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Published: September 21st 2017
Web stock photoGiven our advanced years (and inclinations) we have now been lucky enough to have spent more than fifteen years on the road, either working abroad or backpacking. And, in all that time, such eventualities – being “scammed”, “ripped-off” or “robbed” - have been a real rarity. However, if you do travel extensively and especially if you do so in an independent and ad-hoc manner sooner or later you will be. Take that as a given. No matter what your level of experience, street-smarts or awareness someone somewhere sometime will get one over on you. We have never been to any country that was without kind, helpful and generous individuals
Links from a theme: the most welcoming countries. but there are, everywhere, those rare exceptions.
The afore linked blog proposed an alternative format to those we all usually write – that detail our activities, advice on destinations and accommodation, etc. – and suggested links on a theme. So here we further that idea and give you our experiences on the titled material. Nevertheless, equally, we will also include how sometimes you might misread or misconstrue the situation or when – beautifully – you may get a scam to actually work for you.
Commissions… Not truly a scam, but….
OK, so many of these initial examples are from our first big trip. And it is true, the greener you are the more likely it is that such an unpalatable event will occur; but even with supreme confidence, nerves of steel, a scruffy demeanor and an indifferent air you are still not invulnerable.
Delhi, India, 7th December 1990. (Not blogged). It was our first ever visit to India and we touched down in Delhi at around 1a.m. on a very chill night. Most other – sensible – backpackers from our flight got out their sleeping bags and hunkered down in arrivals until daybreak. Not us. Hell, we’d been on the road for eleven months and surely we could navigate our way to Paharganj whatever the hour. Yes, there was a serviceman’s bus heading into town and a young Turkish girl joined us on it. All seemed to be going well until it stopped and we were told to alight; apparently there were roadblocks up ahead and we could proceed no further. We were certainly not in town. It was pitch and huddled around several glowing braziers were a posy of
motor-rickshaw drivers (as luck would have it?), each eerily enshrouded in a blanket and menacingly bearing a wooden staff. Together with Amber the Turkish girl we negotiated a price with one (a, in-hindsight and with consequent experience, ridiculously low price) and off we set. We were very clear as to where we wanted to go, but getting there was a different matter. Our driver took us to a series of hotels, nowhere near Paharganj, and none of them anywhere near our budgets. We investigated the first and then, subsequently, refused to even exit the rickshaw; hours passed. We were going round and round and tempers – on both sides - were running thin. Eventually, according to my map, we did seem to be near Connaught Place, it appeared that he was never going to take us to where we actually wanted to go and at last our patience ran out. We paid the agreed fare – maybe ten times less than such an extensive tour of Delhi must have cost him in petrol – and stormed off. He – not gently - grabbed Amber and demanded more money; she, in turn, gave him a mighty slap. Fortunately, just as he
was about to reciprocate, I managed to step between them and the girls rapidly backed off. It could have turned very nasty but fortune favoured the foolish as we were directly outside the hospital whose temporary sanctuary we hastily sought.
The points of note here are: if in an unfamiliar country it is (often) better to set out on a journey in good old daylight; a crazily low price offered will probably result in craziness; and, as long as you can make a safe retreat, you don’t have to pay your way out of a scam. Violence really should be an absolute last resort (for self-defense) and even raised voices are to be avoided if at all possible: loss-of-face can make the situation many times more intractable. Sometimes there may be an apparent “misunderstanding” regarding the price agreed for a service (in China two raised fingers do not necessarily equate to two, if it is the thumb and forefinger that would be eight) and then your best bet, even if feeling somewhat aggrieved, is to agree on a compromise. There have been times when a rickshaw or taxi driver have ultimately, blatantly, demanded more money than agreed (never begin
a journey without confirming price) and on these occasions we have always stood our ground, politely but firmly. One notable occasion, again in 1990, occurred in Java on our way to Probolingo by way of a public minibus. The driver was livid that we refused to pay all of his exaggerated fare and ran after us screaming as we wandered off. Several days later we left town and, wouldn’t you know it, the minibus had the same driver. Rather than refuse us the ride he greeted us like old friends and took great delight in relating our previous combative encounter to the other passengers. The return fare requested was as agreed and terminated in handshakes all round.
It must be said that people looking for (and others handing out) commissions are extremely common, particularly in Asia. If someone offers to guide you to the guesthouse you are unable to locate then you might well expect that their aid will be reflected in the room price you’ll be offered; or, alternatively, the individual may ask you directly for a tip on the back of their kindness. Judge the situation on the ground and do not let someone be
your escort if you sense either of these eventualities likely, that is if you are not happy to oblige.
There again you might make this culture work for you or for a local themselves.
Mysore, India. December, 2012 Chai, chillum, chapatti “We didn’t really plan on staying in Mysore, but it being Diwali (festival of light) there was only a skeleton staff working at the station and that didn’t include “emergency quota” personnel (onward trains were all fully booked). Serendipity because Mysore is charming: leafy, tree-lined thoroughfares; roundabouts and squares with impressive monuments and arches; friendly, helpful people; a stunning – particularly when illuminated by its 100,000+ light bulbs (Sundays and public holidays only) – Maharaja’s palace; the Devaraja market, a narrow perfumed maze selling mountains of flower heads (for garlands), precarious conical piles of kumkum (coloured powder used for bindi dots) and benches overflowing with bottles of essential oils; plus it has at least one rather good roof-terraced restaurant.
