Pickpockets in action

They aren’t uncommon in Delhi’s Blue-line buses. They are omnipresent. They are among us. They are just like us. Are they? Can you identify them?

What does the photograph say to you? I encountered this interesting incident while traveling by blue-line bus recently. I noticed them when they sat beside a well dressed stout middle age man, who was half asleep while sitting by window side. This man was an obvious target, as he carried a briefcase with him and immediately caught pickpocket’s attention. I was really surprised to see the tactics they implore to rob the target. It all started when they together sat beside this stout guy (Of course they were lucky to get that seat). The one who was sitting on other’s lap was trying to lean on stout person to distract the attention and other one was trying to steal the money from his shirt’s pocket.

Initial tricks by Pickpockets- Really Dexter

They attempted well once or twice but failed to get hold of anything. This went on till, the stout guy got up to get off the bus. As he walked away towards front exit door, the team followed. Now, this fellow was standing surrounded by three pickpockets. The thieves were showing considerable dexterity to pick his either pockets. But luck didn’t favor them; someone with canny eyes noticed their dirty tricks and made stout fellow aware of them. What happened next? Pickpockets got off the bus, as soon as they came in limelight. The poor fellow survived the attempt, but hardly was he aware of anything.

Really interesting encounter!

Made it safely into Garoua (yes the city 250km from Maroua – not Maroua, which apparently had too much fog for a safe landing) and then safely to Maroua via bus.

Lovely afternoon/evening with profs. They are super wonderful.

A little bummed because someone stole my little hand bag as I was getting in the car after dinner. There wasn’t much in it – my Cameroonian cell, my hotel key, a little money, my certified copy of my passport and visa, some hand sanitizer, a ringo card, and one of two pairs of earrings that I brought on the trip. I guess I’m mostly bummed about the phone because that’s how I call home and call Nate. It’s not as bad as it could be, I know that and I’m grateful. So I’m bummed with the full understanding that it could have been much worse. I think mostly I’m just mad at myself because I dropped my guard as I was getting ready to get into the car and let my bag hang in my hand at my side instead of in front of me. I can’t blame the guy who took the bag, I can only blame myself for making it possible for him to take it.

Blah. Oh well. Ca se passe.

——————–EDIT IN————————

Wednesday, 4 November 2009: Month 2 Day 13

Today was a day of highs and lows, as I’m sure you’ve figured out by now.  Even though the lows seem a little overwhelming, the highs far outweigh them and I really want to focus on all of the exciting things that happened today and not the one blah thing that sort of cast a shadow on the day.  I got up this morning at 6:00 to get ready to leave.  I gave Nate a quick call because last night when I called him last night he told me to call back in 5 minutes, but I was so tired that I only made it 4 minutes before I fell asleep.  He called me a little while later but I couldn’t talk because I was so exhausted.  I mumbled a few things, but I have no idea what I actually said.  I felt bad because I woke him up when I called this morning, but he said he didn’t mind.  We only talked a few minutes and then I let him go back to sleep.

I got the last of my stuff together, put locks everywhere that there were two zippers that I could lock together, and then made sure that I could actually move everything by myself.  I think my backpack was about 25 kilos, my big suit case around 30 kilos, and the small suitcase (filled with books) somewhere around 20 kilos.  Wearing the backpack, I could roll the small suitcase in front of me and the big suitcase behind me with my carry-on backpack on top of it.  Anastazyia laughed at me parading around, and then helped me get everything downstairs.  She and Kyanne shared the task of getting the big suitcase down the stairs.

In spite of my efforts to give good clear directions, the Embassy driver had a little trouble finding the apartment, which was actually good in the end because I got to scarf down some cold lentils and ham before leaving.  Chrystel, one of the Embassy expeditors came with the driver, and when she saw that only had three bags she said that wouldn’t be a problem; she thought I had five.  I told her no, that I had fit everything into the three – the bags were heavy, but everything fit.  On the way to the airport the Chrystel and the driver agreed that when you are in Maroua, people either love you or don’t, but whichever it is they do it wholeheartedly.  If they love you, they will give you their house, but if they don’t, they won’t pretend.  I said I would try hard to make sure that they did.

In a way I was a little sad to be leaving Yaoundé.  After a little over a month I’ve become comfortable in Yaoundé; I’m getting to know the layout and how things work; I have my haunts; I finally have some friends, like real friends.  Last night it was so wonderful hanging out with Shannon, Kalime, Abdoulai, Shagel, Anastazyia, and Kyanne that it does make me a little sad to be leaving that sense of community that I’ve only just started to find.  I hope that I’ll be able to find that in Maroua.

We arrived to the airport too early to check in, and then ended up waiting in the wrong area so the woman was very upset and didn’t want to let us check in first.  She was going to make us go to the back of the line, but Chrystel managed to finagle things by talking to the security guard and so we were able to check in.  I discovered that my weight guesses weren’t far off, and my luggage weighed in at a whopping 76 kilos total, with the big suit case weighing 31.4 kilos and the other two combined being 44.6 kilos.  What ended up being lucky for me was that the first suitcase ended up being free despite being 11.4 kilos over the “limit” so I ended up paying 54,000 for the extra luggage, which was much less than I had anticipated paying.  Of course the airport tax rounded it off to an even 55,000.  (The airport tax for domestic flights is 1,000 and 10,000 for international flights.)

We discovered that there was the possibility that the plane was actually going to stop in Garoua only, rather than stopping and then continuing on to Maroua, because of severe fog in Maroua.  In that case I would have to take a bus from Garoua to Maroua.  Ah bon… I totally thought the point of flying was to avoid that, but eh whatever.  The man said that they would take care of the luggage, which was really my main concern.  There were some European gentlemen who said to me that they would be getting a car from Garoua to Maroua if I wanted to go with them, but I figured it would probably be better for me to take the bus.  Just cause you’re white doesn’t mean I’m going to trust you…  (They seemed very nice and I’m sure I would have been fine, but I still figured the bus was better.)

