Several eventful weekends have been and gone, including a flying visit from my friend Mike, which did not disappoint. Wildman Wallace never fails to cause a stir, which unfortunately culminated in his wallet being stolen by some pock faced drug dealing dwarf. Unfortunately the thievery didn’t stop there, and just a few short days later some utter bastard has helped themselves to my main ruck sack. That’s my 70 litre snail shell that I use to contain all my worldly belongings! Who does that?!
Lucky for me I’m a messy traveler, and all my stuff has been strewn across the dormitory floor like it was my own home. This can get particularly embarrassing when guests check in to be met with a mountain of stained underwear while I’m nonchalantly sleeping off seven tequilas. Anyway, some cowardly cunt (for there is no better word to describe anyone who steals something that doesn’t belong to them) has only managed to take a camera tripod that doesn’t work properly, several socks with holes in them, a predominantly out of date first aid kit with the zip broken, and a three season old Liverpool FC shirt with hot-rock burns through it. He would also have discovered a pair of expensive women’s panties (worn – but I assure you not by me), that I had promised to return to a young lady if I ever managed to make it to Australia. Boy he was in for a surprise.
Afterwards however, I’d also remembered I’d stashed 5 unopened tins of V05 Matt Clay hair stuff in a side pocket (you can’t get product that good outside the UK so I bought in bulk and received a care package from my sister), and my back-up pair of prescription glasses. So added to the pair stolen off my face on a beach in Nicaragua and the pair smashed to pieces when I got my nose broken in Montenegro, that makes three pairs of very expensive visual aids down the pan. Raging isn’t the word.
But truth be told, it is the pack itself I miss the most. My friend Tan and uber staff member at Hostel Mostel very kindly gave me hers in replacement. Yet although this is much better and more compact than my behemoth, I still feel like I’ve lost a friend. It was with me through 51 countries, over 8 years, and it was still going strong. It was my home. I was going to hang it on a wall someday somewhere, and never use it again. It had a Scottish flag stitched to the back (to convince I wasn’t an American in Central Asia and the Middle East) and a token of a lasting bond with friends I’d made at a summer camp in the States. I feel violated. Rest in peace buddy, wherever you are.
I now have had so much stuff stolen from me over the past four years of travel, that the thought crossed my mind to start doing it myself; but I could never deal with the guilt. Below is an updated summary of items people have lifted from my possession.
Nikon D3100 DSLR.
Sony Cybershot.
2 x Panasonic Lumix compacts.
2 x Hair Straighteners (yes -get over it).
5 T-shirts.
100 GBP worth of currency. Including that Scottish ten pound note given to me in Moldova on which a young lady had written: “I hope you find your way back home one day”.
Two full bottles of Issy Miyake fragrance.
Wallet, driving licence, credit/debit cards and the facebook details of traveling friends I will now never see or hear from again.
Three pairs of prescription glasses.
My Sgian Dubh knife.
Bruxism custom made dental night guard. Really…?!
Back pack, containing the items listed in the paragraph above.
Currency exchange card robbed by a black prostitute in Chicago. (I didn’t use her “services” I hasten to add).
2.50 Euro taken at knife point. It was all I had left
Numerous beautiful girls stolen by Australian surfer “dudes”
My heart.
Pride.
Sanity.
Not counting a significant number of times I’ve felt hookers’ hands about my person as I’m trying to walk home from a night out.
I don’t understand how people can live with themselves. Just once, somewhere, someday, I want to catch someone at it. It doesn’t even need to be my gear. I just want to walk in and find some low-life smeg-head with their hands in somebody else’s kit. I don’t care how big he is, I will tear him a new arsehole. I won’t stop. I’d grab the closest thing to hand and wrap it round his head. Someone would have to pull me off him. Four years worth of travel theft would come raining down on his face. Just once. Please, for the love of god make it so.
Anyway dear readers, I hate to turn into one of those wishy-washy bullshit travel blogs with “helpful” advice like “16 and a half ways to stay safe on your holiday”, or “how to not get robbed abroad – 34 captain obvious statements”; but the moral of the story is lock up your stuff. Even though I did/do. Oh and don’t get drunk. Somehow I think that might be attributed to ninety per cent of it.
Travel thievery
Several eventful weekends have been and gone, including a flying visit from my friend Mike, which did not disappoint. Wildman Wallace never fails to cause a stir, which unfortunately culminated in his wallet being stolen by some pock faced drug dealing dwarf. Unfortunately the thievery didn’t stop there, and just a few short days later some utter bastard has helped themselves to my main ruck sack. That’s my 70 litre snail shell that I use to contain all my worldly belongings! Who does that?!
Lucky for me I’m a messy traveler, and all my stuff has been strewn across the dormitory floor like it was my own home. This can get particularly embarrassing when guests check in to be met with a mountain of stained underwear while I’m nonchalantly sleeping off seven tequilas. Anyway, some cowardly cunt (for there is no better word to describe anyone who steals something that doesn’t belong to them) has only managed to take a camera tripod that doesn’t work properly, several socks with holes in them, a predominantly out of date first aid kit with the zip broken, and a three season old Liverpool FC shirt with hot-rock burns through it. He would also have discovered a pair of expensive women’s panties (worn – but I assure you not by me), that I had promised to return to a young lady if I ever managed to make it to Australia. Boy he was in for a surprise.
Afterwards however, I’d also remembered I’d stashed 5 unopened tins of V05 Matt Clay hair stuff in a side pocket (you can’t get product that good outside the UK so I bought in bulk and received a care package from my sister), and my back-up pair of prescription glasses. So added to the pair stolen off my face on a beach in Nicaragua and the pair smashed to pieces when I got my nose broken in Montenegro, that makes three pairs of very expensive visual aids down the pan. Raging isn’t the word.
But truth be told, it is the pack itself I miss the most. My friend Tan and uber staff member at Hostel Mostel very kindly gave me hers in replacement. Yet although this is much better and more compact than my behemoth, I still feel like I’ve lost a friend. It was with me through 51 countries, over 8 years, and it was still going strong. It was my home. I was going to hang it on a wall someday somewhere, and never use it again. It had a Scottish flag stitched to the back (to convince I wasn’t an American in Central Asia and the Middle East) and a token of a lasting bond with friends I’d made at a summer camp in the States. I feel violated. Rest in peace buddy, wherever you are.
I now have had so much stuff stolen from me over the past four years of travel, that the thought crossed my mind to start doing it myself; but I could never deal with the guilt. Below is an updated summary of items people have lifted from my possession.
Not counting a significant number of times I’ve felt hookers’ hands about my person as I’m trying to walk home from a night out.
I don’t understand how people can live with themselves. Just once, somewhere, someday, I want to catch someone at it. It doesn’t even need to be my gear. I just want to walk in and find some low-life smeg-head with their hands in somebody else’s kit. I don’t care how big he is, I will tear him a new arsehole. I won’t stop. I’d grab the closest thing to hand and wrap it round his head. Someone would have to pull me off him. Four years worth of travel theft would come raining down on his face. Just once. Please, for the love of god make it so.
Anyway dear readers, I hate to turn into one of those wishy-washy bullshit travel blogs with “helpful” advice like “16 and a half ways to stay safe on your holiday”, or “how to not get robbed abroad – 34 captain obvious statements”; but the moral of the story is lock up your stuff. Even though I did/do. Oh and don’t get drunk. Somehow I think that might be attributed to ninety per cent of it.