The Season of Thieves

The violation happened with absolute panache; one moment my wallet lay safely zippered in the innermost pocket of my pack which sat safely right next to me on a leather covered bench in the store; the next moment it was gone. The problem lay in me not knowing exactly which moment. Had I been in possession of that vital piece of information I would still be in possession of my wallet and its contents -– a few hundred Euros and maybe 20 Australian dollars, two credit cards, my bank debit card, a Travelex Cash Passport plus my driver’s license, Medicare card, a few important business cards and a copy of my passport. I learned the hard way (in Spain) long ago to always and without exception leave the original securely ‘at home’.

On Tuesday I was enjoying some time alone in the centre of Palma slowly wandering the streets running off Plaza Major with some serious window shopping and a little actual shopping in mind. The main influx of tourists had departed the week before and the city was pleasantly uncrowded. I was on my way to pick up a pair of sandals that I'd earlier ordered and taking the opportunity to revisit old haunts en route. It is reaffirming to be remembered and warmly greeted by shop owners after a three year absence; the woman who, for five years, sold me brightly coloured fans to give to my tour groups in India gave me a huge hug, summonsed her husband out to meet me and offered the usual discount when I bought several for the group next month; the German woman in the arty clothing store tried once again to sell me clothing that would not quite fit and I managed to escape without trying anything on. I then bought some real lavender soap and a few small items for friends at home before I ran short on cash. At the nearest ATM I withdrew 200 Euros on my Travelex Cash Passport and made my way to the shoe store.

‘Excuse please” said a voice in my ear ‘how much these shoes are?’ The fresh faced young woman who leaned across me held a turquoise and blue walking shoe out for my inspection – it was very chic, very European. The price tag said 45 Euros, which I pointed out to her. She sort of nudged me along on the bench and sat beside me. I asked her where she was from and I believe she said ‘Grecia’ in a thick accent! She then pulled a black and red version of the same shoe off the rack alongside us. ‘Which should I buy’ she said leaning even closer. I was aware of her friend standing behind us and peering with interest at the shoes. ‘The turquoise’ I replied ‘they will match the sea surrounding your country.’ How stupidly romantic can one be in a rush of female camaraderie? In the folly that is hindsight my radar should have been on high alert when she asked the salesgirl, not for her size, but instead what sizes they had in store. Conveniently, of course, they did not have hers and I returned my attention to my own feet and the new sandals. When I looked up the two women had disappeared from the store and when I went to pay so had my wallet. In utter disbelief, rage and anguish and still wearing the new and unpaid for sandals I sprinted to the shop where I had made my last purchase – just in case.

In my brief absence the shop girls had called in the local police who patrol the streets at this time of year – the high season of thieves – those quick handed, well practiced pickpockets and bag snatchers of tourist-infested Spain. Two black-clad, gun-toting young officers promised to go looking immediately; one of the girls escorted me to a taxi in which I fled to the Aquarium and to Mike who was reuniting with his old work buddies. By the time I had made contact with Travelex UK less than 30 minutes later my account had been stripped down to a mere one hundred dollars.  The company had suspended my card due to ‘unusual activity’ but not before $1200 had been removed. The pair had been watching me since my own transaction, had taken ownership of my pin number which, according to the police, is now easily accomplished with digital devices, and then stalked me all the way to the kill.

It is 2 am here in Genova as I write this. A lightning storm is dancing over the bay. I have been to the Oficina de Denuncias at midnight and have just spoken to Travelex via Skype. I now have the times and addresses of the ATMs and shops where the fraudulent transactions took place with and without success. Surveillance cameras may (por favor) help fill some gaps. I have a feeling that this event is far from over and that my love of investigation may yield, if not a positive outcome, then material for some future undertaking. Tomorrow we go face spotting with the local police and in the meantime if you see an attractive young woman of 25 or so, dressed in a white tee shirt, red shorts and red and white walking shoes, her hair drawn into a topknot, her dark eyes peering from behind elegant diamante studded glasses and bearing a purple leather wallet then feel free to make a citizen’s arrest. Her accomplice will be busily studying a local map just like any other tourist! If you are traveling then watch your back, front and sides and your wallet and watch this space for the next instalment. It gets better!

