I’ve never noticed these height-markers before, but I’m told they’re found everywhere. I saw this one in a bank in Stockholm last summer. Pasted on the inside of the door frame, it helps estimate the height of the fleeing robber caught on video. I still haven’t spotted another one, even though I’ve been on the lookout. Have you seen any?
Ms. Shopper’s in the store when her kid has to pee. While she’s helping the little one, her purse is stolen from the store restroom. She put it on the floor, hung it from the hook, left it on the stroller, whatever. Now it’s gone. She reports it to the store manager and goes home, distraught.
At home she gets a phone call. It’s the store. They’ve got her purse. She packs the little one into the car and drives back to the store with relief and apprehension. What will be missing from her bag?
Dragging the kid, she marches into the store, finds a manager, and expresses her gratitude, relief, and apprehension, all at once.
“We didn’t find it,” the manager says.
“But you phoned!”
“We didn’t.”
Ms. Shopper goes home, rattled.
Yep. Her house has been burglarized.
“I WANT,” is the driving force behind mugging: need and greed. But these muggers in India also had intangible desires that compelled them to behave in a way that surprised their victim. After a recent visit to Mumbai, my friend Paul McFarland, a cruise director, filed his report.
After years of travel there are a few places that I still get excited to visit. Mumbai, India is one of them.
After a delicious meal at the Khyber restaurant, I waited for a taxi outside. I planned to go to Victoria Station, the train station in downtown Mumbai, to take photos of the beautiful building and the colorful people.
A black and yellow taxi pulled up, reminding me of a bumblebee; not so much because of the color but because of its size. It took me some time to fold my 6′ 3″ frame into the back of the vintage vehicle, and I was no sooner in when the driver hastily sped off. We quickly reached top speed and began cutting and slashing through the traffic. I felt like a bag of rice being thrown from side to side. Fortunately my outstretched arms could reach each side of the vehicle and that alone kept me upright.
The driver sensed my discomfort and asked if I liked Indian music—as if that would soothe me. I didn’t want to set him off by saying no, so I nodded. Big mistake. His voice sounded like a snake charmer’s flute as he sang, and he let go of the steering wheel, wildly waving his arms as if he were a classical dancer. All the while he was driving faster and faster, narrowly missing ox carts, cars, and pedestrians. I finally screamed at him to slow down, whereupon he glanced at me in disbelief and started to sing his song slower. The good news is that I arrived at Victoria Station in record time. Little did I know this was just the start of my adventure.
I got out of the taxi much quicker than I got in—so happy I had arrived safely that I gladly overpaid him by 200 rupees. I had plenty of money with me as I planned on giving a few rupees to some of the people as a thank you for allowing me to take their pictures.
Victoria Station loomed large across the busy intersection and beckoned to me to photograph its architectural beauty.
On the way I stopped every few feet to photograph the colorful, happy people at the markets that had sprung up on the streets surrounding the station. They were selling everything: from watermelon with slices of fresh pineapple chilled with melting blocks of ice, to scraps of material, to cheap padlocks. Because my camera was new I was concentrating on the viewfinder, focused solely on my photography. I wandered freely throughout the crowded market and, even though I was by myself, I felt very safe. I’ve enjoyed many wonderful visits to this exotic and exciting country without any incidents and had no reason to believe today would be any different.
Even though I didn’t buy anything, the street vendors seemed to enjoy having me look at their items. I think it added some credibility to their card-table stores. I weaved my way through the vendors and crossed the street to capture a good panoramic view of Victoria Station. As I walked along a roadside barrier, I kept my eye on the building.
I didn’t notice a taxi approach me from the opposite direction. It pulled to a stop right next to me and two young men got out. At the same time someone tapped me on my shoulder. As I turned to see who it was, the two men from the taxi immediately dropped down in front of me, grabbing and wrapping themselves around each leg.
My first thought was, my God these beggars are a lot more aggressive than they used to be; but at the same time two men jumped on my back, one holding onto my left arm and the other one going for my backpack which contained more camera equipment. Another one wrapped his arms around my waist. I must be watching too much of the Discovery Channel because I remember thinking: I’m like a wildebeest on the Serengeti being pulled down by a pack of jackals. Even though the wildebeest is much stronger, the jackals can bring him down through perseverance.
I staggered forward wearing five young men. Then it occurred to me that they weren’t trying to hurt me, they were just trying to detain me long enough to pick my pockets. Within seconds I reached for my wallet but it was it was already gone. This enraged me and I tossed two of the young men to the ground. But I noticed at the same time that one of the boys was running from the scene dodging traffic as quickly as his flip-flops would allow. His hasty departure told me he was the one with my wallet.
I tried to pursue him, but there were still three thugs hanging onto my legs and waist. I was able to quickly rid myself of the young man around my waist but I had to use my camera as a hammer to get rid of the human leg irons. They were no match for the Nikon D300 and dropped off. Then I was free to pursue the thief with my wallet.
I ran across the four lanes of traffic yelling stop thief at the top of my lungs, hoping to gain attention and support from the many locals in the area. But he had already made it to the other side of the road and had merged with the millions of Indians at the Sunday market. My heart sank, knowing that my chances of ever seeing him or my wallet again were nil.