When I got on the plane I was a little confused because I didn’t know where to sit.  There was no seat printed on my ticket.  After a minute of looking a little baffled and having the stewardess point me in a direction, a man already seated told me that you could sit anywhere (except the seats in the front because they’re first class – oops).  I found the first open seat and asked the man next to the window whether I could sit there; he said absolutely.  It turns out that Mohammadou is a professor of physics and chemistry and that he works with the French government.  He is in charge of helping to institute the German higher education system into the university system in Africa.  The system is called LMD, or Licence-Masters-Doctorat (sound familiar?) and is supposed to help African universities become stronger institutions with a universal system.  He even gave me a copy of the book he wrote about the system.

It was actually very lucky that I met Mohammadou, whose family lives in Maroua, because he sort of took my under his wing to make sure that everything went smoothly for me.  He helped me collect my luggage when we landed in Garoua, and then made sure that it got safely to the loading area for the bus.  (Fortunately there were no hitches with my luggage except that at quick glance I mistook someone else’s suitcase for mine because it was the exact same one.  Oops.  I eventually got mine though, which was good because I was really nervous that there might be a problem with my luggage.)  He offered to buy me something to drink while we were at the airport (though I didn’t want anything because I didn’t want to have to pee on the bus) and once we were on the bus made sure that I got one of the large bottles of Tangui (that’s the most popular brand of water here) that the Air Leasing representative was distributing as a means of pacifying the passengers who would be arriving in Maroua nearly six hours later than scheduled.  When the bus stopped for a short break in a village about halfway between Garoua and Maroua, he bought some grilled meat to share with me.  He noted that the meat was very tough and that he would have to take to a particular place in Maroua where it was much better.  He had given me his business card and told me that if I ever had any trouble in Maroua I should call him because even if he was back in France he would find someone to help me.

There are few trips that aren’t made more pleasant by having someone to talk to, and Mohammadou joked that we left Yaoundé with Air Leasing (the name of the airline) but that we arrived with Terre Leasing.  In typical Cameroonian fashion, when people good-naturedly heckled the young Air Leasing representative about whether Air Leasing had packed lunch, he said to her, “You know, Ramadan is over now.”  This reminded me of an observation Shannon made during our trip to Belo.  She was talking about how Cameroonian public transport stresses Ezra out, which then made her comment on what she saw as a major difference between the American perspective and the Cameroonian perspective.  Americans complain about the length of the trip, the poor quality of the roads, the heat on the bus, the smell of the engine…  Cameroonians on the other hand don’t complain about those things; instead they complain about the lunch provided.  “Who taught you how to cook?”  “Would you serve this to your mother?”  “Do you call this a sandwich?” imitated Shannon.

The bus ride was not unpleasant at all actually.  It was a little warm (though I made sure to get a seat by the window like Élodie said to do), and it occurred to me halfway through that I should put some sunscreen on, but other than that, it was actually a lovely way to see the (extreme) northern countryside.  There is a definite different between the landscape here and that of the Central Province, where Yaoundé is located.  The Central Province is tropical, lush, and green, with rich red soil.  The Extreme North, by contrast, had paler soil, and savannah or grassland landscapes.  The air is hot and dry, and the stretch of road between Garoua and Maroua reminded me more of being in Senegal than of being in the Central, West, or Northwest Provinces of Cameroon.  Of course sections of the West Province reminded me a bit of Namibia, except that the tropical climate caused greater vegetation than in Namibia.

It’s definitely hotter than it was in Yaoundé.  I wish I could better describe the vegetation and the trees.  There were some plants that looked like very tall cornstalks, but I don’t know if it was really corn or not.  You could have grabbed them from a second story window.  I also saw fields of cotton plants, which I had never seen before.  There was even a cement plant, whose industrial smoke tower juxtaposed the mud-walled, thatched-roofed houses of the surrounding village.  As we drove along, I remembered driving by van from Dakar to St. Louis, while I was in Senegal.  I had an overwhelming sense at the time that I needed to come back after I left.  The newness of being in Africa at the time was still intoxicating.  I thought maybe I would do the Peace Corps.  After returning to the U.S. the Peace Corps didn’t seem like a good option for me, and I had to wonder whether I would be able to go back to Africa.

The intoxication has certainly worn off, though at first driving through the streets of Maroua I almost felt it again.  Instead there is a much more real reality.  I’m sorry for the redundancy but that’s the only way to put it.  Before there was reality; everything I experienced was reality; now though, the veil has been lifted and any illusions swept away.  In a way it’s hard to lose that dreaminess.  It’s hard not feeling safe, and knowing that no matter what you do you’ll never really fit in.  Despite this, disillusionment gives you the opportunity to better understand and serve the community in which you are living.  Without knowing the challenges, how can you face them?  Being in Cameroon is an altogether different experience than anything I had before, but in the end I know that my sense of the world will be that much more expansive.

Once we arrived in Maroua, Mohammadou and his cousin made sure that my luggage got safely down from the top of the bus (all of the luggage gets piled on top of the van-like buses) and made sure to hand me off to someone from the university.  I immediately felt like Maroua was different from Yaoundé.  Besides looking less cosmopolitan, the way people comport themselves seemed totally different.  One man from the bus offered to get me a taxi; while I was trying to call the university, I put my bottle of water down on the ground and when it fell over, the young guy who was sitting a step or two away reached over and stood the bottle up again.  I don’t think that this sense of things is incorrect, but letting it get to your head is what makes you careless and allows things like someone stealing your purse to happen.

Boubakari, who is the director’s driver, came to pick me up and brought me to the ENS main building, which wasn’t too far away.  As I got out of the car I was greeted by Michael, who is the head of the bilingual department and acting head of the English department while the actual chair is in France, and Nicoline, who is a lecturer in the bilingual department.  Both of them are from the Anglophonic Southwest Province.  They brought me upstairs to the director’s office to meet Professor Saibou, the head of the ENS.  (Remember, the École Normale Supèrieure is the section of the university specifically for teachers.)  the director seems amazing.  As much as I am still very nervous about making a good impression, he was so warm and welcoming that I felt at home right away.