On arrival we had stalked the streets seeking a reasonably priced room. Help came in the delightfully unexpected form of a young rickshaw driver: no lift required, no commission extorted, just simple directions provided. We bumped
into him several times over the next few days, always declining his offers of cheap prices to the sights (it’s actually a good hearty walk to Chamundi hill for its panoramic views over the city). However, on hearing how we could earn him in excess of 400 rps commission and a new jacket (standard rickshaw issue) at no cost to ourselves we felt compelled to return the favour. And so with the aid of our smartest clothes, his cousin’s loaned taxi (for impressive arrivals) and convincing touristic buying-heads on, we toured the swanky silk/carpet/artifact emporia. We took pictures of the pashmina that our mothers would select between, weighed up the bronze statues, drank some wonderful gratis teas, promised return visits and bought diddly-squat. He and his cousin must have done well as they later treated us to further teas.”
Inle Lake, Myanmar. 12th September, 2012. Talking Myanmar, with the Myanmar, in Myanmar “Another bus (that left at the ungodly hour of 4 a.m.) took us cross-country to Nyaungshwe and Inle Lake – Myanmar’s second principal tourist destination. Well, the bus actually drops you at a junction from which a pick-up (converted ‘ute with facing bench seats) or taxi is necessary to get
into town. Also getting off the bus were four young backpackers: a French couple and two Chilean girls. The six of us haggled a very low taxi fare and then got him to ferry us around the cheapest guesthouses where we bargained from the healthy position of requiring three rooms. The taxi driver was more than happy to do this as he was on for three lots of commission from whichever hostel we settled on. The result was $9 rooms at Gypsy Inn including what turned out to be exceptional breakfasts (fruit juice, unlimited pots of real coffee, eggs, toast, pancakes, fruit and even occasionally empanada-like pastries). It later materialized that the French couple, who were only staying the one night, had been given a more upmarket room (for the agreed price) and they were subsequently told that breakfast was not included for them. Whilst we wanted to show solidarity and, on principle, leave ourselves it would have been a cutting-off-your-nose situation as there was nowhere remotely comparable in price, and those breakfasts…. The French woman was later to say that the owner wouldn’t have dared pull such a stunt on Ali and I, and that he had
obviously picked on the youngest when the adults weren’t around. Ha, us… adults…”
Here’s another commission-related and probably still on-going scam: one that should cost you nothing except your time, but can be draining…. or really rather useful…
Bangkok, Thailand. Pre-1990-probably still on-going. (Not blogged). We have always been accosted near the King’s Palace (a stone throw away from Khao San Road – not quite the backpacker heaven it once was
Cash cows and mosquito munchers), although you might be collared almost anywhere in Bangkok. An individual may approach with tales of a wonderful market or festival (that is only occurring that day) and if you’re interested they’ll helpfully flag-down a tuk-tuk. Alternatively, you might simply want to get a tuk-tuk to some other random destination and the driver may well take you on the merry dance regardless. What you experience is a trip to Yod Fah Gems: the drivers are on for commission for any people of means that they deliver. They will – afterwards – take you on to where you actually wanted to go (although forget the festival and the bog-standard market is there year round), but you’ll have to endure some
Bangkok, Thailand.
You may end up visiting regardless. Net stock photo. hard sell for a good few minutes before continuing. You could refuse to exit the tuk-tuk and demand your destination forthwith, but the fare will have miraculously risen. You can pre-departure, if in the know, state emphatically that you refuse to visit anywhere en-route: “No Gem stores”. Or, you can, if you have time on your hands, negotiate a free ride to your ultimate destination and simply enjoy the gratis tea at Yod Fah. We have rarely paid for any rides in Bangkok. I presume us Westerners must all look the same as we’ve never bought anything and the proprietors don’t seem that unhappy to repeatedly welcome us.
Buying… What could possibly go wrong with buying something? Surely you simply judge the product, its price, desirability or necessity and subsequently make your decision. Well…. You may be coerced into buying; what you hoped to acquire (e.g. an excursion) may not be quite what you receive; or the facts regarding what you want to purchase (e.g. a ticket) may be erroneous… I'm sure we've done all three, more than once...
Suva, Vitu Levu, Fiji. Wednesday 9th May, 1990 Dengue fever “Neither of us had now eaten since the Chinese five days ago and we still had absolutely no inclination to do so. Once again we stumbled along to the doctor's, this time to get something for Ali’s constant vomiting which was causing increasing concern as it now consisted solely of old, black, treacle-like blood. Plus, she now had a red rash covering her entire body. It turned out that the rash was indicative of dengue and is actually a sign of recovery. The black blood: she'd simply torn her oesophagus from the incessant retching.
Thursday 10th May, 1990.
I now also had the rash, which was bloody itchy. Ali wanted to go home.
The first sign of a return of appetite saw Ali send me into town to try to procure some tinned peaches. The walk was slow and torturous, every step a massive effort. On the outskirts I was accosted by a man whittling away at what looked like a wooden mask. He asked my name and, to my horror, proceeded to carve it into the mask. I was totally at his mercy, having no energy to object to the scam that I could
Kolkata taxi rank
Always agree on a price pre-departure see unfolding before me, and was rapidly fleeced of some Fijian dollars in exchange for said mask. A few paces on and the offending article found a new home in a ditch – I was not having Ali know that I’d been done…
I returned with the prized peaches, but the smell brought only panic to Ali’s eyes as she rapidly grabbed for the bucket.”
Yogyakarta, Java, Indonesia. 23rd September, 1990. (Not blogged). Yogyakarta was, and is, known to be a centre for the arts, particularly for amazing batik. We wandered into town, decamped at a guesthouse and went for a stroll. Almost immediately we were approached by a friendly-looking soul who gushed about a batik workshop: a workshop that would be moving on to a new destination – tomorrow. And like sheep to the slaughter we followed. Indeed it was a wonderful little operation and some of the batik beautiful. We bargained hard for the piece we wanted, but bargained from a totally naïve perspective: we had absolutely no idea how much such a piece was truly worth. Twenty dollar batik in hand we continued our walk. Almost around the next corner we encountered
another similar shop. Oeerrr, there was the same batik. I enquired as to its price. “Two dollars” was their opening gambit. Shit, we’d been well done. And so our meander around Yogya continued with similar results: we’d purchased a generic piece at a massively elevated price. The take home message: never buy anything on first arriving in a destination. If told the venture is moving on, or you are harried into buying in any way, do not; you can always return.
