Wednesday, March 16, 2016

7:35 a.m. Room 7, Tamariah Losmen

Siantar, Sumatra

My return to the police station went, perhaps, much better than I anticipated. There were some of the expected, though I think avoidable, problems. For one thing, when I first approached the main desk, I was treated as if I had never been there before. They knew all about me. Everyone knew my story. Many of the people there had been there the day before and had dealt with me. Yet, they asked – again – to see my passport and they made photocopies – again – of my passport and visa, and they asked me lots of questions – again – about why I was in Indonesia. I did mention that they had already made copies of everything and had written down lots of notes. But, as I suspected, all those copies and the notes written on scraps of paper had either been lost or gone in the garbage. That, of course, would include my email address. They had made a big show of having me write down my email address so that they could contact me when they recover my phone. But on the very next day, that scrap of paper was nowhere to be found. There was certainly no file on me – paper or computer – with all my relevant information. If my phone was recovered, they wouldn’t even know it was my phone because no one had a description of its make or model. And even if a smart person guessed it was my phone, they wouldn’t be able to contact me.

There was also an extreme amount of confusion and lighthearted giggling. I was being dealt with mainly by women, and, as much as I hate to say it, I felt like I was at a Girl Scouts jamboree rather than in a police station. There was considerably more laughter and joking and pushing each other around than one would expect to find in a police station. The atmosphere was much closer to that of a gathering around high school lockers than police officers protecting the public.

I sat patiently while the hilarity went on. Luckily, a woman who spoke passable English was sitting in a chair beside me. She became a part of the conversation, and I eventually learned that her name was Stephanie, and she was a type of detective in their crime division. At first, I thought she was sitting there by chance. I told her that I was very happy to meet someone that spoke English so well, and I asked her if she had the time to sit with me while I filed my report. Her English ability would be essential. She was glad to do so, and we chatted while the laughter committee finished typing up my report.

This all was possible because I had the IMEI number of my phone. And having that number made all the difference in the world. It made the official process possible, and though it didn’t feel like it or look like it, progress was being made on my report. They asked me the standard questions again. But they also asked me if I had told anyone about the theft. I mentioned that immediately afterwards, I had gone to the Step Ahead English school and asked the front desk clerk there for help in contacting the police. This woman immediately became my official witness and she was added to the report. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. She hadn’t witnessed anything. But it was true that I told her about the theft within minutes of its occurrence. The police needed to know her name and date of birth. And I had that information as it happens since we had become Facebook friends. I called up her profile page on Facebook, and her information was added to the report.

Eventually, a long document was printed out, and about fifteen copies were made. I signed each copy, and then to my complete surprise I was asked to go with Stephanie (the detective) to another division and make a more in-depth report. The report I had just completed was only the first stage. I have no idea if every reported theft is treated this way, but I doubt it. I think most would end at the initial report stage. Perhaps I was given special treatment due to my status as a foreign tourist. But it also seemed that several articles about me had appeared in the local newspapers. Al from Kisaren sent me a message on Facebook containing pictures of one of the articles, so news had spread as far as that city. Later in the day, I saw another article. I had gone into a restaurant for lunch, and the women there were very excited. They showed me the front page of a newspaper and there I was – a photo of me sitting at the police station and reporting the theft. It was on the front page, and continued on page two with a fairly lengthy article. I suspect that these articles had something to do with the police department taking the trouble to have a detective interview me and open a file on my case in their crime division. I doubt they could do this with every stolen smartphone. My suspicion deepened when I learned that Stephanie already knew about these articles. And I put two and two together and realized that Stephanie had taken that seat beside me on purpose. She was there because she had been told to take my full report.

It was a very interesting experience, of course. From movies and TV shows, you get the impression of police stations as places of action and individual heroics. You view them as having the mood of a quest for justice. But the reality is quite different. The mood, if anything, is bureaucratic. It’s driven by paperwork and procedures. And when you think about it for even half a second, you see that it has to be that way. Every government office has to have rules and procedures and paperwork. Otherwise, chaos. And the police have guns and authority. They have the power to imprison people – to take away their liberty – even to end lives. As such, they need procedures and rules more than anyone. And more to the point, their work really consists of just a preliminary stage. They catch thieves and charge them with crimes. But they don’t punish them. Courts do that. And the courts need this paperwork to function. Convictions would be won or lost based on the quality of the paperwork – its completeness and consistency. I could feel this mood all the time. I joked before (well, half joked), that I wanted the police to jump in their cars and go out into the city and roust the usual suspects and search for my phone. But that’s a police officer from the movies. In real life, something like that would have to ordered by senior officers, and they would need a complete paperwork trail to even think about ordering any actions like that. Police officers can’t just race around the city on their own solving crimes.

