Bhel puri just might be my favorite Indian food. A snack commonly prepared and served on the street, you can find it in restaurants, too. It’s hard but not impossible to find it in the U.S., where Indian restaurant almost always means a predictable menu of Northern Indian dishes, often dismal and boring.
The dish is a perfect mix of sweet, sour, hot, and spicy, plus soft and crisp. It always includes sev—delicate crispy yellow noodles—and puffed rice. There’s usually chopped potatoes and onions, and sometimes tomatoes. It’s all tossed with a spicy sweet-hot sauce and topped with green coriander leaves. It must be eaten as soon as the ingredients are combined.
Bhel puri walla, Bombay, 1989.
I discovered bhel puri in 1989, my first trip to Bombay. I was intrigued by the long line of people buying from this humble bhel puri walla. Using only his hand, he mixed fistfuls of the ingredients in a bowl, then transferred the concoction to another bowl for the customer to eat from, right there. Yep, I got in line. Nope, I didn’t get sick.
Bhel puri cart, Bombay, 1989.Bhel puri and other street food for sale, Bombay, 1989
Once I recognized the ingredients, I began to see dramatic displays like these all over the city, each more artistic and appetizing than the next. I ate at many of them.
Savoring the last few bites of bhel puri on Chowpatti Beach
In March of 2010, I saw very few street food vendors, no bhel puri wallas. Perhaps I just didn’t walk in the right streets, though I criss-crossed the city and spent much time in Colaba, as I did in 1989. The food stalls on Chowpatty Beach, long famous for bhel puri, have been swept into a permanent organization of stainless steel stands, similar to Singapore’s street food culture.
Chopping onions at Chowpatty Beach.
I had excellent bhel puri (and many other dishes) at the vegetarian Kailash Parbat on Colaba Causeway. Across from the restaurant, they run a sort of glorified street food stand, at which one can order all the standard snacks and sweets. I had incredible panipuri there, one after another until I had to hold up my hand and reject the last of the six that come in an order, handed over one by one. Panipuri are crisp hollow spheres, punctured and filled with spicy potatoes or chickpeas, then topped off with spicy, cumin-flavored water. The entire fragile globe must be placed in the mouth, sometimes a tricky maneuver for a small mouth. The payoff is a satisfying burst, a crackling, a flood of liquid, an explosion of flavor and texture like no other.
Delicious do-it-yourself panipuri at the upscale restaurant Soam, in Mumbai. Mysore paanki, steamed between banana leaves, is peel-and-eat spiciness.
The vegetarian restaurant Soam is a few block’s walk from the north end of Chowpatty Beach, and definitely worth the trip. The small, trendy place serves upscale versions of street food and Gujarati home cooking. Bob and I loved it.
Jackfruit for sale in 1989 Bombay. I didn’t see any this time, though it was the same month.
Beer is served in tall, iced dispensers at Leopold's the famous cafe that was bombed in 2008.
I drank fresh coconut every day from this vendor around the corner from our hotel.
Reviewing my 1989 photos, I found the same heap of coconuts in front of the same temple on Colaba Causeway.
I read the post you did with my picture. It was very impressive. At the end you said a thief attached a skimmer in eight minutes. I just wanted to give you a small correction. We found that the one on the side of the gas pump drawer was attached in about 11 seconds, so if you add in opening the door, you’re looking at about 30 seconds (and that’s us fumbling with the key). So here’s the process: put the key in the lock, open the door, slide out the drawer, unplug the two cables from the gas pump connectors (keypad and reader cables), slap on the device, plug the two gas pump cables into the skimmer, plug the skimmer cables into the gas pump connectors, slide the drawer in, close the outside door, turn the key, remove it, test with a known credit card (outside the process of hooking the skimmer because anyone seeing you do that would assume you’ve doing something legitimate. Sounds like a lot, but look at a watch, close your eyes, and envision the process, then look at the watch and see what kind of time you get. It’ll probably amaze you. Now imagine practicing it a bit on your own gas pump either in your storage unit or living room or buddy’s gas pump. Now you’ve gotten faster and smoother, so you’re faster. See?