I wandered through the market, carefully scrutinizing every face I saw. After about ten minutes, realizing my search was futile, I headed back to the road. I now looked suspiciously at the same people, and now their beauty and innocence were gone. I was sad about that. Little did I know that there was still more to my adventure.
The black and yellow bumblebee taxis were all lined up looking for fares, but not necessarily looking for me because, in this part of town, few of the drivers spoke English. In these situations, rather than asking drivers if they speak English I ask “Did it snow last night?” if they say “yes, no problem,” I know we’d have a problem if I got in that taxi.
After quizzing eight to ten drivers, I found one I thought understood my destination. I was relieved that I had remembered before leaving the ship to stash some cash in other pockets in case of just such an emergency. I climbed into the taxi and he took off in the direction of my ship, giving me confidence that I had made the right choice.
We’d been on the road for three or four minutes, giving me time to organize my thoughts and do a mental inventory of what was in my wallet and what steps I was going to have to take when I got back to the ship. I realized that the wallet contained three credit cards, my drivers license, my PADI dive card I’d had since 1976, and $250 cash.
My concentration was interrupted when suddenly another taxi pulled up next to us with two young men in the back seat yelling at my driver. My driver tried to ignore them at first, but eventually was forced to the side of the road by the other taxi. I couldn’t believe it was happening again, and I braced myself for another attack. I thought: the bastards know I have more money because I got in a taxi and they’re after every penny.
I gripped my Nikon for action as the two young men jumped out and quickly threw something in the back window that landed on my lap. Thinking the worst, I threw myself out of its path—only to discover that it was my wallet. To say I was surprised to see it is an understatement. I opened it and realized that my credit cards and everything but my money was intact.
As they fled, I was so relieved, I blurted out the window, “thank you,” as if they were India’s version of Robin Hood. I thought: you’ve really lost it now—thanking muggers! My taxi driver smiled at me, and we once again took off for the port. On the ride I double and triple check my wallet, thinking it was too good to be true to have thieves go to the effort to track me down. Why had they chosen me to attack, and then why in the world would they take the chance of being caught by returning it?
I wasn’t sure if my driver knew that I’d been mugged when I got in the taxi, but I was pretty sure he figured it out. So I asked him why they returned my wallet and he gave me in a one-word reply: Karma. I remembered reading that in the Hindu and Buddhist religions Karma is most important and is based on actions or deeds. The thieves initially created very bad Karma for themselves, but by returning my wallet perhaps they hoped to balance it out with a good deed.
Once back at the port I told the ship’s agent about the incident and he asked me to describe the attackers. I told him that there were six or seven of them, and that they were all about 5′ 6″ to 5′ 7″ with dark hair and dark complexions. I added what I thought would be a helpful detail, remembering that they all wore flip-flops. He seemed amused, and I embarrassingly realized that I had just described not only my attackers, but probably five million other young men in the city. I quickly added that one of them might have a unique imprint on his forehead—that of a 28 x 200mm Nikon lens.
Bottom line: I lost $250 but that’s not what I’ll miss the most. I’ll miss feeling safe in a city I still love.
*The photos of Mumbai are mine. Paul’s are probably much better!
For more on muggers, read
“How I mug,” as told by two muggers in Panama
Wondering about street crime in Nassau, Bahamas? 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.
“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.
In terms of street crime in Nassau, this was pretty tame.
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.
Railway mafia groups fight over territory along the thousands of kilometers of track across Central & Eastern Europe. The most lucrative connections are those between major cities which are most frequented by foreign tourists who are filthy rich, naive, gullible, and can afford to shed some of their wealth, in the eyes of the criminals who specialize in robbing sleeping victims.
…˜The mafia groups fight amongst themselves for territory and they use sleeping gas to subdue their victims,’ said the sheriff of a Polish railway station on the Polish-Czech border with over 30 years experience in his job who requested that his name be withheld. …˜They are very skilled and use the ventilation system to gas their victims or quietly inject the fast-acting gas into their cabins through a slightly opened door.’
Foreign tourists are followed and carefully watched. There is no easier place to rob them than in a train which they essentially control on some tracks way out in nowhere. They attack you when you are asleep, that’s their style and that’s their specialty.
—Central & East European CrimiScope
www.ceeds.com/cee-crimiscope [defunct]
THAT READ, we traveled exceptionally lightly for our week-long research trip to Prague. One change of clothes, computers and camera equipment, money, passports, and plastic watches each.
We boarded the Venice-to-Prague overnight train at 8 p.m. on a Saturday. After being forced to surrender our tickets to an unidentified man (who we eventually learned was our “attendant”), we were shown to a gritty compartment. Dust clumps the size of rats swirled around the floor. Sad brown floral curtains of a coarse material hung above mismatched cushions and general grime. The bunks had been opened and made up for sleeping, with bed linen that seemed fresh and clean enough. But it was stifling hot in the un-air-conditioned train, and the stale air was of suffocating stillness.
