Roofied and Robbed in Istanbul!

Readers of my travel blogs over the years know that I often say meeting people and making friends is what travel is really all about.

On Friday for the first time that belief was put to the test.

Earlier in the week I met an English-speaking man from France in a cafe in the Balat neighborhood of Istanbul, Turkey, where I’ve been living for a month.

He seemed a typical solo traveler. Said his name was Pierre.

He was having a problem using his credit card to get cash from ATMs and asked if I could help. He also wanted me to show him around Balat since I’d been living here and he’d only recently arrived in Istanbul, Turkey’s largest city.

He seemed perhaps a bit overeager, pestering me with repeated Whatsapp messages, most of which I ignored. And though he was persistent, he seemed in no way menacing.

We arranged to meet at the same cafe on Friday and plan an afternoon itinerary.

We had coffee then visited several ATMs that I use. He would try, and fail, then I would successfully use my card and he would call his bank about his problem. We did that twice.

We wandered about some of the colorful sites of Balat and walked to the park by the Golden Horn, a large, scenic waterway that empties into the Bosphorus Strait. It’s named for the flared shape of the harbor where the waterways meet, and the golden sheen that glistens on the waters’ surface at sunset.

We sat at an outdoor table and Pierre said he was going to a boat docked nearby that sold refreshments. It was a hot day so cool beverages were welcome. He returned with two bottles of water and two cups of fresh-squeezed orange juice. “Very healthy,” Pierre said.

We walked along the Golden Horn for a while, passing historic mosques and parts of the ancient walls of Constantinople which centuries ago had protected the city from invaders.

We turned back toward Balat Park when I felt my legs turn rubbery and my head getting groggy. Unusual, I thought, “Could it be the heat?”

“I better sit down here a minute,” I told Pierre, and plopped down against a tree.

The last thing I remember is that he asked to borrow my phone for a minute. Said he’d be right back. I had no strength or will to resist. I fell unconscious as he took the phone from my hand.

I recall waking up once and looking back around the tree to see if he was around and quickly falling fast asleep again.

Some time later — I don’t know how long — I woke up enough to get my shaky legs back under me and take a look around.

Instinctively, I reached for my phone but couldn’t find it. At that point I didn’t remember giving it away.

I asked a couple of workers in the park if anyone had found a phone. They helped me in a futile search.

I was struggling to piece together what actually had happened when I flashed on the scene of me handing my phone over to Pierre who was no longer around.

“Holy s**t,” I muttered, as I realized what had happened and started my embarrassing explanation to the grounds crew.

“Go to the police,” they advised.

I felt for my wallet in the front pocket of my jeans. I was relieved it was there. But it was missing a credit card and an ATM debit card. About 50 USD worth of Turkish lira notes was still there, which was odd, I thought, but so was everything sloshing about my brain at that point.

I made my way back to the cafe and a coffee shop where I knew people I believed were good and would help. They steered me to the local police station where I told my story to a small crew of bored and disinterested non-English speaking officers on duty.

Apparently there’s a multi-lingual division of “Tourist Police” in the tourist districts of Istanbul, but Balat is not one of them. There was some problem getting a translator to help take my report.

Communicating via Google Translate, passing one of their tiny phones back and forth, proved awkward. They told me to go find a translator, a friend, or someone, and come back later.

I returned in about an hour with a willing friend from the coffee shop, who spoke both English and Turkish. But he didn’t have sufficient ID on him to satisfy the police and they sent him away.

“Wait here, the translators are coming,” the apparent commander on duty told me via his phone. I waited. No one came.

I went back to the cafe where my friends called the tourist police for me. They had the Balat police pick me up in a squad car and take me back to the Balat station, where I’d just been.

At about 11:45 p.m., when I was so tired I felt ready to pass out again, I was informed it was too late for the translator and that I should come back the next day, Saturday. “The translators will be here at 12:00,” the commander’s phone translated.

I arrived on time on Saturday and waited about an hour for the tourist police officer to arrive. He was dressed in civilian clothes, spoke English, was empathetic and helpful.

He heard me out and asked a few questions but wasn’t about to produce much of a report. There was no reason to believe I’d ever get anything back, he said, and there was no interest in knowing who my assailant was or in conducting any kind of investigation.

“It’s a big city, you know, 12 million people,” he said. “Things like this happen.”

Only my friends in the coffee shop and cafe were excited about the videos they had of the guy on their surveillance cameras.

I walked away from the Balat station with a paper identifying me and documenting that I’d been there, but nothing about the incident except that I’d lost my phone. The single page was officiously signed by three police officers and me. I walked away dazed but pleased to be done with the Balat police.

At this point, I’m sure many readers are shaking their heads over the obvious mistakes I made, especially allowing “Pierre” to stand with me while we tested ATM transactions. That one I certainly should have known to be more cautious about.

And when I doubted the quality of the orange juice, I should have dumped the cup after the first sip. But I admit the thought of getting roofied in broad daylight never occurred to me.

And, of course, why did I ever give him my phone? One of the police officers called me on that one, saying they couldn’t call it theft if I handed it over. All I can say in defense of that one is that now I know what a drug like Rophynol can do.

I’ve done stupid things all over the world in similar circumstances with only minor consequences. Even though I’m smarter and more careful than ever, this proves I can still be careless and complacent, too often trusting that my encounters are with people who, like me, enjoy making friends around the world, not doing them harm. It’s worked so well, so many times.

As my mind clears and I reflect on what happened though, I’m still not sure I want to enter the darker, insular world of fear and suspicion as a traveler, when I suspect a sinister motive in every encounter with a new face. But you can be sure this one will always be in mind and make me more cautious.

Security is mostly a superstition. Life is either a daring adventure or nothing.

Helen Keller

The damage? And lessons learned?

Travel with multiple credit cards and don’t keep them all in one place. Only carry with you the ones you need. Secure the others in your room in different places. So while I’m dealing with losing my ATM card and one credit card, I have other cards I can continue to use to keep me afloat.

I was promptly in touch with my credit card companies and they are working on the fraudulent charges my a-hole “friend” racked up the same afternoon he victimized me — well over $5,000 worth.

I don’t have insurance for losing the phone so I’ll have to eat that cost. I’ve already replaced it and now I’m only suffering the headache of replacing all my apps and contacts.

I can’t deny that my mental state took a hit as well. I am embarrassed and humiliated to have been so easily victimized like this. But it won’t stop me from continuing to travel as I do.

I agree with Helen Keller, who said, “Security is mostly a superstition. Life is either a daring adventure or nothing.”

And does any of what happened make me feel differently about Turkey? Or Turkish people? Or dissuade me from traveling at all?

Naahhh. The percentage of good experiences to bad since I’ve been on the road is overwhelmingly in favor of the good.

Crimes happen, as the good cop said. Many are avoidable by being alert and taking proper precautions; others will occur no matter what you do.

You live and you learn, and life goes on. Maybe that’s really what it’s all about.