Thomas continues on the frightening trajectory of credit card fraud:
This type of crime used to be done strictly by hi-tech crews, but now we’re seeing it done by Joe and Julie the tweeker people (common street criminals), the traditional black crews who used to be just check passers and bust-out crooks, and the Hispanic immigrant groups who have always supplied ID documents (to name a few groups). There’s just so much money and property in this.
A hotel loyalty card and its data showing on a skimmer
I just asked for a warrant on a member of a group of rich college kids (who bought a $7,500.00 watch in a high end Fashion Show Mall store) who have been buying numbers skimmed from American hotel chains in Europe, then using that track data to make counterfeits (this is a good way to do it because the cards are from American customers and less likely to raise a red flag with the bank looking at the transaction since it’s used in the US), which they then use at stores here, in SoCal, and in Arizona. They then take the property and sell it. The kicker is that all these kids are Mexican nationals whose parents are so wealthy they have their kids going to school at American Universities.
7:00 a.m. in the Colaba Market area, where life is lived outdoors as much as in. Residents were just beginning their day. Someone was asleep on a handcart under a cloth. Others slept on the ground, on palanquins, on steps. A man stood in the road brushing his teeth vigorously with his finger. A boy sat among his goats, which nuzzled and cuddled him. Men and women arranged technicolor produce in baskets, for sale. Handcarts rushed by in every direction.
A chicken truck squeezed through the narrow lane, carrying seven stories of live caged birds. The driver hung a scale from the back of the truck and extracted a fistful of chickens—that is, a fistful of their legs. They hung upside down like a giant flapping pompom as the murgh-walla tied the bundle of legs and hooked the now calm birds on his scale. A customer, or perhaps he was a delivery-man, threw three large bundles over his shoulder against his filthy shirt.
Around the corner, a banana truck unloaded huge stalks of green bananas onto the shoulders of runners. An old, frail man came back again and again, each time carrying three massive stalks stacked on his left shoulder, while a larger, younger man carried two stalks.
Cats, dogs, goats and babies played in the dust and litter. Bob and I were ignored, or greeted with smiles and waves. Several Colaba Market residents directed us to some nearby point to see the sea. We wandered off in that direction, leaving the wide street of multi-story buildings. We wound through labyrinthine alleys of rickety dwellings and make-shift shelters of scraps and tarps. Customers were already seated in an open-air barber shop, a tailor measured and cut cloth, and a man pressed trousers with an antique iron full of glowing coals.
As we approached the sea, the dusty ground became black muck. A gang of small boys ran around us with squirt guns. “Water shower!” one shouted, as he fired a stream into the air. Old wooden boats lined the route to the bay, tilting in the mud, weeds growing through their broken bottoms. Black crows perched on their structures, surveying the garbage strewn about. The stench was overpowering. It became clear to me that we had entered a dump. A few lone men and boys passed us, walking through the putrid sludge toward the water. I hurried forward, eager to get past the fetter—until I caught sight of the view.
A hundred small boats lay bobbing on the still water of the bay, colorless and silvery against the white morning light. Across the bay, an easy walk away, the red dome and new tower of the Taj Mahal Hotel rose in stark contrast to trash-strewn beach at my feet. I was transfixed by the disparity, and began taking pictures. Crows cawed and little waves splashed against the rocky shore.
Suddenly I noticed the few men here and there on the beach and at the water’s edge. I was staring at their toilet. Appalled and mortified, I hurried away. Bob followed. We cut through a low part of the slum instead of retracing our path. It was neat and organized, with muddy but clean paths. The friendly smiles of women and children just starting their day helped me recover from my shameful, insensitive behavior. A tiny girl ran behind me calling “auntie! auntie!” When I turned, the child game me a huge grin. “Happy Holi,” she said, giving us a useful phrase that made everyone smile.
Holi is India’s spring festival of colors, a day on which people get wild and crazy and throw colors in the form of powdered dye.