We talked a little bit about Yaoundé and Maroua, and about the plans for where I will be staying.  They had a house lined up, but then they felt that it was too far away from the University, so they picked a new place.  The third floor of the building has three apartments, one which would be mine, one for three Chinese girls who will be here also, and one for a Chinese professor.  The director wanted me to see the apartment first before they made the decision that I would be living there.  For now I’ll be staying in a hotel, and I’ll actually be changing hotels in a few days because the hotel they like best is full at the moment because lots of people are in town for the anniversary of President Paul Biya’s ascension to power… twenty-seven years ago…  Three cheers for democracy.

The conversation took place in a mix between English and French, and the director was pleased with my French.  Actually, he told me it was perfect, which I’m sure he didn’t mean in a literal way, but I appreciated the vote of confidence.  It certainly is a far cry from what it used to be.  A lot of it is confidence, because even when you don’t know the words you have to be confident enough to explain your way around it.  After a drink and a little more talking, the director drove me to the hotel down the street where I would be staying.  We all went up to see the room, which was lovely (Nicoline told me this is a new hotel) and then the director excused himself and Michael left to run home before coming back to get Nicoline and I to go to another hotel, called Hotel Sahel, down the street where we would be getting dinner.

I ordered grilled fish and plantains, but Nicoline and I were both surprised by the presentation of the fish; it was a filet that didn’t really look grilled.  She was expecting a whole fish.  It was still tasty, albeit a little oily.  Michael and Nicoline told me they had made signs with my name and “University of Maroua Welcomes You” to bring to the airport and that they were disappointed that they didn’t get to use them.  When Nicoline pulled them out to show me I told her that I would hang them on the wall in my room.

Michael had to go rescue someone who’s car had broken down, so while he was getting her, Nicoline and I talked about the school.  I asked her how the classes were structured, what sort of approach they took towards teaching, and whether they used textbooks.  She said that they use the LMD system (lucky I learned about that today) and they very much focus on a communicative approach that focuses more on the students than on the professors.  I was excited to hear this, but not as excited as Nicoline was when I told her I have a Masters in Library Science.  When Michael came back and Nicoline told him about my MLS and my B.A. in English and French, he fell back in his chair saying, “This is perfect!”  I laughed, but appreciated feeling like an asset.

Classes apparently can reach 100-200 students, and though space doesn’t permit individual recitations for smaller groups, during class time students often work concurrently in smaller groups.  The director said earlier that 200 million has been allocated for book acquisition and that his goal is to get 45,000 volumes as quickly as possible.  The library is not yet open, but hopefully by December it will be up and running.  Nicoline said that as far as library schooling goes, I have the highest education.  Blossom, who is in charge of the library, is a professor with a library certificate.

When we left Hotel Sahel, Michael said he was going to drive me back to the other hotel even though it was just a short distance away.  Because he had gone out, his car was now on the other side of the street.  Michael and I crossed, and when we got to the other side I stopped next to the car to see whether Nicoline was coming also so that I would know whether I should sit in the front seat or the back seat.  All of a sudden I felt pressure in my left hand and realized that a boy in his mid teens had grabbed my bag, and even though I didn’t let go, the strap broke and he started running.  I wanted to run after him but I didn’t know if I should.  My feet were like lead as my brain argued with itself about what to do, and all I could manage was shouting, “What the fuck?” as he ran off.  Michael ran after him and I ran after Michael.  The boy headed down a wide road that was lit until it reached the brush.

Michael sent me back to the front of the road, and some other teenagers gathered and asked me if someone had stolen something.  I told them yes, that someone had taken my bag, but that there really wasn’t anything in there that would be of interest to him – hardly any money at all, just my passport copy and my cell phone.  I said that if they knew who it was I would pay him to give back my phone.  There wasn’t much you could do at that point though.  He was gone.

It was a terrible feeling.  It’s not so much about what you lose.  All that was in the bag was a little bit of money, my cell phone, my certified passport and visa copies, my hotel key, a Ringo internet card, some hand sanitizer, and one of my favorite pairs of earrings (one of only two pairs that I brought).  The only thing that really upset me out of all of that was the cell phone because I have a phone plan and that’s how I call the U.S. to talk to Nate and my family.  But like I said, it’s not so much about what you lose, at least not about the physical items you lose.  It’s about the intangibles that you lose.

I called Anastazyia to ask her to call Emmanuel at MTN to have him block my phone.  At first her phone just rang, but finally she picked up.  She didn’t have Emmanuel’s number but she said she would see what she could do.  I tried calling my phone, hoping that whoever took it would answer and I could offer him money to give it back.  I just got a message saying, “The number you have dialed is temporarily out of service,” which means the phone is off.  I wonder if he threw away the SIM card.  Michael kept trying to call while we waited for the hotel to find another key to my room.  The power went out.  We got up to my room in the dark.  Fortunately I had a small flashlight, by chance, relatively accessible.

Michael said that people would look to see if the robber threw away my papers or bag; a lot of times they’ll take the money and throw the rest away.  Up until now I had tried to stay relatively calm, but Michael leaving was my cue to call Nate from my Blackberry and cry.  I had to reset my phone before I could get enough service to call, but I finally got through.  Poor Nate was at work and I’m calling him, sobbing out the story.  He told me to calm down, “We can get you a new cell phone, we can get you new earrings.  At least you’re okay.”  I knew he was right.  He made me laugh before we hung up.

I knew he was right, but I was exhausted by now.  I didn’t get much sleep while living in Emia, between mosquitoes the first night, cockroaches, staying up late to talk to Nate, and getting serenaded at 6:30 in the morning by students at the police school running and singing every day.  So by the time today rolled around, traveling left me exhausted.  I talked to Kelly and mom via Blackberry messenger because I had told mom earlier that I would call and let her know that I made it to Maroua.

Really I just need to sleep.  There were so many good things today, but I just feel so worn out.  Damn this country and teaching me lessons the hard way.  (Edit in: I mean that last statement in a rueful way; as I said, I am aware that it could have been and grateful that it wasn’t something worse.)

Its the second time my cell got stolen, that too in the same, way someone took it out of my pocket.  This probally the biggest downside of wearing a kurta, but someone stole one from a friends jeans pocket and my cousins wallet and cellphone were stolen from her desk in a class room! and gun point robberies i am sure you would have heard of.  So when you are in Karachi please don’t carry much cash and or a expensive cell.