And on that note we’re reminded of various occasions where we wish we had bought, but on the back of the above and other rash decisions we didn’t.
In Cusco, Peru
Wot, no Machu Pichu!?, we visited a spectacular artisanal emporium where you could watch various items being woven and buy works-in-progress actually still in-situ on the loom. We adored some of the pieces but reasoned (with some duff advice) that they’d be cheaper in La Paz, Bolivia: no such beauties even existed there. Similarly in Japan
Japan: the expats' utopia there were wall hangings and antique kimonos that we thought just a little pricey – non-purchases that we have forever regretted. So, if you do love something and have done
some research do not pass it up.
Srinagar-Leh, India. July 2nd, 2013. Julley Ladakh “Midway through the last blog I’d made the comment that the bus from Srinagar to Leh was none too impressive and that I’d return to that later… Evidently I didn’t. On boarding said bus there’d been an argument, the context of which, it being in Hindi, we were not privilege to. However, at the journey’s end (two days that flashed by in a mesmerizing scenic blur) we were approached by an English-speaking passenger and informed that everyone was going to the ticket office to complain: apparently we had all paid for a “deluxe” bus (i.e. one with reclinable seats), but had had to endure a “C” class ride instead. This was all news to us; we’d booked the cheapest bus available and had expected very little in return. Nevertheless we went along. As everyone packed into the office the rather nervous official immediately picked out Ali and myself and bizarrely stated “it’s only you foreigners that complain about such things”. We gestured towards the 30 local passengers surrounding us. Trying a different tack he stated “That was a new C-class bus, the alternative
“deluxe” was an old bus, you should be thankful”. Ahhh, we had an admission that our bus wasn’t “deluxe”, something all the locals had confirmed when booking. Still, no rebate was forthcoming. I announced that maybe the tourist police would like to hear of this deceit; oh, and my back ached – how I’d missed a reclining seat. We all received a quarter of our fares back… Such a welcome outcome (post-event) is unlikely anywhere in the world, here in India it struck us as a minor miracle.”
Misinformation… One of the commonest scams involves misinformation driven by commission: according to the rickshaw driver your target guesthouse has closed down/is ridden with bed bugs or dengue-infected mosquitoes but, never fear, because he knows of an even better one that will suit you beautifully… It may be the truth, although the chances are it isn’t. And there are many variants on this theme…
Delhi, India. On-going. (Not blogged). This cynical little ruse we first encountered back in 1990, but have had it repeated on us several times over the years. Plus, the scam is now more convincing (well, more elaborate at
least) since the proliferation of mobile (cell) phones. The tourist quota/advance-booking office for train tickets is located upstairs at New Delhi railway station. As a newcomer to town you may find locating it somewhat problematic. Indeed an apparently helpful individual may approach you in the grounds of the station and enquire as to your confused, loitering state. “Oh no sir, that office has closed, it is now down the road near Connaught Place at ‘Not-on-your-Nelly’ travel agents”. . The first time we did fall for it, found the agents, but doubted their prices (obviously with a hidden commission) and merely re-looked and found the real office. Now however, if you do follow your “helper’s” directions, you might well meet - mid-way - another person who then miraculously enquires if you’re looking for the tourist quota office. Because obviously, nowhere near the station, you still look like someone in the market for a train ticket - the accomplice having been forewarned by phone to look out for gullible-looking foreigners to guide onwards to said travel agents…
Of course you should always (if at all possible)
be aware of spatial relationships: how far is your intended destination from your current whereabouts? All private means of transport are potentially up for this one. “That is a long way sir”; “It is many kilometers brother”… It may well not be. We’re not commonly caught out here as we’re always up for a walk, but we have been. And then there are Mafiosi-style price-fixing syndicates: you arrive at the end of the line for one means of transport and are totally at the mercy of those onward options. These, mostly, occur in out of the way places… although towns in both Bali and Lombok damningly have plenty. Often a small walk away from the arena (bus station, jeepny depot, whatever) will enable you to pick up something with a “fixed” and fair price; but failing that you need to befriend a local for advice, try and travel together with a local and pay as they do, or gang together with others to force the elevated price down. Truth be told, sometimes you just have to try your best and then, ultimately, suck it up.
Lombok, Indonesia. 4th July, 2012. Bed bugs, viruses and a buggered back... “Sumatra may well employ
Bemos
Web stock photo differential price scales for locals and tourists, but these are clearly listed and aren’t spitefully mean. Bali and (parts of) Lombok are worlds apart. Disembarking from the ferry in Lembar, Lombok, we were ‘greeted’ by a melee of touts who were delightedly ($$$$) amazed to see a tourist (if you’re coming from Bali to Lombok you, almost without exception, travel door-to-door by tourist bus – hence saving you the following). Once their bemusement had subsided the cartel set to work: apparently there were no public buses/bemos going to Mataram, you’ll have to get a taxi; you don’t want a taxi – then charter a bemo or a couple of ojecks (motorcycle taxis)… You are jostled, jeered and steered from one scam to another. There is even a ‘tourist office’ that merely acts as a respectable front for the most elevated extortions. To get to our destination was going to require at least three transport links and Ali was already getting stressed. Bluffing it out with bravado we managed to negotiate a more realistic price for chartering a bemo and then teamed up with a couple of similarly entrapped Javanese tourists to split the reduced rate. Nevertheless, we’d all still paid
Modified ojek
Web stock photo way too much. Once in Mataram we had to run the bemo gauntlet again, but did at least find a public one willing to take us, albeit at a massively hiked price. Then on arrival in Muslim Praya there was a sudden change from money-grabbing urbanites to friendly honest rurality. We loaded our packs into the back of a rusting old bemo already crammed with sacks of rice and baskets bearing thousands of sachets of sambal then sat with the assembled locals at a roadside warung - chatting, drinking coffee and passing cigarettes until the driver was ready for the off. Somewhat more chilled we even watched our bags disappear as the bemo did a quick circuit of town touting for other passengers – our fellow coffee drinkers having assured us that the bemo would definitely be returning and that our packs were entirely safe. And so the last two legs went without a hitch: a short ride sandwiched among the ladies returning from market (including one endearing, if totally gaga, betel-chewing old hag who tried her damnedest to get me to join her as I dodged her flying red spittle) and then (the price negotiated by one of these
Bintang
Web stock photo jolly women on our behalf) an ojeck each to Lombok’s Kuta and finally a well-deserved beer.