Another day, after a fabulous meal at Soam, we walked the few blocks to the north end of Chowpatty Beach and began to walk south around the huge crescent of sand packed with people. A tiny naked boy ran up to us, hand out. He was filthy and gorgeous, and trotted along side us with bouncy little steps. He couldn’t have been more than five years old.
We tried to ignore him, afraid he’d get lost following us so far. I wondered if he had a mother, and how such a young child could be allowed to run loose and barefoot through dangerous traffic. Did he have anyone to care for him? I wondered what he’d do if I scooped him up, washed him, and fed him. Would he eventually feel a need to go back “home”? Did he have a home? Would he know how to find it? Or would he be content to stay with strangers who took good care of him? Then I wondered how the Indian government would react if I said I wanted to take him home and provide for him.
I was sad when the little boy finally left us. I worried about him finding his way back. But maybe “back” was just a point—the spot where he found us, with no other significance. Maybe he has no place at all; he sleeps where he is when he gets tired. I saw quite a few children asleep in strange places. One boy of three or four was sprawled across the middle of a busy sidewalk. That he hadn’t been trampled seemed a miracle.
Later, a former police officer from Mumbai told me that the boy definitely had someone watching him, and that he’d been sent to beg. At least his perfect little body hadn’t been maimed for “professional” advantage.
A huddle of people sat on the sidewalk at the edge of the beach. A woman was tattooing the arm of her customer. A boy held together a stack of D cell batteries from which a pair of wires connected to the buzzing tattoo gun.
Bob and I saw less misery in the streets of Mumbai compared to previous visits. We saw fewer people sleeping in the open, and far fewer beggars. On arrival at Mumbai airport, visitors used to be circled by aggressive beggars the moment they stepped outside. That situation no longer exists. Police told us the city is able to feed many street children, but that it’s an enormous financial drain.
This visit, I saw very little street food outside of officially regulated restaurants. Bhel puri, the famous Chowpatty Beach snack, used to be made à la minute at carts on every corner. Trucks and taxis do much less horn-honking now. Restaurants are smoke-free.
Our cool and quiet hotel was right off the hectic Colaba Causeway. A table in the lobby held two thermos pitchers, one of sweet chai, one of arabic coffee. Between them was a small water-filled bowl in which four tiny glasses were submerged. As the day went by, the water got cloudy and murky. The water (and glasses?) were occasionally freshened.
These are the Mac laptops I never sold or gave away. Three are in current use. One is a backup. The others have occasionally saved the day by accessing ancient files. Once, not too long ago, I actually had to dig out a SCSI adaptor to attach an old Zip drive to one.
Clockwise from top left:
…¢ MacBookPro. 2.8 GHz, 500 GB hard drive. My current machine.
…¢ Macintosh Portable. Almost 16 pounds! 16 MHz, 40 MB HD.
…¢ Macintosh PowerBook 3400. 180 MHz, 3 GB HD
…¢ PowerBook 190. 66 MHz, 500 MB HD
…¢ PowerBook G4. 667 MHz (The original Titanium).
…¢ MacBookPro. 2.6 GHz. Bob’s current machine.
…¢ MacBook Air. 1.86 GHz. Also Bob’s.
I’ve had many other Macs. I wish I still had my first, a 128k desktop with no hard drive, one 400k floppy drive. That was in 1985. I lived in the Bahamas then, and did actual, professional “desktop publishing.”
Imagine the post office delivering your mail to a big open heap, mixed with the envelopes and boxes of 300 strangers. The honor-based system would have you pawing through the pile and taking just what’s yours. No one would guard the items; no one would check who took what.
Why not? The airlines do it. Nowadays, we even pay for that flawed, partial delivery system.
Airport luggage theft
Theft of luggage from airport baggage carousels is too easy. Yet another bag thief has been arrested for stealing luggage out of Phoenix Sky Harbor International Airport. Excuse me—”suspected” bag thief. Phoenix Police say she’s been under surveillance since last September. I’m sure Zotter’s not the only baggage thief operating. Neither is Phoenix the only airport we need to worry about, though it may be particularly easy for thieves.