Pickpocket – 1959

Director – Robert Bresson

Starring – Martin LaSalle, Marika Green, and Jean Pelegri

Ultimately, the end goal of any movie, or even any story for that matter, is to properly set up the climax for maximum impact with the audience.  For Pickpocket, Robert Bresson, bent the common movie conventions and purposefully crafted a flawed movie with sole intention of getting the most out of the climax of the story.

The story is a fairly simple one.  Driven by need as well as the obligation to provide for his sick mother, a young man becomes fascinated with the art of stealing.  Clumsy at first, he learns the art of sleight of hand pickpocketing until it becomes a compulsion for him.  Soon, he discovers that the police are on his tail, and he’s left with the option of going straight or being caught.

As far as it’s construction, the nuts and bolts that make it up, Pickpocket is flawed.  It’s flawed, but on purpose.  The missteps in the earlier portions of the movie all serve the scene at the very end.  The strange pacing, the missed musical cues, the fact that we never actually see anything concrete happen in the film, the flat un-affected acting.  All of these things, are suddenly jarred into working, and emotional heft of the plot comes into focus.  In all actuality, the plot of Pickpocket, is almost inconsequential.  The important part is the change that takes place in our main character.  The story is a means of getting him to that point where the change can occur, and the disjointed filmmaking is a means of conditioning the audience so that when the change finally does take place (and the music hits, and the acting seems natural, etc…) we feel it that much more.

Robert Bresson, a student of the school of French New Wave cinema, is interested in creating a soul for his character.  He wants the flat, mundane character that we are presented with to come to life in front of us.  His method of maintaining  aspects of the filmmaking process so that he can change them later when the story calls for it,  is not a new one.  Directors as far-ranging as Stanley Kubrick, and David Lynch have used these techniques to craft some of the most memorable performances in cinema.  What would Jack Nicholson’s horrific rampage in The Shining have been if Kubrick hadn’t maintained the still camera, and methodic line delivery?  Or how about the unsettling death tableau from Blue Velvet?  How shocking and bizarre would that have been if the set up of the main characters hadn’t been so white washed and comfortable small town?

The problem with Pickpocket is not in what it achieves, but in what it doesn’t.  Due to the fact that the whole film is a set up for the last scene, we are left with that one redeeming quality.  If in that first hour, the audience is bored and leaves, then it wasn’t worth all that effort.  The story was a bit thin, and the characters were only just deep enough to carry the plot, so there were no stakes to them failing, or to our pickpocket being caught.  Pickpocket serves as an interesting exercise in the ability of film to tell stories and convey emotion, however, it’s good that other filmmakers were able to take what was successful here and improve upon it.

Een sterke menier om het probleem van de zakkenrollers onder de aandacht te brengen van de mensen.

So, back in the day I used to be a DJ. Nah, really, I was on several stations (and a program director nonetheless) where I was allowed to program my own shows too! I don’t want to brag, ok, I do, it’s true. I wouldn’t have started keeping my playlist collections here if I didn’t at least enjoy the music myself anyhow. So, anyway, I was playing around with this playlist previously but never posted it (despite it probably being the one that inspired the idea of posting them on the blog to begin with) so here it is. I was coming home late from the city and needed something to really create a “pop” for the travels and here it is.

“Tommy the Cat” by Primus from Sailing the Seas of Cheese
“A Shogun Named Marcus” by Clutch from Transnational Speedway League: Anthems, Anecdotes & Undeniable Truths
“Lost at 22″ by Life of Agony from Ugly
“Clean Slate” by Quicksand from Self-titled
“Sober” by Tool from Undertow
“Scrape” by the Unsane from Scattered, Smothered and Covered
“Unsung” by Helmet from Meantime
“Epilepsy” by Therapy? from Infernal Love (no intro)
“Repeater” by Fugazi from Repeater
“Pickpocket” by At the Drive-in from This Station is Non-operational
“Anchors Aweigh” by Bouncing Souls from Anchors Aweigh
“Burnout” by Green Day from Dookie
“I See it in Us” by H2O from Thicker Than Water
“Cavity” by Boysetsfire from In Chrysalis
“Iris” by Live from Throwing Copper
“a Small Victory” by Faith No More from Angel Dust
“a Certain Shade of Green” by Incubus from S.C.I.E.N.C.E.
“Been Caught Stealin’” by Jane’s Addiction from Ritual de lo Habitual
“My Own Summer” by the Deftones from Around the Fur
“Blind” by KoRn from self-titled
“Five Blocks to the Subway” by Biohazard from State of the World Address
“the Impression that I get” by the Mighty Mighty Bosstones from Let’s Face it
“Outshined” by Soundgarden from Badmotorfinger

So, sadly, this was the basic playlist that inspired the playlist posts several months ago (as I mentioned), and I finally got around to reforming it… i guess i took a wrong turn at Albuquerque in completing it! This stuff still puts so much the smile on my face, and for some maybe it does the same as well…

Visitors to London always have to be on the look out for pickpockets, but now there’s another, more positive phenomenon on the loose — putpockets.

Aware that people are suffering in the economic crisis, 20 former pickpockets have turned over a new leaf and are now trawling London’s tourist sites slipping money back into unsuspecting pockets.

Anything from 5 pounds ($8) to 20 pound notes is being surreptitiously deposited in unguarded pockets or open handbags in Trafalgar Square, Covent Garden and other busy spots.

The initiative, which runs until the end of August in London before being rolled out countrywide, is being funded by a broadbrand provider, which says it wants to brighten up people’s lives in unusual ways.

“It feels good to give something back for a change — and Britons certainly need it in the current economic climate,” said Chris Fitch, a former pickpocket who now heads TalkTalk’s putpocketing initiative.

“Every time I put money back in someone’s pocket, I feel less guilty about the fact I spent many years taking it out.”

London’s police have been briefed about the plan, which will see at least 100,000 pounds given away.

In my bottomless inbox of travel news, I’ve come across a few articles about London and why you might be interested in taking a trip there before the end of summer.