Even paying over the true odds for the journey (and accounting for the accompanying stress), the price differential for two of 170k Rp against 540k Rp (tourist service) equates to something like five night’s accommodation, 15 large bottles of beer or 10 litres of pink hangover fuel: a no-brainer in our book.”
Exchanging money… Thirty years ago this was something often performed on the streets with both buyer and seller profiting in their own ways from such an exchange. Ever increasingly this seems to be less of a – sensible – option.
Yangon, Myanmar. 10th September 2012. Talking Myanmar, with the Myanmar, in Myanmar “Day two also necessitated changing some money. Money is a funny old business in Myanmar. It cannot be withdrawn in any currency from banks: there are no ATMs, no bank transfers or credit-card withdrawals and travellers cheques are not accepted anywhere. You can change cash for local Kyat, but only if it is US dollars and in absolutely perfect condition: a crease, the merest hint of a fold, the faintest blemish, any lack of crispness
or - heaven forbid - a tear, and it will be rejected. The bank rates are poor, official money changers only marginally better, which leaves the dodgy geezers on the street looking rather tempting. The latter do not come recommended, but Ali and I reckon we know a thing or two about street corner operatives: we’ve done battle with the best China, India and South America could throw at us and we were prepared.
Saying that, in those blackmarkets the illegal trader always had a good reason for wanting the hard currency you were offering. Years ago in China the blackmarketeer desired your F.E.Cs (Federal Exchange Certificates) as these were only issued to foreigners and were the only currency that allowed you to buy Western consumer products (in specialist F.E.C. stores). Your typical traveller was not in the market for a new TV or the latest Wham cassette, but this ploy ensured that your average Chinese was denied access to such corruptions. By contrast the traveller desired the local Remimbi (due to the advantageous exchange rate negotiable) as these were, in theory, of equal value and could be used to buy most things, although not those under strict governmental
control (like accommodation). Consequently the trader and his accomplices would try to rob you, but ultimately, if you proved unfoxable, they were still happy with the transaction agreed. In India it was a far more civilized case of come into my shop, sit and talk over some chai and I’ll buy some dollars off you that I’ll squirrel away as a secure nest egg – you can’t rely on the rupee. Again the salesman would (sometimes) try to short change you, but it was a far less risky business. Bolivia: dollars were coveted for the same reasons as in India but were pursued without the tea, chat or gyrating head; and with the additional, occasional, threat of menaces. In Myanmar the dollar is accepted everywhere for anything (at poor rates), making them widely available to all. Meanwhile, all government controlled businesses (accommodation, boat and train travel, entrance fees) accept only dollars.
Anyway, it was only a matter of time before a kindly-looking old gent asked us if we wanted to change money. We agreed a rate, found a discrete location and he was rapidly replaced with a bunch of less kindly-looking youths. I displayed a beautiful $100 bill (already
isolated and wrapped in plastic – it was raining and crispness is everything) and received confirmation that: yes, it was in perfect condition; no, they had no problems with the serial number; yes, they would proceed with the agreed exchange rate; no, they bloody well couldn’t hold it to examine it closer (likely, do a runner). And back into the safety of my money-belt it went and back under my belted trousers that went; so far so good. Wads of Kyat were handed to me (the largest denomination on offer was loosely equivalent to $1 – negating the need to worry about counterfeit notes), these I counted out flat (beware of folded notes in piles) and handed to Ali to hold in bunches of ten (she double checks the running total). As I count, individuals in the encircling crowd helpfully count along with me “two, three, four, six, seven, nine…”. Finally all bills are tallied, checked and in Ali’s sticky paws. No, they cannot re-check the count themselves; no, thank you, we do not require a plastic band placed round the brick. Ali holds on tight. I withdraw the $100 bill, re-secure my money-belt and…. Oh, the bill is no
longer suitable… The serial number begins in an “A”. Please, another $100 bill. This – though risky, but not unexpected – I tolerate once and stepping away from stealthy hands I produce another (also separate from the main stash). No, sorry, in this one Franklin has a squint, or some other such nonsense. My bills safely re-stashed we hand all their money back and with a few choice words we walk. Cue a repentant dealer: ok, that first hundred was fine… look I’ve kindly bundled your money for you… Never, go back.
Five minutes later another man offered a ridiculously generous exchange rate and was amazed when I told him his rate was too good. Finally, as we approached the official (licensed) money changers we performed the dance one last time: with the same non-result.
Here in Yangon the blackmarketeers have it so wrong. Their reputation is so well known that almost no one risks a transaction; their offered rates are too high to possibly be genuine (they could buy dollars themselves from the bank for equivalent rates) and hence any completed deal inevitably involves slight-of-hand and a cheated punter. My business advice to them would be to
think to the near future; things are changing rapidly here and soon dollars of all condition will be of equal worth. Many tourists still arrive with many “useless” notes and would be more than happy to exchange these at a lower than bank rate. If we had more perfect dollars on us (to buy more kyat) and it wouldn’t land me in the nick I’d go along this route myself.”