This bureacratic mood had been in the air the entire time during both of my visits. My first visit was a complete bust because I did not have the IMEI number. Without that, they cannot finish the paperwork. Without paperwork, there is no case. Without paperwork, in fact, there is no crime. Now I had the IMEI number and the report was made. And I went on to the next stage.

Stephanie was extremely friendly, and she brought me deeper and deeper into the police station. I was struck again with just how large the police force in Indonesia appears to be. I have no numbers to show that it is larger or smaller than the police force in any other country, but it just feels big. In Tanjungbalai, there appeared to be a police station on every other block. And they were huge. This police station in Siantar felt large to me. There were many buildings and many vehicles and an equal number of police officers.

Of course, the buildings were not as fully developed as the ones you would see in Canada. Considering the weather here, they don’t really need to be. What I mean is that without long winters, the buildings can be much simpler. They are just concrete blocks for the most part with some wiring and plumbing. Therefore the size and scale of the place does not necessarily mean it costs a lot of money. Perhaps there were so many buildings because they are so cheap to build.

The room that Stephanie brought me into was a case in point. It was quite long and contained about 7 desks and one type of separate office. Each desk contained a nice-looking laptop set on an elaborate raised platform for heat dissipation. The laptops had the rugged cases and features that you see in military and police equipment – designed for tough environments. The office I mentioned was not really a separate room. It was created by putting up four sheets of clear plexiglass as walls. And this plexiglass was held in place by many exposed strips of metal that were just screwed into the wall. It had a very makeshift air about it.

Stephanie pulled up a plastic chair in front of her desk and asked me to sit down. By sitting there, I blocked the only way in and out of the back part of the room, and people had to struggle to get by me, but there was nowhere else to sit. Before we even got started, a man came over and – rather aggressively I thought – started to cover their ass. I didn’t quite understand what he was getting at, but he kind of got in my face and asked me many times why I was there. What was I doing at the police station, and, more to the point, why was I in his crime division? I just squeaked like a little mouse and shrugged my shoulders and said that my phone had been stolen and I came to the police station to report the theft and they told me to come to this room with Stephanie. It’s not like I had any control over what was going on. The man continued with his questions, and I got the distinct feeling that he was looking for a way to get rid of me. He did not want me in his division, and he did not want the case of my stolen phone (which will forever remain unsolved) clogging up his office and blackening their record.

He was most concerned about what I expected to happen. This question really puzzled me. What did I expect? What were my expectations? Well, my HOPE was to get my phone back. Of course. That would be the best possible result. I’d love it if within five minutes, some police officer walked through the door and grandly handed over my stolen phone. But I did not expect that. My expectations, to be honest, were to answer Stephanie’s questions, sign the report that she prints out, and then leave. The paperwork would be filed, and I would have to go buy a new phone. That’s what I expected to happen. In fact, being interviewed by an actual detective already far exceeded my expectations. I thought the report I filed at the main office would have been the end of it.

My heart sank a little because the man appeared to be one second away from kicking me out of his crime division. I didn’t understand the details exactly, but he was saying that if I expected the police to recover my phone, I was in the wrong place. They couldn’t do that. If I wanted my phone back, I would have to go to Medan. I had no idea what he meant by that, but it seemed to be a technology issue. The police in Medan had special equipment that could find phones. In Siantar, they didn’t have this gear. That made little sense to me, but that’s all I could make out. I fully expected this conversation to end with me packing up my gear and being asked to leave. But to my surprise, this man ran out of steam, and he just left. I never saw him again, and the process with Stephanie began.

The first step was to find an English interpreter. Stephanie was fully capable of conducting the interview in English herself. However, in keeping with the bureaucratic and procedural tone of the place, she was not allowed to do so. As the investigating officer, she could not also handle the role of interpreter. If the interview was going to take place in a foreign language, an official interpreter must be used. This would avoid misunderstandings due to language problems. A call had gone out earlier to find a suitable interpreter from outside the police force, and we had to wait a few minutes for someone to arrive. In the meantime, Stephanie got me a cup of coffee and we chatted.

The interpreter arrived in a very short time. I was surprised about that. I thought we’d be waiting for a couple of hours, and I woudn’t have been surprised if they asked me to return the next day. I couldn’t imagine it was easy to find an English interpreter on such short notice – especially one that just happened to be available and could drop everything to come to the police station. The man was (as I keep saying about everyone) extremely nice, and his English was excellent and precise. I didn’t even close to learning about his whole life, but he appeared to be an interesting man. He had written and published many books in both English and Indonesian. And the police knew about him because he had actually spent time behind bars (as he put it himself). He had gotten mixed up in some kind of criminal situation involving money, and whether guilty or not, he ended up in jail. He had recently been arrested again, though this time found innocent. When the call came asking him to come to the police station to serve as an interpreter, his wife went into a panic. She pleaded with him not to go. No good could possibly come from going to the police station in any capacity in her opinion. But he came, and I was very glad he did.