Putpockets We’ve all heard of pickpockets and how we should be wary of them at home and while we’re abroad. However, 20 former pickpockets who have changed from their former wicked ways have been hired by a broadband company, TalkTalk, to discreetly drop anything from 5 to 20 pound notes in the unguarded pockets, purses, and bags in Trafalgar Square, Covent Gardens, and other busy spots. This initiative to brighten the lives of people in unusual ways runs until the end of August which will see at least 100,000 pounds given away.

Free Bottled Water To provide abit of relief during the summer heat, Soak Media, is providing free bottled water to London commuters. The UK media company sells on-bottle advertising. Their staff distribute the 330ml bottles from ice-filled carts. Their research show that the bottles are held in the hands of the recipients for an average of 50 minutes. What makes Soak Media unique is that they distribute all their profits to charitable causes.

Writer in Residence It’s not unusual unless you consider where it will be. Heathrow Airport has appointed Alain de Botton as the writer-in-residence for 1 week starting August 19, 2009. His desk is located in the new Terminal 5 where his writings appear on a screen behind him for all to read. During the week he will interview passengers and airport staff before returning home to write a short book titled, A Week At The Airport: A Heathrow Diary. The book will include photographs by Richard Baker. On September 21, 2009, ten thousand copies will be distributed for free to Heathrow travellers and then be available for sale through Amazon’s British website and traditional brick and mortar stores.

If you have time for a trip to London in the next few months, you may get a chance to experience the new personal rapid transit (PRT) system that will be launching in Q4 at Heathrow’s Terminal 5. The PRT vehicles will transport 4 passengers at a time from Terminal 5 to various parking lots. It cost the British Airport Authority (BAA) $41 million for these 18 battery powered pods which travel at a maximum of 25 mph.

I’ve received a few e-mails about cruises from my previous blog posts.  To respond to these, my next couple of posts will hopefully answer them, firstly beginning with the types of cruises available.

“Ex criminales y empresa de banda ancha se unen para brindar alegría a los británicos

Reuters. Londres, Inglaterra (20 agosto 2009).- Los visitantes en Londres siempre tienen que estar atentos de los carteristas, pero ahora existe un fenómeno más positivo: los “putpockets”.

Conscientes de que la gente está sufriendo con la crisis económica, 20 conocidos “pickpockets”, como se les conoce en Gran Bretaña a los carteristas, han dado vuelta a la página y ahora merodean en los sitios turísticos de Londres, pero para colocar dinero dentro de los bolsillos de cualquiera que se descuide.

Billetes desde 5 libras esterlinas (unos 8 dólares) a 20 libras esterlinas (33 dólares) están siendo depositados de forma clandestina en bolsillos descuidados o bolsos abiertos en Trafalgar Square, Covent Garden y otros sitios repletos de gente.

La iniciativa, que hasta fines de agosto se llevará a cabo sólo en Londres antes de ser lanzada a nivel nacional, es auspiciada por la compañía TalkTalk, proveedora de banda ancha, que ha dicho que quiere iluminar la vida de la gente de forma inusual.

“Se siente bien dar en cambio algo de vuelta, y los británicos ciertamente lo necesitan bajo el actual clima económico”, aseguró Chris Fitch, un ex carterista que ahora dirige la iniciativa de “putpocketing”.

“Cada vez que coloco dinero de vuelta en el bolsillo de alguien, me siento menos culpable del hecho de que pasé muchos años sacándolo”, explicó.

La Policía de Londres ha sido informada del plan, mediante el cual se espera que sean donadas al menos 100 mil libras esterlinas (165 mil dólares).” – “Ahora dan carteristas dinero en Londres”, El Norte, agosto 20 del 2009.

¿En Monterrey o México? No, aún no hay de esas campañas.

My bag was stolen from a London pub this evening.

I was an idiot. It was hanging from the back of a chair that was at the end of a table. The bag is black, inconspicuous, easy to swipe without anyone noticing. I even thought when I put it over the edge of the chair that it was slightly vulnerable. A fleeting thought for a fraction of a second. But I’m out with 10+ colleagues. How could it go without anyone noticing?

But it did go. And how on earth the person took it I really don’t know. One minute it was there. The next minute it was gone. It literally happened right under our eyes. I should have known better. This kind of thing is endemic in London’s West End, where I work.

My house keys, my swipe card to enter my workplace, both phones (personal mobile and work PDA), book I’m currently reading and a magazine were all in the bag. As was an 8 GB memory stick I use to transport files (my netbook, which I’m typing this on, has no disk drive).

It could have been so much worse. I often keep both my wallet and my travel card in my bag as I don’t much like having them in my jeans pockets.

The travelcard, an annual London zones 1-3 travelcard, is worth £1,200. My wallet contained my very newly replaced driving license (I’d misplaced the last one having removed it for safe keeping ahead a of trip to Africa last year).

So it could have been a lot worse. Had my wallet and travelcard been stolen I would be absolutely incandescent. Instead, I’m pissed off, but I’ll get over it.

I need to get the locks changed as a precaution. I don’t remember if there was any personally identifiable address information in the bag or not. I’m minded to think not. But I can’t really take the risk.

Often my bag – a fairly old thing bought from Banana Republic on 5th Avenue in New York in 2002 – carries a lot of crap. But those with memories for minutiae may remember that a milk carton burst in my bag a few weeks ago (killing my old personal mobile phone though thankfully the SIM survived) and, before washing the bag, I removed a huge amount of paperwork, pay slips, etc, that  had built up in the side pocket. And I’m glad I did.

What I am most pissed off about losing is 10 years of unbackedup telephone numbers for friends and family far and wide. That will teach me! The memory stick was encrypted so nothing much lost there (it had photos from my Wales trip many months ago as well as a copy of Photoshop Portable on it). So no big loss.

Crime! You always think it happens to other people but it invariably happens to you too in the end.

Lady, I am putting money into your purse for goodness sakes!