There was no choice in the sweat-smelly and sweltering compartment but to leave the window open for air, despite the deafening, rackety-clackety clamor which made sleep all but impossible. In the dark hubbub, aromas told a tactless tale. The smell of sweet wood smoke rushed in, then fresh-cut hay, and later cow manure. At every stop the train’s brakes sliced the rhythmic clatter with ear-piercing shrieks. I clamped my palms to my overly-sensitive ears in agony.
Then, stationary in a depot or switching yard, sometimes for half an hour or more, I worried about that open window. Could someone reach in and grab a bag? Voices shouted, neighboring trains clanged and clattered: but even in the relative quiet, I was afraid to drop off to sleep. And without the circulation of air, our somber cell quickly grew hot and sour-smelling.
We had read so much about East European train robbers I was, frankly, petrified.
What scared me most were the tales of the gassers, who knock you out in the dead of night by fumigating your compartment from under the door. Then they break in and help themselves to your belongings. My doctor friend Ann had said there was no gas she knew of that wouldn’t wake you up with its smell, or make you gag or throw up, or kill you. Was that supposed to be comforting?
I was primed for panic when aroused from a light and fitful nap by the quiet rattling of our door. I heard a key jiggle in the lock and the bolt was thrown. The door was yanked open an inch and stopped by the safety chain, which held. A flashlight shined at me through the crack and several male voices mumbled quietly.
Not very sneaky, I thought. But maybe they have knives! They couldn’t have expected as light a sleeper as I. Or—I sniffed the air—maybe they’ve gassed us, not expecting an open window to dilute the chemical.
“Passports,” Bob murmured from the bunk below me—not the night-train-novice I was. We were at the Austrian border.
Thus experienced, I was prepared for the repeat performance several hours later at the Czech border. We were not well-rested when we arrived at Prague at 9:00 in the morning.
But arrive we did, with bags and tickets intact.
This is Part 1 of 3. Part 2
Excerpt from Travel Advisory: How to Avoid Thefts, Cons, and Street Scams
Chapter Three: Getting There—With all your Marbles
Drink-drugging as a means to theft and/or sex is not new, but on the rise. It’s increasing in Colombia and known to be an M.O. in Russia, Hong Kong, Thailand, Ecuador, and many other countries. I didn’t expect to see Tokyo on the list, but there it is. Sad.
I forgot where I heard this, but it’s funny: When given a drink by a stranger, say “It’s one of my country’s traditions to trade drinks with the host.” Hard to imagine doing that.
Anyway, it’s a good idea to keep this in mind when offered food or drink by a stranger. And try not to leave your food or drink unattended.
The crotch-walk was demonstrated, just before a strip-tease, at the Virginia Retail Loss Prevention Conference last week. We do get to see some oddball demonstrations, like how to steal a Rolex, the miraculous faro shuffle, and how organized crime families work.
Thursday evening, attendees saw a comedic demonstration of pickpocketing—performed by the inimitable Bob Arno, of course. We all scooted out of the conference in time to catch the VP debates.
Friday morning began with an armed robbery—rather, a mock robbery—staged and acted in a corner of a hotel ballroom fitted out with the works of an entire discount apparel store. Within the mock shop, a real FBI agent played customer, looked after by an attentive shop employee. When a gunman burst through the door brandishing real blue steel and shouting for cash, the shop employee raised a baseball bat. (Wrong move.) The enraged robber emptied the till, waved his weapon about, and demanded the contents of the safe. When the cowering employee insisted there was no safe, we thought the robbery would become a murder. But the perp fled and a police detective showed up to quiz witnesses (attendees) for descriptions. Height, weight of suspect? scars? tattoos? clothes? hat? weapon? which way did he go? car? license plate? It all happened so fast it’s amazing what we missed.
After breakout sessions on till-tapping, sweethearting, environmental anti-theft design, and other esoteric topics, lunch was served, accompanied by a thieves’ fashion show. Brilliantly written by Susan Milhoan, president and CEO of the Retail Alliance, male and female models paraded across the stage to pulsing new-age music lying under Susan’s slick narrative. We were introduced to shoplifters with a variety of ingenious methods and containers for hiding their ill-gotten gains: a gift-wrapped box with a hidden flap, a loosely-closed umbrella carried upright, booster-bags slung about the hips under voluminous skirts, and many more.
Finally came the crotch-walker: a woman in a dress who casually strolled before the crowd and, on command, dropped a small appliance to the floor from its snug position, gripped tightly between her thighs. Whole hams are frequently stolen this way, our fashion narrator explained, then sold at a discount for quick cash. Yum.
The thieves’ fashion show finale was a raucous strip tease starring two young, slim women who sidled onto the stage with slinky grace. Classic stripper music began and the women proceeded to peel layer after layer off of their bodies. Each wore eight complete outfits and, though they stopped stripping while still decent, stood among a mountain of garments, with a value of thousands of dollars.
95% of retailers in Virginia are small businesses with only one to five employees. The sole function of the Virginia Retail Loss Prevention Alliance is to provide these business owners with resources to help prevent “shrinkage.” According to Milhoan, only three organizations like hers exist in the U.S. Yet, what they offer is of immense value to small retailers across America. I’d like to see the Virginia Retail Loss Prevention Conference tour as a road show. Any sponsors out there?