Once he was settled in, Stephanie began the official interview. There were lots of required procedural questions to establish that I was fully aware of where I was and what I was doing, and I had to formally acknowledge and agree to everything going on. It was an odd feeling. Again, the questions felt more like they were meant for a criminal than the victim of a crime. They felt like a police officer reading your rights while they arrest you. I was a bit taken aback. I even had a wild thought that maybe I should have a lawyer present.

We also had to establish all the details of my identity – my full name and address and all the other practical info. Then we moved on to a detailed description of the phone as well as a detailed account of the crime itself – what happened, where it happened, what I saw, and what I did. It was a slow process because all the questions and answers went through the interpreter, and then we waited while Stephanie typed out my answers. The tone was still very bureacratic, and I could sense the reality of the courtroom behind it all. There was an emphasis on detail and getting the facts exactly right. This is not as easy as one would think. It’s one thing to sit down over coffee and tell someone the story of how your phone was stolen. You use hand gestures and you’d probably use exhibits and you explain things two or three times. It’s quite another to get that story on paper in enough detail in words alone and in such a way that it would be clear in a courtroom setting. I imagined lawyers having a field day with inconsistencies.

When the report was complete, the interpreter read it aloud. He was translating from Indonesian to English on the fly as he did so. As he read the report, I pointed out several mistakes and these were corrected. Then multiple copies were made and we had a big signing session. The interpreter and I both had to sign every page in multiple places. It was interesting to me (and somewhat symbolic) that the successful completion of our mission was indicated by Stephanie taking all the papers, stacking them neatly, putting them into a nicely labelled folder, and then tapping it on the desk and laying it down. There. It’s done. There’s the report. There’s the paperwork. That was our goal, after all, to file a report. The report had been filed. It could be put into a filing cabinet, and then we dust off our hands and move on to the next report. It’s interesting. In my mind, the goal of this endeavor was to catch a criminal and get my phone back. But from the police procedural point of view, the goal really is to finish the report and file it away. It’s not like after we were done, fifty heavily armed police officers hit the street and went looking for my phone.

Stephanie and I went back to the front room of the police station. She handed in some stacks of papers. These were stamped and signed by various people and carried off to different offices. Then I was given a piece of paper with the details of the report I had made. Finally, I took a picture with Stephanie and I rode my bike away from the police station.

I’d like to say that I’ve learned my lesson, but I really haven’t. The problem wasn’t that I didn’t know something. The problem was that I ignored what I knew. I ignored my own rules. Why did I do so? I don’t know. I do that a lot lately. I’m just being casual all the time. I just haven’t been focused. What I mean is that this isn’t my first time in a country like Indonesia. I’ve been in far worse places as far as theft is concerned, and I know how I should behave. And my number one rule – developed over years of experience – is that all valuable objects have to be physically attached to me at all times. Many people feel like they just need to be aware of their surroundings to be safe. They think that it is enough to be alert. But I’ve experienced enough and seen enough to know that it is impossible to be alert. It just can’t be done. I don’t care who you are. I watched pickpockets at work in the Philippines, and you could see clearly how much room they had to operate. They could follow people for a long, long time digging into their pockets and trying to steal things and the person never notices. The pickpocket would be behind the person. And you don’t see what is behind you.

In Ecuador, there were countless thefts of knapsacks from restaurants and internet cafes. People sit down at a computer, and they put their knapsack on the floor beside them. They can see the knapsack, and they think therefore it is safe. It is beside them and it is visible. But a few minutes later, they look down, and the bag is gone. When you get involved in something on a computer at an internet cafe, your attention is so narrow, that you just don’t see the thief taking your bag. And if the thief has a partner, then you are really screwed. One person taps you on the shoulder on one side to ask you a question. You turn towards them, and then the other person takes your bag. It happens in two seconds. And with smartphones, it’s even worse. People put them down on the table in a coffee shop and think it is safe. But people come up behind you, snatch the phone, and then they run. They know the streets and they go down an alley and they’re gone. Nothing you can do. It didn’t matter that the phone was right beside you. It didn’t matter that you were in a public place. It didn’t matter that you could see your phone. The same goes for holding the phone. If you are standing on the sidewalk holding your phone and tapping out a message, you think you are safe. After all, you are physically holding your phone in your hands. But a guy on a motorcycle can grab it out of your hands easily and then it’s gone. This happens all the time.