And here’s one that I fell for, but escaped…
Laos border. 6th February, 2012. "Sabai dee" Laos “Getting from Jinghong to the Laos border by bus was simplicity itself. We were greeted at Mohan on the Chinese side with an official-looking, modern immigration station. A few minutes later at Boten in Laos we reached theirs: a rather rickety wooden shack. Formalities completed and we were just about to remount the impatient horn-tooting bus when I noticed a moneychangers: we had no Laos kip, would arrive late at our destination and didn’t know if Yuan would be readily exchangeable away from the border. Ali placated the driver whilst I ran over. The rate was good so I swapped the remaining Yuan and hurried back feeling rather
China-Laos border
Changing money: double check the count. pleased with myself. Then as the bus pulled away I counted my spoils: he’d short changed me big-time. Not totally surprisingly my loud cursing caught the driver’s attention. What was surprising though was that he stopped the bus and allowed me to get off again; and what was totally surreal was that the cashier (whom I just wanted to give a piece of my mind to – in a language he wasn’t going to understand anyway) was almost waiting to hand over the missing money which he duly did after my first spew of expletives. Given the rushed, beeping chaos he obviously thought that he’d be able to pull a fast-one, but he could – and almost anywhere else in the world he would – have stuck his ground and I would then have had to dwell on my carelessness: immediately I liked Laos.”
Misrepresentation/deceit… Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. September 23rd 1990. (Not blogged). Finding a reasonably priced guesthouse had proved taxing and required much leg work, but we did finally locate a grungy place that would suit our purposes – for one night anyway. It became rapidly apparent that this wasn’t merely a
guesthouse as scantily clad women loitered in passageways negotiating deals with potential punters; but that just meant we’d need to ensure that our room was secure. Having viewed a tolerable room we filled-in the register at the check-in desk, paid for the night and were told that they’d drop off the key shortly. A few minutes later we were examining a map in our room when there was a knock on the open door. It was management, requesting that we signed in. But surely they knew we had already done this, just check the register? Cue a cock-and-bull story that somehow we must have signed some nonsense journal presented to us by someone who was not in the employ of the guesthouse. Essentially we’d been robbed and we’d have to pay again if we wanted the room. Arguing that they should have rather better security in the vicinity of check-in fell on deaf ears so, leaving Ali in charge of the packs and refusing to budge from the room, I ran off in search of this “imposter” who, predictably, was long gone (no doubt tucked away out of sight along with the second register). On my fruitless return Ali informed
The floating of prayer boats. Haridwar, India.
You'll be asked - repeatedly - to donate, to what is not clear. that she had been approached by a succession of unsavory men interested in employing a Caucasian whore. We wouldn’t be staying the night. I guess we should have gone to the police to report the blatant scam, but we were both simply too exhausted to endure the doubtless time-consuming hassle. Note here: never part with money without substantial evidence of payment – a receipt or key, not that you’re guaranteed of their authenticity. You might argue that staying in a knocking shop is asking for trouble, but we have subsequently done so on numerous occasions without mishap… My biggest regret here is not reporting the scamsters: at least it would have made life unpleasant for them and potentially put paid to the practice – unless that is the local constabulary were already well aware of the activity…
Robberies… This is the scary one. Whilst we’ve been fortunate in never having been (successfully) mugged (not by humans anyway) or even having had our pockets-picked we have had the very occasional thing stolen. The chances of the former are minimized by following advice on risky areas to avoid (or going en-mass if you do go –
partying in Lapa, Rio de Janeiro is just too good to miss out on), avoiding ostentatious displays of wealth (we go a step further and typically resemble street urchins), making good choices in new friends (here you follow your gut instincts and balance openness with caution), being aware of the possibility of doping (don’t leave open drinks unattended) and generally not becoming too intoxicated to make sensible decisions (we need to try harder with this one). Unknown theft from your person: always wear a money belt, below your clothes; carry a day pack on your front where you can view it and simply be constantly vigilant in crowded situations.
En-route to Kathmandu, Nepal. 15th April, 2013. The Yeti comes home: "Namaste" Nepal “Getting to Kathmandu required a 17 hour bus journey for which we had to wait 5 or 6 hours in the rather pleasant, as far as border towns go, Kakarbhitta. There are no two ways about it, Nepal is just that bit more laid back than India; it’s more genteel; it has a safe, secure vibe and this was – no doubt – my undoing. I let my guard down. Ali and I had seats directly behind the door
of the bus and comings and goings were frequent as were loiterers. Still, I had my day pack strapped to my leg for sleeping purposes and then it and ourselves were covered with a sleeping bag. Nevertheless, my usual paranoid vigilance was obviously awry as we arrived in Kathmandu sans the camera. According to our insurance company it was worthless anyway...
One upside to this costly mishap was the location of Kathmandu’s tourist police station (extremely friendly staff, although of questionable efficiency: their less-than-reassuring parting words were “contact us in a month by email in case we’ve forgotten to process your report”). Anyway, outside the police compound is a tea shop that is constantly heaving with locals. It only serves channa daal, rotis, curd and tea, but the quality is astounding and the bill miniscule. We regularly walked the 4 km round trip from Thamel for the pleasure - the chilled, creamy, lemony curd alone was worth the trek.”
Manila, Philippines. 12th December, 1998. (Not blogged). For getting around Manila we tended to use the public jeepneys – small open-backed buses with two parallel benches facing inwards, each seating about six. On this particular day
we were obviously heading out of town as we had our main packs with us, jammed between our legs but still almost touching the facing passenger. The journey passed without apparent incident and then we alighted. Ali’s side pocket had been slashed. Quite how the perpetrator had managed this feat with us sat looking directly at them and they less than three feet away beat us. Sadly for him the side pocket contained only knickers and socks and he hadn’t been tempted.