I wrote about luggage theft at Las Vegas McCarran Airport here, and about European and African airport thieves here.
Thief “JD” only pretends to steal luggage at baggage carousels. That’s his way of distracting tired travelers in order to get their wallets. “Right now, I can go to McCarran airport and go to baggage claim and beat some stings,” he says. “Because security is, evidently, lax, and the people are rushing to get their bags, and the bags are coming off the trolley. And when he’s stooping down to get his luggage— …˜Oh, is that mine, sir?’ Shake him up. …˜Oh, is this mine? It looks like mine.’ If you’re moving, and I got someone with me, and you’re in the airport, I’m going to play you. If I feel like I can work you I’m going to play you.”
I fly into Phoenix frequently, and into Las Vegas several times a month. Since bag tag checkers were removed ages ago, I’ve never seen any security at either airport.
Airlines are blamed for a tremendous amount of lost luggage. How often are they, too, the victims of these baggage thieves? It would be in their interest to band together and pay for a little security at the baggage carousels.
[dropcap letter=”Y”]ou look like a million dallahs,” the mugger leers at Bob Arno, his gold teeth glinting in the Panamanian sun. The dozen or so men who’d gathered around us nod and elbow one another.
Bob wears a polyester t-shirt over nylon shorts; acceptable on the tennis court, but otherwise, pretty shabby attire. He wears no jewelry, but his Cole Haan sneakers are pretty snappy. Is that it? The shoes? Or is it the pricey equipment he carries—a sleek video recorder and separate audio recorder?
When we find these gangsters, they appear to be defending their turf.
The mugger wears a spotless white t-shirt over a white wife-beater. Fancy, gold-accented sunglasses perch in his short hair. On his wrist, a circa 60s gold watch worth about a thou, give or take. A gangster with a flare for making just the right statement.
Our translator, Gustavo, chuckles nervously, though he’d assured us we were safe with him. As a former gangster himself, he knows, presumably, where his alliances lie. Which is not everywhere, as he was reluctant to walk with us down a street he deemed too dangerous, though it looked much like this street.
Colon gang leader Enrique
Muggers in Colon, Panama
Enrique, the mugger Bob and I are chatting up, is said to be the baddest of the bad guys. He also seems to be the smartest—and a take-charge kind of man. We started out talking to his fellow gangster Gilberto, but Enrique quickly took over, eagerly answering our questions. As if he really wants us to know what life is like for him and his neighbors.
No one in the neighborhood works, because there isn’t any work. Occasionally, a few of the men will get jobs on construction sites. Even Enrique. But the money from those jobs only lasts so long, and the men need money for their families. So they rob. They steal. They mug.
It’s simply the way of life in this part of Colon. Nothing to be ashamed of, nothing to hide from the children. In fact, we’re surrounded by children of every age as we question Enrique and Gilberto. Dozens of children.
Seeking a little privacy, we move the two gangsters and our translator to a nearby alley, but others follow, curious.
We’d started the interview by moving into a wide alley for privacy, where laundry flutters over a junked car. One by one and two by two, a crowd gathers. Mostly other adult men and small children, while women hang over balconies and push aside curtains at windows on the alley.
We’re in the heart of gangland. Brave and maybe stupid, we’re out of our water. At a shrill whistle, I break into a cold sweat. Fifty rival gangs patrol Colon; violence could erupt at any moment. Three a week are killed, we’re told, in gang fights. Three a week—wow.
I’m smiling till my cheeks hurt and my lips crack. Bob and I do a lot of smiling, mostly with the intent of disarming the thugs. We’re full of false confidence, hoping they can’t smell our fear. A defenseless city couple holding tasty electronic goodies like fish out of water. Like lost wildebeest surrounded by lions hiding in the grass.
People watch us from balconies all around us. Some dance. Quite a few men hold babies.
Like the rest of us, Enrique heads to the bank when he needs cash. But that’s where our methods differ. He lingers outside and waits for a flush customer to come out. He uses a gun when he needs to. The problem with robbing bank customers is the police, who tend to watch out for men like Enrique. So his second choice is robbing drug dealers, an activity fraught with deadlier dangers: the drug dealers carry guns. Oh, and there’s the odd tourist who wanders through town.