After years of hearing these stories and experiencing them for myself, I developed one simple rule: objects have to be physically attached. So when I sit down at a table, and I put my knapsack somewhere, I wrap the straps around my leg or around my arm. Then a thief can’t sneak it away or grab it and run. It’s impossible to be aware of the bag all the time. The only protection is to tie it to yourself in some way. That’s it. And I know this. Yet, I took the most valuable item I possess – my Samsung Galaxy J7 – and I put it inside a pouch that clips onto my belt. It clipped onto my belt very strongly (I thought), and it was covered up by my shirt, but it was still just clippped on. It was not attached physically. And I knew this was a bad idea. I knew it. And I thought about it. I thought about ways to secure it. I intended to do so. But I just never got around to it. I didn’t do it. And I paid the price.

I won’t go so far as to say that it was my fault. I dislike that kind of language. It is blaming the victim. It is NOT my fault that my phone was stolen. It was the criminal’s fault. The thief is a bad person and he did an evil thing. It’s his fault. Not mine. But I was aware of the danger, and I could have taken steps to eliminate it or reduce it consideraly. I even knew the steps I should take. I just ignored what I knew. I had trouble sleeping again last night. Every time, I closed my eyes, I found myself reliving that awful moment when I felt that strong tug on my belt and then saw my phone disappearing. And I feel a surge of powerful anger. I go through all the posssible ways this might have gone differently. What if this guy had missed his grab? What if he tried to steal my phone but didn’t get it? What if he dropped it after he took it? What if an onlooker had stopped him? Then I would still have my phone, and I would have been reminded of the dangers and taken steps to secure my phone better.

There are other perspectives on these events, too. Assuming that these people are out there on their motorcycles all the time looking for phones and wallets to steal, then there are multiple occcasions when I was in equal danger. Who knows how many times someone was watching me and thinking about making an attempt on my phone? Probably many times. While I ride my bike around and even walk around, I take out my phone and look at it constantly. I’m always looking at Google Maps to figure out where I am. When I returned from immigration on my bicycle the other times, I stopped every kilometer or so to check my position and perhaps send a message or look for information. And every single time I stood there astride my bicycle with my phone in my hands, a guy on a motorcycle could easily, easily, easily have snatched it and disappeared. So the surprise might not be that my phone was stolen. The surprise might be that I managed to keep it as long as I did.

How can I protect myself in future? Well, it’s no surprise. I already know what I should do. I just didn’t bother to do it the first time. Using a belt pouch is not a bad idea. It’s much safer than the alternative – keeping your phone in your pocket. But the pouch has to be physically and strongly attached to your belt, not just clipped on. I have a little pouch for my Canon camera, for example. And it has a belt loop. A strong one. You run your belt through that loop and then it is secure. No one can take it short of using a sharp razor to somehow instantly cut through your belt. So that’s rule number one: physical attachment.

The other rule might be to never look at your phone while standing astride your bicycle at the side of the road. By doing so, you are just begging someone to zip by and snatch it out of your hands. There’s no perfect system here short of using a phone case with a strong cord that keeps it attached to your belt (which is a good idea). But it would be better to put down the kickstand, get off the bike, and then stand on the other side of the bike while you look at Google Maps or do whatever. Then the bike is between you and the busy street and no one on a motorcycle can reach you. It’s a good idea. I will make it a new rule.

Another rule is to never lay your phone down on a restaurant or coffee shop table. It can be snatched.
The other rule, of course, is to use a lock screen. I was also aware that I should do so, but I didn’t bother. It seemed like so much trouble – especially when I was learning how to use the phone. I referred to my phone every few minutes it seems like, and to have to unlock your phone every single time is a pain. But that’s the way it goes.

After I left the police station, I went to a 7-Cell Samsung store. What feels like long ago now, my friend in Tanjungbalai, Rea, had given me the name of her friend Sandra in Siantar. Sandra worked at another branch of the same company as Rea. The idea was that I might be able to ask Sandra to be my sponsor for my next visa extension. I was lucky enough to have Al’s wife to serve as my sponsor, so I didn’t need Sandra for that. But I wanted to say hello, and to look at their phones. I understood from Rea that the 7-Cell outlet was near the immigration office. That was what she told me. And I had scanned the street multiple times looking for this place, but I never saw it. Then by chance I spotted it on the main downtown street yesterday while I was going to the police station. I made a plan to return there. Unfortunately, Sandra wasn’t there. It was weird though. When I first went in, I spoke to a clerk who didn’t speak English. I asked about Sandra, and then she smiled and went to the back room. I assumed she was going to get Sandra. But then she came out and said that Sandra was “off”. I tried to find out when Sandra would be working, but it was hopeless. I will go back there today.

While I was there, I looked at the current lineup of phones, thinking about buying a replacement. It would be nice to just buy another Galaxy J7, but it is expensive. And I don’t know that I really even needed such a fancy phone to begin with. I’m thinking about buying the J2. There are cheaper models, but at some point they become too cheap, I think. The J2 might hit the sweet spot.

 

Tags: Sumatra Part 01