Robbery in Moshi, Tanzania

On February 28th, between the hours of 6 & 8 pm, room #11 at the Granado Hotel, our hotel, was robbed. Mark and I came back from a pleasant supper and ice cream with our friend Mike, unlocked our hotel room door, and instantly I saw my backpack, open, empty. “My computer is gone!” I exclaimed. Mark tried to reassure me, “Are you sure? Maybe you misplaced it…” As he was speaking he realized that my TSA combo lock was shoved to the side; the zipper was physically pried open. It didn’t make sense that the laptop was gone because there were no signs of forced entry on the room. In fact, the door to our second floor room was locked when we arrived. “Is YOUR computer gone?” I asked. With both hands, Mark pulled his hair with worry, “Oh no! No! No! No!” “Check for Jesse’s digital camera!” I instructed. “F---!” “F---!” “F---!” I yelled in shock and frustration. How was this possible?

I opened the combo on my big duffle bag to reveal an open money belt, $160 US dollars cash gone and smaller bags opened, rummaged through. Mark’s bag was missing an ATM/debit card and the first aid kit was laid open. I tried to be rational: make a plan. “We’re going to make a list of the stolen items and go to the police right away.” Strangely enough, our passports were untouched. The Kindle book was left where I hid it, on our bed, in the open, under a Lonely Planet Guidebook. Our Steripen, used for purifying water, was untouched; same with my ipod. The burglery was puzzling because the TSA locks on our duffle bags were still locked while the TSA locks on our backpacks were ripped open. They must have had a new TSA master key we concluded. Further, they must have had a master room key because the door was locked behind them. It looked like an inside job.

Violated, we marched downstairs to the receptionist and reported the news and relayed our desire to involve the police immediately. Speaking in Swahili, the staff of 6-8 gathered in the lobby to discuss the problem. After 20 minutes of Swahili gossip, we demanded that the police get involved. At this point the staff informed us that we would need to take a taxi to the police station and that a staff member would accompany us. Guessing that it was an inside job and tired of the staff wasting our time, we declined the staff assistance and took a taxi two blocks to the police station where we found the staff already at the front counter relaying their side of the story. An officer named Adolf expressed sympathy for our loss and requested that we fill out a handwritten statement. He copied the statement by hand and placed it inside of a brown paper folder with our name and case number written neatly in pen on the front of the make-shift folder. We asked if we could borrow a computer to report the stolen debit card. Adolph offered us his personal cell phone and explained that there were no computers or phones at the station. We were shocked. How could a police office function without computers or phones? Officer Adolph then tore off a small slip of paper and wrote down his name, email address and personal cell phone number. “Come back tomorrow morning,” he instructed. The Police Chief joined Adolph behind the counter and expressed his condolences, “…these dubious criminals…” he lamented. Dubious? We looked at each other and wanted to laugh. The Chief confirmed our suspicious about the theft being an inside job. “There have been 6 or 7 thefts at this hotel. The Granado is the most robbed hotel in town along with the Zebra, Buffalo, and Golden Shower. Why would you stay there?” he reprimanded. “Better to stay with friends.” Geez, how could we have known that it was the most robbed $12 hotel in town? I told Mark that I couldn’t stay there another night, but he reassured me that the thieves weren’t coming back. Besides, we’d already paid for the night. I felt vulnerable, angry.

We propped a chair against the door and slept with a switchblade near the pillow. The power was still out which meant the ceiling fan wouldn’t work. I was hot, sweaty, angry, and helpless. With my headlamp on, I read for most of the night. In the morning, we packed our bags and attempted to collect our laundry. To make matters worse, the laundry lady tried to charge us 15,000 shillings instead of the 2,000 we had agreed on ($10 vs $1.30). Inside, I consciously told myself not to freak out on her. I instructed her to follow me to the front desk where we calmly but firmly hashed it out with the manager and paid the 2,000 shillings. How could she be so greedy after we’d already been robbed? I wanted to hate her, but told myself not to.

We drug our bags next door to the Kilamanjaro Coffee Lounge, our home away from home, our "Cheers Bar" where everyone knew our names. Over lattes, we relayed our story to Mike and he offered to watch our bags while we found a new hotel. The staff heard our story and hung their heads, “Pole sauna” (very sorry). We checked into a new hotel around the corner, Haria Hotel, then walked back to the police station to see if there were any new developments on our theft case. We were invited past the police station's front counter, past the men getting patted down for the holding cell, past the drunk albino out back, into an interrogation room where the hotel’s pregnant receptionist was still undergoing questioning with an investigator, Geofry, who had been assigned to our case. He told us to come back the following morning.

