear. He felt it in the hollow of his chest. In his bones. On his skin.

He spun, already flushed and slick with instant sweat.

Nancy was screaming, but she was also jumping and twitching. And Michael
saw that she was covered with cockroaches.

Covered might be the wrong word. There were only twenty or thirty cockroaches. But they were huge, shiny as glass, and black as terror. They skittered up Nancy’s jeans, down her blouse, and along her bare arms. One had become entangled in her hair, and kicked frantically at her ear. A few dropped onto the floor, where Nancy crushed them as she leapt spasmodically.

A uniformed immigration officer strolled away from the hysteria, indifferent. At his side, he casually swung a large-mouthed jar of grimy glass. It was empty.

Michael, accustomed to extracting people from sticky situations, was at a loss. He’d pulled people out of South American prisons, choreographed an American’s escape from a Turkish jail, rescued the wrongly accused and the clearly guilty. Now, as he grabbed his delirious wife by her shoulders and tried to steady her, he saw the same overwhelmed eyes he saw in many of his clients. They bulged with a desperate plea for a savior, and of unspeakable horrors.

Michael swatted and kicked away most of the creatures. Then he opened the lower buttons of Nancy’s blouse and removed one more. He pulled one from her hair, and then removed the serrated legs that had remained stuck there. He asked her if there were any more. Then he held her.

“Let’s get out of here,” he whispered in her ear. “We’re almost home.”

He turned back to the immigration officer, still placid in her high booth.

“You only gave me four twenties,” she said. “I need one more.”

“Lady, I’m from New York,” Michael said dangerously, “and this is the best I’ve ever seen. You know and I know that I gave you a hundred nairas. You’re getting nothing more from me.”

The officer waved them through, expressionless.

Nancy, catatonic with shock, began to regain her composure when they arrived at the gate for their flight.

“If I ever get out of here, I’m going to kiss the ground of America,” she said with conviction.

And she did so, eighteen hours later at JFK airport, though it was technically not ground, but the dusty terrazzo floor thirty feet above it.

A U.S. Customs Officer must have seen Nancy bend to the floor in the busy baggage hall.

“Ma’am, you must be just back from Lagos!” he grinned. “Welcome to the U.S.A.! Welcome home!”

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

Busy waiters at outdoor restaurants.

A restaurant table is a good place to be had. The latest in low-tech scams happened last month in Hoboken, NJ, when a man appeared tableside to collect cash after diners had received their bills. He took their money and walked out the door. Pretty clever.

Why didn’t the customers question the new face? I can answer that, as one who visits restaurants some 200+ days a year. Sometimes we just don’t pay attention to who’s serving us. We’re seated by a host, served water by a busboy, solicited by a sommelier, finally the waiter comes, and sometimes we’re greeted by a manager. The meal might be a business meeting which demands our attention more than faces.

Last week, I had a long, late lunch at Postrio in Las Vegas. When our waiter’s shift ended, she did what customer service people call a “warm hand-off:” she introduced us to the waiter who would continue with us. She could have just left, and when the replacement waiter showed up, we’d have just accepted him.

So the Hoboken bogus waiter simply took advantage of our innate trust. He manipulated his victims by presenting himself as the person they expected; he didn’t even have to say anything. Hand out, money in, bye-bye.

So what did the restaurant do when the customers told the real waiter that they’d already paid someone else? Management did not make them pay again. Which invents an entirely new scam: diners claiming they already paid the bill (even though they haven’t). Perhaps the bogus waiter plans that as his next trick.

In the case of the bogus waiter, the victims were not out-of-pocket due to the goodwill of the restaurant management. Other potential losses while dining out:

•Your phone or other valuables can be sneakily swiped from the table top.
•Your bag or briefcase can be snatched.
•Your purse can be swiped right off your lap.

Bob Arno

I love to look at Bambi’s Twitter communication. Short snappy funny bitchy snarky bright messages 140 characters long. I envy her exchanges. I wish I had a circle of friends who shared every thought the way Twitter was meant to be. Not as an extension of of our marketing work, but just simple fun exchanges of what we are doing at the moment with no intent to move a subliminal advertising message. Is that possible today among busy people?