Enrique is clean-cut and thoughtful-looking, with a nice face. You can barely see the gangster tats peeking out of his t-shirt. He doesn’t look like a mugger, whatever a mugger is supposed to look like. He doesn’t look like the heartless, dangerous man he really is. Neither does Gilberto, a younger man with sad, wistful, distant eyes.
Bob Arno and Gilberto
Maybe this is unique to the Panamanian underworld. Angel, the pickpocket from Panama City, looks sweet but clueless. His pal Jaime has intelligent eyes in a handsome face. Both Dajanel and Jael, violent muggers in Colon, have faces you could put on a Disney badge. Even our translator Gustavo, granted, a former gangster, is positively radiant. My impression of Panamanian thieves does not include greed as an attribute. Nor do those I’ve met seem to be drug users or dealers. They just want enough to survive.
As Bob fires questions at Enrique and Gilberto, I marvel at the liveliness of the neighborhood. Music blasts from several sources. Girls on the street and on balconies dance to different beats. Six small children are now perched on the trunk of the parked car, beside and between Bob, Gilberto, and another man. They tap their fingers and toes to music as they listen to their fathers and uncles describe how they pull guns on people to get money.
Everybody\’s got a handgun in his pocket.
A handgun is suddenly pulled from a pocket and it startles me. The children who’d climbed up on the car are four to eight years old, but the gun is obviously nothing new to them. The point is, everybody’s got a gun in his pocket, even though it means five years in prison if they’re caught with one.
I ask Enrique if he mugs women. He hesitates, then looks embarrassed when he says yes. If her purse looks heavy, if she looks like she’s got money, he’ll mug a woman. There’s no respect. It’s all about the money.
Across the street from our interview, another decaying building alive with people.
Gustavo finally alludes to his criminal past and prison term. No surprise. He belongs to the government-sponsored company of former gangsters turned tourist guides. His work, when he gets it, usually consists of taking tourists out to the Gatun Locks in the Canal, or to the mall, or to beaches. He’s paid $23 for each day he works, usually two days a week.
Gustavo is decidedly beefier than his gangster pals, and I guess it has to do with his steady income, meager though it is. Later, Gustavo introduced us to yet another former gangster, now a respected office worker for the department of immigration. He has both an email address and a fat belly—signs of success. We also meet a few people wearing braces on their teeth. How can they afford it?, I ask Gustavo. They don’t need braces, he scoffs. It’s just a fashion.
It’s disconcerting to be completely encircled by curious onlookers in a neighborhood like this one.
By the time we finish our interviews, some 40 people have gathered round us. The adults stand quietly, politely, crowding in close. The children play, observe us, and mug for our cameras. No one scolds the little ones when they climb some rusty scaffold or run into the street. Tangles of razor wire dangle ominously, and sewers loom without grates. These are wimpy dangers in this neighborhood. Rival gangsters might come around the corner at any moment. The slightest infractions justify killing: You looked at my girlfriend. I want those shoes.
We hear a siren, but it’s probably the nearby fire station. The police only show up after gunfights, they tell us. They only come to pick up the bodies.
Bob has more to say about muggers, Panama, and our experience there. Stay tuned.
All this hearsay, lately, about pickpockets and theft on planes. Even a celebrity-son helped himself to sleeping passengers’ valuables.
Pickpockets are everywhere, and that includes airports, airplanes, and especially luggage carousels. Only you are responsible for the security of your stuff. Here’s what a thief told me, in pickpocket-lingo:
The Stick, the Shade, and the Wire
“JD” an American whiz player, travels to all the top sporting events in the United States. His favorite tool is a garment bag which he calls his shade, a prop to hide his theft of a sting, or a wallet. Dressed in a suit from the wardrobe he’s proud of, he flies to his destination penniless. He described his recent trip to Las Vegas.
