This will be an especially painful post to write, but hopefully in someway therapeutic.  I have experienced a loss. A loss of the instrument by which I have been recording and preserving this trip, and hopefully keeping friends at home abreast with people we have met and the sights we have seen. Yes, I speak of my Canon 5-D with its trusty all purpose 24mm-105mm lens; a present given to me for my graduation and the tool with which I earn my living.

            After finding ourselves a little further South in the city of Amehdebad, we consulted the map to choose a Gurjarati destination a little bit off the beaten path to visit next. At the tip of the Province was a place called Diu (Dy-ooo). It had been described as a charming Portugese town where beer was cheap and the tourist footprint was not as pronounced. We purchased tickets for the next overnight train, paying no heed to the fact that we would be traveling general sleeper class, as opposed to the more private sleeper sections that provided some bedding as opposed to a vinyl bunkette. Turned out that all was fine until the middle of the night when the windows refused to stay shut and the temperature dropped drastically in the train.

            Unrested and exhausted by  our morning arrival, we took another bus and a rickshaw to Diu where the beaches were glistening and run down white buildings scattered around the quiet town. After leaving our stuff at the guest house, (with Ricky, the attendant and spitting image of Brian Gibson in short-shorts) we headed to the beach to read and lie in the sun. 

Jallandhar beach, the fateful place, seemed to be one of the most peaceful beaches to which I had ever been. There where one or two people in sight, and we parked ourselves under a shady tree, I put my camera bag on top of a rock next to us, and started to read. It must not have been too long before we both drifted off to sleep, having had no sleep the night before. When I opened my eyes again, the camera was gone.

            Frantically, I ran up and down the beach asking people if they had seen anything, but of course nobody had.  Adam went up to the road and found a man named Mikhiln, who had been there the whole time and noticed the same two men. He revealed that he was actually a police officer, 35 years in service. After a brief search around the town, we ended up going to the Dui police station to file a report. Inside a pink building by the water sat about 5 idle policemen in full uniform not doing much of anything. On the wall were dubious renderings of criminals wanted since 2005.  I recounted my story with tears in my eyes, and finally divulged the cost of said “missing items,” 30,000 rupees. This amount blew their minds, and they proceeded to lecture us about all these “tourists” who get their stuff stolen, and why would I not leave these things in my room where they were safe? I tried to explain that a camera was no good if left in a dingy hostel, but it was clear that explanation would be useless.

            When we returned to the scene of the crime, Mikhiln told us he had received a tip. The criminals apparently lived 8km away and were “traditional thieves.” He believed he might be able to recover my camera given a little time to massage the situation.  Then we had to look at pictures of his family on his cell phone, and he extended an invitation to his 1.5 miles square mango plantation where we could float down a canal and eat like princes; even if he doesn’t find my camera, we just might take him up on his offer. 

This entry was posted on Monday, January 21st, 2008 at 4:54 am and is filed under india.