This does however remind me of an incident in Tokyo, Japan: a place where it is almost impossible to orchestrate being robbed…
Tokyo, Japan. June, 1997. Japan: the expats' utopia “We lived in a suburb of Tokyo named Heiwajima and a more gentle, genteel, environ near a big city is hard to imagine: a maze of winding narrow streets of local shops intermingled with houses, shrines, tiny parks and eateries. That said there can surely be no safer Capital City in the world: whether that is for a woman to walk home alone late at night; or where any visitor (or inhabitant) has to worry so little over the security of personal possessions. Countless
times we forgot handbags, day packs, wallets, sunglasses, even - drunkenly, on more than one occasion - our shoes (always left outside on entering a room/building), and without fail they always found their way back to us, usually delivered by some out-of-breath Samaritan running after us. Of course there are one or two exceptions. During the rainy season you leave your umbrella outside a shop/restaurant at your peril (which is why many proprietors provide small plastic sheaths in which to insert your brolly, thereby allowing you to bring it along without trailing distasteful drips). There again, everyone merely views an umbrella as a transient possession. If all have disappeared from a rack and it is still raining then, almost without fail, the proprietor will loan you one; hell, they were often forced on us. “
And yet….
“One day Ali was hanging our washing out to dry in the postage stamp-sized front garden. A woman neighbour saw her doing this and began gesticulating and shaking her head. Confused, but needing to dry our things, Ali continued before heading off to work. On her return she noticed that some items were missing: all of her white knickers, the coloured/patterned
Our house. Heiwajima, Tokyo.
Don't leave your white smalls unattended.... ones remaining unmolested…”
And, from the same blog, a misreading of a situation…
“Whilst on the subject of crime in Japan (the-lack-of), I am reminded of a particularly galling tale.... One morning, maybe a year in, we woke with heads throbbing and descended the stairs to our bijoux living room, its windows - as usual - wide open. Things seemed a little out-of-place, just not quite right. For some reason I checked on our stashed money: everyone in Japan has piles of money lying around (people always pay in cash and there were/are minimal interest incentives to store it all in banks; you get paid, you draw a load out and then live off it). It seemed the money had gone. I checked some other places, with similar results. Just then a neighbour rode by on her bike and Ali relayed our increasing fears: that we'd been robbed. Five minutes later the surrounding streets were full of police, police with megaphones… A loose translation of their broadcasts might equate to "citizens, you should all be ashamed; how could you let esteemed visitors be robbed before your very eyes". We had two fingerprint teams dusting the house, the local
Superintendent consoling us and assuring a rapid resolution and dire consequences for the despicable offenders. Over the coming days we received numerous house-calls with people expressing their distress and sorrow as to our plight, whilst others provided gifts of homemade foods. Then, a week or so later, I retrieved a pair of trousers from the wardrobe. This was a pair of trousers that I’d not worn in a while; it was also a pair of trousers with a monstrous bulge in the pocket. They were literally stuffed full of cash. Quite what I must have been thinking that earlier night, how I’d subsequently forgotten it the following morning, and then how it had manifested... to... I was mortified. But, did I come clean to the police (or the neighbours)? To my shame, I did not. Ali likes to remind me that in 28 years of us being together that must have been the only time I have ever hung my trousers in the wardrobe upon undressing.”
La Paz, Bolivia. 8th August, 2006. Several butts to Bolivia “On wandering the streets one afternoon we noticed a sign in a dingy, open-fronted, locals´eatery that read "Chica" – this, we knew, was
Enroute to Uyuni salt flats
Mid-argument re the validity of our onward ticket. a beer made from fermented corn. Now, as we hadn´t yet sampled this local beverage we felt it our duty to do exactly that. Upon entering we could hear music coming from a passageway at the rear. Like moths to a flame we followed and soon popped out in a sunny courtyard that was full of bottle-laiden tables and drunk locals. Here we also discovered a new, and best yet, Bolivian beer: "Bock" at a flavoursome 7%. Obviously we sat, enjoyed the sun, numerous beers and the juke box. Locals would occasionally come over and introduce themselves, welcome us to Bolivia and even dig-out the odd Doors track for us. People were dancing (staggering), we were dancing (staggering) and all was fine with the world. Somewhat later, three very smart suited men engaged us in some Spanglish and rather peculiarly announced that they would make sure we were "safe tonight"?! More merriment ensued. The suits then asked if they could join us at our table, just as two other guys did the same. The latter two seemed to be told no by our "chums". Nevertheless, all converged on our table. At this point one of the suited men appeared to
Visit to local Shaman. Enroute to Iquitos, Peru.
Waiting for the Ayahuasca to kick-in - it didn't. make a rather rapid stilted Japanese bow. Shit! Working in Glasgow hadn´t prepared me for this level of proficiency with "the kiss". There was a sickening thwack and a guy went down - he didn´t crumple, but went back like a toppling domino. His head hit the tiles with another crack amidst a rapidly spreading pool of blood. In seconds the bar was empty; obviously no one wants to be a witness in Bolivia. Ali was on her knees cradling the fallen guy’s head, a head whose rather prominent nose now lay flush against his cheekbone. The protagonist left, the victim wouldn´t let us take him to the hospital and the staff just encouraged us to leave too; another suit apologized for us having to see this side of Bolivia? We made our way briskly back to the guesthouse where I strangely became incredibly dizzy and started developing a fever; really, I did not feel well and this really wasn't alcohol-induced. Suddenly we thought of the open bottles on our table shared with the suits... I'd had just one swig out of my last one before it had all kicked-off. Had it been spiked? Were the suits planning on rolling
Rishikesh, India.
