The Curious Case of the Kerala Criminals
Last Updated on August 5, 2026 by Adam Watts
I’ve stayed in some sketchy places in my time. Some places that, let’s just say, aren’t high on my list of destinations to return to. Port-au-Prince, Haiti. San Salvador, El Salvador. Queens, New York.
(I jest, I jest, Haiti wasn’t that bad.)
But where I’m staying as I write this might be the worst of them all.
“Keep your doors locked at all times,” is the first and last thing the hotel receptionist says to me at check-in. His tone is so relaxed it’s like he’s telling me the weather. “Things get stolen all the time. Don’t leave anything on the balcony, keep the windows sealed and latched, and whatever you do, don’t leave your phone lying around. By the way, this afternoon will be cloudy with showers.”
I swallow and nod. What kind of a place am I getting myself into this time?
The first sign was before I’d even arrived. They’d messaged on WhatsApp and then called me to make sure I understood. There’s a curfew on entry to the property. You can’t arrive or leave after dark, it’s too unsafe.
They had made me repeat it to make sure I understood.
It had taken seven hours to get here and it was already uncomfortably past dusk. I was here and I wasn’t leaving for four nights.
For the past two days, I’ve been living in a state of hyper-vigilant lock-down. My room is in a small building up the hill from reception, dimly-lit, and there’s another room next to mine: deserted, or at least they’re keeping a low profile.
The bed’s comfy but there’s such a cacophony of sounds outside I can’t sleep at all. Water drip-drip-dripping incessantly; loud, sharp laughs splitting the night; suspicious, unidentifiable rustling.
Something’s definitely out there.
I turn the fan up louder and bury my head under the duvet and manage, I think, to sleep an hour or two.
But nothing happens. The first day passes without incident, and I start to wonder if a big deal was made out of nothing.
Then, at breakfast on the second morning, everything changes. There’s a hushed whispering among the guests.
A gang of thieves has swept through the property, breaking into one room, stealing whatever they could get their hands on. A phone, a necklace, even some snacks someone had been saving.
Hotel staff do their best to calm everyone’s nerves. They serve ginger tea and remind every to keep their doors locked at all times, even when they’re in the rooms. And to keep valuables locked in their safe.
Later that morning, I’m part of an investigation crew. We scour the property looking for signs of forced entry or trespassing. Down past reception, next to the locked gate, is clue one: a section of fence knocked down, letting anyone enter. Clue two is a path trampled in mud, away from the main path, conveniently out of sight of the CCTV.
Staff set up additional patrols. Guests aren’t convinced the hotel can protect them, and the next morning the few remaining guests all leave.
I stay. I’ll see this through to the end. And I have a plan.
The next afternoon, I leave my power bank on the porch table outside my room, angling it to glint in the fading sun, then I walk downhill towards reception but quickly loop back around to hide in the bushes above my room. Here I have the perfect view of any wannabe thief.
I wait and wait. Ten minutes pass. Twenty. Thirty. An hour. I wish I still had my power bank to charge my phone.
Finally, it happens.
A shape drops silently from the roof to the porch. Small, agile, and clad in a sleek brownish coat, it grabs the power bank, turns it around in its hand, decides it doesn’t have value. It turns around and puts its hand on the door knob and turns it. Rattles. I locked it. The figure huffs and leaps away.
Of course the criminal masterminds terrorizing the compound aren’t a cartel. At least not a human one.
The thieves are langur monkeys, smart enough to open doors.
The broken fence was made by a hungry elephant wanting access to the property’s bamboo.
The mud tracks were made by deer or wild dogs or tigers, or all of the above.
The eerie, sinister “laughter” wasn’t a gang signaling each other in the dark but a chorus of Malabar Gliding Frogs celebrating the monsoon rain.
The curfew is for safety, but from and for wildlife.
Now that the mystery is solved, I can finally relax. Four nights no longer feels like an eternity, but a tragically short stay in paradise. Kerala is officially off my “sketchy” list, although I must remember to keep my door locked.