But then the reservations sneak up on me. First and foremost suspicion. Our work is sometimes secretive and competitive, both in the speaker arena, and in law enforcement circles. Who said what to whom, who are your sources, where am I performing, for whom, who was the event producer, what’s my next project, how far along is it, what television show or film project am I involved in, who are the bad guys who speak to me, what political party dislikes my agenda, who or which corporation will be hurt by some of my projects? These are my first thoughts and it is just the beginning of a much longer list of questions I must ask myself before I reveal or write about daily activities. Chatting about our daily agenda when it works well, or when we have hurdles nearly always reveals information, inside information which can be taken advantage of, or even be indirectly used against us.

It’s called competitive intelligence; all major corporations are involved in it. On the murky side it’s actually industrial espionage, and on the opposite side of the pendulum’s swing it’s databasing/gathering of all the available information, gleaning golden nuggets from public records, pouring over news media, reading blogs, attending trade events, and talking to key personnel. Process the information and you have a pretty good idea of where your competition is, and even what they are soon capable of. Raw data is everywhere and when analyzed well you have a nearly perfect picture of what your competition is up to.

Bob Arno working at an undisclosed place, for an undisclosed company.

So writing Twitter snippets pretty much reveals where you are on your business plan. Cynical conclusion? You bet. Is there an alternative or a compromise to my dilemma? I’m as busy as ever, or maybe even more so today than in years past, partly because as we build on our expertise, we get more strange proposals and global inquiries, all requiring our serious attention. You can say that I’m still in the midst of it all. A million projects which can go either way—success or failure. But I do wish I could take another tack and be more open, reflective, or philosophical, and closer to my friends who I really enjoy hanging with. To constantly be secretive and cautious is something that goes against my nature and yet in the last ten years it has become the norm.

During the coming summer months I hope to share some of my thoughts and observations in my two industries: the event world and keynote speaking in an ever more hostile attitude to events and pseudo-motivational speakers.

We’ve just finished presenting at California’s annual Tourism Safety and Security Conference in Anaheim (as keynote speaker), and at a corporate event at Mandalay Bay for the Gartner conference. In the next couple of weeks we’ll be doing a developers forum for Microsoft in Slovenia, a chartered cruise in Alaska, and a preliminary film project in Rome. Throw in a Singapore film project, an HBO project, and a theater show in Dubai, and you get the picture; where to find time to write blog posts, Twitters, and still smell the roses and enjoy some wine.

I invite other entertainers, speakers, event producers or security professionals who read this to share their views. Let me know if I am alone in my paranoid world of obsessive suspicion.

While in Africa with cousin Ty, he showed me a jury-rigged lizard catcher he made from a long, pliable twig and a piece of dental floss. I was impressed. I didn’t realize how much better it could be.

Ty took a group of us on a lizard-catching hike in the Malibu hills. Standing in a patch of tall Mediterranean rye grass, he plucked a suitable specimen: long, soft, and green. He explained the importance of stripping off all the leaves downward, so they’d leave the stalk smooth.

Ty looped the end of the grass and made a tiny slip knot. He bent to help almost-9-year-old Dax strip and knot his stalk. As he turned to find a lizard to catch, I wondered how long it would take to find one. But Ty already had his eye on a beauty. Like thiefhunting and mushroom hunting, you only need to train your eyes.

Ty strips a single stalk of grass.

It was a blue-bellied western fence lizard, Sceloporus occidentalis, on the wall of a small building at the trail head. Ty extended his long lizard-catcher with a steady hand, slipped the loop over the creature’s head, and jerked it a little—not too hard.

The lizard came off the wall and dangled at the end of the grass, but not without a fight. It wiggled and kicked wildly, so that it was impossible to photograph. We all laughed, amazed to see success on the first attempt.

The lizard doesn't seem to see the stalk of grass, or even mind being hit on the head with it. Numerous times.

Ty reached to steady the lizard, but instead of standing nicely on his palm, it bit into his flesh and dangled by its jaw. Ty worked it free as he explained the rules of lizard-catching. Don’t hurt the lizards. Release them exactly where they were caught. Continue Reading »