The bridge where I was mugged. us? Had we been saved by the gallant, now flat-faced, man; or were the two groups merely fighting over the right to roll us; or was this weird malaise simply coincidental... It doesn't pay to dwell...”
Rishikesh, India. 22nd June, 2013. Julley Ladakh “In keeping with our alcohol-free (ok, not quite, we had brought several bottles of rum with us), vegetable-fuelled, supposedly healthy states I bought some mangos (currently in season and truly golden nectar). As we re-crossed the narrow suspension bridge back to our side of the river, and in full view of several hundred amused Indian tourists, I was mugged by an unlikely pairing of dacoits. Hanuman approached at speed from the rear, ripped my bag of mangos and snatched one. As I spun to see what on earth was happening his partner in crime, Boonshee, nudged me aside with her head and rapidly gulped down the remaining fruit. I was gob-smacked, in five seconds I’d been fleeced by a monkey and a cow.”
General “rip-offs”: lining others’ pockets… India/Nepal border. 15th April, 2013. The Yeti comes home: "Namaste" Nepal “The only other westerner amidst the orderly chaos at Sealdah was Roberto, a
Brazilian, who was also Nepal bound. A smooth overnight journey, subsequent bus to the border town of Panitanki (our packs emerged covered in a fishy emulsion… why any leakage in bus holds always involves fish products is a mystery) and a rapid passage through the Indian checkpoint saw us march into the deserted Nepalese immigration post at Kakarbhitta. Formalities were straight forward and 30-day-visas acquired for $40 p.p ($30 if you’re Brazilian… at least we’re not penalized as much as the Americans). Actually here’s something that tickled us… Europeans do not need visas for any South American country which saves a whole whack of money when travelling there. However, according to Roberto, Citizens of the U.S.A. have to buy single entry visas to every country (at around $100 a pop) which would make you seriously think twice about admiring Iguazu falls from Argentina in the morning and from Brazil in the afternoon. This is of course a reciprocal arrangement, but one in which the South American wins, big time. Yes, all South Americans must obtain a visa to the States, but they (at least the Brazilians) get 15 year multi-entry jobs (longer than their passport longevities – just carry your
expired one as well). It only makes me smile as US immigration is such a pain; as one-time ex-pats there we know all about that. Anyway, I digress… Passports (with visas) in hand, the official then requested another 100 Indian rupees from each of us. I inquired what this might be for and was told 1 percent. Hmmmm, 1 percent of the visa price would be around 20rps and, regardless, what precisely would this be for? The man gave a knowing smile, to which I said “I think not”, and we walked out into India’s supposedly less corrupt neighbour, Nepal.”
Laos-Cambodia border. 6th March 2012. Everyone loves Angkor Wat, don't they? Once again the border crossing went smoothly although we knew we were reluctant participants (read lazy sheep) in a scam... From the harbour at 4000 islands we joined a bunch of other westerners who had all booked on the same bus into Cambodia. We’d read that immigration officials regularly try to extort additional dollars for services un-rendered, but meekly accepted the bus company’s speech about fees for a necessary medical examination (a pseudo service to account for the back-handers given to those manning this remote crossing) and how the conductor
Trekking in Sikkim
Research your tour before booking - always talk to some new returnees. could process all passports himself for an additional ($1) fee – negating the need for anyone to even dismount the bus at the border. Everyone bought into this save for one bold couple who insisted that they would handle everything themselves at the border. Ali n I followed the crowd, wary of being left stranded if a lengthy stand-off with immigration ensued: we’d been told that they’ll nearly always back down eventually, but would the bus wait for a stroppy minority? Anyways, sadly, the couple with balls lost them at the border and we all sat there as formalities were sorted for us. Next thing you know an immigration official is on the bus and holding a probe to everyone’s neck. He doesn’t even look at the fictitious readings he is obtaining but smiles jovially as he hands out forms stating that we are all disease-free and fit to enter the country…”
Myanmar. September, 2012. Talking Myanmar, with the Myanmar, in Myanmar “We rolled into Mandalay at first light and neatly side-stepped the $10 entrance fee - an entrance fee to a city? This is purportedly to support sites of antiquity, but in reality goes to line official pockets. Anyone arriving by
Mandalay, Myanmar.
A fee to enter the city? Not if you're canny. government-controlled transport would certainly get stung.”
“Nyaung U has many western-orientated eateries and must be heaving with tourists in high season. Nevertheless it still retains a sleepy charm, reminiscent of a low-key Siem Reap or how Yangshou was back in the 1990s. No doubt this will be lost with time, so my advice is to get here soon. Arriving by bus, rather than government controlled boat or train, also avoided that old chestnut - the $10 “antiquities fee” (we donated directly at sites where we knew the money would go to the cause intended), although guesthouses also do their best to extract this from you: we lied and it was never checked.”
Thus far the good old developed West is without an entry. So, without further ado we’ll wheel out America…
United Airlines: Philadelphia-State College. On-going. Mostly this year we've been... fishing. “On her eventual arrival in America, following a slick passage through customs ("Oh, those... they're black puddings, you know, for dessert... Meat? No, they're puddings"), Ali had to play the Russian roulette that is the United Airlines' Philadelphia-State College flight. These are small planes and they are always overbooked, well: overweight; your pre-confirmation and boarding pass count for nothing. Oh, and never, ever, be tempted to accept the vouchers offered to voluntarily miss your flight: these may only be used for booking other United flights through their massively price-hiked homepage. They once lied to me saying that the vouchers could be used for the in-flight brochure (there was a nice-looking Nikon in there) and I contentedly spent the night on the floor for $400 of the worthless things: I'd even turned down a night in a hotel for more of the same. And, indeed, Ali was bumped from the first two flights (why jettison the lightest passenger is beyond me?), but - now quite schozzled - did finally touchdown around midnight to be greeted by Derek, myself and a silent blanket of snow."