We spent our days sulking. The locals informed us that surely someone would come forward and offer us to buy back our laptops for a fee. We immediately offered a $100 reward if the items were recovered, but the locals informed us that they were afraid it wouldn’t be enough to recover our high dollar items. I realized this saddness could be attibuted to something more than a financial setback of replacing two laptops and a digital camera. More than the loss of security, privacy, and trust, this was a loss of connection with the outside world via blogs and pictures. Sharing the trip with friends and family from home was part of the joyful flavor of travel. Without that, we were isolated, disconnected, bored, sad. Without a face to blame, I fought the urge to blame everyone. I became suspicious of all Tanzanians in Moshi- who had been the watchman? Who had tailed us? Who dunnit? It was like a game of Clue without the satisfaction of a sure answer at the end of the game. Mark decided to play Matlock private eye and work the case backwards. He stirred up a beehive with the locals by telling them he wanted to buy a used computer on the black market. People started tailing us through town, inviting us into shady corners to check out stolen merchandise. A kid on a motorcycle wearing a pink backpack tracked us down all over town and tried to work angles through his network to find the right laptop sale.

The next morning, John, one of the rastas we’d been working with, found us on the street corner and became hostile. “Why weren’t you straight with me!” he accused. We explained how we were trying to recover our items but he was angry because he had spent the past 12 hours trying to work a deal on an alternative computer. He resented being deceived because late in the night he had driven to Arusha to get a computer that we’d never buy. The sheer amount of stolen laptops revealed to us was astounding. On the street corner things escalated as the rasta demanded compensation for his efforts. He made a threat that we weren’t safe now, that we’d pissed off the wrong circle in town. At that point, I’d had enough. I gave up being pleasant and gave myself permission to get mad. I raised my voice and laid into him, unloaded what had been building inside of me over the past several days. I stood taller and got assertive in his face. “Yes, this thief affected us all. He wasted your time and mine.” “You should have given up on your stuff and just left town,” the rasta hissed. I pointed out the hypocracy, “Well, you’re the rasta of peace and love; are you going to give up and walk away and be happy that your time is gone? You’re the salesman here. If someone stole your motorcycle you’d want it back. If someone took your leg as a mountain guide, you’d want it back. We’re students and rely on our computers for our education. We wanted them back.” I told him that he was part of the problem because he was selling stolen computers. I told him that this was a loss for the entire community of Moshi because people won’t stay and spend money where they don’t feel safe. “You feel angry about a loss of 12 hours of working? How long am I going to have to work to replace my laptop? I’ve spent 4 days wasting my time to recover my laptop. We all lost time and money on this problem!” I felt justified in yelling. If he was dealing in stolen computers then he should feel uncomfortable from time to time. The argument continued to escalate with hand gestures until a tall, thin, Tanzanian name Kunti, the salesmen that we’d bought jackets from a few days back, intervened and pulled us away to a second story outdoor balcony café. Like a wise judge he listened to our account of the altercation as he munched on an ear of corn. After listening, he said he thought he could help by taking us to meet with a higher official at the district police station. “The hotel must compensate you,” he stated. Mark offered to pay him $10 for his services. I was skeptical, but followed along. My heart was racing and I no longer felt safe in this town. Everyone seemed connected and clearly we’d disrupted the system where people typically move on. I expressed my concerns to the Haria Hotel owner, “Please keep an extra eye on our room and here’s a contact number if anything happens.” The hotel manager told me not to follow Kunti because he takes drugs. They also were concerned about where we were going because there was no district police office. I wasn’t sure who to trust and I was sure that the caffeine from two lattes was going to cause my heart to explode. Of course, at the police station nothing progressed, but I was reassured of my safety. “Go back to feeling as safe as you were before,” the investigator instructed. I felt a little better, but sternly chastened Mark, “No more stirring the beehive. Our things are gone. It’s been 4 days. I can’t live like this, worried about my safety, moping around town; it’s time to move on.”

We returned to Mike’s hostel, Kilamanjaro Backpackers, where the staff now recognized us as the ones who hung out with Rasta Jesus (Mike) every night. We cranked up the ceiling fan, turned up Johnny Cash, and slumped back on the bed where we relayed the day’s events. As a special tribute to Mark’s spirit of persistence, Mike cued up “I Won’t Back Down.” We laughed and decided to hit the local cinema for a 10 pm showing of “The Dark Knight.” As we sat in the empty balcony eating caramel corn, I said to Mark, “I feel like Abraham Lincoln.”

Mark and I bought 200 page paper notebooks. Computerless, I joked, “See, don’t you feel better now that you’ve replaced your ‘notebook’?” It sucked, but I had to admit, my pack was noticeably lighter now that my laptop was gone. Sure, my new notebook didn’t have a USB port to play DVDs, and I couldn’t google information, but it was a great source for traveler’s invention (I was there you weren’t therefore it must be true). Mark chimed in, “This notebook skypes with an assessor of yarn and a cup.” We sold ourselves on the many benefits, “You don’t have to charge it, and there’s a really low incidence of theft.” In total, we spent 4 days wallowing around the stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression. As we boarded the bus in Moshi with lighter packs, I felt hopeful that by leaving we could get to the final stage of grief, acceptance.