Well I’ll be! A former pickpocket is heading the new TalkTalk’s putpocketing initiative funded by a broadband provider in London. Oh and it’s nothing like you’d think. The putpocket is the reverse of that annoying activity (by some) of pickpocketing. So instead of stealing wallets from unsuspecting tourists, this group are actually putting money back into the pockets of unsuspecting people. The team are made up of 20 former pickpockets and they are lurking around popular London tourist locations slipping £5 to £20 notes into unguarded pockets and handbags.Brilliant, brilliant, brilliant. Chris Fitch, who heads the initiative said “Every time I put money back in someone’s pocket, I feel less guilty about the fact I spent many years taking it out.” Oh and don’t worry, London police have been informed about the putpockets. The group will be putting over £100,000 into  pockets in the following months.

This looks befuddles me. Is it about shifting the weight of the bag off the shoulders and back? Or, does it have to do with being a nervous NYC visitor who has heard stories about NYC pickpockets who target backpacks?

Or it fell out of my purse . . . Or I got pickpocketed . . . But whatever, one minute it was there and the next it was not.

I still blame the swans.

Monday

On a course from tomorrow for three days, so it’s a taxi down to the station this morning (the suitcase won’t fit on the scooter) to make sure I’m on my normal train.
Fairly quiet Monday, just the usual range of meetings and other tasks, and as I’m going straight to the hotel I work through to just after 6 o’clock. It’s a fairly convoluted route to get to the hotel which is in Rotherhithe (other side of the Thames from Canary Wharfe). Circle line from Barbican to Moorgate, Northern line to London Bridge, Jubilee line to Canada Water and then the hotel shuttle bus to the Hilton. According to TfL it should only take 30 minutes if the connections all work, plus a few more for the bus.

It all went smoothly and I was in the hotel lobby just before 7. I went to get my wallet from my rucksack and it wasn’t there! With increasing panic, I checked all of the pockets, plus my suitcase (no idea why as it would not have been in there), and realised that the Blackberry was also missing. That left two possibilities, either I had left them on my desk (possible) or they had been stolen (more likely). I rang home to let the household authorities know I had arrived safely, but would be heading back as I might have left my wallet on my desk (or that it might have been stolen). She immediately assumed the latter, and there ensued a brief discussion about looking after things and paying attention whilst on the underground.
I decided the best option was to go back to the office as in any event if they had been stolen I’d have to get the credit cards canceled and the Blackberry disabled and that would be easier from my desk. A further problem was that the only cash I had apart from a few coins in my pocket was in the wallet.
Before setting off I rang the office and one of the guys was still there, he checked my desk and also went down to ask security whether the cleaner had found them and handed them in. No joy on either front.
I retraced my route, still hoping that by some fluke I’d dropped it under my desk. I got back to the office around 7.45, checked with the security guard to see if they had been handed in in the meantime. No such luck, so I went upstairs to have a last look. No sign. I rang home to tell my wife to cancel my personal credit card, and I rang to cancel the Corporate card.

Those phonecalls confirmed that the wallet had been stolen as attempts had been made to use both cards in an ATM at ten to 7. Luckily both had failed (not much of a surprise given that the PINS were not with the cards!!). With both cards canceled that was one less thing to worry about. I rang the IT department to get the Blackberry zapped, which totally wiped the device leaving it as a brick. So that was all the security things handled that I could. My driving licence was also in the wallet, so there is a concern about that being misused, plus a few loyalty cards (don’t mind if they added points to them).
My colleague was still there and he very generously lent me the spare cash he had, so at least I now had some money.
The next challenge was with the hotel. I needed some way to pay the bill! I rang the reception and a very helpful chap told me not to worry as there were a number of options open to me, and to ask for him when I got there.
I set off again, it was now around ten past 8, and tried to work out when the theft could have occurred. As I went down the escalator at Moorgate I remembered that it had been really busy. I’d had my suitcase on the step in front and my rucksack on my back. A short way down I had felt a push in my back and as I turned round the man behind had deliberately looked away. That was the only time on the entire journey that I’d been in any sort of crush with my bag on my back, so I reckon that was when it happened. My plan was to report the theft to the Transport Police, but I didn’t get a chance until I got to Canada Water where I went to the ‘assistance’ kiosk. One of the staff asked if she could help and when I explained what had happened she rang her supervisor who took me into his office and rang the police for me.

I then recounted the entire story to the police lady, providing all the details I could remember. Full marks to the TfL staff, really pleasant and really helpful. I guess they see a lot of this, but nevertheless I was really appreciative.
I finally got to the hotel around 9 o’clock, asked for Khanesh who immediately came over, remembered my name and put me at total ease saying that there would be no problem getting it sorted. The solution in the end was for him to fax a form to my home, for my wife to fill in her credit card details to guarantee my stay and then fax it back. All sorted inside 20 minutes and I was guaranteed a room and food for the next three days.
By this time I was feeling totally shattered. I’d been across London three times, I had been robbed (although thankfully it was a peaceful pickpocket and not some mugger), I’d had nothing to eat or drink since lunchtime, plus I had a three day intensive course to look forward to.
I bought a cold beer from the bar, and wandered outside to where some of my colleagues were already drinking.
Not a very relaxed night’s sleep, but although it could have been better, it could certainly have been much worse. It’s interesting how you play things over in your mind. I’m not a great worrier, and have a fairly fatalistic view when it comes to things, but even so the frustration knowing that a couple of steps up or down the escalator, or even simply being more aware and none of this would have happened was very real. Hopefully I’ll never have to find out how I would react to a really serious event, but it was an experience.
Lets see how the course goes, hopefully this hotel will be a better advert for the Hilton chain than the last one.

NorfolknGood

The one time I dont have my hand on the closure of my bag (aka satchel), someone sticks their grubby paws in it. I have read online and heard to be very careful, as I am obviously American in other countries. I keep my things in front of me, am aware of my surroundings, and I have been fine. Until Paris.

We were in the metro, trying to get to the airport to some back to Segovia. I knew which line to take but couldnt figure out where to find it in the metro so I got my purse out of my rolling suitcase to get the map. I figured out where we were going exactly, and I just kept the purse on my shoulder because we were almost there anyway. My money and ID are in my jacket pocket, and my passport is in my suitcase under clothes. In my bag I have tissues, headphones, an ipod (btw Jonathan, its yours…), my camera, my flip video camera, and other random stuff.

