Kota Kinabulu, Borneo, Malaysia
May 1

During an evening out on the town in Kota Kinabulu, I had the most unfortunate luck of getting my purse stolen.

Up until this point, I had been surprised at how safe this area of the world was in terms of personal belongings. They trusted each other so much that we soon trusted them too. During long bus rides, the driver would stop every few hours for us all to get out and use the restrooms and get food and drinks. Everybody left their belongings on the bus without thinking twice. At first we were wary, but we soon learned to relax and trust them. We were also often leaving our bags in “storage” if we arrived at a hostel before check-in, or wanted to explore without our bags after check-out. This “storage” area, when staying at most hostels, was just an area near the counter, not really locked up. But nothing was ever taken. Possibly, it is the combination of religion (both Muslim and Buddhism are devoutly practiced), the fact that everybody knows everybody, and the deeply held desire to save face, but the result is a region that you feel very safe in.

Until your purse gets stolen.

I must admit that it was really my fault. I should not have taken off my purse to play pool, but I did. I took it off and set it down on a bench that was right by the pool table, only to go back after the game and realize the purse was nowhere to be found. I immediately informed all the men in the pool hall that my purse had been stolen. Most of them did not speak English, but soon the word got around in Malay what had happened. After some discussion, it was decided that the person who most likely stole the purse was a young guy that nobody really knew because he was from a different province. And he was long gone by this point. Several of the men went out in search of him while we called the police. We went to the police station so I could fill out a police report but there was really nothing to be done. Inside the purse, I had several hundred ringgits (Malaysian money), my cell phone, my camera and various odds and ends, such as a notebook that I had been using to take notes, hand sanitizer and chapstick.

Luckily, I had a support group back home that was on the job 24/7 so that my phone number could almost immediately be suspended. There was nothing I could do about the camera and money though. The camera had been well used and was starting to show many signs of its age. It was nearly time for an upgrade anyway. I had rather hoped that the camera would last until I got back to the States so I could take my time researching a new one, but it wasn’t in the cards for me. There were several days worth of pictures on the memory card that I hadn’t copied to my laptop yet. Those will be gone forever and that is, by far, the most painful thing for me to lose. That is why there is quite a date gap in this blog, because I have no pictures to show.

By the next day, it had really sunk in what had happened. I felt so sad that I didn’t feel like sight-seeing so I spent the entire day alone. For some reason, I was drawn back to the pool hall where my purse was stolen. Maybe part of me had hope that it would show back up, or somebody would find it. Maybe I needed to be there to really say goodbye and get closure. For some reason, or many reasons, I wanted to be back in the same place that the loss had occurred. So I went there and sat in a chair near the bench for many, many hours just thinking. Thinking and crying. I kept thinking about all the pictures I had lost and tears would come to my eyes. I felt intense hatred for the guy that had stolen the purse because he had also stolen my trust in the Malaysian people. When I thought of this lost trust, hot tears would fall down my face. For the first time, I felt vulnerable and bitterly cautious of everybody. Every new person that walked into the place was scrutinized, as I searched for the face of the young man that had stolen my purse. I thought he might return. I don’t know what I would have done if he did come back, but I looked for him regardless. I could trust no one. It made me so sad. I’m sure everybody there thought that I was a crazy white person for just sitting for hours, staring into space and crying every once in a while. But I didn’t care. Soon, very soon, my story had been spread throughout the pool hall. There were several guys that worked there that recognized me from the night before. They talked to me and tried to make me feel better. They also told my story to all those that didn’t speak English. I knew that my story was being told because I could hear the words “camera” and “cell phone” and “passport” mixed into sentences of Malay from all around the pool hall. It was rather humorous. My story started with those near me but pretty soon, it spread clear around the room. From across the three pool tables, I could hear the words “camera” and “cell phone” make it around the room. Guys would leave and new guys would come. They would notice me and ask and be filled in on the events of the night before…”camera”…”passport”….."cell phone”….

Some of the old men actually came up to me and in their very limited English, asked for my version of the story. They would ask what was stolen and I would tell them. Then they would ask “Passport?” and I would say no, I still had that, luckily. They would express sympathy and support and then they would go back to watching pool. One of the workers gave me a cold bottle of water. One gave me a napkin for my tears. One of the customers bought me some corn on the cob from the little child vendor passing through the pool hall. (I had been so depressed that I hadn’t eaten for hours, so it was a very welcome snack.) Slowly, through the kindness and sympathy of these strangers, the anger I was feeling toward all Malaysians eventually dispersed. I was able to eventually say goodbye to the stolen pictures of so many memories and I finally felt at peace.