From 'Planet Backpacker
Safety is a concern for any traveler, especially if you’re alone in a country where you don’t speak the language. If you get into trouble, you’re sure to be considered a pain in the ass by the local constables. Basically, you’re on your own.
Common sense and a healthy streak of skepticism are the traveler’s best defense against assault and a plethora of con games.
For instance, my friend Jim Hanson made the mistake of getting buzzed on wine and walking around the streets of Rome late at night some years ago as a 19-year-old backpacker. Someone hit him over the head from behind with a wine bottle and left him bleeding in the gutter. Jim woke up in a pool of blood with his pack, passport and all of his money stolen. He had a terrible time getting home to the States.
In Nicaragua of this year, I talked to a college-aged American backpacker who made the mistake of opening his pack in the notorious Managua bus station to find some change to tip a cab driver. “All of a sudden, everyone in the station swarmed me and stole everything in my pack,” he said. “I couldn’t do anything to stop them. I had most of my money in my pack and they got it all, along with all of my other stuff.”
Fortunately, he had friends in-country who were able to bail him out.
I too have been a victim of my own carelessness. While returning from a day of hiking around the Moorish fortress of Sintra in Portugal in the early ‘90s, I got on a crowded subway car in Lisbon. The car was packed, but I was still too busy rhapsodizing over the beauty of the favorite haunt of the poet Lord Byron to take much notice of my surroundings.
Wedged in like a cigarette in a full pack on the subway car, I suddenly felt hands restraining my arms, with other hands going through my pockets. “Hey, someone’s trying to rip me off!” I yelled, but none of the miserable subway riders took action, even though I’m sure they could easily translate my distress into Portuguese. For them it was just another ‘shit happens’ moment on the Lisbon tube.
Not knowing what to do, I got off at the next station and cradled my head in my hands on a bench. Oh fucking hell! -- surely Lord Byron would have said the same thing -- my passport and train ticket were gone, although I still had my money belt and all of my cash under my pants. What would I do? I knew it was horrendously difficult to replace a passport overseas and there was no way of crossing any border without it.
A few minutes later, a kid in his early teens sauntered around the corner of the underground station and handed me my passport. “Obrigado, obrigado,” I mumbled. Five minutes after that, he returned and gave me my train ticket -- the teenage gang of pickpockets had decided that my ticket and passport were of no use to them and took pity on a lone traveler. For their kindness, I pulled a bill from hiding and gave them the equivalent of $15 U.S.
On another occasion, while bumming around Europe in my teens, I was attempting (unsuccessfully) to catch the ferry from Palermo, Sicily to Tunisia in North Africa when I met a beautiful young gypsy girl at the ticket office.
“Can you help me?” she said. “I’m here all alone with nowhere to stay until my father and uncle arrive on the boat tomorrow. Could you stay with me on the beach tonight? I’m afraid to be by myself.”
She was a dark-eyed beauty with long, sleek hair, about 15 years old, and I thought with horror of this vulnerable girl cowering on the beach alone that night. Palermo was a sinister place, full of sleazy young mafioso types lounging on every street corner. Stone greaseballs who gave me the evil eye and a curling lip at every turn. But I had already bought a train ticket on my way back to Italy and wasn’t anxious to hang around Palermo. Owing to my long hair and ratty torn jeans, the ferry officials had denied me passage to Tunisia unless I paid a $50 deposit, and I didn’t have the money to spare. I barely had enough left to make it across the continent to the airport in Luxembourg. With my heart breaking with regret, I begged off and caught the train.
I always wondered whatever happened to that poor girl at the ferry terminal, torturing myself that I hadn’t been her Sir Galahad and imagining that she got raped on the beach. It wasn’t until many years later that I realized that it had all been a setup. Of course it had -- no family from her culture would have let such a treasure wander around Palermo on her own. More likely, she was the bait for a naive young American backpacker, with the reward being a good shit-kicking and a robbery down on the beach that night.
Since then, I’ve come to realize that anytime a stranger asks me for help in a foreign land with some tale of desperation, it’s probably a con game. Would I ask a Japanese or French tourist for help if I were in a jam back home? Of course not -- I’d seek help from my friends and family. The same logic applies overseas.
Another strategy for safety that I learned from my days as a student in Detroit is looking over my shoulder every 100 feet when I’m in a risky neighborhood. Turning around and taking a good look identifies anyone who may be following you and puts them on notice that you’ve got their number. Or, lets you know it’s time to run...
It’s a habit I put to use while wandering the streets of Bombay late at night; but I’m cheered to find that no one seems the least bit interested in giving me a hard time.
For a complete rundown on travel safety tips, read 'Planet Backpacker' by Robert Downes.