I was waiting to get on the metro train, walking toward the open door, not in a crowd or anything, and I feel someone right up on my back. I turned around, looked down at a sweet little girl whose grubby little hand was trying to get into my bag. I instinctively snatched my bag towards me and reached out and back handed her across her chest, knocking her one step back. I yelled something entirely inappropriate at her, she was shocked at first and then fell into her undoubtedly rehearsed loud victim approach. I got onto the train, shaken up for sure, and she stood at the door and smiled. Her robber guardian took her hand and quickly led her away in the direction of their next tourist victim.

Looking in my bag now, camera-check, ipod-check, flip video- check, tissues-check, chapstick-check, money in my pocket- check…nothing stolen. Now I only wish I had hit her harder and knocked some sense into her. The economy sucks here too, but come on people, really? your kids? Anyway, be careful when you travel- its the little ones that will get you!

~M

Yesterday was a hideous, hazy, gross day.  Hideous.  It was so hazy many of the skyscrapers were obscured.  I was up late the night before swapping anecdotes and travel tips with a British couple, and so lazed about in the morning, alternating between blogging and banging my head against the wall in frustration at the censorship in this country.  Not only can I not access more than half of the sites that I want to, but the internet is so unbelievably clogged and slooooooowwwww.  If the CCP is going to block people, they should at least do it in a speedy manner so we can get on with our lives.  Just sayin’.

So I took my sweet time and walked back to Nanging Road (yes, AGAIN), figuring I’d find some food and make my way down to the Bund, before crossing through the pedestrian tunnel and over to Pudong, so I could check out the view.  The haze was so thick and horrible that I doubt there was any view to speak of, which is comforting, seeing as I never made it through that tunnel.

When I said the entire city is under construction what I meant is THE ENTIRE CITY IS UNDER CONSTRUCTION.  I don’t think you understand.  EVERYTHING.  Apparently Shanghai is hosting something called “Expo 2010,” which meant nothing to me (Who calls anything an expo?? I mean, really. Sounds like a mind-numbing conference for the IT industry or something.) until I finally deduced (and it was later confirmed) that by “Expo” they really mean World’s Fair.  I’ve never been to a World’s Fair so clearly I’m no expert at these things, but my understanding is that the World’s Fair is a BIG fucking deal.  HUGE.  So yes, the ENTIRE CITY is under construction.  And they must have realized that shit still looks horrible and they’re WAY behind schedule, because these little buggers are going at it all day and night.  Oh yes, all night.  Right outside my window.  Jackhammers (PLURAL) and all.  I’m listening to a miserable symphony of them now.

To paint you a picture of this construction, it is unlike any construction I have ever come across before.  There are no hard hats or clearly marked areas or covered pedestrian walkways or signage marking blocked streets and appropriate detours or even proper tools and machinery.  It’s just kind of like millions of people sitting around covered in dirt, occasionally laying a brick if they can be bothered, or throwing them at random through a gaping hole in the side of a building and narrowly missing a pedestrian (ahem, ME), firing up those jackhammers like more holes in the streets and sidewalks is what Shanghai needs, spitting, smoking, screaming and so on.  I’m not sure there is any real progress being accomplished.

And the dirt.  The dirt is EVERYWHERE.  Dirt dirt.  Remember Busan and Gyeongju and Seoul?  That kind of dirt.  Where does all this dirt come from??  It’s not construction dust, it’s not caulking, it’s not cement powder or any of that.  It’s DIRT.  Since when do people build state of the art cities with dirt?  Don’t get me wrong — I’m fully expecting China to be dirty.  All sorts of dirty.  I just didn’t anticipate it in Shanghai, the one city that is praised as being the wealthiest, most advanced, most cosmopolitan of the Chinese cities above all others.  Yes, New York is dirty.  But that’s like litter and urine and homeless people pushing around four shopping carts loaded with crap apiece.  There isn’t any DIRT in New York.  Shanghai has the litter and the urine and the homeless people and then some, and it also comes with a disgusting choking layer of haze.  And once you’re over all those assaults on your senses, you realize you’re walking in unending mounds of dirt, kicking it up, coating your skin and clothes, breathing it, and wondering how on earth is it possible to have SO MUCH DIRT IN A CITY?!??

On top of the dirt and the haze and the feeling that you’re probably breathing in cancer, there is the noise.  Shanghai sounds EXACTLY like what you expect China to sound like.  Car horns, motorbike horns, motorbikes revving their loud crappy engines, masses of people talking to each other, people screaming, babies screaming (the adult yelling matches outnumber the wailing babies 100 to 1 — people are CONSTANTLY screaming), people in your face soliciting or begging or both “watch! buy watch! money! money! hello! watch! money!,” and the symphony of jackhammers on top of it all.  It’s LOUD.  And it’s relentless.  It makes New York seem downright tranquil.

And here I was grossed out with the haze and fed up with the dirt but patting myself on the back for being a good trooper and dealing with it all in stride.  I even managed to find a tiny little hole in the wall (literally: I sat at a stool with my knees touching the wall in front of me and if I leaned back I’d touch the wall behind me) that served piping hot noodle soup with heaps of bok choy (and a hunk of supremely unappetizing fried tofu, but we’ll give them a pass and high marks in the vegetarian department, even if it was chicken broth) as I was circling back from my fruitless attempt to cross the tunnel into Pudong.