America. Anyone on a J1/J2 visa (and no doubt a whole bunch of other visa types): the repatriation insurance scam. On-going. (Not blogged). OK, this isn’t a biggie, but it still rankles. Obviously for us to be able to obtain a visa to work in the USA we have to have proof of health insurance coverage. But, in addition to this, we also have to obtain further insurance to repatriate ourselves in the event of our careless deaths…
Death... Now there's a category I've overlooked...
Abductions/kidnapping/murder. No, we’ve never been in this position (although where the La Paz debacle might have ended up is open for debate), but on numerous occasions we have potentially placed ourselves in situations whereby such an eventuality might have resulted.
We were quite aware as to the location where we contracted the dengue fever mentioned earlier and in all honesty I think that, given the choice, we’d suffer the consequences of those bites again. Why? Because it occurred in a remote jungle-dense part of Venua Levu, Fiji, near the village of the Mataitoga family. We had met Rusi whilst waiting for a ferry to the island of Taveuni. He seemed a thoroughly nice chap even though he was covered in tattoos, tattoos that he openly related were all acquired during stints in prison. In fact he was on his way to another court appearance but we arranged to meet up again if he wasn’t incarcerated this time. I mention all this as one of the riskiest choices you might make whilst travelling is whether to venture off with some new found “friend”. Of course this is exactly what happened: he wasn’t jailed and he invited us to go back with him to his village. It would take something like twelve hours to get there, but he assured us that we’d love it… We weighed up the situation and did go. All you can do here is follow your instincts; but to never take the risk is to miss out on the very best experiences travelling can offer…
Buca village, Venua Levu, Fiji. 26th April 1990. Twenty two years ago this week: our brother Rusi. "As the rain finally stops so does the bus, just short of the village which is visible across a sturdy modern steel bridge spanning the broad, sluggish, orange-brown river; it is as beautiful as Rusi promised. Much of the village is built on reclaimed land and all buildings are raised on stilts. The Mataitoga family’s new house is on the near-side of the village, right on the river bank. It is larger than most but, like all its neighbours, single-storey and made entirely from unpainted wood with a corrugated iron roof. There is a veranda overhanging the river and from here you can gaze upstream to the mist-shrouded hills or downstream to its mouth as it empties muddily into the sea. Ahead, across the river, are dense trees. The windows are unglazed, protected by crude vertically hanging shutters now propped open with sticks. Inside there is a large barren reception room, two bedrooms with mosquito-netted mattresses on the floor, and the village’s first toilet that flushes - straight into the river.
Rusi’s father is away selling kava so Rusi’s younger brother Mosese performs the sevusevu ceremony in his place. In the absence of the head of the family this would normally fall to the oldest brother (Rusi), but as he brought us to the village he is barred from doing so. We sit on the naked boards of the reception room as Mosese officially welcomes us, saying how happy he is to be able to accommodate us, to look after us and that his house is our house. It feels very strange to arrive with a friend and yet need to pass these formalities. Throughout his speech Mosese cradles the bundle of kava that we had presented to him. If the kava had remained unhandled then that in it-self would have stated rejection and that we were unwelcome. I suspect it would also have been more than his life is worth at the hands of Rusi.
We meet the other family members: Rusi’s sister Viri, a onetime trainee nurse (prior to her two young twins) who is soon quizzing Ali about British medicine; his other brothers; a cheeky young nephew Bruce; and his mother who seems completely unfazed by us descending upon them unannounced. His mother is an exception to the Fijian rule of brash, plump, middle-aged women and is gracefully slender, quiet and thoughtful, but still engaging as she goes about preparing dinner. This was to be eaten in the old house situated behind the new building, a two roomed mere shack of a place. Here the kitchen is obviously the room for all occasions and everyone is soon sitting around a tablecloth on the floor as dishes begin to appear: fried whitebait in coconut juice; a boiled green leafy vegetable – taro; yellow fibrous-looking cassavas; and the white, dense, root of the taro plant – dalo. Prayers are said by Rusi. Again they are a lengthy affair giving thanks to god for the food provided, for placing us in their home, and for giving us all good health. Then the cross-legged assembly dig-in with fingers.”
“On arriving back we meet Rusi’s father who has returned from his selling trip. He seems positively delighted to meet us and, despite speaking no English, welcomes us warmly with hearty handshakes and constant smiles. At dinner I say an epic grace (my first) which earned me a pat on the back from dad (even though he understood not a word of what I was saying) and (obviously in his good books) he was soon whisking us off for some grog. Not wanting to outstay our welcome we had intended to leave tomorrow, but when this was related to his father, and following Rusi’s gushing translation and his father’s eager nods, we were (easily) persuaded to reconsider until Monday at least.”
Ultimately we were to stay with the Mataitogas for over a week. At this point Ali and I were unmarried and the family (and the vicar – Sundays are a constant round of church services - and the chief) tried their damnedest to have us do so in the village. This we would have delightedly done if it wasn’t for the fact that the Mataitogas would have had to slaughter all their pigs for the feast as well as build us a bure (house) that would forever be ours. The only payment they could possibly contemplate for this honour would be a tabua (sperm whales tooth). Not surprisingly we thought this all rather too much of an imposition… We managed to stay in contact with Rusi for well over a decade (repeatedly trying to relocate him when connections were lost) and he named his first child – a girl – Ali.
Always be careful, but trust is good.
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Andrea
Holy Crap this is quite the list. Loved it! Bottom line, you've had some amazing adventures, count yourselves lucky! I too can admit I've had a few of these. I don't want to say much more, as I might jinx myself for India. oh and great pictures too!