Awakening the Tiger

Some time, and who knows or really cares when ensnared in a metal-clad container moving at 760 kph through the night sky, I was roused from semi sleep by Captain Stephen Young instructing us to return to our seats and buckle up for a rough ride ahead. ‘…to be expected’ his disembodied voice informed us ‘at this time of year over the Bay of Bengal’. Visions of the thunder and lightning, foul winds and sheeting rain of late monsoon playing out underneath us were nothing compared to the turbulent vision of the Bengali tiger lurking in the Sundarbans far below.

The Sundarbans: where the mighty Ganges Delta mingles with the Bay of Bengal.
Image: Landstat 7 NAASA Earth Observatory.

I can so easily conjour up the beast, imagine it stalking the unwary in murky mangrove labyrinths and swimming brackish streams in search of further prey. I too easily conjour up the Bengali tiger of my childhood. The great cat that escaped from the circus and had my brother and I scared witless as we listened at the door separating us from the grown ups listening to the Sunday night serial on the wireless. Our mother scared us even further when she opened the door suddenly and my brother fell forward into the dining room. Her roar was louder at that instant than any man eating tiger in the jungle of nightmares; it chased us all the way into our darkened room; it howled us into our beds and echoed as we scrunched down under the blankets. Some time later my brother whispered loudly ‘What if the Bengali tiger is hiding under the bed?’ Since that moment, even on the hottest of nights, I am never able to drop my arm over the side of the bed without imagining the predatory tiger lying in wait.
 

Royal Bengali Tiger. Image from internet.

I have never seen a Bengali (or any other) tiger in the wild and while I imagine I’d like to, I don’t really expect to. The closest I have come to one was at the circus where a beast far, far larger than life performed under the whip of its trainer, allowed him to place his head in its mouth and playfully swiped its great paws in a mock fight. We were enthralled. Later Dad told us that the tiger was both toothless and clawless and even at my tender age I thought it utterly cruel. But zoos are somehow worse. I could not bear to gaze for too long on the cages that held animal captive and human captivated. The restless pacing back and forth, the glazed eyes yearning for worlds unknown to me and the power rippling just beneath the surface made me sad and terrified all at once. My last encounter was in an erstwhile Maharajah’s palace on the edge of the Arabian Sea. Bengali or not, the sight of this huge stuffed relic with its glassy stare and silenced roar made my heart heavy. To the puzzled concern of my guide, I cried as I walked around its dusty case and studied it closely; its sheer size impossible to imagine as a moving mass – a striped body silently stealing through dappled forests – now you see me now you don’t! And now don’t is almost the operative word. At last count as few as 270 Royal Bengali tigers remain in the Sundarbans where they continue to swim between the islands and hunt for diminishing prey. They are also reported to kill as many as 100 villagers per year. My childhood fears were not totally unfounded.

But fears aside, tigers still figure in my life in curious ways. My Jungle Book sits on dusty shelves where my sympathy for Shere Khan in the face of Mowgli’s guile remains. My son has a tiger’s head tattooed on his right bicep. Faithfully copied from his favourite book of childhood, 'Paper Tiger', Simon says it keeps him safe. I wear a tiger’s eye bracelet for protection when traveling and a pot of talismanic Tiger Balm is never far from reach. And I am married to a tiger – that most auspicious year of birth in the Chinese calendar. But it is my friend Shweta, in Mumbai, who is passionate about saving India’s dwindling population of fewer than 1,500 tigers. She keeps them alive for me in her news of their fate and their survival rates in the wild.

But then, we are all caught in a race for survival. No longer wild, we have chosen instead to tame the jungle, claim top place in the food chain and imagine that we are the centre of the universe. Alas, poor Tiger.

The next time I awoke we were somewhere over Iran, India and turbulence and tigers left far behind. We were on a smooth trajectory to Barcelona. I lifted my window shade and there, on the wing tip, rode the blue moon of September.

I’ll be in Bengal in November. I dream of a boat trip into the Sundarbans. Perhaps like Pi I'll have a striped companion but am I yet brave enough to confront the waiting beast?

Winnie the Pooh was not at all afraid when he met Tigger!

Tiger Tiger burning bright,
In the forests of the night:
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

William Blake