Oh, and quick but related side note: The other night a Dutch girl was telling me about a weekend trip gone awry and how she had horrible weather and was stuck in some town that only had shops selling hammers or nails or screwdrivers or screws (never all three together, and no other shops to be had).  That wasn’t the point to her story, but I thought that all the shops in one little town selling hardware and nothing else was beyond bizarre and figured I somehow completely misunderstood that segment.  She was trying to tell me how frustrating China can be, and how when you need something simple and basic it’s never simple or basic to find it, as you have to go far and wide for the most common things.  Three days into Shanghai and I know EXACTLY what she meant.  And yes, she was being quite literal and not exaggerating.  It seems shops for things are clustered together.  The first day I was here I passed four bookstores on one street, all lining the same side of the street for that matter.  Two small private bookshops, one medium-sized but definitely bigger than your neighborhood place, and one on scale with Barnes and Noble.  Four in a row.  And not two blocks later there were four office supply stores all in a row.  I thought it was odd that all these competitors would choose to be housed shoulder to shoulder, but beyond that didn’t give it a second thought.  Yesterday I covered quite a bit of ground, and saw many of the ugly bits on the north side of the city that tourists don’t go to.  (It wasn’t intentional, that damn tunnel didn’t work out and I didn’t want to have to double back around so I took a left and got more funny looks wandering that hood than I ever have in my whole life.)  It was here that I found the vegetarian noodle man.  And here that I realized this is what that girl meant.  I found a street that had six fruit stalls all lined up, all in a row.  And then three grocery stores.  You know me and grocery stores — I felt like I struck gold.  So I darted in the first one, was smacked in the face by hot, humid, putrid air that reeked of public bathroom and long expired urinal cakes, made a detour through the first aisle (noticing everything even INSIDE the grocery store was coated with dirt too) and got the hell out of there.  Enter store number two and exactly the same experience.  No way was I testing out door number three.  So that was the market street.  Then a few blocks on there was the sweatshop underwear and socks street, with dozens of little store fronts crammed with the same underwear and socks by the thousands.  Closer to my hostel is the beauty supply street, with no fewer than ten shops selling nail polish and brushes and make-up.  It’s SO WEIRD.  And wildly inefficient.  So in other words, if it’s a Saturday morning and you need to pick up some produce and an extension cord and maybe a notebook and then some hair dye, you’re going ALL OVER the city to get these simple things that would otherwise be under one roof (i.e. Target or similar) or within close proximity to each other (enter the strip mall or any street with a stoplight in suburbia).  I see this not boding well for me in the future.

So anyway.  Pre-side note.  So I’m trudging along through all the ugliness, and while it’s not nice or particularly enjoyable, I’m not having a bad time of it.  I figure I’m seeing the “real” China and that cars nearly hitting me as I cross the street (on the pedestrian green!) is par for the course.  One guy didn’t stop until he TOUCHED my knee!  NOT.EVEN.KIDDING.  Can you say LIVID?  So it’s hazy and dirty and I decide I’ve breathed enough second-hand smoke and pollution for one day and head back to the hostel.  The girl at the front desk asked me if I had been to the Yu Garden yet.  And I said no, and I heard it was pretty, but wasn’t it kind of out of the way, and I did plenty of walking for one day, and I’m sure it’s just as nice as the next garden I’ll come across.  And she’s all oh no, it’s beautiful, really peaceful and gorgeous and very traditional Chinese and totally worth it and not really that far at all, just twenty minutes, you should really go.  So I did.

Enter related side note number two: Two days ago when I was wondering around with those Chinese buddies of mine, the boy of the group asked me if I was going to go to the Yu Garden.  And I told him I hadn’t heard of it.  He said it was very nice and very famous and that a lot of people go there, but that it was in a bad part of town.  He said I should go, but that I shouldn’t be carrying any shopping bags or anything with me, and that I should wear my backpack on my front and go even further and physically hold it pressed to my chest.  This, from a local.

Ok, I think that’s sufficient foreshadowing.  You can see where we’re going with this.  So I’m walking from my hostel down to this famed Yu Garden, long since forgotten the warning that it was a bad part of town.  Forgive me for being the ignorant American tourist, but right now MOST of Shanghai looks like it would easily be classified as the “bad part of town.”  Again the dirt and the motorbikes and the screaming and the injured beggars and you follow.  It’s not pretty.  So as I’m walking there it looks EXACTLY the same as what everything else has looked like, and I don’t feel any less safe than I did all day.  And then I felt my backpack being unzipped.

I’ve never been robbed or pick-pocketed or any of that before.  Yes, I’ve had things stolen from me, but it’s always been “my fault” for leaving something in someone’s trunk or in a locker or whatever.  Never off my person.  I can’t exactly describe it, but on top of being incredulous I was FURIOUS.  Fear didn’t even cross my mind.  I wanted to break that guy’s face.  And it was like I could feel the adrenaline pumping through my veins.  I was acutely aware of all of my senses.  It was surreal.  I whipped around and screamed in his face “EXCUSE ME!,” and he merely smirked at me and kept on going, without so much as missing a beat.  I really, really wish I had punched him.  Or grown muscles like the Hulk and beaten him to a pulp.  This, coming from someone who considers herself a nonviolent pacifist.  I was OUTRAGED.  That, and he was like half my size.  I was easily a head taller than him, if not more.

What’s worse is as I was walking back (I did an about-face right there, a few blocks short of the garden, any and all interest totally evaporated), two construction dudes sitting on the side of the road (I told you they don’t actually do anything) pointed to me and my backpack (now slung across my front) and gestured down the road behind me and made gestures as if they understood.  And I nodded fiercely and shrieked “YES!” and they nodded gravely.  It only pissed me off further that they saw him, and either recognized him and knew what he was up to or actually saw him trying to steal from me and just sat there.  JUST SAT THERE.  Didn’t utter a peep.  Gee, thanks guys.  You watch some solo foreign girl have her backpack violated by some asshole and you just kick back and enjoy the show?  Bloody hell.

And get this — I get back to the hostel and the girl is like how did you like the garden?  So I tell her what happened and she goes “oh” and thinks for a second and then says “you should be more careful.”  %$&@#!!  WHAT?!?  BE MORE CAREFUL?!?  I’m not walking around dripping with jewels and wearing a sign “LOADED WITH AMERICAN CASH, PLEASE ROB ME.”  I’m dressed like a freaking backpacker for crying out loud.  I look scruffy as hell.  And I AM careful.  So I said something or another and immediately came upstairs, so I wouldn’t have to fight the supreme urge to punch her too.

I’m still not over it.  It was the last thing I expected in Shanghai.  Never would have thought that would happen here.  I’d like to think I haven’t been walking around with my head in the clouds the last few weeks, but I certainly didn’t expect that in Shanghai.  Beijing, yes.  Xi’an and Chengdu, yes.  Guilin and Guangzhou, hell yes.  Shanghai?  Not whatsoever.  NOT cool.