“I made $900 coming out of the airport. When the plane lands, I start work. I got to get my money to get out of McCarran airport. Play strictly on skill, that’s how I play—on the plane. Yeah, plane lands, people have their arms up getting their bags. See my man, get up on him, pow, I spank him, off the front leg.
“It was a pappy—a man—right? He got a sting—a wallet—in the front slide, but he also got cash. I played this for his credit card. I got a guy with me we call a writer. He writes the work, writes the spreads. He’s a stick—what you call a stall, what we call a stickman writer. He’s stick and shade. I do the wire. The wire is the one who takes. We split up when we get on the plane, he gets in the back and I get in the front.
“Right now, I can go to McCarran airport and go to baggage claim and beat some stings. Because security is, evidently, lax, and the people are rushing to get their bags, and the bags are coming off the trolley, and I got my garment bag ….
“And when he’s stooping down to get his luggage— …˜Oh, is that mine, sir?’ Shake him up. …˜Oh, is this mine? It looks like mine.’ If you’re moving, and I got someone with me, and you’re in the airport, I’m going to play you. If I feel like I can work you I’m going to play you.
Airborne Victim
“Kayla,” a 15-year-old girl, told me how her wallet was stolen on a cross-country flight. Her mother and sister supported Kayla’s story. The thief was a 35ish woman sitting next to her. In the middle of the flight, the woman bent down and pretended to be digging in her purse. But Kayla felt something and looked, and could see that the woman was digging in her (Kayla’s) purse.
Kayla said she was too scared to say anything. The woman got up and went to the bathroom. Kayla checked her purse and found that her wallet was gone. She told her mother. Then she and her mother told a flight attendant. The flight attendant found the wallet in the bathroom, missing only Kayla’s cash. Kayla was still too afraid to say anything to the thief. When the plane landed, the woman just left.
Take Precautions
Is theft on planes a risk worth worrying about? I don’t think so. Then again, if you’re the unlucky victim of a flying filcher, you’ll be plenty pissed. If you sleep, that tiny possibility is there. Even if you don’t sleep, do you know what’s being rummaged above your head? On some planes, a thief could reach behind his feet to access the bag under his seat.
What to do? Just make it more difficult for the casual thief. Bury your valuables within your bags. Use little locks on your carry-ons. Put your bags in the bin zipper down, or with the opening to the back of the bin. (Yeah, I know, wheels in first, they say.) Use the bin across from you, so you have a chance of looking if someone opens it.
Do I do all those things? Can you completely prevent theft on planes? Nope. But you can make your stuff much more difficult to access than the next person’s.
If you’re a heavy sleeper, or like to close your eyes and disappear under earphones, as I do, there’s not much you can do short of sitting on your stuff. Still, I’d be more concerned at a sporting event or concert, than aboard an airplane. JD makes a great living stealing wallets from people in crowds. And he’s still out there.
Mdubuzi, a pickpocket in Durban, South Africa, stole a wallet from a woman watching a car race. Bob stole it from Mdubuzi and returned it to the victim.
“We do what you do,” Bob told the poker-faced pickpocket. “Same job.”
Looking at his blank expression, it wasn’t clear that he understood. Perhaps he didn’t speak English. If he did understand, his mind must have been racing. What could be worse for a pickpocket than being confronted by a stranger? Even one who claims to be a colleague.
“Here, I’ll show you.” Bob put his hand on the young man’s shoulder, dipped into the man’s pants pocket, and extracted a woman’s wallet—the same one we’d just watched—and filmed—the pickpocket snag from someone’s handbag.
Bob opened the wallet. There was no money in it. The pickpocket watched in stunned silence as Bob turned away with it.
“Excuse me, madam. Is this yours?” Bob offered the empty wallet to the victim who still stood just a few yards away, engaged in the spectacle she’d come to witness. The woman accepted the wallet gratefully, but puzzled. She hadn’t realized it was missing.
“You see?” Bob asked, returning to the pickpocket. “Same job. You understand?”
“I understand.” the young man said. Clearly, he didn’t know what was coming. Best to say little, he seemed to think. Speak only when questioned.
It was our first visit to Durban in many years. The climate had changed drastically since the abolishment of apartheid and the switch in governments. Violent crime in South Africa was frighteningly high now, to the extent that the U.S. State Department, as well as Britain’s and Australia’s governments, recommended that business travelers to the country employ armed bodyguards.
Visitors were warned to stay in their hotels after dark and use extreme caution at all times.
Mdubuzi uses stealth to steal from women's purses, his forte.
It was a warm spring Sunday when Bob and I landed in Durban’s city center. We had intended to wander through the outdoor market when our attention was drawn to a huge crowd on the edge of Central Park. Though we couldn’t see beyond the spectators, roaring engines soon informed us that they were watching car races. We hung back a bit and studied the rapt audience.
“Watch those three,” Bob said, and I followed his eyes. “Watch their body language.”
Within two minutes of our arrival, our eyes were fixed on a trio of suspicious characters. These three did not strain to look over or between the heads of the crowd. They seemed to be as interested in car races as Bob and I were. Instead, they looked at the backs of the spectators. They lingered and loitered a few minutes, then moved on and looked for new opportunities among new backsides.
Engines roared and tires squealed. Loudspeakers blared some exciting results. One of the young men had a plastic shopping bag in his hand; as in fact, many people did. But his bag was folded flat in half twice, which gave it a bit of firmness. It could have contained a greeting card, or a small pad of paper. On closer inspection, I noticed the red advertising copy printed on the bag was worn off to the point of illegibility. The folded bag must have been held in a sweaty grip for hours.
Three pickpockets surround a woman spectator at a car race.
The three men positioned themselves around a woman whose purse stuck out behind her. One man moved in on each side of the woman, blocking her purse from the views of anyone to her sides. The third man slowly crowded into the woman from behind, stretching his neck as if trying to watch the race. Slowly, slowly, his left hand raised the flattened bag to the purse, where his right hand crept up to meet it. Then, with the plastic bag as a shield and his right hand poised above the purse, he gave the woman a little jostle. A gentle, natural jostle, appropriate for a tightly crowded audience engrossed in vicarious thrills. His skinny elbow raised and lowered then, and Bob and I caught a quick glimpse of brown leather before it was folded into the flattened bag and plunged into the thief’s deep pants pocket.
Intelligence was leaked: stolen diamonds were to be smuggled out of the country in the cast of a man with a broken limb. The airport was put on alert. The man’s flight number was known.
The man arrived as expected. He was in a wheelchair, his leg in a full cast. Security officers were polite and apologetic: “I’m sorry sir, we’ll have to examine your cast.”
The suspected smuggler was taken to the hospital. His cast was cut off, but nothing was found inside it. The plaster was crushed and sifted; still nothing was found. The man’s leg was visibly injured, and an x-ray revealed a fresh fracture.
Apologies were profuse and the man was allowed to call his surgeon to re-set the broken leg. The surgeon arrived and plastered his patient, who was then taken through security with a police escort, diamonds safely set in the still-wet cast.
If you read this blog, you’re probably already security-conscious. But this reminder is worth repeating. Don’t trust anyone.
Sorry.
It’s a shame that’s what the world has come to. Even the good samaritan has to be looked at sideways.
Scammers are now blasting entire towns, phone number by phone number, telling residents that their debit card has been restricted. They target customers of a specific local bank or credit union, name it, and give the customer an 800 number to call in order to correct the situation. If you have a debit card from that financial institution, you just might believe it. Well, other people are believing it. After all, their caller-ID proves that it really is the bank calling.
Or does it? The scammers are able to “spoof” the phone number, so it only appears to be the bank calling. You have no inkling that you’ve been targeted by overseas phishers. If you aren’t a customer of that bank, you probably just hang up and forget it.
If you follow the scammers’ instructions, you’ll give them your card number, pin, and all the other juicy data they need to rack up the charges.
So the tired old reminder worth repeating is this: If you suspect a problem with your bank account or debit card, etc., call your bank’s main number. Call the number on the back of your card or on your bank statement. Especially don’t call a number given to you by the bearer of the news.
